World Literature
thitad103
CompactAnthologyofWorldLiterature.pdf
GALILEO, University System of Georgia GALILEO Open Learning Materials
English Open Textbooks English
Fall 2015
Compact Anthology of World Literature Laura Getty University of North Georgia, [email protected]
Kyounghye Kwon University of North Georgia, [email protected]
Follow this and additional works at: https://oer.galileo.usg.edu/english-textbooks
Part of the Ancient History, Greek and Roman through Late Antiquity Commons, and the English Language and Literature Commons
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Recommended Citation Getty, Laura and Kwon, Kyounghye, "Compact Anthology of World Literature" (2015). English Open Textbooks. 2. https://oer.galileo.usg.edu/english-textbooks/2
World l i t e r a t u r e
Compact Anthology of
Pa r t O n e T h e A n c i e n t W o r l d
Editor-in-Chief: laura Getty, PhD
Co-Editor: KyounGhye Kwon, PhD
Dahlonega, GA
Compact Anthology of World Literature is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Share- Alike 4.0 International License.
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ISBN: 978-1-940771-22-9
This title is a product of a Complete College Georgia grant.
Produced by: University System of Georgia
Published by: University of North Georgia Press Dahlonega, Georgia
Cover Design and Layout Design: Corey Parson
For more information, please visit http://ung.edu/university-press Or email [email protected]
Chapter 1: Middle east, Near east, GreeCe 1 Hebrew Bible, “Genesis” and “Exodus” 4 The Epic of Gilgamesh 76 The Iliad and The Odyssey 101 Medea 340 Oedipus the King 364
Chapter 2: ChiNa 411 The Analects 412 The Art of War 444 The Book of Songs 451 The Mother of Mencius 463 The Zhuangzi 465
Chapter 3: iNdia 471 The Bhagavad Gita 472 The Mahabharata 477 The Râmâyana 535
Chapter 4: roMe 621 The Aeneid 622 Metamorphoses 874
BiBlioGraphy 893
appeNdix 895
T a b l e o f C o n t e n t s
Acknowledgements This anthology is the product of a Complete College Georgia grant, and I would like to thank the Board of Re-
gents of the University System of Georgia for making this project possible. Many individuals at the University Press of North Georgia worked long hours on various aspects of the anthology, and I appreciate their time and effort; in particular, I would like to thank Corey Parson, managing editor, for her professionalism and support during this long process. Terri E. Bell, senior library assistant/ copyright compliance at UNG-Dahlonega, had the vital job of checking copyrights and researching the public domain content for this open access project, and I am grateful for her hard work and dedication.
Written by Editor-in-Chief Laura J. Getty, Ph.D.
A large part of my portion of this textbook came to fruition while time-traveling with my World Literature I students to familiar and unfamiliar places in the Ancient, Middle Ages, and Renaissance periods. I am first grate- ful for those students’ participation and insights, and I give special thanks to Dr. Joyce Stavick, head of the English Department at UNG, who kindly arranged for me to teach those classes during the time of my writing. This text- book could not have been made possible without our past, present, and future students who are willing to take the journey to different parts of the world in different times.
Important acknowledgments go to the Complete College Georgia Grant that critically funded this project. I also express my sincere gratitude to Dr. B. J. Robinson, director of the university press, for her thoughtful leader- ship, Dr. Deborah Prosser, dean of libraries, for providing helpful feedback, and Terri E. Bell, senior library assis- tant, for her extensive work on public domain research and copyright compliance, as well as to the anonymous peer-reviewers. My gratitude also goes to Dr. Laura Getty, editor-in-chief, with her seasoned teaching experience and broad knowledge. I am also grateful to Corey Parson, managing editor, Amy Beard, assistant managing editor, and Matthew Pardue, project editor, for their tireless work. Last but not least, I thank my family for their support and understanding during the time I spent on this project.
Despite multiple examinations of this textbook, there may be errors and areas of improvement. Fortunately, this online textbook can be periodically updated. I hope that this textbook will be of good use to students and teachers alike.
Written by Co-editor Kyounghye Kwon, Ph.D.
Introduction
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Reading about any culture foreign to one’s own tends to create a form of culture shock in the reader. In a world literature class, students frequently face texts that are completely unfamiliar to them, and the typical culture shock reactions set in. We tend not to like things that we do not understand, in part because we do not like the feeling of not knowing something. I have had students complain that they did not “like” a story before we discussed it in class, and then the same students decide after the class discussion that they now like it. Again, understanding and liking go hand in hand. Give the literature a chance; something that might not make sense at first may end up being one of your favorite stories after finding a way to approach it.
That being said, whether students like a story is not the point of reading that text in a literature class. We read literature in these classes to learn something. It is a nice addition to the experience if students like the works, but we can read and analyze texts that we do not enjoy just as effectively as the ones we do: In some cases, it is actually easier. Critical thinking comes from taking something that is unfamiliar, breaking it down into manageable chunks of infor- mation, fitting it back together, and using the experience to replicate the process in other situations in the future.
A literature class is, of course, a perfect place to learn critical thinking skills. When interpreting a text, pre- tend that you are a lawyer in a courtroom arguing a case. Not all cases have smoking guns; most are won or lost on circumstantial evidence alone. The interpretation needs to be based primarily on evidence from the text; therefore, there can be more than one possible approach, but some interpretations can be wrong if there is no support in the text for the generalizations that the student uses. Evidence is the key; based on what the text tells us, what do we actually know? Expert opinions (secondary sources) may help, but remember that both sides in a court case usually can call some expert who will agree with them. Authorial intention is not entirely out of bounds in such an argu- ment, but it operates on the same principles: What can we actually argue, based on the evidence? For instance, any knowledge of Hemingway’s personal history makes it unlikely that the story “Soldier’s Home” could be interpreted as unsupportive of soldiers. Alternately, there are cases when the author’s life is of little or no help. Faulkner refused to tell an interviewer what the meaning of “A Rose for Emily” was, preferring perhaps that the reader not be limited by a simple (or simplistic) explanation of meaning.
In every interpretation, remember to distinguish between the views of the original audience and the views of the modern reader. While a text may remind students about their grandfathers, that association does not often help when interpreting a story written by someone years ago who did not know their grandfather. (It may, of course, help students interpret their interpretations, but, except for the very best reader response theorists out there, that approach is more commonly found in a different field of study.) If the story is about a grandfather in ancient Greece, the com- parison with their grandfather would be most useful if it helped focus them on what the characters in that time period in Greek society thought about grandfathers (or treated them, or talked to them, etc.) back then that is similar to or different from modern expectations. In other words, what does the work tell us about the expectations of the original audience? Without at least a solid guess about what the original audience thought about the work, it is impossible to discuss whether the author is writing something that conforms to society’s expectations or argues against them, let alone what the original audience was expected to learn from the story, or how it expected to be entertained.
The expectations of the audience bring us full circle to the issue of culture shock once again. Students in U.S. universities often feel more comfortable with American or British literature, since the K-12 school system in the U.S. usually emphasizes those works. Even if some students have not lived through the 1960s in the U.S., there is still a sense of familiarity to students raised in the U.S., although they might not understand as much of the deeper social context as they think they do. A world literature class may be the first place that some students have encoun- tered European works, let alone non-Western texts. The emphasis in this anthology, therefore, is on non-Western and European works, with only the British authors who were the most influential to European and non-Western au- thors (such as Shakespeare, whose works have influenced authors around the world to the present day). In a world literature class, there is no way that a student can be equally familiar with all of the societies, contexts, time periods, cultures, religions, and languages that they will encounter; even though the works presented here are translated,
Compact Anthology of World Literature
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students will face issues such as unfamiliar names and parts of the story (such as puns) that may not translate well or at all. Since these stories are rooted in their cultures and time periods, it is necessary to know the basic context of each work to understand the expectations of the original audience. The introductions in this anthology are meant to be just that: a basic overview of what students need to know before they begin reading, with topics that students can research further. An open access literature textbook cannot be a history book at the same time, but history is the great companion of literature: The more history students know, the easier it is for them to interpret literature.
These works can help students understand the present, as well. In an electronic age, with this text available to anyone with computer access around the world, it has never been more necessary to recognize and understand differences among nationalities and cultures. The literature in this anthology is foundational, in the sense that these works influenced the authors who followed them. For Western literature, it is necessary to know something about the Trojan War (and the Trojan Horse) to understand everything from literary references to them (for almost three thousand or so years) to why a computer virus would be named a “Trojan Horse” because of what it does. In India, the characters in the Mahabharata and the Ramayana still show up in regular conversations, and it would be im- possible to read modern Indian literature without a basic knowledge of these texts, which are referenced frequently. Chinese literature is infused with Confucian concepts, which influenced Chinese culture for thousands of years. These are just a few of the examples of why these texts are important to this day, and the introductions will explain the influence of each work.
A word to the instructor: The texts have been chosen with the idea that they can be compared and contrasted, using common themes. Rather than numerous (and therefore often random) choices of texts from various periods, these selected works are meant to make both teaching and learning easier. Students often learn better when there is a theme or a set of themes that they can use to make sense of the stories. For example, the differences among cul- tures and time periods in the definition of a hero are found throughout the anthology. As the time periods progress, the type of hero changes as well: warriors in the ancient world, knights and samurai in the medieval period, and soldiers in works set in the Renaissance. Many of the works examine the role of women in society, and each time period contains numerous works of social commentary. There are epics across world literature to compare, belief systems from the Greek pantheon of gods to Native American origin stories, and philosophical questions about ethical and moral behavior.
It is by comparing similar topics and themes that students are most easily able to see the significant differences in the cultures. If I ask students to discuss a work such as the Analects of Confucius, they often do not know where to begin or what to say. If I ask students to suggest what would happen if Gilgamesh were dropped into the environment of the Analects, they immediately see the problems: Gilgamesh is not a “gentleman” by Confucian standards, nor does he have the temperament to attract gentlemen retainers, who would expect courteous and proper behavior from him.
While cultural expectations are not universal, many of the themes found in these works are. Human beings have always cared about friendship, love, and finding their place in the world; we still read and watch stories of heroic journeys, bravery in its many forms, family relationships (good and bad), and the triumphs and tragedies of people who are not so different from ourselves.
As an example, the following assignment is one possible way to compare the texts in the Ancient World section.
Culture Shock Essay: take a character such as Achilles and place him in a story with a culture that would be completely foreign to him (such as the Mahabharata). How would he react to the people around him, and what would they think about him/his behavior? This topic could be mixed and matched: Hector in Gil- gamesh, Arjuna in the Aeneid, Aeneas in the Art of War, etc.
Again, by asking the students to compare cultures, it is easier for them to identify differences. Obviously, a similar type of essay would work in the medieval period and the Renaissance, and Ancient World texts could be compared to medieval or Renaissance texts as the term progresses.
A note about calendar systems: The anthology uses B.C.E. (Before Common Era) and C.E. (Common Era). As a world literature text, it seeks to be as inclusive as possible of belief systems around the world. Of course, the numbering system used comes from the Christian calendar’s B.C. (Before Christ) and A.D. (Anno Domini—in the year of our Lord); basically, Christianity is the determiner of what is Common Era and before. Since there needs to be a way of comparing time periods across these cultures, and today’s world uses the numbering system that stems from the Christian calendar, it is the system used throughout. It would be too unwieldy to use all of the relevant calendar systems, although it is worth noting to students that they exist. For instance, 2015 C.E. is the year 5776 in the Hebrew calendar, the year 4713 in the Chinese calendar, and 1436 in the Islamic calendar. For Hinduism, the current Epoch of this cycle of the universe (which is destroyed and remade numerous times) started in 3012 B.C.E., and the current Era in that Epoch started in 78 C.E. Obviously, it would be both difficult and confusing to employ more than one system.
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A n c i e n t W o r l d Pa r t O n e
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Many of these ancient world texts concern themselves with the definition of a hero, as well as the (often sepa- rate) definition of a leader: A leader can be a hero, but a hero is not always a leader. Love for one’s family drives the actions of the majority of the characters in this section; romantic love has its place in the stories as well, although it is discussed less. Both societal and religious expectations play key roles in the behavior of these characters, so it will be necessary to understand a few details about those beliefs. The chapter introductions will address some basic religious beliefs for each region.
As with all the time periods in world literature, different events mark the end of the ancient world in different cultures. If the fall of Rome in 476 C.E. marks the end of an era in Europe, it is clearly an irrelevant date to cultures such as China and India. The unification of China under the Qin dynasty in 221 B.C.E. marks the end of Ancient China and the beginning of the Dynastic Period. Classical India ends somewhere between 550 C.E. (with the fall of the Gupta Empire) and 1206 C.E. (with the establishment of the Delhi Sultanate following hundreds of years of Islamic invasions).
While poetry is found in all of the ancient cultures included, a commonality across most of those cultures is epic poetry. Epic heroes often have some kind of supernatural ability, or are demigods, and/or have the help of the gods. In Gilgamesh, the title character is two-thirds god and one-third human (an interesting exercise for a mod- ern-day geneticist), while Achilles is the son of a goddess and a mortal man in the Iliad, as is Aeneas in the Aeneid. If Odysseus is not a demigod, he certainly is loved by the goddess Athena, who protects him through his journeys. In the Mahabharata, the main warriors of the story are all demigods, and in the Ramayana, the main character is a god: an avatar of the god Vishnu, sent down to earth in human form to fight evil. The Metamorphoses is the anti-ep- ic of the group, arguing that there are no real heroes: just gods and humans who make mistakes, forming history along the way.
Many of the works in this section have another commonality: They are foundational texts for their respective societies. Western literature would not exist in its present form without the influence of Greek and Roman epics or ancient Greek drama. References to the Trojan War, to Ovid, and to Oedipus (among many others) are found in media from literature (in the Middle Ages to the present day) to newspaper comic strips. Sun Tzu’s The Art of War is still taught around the world. In present-day India, the characters in the Mahabharata and the Ramayana are ref- erenced in everyday conversations. Confucian ethics influenced Chinese thought for well over two thousand years.
For Students:
The works in this section are meant to be compared and contrasted. Consider the following questions while reading: • Compare the definition of a hero in Gilgamesh, the Iliad, the Mahabharata, and the Aeneid. What does a
hero have to do to be admired by his own society? What can’t he do? • How are Gilgamesh and Achilles similar? How is Hector both similar and different to them? • How are the expectations for a gentleman in the Analects similar to the expectations for the sons of Pandu
in the Mahabharata? What makes Aeneas both similar and different to them? • What view of the gods do the characters have? What does their pantheon of gods expect from the charac-
ters, and what do they expect of the gods? • How do characters in this section deal with authority/authority figures? Why?
Written by Laura J. Getty
Middle East, Near East, Greece 1
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The texts chosen for this chapter were influential in their own times and beyond. Gilgamesh was an ancient Sumerian king whose story was valued and retold by other cultures who invaded the area. The Bible remains one of the most widely read books in history. Homer’s epics form a cornerstone of western literature, and the two plays selected from ancient Greek drama influenced countless writers after them. Only the plays were originally written works; the other texts were part of an oral tradition before they were written down. Even then, the subject matter of the plays is not original to the authors: The audience knew the stories of Oedipus and Medea already. Homer was not the first (or the last) to compose poems on the Trojan War and its aftermath. Originality was not particularly prized in an oral culture, where only the best works were worth memorizing. Homer’s fame comes from how well he tells his version of events.
When reading the selected texts, remember that the contemporary definition of a hero or leader is often not compatible with the ancient world’s definition of a hero or leader. Each society, and sometimes each time period in each society, can have a different definition, based on what the expectations were. There is also a difference between the modern idea of an action hero and the ancient world’s definition of an epic hero. To be the hero of an epic, the character needs to meet at least some of the following requirements: He receives divine intervention (or is chosen by the gods to win), has superhuman strength or abilities, is of national or international importance, has the ability to overcome and learn from a personal flaw, and goes on a significant journey. The ultimate goal of epic heroes is to be remembered: achieving immortality through their deeds, which will live on in stories. Unlike a modern film
Image 1.1: Map of Mesopotamia | A map showing the borders of ancient Mesopotamia.
Author: NordNordWest Source: Wikimedia Commons License: CC BY 3.0
Compact Anthology of World Literature
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Image 1.2: City of Uruk | A basic map of Uruk with notes on the city’s boundaries.
Author: Lamassu Design Source: Wikimedia Commons License: CC BY-SA 3.0
Image 1.3: Eanna District of Uruk | A map of Uruk’s Eanna District, with its buildings and notes.
Author: Lamassu Design Source: Wikimedia Commons License: CC BY-SA 3.0
Image 1.4: Anu District of Uruk | A map of Uruk’s Anu District, with its buildings and notes.
Author: Lamassu Design Source: Wikimedia Commons License: CC BY-SA 3.0
Image 1.5: Uruk in 2008 | An aerial view of the dig site at Warka in Iraq.
Author: SAC Andy Holmes (RAF) Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Open Government License (OGL)
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hero who might be expected to act in the best interests of others, epic heroes may or may not act with other people’s interests in mind. Some of the epic heroes in this chapter fight to protect others, but many fight for personal glory, regardless of the collateral damage. In other words, an epic hero is an ideal warrior in his society, but not always an ideal human being. In the Iliad, Achilles is the greatest warrior among the Greeks, and his main concern is making a name for himself that will last forever. When he is insult- ed by Agamemnon, therefore, he asks that Zeus punish Achilles’ own side, slaughtering the Greeks until they beg him for forgiveness. Achilles fights for his own glory, not the glory of others.
In Gilgamesh, the title character begins the story as an impressive epic hero, but a poor leader (as the gods them- selves indicate in the story when they respond to the prayers of the citizens of Uruk, who are begging the gods to protect them from their own king). Gilgamesh’s lack of morality stems in part from his demigod status; as the ancient Sumerians recognized, their pantheon of gods was not particularly moral. Since epic heroes need the help of the gods to win, the focus is not on individual strength, but on gaining the favor of the gods. Yes, Gilgamesh is strong, but to fight the supernatural creature Humbaba, Gilgamesh needs help: his mother’s prayers to the gods, his friend Enkidu’s support, supernatural weapons from the god Shamash (namely the winds), and his tears as offerings to Shamash in exchange for his help. The expectations
for a good king are clear in the text, but they conflict on some level with the expectations for an epic hero in this case.
The hero who receives divine intervention is the one who wins every time, so being humble to the gods is vital for success. When Brad Pitt plays Achilles in the movie Troy, there are no toddler tantrums; in the Iliad, Achilles cries every time he wants the help of his mother, the god- dess Thetis. The modern film expectations for the character of Achilles would be foreign (and strange, and irreligious) to the original audience, just as a modern American film audience would not be impressed by an action hero who sobbed to his mother for help. The original audience, how- ever, would be familiar with example after example of how pointless it is to try to win without the help of the gods: No matter who would have won based on his own strength, the gods determine the final result. Human strength means little in such a universe.
Equally pointless is the attempt to change fate, which is the one force in the Greek stories that is stronger than the gods. Zeus cannot change the outcome of various events in the Iliad, and Oedipus realizes the futility of attempting to change his fate. The fatalistic approach of the Greek texts stems from the belief that the ages of man are in a decline, from the golden age down to the iron age of Homer. This belief in the general decline of humanity is echoed later in Dante’s Inferno, where the Old Man of Crete is composed of the same metals, but this time with a clay foot.
As you read, consider the following questions:
• Using the list of traits above, which traits apply to each epic hero in the texts? • What is similar and/or different about heroes such as Gilgamesh, Achilles, Hector, and Odysseus?
Image 1.6: Mesopotamia in 2nd Millennium BC | A map depicting the cities of ancient Mesopotamia.
Author: User “Joeyhewitt” Source: Wikimedia Commons License: CC BY-SA 2.5
Middle East, Near East, Greece
Image 1.2: City of Uruk | A basic map of Uruk with notes on the city’s boundaries.
Author: Lamassu Design Source: Wikimedia Commons License: CC BY-SA 3.0
Image 1.3: Eanna District of Uruk | A map of Uruk’s Eanna District, with its buildings and notes.
Author: Lamassu Design Source: Wikimedia Commons License: CC BY-SA 3.0
Image 1.4: Anu District of Uruk | A map of Uruk’s Anu District, with its buildings and notes.
Author: Lamassu Design Source: Wikimedia Commons License: CC BY-SA 3.0
Image 1.5: Uruk in 2008 | An aerial view of the dig site at Warka in Iraq.
Author: SAC Andy Holmes (RAF) Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Open Government License (OGL)
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• How do the characters view the gods, and how do the gods treat humans? • What do we learn about what each society considers proper or improper behavior, again based on the text
itself ? • Is family love or romantic love more important in the text, and why?
Written by Laura J. Getty
HEBrEw BIBLE, “GEnESIS” AnD “ExoDUS”
Written version compiled between approximately 1000-500 B.C.E. Hebrew literature
The Hebrew Bible is called the Tanakh, a name which comes from the first letters of its three sections: the Torah, or the Law (Ta); the Nevi’im, or the Prophets (Na), and the Ketuvim, or the Writings (Kh). The entire book is some- times called the Torah, and it is also the Christian Old Testament. The section called the Torah, which is comprised of the first five books (also called the Pentateuch and the Five Books of Moses), were originally believed to have been composed in the 14th century B.C.E. by Moses. According to biblical scholars, the version that we have today is a compilation from four different written traditions after the time of Moses, which explains why the text has multi- ple inconsistencies: For instance, in “Genesis,” there are two creations of humans, and the number of animals that God tells Noah to take into the ark changes from two of each kind to seven of each kind. These versions are called the J, E, D, and P texts, which were combined over time. The Hebrew Bible has been translated many times over the centuries, and two of the most popular translations are included in the anthology for comparison.
Written by Laura J. Getty
King James Version
Genesis Chapter 1 1 In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth. 2 And the earth was without form, and void; and dark-
ness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. 3 And God said, Let there be light: and there was light. 4 And God saw the light, that it was good: and God
divided the light from the darkness. 5 And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night. And the eve- ning and the morning were the first day.
6 And God said, Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters. 7 And God made the firmament, and divided the waters which were under the firmament from the waters which were above the firmament: and it was so. 8 And God called the firmament Heaven. And the evening and the morn- ing were the second day.
9 And God said, Let the waters under the heaven be gathered together unto one place, and let the dry land appear: and it was so. 10 And God called the dry land Earth; and the gathering together of the waters called he Seas: and God saw that it was good. 11 And God said, Let the earth bring forth grass, the herb yielding seed, and the fruit tree yielding fruit after his kind, whose seed is in itself, upon the earth: and it was so. 12 And the earth brought forth grass, and herb yielding seed after his kind, and the tree yielding fruit, whose seed was in itself, after his kind: and God saw that it was good. 13 And the evening and the morning were the third day.
14 And God said, Let there be lights in the firmament of the heaven to divide the day from the night; and let them be for signs, and for seasons, and for days, and years: 15 And let them be for lights in the firmament of the heaven to give light upon the earth: and it was so. 16 And God made two great lights; the greater light to rule the day, and the lesser light to rule the night: he made the stars also. 17 And God set them in the firmament of the heaven to give light upon the earth, 18 And to rule over the day and over the night, and to divide the light from the darkness: and God saw that it was good. 19 And the evening and the morning were the fourth day.
20 And God said, Let the waters bring forth abundantly the moving creature that hath life, and fowl that may fly above the earth in the open firmament of heaven. 21 And God created great whales, and every living creature that moveth, which the waters brought forth abundantly, after their kind, and every winged fowl after his kind: and God saw that it was good. 22 And God blessed them, saying, Be fruitful, and multiply, and fill the waters in the seas, and let fowl multiply in the earth. 23 And the evening and the morning were the fifth day.
License: Open Access
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Hebrew Bible
24 And God said, Let the earth bring forth the living creature after his kind, cattle, and creeping thing, and beast of the earth after his kind: and it was so. 25 And God made the beast of the earth after his kind, and cattle after their kind, and every thing that creepeth upon the earth after his kind: and God saw that it was good.
26 And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness: and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth. 27 So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him; male and female created he them. 28 And God blessed them, and God said unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it: and have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth.
29 And God said, Behold, I have given you every herb bearing seed, which is upon the face of all the earth, and every tree, in the which is the fruit of a tree yielding seed; to you it shall be for meat. 30 And to every beast of the earth, and to every fowl of the air, and to every thing that creepeth upon the earth, wherein there is life, I have given every green herb for meat: and it was so. 31 And God saw every thing that he had made, and, behold, it was very good. And the evening and the morning were the sixth day.
Genesis Chapter 2 1 Thus the heavens and the earth were finished, and all the host of them. 2 And on the seventh day God ended
his work which he had made; and he rested on the seventh day from all his work which he had made. 3 And God blessed the seventh day, and sanctified it: because that in it he had rested from all his work which God created and made.
4 These are the generations of the heavens and of the earth when they were created, in the day that the LORD God made the earth and the heavens, 5 And every plant of the field before it was in the earth, and every herb of the field before it grew: for the LORD God had not caused it to rain upon the earth, and there was not a man to till the ground. 6 But there went up a mist from the earth, and watered the whole face of the ground. 7 And the LORD God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living soul.
8 And the LORD God planted a garden eastward in Eden; and there he put the man whom he had formed. 9 And out of the ground made the LORD God to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight, and good for food; the tree of life also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of knowledge of good and evil. 10 And a river went out of Eden to water the garden; and from thence it was parted, and became into four heads. 11 The name of the first is Pison: that is it which compasseth the whole land of Havilah, where there is gold; 12 And the gold of that land is good: there is bdellium and the onyx stone. 13 And the name of the second river is Gihon: the same is it that com- passeth the whole land of Ethiopia. 14 And the name of the third river is Hiddekel: that is it which goeth toward the east of Assyria. And the fourth river is Euphrates. 15 And the LORD God took the man, and put him into the garden of Eden to dress it and to keep it.
16 And the LORD God commanded the man, saying, Of every tree of the garden thou mayest freely eat: 17 But of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thou shalt not eat of it: for in the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die.
18 And the LORD God said, It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him an help meet for him. 19 And out of the ground the LORD God formed every beast of the field, and every fowl of the air; and brought them unto Adam to see what he would call them: and whatsoever Adam called every living creature, that was the name thereof. 20 And Adam gave names to all cattle, and to the fowl of the air, and to every beast of the field; but for Adam there was not found an help meet for him.
21 And the LORD God caused a deep sleep to fall upon Adam, and he slept: and he took one of his ribs, and closed up the flesh instead thereof; 22 And the rib, which the LORD God had taken from man, made he a woman, and brought her unto the man. 23 And Adam said, This is now bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh: she shall be called Woman, because she was taken out of Man. 24 Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh. 25 And they were both naked, the man and his wife, and were not ashamed.
Genesis Chapter 3 1 Now the serpent was more subtil than any beast of the field which the LORD God had made. And he said
unto the woman, Yea, hath God said, Ye shall not eat of every tree of the garden? 2 And the woman said unto the serpent, We may eat of the fruit of the trees of the garden: 3 But of the fruit of the tree which is in the midst of the garden, God hath said, Ye shall not eat of it, neither shall ye touch it, lest ye die. 4 And the serpent said unto the woman, Ye shall not surely die: 5 For God doth know that in the day ye eat thereof, then your eyes shall be opened,
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and ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil. 6 And when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was pleasant to the eyes, and a tree to be
desired to make one wise, she took of the fruit thereof, and did eat, and gave also unto her husband with her; and he did eat. 7 And the eyes of them both were opened, and they knew that they were naked; and they sewed fig leaves together, and made themselves aprons. 8 And they heard the voice of the LORD God walking in the garden in the cool of the day: and Adam and his wife hid themselves from the presence of the LORD God amongst the trees of the garden.
9 And the LORD God called unto Adam, and said unto him, Where art thou? 10 And he said, I heard thy voice in the garden, and I was afraid, because I was naked; and I hid myself.
11 And he said, Who told thee that thou wast naked? Hast thou eaten of the tree, whereof I commanded thee that thou shouldest not eat? 12 And the man said, The woman whom thou gavest to be with me, she gave me of the tree, and I did eat. 13 And the LORD God said unto the woman, What is this that thou hast done? And the woman said, The serpent beguiled me, and I did eat.
14 And the LORD God said unto the serpent, Because thou hast done this, thou art cursed above all cattle, and above every beast of the field; upon thy belly shalt thou go, and dust shalt thou eat all the days of thy life: 15 And I will put enmity between thee and the woman, and between thy seed and her seed; it shall bruise thy head, and thou shalt bruise his heel. 16 Unto the woman he said, I will greatly multiply thy sorrow and thy conception; in sorrow thou shalt bring forth children; and thy desire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee.
17 And unto Adam he said, Because thou hast hearkened unto the voice of thy wife, and hast eaten of the tree, of which I commanded thee, saying, Thou shalt not eat of it: cursed is the ground for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou eat of it all the days of thy life; 18 Thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee; and thou shalt eat the herb of the field; 19 In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return. 20 And Adam called his wife’s name Eve; because she was the mother of all living. 21 Unto Adam also and to his wife did the LORD God make coats of skins, and clothed them.
22 And the LORD God said, Behold, the man is become as one of us, to know good and evil: and now, lest he put forth his hand, and take also of the tree of life, and eat, and live for ever: 23 Therefore the LORD God sent him forth from the garden of Eden, to till the ground from whence he was taken. 24 So he drove out the man; and he placed at the east of the garden of Eden Cherubims, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep the way of the tree of life.
Genesis Chapter 4 1 And Adam knew Eve his wife; and she conceived, and bare Cain, and said, I have gotten a man from the
LORD. 2 And she again bare his brother Abel. And Abel was a keeper of sheep, but Cain was a tiller of the ground. 3 And in process of time it came to pass, that Cain brought of the fruit of the ground an offering unto the
LORD. 4 And Abel, he also brought of the firstlings of his flock and of the fat thereof. And the LORD had respect unto Abel and to his offering: 5 But unto Cain and to his offering he had not respect. And Cain was very wroth, and his countenance fell.
6 And the LORD said unto Cain, Why art thou wroth? and why is thy countenance fallen? 7 If thou doest well, shalt thou not be accepted? and if thou doest not well, sin lieth at the door. And unto thee shall be his desire, and thou shalt rule over him. 8 And Cain talked with Abel his brother: and it came to pass, when they were in the field, that Cain rose up against Abel his brother, and slew him.
9 And the LORD said unto Cain, Where is Abel thy brother? And he said, I know not: Am I my brother’s keep- er? 10 And he said, What hast thou done? the voice of thy brother’s blood crieth unto me from the ground. 11 And now art thou cursed from the earth, which hath opened her mouth to receive thy brother’s blood from thy hand; 12 When thou tillest the ground, it shall not henceforth yield unto thee her strength; a fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be in the earth.
13 And Cain said unto the LORD, My punishment is greater than I can bear. 14 Behold, thou hast driven me out this day from the face of the earth; and from thy face shall I be hid; and I shall be a fugitive and a vagabond in the earth; and it shall come to pass, that every one that findeth me shall slay me. 15 And the LORD said unto him, Therefore whosoever slayeth Cain, vengeance shall be taken on him sevenfold. And the LORD set a mark upon Cain, lest any finding him should kill him.
16 And Cain went out from the presence of the LORD, and dwelt in the land of Nod, on the east of Eden. 17 And Cain knew his wife; and she conceived, and bare Enoch: and he builded a city, and called the name of the city, after the name of his son, Enoch. 18 And unto Enoch was born Irad: and Irad begat Mehujael: and Mehujael begat Methu- sael: and Methusael begat Lamech.
19 And Lamech took unto him two wives: the name of the one was Adah, and the name of the other Zillah.
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20 And Adah bare Jabal: he was the father of such as dwell in tents, and of such as have cattle. 21 And his brother’s name was Jubal: he was the father of all such as handle the harp and organ. 22 And Zillah, she also bare Tubalcain, an instructer of every artificer in brass and iron: and the sister of Tubalcain was Naamah.
23 And Lamech said unto his wives, Adah and Zillah, Hear my voice; ye wives of Lamech, hearken unto my speech: for I have slain a man to my wounding, and a young man to my hurt. 24 If Cain shall be avenged sevenfold, truly Lamech seventy and sevenfold.
25 And Adam knew his wife again; and she bare a son, and called his name Seth: For God, said she, hath ap- pointed me another seed instead of Abel, whom Cain slew. 26 And to Seth, to him also there was born a son; and he called his name Enos: then began men to call upon the name of the LORD.
Genesis Chapter 5 1 This is the book of the generations of Adam. In the day that God created man, in the likeness of God made he
him; 2 Male and female created he them; and blessed them, and called their name Adam, in the day when they were created.
3 And Adam lived an hundred and thirty years, and begat a son in his own likeness, and after his image; and called his name Seth: 4 And the days of Adam after he had begotten Seth were eight hundred years: and he begat sons and daughters: 5 And all the days that Adam lived were nine hundred and thirty years: and he died.
6 And Seth lived an hundred and five years, and begat Enos: 7 And Seth lived after he begat Enos eight hundred and seven years, and begat sons and daughters: 8 And all the days of Seth were nine hundred and twelve years: and he died.
9 And Enos lived ninety years, and begat Cainan: 10 And Enos lived after he begat Cainan eight hundred and fif- teen years, and begat sons and daughters: 11 And all the days of Enos were nine hundred and five years: and he died.
12 And Cainan lived seventy years and begat Mahalaleel: 13 And Cainan lived after he begat Mahalaleel eight hundred and forty years, and begat sons and daughters: 14 And all the days of Cainan were nine hundred and ten years: and he died.
15 And Mahalaleel lived sixty and five years, and begat Jared: 16 And Mahalaleel lived after he begat Jared eight hundred and thirty years, and begat sons and daughters: 17 And all the days of Mahalaleel were eight hundred nine- ty and five years: and he died.
18 And Jared lived an hundred sixty and two years, and he begat Enoch: 19 And Jared lived after he begat Enoch eight hundred years, and begat sons and daughters: 20 And all the days of Jared were nine hundred sixty and two years: and he died.
21 And Enoch lived sixty and five years, and begat Methuselah: 22 And Enoch walked with God after he begat Methuselah three hundred years, and begat sons and daughters: 23 And all the days of Enoch were three hundred sixty and five years: 24 And Enoch walked with God: and he was not; for God took him.
25 And Methuselah lived an hundred eighty and seven years, and begat Lamech. 26 And Methuselah lived after he begat Lamech seven hundred eighty and two years, and begat sons and daughters: 27 And all the days of Methu- selah were nine hundred sixty and nine years: and he died.
28 And Lamech lived an hundred eighty and two years, and begat a son: 29 And he called his name Noah, saying, This same shall comfort us concerning our work and toil of our hands, because of the ground which the LORD hath cursed. 30 And Lamech lived after he begat Noah five hundred ninety and five years, and begat sons and daughters: 31 And all the days of Lamech were seven hundred seventy and seven years: and he died. 32 And Noah was five hun- dred years old: and Noah begat Shem, Ham, and Japheth.
Genesis Chapter 6 1 And it came to pass, when men began to multiply on the face of the earth, and daughters were born unto
them, 2 That the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took them wives of all which they chose. 3 And the LORD said, My spirit shall not always strive with man, for that he also is flesh: yet his days shall be an hundred and twenty years.
4 There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old, men of re- nown.
5 And God saw that the wickedness of man was great in the earth, and that every imagination of the thoughts of his heart was only evil continually.
6 And it repented the LORD that he had made man on the earth, and it grieved him at his heart. 7 And the LORD said, I will destroy man whom I have created from the face of the earth; both man, and beast, and the creep- ing thing, and the fowls of the air; for it repenteth me that I have made them.
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8 But Noah found grace in the eyes of the LORD. 9 These are the generations of Noah: Noah was a just man and perfect in his generations, and Noah walked with
God. 10 And Noah begat three sons, Shem, Ham, and Japheth. 11 The earth also was corrupt before God, and the earth was filled with violence. 12 And God looked upon the
earth, and, behold, it was corrupt; for all flesh had corrupted his way upon the earth. 13 And God said unto Noah, The end of all flesh is come before me; for the earth is filled with violence through
them; and, behold, I will destroy them with the earth. 14 Make thee an ark of gopher wood; rooms shalt thou make in the ark, and shalt pitch it within and without
with pitch. 15 And this is the fashion which thou shalt make it of: The length of the ark shall be three hundred cubits, the breadth of it fifty cubits, and the height of it thirty cubits. 16 A window shalt thou make to the ark, and in a cubit shalt thou finish it above; and the door of the ark shalt thou set in the side thereof; with lower, second, and third stories shalt thou make it. 17 And, behold, I, even I, do bring a flood of waters upon the earth, to destroy all flesh, wherein is the breath of life, from under heaven; and every thing that is in the earth shall die. 18 But with thee will I establish my covenant; and thou shalt come into the ark, thou, and thy sons, and thy wife, and thy sons’ wives with thee. 19 And of every living thing of all flesh, two of every sort shalt thou bring into the ark, to keep them alive with thee; they shall be male and female. 20 Of fowls after their kind, and of cattle after their kind, of every creeping thing of the earth after his kind, two of every sort shall come unto thee, to keep them alive. 21 And take thou unto thee of all food that is eaten, and thou shalt gather it to thee; and it shall be for food for thee, and for them. 22 Thus did Noah; according to all that God commanded him, so did he.
Genesis Chapter 7 1 And the LORD said unto Noah, Come thou and all thy house into the ark; for thee have I seen righteous
before me in this generation. 2 Of every clean beast thou shalt take to thee by sevens, the male and his female: and of beasts that are not clean by two, the male and his female. 3 Of fowls also of the air by sevens, the male and the fe- male; to keep seed alive upon the face of all the earth. 4 For yet seven days, and I will cause it to rain upon the earth forty days and forty nights; and every living substance that I have made will I destroy from off the face of the earth.
5 And Noah did according unto all that the LORD commanded him. 6 And Noah was six hundred years old when the flood of waters was upon the earth.
7 And Noah went in, and his sons, and his wife, and his sons’ wives with him, into the ark, because of the waters of the flood. 8 Of clean beasts, and of beasts that are not clean, and of fowls, and of every thing that creepeth upon the earth, 9 There went in two and two unto Noah into the ark, the male and the female, as God had commanded Noah. 10 And it came to pass after seven days, that the waters of the flood were upon the earth.
11 In the six hundredth year of Noah’s life, in the second month, the seventeenth day of the month, the same day were all the fountains of the great deep broken up, and the windows of heaven were opened. 12 And the rain was upon the earth forty days and forty nights.
13 In the selfsame day entered Noah, and Shem, and Ham, and Japheth, the sons of Noah, and Noah’s wife, and the three wives of his sons with them, into the ark; 14 They, and every beast after his kind, and all the cattle after their kind, and every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth after his kind, and every fowl after his kind, every bird of every sort. 15 And they went in unto Noah into the ark, two and two of all flesh, wherein is the breath of life. 16 And they that went in, went in male and female of all flesh, as God had commanded him: and the LORD shut him in.
17 And the flood was forty days upon the earth; and the waters increased, and bare up the ark, and it was lift up above the earth. 18 And the waters prevailed, and were increased greatly upon the earth; and the ark went upon the face of the waters. 19 And the waters prevailed exceedingly upon the earth; and all the high hills, that were under the whole heaven, were covered. 20 Fifteen cubits upward did the waters prevail; and the mountains were covered.
21 And all flesh died that moved upon the earth, both of fowl, and of cattle, and of beast, and of every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth, and every man: 22 All in whose nostrils was the breath of life, of all that was in the dry land, died. 23 And every living substance was destroyed which was upon the face of the ground, both man, and cattle, and the creeping things, and the fowl of the heaven; and they were destroyed from the earth: and Noah only remained alive, and they that were with him in the ark. 24 And the waters prevailed upon the earth an hundred and fifty days.
Genesis Chapter 8 1 And God remembered Noah, and every living thing, and all the cattle that was with him in the ark: and God
made a wind to pass over the earth, and the waters asswaged; 2 The fountains also of the deep and the windows of
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heaven were stopped, and the rain from heaven was restrained; 3 And the waters returned from off the earth contin- ually: and after the end of the hundred and fifty days the waters were abated.
4 And the ark rested in the seventh month, on the seventeenth day of the month, upon the mountains of Ararat. 5 And the waters decreased continually until the tenth month: in the tenth month, on the first day of the month, were the tops of the mountains seen.
6 And it came to pass at the end of forty days, that Noah opened the window of the ark which he had made: 7 And he sent forth a raven, which went forth to and fro, until the waters were dried up from off the earth. 8 Also he sent forth a dove from him, to see if the waters were abated from off the face of the ground; 9 But the dove found no rest for the sole of her foot, and she returned unto him into the ark, for the waters were on the face of the whole earth: then he put forth his hand, and took her, and pulled her in unto him into the ark. 10 And he stayed yet other seven days; and again he sent forth the dove out of the ark; 11 And the dove came in to him in the evening; and, lo, in her mouth was an olive leaf pluckt off: so Noah knew that the waters were abated from off the earth. 12 And he stayed yet other seven days; and sent forth the dove; which returned not again unto him any more.
13 And it came to pass in the six hundredth and first year, in the first month, the first day of the month, the waters were dried up from off the earth: and Noah removed the covering of the ark, and looked, and, behold, the face of the ground was dry. 14 And in the second month, on the seven and twentieth day of the month, was the earth dried.
15 And God spake unto Noah, saying, 16 Go forth of the ark, thou, and thy wife, and thy sons, and thy sons’ wives with thee. 17 Bring forth with thee every living thing that is with thee, of all flesh, both of fowl, and of cattle, and of every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth; that they may breed abundantly in the earth, and be fruit- ful, and multiply upon the earth. 18 And Noah went forth, and his sons, and his wife, and his sons’ wives with him: 19 Every beast, every creeping thing, and every fowl, and whatsoever creepeth upon the earth, after their kinds, went forth out of the ark.
20 And Noah builded an altar unto the LORD; and took of every clean beast, and of every clean fowl, and offered burnt offerings on the altar. 21 And the LORD smelled a sweet savour; and the LORD said in his heart, I will not again curse the ground any more for man’s sake; for the imagination of man’s heart is evil from his youth; neither will I again smite any more every thing living, as I have done. 22 While the earth remaineth, seedtime and harvest, and cold and heat, and summer and winter, and day and night shall not cease.
Genesis Chapter 9 1 And God blessed Noah and his sons, and said unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth.
2 And the fear of you and the dread of you shall be upon every beast of the earth, and upon every fowl of the air, upon all that moveth upon the earth, and upon all the fishes of the sea; into your hand are they delivered. 3 Every moving thing that liveth shall be meat for you; even as the green herb have I given you all things. 4 But flesh with the life thereof, which is the blood thereof, shall ye not eat. 5 And surely your blood of your lives will I require; at the hand of every beast will I require it, and at the hand of man; at the hand of every man’s brother will I require the life of man. 6 Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed: for in the image of God made he man. 7 And you, be ye fruitful, and multiply; bring forth abundantly in the earth, and multiply therein.
8 And God spake unto Noah, and to his sons with him, saying, 9 And I, behold, I establish my covenant with you, and with your seed after you; 10 And with every living creature that is with you, of the fowl, of the cattle, and of every beast of the earth with you; from all that go out of the ark, to every beast of the earth. 11 And I will establish my covenant with you, neither shall all flesh be cut off any more by the waters of a flood; neither shall there any more be a flood to destroy the earth.
12 And God said, This is the token of the covenant which I make between me and you and every living creature that is with you, for perpetual generations: 13 I do set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a token of a covenant between me and the earth. 14 And it shall come to pass, when I bring a cloud over the earth, that the bow shall be seen in the cloud: 15 And I will remember my covenant, which is between me and you and every living creature of all flesh; and the waters shall no more become a flood to destroy all flesh. 16 And the bow shall be in the cloud; and I will look upon it, that I may remember the everlasting covenant between God and every living creature of all flesh that is upon the earth. 17 And God said unto Noah, This is the token of the covenant, which I have established between me and all flesh that is upon the earth.
Exodus Chapter 1 1 Now these are the names of the children of Israel, which came into Egypt; every man and his household came
with Jacob. 2 Reuben, Simeon, Levi, and Judah, 3 Issachar, Zebulun, and Benjamin, 4 Dan, and Naphtali, Gad, and Asher. 5 And all the souls that came out of the loins of Jacob were seventy souls: for Joseph was in Egypt already.
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6 And Joseph died, and all his brethren, and all that generation. 7 And the children of Israel were fruitful, and increased abundantly, and multiplied, and waxed exceeding
mighty; and the land was filled with them. 8 Now there arose up a new king over Egypt, which knew not Joseph. 9 And he said unto his people, Behold, the
people of the children of Israel are more and mightier than we: 10 Come on, let us deal wisely with them; lest they multiply, and it come to pass, that, when there falleth out any war, they join also unto our enemies, and fight against us, and so get them up out of the land. 11 Therefore they did set over them taskmasters to afflict them with their burdens. And they built for Pharaoh treasure cities, Pithom and Raamses. 12 But the more they afflicted them, the more they multiplied and grew. And they were grieved because of the children of Israel. 13 And the Egyptians made the children of Israel to serve with rigour: 14 And they made their lives bitter with hard bondage, in morter, and in brick, and in all manner of service in the field: all their service, wherein they made them serve, was with rigour.
15 And the king of Egypt spake to the Hebrew midwives, of which the name of the one was Shiphrah, and the name of the other Puah: 16 And he said, When ye do the office of a midwife to the Hebrew women, and see them upon the stools; if it be a son, then ye shall kill him: but if it be a daughter, then she shall live. 17 But the midwives feared God, and did not as the king of Egypt commanded them, but saved the men children alive. 18 And the king of Egypt called for the midwives, and said unto them, Why have ye done this thing, and have saved the men children alive? 19 And the midwives said unto Pharaoh, Because the Hebrew women are not as the Egyptian women; for they are lively, and are delivered ere the midwives come in unto them. 20 Therefore God dealt well with the midwives: and the people multiplied, and waxed very mighty. 21 And it came to pass, because the midwives feared God, that he made them houses. 22 And Pharaoh charged all his people, saying, Every son that is born ye shall cast into the river, and every daughter ye shall save alive.
Exodus Chapter 2 1 And there went a man of the house of Levi, and took to wife a daughter of Levi. 2 And the woman conceived,
and bare a son: and when she saw him that he was a goodly child, she hid him three months. 3 And when she could not longer hide him, she took for him an ark of bulrushes, and daubed it with slime and with pitch, and put the child therein; and she laid it in the flags by the river’s brink. 4 And his sister stood afar off, to wit what would be done to him.
5 And the daughter of Pharaoh came down to wash herself at the river; and her maidens walked along by the river’s side; and when she saw the ark among the flags, she sent her maid to fetch it. 6 And when she had opened it, she saw the child: and, behold, the babe wept. And she had compassion on him, and said, This is one of the Hebrews’ children. 7 Then said his sister to Pharaoh’s daughter, Shall I go and call to thee a nurse of the Hebrew women, that she may nurse the child for thee? 8 And Pharaoh’s daughter said to her, Go. And the maid went and called the child’s mother. 9 And Pharaoh’s daughter said unto her, Take this child away, and nurse it for me, and I will give thee thy wages. And the women took the child, and nursed it. 10 And the child grew, and she brought him unto Pharaoh’s daughter, and he became her son. And she called his name Moses: and she said, Because I drew him out of the water.
11 And it came to pass in those days, when Moses was grown, that he went out unto his brethren, and looked on their burdens: and he spied an Egyptian smiting an Hebrew, one of his brethren. 12 And he looked this way and that way, and when he saw that there was no man, he slew the Egyptian, and hid him in the sand. 13 And when he went out the second day, behold, two men of the Hebrews strove together: and he said to him that did the wrong, Where- fore smitest thou thy fellow? 14 And he said, Who made thee a prince and a judge over us? intendest thou to kill me, as thou killedst the Egyptian? And Moses feared, and said, Surely this thing is known. 15 Now when Pharaoh heard this thing, he sought to slay Moses. But Moses fled from the face of Pharaoh, and dwelt in the land of Midian: and he sat down by a well.
16 Now the priest of Midian had seven daughters: and they came and drew water, and filled the troughs to water their father’s flock. 17 And the shepherds came and drove them away: but Moses stood up and helped them, and watered their flock. 18 And when they came to Reuel their father, he said, How is it that ye are come so soon to day? 19 And they said, An Egyptian delivered us out of the hand of the shepherds, and also drew water enough for us, and watered the flock. 20 And he said unto his daughters, And where is he? why is it that ye have left the man? call him, that he may eat bread. 21 And Moses was content to dwell with the man: and he gave Moses Zipporah his daughter. 22 And she bare him a son, and he called his name Gershom: for he said, I have been a stranger in a strange land.
23 And it came to pass in process of time, that the king of Egypt died: and the children of Israel sighed by reason of the bondage, and they cried, and their cry came up unto God by reason of the bondage. 24 And God heard their groaning, and God remembered his covenant with Abraham, with Isaac, and with Jacob. 25 And God looked upon the children of Israel, and God had respect unto them.
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Exodus Chapter 3 1 Now Moses kept the flock of Jethro his father in law, the priest of Midian: and he led the flock to the backside
of the desert, and came to the mountain of God, even to Horeb. 2 And the angel of the LORD appeared unto him in a flame of fire out of the midst of a bush: and he looked, and, behold, the bush burned with fire, and the bush was not consumed. 3 And Moses said, I will now turn aside, and see this great sight, why the bush is not burnt. 4 And when the LORD saw that he turned aside to see, God called unto him out of the midst of the bush, and said, Moses, Moses. And he said, Here am I. 5 And he said, Draw not nigh hither: put off thy shoes from off thy feet, for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground. 6 Moreover he said, I am the God of thy father, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob. And Moses hid his face; for he was afraid to look upon God.
7 And the LORD said, I have surely seen the affliction of my people which are in Egypt, and have heard their cry by reason of their taskmasters; for I know their sorrows; 8 And I am come down to deliver them out of the hand of the Egyptians, and to bring them up out of that land unto a good land and a large, unto a land flowing with milk and honey; unto the place of the Canaanites, and the Hittites, and the Amorites, and the Perizzites, and the Hivites, and the Jebusites. 9 Now therefore, behold, the cry of the children of Israel is come unto me: and I have also seen the oppression wherewith the Egyptians oppress them. 10 Come now therefore, and I will send thee unto Pharaoh, that thou mayest bring forth my people the children of Israel out of Egypt.
11 And Moses said unto God, Who am I, that I should go unto Pharaoh, and that I should bring forth the children of Israel out of Egypt? 12 And he said, Certainly I will be with thee; and this shall be a token unto thee, that I have sent thee: When thou hast brought forth the people out of Egypt, ye shall serve God upon this mountain. 13 And Moses said unto God, Behold, when I come unto the children of Israel, and shall say unto them, The God of your fathers hath sent me unto you; and they shall say to me, What is his name? what shall I say unto them? 14 And God said unto Moses, I AM THAT I AM: and he said, Thus shalt thou say unto the children of Israel, I AM hath sent me unto you. 15 And God said moreover unto Moses, Thus shalt thou say unto the children of Israel, the LORD God of your fathers, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob, hath sent me unto you: this is my name for ever, and this is my memorial unto all generations.
16 Go, and gather the elders of Israel together, and say unto them, The LORD God of your fathers, the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob, appeared unto me, saying, I have surely visited you, and seen that which is done to you in Egypt: 17 And I have said, I will bring you up out of the affliction of Egypt unto the land of the Canaanites, and the Hittites, and the Amorites, and the Perizzites, and the Hivites, and the Jebusites, unto a land flowing with milk and honey. 18 And they shall hearken to thy voice: and thou shalt come, thou and the elders of Israel, unto the king of Egypt, and ye shall say unto him, The LORD God of the Hebrews hath met with us: and now let us go, we beseech thee, three days’ journey into the wilderness, that we may sacrifice to the LORD our God.
19 And I am sure that the king of Egypt will not let you go, no, not by a mighty hand. 20 And I will stretch out my hand, and smite Egypt with all my wonders which I will do in the midst thereof: and after that he will let you go. 21 And I will give this people favour in the sight of the Egyptians: and it shall come to pass, that, when ye go, ye shall not go empty. 22 But every woman shall borrow of her neighbour, and of her that sojourneth in her house, jewels of silver, and jewels of gold, and raiment: and ye shall put them upon your sons, and upon your daughters; and ye shall spoil the Egyptians.
Exodus Chapter 4 1 And Moses answered and said, But, behold, they will not believe me, nor hearken unto my voice: for they will
say, The LORD hath not appeared unto thee. 2 And the LORD said unto him, What is that in thine hand? And he said, A rod. 3 And he said, Cast it on the ground. And he cast it on the ground, and it became a serpent; and Mo- ses fled from before it. 4 And the LORD said unto Moses, Put forth thine hand, and take it by the tail. And he put forth his hand, and caught it, and it became a rod in his hand: 5 That they may believe that the LORD God of their fathers, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob, hath appeared unto thee.
6 And the LORD said furthermore unto him, Put now thine hand into thy bosom. And he put his hand into his bosom: and when he took it out, behold, his hand was leprous as snow. 7 And he said, Put thine hand into thy bosom again. And he put his hand into his bosom again; and plucked it out of his bosom, and, behold, it was turned again as his other flesh. 8 And it shall come to pass, if they will not believe thee, neither hearken to the voice of the first sign, that they will believe the voice of the latter sign. 9 And it shall come to pass, if they will not believe also these two signs, neither hearken unto thy voice, that thou shalt take of the water of the river, and pour it upon the dry land: and the water which thou takest out of the river shall become blood upon the dry land.
10 And Moses said unto the LORD, O my LORD, I am not eloquent, neither heretofore, nor since thou hast spoken unto thy servant: but I am slow of speech, and of a slow tongue. 11 And the LORD said unto him, Who hath
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made man’s mouth? or who maketh the dumb, or deaf, or the seeing, or the blind? have not I the LORD? 12 Now therefore go, and I will be with thy mouth, and teach thee what thou shalt say. 13 And he said, O my LORD, send, I pray thee, by the hand of him whom thou wilt send. 14 And the anger of the LORD was kindled against Moses, and he said, Is not Aaron the Levite thy brother? I know that he can speak well. And also, behold, he cometh forth to meet thee: and when he seeth thee, he will be glad in his heart. 15 And thou shalt speak unto him, and put words in his mouth: and I will be with thy mouth, and with his mouth, and will teach you what ye shall do. 16 And he shall be thy spokesman unto the people: and he shall be, even he shall be to thee instead of a mouth, and thou shalt be to him instead of God. 17 And thou shalt take this rod in thine hand, wherewith thou shalt do signs.
18 And Moses went and returned to Jethro his father in law, and said unto him, Let me go, I pray thee, and return unto my brethren which are in Egypt, and see whether they be yet alive. And Jethro said to Moses, Go in peace. 19 And the LORD said unto Moses in Midian, Go, return into Egypt: for all the men are dead which sought thy life. 20 And Moses took his wife and his sons, and set them upon an ass, and he returned to the land of Egypt: and Moses took the rod of God in his hand. 21 And the LORD said unto Moses, When thou goest to return into Egypt, see that thou do all those wonders before Pharaoh, which I have put in thine hand: but I will harden his heart, that he shall not let the people go. 22 And thou shalt say unto Pharaoh, Thus saith the LORD, Israel is my son, even my firstborn: 23 And I say unto thee, Let my son go, that he may serve me: and if thou refuse to let him go, behold, I will slay thy son, even thy firstborn.
24 And it came to pass by the way in the inn, that the LORD met him, and sought to kill him. 25 Then Zipporah took a sharp stone, and cut off the foreskin of her son, and cast it at his feet, and said, Surely a bloody husband art thou to me. 26 So he let him go: then she said, A bloody husband thou art, because of the circumcision.
27 And the LORD said to Aaron, Go into the wilderness to meet Moses. And he went, and met him in the mount of God, and kissed him. 28 And Moses told Aaron all the words of the LORD who had sent him, and all the signs which he had commanded him.
29 And Moses and Aaron went and gathered together all the elders of the children of Israel: 30 And Aaron spake all the words which the LORD had spoken unto Moses, and did the signs in the sight of the people. 31 And the peo- ple believed: and when they heard that the LORD had visited the children of Israel, and that he had looked upon their affliction, then they bowed their heads and worshipped.
Exodus Chapter 5 1 And afterward Moses and Aaron went in, and told Pharaoh, Thus saith the LORD God of Israel, Let my peo-
ple go, that they may hold a feast unto me in the wilderness. 2 And Pharaoh said, Who is the LORD, that I should obey his voice to let Israel go? I know not the LORD, neither will I let Israel go.
3 And they said, The God of the Hebrews hath met with us: let us go, we pray thee, three days’ journey into the desert, and sacrifice unto the LORD our God; lest he fall upon us with pestilence, or with the sword. 4 And the king of Egypt said unto them, Wherefore do ye, Moses and Aaron, let the people from their works? get you unto your burdens. 5 And Pharaoh said, Behold, the people of the land now are many, and ye make them rest from their bur- dens. 6 And Pharaoh commanded the same day the taskmasters of the people, and their officers, saying, 7 Ye shall no more give the people straw to make brick, as heretofore: let them go and gather straw for themselves. 8 And the tale of the bricks, which they did make heretofore, ye shall lay upon them; ye shall not diminish ought thereof: for they be idle; therefore they cry, saying, Let us go and sacrifice to our God. 9 Let there more work be laid upon the men, that they may labour therein; and let them not regard vain words.
10 And the taskmasters of the people went out, and their officers, and they spake to the people, saying, Thus saith Pharaoh, I will not give you straw. 11 Go ye, get you straw where ye can find it: yet not ought of your work shall be diminished. 12 So the people were scattered abroad throughout all the land of Egypt to gather stubble instead of straw. 13 And the taskmasters hasted them, saying, Fulfil your works, your daily tasks, as when there was straw. 14 And the officers of the children of Israel, which Pharaoh’s taskmasters had set over them, were beaten, and de- manded, Wherefore have ye not fulfilled your task in making brick both yesterday and to day, as heretofore?
15 Then the officers of the children of Israel came and cried unto Pharaoh, saying, Wherefore dealest thou thus with thy servants?
16 There is no straw given unto thy servants, and they say to us, Make brick: and, behold, thy servants are beaten; but the fault is in thine own people. 17 But he said, Ye are idle, ye are idle: therefore ye say, Let us go and do sacrifice to the LORD. 18 Go therefore now, and work; for there shall no straw be given you, yet shall ye deliver the tale of bricks. 19 And the officers of the children of Israel did see that they were in evil case, after it was said, Ye shall not minish ought from your bricks of your daily task.
20 And they met Moses and Aaron, who stood in the way, as they came forth from Pharaoh: 21 And they said unto them, The LORD look upon you, and judge; because ye have made our savour to be abhorred in the eyes of
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Pharaoh, and in the eyes of his servants, to put a sword in their hand to slay us. 22 And Moses returned unto the LORD, and said, LORD, wherefore hast thou so evil entreated this people? why is it that thou hast sent me? 23 For since I came to Pharaoh to speak in thy name, he hath done evil to this people; neither hast thou delivered thy peo- ple at all.
Exodus Chapter 6 1 Then the LORD said unto Moses, Now shalt thou see what I will do to Pharaoh: for with a strong hand shall
he let them go, and with a strong hand shall he drive them out of his land. 2 And God spake unto Moses, and said unto him, I am the LORD: 3 And I appeared unto Abraham, unto Isaac, and unto Jacob, by the name of God Almighty, but by my name JEHOVAH was I not known to them. 4 And I have also established my covenant with them, to give them the land of Canaan, the land of their pilgrimage, wherein they were strangers. 5 And I have also heard the groaning of the children of Israel, whom the Egyptians keep in bondage; and I have remembered my cov- enant. 6 Wherefore say unto the children of Israel, I am the LORD, and I will bring you out from under the burdens of the Egyptians, and I will rid you out of their bondage, and I will redeem you with a stretched out arm, and with great judgments: 7 And I will take you to me for a people, and I will be to you a God: and ye shall know that I am the LORD your God, which bringeth you out from under the burdens of the Egyptians. 8 And I will bring you in unto the land, concerning the which I did swear to give it to Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob; and I will give it you for an heritage: I am the LORD.
9 And Moses spake so unto the children of Israel: but they hearkened not unto Moses for anguish of spirit, and for cruel bondage.
10 And the LORD spake unto Moses, saying, 11 Go in, speak unto Pharaoh king of Egypt, that he let the chil- dren of Israel go out of his land. 12 And Moses spake before the LORD, saying, Behold, the children of Israel have not hearkened unto me; how then shall Pharaoh hear me, who am of uncircumcised lips? 13 And the LORD spake unto Moses and unto Aaron, and gave them a charge unto the children of Israel, and unto Pharaoh king of Egypt, to bring the children of Israel out of the land of Egypt.
14 These be the heads of their fathers’ houses: The sons of Reuben the firstborn of Israel; Hanoch, and Pallu, Hezron, and Carmi: these be the families of Reuben. 15 And the sons of Simeon; Jemuel, and Jamin, and Ohad, and Jachin, and Zohar, and Shaul the son of a Canaanitish woman: these are the families of Simeon.
16 And these are the names of the sons of Levi according to their generations; Gershon, and Kohath, and Merari: and the years of the life of Levi were an hundred thirty and seven years. 17 The sons of Gershon; Libni, and Shimi, according to their families. 18 And the sons of Kohath; Amram, and Izhar, and Hebron, and Uzziel: and the years of the life of Kohath were an hundred thirty and three years. 19 And the sons of Merari; Mahali and Mushi: these are the families of Levi according to their generations. 20 And Amram took him Jochebed his father’s sister to wife; and she bare him Aaron and Moses: and the years of the life of Amram were an hundred and thirty and seven years.
21 And the sons of Izhar; Korah, and Nepheg, and Zichri. 22 And the sons of Uzziel; Mishael, and Elzaphan, and Zithri. 23 And Aaron took him Elisheba, daughter of Amminadab, sister of Naashon, to wife; and she bare him Nadab, and Abihu, Eleazar, and Ithamar. 24 And the sons of Korah; Assir, and Elkanah, and Abiasaph: these are the families of the Korhites. 25 And Eleazar Aaron’s son took him one of the daughters of Putiel to wife; and she bare him Phinehas: these are the heads of the fathers of the Levites according to their families. 26 These are that Aaron and Moses, to whom the LORD said, Bring out the children of Israel from the land of Egypt according to their armies. 27 These are they which spake to Pharaoh king of Egypt, to bring out the children of Israel from Egypt: these are that Moses and Aaron.
28 And it came to pass on the day when the LORD spake unto Moses in the land of Egypt, 29 That the LORD spake unto Moses, saying, I am the LORD: speak thou unto Pharaoh king of Egypt all that I say unto thee. 30 And Moses said before the LORD, Behold, I am of uncircumcised lips, and how shall Pharaoh hearken unto me?
Exodus Chapter 7 1 And the LORD said unto Moses, See, I have made thee a god to Pharaoh: and Aaron thy brother shall be thy
prophet. 2 Thou shalt speak all that I command thee: and Aaron thy brother shall speak unto Pharaoh, that he send the children of Israel out of his land. 3 And I will harden Pharaoh’s heart, and multiply my signs and my wonders in the land of Egypt. 4 But Pharaoh shall not hearken unto you, that I may lay my hand upon Egypt, and bring forth mine armies, and my people the children of Israel, out of the land of Egypt by great judgments. 5 And the Egyptians shall know that I am the LORD, when I stretch forth mine hand upon Egypt, and bring out the children of Israel from among them. 6 And Moses and Aaron did as the LORD commanded them, so did they. 7 And Moses was four- score years old, and Aaron fourscore and three years old, when they spake unto Pharaoh.
8 And the LORD spake unto Moses and unto Aaron, saying, 9 When Pharaoh shall speak unto you, saying, Shew
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a miracle for you: then thou shalt say unto Aaron, Take thy rod, and cast it before Pharaoh, and it shall become a serpent.
10 And Moses and Aaron went in unto Pharaoh, and they did so as the LORD had commanded: and Aaron cast down his rod before Pharaoh, and before his servants, and it became a serpent. 11 Then Pharaoh also called the wise men and the sorcerers: now the magicians of Egypt, they also did in like manner with their enchantments. 12 For they cast down every man his rod, and they became serpents: but Aaron’s rod swallowed up their rods. 13 And he hardened Pharaoh’s heart, that he hearkened not unto them; as the LORD had said.
14 And the LORD said unto Moses, Pharaoh’s heart is hardened, he refuseth to let the people go. 15 Get thee unto Pharaoh in the morning; lo, he goeth out unto the water; and thou shalt stand by the river’s brink against he come; and the rod which was turned to a serpent shalt thou take in thine hand. 16 And thou shalt say unto him, The LORD God of the Hebrews hath sent me unto thee, saying, Let my people go, that they may serve me in the wilderness: and, behold, hitherto thou wouldest not hear. 17 Thus saith the LORD, In this thou shalt know that I am the LORD: behold, I will smite with the rod that is in mine hand upon the waters which are in the river, and they shall be turned to blood. 18 And the fish that is in the river shall die, and the river shall stink; and the Egyptians shall lothe to drink of the water of the river.
19 And the LORD spake unto Moses, Say unto Aaron, Take thy rod, and stretch out thine hand upon the waters of Egypt, upon their streams, upon their rivers, and upon their ponds, and upon all their pools of water, that they may become blood; and that there may be blood throughout all the land of Egypt, both in vessels of wood, and in vessels of stone. 20 And Moses and Aaron did so, as the LORD commanded; and he lifted up the rod, and smote the waters that were in the river, in the sight of Pharaoh, and in the sight of his servants; and all the waters that were in the river were turned to blood. 21 And the fish that was in the river died; and the river stank, and the Egyptians could not drink of the water of the river; and there was blood throughout all the land of Egypt. 22 And the magicians of Egypt did so with their enchantments: and Pharaoh’s heart was hardened, neither did he hearken unto them; as the LORD had said. 23 And Pharaoh turned and went into his house, neither did he set his heart to this also. 24 And all the Egyptians digged round about the river for water to drink; for they could not drink of the water of the river. 25 And seven days were fulfilled, after that the LORD had smitten the river.
Exodus Chapter 8 1 And the LORD spake unto Moses, Go unto Pharaoh, and say unto him, Thus saith the LORD, Let my people
go, that they may serve me. 2 And if thou refuse to let them go, behold, I will smite all thy borders with frogs: 3 And the river shall bring forth frogs abundantly, which shall go up and come into thine house, and into thy bedcham- ber, and upon thy bed, and into the house of thy servants, and upon thy people, and into thine ovens, and into thy kneadingtroughs: 4 And the frogs shall come up both on thee, and upon thy people, and upon all thy servants.
5 And the LORD spake unto Moses, Say unto Aaron, Stretch forth thine hand with thy rod over the streams, over the rivers, and over the ponds, and cause frogs to come up upon the land of Egypt. 6 And Aaron stretched out his hand over the waters of Egypt; and the frogs came up, and covered the land of Egypt. 7 And the magicians did so with their enchantments, and brought up frogs upon the land of Egypt.
8 Then Pharaoh called for Moses and Aaron, and said, Intreat the LORD, that he may take away the frogs from me, and from my people; and I will let the people go, that they may do sacrifice unto the LORD. 9 And Moses said unto Pharaoh, Glory over me: when shall I intreat for thee, and for thy servants, and for thy people, to destroy the frogs from thee and thy houses, that they may remain in the river only? 10 And he said, To morrow. And he said, Be it according to thy word: that thou mayest know that there is none like unto the LORD our God. 11 And the frogs shall depart from thee, and from thy houses, and from thy servants, and from thy people; they shall remain in the river only. 12 And Moses and Aaron went out from Pharaoh: and Moses cried unto the LORD because of the frogs which he had brought against Pharaoh. 13 And the LORD did according to the word of Moses; and the frogs died out of the houses, out of the villages, and out of the fields. 14 And they gathered them together upon heaps: and the land stank. 15 But when Pharaoh saw that there was respite, he hardened his heart, and hearkened not unto them; as the LORD had said.
16 And the LORD said unto Moses, Say unto Aaron, Stretch out thy rod, and smite the dust of the land, that it may become lice throughout all the land of Egypt. 17 And they did so; for Aaron stretched out his hand with his rod, and smote the dust of the earth, and it became lice in man, and in beast; all the dust of the land became lice throughout all the land of Egypt. 18 And the magicians did so with their enchantments to bring forth lice, but they could not: so there were lice upon man, and upon beast. 19 Then the magicians said unto Pharaoh, This is the finger of God: and Pharaoh’s heart was hardened, and he hearkened not unto them; as the LORD had said.
20 And the LORD said unto Moses, Rise up early in the morning, and stand before Pharaoh; lo, he cometh forth to the water; and say unto him, Thus saith the LORD, Let my people go, that they may serve me. 21 Else, if thou wilt
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not let my people go, behold, I will send swarms of flies upon thee, and upon thy servants, and upon thy people, and into thy houses: and the houses of the Egyptians shall be full of swarms of flies, and also the ground whereon they are. 22 And I will sever in that day the land of Goshen, in which my people dwell, that no swarms of flies shall be there; to the end thou mayest know that I am the LORD in the midst of the earth. 23 And I will put a division be- tween my people and thy people: to morrow shall this sign be. 24 And the LORD did so; and there came a grievous swarm of flies into the house of Pharaoh, and into his servants’ houses, and into all the land of Egypt: the land was corrupted by reason of the swarm of flies.
25 And Pharaoh called for Moses and for Aaron, and said, Go ye, sacrifice to your God in the land. 26 And Moses said, It is not meet so to do; for we shall sacrifice the abomination of the Egyptians to the LORD our God: lo, shall we sacrifice the abomination of the Egyptians before their eyes, and will they not stone us? 27 We will go three days’ journey into the wilderness, and sacrifice to the LORD our God, as he shall command us. 28 And Pharaoh said, I will let you go, that ye may sacrifice to the LORD your God in the wilderness; only ye shall not go very far away: in- treat for me. 29 And Moses said, Behold, I go out from thee, and I will intreat the LORD that the swarms of flies may depart from Pharaoh, from his servants, and from his people, to morrow: but let not Pharaoh deal deceitfully any more in not letting the people go to sacrifice to the LORD. 30 And Moses went out from Pharaoh, and intreated the LORD. 31 And the LORD did according to the word of Moses; and he removed the swarms of flies from Pharaoh, from his servants, and from his people; there remained not one. 32 And Pharaoh hardened his heart at this time also, neither would he let the people go.
Exodus Chapter 9 1 Then the LORD said unto Moses, Go in unto Pharaoh, and tell him, Thus saith the LORD God of the He-
brews, Let my people go, that they may serve me. 2 For if thou refuse to let them go, and wilt hold them still, 3 Be- hold, the hand of the LORD is upon thy cattle which is in the field, upon the horses, upon the asses, upon the cam- els, upon the oxen, and upon the sheep: there shall be a very grievous murrain. 4 And the LORD shall sever between the cattle of Israel and the cattle of Egypt: and there shall nothing die of all that is the children’s of Israel. 5 And the LORD appointed a set time, saying, To morrow the LORD shall do this thing in the land. 6 And the LORD did that thing on the morrow, and all the cattle of Egypt died: but of the cattle of the children of Israel died not one. 7 And Pharaoh sent, and, behold, there was not one of the cattle of the Israelites dead. And the heart of Pharaoh was hard- ened, and he did not let the people go.
8 And the LORD said unto Moses and unto Aaron, Take to you handfuls of ashes of the furnace, and let Moses sprinkle it toward the heaven in the sight of Pharaoh. 9 And it shall become small dust in all the land of Egypt, and shall be a boil breaking forth with blains upon man, and upon beast, throughout all the land of Egypt. 10 And they took ashes of the furnace, and stood before Pharaoh; and Moses sprinkled it up toward heaven; and it became a boil breaking forth with blains upon man, and upon beast. 11 And the magicians could not stand before Moses because of the boils; for the boil was upon the magicians, and upon all the Egyptians. 12 And the LORD hardened the heart of Pharaoh, and he hearkened not unto them; as the LORD had spoken unto Moses.
13 And the LORD said unto Moses, Rise up early in the morning, and stand before Pharaoh, and say unto him, Thus saith the LORD God of the Hebrews, Let my people go, that they may serve me. 14 For I will at this time send all my plagues upon thine heart, and upon thy servants, and upon thy people; that thou mayest know that there is none like me in all the earth. 15 For now I will stretch out my hand, that I may smite thee and thy people with pestilence; and thou shalt be cut off from the earth. 16 And in very deed for this cause have I raised thee up, for to shew in thee my power; and that my name may be declared throughout all the earth. 17 As yet exaltest thou thyself against my people, that thou wilt not let them go? 18 Behold, to morrow about this time I will cause it to rain a very grievous hail, such as hath not been in Egypt since the foundation thereof even until now. 19 Send therefore now, and gather thy cattle, and all that thou hast in the field; for upon every man and beast which shall be found in the field, and shall not be brought home, the hail shall come down upon them, and they shall die. 20 He that feared the word of the LORD among the servants of Pharaoh made his servants and his cattle flee into the houses: 21 And he that regarded not the word of the LORD left his servants and his cattle in the field.
22 And the LORD said unto Moses, Stretch forth thine hand toward heaven, that there may be hail in all the land of Egypt, upon man, and upon beast, and upon every herb of the field, throughout the land of Egypt. 23 And Moses stretched forth his rod toward heaven: and the LORD sent thunder and hail, and the fire ran along upon the ground; and the LORD rained hail upon the land of Egypt. 24 So there was hail, and fire mingled with the hail, very grievous, such as there was none like it in all the land of Egypt since it became a nation. 25 And the hail smote throughout all the land of Egypt all that was in the field, both man and beast; and the hail smote every herb of the field, and brake every tree of the field. 26 Only in the land of Goshen, where the children of Israel were, was there no hail.
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27 And Pharaoh sent, and called for Moses and Aaron, and said unto them, I have sinned this time: the LORD is righteous, and I and my people are wicked. 28 Intreat the LORD (for it is enough) that there be no more mighty thunderings and hail; and I will let you go, and ye shall stay no longer. 29 And Moses said unto him, As soon as I am gone out of the city, I will spread abroad my hands unto the LORD; and the thunder shall cease, neither shall there be any more hail; that thou mayest know how that the earth is the LORD’s. 30 But as for thee and thy servants, I know that ye will not yet fear the LORD God. 31 And the flax and the barley was smitten: for the barley was in the ear, and the flax was bolled. 32 But the wheat and the rie were not smitten: for they were not grown up. 33 And Moses went out of the city from Pharaoh, and spread abroad his hands unto the LORD: and the thunders and hail ceased, and the rain was not poured upon the earth. 34 And when Pharaoh saw that the rain and the hail and the thunders were ceased, he sinned yet more, and hardened his heart, he and his servants. 35 And the heart of Pharaoh was hard- ened, neither would he let the children of Israel go; as the LORD had spoken by Moses.
Exodus Chapter 10 1 And the LORD said unto Moses, Go in unto Pharaoh: for I have hardened his heart, and the heart of his
servants, that I might shew these my signs before him: 2 And that thou mayest tell in the ears of thy son, and of thy son’s son, what things I have wrought in Egypt, and my signs which I have done among them; that ye may know how that I am the LORD. 3 And Moses and Aaron came in unto Pharaoh, and said unto him, Thus saith the LORD God of the Hebrews, How long wilt thou refuse to humble thyself before me? let my people go, that they may serve me. 4 Else, if thou refuse to let my people go, behold, to morrow will I bring the locusts into thy coast: 5 And they shall cover the face of the earth, that one cannot be able to see the earth: and they shall eat the residue of that which is escaped, which remaineth unto you from the hail, and shall eat every tree which groweth for you out of the field: 6 And they shall fill thy houses, and the houses of all thy servants, and the houses of all the Egyptians; which neither thy fathers, nor thy fathers’ fathers have seen, since the day that they were upon the earth unto this day. And he turned himself, and went out from Pharaoh. 7 And Pharaoh’s servants said unto him, How long shall this man be a snare unto us? let the men go, that they may serve the LORD their God: knowest thou not yet that Egypt is de- stroyed? 8 And Moses and Aaron were brought again unto Pharaoh: and he said unto them, Go, serve the LORD your God: but who are they that shall go? 9 And Moses said, We will go with our young and with our old, with our sons and with our daughters, with our flocks and with our herds will we go; for we must hold a feast unto the LORD. 10 And he said unto them, Let the LORD be so with you, as I will let you go, and your little ones: look to it; for evil is before you. 11 Not so: go now ye that are men, and serve the LORD; for that ye did desire. And they were driven out from Pharaoh’s presence.
12 And the LORD said unto Moses, Stretch out thine hand over the land of Egypt for the locusts, that they may come up upon the land of Egypt, and eat every herb of the land, even all that the hail hath left. 13 And Moses stretched forth his rod over the land of Egypt, and the LORD brought an east wind upon the land all that day, and all that night; and when it was morning, the east wind brought the locusts. 14 And the locust went up over all the land of Egypt, and rested in all the coasts of Egypt: very grievous were they; before them there were no such lo- custs as they, neither after them shall be such. 15 For they covered the face of the whole earth, so that the land was darkened; and they did eat every herb of the land, and all the fruit of the trees which the hail had left: and there remained not any green thing in the trees, or in the herbs of the field, through all the land of Egypt.
16 Then Pharaoh called for Moses and Aaron in haste; and he said, I have sinned against the LORD your God, and against you. 17 Now therefore forgive, I pray thee, my sin only this once, and intreat the LORD your God, that he may take away from me this death only. 18 And he went out from Pharaoh, and intreated the LORD. 19 And the LORD turned a mighty strong west wind, which took away the locusts, and cast them into the Red sea; there re- mained not one locust in all the coasts of Egypt. 20 But the LORD hardened Pharaoh’s heart, so that he would not let the children of Israel go.
21 And the LORD said unto Moses, Stretch out thine hand toward heaven, that there may be darkness over the land of Egypt, even darkness which may be felt. 22 And Moses stretched forth his hand toward heaven; and there was a thick darkness in all the land of Egypt three days: 23 They saw not one another, neither rose any from his place for three days: but all the children of Israel had light in their dwellings.
24 And Pharaoh called unto Moses, and said, Go ye, serve the LORD; only let your flocks and your herds be stayed: let your little ones also go with you. 25 And Moses said, Thou must give us also sacrifices and burnt offerings, that we may sacrifice unto the LORD our God. 26 Our cattle also shall go with us; there shall not an hoof be left be- hind; for thereof must we take to serve the LORD our God; and we know not with what we must serve the LORD, until we come thither.
27 But the LORD hardened Pharaoh’s heart, and he would not let them go. 28 And Pharaoh said unto him, Get thee from me, take heed to thyself, see my face no more; for in that day thou seest my face thou shalt die. 29 And
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Moses said, Thou hast spoken well, I will see thy face again no more.
Exodus Chapter 11 1 And the LORD said unto Moses, Yet will I bring one plague more upon Pharaoh, and upon Egypt; afterwards
he will let you go hence: when he shall let you go, he shall surely thrust you out hence altogether. 2 Speak now in the ears of the people, and let every man borrow of his neighbour, and every woman of her neighbour, jewels of silver and jewels of gold. 3 And the LORD gave the people favour in the sight of the Egyptians. Moreover the man Moses was very great in the land of Egypt, in the sight of Pharaoh’s servants, and in the sight of the people.
4 And Moses said, Thus saith the LORD, About midnight will I go out into the midst of Egypt: 5 And all the firstborn in the land of Egypt shall die, from the first born of Pharaoh that sitteth upon his throne, even unto the firstborn of the maidservant that is behind the mill; and all the firstborn of beasts. 6 And there shall be a great cry throughout all the land of Egypt, such as there was none like it, nor shall be like it any more. 7 But against any of the children of Israel shall not a dog move his tongue, against man or beast: that ye may know how that the LORD doth put a difference between the Egyptians and Israel. 8 And all these thy servants shall come down unto me, and bow down themselves unto me, saying, Get thee out, and all the people that follow thee: and after that I will go out. And he went out from Pharaoh in a great anger. 9 And the LORD said unto Moses, Pharaoh shall not hearken unto you; that my wonders may be multiplied in the land of Egypt. 10 And Moses and Aaron did all these wonders before Pharaoh: and the LORD hardened Pharaoh’s heart, so that he would not let the children of Israel go out of his land.
Exodus Chapter 12 1 And the LORD spake unto Moses and Aaron in the land of Egypt saying, 2 This month shall be unto you the beginning of months: it shall be the first month of the year to you. 3 Speak ye unto all the congregation of Israel, saying, In the tenth day of this month they shall take to them
every man a lamb, according to the house of their fathers, a lamb for an house: 4 And if the household be too little for the lamb, let him and his neighbour next unto his house take it according to the number of the souls; every man according to his eating shall make your count for the lamb. 5 Your lamb shall be without blemish, a male of the first year: ye shall take it out from the sheep, or from the goats: 6 And ye shall keep it up until the fourteenth day of the same month: and the whole assembly of the congregation of Israel shall kill it in the evening. 7 And they shall take of the blood, and strike it on the two side posts and on the upper door post of the houses, wherein they shall eat it. 8 And they shall eat the flesh in that night, roast with fire, and unleavened bread; and with bitter herbs they shall eat it. 9 Eat not of it raw, nor sodden at all with water, but roast with fire; his head with his legs, and with the purtenance thereof. 10 And ye shall let nothing of it remain until the morning; and that which remaineth of it until the morning ye shall burn with fire.
11 And thus shall ye eat it; with your loins girded, your shoes on your feet, and your staff in your hand; and ye shall eat it in haste: it is the LORD’s passover. 12 For I will pass through the land of Egypt this night, and will smite all the firstborn in the land of Egypt, both man and beast; and against all the gods of Egypt I will execute judgment: I am the LORD. 13 And the blood shall be to you for a token upon the houses where ye are: and when I see the blood, I will pass over you, and the plague shall not be upon you to destroy you, when I smite the land of Egypt. 14 And this day shall be unto you for a memorial; and ye shall keep it a feast to the LORD throughout your generations; ye shall keep it a feast by an ordinance for ever. 15 Seven days shall ye eat unleavened bread; even the first day ye shall put away leaven out of your houses: for whosoever eateth leavened bread from the first day until the seventh day, that soul shall be cut off from Israel. 16 And in the first day there shall be an holy convocation, and in the seventh day there shall be an holy convocation to you; no manner of work shall be done in them, save that which every man must eat, that only may be done of you. 17 And ye shall observe the feast of unleavened bread; for in this selfsame day have I brought your armies out of the land of Egypt: therefore shall ye observe this day in your generations by an ordinance for ever.
18 In the first month, on the fourteenth day of the month at even, ye shall eat unleavened bread, until the one and twentieth day of the month at even. 19 Seven days shall there be no leaven found in your houses: for whosoever eateth that which is leavened, even that soul shall be cut off from the congregation of Israel, whether he be a strang- er, or born in the land. 20 Ye shall eat nothing leavened; in all your habitations shall ye eat unleavened bread.
21 Then Moses called for all the elders of Israel, and said unto them, Draw out and take you a lamb according to your families, and kill the passover. 22 And ye shall take a bunch of hyssop, and dip it in the blood that is in the bason, and strike the lintel and the two side posts with the blood that is in the bason; and none of you shall go out at the door of his house until the morning. 23 For the LORD will pass through to smite the Egyptians; and when he seeth the blood upon the lintel, and on the two side posts, the LORD will pass over the door, and will not suffer the destroyer to come in unto your houses to smite you. 24 And ye shall observe this thing for an ordinance to thee
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and to thy sons for ever. 25 And it shall come to pass, when ye be come to the land which the LORD will give you, according as he hath promised, that ye shall keep this service. 26 And it shall come to pass, when your children shall say unto you, What mean ye by this service? 27 That ye shall say, It is the sacrifice of the LORD’s passover, who passed over the houses of the children of Israel in Egypt, when he smote the Egyptians, and delivered our houses. And the people bowed the head and worshipped. 28 And the children of Israel went away, and did as the LORD had commanded Moses and Aaron, so did they.
29 And it came to pass, that at midnight the LORD smote all the firstborn in the land of Egypt, from the first- born of Pharaoh that sat on his throne unto the firstborn of the captive that was in the dungeon; and all the first- born of cattle. 30 And Pharaoh rose up in the night, he, and all his servants, and all the Egyptians; and there was a great cry in Egypt; for there was not a house where there was not one dead.
31 And he called for Moses and Aaron by night, and said, Rise up, and get you forth from among my people, both ye and the children of Israel; and go, serve the LORD, as ye have said. 32 Also take your flocks and your herds, as ye have said, and be gone; and bless me also. 33 And the Egyptians were urgent upon the people, that they might send them out of the land in haste; for they said, We be all dead men. 34 And the people took their dough before it was leavened, their kneadingtroughs being bound up in their clothes upon their shoulders. 35 And the children of Israel did according to the word of Moses; and they borrowed of the Egyptians jewels of silver, and jewels of gold, and raiment: 36 And the LORD gave the people favour in the sight of the Egyptians, so that they lent unto them such things as they required. And they spoiled the Egyptians.
37 And the children of Israel journeyed from Rameses to Succoth, about six hundred thousand on foot that were men, beside children. 38 And a mixed multitude went up also with them; and flocks, and herds, even very much cat- tle. 39 And they baked unleavened cakes of the dough which they brought forth out of Egypt, for it was not leavened; because they were thrust out of Egypt, and could not tarry, neither had they prepared for themselves any victual.
40 Now the sojourning of the children of Israel, who dwelt in Egypt, was four hundred and thirty years. 41 And it came to pass at the end of the four hundred and thirty years, even the selfsame day it came to pass, that all the hosts of the LORD went out from the land of Egypt. 42 It is a night to be much observed unto the LORD for bringing them out from the land of Egypt: this is that night of the LORD to be observed of all the children of Israel in their generations.
43 And the LORD said unto Moses and Aaron, This is the ordinance of the passover: There shall no stranger eat thereof: 44 But every man’s servant that is bought for money, when thou hast circumcised him, then shall he eat thereof. 45 A foreigner and an hired servant shall not eat thereof. 46 In one house shall it be eaten; thou shalt not carry forth ought of the flesh abroad out of the house; neither shall ye break a bone thereof. 47 All the congregation of Israel shall keep it. 48 And when a stranger shall sojourn with thee, and will keep the passover to the LORD, let all his males be circumcised, and then let him come near and keep it; and he shall be as one that is born in the land: for no uncircumcised person shall eat thereof. 49 One law shall be to him that is homeborn, and unto the stranger that sojourneth among you. 50 Thus did all the children of Israel; as the LORD commanded Moses and Aaron, so did they. 51 And it came to pass the selfsame day, that the LORD did bring the children of Israel out of the land of Egypt by their armies.
Exodus Chapter 13 1 And the LORD spake unto Moses, saying, 2 Sanctify unto me all the firstborn, whatsoever openeth the womb
among the children of Israel, both of man and of beast: it is mine. 3 And Moses said unto the people, Remember this day, in which ye came out from Egypt, out of the house of
bondage; for by strength of hand the LORD brought you out from this place: there shall no leavened bread be eaten. 4 This day came ye out in the month Abib.
5 And it shall be when the LORD shall bring thee into the land of the Canaanites, and the Hittites, and the Amorites, and the Hivites, and the Jebusites, which he sware unto thy fathers to give thee, a land flowing with milk and honey, that thou shalt keep this service in this month. 6 Seven days thou shalt eat unleavened bread, and in the seventh day shall be a feast to the LORD. 7 Unleavened bread shall be eaten seven days; and there shall no leavened bread be seen with thee, neither shall there be leaven seen with thee in all thy quarters.
8 And thou shalt shew thy son in that day, saying, This is done because of that which the LORD did unto me when I came forth out of Egypt. 9 And it shall be for a sign unto thee upon thine hand, and for a memorial between thine eyes, that the LORD’s law may be in thy mouth: for with a strong hand hath the LORD brought thee out of Egypt. 10 Thou shalt therefore keep this ordinance in his season from year to year.
11 And it shall be when the LORD shall bring thee into the land of the Canaanites, as he sware unto thee and to thy fathers, and shall give it thee, 12 That thou shalt set apart unto the LORD all that openeth the matrix, and every firstling that cometh of a beast which thou hast; the males shall be the LORD’s. 13 And every firstling of an ass thou
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shalt redeem with a lamb; and if thou wilt not redeem it, then thou shalt break his neck: and all the firstborn of man among thy children shalt thou redeem.
14 And it shall be when thy son asketh thee in time to come, saying, What is this? that thou shalt say unto him, By strength of hand the LORD brought us out from Egypt, from the house of bondage: 15 And it came to pass, when Pharaoh would hardly let us go, that the LORD slew all the firstborn in the land of Egypt, both the firstborn of man, and the firstborn of beast: therefore I sacrifice to the LORD all that openeth the matrix, being males; but all the firstborn of my children I redeem. 16 And it shall be for a token upon thine hand, and for frontlets between thine eyes: for by strength of hand the LORD brought us forth out of Egypt.
17 And it came to pass, when Pharaoh had let the people go, that God led them not through the way of the land of the Philistines, although that was near; for God said, Lest peradventure the people repent when they see war, and they return to Egypt: 18 But God led the people about, through the way of the wilderness of the Red sea: and the children of Israel went up harnessed out of the land of Egypt. 19 And Moses took the bones of Joseph with him: for he had straitly sworn the children of Israel, saying, God will surely visit you; and ye shall carry up my bones away hence with you.
20 And they took their journey from Succoth, and encamped in Etham, in the edge of the wilderness. 21 And the LORD went before them by day in a pillar of a cloud, to lead them the way; and by night in a pillar of fire, to give them light; to go by day and night: 22 He took not away the pillar of the cloud by day, nor the pillar of fire by night, from before the people.
Exodus Chapter 14 1 And the LORD spake unto Moses, saying, 2 Speak unto the children of Israel, that they turn and encamp
before Pihahiroth, between Migdol and the sea, over against Baalzephon: before it shall ye encamp by the sea. 3 For Pharaoh will say of the children of Israel, They are entangled in the land, the wilderness hath shut them in. 4 And I will harden Pharaoh’s heart, that he shall follow after them; and I will be honoured upon Pharaoh, and upon all his host; that the Egyptians may know that I am the LORD. And they did so.
5 And it was told the king of Egypt that the people fled: and the heart of Pharaoh and of his servants was turned against the people, and they said, Why have we done this, that we have let Israel go from serving us? 6 And he made ready his chariot, and took his people with him: 7 And he took six hundred chosen chariots, and all the chariots of Egypt, and captains over every one of them. 8 And the LORD hardened the heart of Pharaoh king of Egypt, and he pursued after the children of Israel: and the children of Israel went out with an high hand. 9 But the Egyptians pursued after them, all the horses and chariots of Pharaoh, and his horsemen, and his army, and overtook them encamping by the sea, beside Pihahiroth, before Baalzephon.
10 And when Pharaoh drew nigh, the children of Israel lifted up their eyes, and, behold, the Egyptians marched after them; and they were sore afraid: and the children of Israel cried out unto the LORD. 11 And they said unto Mo- ses, Because there were no graves in Egypt, hast thou taken us away to die in the wilderness? wherefore hast thou dealt thus with us, to carry us forth out of Egypt? 12 Is not this the word that we did tell thee in Egypt, saying, Let us alone, that we may serve the Egyptians? For it had been better for us to serve the Egyptians, than that we should die in the wilderness.
13 And Moses said unto the people, Fear ye not, stand still, and see the salvation of the LORD, which he will shew to you to day: for the Egyptians whom ye have seen to day, ye shall see them again no more for ever. 14 The LORD shall fight for you, and ye shall hold your peace.
15 And the LORD said unto Moses, Wherefore criest thou unto me? speak unto the children of Israel, that they go forward: 16 But lift thou up thy rod, and stretch out thine hand over the sea, and divide it: and the children of Israel shall go on dry ground through the midst of the sea. 17 And I, behold, I will harden the hearts of the Egyp- tians, and they shall follow them: and I will get me honour upon Pharaoh, and upon all his host, upon his chariots, and upon his horsemen. 18 And the Egyptians shall know that I am the LORD, when I have gotten me honour upon Pharaoh, upon his chariots, and upon his horsemen.
19 And the angel of God, which went before the camp of Israel, removed and went behind them; and the pillar of the cloud went from before their face, and stood behind them: 20 And it came between the camp of the Egyptians and the camp of Israel; and it was a cloud and darkness to them, but it gave light by night to these: so that the one came not near the other all the night.
21 And Moses stretched out his hand over the sea; and the LORD caused the sea to go back by a strong east wind all that night, and made the sea dry land, and the waters were divided. 22 And the children of Israel went into the midst of the sea upon the dry ground: and the waters were a wall unto them on their right hand, and on their left.
23 And the Egyptians pursued, and went in after them to the midst of the sea, even all Pharaoh’s horses, his
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chariots, and his horsemen. 24 And it came to pass, that in the morning watch the LORD looked unto the host of the Egyptians through the pillar of fire and of the cloud, and troubled the host of the Egyptians, 25 And took off their chariot wheels, that they drave them heavily: so that the Egyptians said, Let us flee from the face of Israel; for the LORD fighteth for them against the Egyptians.
26 And the LORD said unto Moses, Stretch out thine hand over the sea, that the waters may come again upon the Egyptians, upon their chariots, and upon their horsemen. 27 And Moses stretched forth his hand over the sea, and the sea returned to his strength when the morning appeared; and the Egyptians fled against it; and the LORD overthrew the Egyptians in the midst of the sea. 28 And the waters returned, and covered the chariots, and the horsemen, and all the host of Pharaoh that came into the sea after them; there remained not so much as one of them. 29 But the children of Israel walked upon dry land in the midst of the sea; and the waters were a wall unto them on their right hand, and on their left. 30 Thus the LORD saved Israel that day out of the hand of the Egyptians; and Israel saw the Egyptians dead upon the sea shore. 31 And Israel saw that great work which the LORD did upon the Egyptians: and the people feared the LORD, and believed the LORD, and his servant Moses.
Exodus Chapter 15 1 Then sang Moses and the children of Israel this song unto the LORD, and spake, saying, I will sing unto the
LORD, for he hath triumphed gloriously: the horse and his rider hath he thrown into the sea. 2 The LORD is my strength and song, and he is become my salvation: he is my God, and I will prepare him an habitation; my father’s God, and I will exalt him. 3 The LORD is a man of war: the LORD is his name. 4 Pharaoh’s chariots and his host hath he cast into the sea: his chosen captains also are drowned in the Red sea. 5 The depths have covered them: they sank into the bottom as a stone. 6 Thy right hand, O LORD, is become glorious in power: thy right hand, O LORD, hath dashed in pieces the enemy. 7 And in the greatness of thine excellency thou hast overthrown them that rose up against thee: thou sentest forth thy wrath, which consumed them as stubble. 8 And with the blast of thy nostrils the waters were gathered together, the floods stood upright as an heap, and the depths were congealed in the heart of the sea. 9 The enemy said, I will pursue, I will overtake, I will divide the spoil; my lust shall be satisfied upon them; I will draw my sword, my hand shall destroy them. 10 Thou didst blow with thy wind, the sea covered them: they sank as lead in the mighty waters. 11 Who is like unto thee, O LORD, among the gods? who is like thee, glorious in holi- ness, fearful in praises, doing wonders? 12 Thou stretchedst out thy right hand, the earth swallowed them. 13 Thou in thy mercy hast led forth the people which thou hast redeemed: thou hast guided them in thy strength unto thy holy habitation. 14 The people shall hear, and be afraid: sorrow shall take hold on the inhabitants of Palestina. 15 Then the dukes of Edom shall be amazed; the mighty men of Moab, trembling shall take hold upon them; all the inhabitants of Canaan shall melt away. 16 Fear and dread shall fall upon them; by the greatness of thine arm they shall be as still as a stone; till thy people pass over, O LORD, till the people pass over, which thou hast purchased. 17 Thou shalt bring them in, and plant them in the mountain of thine inheritance, in the place, O LORD, which thou hast made for thee to dwell in, in the Sanctuary, O LORD, which thy hands have established. 18 The LORD shall reign for ever and ever. 19 For the horse of Pharaoh went in with his chariots and with his horsemen into the sea, and the LORD brought again the waters of the sea upon them; but the children of Israel went on dry land in the midst of the sea.
20 And Miriam the prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand; and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with dances. 21 And Miriam answered them, Sing ye to the LORD, for he hath triumphed gloriously; the horse and his rider hath he thrown into the sea.
22 So Moses brought Israel from the Red sea, and they went out into the wilderness of Shur; and they went three days in the wilderness, and found no water.
23 And when they came to Marah, they could not drink of the waters of Marah, for they were bitter: therefore the name of it was called Marah. 24 And the people murmured against Moses, saying, What shall we drink? 25 And he cried unto the LORD; and the LORD shewed him a tree, which when he had cast into the waters, the waters were made sweet: there he made for them a statute and an ordinance, and there he proved them, 26 And said, If thou wilt diligently hearken to the voice of the LORD thy God, and wilt do that which is right in his sight, and wilt give ear to his commandments, and keep all his statutes, I will put none of these diseases upon thee, which I have brought upon the Egyptians: for I am the LORD that healeth thee.
27 And they came to Elim, where were twelve wells of water, and threescore and ten palm trees: and they en- camped there by the waters.
Exodus Chapter 16 1 And they took their journey from Elim, and all the congregation of the children of Israel came unto the wil-
derness of Sin, which is between Elim and Sinai, on the fifteenth day of the second month after their departing out of the land of Egypt. 2 And the whole congregation of the children of Israel murmured against Moses and Aaron in
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the wilderness: 3 And the children of Israel said unto them, Would to God we had died by the hand of the LORD in the land of Egypt, when we sat by the flesh pots, and when we did eat bread to the full; for ye have brought us forth into this wilderness, to kill this whole assembly with hunger.
4 Then said the LORD unto Moses, Behold, I will rain bread from heaven for you; and the people shall go out and gather a certain rate every day, that I may prove them, whether they will walk in my law, or no. 5 And it shall come to pass, that on the sixth day they shall prepare that which they bring in; and it shall be twice as much as they gather daily. 6 And Moses and Aaron said unto all the children of Israel, At even, then ye shall know that the LORD hath brought you out from the land of Egypt: 7 And in the morning, then ye shall see the glory of the LORD; for that he heareth your murmurings against the LORD: and what are we, that ye murmur against us? 8 And Moses said, This shall be, when the LORD shall give you in the evening flesh to eat, and in the morning bread to the full; for that the LORD heareth your murmurings which ye murmur against him: and what are we? your murmurings are not against us, but against the LORD.
9 And Moses spake unto Aaron, Say unto all the congregation of the children of Israel, Come near before the LORD: for he hath heard your murmurings. 10 And it came to pass, as Aaron spake unto the whole congregation of the children of Israel, that they looked toward the wilderness, and, behold, the glory of the LORD appeared in the cloud.
11 And the LORD spake unto Moses, saying, 12 I have heard the murmurings of the children of Israel: speak unto them, saying, At even ye shall eat flesh, and in the morning ye shall be filled with bread; and ye shall know that I am the LORD your God.
13 And it came to pass, that at even the quails came up, and covered the camp: and in the morning the dew lay round about the host. 14 And when the dew that lay was gone up, behold, upon the face of the wilderness there lay a small round thing, as small as the hoar frost on the ground. 15 And when the children of Israel saw it, they said one to another, It is manna: for they wist not what it was. And Moses said unto them, This is the bread which the LORD hath given you to eat.
16 This is the thing which the LORD hath commanded, Gather of it every man according to his eating, an omer for every man, according to the number of your persons; take ye every man for them which are in his tents. 17 And the children of Israel did so, and gathered, some more, some less. 18 And when they did mete it with an omer, he that gathered much had nothing over, and he that gathered little had no lack; they gathered every man according to his eating. 19 And Moses said, Let no man leave of it till the morning. 20 Notwithstanding they hearkened not unto Moses; but some of them left of it until the morning, and it bred worms, and stank: and Moses was wroth with them. 21 And they gathered it every morning, every man according to his eating: and when the sun waxed hot, it melted.
22 And it came to pass, that on the sixth day they gathered twice as much bread, two omers for one man: and all the rulers of the congregation came and told Moses. 23 And he said unto them, This is that which the LORD hath said, To morrow is the rest of the holy sabbath unto the LORD: bake that which ye will bake to day, and seethe that ye will seethe; and that which remaineth over lay up for you to be kept until the morning. 24 And they laid it up till the morning, as Moses bade: and it did not stink, neither was there any worm therein. 25 And Moses said, Eat that to day; for to day is a sabbath unto the LORD: to day ye shall not find it in the field. 26 Six days ye shall gather it; but on the seventh day, which is the sabbath, in it there shall be none.
27 And it came to pass, that there went out some of the people on the seventh day for to gather, and they found none. 28 And the LORD said unto Moses, How long refuse ye to keep my commandments and my laws? 29 See, for that the LORD hath given you the sabbath, therefore he giveth you on the sixth day the bread of two days; abide ye every man in his place, let no man go out of his place on the seventh day. 30 So the people rested on the seventh day. 31 And the house of Israel called the name thereof Manna: and it was like coriander seed, white; and the taste of it was like wafers made with honey.
32 And Moses said, This is the thing which the LORD commandeth, Fill an omer of it to be kept for your gen- erations; that they may see the bread wherewith I have fed you in the wilderness, when I brought you forth from the land of Egypt. 33 And Moses said unto Aaron, Take a pot, and put an omer full of manna therein, and lay it up before the LORD, to be kept for your generations. 34 As the LORD commanded Moses, so Aaron laid it up before the Testimony, to be kept. 35 And the children of Israel did eat manna forty years, until they came to a land inhabit- ed; they did eat manna, until they came unto the borders of the land of Canaan. 36 Now an omer is the tenth part of an ephah.
Exodus Chapter 17 1 And all the congregation of the children of Israel journeyed from the wilderness of Sin, after their journeys,
according to the commandment of the LORD, and pitched in Rephidim: and there was no water for the people to
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drink. 2 Wherefore the people did chide with Moses, and said, Give us water that we may drink. And Moses said unto them, Why chide ye with me? wherefore do ye tempt the LORD? 3 And the people thirsted there for water; and the people murmured against Moses, and said, Wherefore is this that thou hast brought us up out of Egypt, to kill us and our children and our cattle with thirst? 4 And Moses cried unto the LORD, saying, What shall I do unto this people? they be almost ready to stone me. 5 And the LORD said unto Moses, Go on before the people, and take with thee of the elders of Israel; and thy rod, wherewith thou smotest the river, take in thine hand, and go. 6 Behold, I will stand before thee there upon the rock in Horeb; and thou shalt smite the rock, and there shall come water out of it, that the people may drink. And Moses did so in the sight of the elders of Israel. 7 And he called the name of the place Massah, and Meribah, because of the chiding of the children of Israel, and because they tempted the LORD, saying, Is the LORD among us, or not?
8 Then came Amalek, and fought with Israel in Rephidim. 9 And Moses said unto Joshua, Choose us out men, and go out, fight with Amalek: to morrow I will stand on the top of the hill with the rod of God in mine hand. 10 So Joshua did as Moses had said to him, and fought with Amalek: and Moses, Aaron, and Hur went up to the top of the hill. 11 And it came to pass, when Moses held up his hand, that Israel prevailed: and when he let down his hand, Amalek prevailed. 12 But Moses hands were heavy; and they took a stone, and put it under him, and he sat thereon; and Aaron and Hur stayed up his hands, the one on the one side, and the other on the other side; and his hands were steady until the going down of the sun. 13 And Joshua discomfited Amalek and his people with the edge of the sword. 14 And the LORD said unto Moses, Write this for a memorial in a book, and rehearse it in the ears of Joshua: for I will utterly put out the remembrance of Amalek from under heaven. 15 And Moses built an altar, and called the name of it Jehovahnissi: 16 For he said, Because the LORD hath sworn that the LORD will have war with Amalek from generation to generation.
Exodus Chapter 18 1 When Jethro, the priest of Midian, Moses’ father in law, heard of all that God had done for Moses, and for
Israel his people, and that the LORD had brought Israel out of Egypt; 2 Then Jethro, Moses’ father in law, took Zipporah, Moses’ wife, after he had sent her back, 3 And her two sons; of which the name of the one was Gershom; for he said, I have been an alien in a strange land: 4 And the name of the other was Eliezer; for the God of my father, said he, was mine help, and delivered me from the sword of Pharaoh: 5 And Jethro, Moses’ father in law, came with his sons and his wife unto Moses into the wilderness, where he encamped at the mount of God: 6 And he said unto Moses, I thy father in law Jethro am come unto thee, and thy wife, and her two sons with her.
7 And Moses went out to meet his father in law, and did obeisance, and kissed him; and they asked each other of their welfare; and they came into the tent. 8 And Moses told his father in law all that the LORD had done unto Pharaoh and to the Egyptians for Israel’s sake, and all the travail that had come upon them by the way, and how the LORD delivered them. 9 And Jethro rejoiced for all the goodness which the LORD had done to Israel, whom he had delivered out of the hand of the Egyptians. 10 And Jethro said, Blessed be the LORD, who hath delivered you out of the hand of the Egyptians, and out of the hand of Pharaoh, who hath delivered the people from under the hand of the Egyptians. 11 Now I know that the LORD is greater than all gods: for in the thing wherein they dealt proudly he was above them. 12 And Jethro, Moses’ father in law, took a burnt offering and sacrifices for God: and Aaron came, and all the elders of Israel, to eat bread with Moses’ father in law before God.
13 And it came to pass on the morrow, that Moses sat to judge the people: and the people stood by Moses from the morning unto the evening. 14 And when Moses’ father in law saw all that he did to the people, he said, What is this thing that thou doest to the people? why sittest thou thyself alone, and all the people stand by thee from morning unto even? 15 And Moses said unto his father in law, Because the people come unto me to enquire of God: 16 When they have a matter, they come unto me; and I judge between one and another, and I do make them know the statutes of God, and his laws. 17 And Moses’ father in law said unto him, The thing that thou doest is not good. 18 Thou wilt surely wear away, both thou, and this people that is with thee: for this thing is too heavy for thee; thou art not able to perform it thyself alone. 19 Hearken now unto my voice, I will give thee counsel, and God shall be with thee: Be thou for the people to God-ward, that thou mayest bring the causes unto God: 20 And thou shalt teach them ordinances and laws, and shalt shew them the way wherein they must walk, and the work that they must do. 21 Moreover thou shalt provide out of all the people able men, such as fear God, men of truth, hating covetousness; and place such over them, to be rulers of thousands, and rulers of hundreds, rulers of fifties, and rulers of tens: 22 And let them judge the people at all seasons: and it shall be, that every great matter they shall bring unto thee, but every small matter they shall judge: so shall it be easier for thyself, and they shall bear the burden with thee. 23 If thou shalt do this thing, and God command thee so, then thou shalt be able to endure, and all this people shall also go to their place in peace. 24 So Moses hearkened to the voice of his father in law, and did all that he had said. 25 And Moses chose able men out of all Israel, and made them heads over the people, rulers of thousands, rulers of hun-
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dreds, rulers of fifties, and rulers of tens. 26 And they judged the people at all seasons: the hard causes they brought unto Moses, but every small matter they judged themselves.
27 And Moses let his father in law depart; and he went his way into his own land.
Exodus Chapter 19 1 In the third month, when the children of Israel were gone forth out of the land of Egypt, the same day came
they into the wilderness of Sinai. 2 For they were departed from Rephidim, and were come to the desert of Sinai, and had pitched in the wilderness; and there Israel camped before the mount. 3 And Moses went up unto God, and the LORD called unto him out of the mountain, saying, Thus shalt thou say to the house of Jacob, and tell the children of Israel; 4 Ye have seen what I did unto the Egyptians, and how I bare you on eagles’ wings, and brought you unto myself. 5 Now therefore, if ye will obey my voice indeed, and keep my covenant, then ye shall be a peculiar treasure unto me above all people: for all the earth is mine: 6 And ye shall be unto me a kingdom of priests, and an holy nation. These are the words which thou shalt speak unto the children of Israel.
7 And Moses came and called for the elders of the people, and laid before their faces all these words which the LORD commanded him. 8 And all the people answered together, and said, All that the LORD hath spoken we will do. And Moses returned the words of the people unto the LORD.
9 And the LORD said unto Moses, Lo, I come unto thee in a thick cloud, that the people may hear when I speak with thee, and believe thee for ever. And Moses told the words of the people unto the LORD.
10 And the LORD said unto Moses, Go unto the people, and sanctify them to day and to morrow, and let them wash their clothes, 11 And be ready against the third day: for the third day the LORD will come down in the sight of all the people upon mount Sinai. 12 And thou shalt set bounds unto the people round about, saying, Take heed to yourselves, that ye go not up into the mount, or touch the border of it: whosoever toucheth the mount shall be surely put to death: 13 There shall not an hand touch it, but he shall surely be stoned, or shot through; whether it be beast or man, it shall not live: when the trumpet soundeth long, they shall come up to the mount.
14 And Moses went down from the mount unto the people, and sanctified the people; and they washed their clothes.15 And he said unto the people, Be ready against the third day: come not at your wives.
16 And it came to pass on the third day in the morning, that there were thunders and lightnings, and a thick cloud upon the mount, and the voice of the trumpet exceeding loud; so that all the people that was in the camp trembled. 17 And Moses brought forth the people out of the camp to meet with God; and they stood at the nether part of the mount. 18 And mount Sinai was altogether on a smoke, because the LORD descended upon it in fire: and the smoke thereof ascended as the smoke of a furnace, and the whole mount quaked greatly. 19 And when the voice of the trumpet sounded long, and waxed louder and louder, Moses spake, and God answered him by a voice. 20 And the LORD came down upon mount Sinai, on the top of the mount: and the LORD called Moses up to the top of the mount; and Moses went up. 21 And the LORD said unto Moses, Go down, charge the people, lest they break through unto the LORD to gaze, and many of them perish. 22 And let the priests also, which come near to the LORD, sanctify themselves, lest the LORD break forth upon them. 23 And Moses said unto the LORD, The people cannot come up to mount Sinai: for thou chargedst us, saying, Set bounds about the mount, and sanctify it. 24 And the LORD said unto him, Away, get thee down, and thou shalt come up, thou, and Aaron with thee: but let not the priests and the people break through to come up unto the LORD, lest he break forth upon them. 25 So Moses went down unto the people, and spake unto them.
Exodus Chapter 20 1 And God spake all these words, saying, 2 I am the LORD thy God, which have brought thee out of the land of
Egypt, out of the house of bondage. 3 Thou shalt have no other gods before me. 4 Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of any thing that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth. 5 Thou shalt not bow down thyself to them, nor serve them: for I the LORD thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me; 6 And shewing mercy unto thousands of them that love me, and keep my commandments. 7 Thou shalt not take the name of the LORD thy God in vain; for the LORD will not hold him guiltless that taketh his name in vain. 8 Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy. 9 Six days shalt thou labour, and do all thy work: 10 But the seventh day is the sabbath of the LORD thy God: in it thou shalt not do any work, thou, nor thy son, nor thy daughter, thy man- servant, nor thy maidservant, nor thy cattle, nor thy stranger that is within thy gates: 11 For in six days the LORD made heaven and earth, the sea, and all that in them is, and rested the seventh day: wherefore the LORD blessed the sabbath day, and hallowed it.
12 Honour thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the LORD thy God giveth thee. 13 Thou shalt not kill. 14 Thou shalt not commit adultery. 15 Thou shalt not steal. 16 Thou shalt not bear false wit-
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ness against thy neighbour. 17 Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor any thing that is thy neighbour’s.
18 And all the people saw the thunderings, and the lightnings, and the noise of the trumpet, and the mountain smoking: and when the people saw it, they removed, and stood afar off. 19 And they said unto Moses, Speak thou with us, and we will hear: but let not God speak with us, lest we die. 20 And Moses said unto the people, Fear not: for God is come to prove you, and that his fear may be before your faces, that ye sin not. 21 And the people stood afar off, and Moses drew near unto the thick darkness where God was.
22 And the LORD said unto Moses, Thus thou shalt say unto the children of Israel, Ye have seen that I have talk- ed with you from heaven. 23 Ye shall not make with me gods of silver, neither shall ye make unto you gods of gold.
24 An altar of earth thou shalt make unto me, and shalt sacrifice thereon thy burnt offerings, and thy peace of- ferings, thy sheep, and thine oxen: in all places where I record my name I will come unto thee, and I will bless thee. 25 And if thou wilt make me an altar of stone, thou shalt not build it of hewn stone: for if thou lift up thy tool upon it, thou hast polluted it. 26 Neither shalt thou go up by steps unto mine altar, that thy nakedness be not discovered thereon.
Exodus Chapter 21 1 Now these are the judgments which thou shalt set before them. 2 If thou buy an Hebrew servant, six years he
shall serve: and in the seventh he shall go out free for nothing. 3 If he came in by himself, he shall go out by himself: if he were married, then his wife shall go out with him. 4 If his master have given him a wife, and she have born him sons or daughters; the wife and her children shall be her master’s, and he shall go out by himself. 5 And if the servant shall plainly say, I love my master, my wife, and my children; I will not go out free: 6 Then his master shall bring him unto the judges; he shall also bring him to the door, or unto the door post; and his master shall bore his ear through with an aul; and he shall serve him for ever.
7 And if a man sell his daughter to be a maidservant, she shall not go out as the menservants do. 8 If she please not her master, who hath betrothed her to himself, then shall he let her be redeemed: to sell her unto a strange nation he shall have no power, seeing he hath dealt deceitfully with her. 9 And if he have betrothed her unto his son, he shall deal with her after the manner of daughters. 10 If he take him another wife; her food, her raiment, and her duty of marriage, shall he not diminish. 11 And if he do not these three unto her, then shall she go out free without money.
12 He that smiteth a man, so that he die, shall be surely put to death. 13 And if a man lie not in wait, but God de- liver him into his hand; then I will appoint thee a place whither he shall flee. 14 But if a man come presumptuously upon his neighbour, to slay him with guile; thou shalt take him from mine altar, that he may die.
15 And he that smiteth his father, or his mother, shall be surely put to death. 16 And he that stealeth a man, and selleth him, or if he be found in his hand, he shall surely be put to death. 17 And he that curseth his father, or his mother, shall surely be put to death. 18 And if men strive together, and one smite another with a stone, or with his fist, and he die not, but keepeth
his bed: 19 If he rise again, and walk abroad upon his staff, then shall he that smote him be quit: only he shall pay for the loss of his time, and shall cause him to be thoroughly healed.
20 And if a man smite his servant, or his maid, with a rod, and he die under his hand; he shall be surely pun- ished. 21 Notwithstanding, if he continue a day or two, he shall not be punished: for he is his money.
22 If men strive, and hurt a woman with child, so that her fruit depart from her, and yet no mischief follow: he shall be surely punished, according as the woman’s husband will lay upon him; and he shall pay as the judges deter- mine. 23 And if any mischief follow, then thou shalt give life for life, 24 Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, 25 Burning for burning, wound for wound, stripe for stripe.
26 And if a man smite the eye of his servant, or the eye of his maid, that it perish; he shall let him go free for his eye’s sake. 27 And if he smite out his manservant’s tooth, or his maidservant’s tooth; he shall let him go free for his tooth’s sake.
28 If an ox gore a man or a woman, that they die: then the ox shall be surely stoned, and his flesh shall not be eaten; but the owner of the ox shall be quit. 29 But if the ox were wont to push with his horn in time past, and it hath been testified to his owner, and he hath not kept him in, but that he hath killed a man or a woman; the ox shall be stoned, and his owner also shall be put to death. 30 If there be laid on him a sum of money, then he shall give for the ransom of his life whatsoever is laid upon him. 31 Whether he have gored a son, or have gored a daughter, according to this judgment shall it be done unto him. 32 If the ox shall push a manservant or a maidservant; he shall give unto their master thirty shekels of silver, and the ox shall be stoned.
33 And if a man shall open a pit, or if a man shall dig a pit, and not cover it, and an ox or an ass fall therein; 34 The owner of the pit shall make it good, and give money unto the owner of them; and the dead beast shall be his.
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35 And if one man’s ox hurt another’s, that he die; then they shall sell the live ox, and divide the money of it; and the dead ox also they shall divide. 36 Or if it be known that the ox hath used to push in time past, and his owner hath not kept him in; he shall surely pay ox for ox; and the dead shall be his own.
Exodus Chapter 22 1 If a man shall steal an ox, or a sheep, and kill it, or sell it; he shall restore five oxen for an ox, and four sheep for
a sheep. 2 If a thief be found breaking up, and be smitten that he die, there shall no blood be shed for him. 3 If the sun be
risen upon him, there shall be blood shed for him; for he should make full restitution; if he have nothing, then he shall be sold for his theft. 4 If the theft be certainly found in his hand alive, whether it be ox, or ass, or sheep; he shall restore double.
5 If a man shall cause a field or vineyard to be eaten, and shall put in his beast, and shall feed in another man’s field; of the best of his own field, and of the best of his own vineyard, shall he make restitution.
6 If fire break out, and catch in thorns, so that the stacks of corn, or the standing corn, or the field, be consumed therewith; he that kindled the fire shall surely make restitution.
7 If a man shall deliver unto his neighbour money or stuff to keep, and it be stolen out of the man’s house; if the thief be found, let him pay double. 8 If the thief be not found, then the master of the house shall be brought unto the judges, to see whether he have put his hand unto his neighbour’s goods. 9 For all manner of trespass, whether it be for ox, for ass, for sheep, for raiment, or for any manner of lost thing which another challengeth to be his, the cause of both parties shall come before the judges; and whom the judges shall condemn, he shall pay double unto his neighbour. 10 If a man deliver unto his neighbour an ass, or an ox, or a sheep, or any beast, to keep; and it die, or be hurt, or driven away, no man seeing it: 11 Then shall an oath of the LORD be between them both, that he hath not put his hand unto his neighbour’s goods; and the owner of it shall accept thereof, and he shall not make it good. 12 And if it be stolen from him, he shall make restitution unto the owner thereof. 13 If it be torn in pieces, then let him bring it for witness, and he shall not make good that which was torn.
14 And if a man borrow ought of his neighbour, and it be hurt, or die, the owner thereof being not with it, he shall surely make it good. 15 But if the owner thereof be with it, he shall not make it good: if it be an hired thing, it came for his hire.
16 And if a man entice a maid that is not betrothed, and lie with her, he shall surely endow her to be his wife. 17 If her father utterly refuse to give her unto him, he shall pay money according to the dowry of virgins.
18 Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. 19 Whosoever lieth with a beast shall surely be put to death. 20 He that sacrificeth unto any god, save unto the LORD only, he shall be utterly destroyed. 21 Thou shalt neither vex a stranger, nor oppress him: for ye were strangers in the land of Egypt. 22 Ye shall not afflict any widow, or fatherless child. 23 If thou afflict them in any wise, and they cry at all unto
me, I will surely hear their cry; 24 And my wrath shall wax hot, and I will kill you with the sword; and your wives shall be widows, and your children fatherless.
25 If thou lend money to any of my people that is poor by thee, thou shalt not be to him as an usurer, neither shalt thou lay upon him usury. 26 If thou at all take thy neighbour’s raiment to pledge, thou shalt deliver it unto him by that the sun goeth down: 27 For that is his covering only, it is his raiment for his skin: wherein shall he sleep? and it shall come to pass, when he crieth unto me, that I will hear; for I am gracious.
28 Thou shalt not revile the gods, nor curse the ruler of thy people. 29 Thou shalt not delay to offer the first of thy ripe fruits, and of thy liquors: the firstborn of thy sons shalt thou
give unto me. 30 Likewise shalt thou do with thine oxen, and with thy sheep: seven days it shall be with his dam; on the eighth day thou shalt give it me.
31 And ye shall be holy men unto me: neither shall ye eat any flesh that is torn of beasts in the field; ye shall cast it to the dogs.
Exodus Chapter 23 1 Thou shalt not raise a false report: put not thine hand with the wicked to be an unrighteous witness. 2 Thou shalt not follow a multitude to do evil; neither shalt thou speak in a cause to decline after many to wrest
judgment: 3 Neither shalt thou countenance a poor man in his cause. 4 If thou meet thine enemy’s ox or his ass going astray, thou shalt surely bring it back to him again. 5 If thou see
the ass of him that hateth thee lying under his burden, and wouldest forbear to help him, thou shalt surely help with him. 6 Thou shalt not wrest the judgment of thy poor in his cause. 7 Keep thee far from a false matter; and the
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innocent and righteous slay thou not: for I will not justify the wicked. 8 And thou shalt take no gift: for the gift blindeth the wise, and perverteth the words of the righteous. 9 Also thou shalt not oppress a stranger: for ye know the heart of a stranger, seeing ye were strangers in the land
of Egypt. 10 And six years thou shalt sow thy land, and shalt gather in the fruits thereof: 11 But the seventh year thou shalt
let it rest and lie still; that the poor of thy people may eat: and what they leave the beasts of the field shall eat. In like manner thou shalt deal with thy vineyard, and with thy oliveyard. 12 Six days thou shalt do thy work, and on the sev- enth day thou shalt rest: that thine ox and thine ass may rest, and the son of thy handmaid, and the stranger, may be refreshed. 13 And in all things that I have said unto you be circumspect: and make no mention of the name of other gods, neither let it be heard out of thy mouth.
14 Three times thou shalt keep a feast unto me in the year. 15 Thou shalt keep the feast of unleavened bread: (thou shalt eat unleavened bread seven days, as I commanded thee, in the time appointed of the month Abib; for in it thou camest out from Egypt: and none shall appear before me empty:) 16 And the feast of harvest, the firstfruits of thy labours, which thou hast sown in the field: and the feast of ingathering, which is in the end of the year, when thou hast gathered in thy labours out of the field. 17 Three items in the year all thy males shall appear before the LORD God. 18 Thou shalt not offer the blood of my sacrifice with leavened bread; neither shall the fat of my sacrifice remain until the morning. 19 The first of the firstfruits of thy land thou shalt bring into the house of the LORD thy God. Thou shalt not seethe a kid in his mother’s milk.
20 Behold, I send an Angel before thee, to keep thee in the way, and to bring thee into the place which I have prepared. 21 Beware of him, and obey his voice, provoke him not; for he will not pardon your transgressions: for my name is in him. 22 But if thou shalt indeed obey his voice, and do all that I speak; then I will be an enemy unto thine enemies, and an adversary unto thine adversaries. 23 For mine Angel shall go before thee, and bring thee in unto the Amorites, and the Hittites, and the Perizzites, and the Canaanites, the Hivites, and the Jebusites: and I will cut them off. 24 Thou shalt not bow down to their gods, nor serve them, nor do after their works: but thou shalt utterly overthrow them, and quite break down their images. 25 And ye shall serve the LORD your God, and he shall bless thy bread, and thy water; and I will take sickness away from the midst of thee.
26 There shall nothing cast their young, nor be barren, in thy land: the number of thy days I will fulfil. 27 I will send my fear before thee, and will destroy all the people to whom thou shalt come, and I will make all thine ene- mies turn their backs unto thee. 28 And I will send hornets before thee, which shall drive out the Hivite, the Canaan- ite, and the Hittite, from before thee. 29 I will not drive them out from before thee in one year; lest the land become desolate, and the beast of the field multiply against thee. 30 By little and little I will drive them out from before thee, until thou be increased, and inherit the land. 31 And I will set thy bounds from the Red sea even unto the sea of the Philistines, and from the desert unto the river: for I will deliver the inhabitants of the land into your hand; and thou shalt drive them out before thee. 32 Thou shalt make no covenant with them, nor with their gods. 33 They shall not dwell in thy land, lest they make thee sin against me: for if thou serve their gods, it will surely be a snare unto thee.
Exodus Chapter 24 1 And he said unto Moses, Come up unto the LORD, thou, and Aaron, Nadab, and Abihu, and seventy of the
elders of Israel; and worship ye afar off. 2 And Moses alone shall come near the LORD: but they shall not come nigh; neither shall the people go up with him.
3 And Moses came and told the people all the words of the LORD, and all the judgments: and all the people answered with one voice, and said, All the words which the LORD hath said will we do. 4 And Moses wrote all the words of the LORD, and rose up early in the morning, and builded an altar under the hill, and twelve pillars, according to the twelve tribes of Israel. 5 And he sent young men of the children of Israel, which offered burnt offerings, and sacrificed peace offerings of oxen unto the LORD. 6 And Moses took half of the blood, and put it in basons; and half of the blood he sprinkled on the altar. 7 And he took the book of the covenant, and read in the au- dience of the people: and they said, All that the LORD hath said will we do, and be obedient. 8 And Moses took the blood, and sprinkled it on the people, and said, Behold the blood of the covenant, which the LORD hath made with you concerning all these words.
9 Then went up Moses, and Aaron, Nadab, and Abihu, and seventy of the elders of Israel: 10 And they saw the God of Israel: and there was under his feet as it were a paved work of a sapphire stone, and as it were the body of heaven in his clearness. 11 And upon the nobles of the children of Israel he laid not his hand: also they saw God, and did eat and drink.
12 And the LORD said unto Moses, Come up to me into the mount, and be there: and I will give thee tables of stone, and a law, and commandments which I have written; that thou mayest teach them. 13 And Moses rose up, and his minister Joshua: and Moses went up into the mount of God. 14 And he said unto the elders, Tarry ye here for
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us, until we come again unto you: and, behold, Aaron and Hur are with you: if any man have any matters to do, let him come unto them. 15 And Moses went up into the mount, and a cloud covered the mount. 16 And the glory of the LORD abode upon mount Sinai, and the cloud covered it six days: and the seventh day he called unto Moses out of the midst of the cloud. 17 And the sight of the glory of the LORD was like devouring fire on the top of the mount in the eyes of the children of Israel. 18 And Moses went into the midst of the cloud, and gat him up into the mount: and Moses was in the mount forty days and forty nights.
Exodus Chapter 25 1 And the LORD spake unto Moses, saying, 2 Speak unto the children of Israel, that they bring me an offering:
of every man that giveth it willingly with his heart ye shall take my offering. 3 And this is the offering which ye shall take of them; gold, and silver, and brass, 4 And blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine linen, and goats’ hair, 5 And rams’ skins dyed red, and badgers’ skins, and shittim wood, 6 Oil for the light, spices for anointing oil, and for sweet incense, 7 Onyx stones, and stones to be set in the ephod, and in the breastplate. 8 And let them make me a sanctu- ary; that I may dwell among them. 9 According to all that I shew thee, after the pattern of the tabernacle, and the pattern of all the instruments thereof, even so shall ye make it.
10 And they shall make an ark of shittim wood: two cubits and a half shall be the length thereof, and a cubit and a half the breadth thereof, and a cubit and a half the height thereof. 11 And thou shalt overlay it with pure gold, with- in and without shalt thou overlay it, and shalt make upon it a crown of gold round about. 12 And thou shalt cast four rings of gold for it, and put them in the four corners thereof; and two rings shall be in the one side of it, and two rings in the other side of it. 13 And thou shalt make staves of shittim wood, and overlay them with gold. 14 And thou shalt put the staves into the rings by the sides of the ark, that the ark may be borne with them. 15 The staves shall be in the rings of the ark: they shall not be taken from it. 16 And thou shalt put into the ark the testimony which I shall give thee. 17 And thou shalt make a mercy seat of pure gold: two cubits and a half shall be the length thereof, and a cubit and a half the breadth thereof. 18 And thou shalt make two cherubims of gold, of beaten work shalt thou make them, in the two ends of the mercy seat. 19 And make one cherub on the one end, and the other cherub on the other end: even of the mercy seat shall ye make the cherubims on the two ends thereof. 20 And the cherubims shall stretch forth their wings on high, covering the mercy seat with their wings, and their faces shall look one to another; toward the mercy seat shall the faces of the cherubims be. 21 And thou shalt put the mercy seat above upon the ark; and in the ark thou shalt put the testimony that I shall give thee. 22 And there I will meet with thee, and I will commune with thee from above the mercy seat, from between the two cherubims which are upon the ark of the testimony, of all things which I will give thee in commandment unto the children of Israel.
23 Thou shalt also make a table of shittim wood: two cubits shall be the length thereof, and a cubit the breadth thereof, and a cubit and a half the height thereof. 24 And thou shalt overlay it with pure gold, and make thereto a crown of gold round about. 25 And thou shalt make unto it a border of an hand breadth round about, and thou shalt make a golden crown to the border thereof round about. 26 And thou shalt make for it four rings of gold, and put the rings in the four corners that are on the four feet thereof. 27 Over against the border shall the rings be for places of the staves to bear the table. 28 And thou shalt make the staves of shittim wood, and overlay them with gold, that the table may be borne with them. 29 And thou shalt make the dishes thereof, and spoons thereof, and covers thereof, and bowls thereof, to cover withal: of pure gold shalt thou make them. 30 And thou shalt set upon the table shewbread before me alway.
31 And thou shalt make a candlestick of pure gold: of beaten work shall the candlestick be made: his shaft, and his branches, his bowls, his knops, and his flowers, shall be of the same. 32 And six branches shall come out of the sides of it; three branches of the candlestick out of the one side, and three branches of the candlestick out of the other side: 33 Three bowls made like unto almonds, with a knop and a flower in one branch; and three bowls made like almonds in the other branch, with a knop and a flower: so in the six branches that come out of the candlestick. 34 And in the candlesticks shall be four bowls made like unto almonds, with their knops and their flowers. 35 And there shall be a knop under two branches of the same, and a knop under two branches of the same, and a knop under two branches of the same, according to the six branches that proceed out of the candlestick. 36 Their knops and their branches shall be of the same: all it shall be one beaten work of pure gold. 37 And thou shalt make the seven lamps thereof: and they shall light the lamps thereof, that they may give light over against it. 38 And the tongs thereof, and the snuffdishes thereof, shall be of pure gold. 39 Of a talent of pure gold shall he make it, with all these vessels. 40 And look that thou make them after their pattern, which was shewed thee in the mount.
Exodus Chapter 26 1 Moreover thou shalt make the tabernacle with ten curtains of fine twined linen, and blue, and purple, and
scarlet: with cherubims of cunning work shalt thou make them. 2 The length of one curtain shall be eight and twen-
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ty cubits, and the breadth of one curtain four cubits: and every one of the curtains shall have one measure. 3 The five curtains shall be coupled together one to another; and other five curtains shall be coupled one to another. 4 And thou shalt make loops of blue upon the edge of the one curtain from the selvedge in the coupling; and likewise shalt thou make in the uttermost edge of another curtain, in the coupling of the second. 5 Fifty loops shalt thou make in the one curtain, and fifty loops shalt thou make in the edge of the curtain that is in the coupling of the second; that the loops may take hold one of another. 6 And thou shalt make fifty taches of gold, and couple the curtains together with the taches: and it shall be one tabernacle.
7 And thou shalt make curtains of goats’ hair to be a covering upon the tabernacle: eleven curtains shalt thou make. 8 The length of one curtain shall be thirty cubits, and the breadth of one curtain four cubits: and the eleven curtains shall be all of one measure. 9 And thou shalt couple five curtains by themselves, and six curtains by them- selves, and shalt double the sixth curtain in the forefront of the tabernacle. 10 And thou shalt make fifty loops on the edge of the one curtain that is outmost in the coupling, and fifty loops in the edge of the curtain which coupleth the second. 11 And thou shalt make fifty taches of brass, and put the taches into the loops, and couple the tent together, that it may be one. 12 And the remnant that remaineth of the curtains of the tent, the half curtain that remaineth, shall hang over the backside of the tabernacle. 13 And a cubit on the one side, and a cubit on the other side of that which remaineth in the length of the curtains of the tent, it shall hang over the sides of the tabernacle on this side and on that side, to cover it. 14 And thou shalt make a covering for the tent of rams’ skins dyed red, and a covering above of badgers’ skins.
15 And thou shalt make boards for the tabernacle of shittim wood standing up. 16 Ten cubits shall be the length of a board, and a cubit and a half shall be the breadth of one board. 17 Two tenons shall there be in one board, set in order one against another: thus shalt thou make for all the boards of the tabernacle. 18 And thou shalt make the boards for the tabernacle, twenty boards on the south side southward. 19 And thou shalt make forty sockets of silver under the twenty boards; two sockets under one board for his two tenons, and two sockets under another board for his two tenons. 20 And for the second side of the tabernacle on the north side there shall be twenty boards: 21 And their forty sockets of silver; two sockets under one board, and two sockets under another board. 22 And for the sides of the tabernacle westward thou shalt make six boards. 23 And two boards shalt thou make for the corners of the tabernacle in the two sides. 24 And they shall be coupled together beneath, and they shall be coupled together above the head of it unto one ring: thus shall it be for them both; they shall be for the two corners. 25 And they shall be eight boards, and their sockets of silver, sixteen sockets; two sockets under one board, and two sockets under another board.
26 And thou shalt make bars of shittim wood; five for the boards of the one side of the tabernacle, 27 And five bars for the boards of the other side of the tabernacle, and five bars for the boards of the side of the tabernacle, for the two sides westward. 28 And the middle bar in the midst of the boards shall reach from end to end. 29 And thou shalt overlay the boards with gold, and make their rings of gold for places for the bars: and thou shalt overlay the bars with gold. 30 And thou shalt rear up the tabernacle according to the fashion thereof which was shewed thee in the mount.
31 And thou shalt make a vail of blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine twined linen of cunning work: with cher- ubims shall it be made: 32 And thou shalt hang it upon four pillars of shittim wood overlaid with gold: their hooks shall be of gold, upon the four sockets of silver.
33 And thou shalt hang up the vail under the taches, that thou mayest bring in thither within the vail the ark of the testimony: and the vail shall divide unto you between the holy place and the most holy. 34 And thou shalt put the mercy seat upon the ark of the testimony in the most holy place. 35 And thou shalt set the table without the vail, and the candlestick over against the table on the side of the tabernacle toward the south: and thou shalt put the table on the north side. 36 And thou shalt make an hanging for the door of the tent, of blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine twined linen, wrought with needlework. 37 And thou shalt make for the hanging five pillars of shittim wood, and overlay them with gold, and their hooks shall be of gold: and thou shalt cast five sockets of brass for them.
Exodus Chapter 27 1 And thou shalt make an altar of shittim wood, five cubits long, and five cubits broad; the altar shall be four-
square: and the height thereof shall be three cubits. 2 And thou shalt make the horns of it upon the four corners thereof: his horns shall be of the same: and thou shalt overlay it with brass. 3 And thou shalt make his pans to receive his ashes, and his shovels, and his basons, and his fleshhooks, and his firepans: all the vessels thereof thou shalt make of brass. 4 And thou shalt make for it a grate of network of brass; and upon the net shalt thou make four brasen rings in the four corners thereof. 5 And thou shalt put it under the compass of the altar beneath, that the net may be even to the midst of the altar. 6 And thou shalt make staves for the altar, staves of shittim wood, and overlay them with brass. 7 And the staves shall be put into the rings, and the staves shall be upon the two sides of the altar,
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to bear it. 8 Hollow with boards shalt thou make it: as it was shewed thee in the mount, so shall they make it. 9 And thou shalt make the court of the tabernacle: for the south side southward there shall be hangings for the
court of fine twined linen of an hundred cubits long for one side: 10 And the twenty pillars thereof and their twenty sockets shall be of brass; the hooks of the pillars and their fillets shall be of silver. 11 And likewise for the north side in length there shall be hangings of an hundred cubits long, and his twenty pillars and their twenty sockets of brass; the hooks of the pillars and their fillets of silver.
12 And for the breadth of the court on the west side shall be hangings of fifty cubits: their pillars ten, and their sockets ten. 13 And the breadth of the court on the east side eastward shall be fifty cubits. 14 The hangings of one side of the gate shall be fifteen cubits: their pillars three, and their sockets three. 15 And on the other side shall be hang- ings fifteen cubits: their pillars three, and their sockets three.
16 And for the gate of the court shall be an hanging of twenty cubits, of blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine twined linen, wrought with needlework: and their pillars shall be four, and their sockets four. 17 All the pillars round about the court shall be filleted with silver; their hooks shall be of silver, and their sockets of brass.
18 The length of the court shall be an hundred cubits, and the breadth fifty every where, and the height five cu- bits of fine twined linen, and their sockets of brass. 19 All the vessels of the tabernacle in all the service thereof, and all the pins thereof, and all the pins of the court, shall be of brass.
20 And thou shalt command the children of Israel, that they bring thee pure oil olive beaten for the light, to cause the lamp to burn always. 21 In the tabernacle of the congregation without the vail, which is before the testimo- ny, Aaron and his sons shall order it from evening to morning before the LORD: it shall be a statute for ever unto their generations on the behalf of the children of Israel.
Exodus Chapter 28 1 And take thou unto thee Aaron thy brother, and his sons with him, from among the children of Israel, that he
may minister unto me in the priest’s office, even Aaron, Nadab and Abihu, Eleazar and Ithamar, Aaron’s sons. 2 And thou shalt make holy garments for Aaron thy brother for glory and for beauty. 3 And thou shalt speak unto all that are wise hearted, whom I have filled with the spirit of wisdom, that they may make Aaron’s garments to consecrate him, that he may minister unto me in the priest’s office. 4 And these are the garments which they shall make; a breastplate, and an ephod, and a robe, and a broidered coat, a mitre, and a girdle: and they shall make holy gar- ments for Aaron thy brother, and his sons, that he may minister unto me in the priest’s office. 5 And they shall take gold, and blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine linen.
6 And they shall make the ephod of gold, of blue, and of purple, of scarlet, and fine twined linen, with cunning work. 7 It shall have the two shoulderpieces thereof joined at the two edges thereof; and so it shall be joined togeth- er. 8 And the curious girdle of the ephod, which is upon it, shall be of the same, according to the work thereof; even of gold, of blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine twined linen. 9 And thou shalt take two onyx stones, and grave on them the names of the children of Israel: 10 Six of their names on one stone, and the other six names of the rest on the other stone, according to their birth. 11 With the work of an engraver in stone, like the engravings of a signet, shalt thou engrave the two stones with the names of the children of Israel: thou shalt make them to be set in ouches of gold. 12 And thou shalt put the two stones upon the shoulders of the ephod for stones of memorial unto the chil- dren of Israel: and Aaron shall bear their names before the LORD upon his two shoulders for a memorial.
13 And thou shalt make ouches of gold; 14 And two chains of pure gold at the ends; of wreathen work shalt thou make them, and fasten the wreathen chains to the ouches.
15 And thou shalt make the breastplate of judgment with cunning work; after the work of the ephod thou shalt make it; of gold, of blue, and of purple, and of scarlet, and of fine twined linen, shalt thou make it. 16 Foursquare it shall be being doubled; a span shall be the length thereof, and a span shall be the breadth thereof. 17 And thou shalt set in it settings of stones, even four rows of stones: the first row shall be a sardius, a topaz, and a carbuncle: this shall be the first row. 18 And the second row shall be an emerald, a sapphire, and a diamond. 19 And the third row a ligure, an agate, and an amethyst. 20 And the fourth row a beryl, and an onyx, and a jasper: they shall be set in gold in their inclosings. 21 And the stones shall be with the names of the children of Israel, twelve, according to their names, like the engravings of a signet; every one with his name shall they be according to the twelve tribes.
22 And thou shalt make upon the breastplate chains at the ends of wreathen work of pure gold. 23 And thou shalt make upon the breastplate two rings of gold, and shalt put the two rings on the two ends of the breastplate. 24 And thou shalt put the two wreathen chains of gold in the two rings which are on the ends of the breastplate. 25 And the other two ends of the two wreathen chains thou shalt fasten in the two ouches, and put them on the shoulderpieces of the ephod before it.
26 And thou shalt make two rings of gold, and thou shalt put them upon the two ends of the breastplate in the border thereof, which is in the side of the ephod inward. 27 And two other rings of gold thou shalt make, and shalt
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put them on the two sides of the ephod underneath, toward the forepart thereof, over against the other coupling thereof, above the curious girdle of the ephod. 28 And they shall bind the breastplate by the rings thereof unto the rings of the ephod with a lace of blue, that it may be above the curious girdle of the ephod, and that the breastplate be not loosed from the ephod. 29 And Aaron shall bear the names of the children of Israel in the breastplate of judg- ment upon his heart, when he goeth in unto the holy place, for a memorial before the LORD continually.
30 And thou shalt put in the breastplate of judgment the Urim and the Thummim; and they shall be upon Aar- on’s heart, when he goeth in before the LORD: and Aaron shall bear the judgment of the children of Israel upon his heart before the LORD continually.
31 And thou shalt make the robe of the ephod all of blue. 32 And there shall be an hole in the top of it, in the midst thereof: it shall have a binding of woven work round about the hole of it, as it were the hole of an habergeon, that it be not rent.
33 And beneath upon the hem of it thou shalt make pomegranates of blue, and of purple, and of scarlet, round about the hem thereof; and bells of gold between them round about: 34 A golden bell and a pomegranate, a golden bell and a pomegranate, upon the hem of the robe round about. 35 And it shall be upon Aaron to minister: and his sound shall be heard when he goeth in unto the holy place before the LORD, and when he cometh out, that he die not.
36 And thou shalt make a plate of pure gold, and grave upon it, like the engravings of a signet, HOLINESS TO THE LORD. 37 And thou shalt put it on a blue lace, that it may be upon the mitre; upon the forefront of the mitre it shall be. 38 And it shall be upon Aaron’s forehead, that Aaron may bear the iniquity of the holy things, which the children of Israel shall hallow in all their holy gifts; and it shall be always upon his forehead, that they may be accepted before the LORD.
39 And thou shalt embroider the coat of fine linen, and thou shalt make the mitre of fine linen, and thou shalt make the girdle of needlework.
40 And for Aaron’s sons thou shalt make coats, and thou shalt make for them girdles, and bonnets shalt thou make for them, for glory and for beauty. 41 And thou shalt put them upon Aaron thy brother, and his sons with him; and shalt anoint them, and consecrate them, and sanctify them, that they may minister unto me in the priest’s office. 42 And thou shalt make them linen breeches to cover their nakedness; from the loins even unto the thighs they shall reach: 43 And they shall be upon Aaron, and upon his sons, when they come in unto the tabernacle of the congregation, or when they come near unto the altar to minister in the holy place; that they bear not iniquity, and die: it shall be a statute for ever unto him and his seed after him.
Exodus Chapter 29 1 And this is the thing that thou shalt do unto them to hallow them, to minister unto me in the priest’s office:
Take one young bullock, and two rams without blemish, 2 And unleavened bread, and cakes unleavened tempered with oil, and wafers unleavened anointed with oil: of wheaten flour shalt thou make them. 3 And thou shalt put them into one basket, and bring them in the basket, with the bullock and the two rams. 4 And Aaron and his sons thou shalt bring unto the door of the tabernacle of the congregation, and shalt wash them with water. 5 And thou shalt take the garments, and put upon Aaron the coat, and the robe of the ephod, and the ephod, and the breast- plate, and gird him with the curious girdle of the ephod: 6 And thou shalt put the mitre upon his head, and put the holy crown upon the mitre. 7 Then shalt thou take the anointing oil, and pour it upon his head, and anoint him. 8 And thou shalt bring his sons, and put coats upon them. 9 And thou shalt gird them with girdles, Aaron and his sons, and put the bonnets on them: and the priest’s office shall be theirs for a perpetual statute: and thou shalt consecrate Aaron and his sons. 10 And thou shalt cause a bullock to be brought before the tabernacle of the congre- gation: and Aaron and his sons shall put their hands upon the head of the bullock. 11 And thou shalt kill the bull- ock before the LORD, by the door of the tabernacle of the congregation. 12 And thou shalt take of the blood of the bullock, and put it upon the horns of the altar with thy finger, and pour all the blood beside the bottom of the altar. 13 And thou shalt take all the fat that covereth the inwards, and the caul that is above the liver, and the two kidneys, and the fat that is upon them, and burn them upon the altar. 14 But the flesh of the bullock, and his skin, and his dung, shalt thou burn with fire without the camp: it is a sin offering.
15 Thou shalt also take one ram; and Aaron and his sons shall put their hands upon the head of the ram. 16 And thou shalt slay the ram, and thou shalt take his blood, and sprinkle it round about upon the altar. 17 And thou shalt cut the ram in pieces, and wash the inwards of him, and his legs, and put them unto his pieces, and unto his head. 18 And thou shalt burn the whole ram upon the altar: it is a burnt offering unto the LORD: it is a sweet savour, an offering made by fire unto the LORD.
19 And thou shalt take the other ram; and Aaron and his sons shall put their hands upon the head of the ram. 20 Then shalt thou kill the ram, and take of his blood, and put it upon the tip of the right ear of Aaron, and upon the
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tip of the right ear of his sons, and upon the thumb of their right hand, and upon the great toe of their right foot, and sprinkle the blood upon the altar round about. 21 And thou shalt take of the blood that is upon the altar, and of the anointing oil, and sprinkle it upon Aaron, and upon his garments, and upon his sons, and upon the garments of his sons with him: and he shall be hallowed, and his garments, and his sons, and his sons’ garments with him. 22 Also thou shalt take of the ram the fat and the rump, and the fat that covereth the inwards, and the caul above the liver, and the two kidneys, and the fat that is upon them, and the right shoulder; for it is a ram of consecration: 23 And one loaf of bread, and one cake of oiled bread, and one wafer out of the basket of the unleavened bread that is before the LORD: 24 And thou shalt put all in the hands of Aaron, and in the hands of his sons; and shalt wave them for a wave offering before the LORD. 25 And thou shalt receive them of their hands, and burn them upon the altar for a burnt offering, for a sweet savour before the LORD: it is an offering made by fire unto the LORD. 26 And thou shalt take the breast of the ram of Aaron’s consecration, and wave it for a wave offering before the LORD: and it shall be thy part. 27 And thou shalt sanctify the breast of the wave offering, and the shoulder of the heave offering, which is waved, and which is heaved up, of the ram of the consecration, even of that which is for Aaron, and of that which is for his sons: 28 And it shall be Aaron’s and his sons’ by a statute for ever from the children of Israel: for it is an heave offering: and it shall be an heave offering from the children of Israel of the sacrifice of their peace offer- ings, even their heave offering unto the LORD.
29 And the holy garments of Aaron shall be his sons’ after him, to be anointed therein, and to be consecrated in them. 30 And that son that is priest in his stead shall put them on seven days, when he cometh into the tabernacle of the congregation to minister in the holy place.
31 And thou shalt take the ram of the consecration, and seethe his flesh in the holy place. 32 And Aaron and his sons shall eat the flesh of the ram, and the bread that is in the basket by the door of the tabernacle of the congre- gation. 33 And they shall eat those things wherewith the atonement was made, to consecrate and to sanctify them: but a stranger shall not eat thereof, because they are holy. 34 And if ought of the flesh of the consecrations, or of the bread, remain unto the morning, then thou shalt burn the remainder with fire: it shall not be eaten, because it is holy. 35 And thus shalt thou do unto Aaron, and to his sons, according to all things which I have commanded thee: seven days shalt thou consecrate them. 36 And thou shalt offer every day a bullock for a sin offering for atonement: and thou shalt cleanse the altar, when thou hast made an atonement for it, and thou shalt anoint it, to sanctify it. 37 Seven days thou shalt make an atonement for the altar, and sanctify it; and it shall be an altar most holy: whatso- ever toucheth the altar shall be holy.
38 Now this is that which thou shalt offer upon the altar; two lambs of the first year day by day continually. 39 The one lamb thou shalt offer in the morning; and the other lamb thou shalt offer at even: 40 And with the one lamb a tenth deal of flour mingled with the fourth part of an hin of beaten oil; and the fourth part of an hin of wine for a drink offering. 41 And the other lamb thou shalt offer at even, and shalt do thereto according to the meat offering of the morning, and according to the drink offering thereof, for a sweet savour, an offering made by fire unto the LORD. 42 This shall be a continual burnt offering throughout your generations at the door of the tabernacle of the congregation before the LORD: where I will meet you, to speak there unto thee. 43 And there I will meet with the children of Israel, and the tabernacle shall be sanctified by my glory. 44 And I will sanctify the tabernacle of the con- gregation, and the altar: I will sanctify also both Aaron and his sons, to minister to me in the priest’s office.
45 And I will dwell among the children of Israel, and will be their God. 46 And they shall know that I am the LORD their God, that brought them forth out of the land of Egypt, that I may dwell among them: I am the LORD their God.
Exodus Chapter 30 1 And thou shalt make an altar to burn incense upon: of shittim wood shalt thou make it. 2 A cubit shall be the
length thereof, and a cubit the breadth thereof; foursquare shall it be: and two cubits shall be the height thereof: the horns thereof shall be of the same. 3 And thou shalt overlay it with pure gold, the top thereof, and the sides thereof round about, and the horns thereof; and thou shalt make unto it a crown of gold round about. 4 And two golden rings shalt thou make to it under the crown of it, by the two corners thereof, upon the two sides of it shalt thou make it; and they shall be for places for the staves to bear it withal. 5 And thou shalt make the staves of shittim wood, and overlay them with gold. 6 And thou shalt put it before the vail that is by the ark of the testimony, before the mercy seat that is over the testimony, where I will meet with thee. 7 And Aaron shall burn thereon sweet incense every morning: when he dresseth the lamps, he shall burn incense upon it. 8 And when Aaron lighteth the lamps at even, he shall burn incense upon it, a perpetual incense before the LORD throughout your generations. 9 Ye shall offer no strange incense thereon, nor burnt sacrifice, nor meat offering; neither shall ye pour drink offering there- on. 10 And Aaron shall make an atonement upon the horns of it once in a year with the blood of the sin offering of atonements: once in the year shall he make atonement upon it throughout your generations: it is most holy unto the
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LORD. 11 And the LORD spake unto Moses, saying, 12 When thou takest the sum of the children of Israel after their
number, then shall they give every man a ransom for his soul unto the LORD, when thou numberest them; that there be no plague among them, when thou numberest them. 13 This they shall give, every one that passeth among them that are numbered, half a shekel after the shekel of the sanctuary: (a shekel is twenty gerahs:) an half shekel shall be the offering of the LORD. 14 Every one that passeth among them that are numbered, from twenty years old and above, shall give an offering unto the LORD. 15 The rich shall not give more, and the poor shall not give less than half a shekel, when they give an offering unto the LORD, to make an atonement for your souls. 16 And thou shalt take the atonement money of the children of Israel, and shalt appoint it for the service of the tabernacle of the congregation; that it may be a memorial unto the children of Israel before the LORD, to make an atonement for your souls.
17 And the LORD spake unto Moses, saying, 18 Thou shalt also make a laver of brass, and his foot also of brass, to wash withal: and thou shalt put it between the tabernacle of the congregation and the altar, and thou shalt put water therein. 19 For Aaron and his sons shall wash their hands and their feet thereat: 20 When they go into the tabernacle of the congregation, they shall wash with water, that they die not; or when they come near to the altar to minister, to burn offering made by fire unto the LORD: 21 So they shall wash their hands and their feet, that they die not: and it shall be a statute for ever to them, even to him and to his seed throughout their generations.
22 Moreover the LORD spake unto Moses, saying, 23 Take thou also unto thee principal spices, of pure myrrh five hundred shekels, and of sweet cinnamon half so much, even two hundred and fifty shekels, and of sweet cala- mus two hundred and fifty shekels, 24 And of cassia five hundred shekels, after the shekel of the sanctuary, and of oil olive an hin: 25 And thou shalt make it an oil of holy ointment, an ointment compound after the art of the apothe- cary: it shall be an holy anointing oil. 26 And thou shalt anoint the tabernacle of the congregation therewith, and the ark of the testimony, 27 And the table and all his vessels, and the candlestick and his vessels, and the altar of incense, 28 And the altar of burnt offering with all his vessels, and the laver and his foot. 29 And thou shalt sanctify them, that they may be most holy: whatsoever toucheth them shall be holy. 30 And thou shalt anoint Aaron and his sons, and consecrate them, that they may minister unto me in the priest’s office. 31 And thou shalt speak unto the children of Israel, saying, This shall be an holy anointing oil unto me throughout your generations. 32 Upon man’s flesh shall it not be poured, neither shall ye make any other like it, after the composition of it: it is holy, and it shall be holy unto you. 33 Whosoever compoundeth any like it, or whosoever putteth any of it upon a stranger, shall even be cut off from his people.
34 And the LORD said unto Moses, Take unto thee sweet spices, stacte, and onycha, and galbanum; these sweet spices with pure frankincense: of each shall there be a like weight: 35 And thou shalt make it a perfume, a confection after the art of the apothecary, tempered together, pure and holy: 36 And thou shalt beat some of it very small, and put of it before the testimony in the tabernacle of the congregation, where I will meet with thee: it shall be unto you most holy. 37 And as for the perfume which thou shalt make, ye shall not make to yourselves according to the com- position thereof: it shall be unto thee holy for the LORD. 38 Whosoever shall make like unto that, to smell thereto, shall even be cut off from his people.
Exodus Chapter 31 1 And the LORD spake unto Moses, saying, 2 See, I have called by name Bezaleel the son of Uri, the son of Hur,
of the tribe of Judah: 3 And I have filled him with the spirit of God, in wisdom, and in understanding, and in knowl- edge, and in all manner of workmanship, 4 To devise cunning works, to work in gold, and in silver, and in brass, 5 And in cutting of stones, to set them, and in carving of timber, to work in all manner of workmanship. 6 And I, behold, I have given with him Aholiab, the son of Ahisamach, of the tribe of Dan: and in the hearts of all that are wise hearted I have put wisdom, that they may make all that I have commanded thee; 7 The tabernacle of the con- gregation, and the ark of the testimony, and the mercy seat that is thereupon, and all the furniture of the tabernacle, 8 And the table and his furniture, and the pure candlestick with all his furniture, and the altar of incense, 9 And the altar of burnt offering with all his furniture, and the laver and his foot, 10 And the cloths of service, and the holy garments for Aaron the priest, and the garments of his sons, to minister in the priest’s office, 11 And the anointing oil, and sweet incense for the holy place: according to all that I have commanded thee shall they do.
12 And the LORD spake unto Moses, saying, 13 Speak thou also unto the children of Israel, saying, Verily my sabbaths ye shall keep: for it is a sign between me and you throughout your generations; that ye may know that I am the LORD that doth sanctify you. 14 Ye shall keep the sabbath therefore; for it is holy unto you: every one that defileth it shall surely be put to death: for whosoever doeth any work therein, that soul shall be cut off from among his people. 15 Six days may work be done; but in the seventh is the sabbath of rest, holy to the LORD: whosoever doeth any work in the sabbath day, he shall surely be put to death. 16 Wherefore the children of Israel shall keep
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the sabbath, to observe the sabbath throughout their generations, for a perpetual covenant. 17 It is a sign between me and the children of Israel for ever: for in six days the LORD made heaven and earth, and on the seventh day he rested, and was refreshed.
18 And he gave unto Moses, when he had made an end of communing with him upon mount Sinai, two tables of testimony, tables of stone, written with the finger of God.
Exodus Chapter 32 1 And when the people saw that Moses delayed to come down out of the mount, the people gathered themselves
together unto Aaron, and said unto him, Up, make us gods, which shall go before us; for as for this Moses, the man that brought us up out of the land of Egypt, we wot not what is become of him. 2 And Aaron said unto them, Break off the golden earrings, which are in the ears of your wives, of your sons, and of your daughters, and bring them unto me. 3 And all the people brake off the golden earrings which were in their ears, and brought them unto Aaron. 4 And he received them at their hand, and fashioned it with a graving tool, after he had made it a molten calf: and they said, These be thy gods, O Israel, which brought thee up out of the land of Egypt. 5 And when Aaron saw it, he built an altar before it; and Aaron made proclamation, and said, To morrow is a feast to the LORD. 6 And they rose up early on the morrow, and offered burnt offerings, and brought peace offerings; and the people sat down to eat and to drink, and rose up to play.
7 And the LORD said unto Moses, Go, get thee down; for thy people, which thou broughtest out of the land of Egypt, have corrupted themselves: 8 They have turned aside quickly out of the way which I commanded them: they have made them a molten calf, and have worshipped it, and have sacrificed thereunto, and said, These be thy gods, O Israel, which have brought thee up out of the land of Egypt. 9 And the LORD said unto Moses, I have seen this people, and, behold, it is a stiffnecked people: 10 Now therefore let me alone, that my wrath may wax hot against them, and that I may consume them: and I will make of thee a great nation. 11 And Moses besought the LORD his God, and said, LORD, why doth thy wrath wax hot against thy people, which thou hast brought forth out of the land of Egypt with great power, and with a mighty hand? 12 Wherefore should the Egyptians speak, and say, For mischief did he bring them out, to slay them in the mountains, and to consume them from the face of the earth? Turn from thy fierce wrath, and repent of this evil against thy people. 13 Remember Abraham, Isaac, and Israel, thy servants, to whom thou swarest by thine own self, and saidst unto them, I will multiply your seed as the stars of heaven, and all this land that I have spoken of will I give unto your seed, and they shall inherit it for ever. 14 And the LORD repented of the evil which he thought to do unto his people.
15 And Moses turned, and went down from the mount, and the two tables of the testimony were in his hand: the tables were written on both their sides; on the one side and on the other were they written. 16 And the tables were the work of God, and the writing was the writing of God, graven upon the tables. 17 And when Joshua heard the noise of the people as they shouted, he said unto Moses, There is a noise of war in the camp. 18 And he said, It is not the voice of them that shout for mastery, neither is it the voice of them that cry for being overcome: but the noise of them that sing do I hear.
19 And it came to pass, as soon as he came nigh unto the camp, that he saw the calf, and the dancing: and Moses’ anger waxed hot, and he cast the tables out of his hands, and brake them beneath the mount. 20 And he took the calf which they had made, and burnt it in the fire, and ground it to powder, and strawed it upon the water, and made the children of Israel drink of it.
21 And Moses said unto Aaron, What did this people unto thee, that thou hast brought so great a sin upon them? 22 And Aaron said, Let not the anger of my lord wax hot: thou knowest the people, that they are set on mis- chief. 23 For they said unto me, Make us gods, which shall go before us: for as for this Moses, the man that brought us up out of the land of Egypt, we wot not what is become of him. 24 And I said unto them, Whosoever hath any gold, let them break it off. So they gave it me: then I cast it into the fire, and there came out this calf.
25 And when Moses saw that the people were naked; (for Aaron had made them naked unto their shame among their enemies:) 26 Then Moses stood in the gate of the camp, and said, Who is on the LORD’s side? let him come unto me. And all the sons of Levi gathered themselves together unto him. 27 And he said unto them, Thus saith the LORD God of Israel, Put every man his sword by his side, and go in and out from gate to gate throughout the camp, and slay every man his brother, and every man his companion, and every man his neighbour. 28 And the children of Levi did according to the word of Moses: and there fell of the people that day about three thousand men. 29 For Mo- ses had said, Consecrate yourselves today to the LORD, even every man upon his son, and upon his brother; that he may bestow upon you a blessing this day.
30 And it came to pass on the morrow, that Moses said unto the people, Ye have sinned a great sin: and now I will go up unto the LORD; peradventure I shall make an atonement for your sin. 31 And Moses returned unto the LORD, and said, Oh, this people have sinned a great sin, and have made them gods of gold. 32 Yet now, if thou
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wilt forgive their sin--; and if not, blot me, I pray thee, out of thy book which thou hast written. 33 And the LORD said unto Moses, Whosoever hath sinned against me, him will I blot out of my book. 34 Therefore now go, lead the people unto the place of which I have spoken unto thee: behold, mine Angel shall go before thee: nevertheless in the day when I visit I will visit their sin upon them. 35 And the LORD plagued the people, because they made the calf, which Aaron made.
Exodus Chapter 33 1 And the LORD said unto Moses, Depart, and go up hence, thou and the people which thou hast brought up
out of the land of Egypt, unto the land which I sware unto Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob, saying, Unto thy seed will I give it:
2 And I will send an angel before thee; and I will drive out the Canaanite, the Amorite, and the Hittite, and the Perizzite, the Hivite, and the Jebusite:
3 Unto a land flowing with milk and honey: for I will not go up in the midst of thee; for thou art a stiffnecked people: lest I consume thee in the way.
4 And when the people heard these evil tidings, they mourned: and no man did put on him his ornaments. 5 For the LORD had said unto Moses, Say unto the children of Israel, Ye are a stiffnecked people: I will come up
into the midst of thee in a moment, and consume thee: therefore now put off thy ornaments from thee, that I may know what to do unto thee.
6 And the children of Israel stripped themselves of their ornaments by the mount Horeb. 7 And Moses took the tabernacle, and pitched it without the camp, afar off from the camp, and called it the Tab-
ernacle of the congregation. And it came to pass, that every one which sought the LORD went out unto the taber- nacle of the congregation, which was without the camp.
8 And it came to pass, when Moses went out unto the tabernacle, that all the people rose up, and stood every man at his tent door, and looked after Moses, until he was gone into the tabernacle.
9 And it came to pass, as Moses entered into the tabernacle, the cloudy pillar descended, and stood at the door of the tabernacle, and the Lord talked with Moses.
10 And all the people saw the cloudy pillar stand at the tabernacle door: and all the people rose up and wor- shipped, every man in his tent door.
11 And the LORD spake unto Moses face to face, as a man speaketh unto his friend. And he turned again into the camp: but his servant Joshua, the son of Nun, a young man, departed not out of the tabernacle.
12 And Moses said unto the LORD, See, thou sayest unto me, Bring up this people: and thou hast not let me know whom thou wilt send with me. Yet thou hast said, I know thee by name, and thou hast also found grace in my sight. 13 Now therefore, I pray thee, if I have found grace in thy sight, shew me now thy way, that I may know thee, that I may find grace in thy sight: and consider that this nation is thy people. 14 And he said, My presence shall go with thee, and I will give thee rest. 15 And he said unto him, If thy presence go not with me, carry us not up hence. 16 For wherein shall it be known here that I and thy people have found grace in thy sight? is it not in that thou goest with us? so shall we be separated, I and thy people, from all the people that are upon the face of the earth. 17 And the LORD said unto Moses, I will do this thing also that thou hast spoken: for thou hast found grace in my sight, and I know thee by name. 18 And he said, I beseech thee, shew me thy glory. 19 And he said, I will make all my goodness pass before thee, and I will proclaim the name of the LORD before thee; and will be gracious to whom I will be gracious, and will shew mercy on whom I will shew mercy. 20 And he said, Thou canst not see my face: for there shall no man see me, and live. 21 And the LORD said, Behold, there is a place by me, and thou shalt stand upon a rock: 22 And it shall come to pass, while my glory passeth by, that I will put thee in a clift of the rock, and will cover thee with my hand while I pass by: 23 And I will take away mine hand, and thou shalt see my back parts: but my face shall not be seen.
Exodus Chapter 34 1 And the LORD said unto Moses, Hew thee two tables of stone like unto the first: and I will write upon these
tables the words that were in the first tables, which thou brakest. 2 And be ready in the morning, and come up in the morning unto mount Sinai, and present thyself there to me in the top of the mount. 3 And no man shall come up with thee, neither let any man be seen throughout all the mount; neither let the flocks nor herds feed before that mount.
4 And he hewed two tables of stone like unto the first; and Moses rose up early in the morning, and went up unto mount Sinai, as the LORD had commanded him, and took in his hand the two tables of stone.
5 And the LORD descended in the cloud, and stood with him there, and proclaimed the name of the LORD. 6 And the LORD passed by before him, and proclaimed, The LORD, The LORD God, merciful and gracious, long-
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suffering, and abundant in goodness and truth, 7 Keeping mercy for thousands, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin, and that will by no means clear the guilty; visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children, and upon the children’s children, unto the third and to the fourth generation. 8 And Moses made haste, and bowed his head toward the earth, and worshipped. 9 And he said, If now I have found grace in thy sight, O LORD, let my LORD, I pray thee, go among us; for it is a stiffnecked people; and pardon our iniquity and our sin, and take us for thine inheritance.
10 And he said, Behold, I make a covenant: before all thy people I will do marvels, such as have not been done in all the earth, nor in any nation: and all the people among which thou art shall see the work of the LORD: for it is a terrible thing that I will do with thee. 11 Observe thou that which I command thee this day: behold, I drive out be- fore thee the Amorite, and the Canaanite, and the Hittite, and the Perizzite, and the Hivite, and the Jebusite. 12 Take heed to thyself, lest thou make a covenant with the inhabitants of the land whither thou goest, lest it be for a snare in the midst of thee: 13 But ye shall destroy their altars, break their images, and cut down their groves: 14 For thou shalt worship no other god: for the LORD, whose name is Jealous, is a jealous God: 15 Lest thou make a covenant with the inhabitants of the land, and they go a whoring after their gods, and do sacrifice unto their gods, and one call thee, and thou eat of his sacrifice; 16 And thou take of their daughters unto thy sons, and their daughters go a whoring after their gods, and make thy sons go a whoring after their gods. 17 Thou shalt make thee no molten gods.
18 The feast of unleavened bread shalt thou keep. Seven days thou shalt eat unleavened bread, as I commanded thee, in the time of the month Abib: for in the month Abib thou camest out from Egypt. 19 All that openeth the ma- trix is mine; and every firstling among thy cattle, whether ox or sheep, that is male. 20 But the firstling of an ass thou shalt redeem with a lamb: and if thou redeem him not, then shalt thou break his neck. All the firstborn of thy sons thou shalt redeem. And none shall appear before me empty.
21 Six days thou shalt work, but on the seventh day thou shalt rest: in earing time and in harvest thou shalt rest. 22 And thou shalt observe the feast of weeks, of the firstfruits of wheat harvest, and the feast of ingathering at
the year’s end. 23 Thrice in the year shall all your menchildren appear before the LORD God, the God of Israel. 24 For I will cast
out the nations before thee, and enlarge thy borders: neither shall any man desire thy land, when thou shalt go up to appear before the LORD thy God thrice in the year. 25 Thou shalt not offer the blood of my sacrifice with leaven; neither shall the sacrifice of the feast of the passover be left unto the morning. 26 The first of the firstfruits of thy land thou shalt bring unto the house of the LORD thy God. Thou shalt not seethe a kid in his mother’s milk. 27 And the LORD said unto Moses, Write thou these words: for after the tenor of these words I have made a covenant with thee and with Israel.
28 And he was there with the LORD forty days and forty nights; he did neither eat bread, nor drink water. And he wrote upon the tables the words of the covenant, the ten commandments.
29 And it came to pass, when Moses came down from mount Sinai with the two tables of testimony in Moses’ hand, when he came down from the mount, that Moses wist not that the skin of his face shone while he talked with him. 30 And when Aaron and all the children of Israel saw Moses, behold, the skin of his face shone; and they were afraid to come nigh him. 31 And Moses called unto them; and Aaron and all the rulers of the congregation returned unto him: and Moses talked with them. 32 And afterward all the children of Israel came nigh: and he gave them in commandment all that the LORD had spoken with him in mount Sinai. 33 And till Moses had done speaking with them, he put a vail on his face. 34 But when Moses went in before the LORD to speak with him, he took the vail off, until he came out. And he came out, and spake unto the children of Israel that which he was commanded. 35 And the children of Israel saw the face of Moses, that the skin of Moses’ face shone: and Moses put the vail upon his face again, until he went in to speak with him.
Exodus Chapter 35 1 And Moses gathered all the congregation of the children of Israel together, and said unto them, These are the
words which the LORD hath commanded, that ye should do them. 2 Six days shall work be done, but on the seventh day there shall be to you an holy day, a sabbath of rest to the LORD: whosoever doeth work therein shall be put to death. 3 Ye shall kindle no fire throughout your habitations upon the sabbath day.
4 And Moses spake unto all the congregation of the children of Israel, saying, This is the thing which the LORD commanded, saying, 5 Take ye from among you an offering unto the LORD: whosoever is of a willing heart, let him bring it, an offering of the LORD; gold, and silver, and brass, 6 And blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine linen, and goats’ hair, 7 And rams’ skins dyed red, and badgers’ skins, and shittim wood, 8 And oil for the light, and spices for anointing oil, and for the sweet incense, 9 And onyx stones, and stones to be set for the ephod, and for the breastplate. 10 And every wise hearted among you shall come, and make all that the LORD hath commanded; 11 The tabernacle, his tent, and his covering, his taches, and his boards, his bars, his pillars, and his sockets, 12 The ark, and
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the staves thereof, with the mercy seat, and the vail of the covering, 13 The table, and his staves, and all his vessels, and the shewbread, 14 The candlestick also for the light, and his furniture, and his lamps, with the oil for the light, 15 And the incense altar, and his staves, and the anointing oil, and the sweet incense, and the hanging for the door at the entering in of the tabernacle, 16 The altar of burnt offering, with his brasen grate, his staves, and all his vessels, the laver and his foot, 17 The hangings of the court, his pillars, and their sockets, and the hanging for the door of the court, 18 The pins of the tabernacle, and the pins of the court, and their cords, 19 The cloths of service, to do service in the holy place, the holy garments for Aaron the priest, and the garments of his sons, to minister in the priest’s office.
20 And all the congregation of the children of Israel departed from the presence of Moses. 21 And they came, every one whose heart stirred him up, and every one whom his spirit made willing, and they brought the LORD’s offering to the work of the tabernacle of the congregation, and for all his service, and for the holy garments. 22 And they came, both men and women, as many as were willing hearted, and brought bracelets, and earrings, and rings, and tablets, all jewels of gold: and every man that offered offered an offering of gold unto the LORD. 23 And every man, with whom was found blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine linen, and goats’ hair, and red skins of rams, and badgers’ skins, brought them. 24 Every one that did offer an offering of silver and brass brought the LORD’s offering: and every man, with whom was found shittim wood for any work of the service, brought it. 25 And all the women that were wise hearted did spin with their hands, and brought that which they had spun, both of blue, and of purple, and of scarlet, and of fine linen. 26 And all the women whose heart stirred them up in wisdom spun goats’ hair. 27 And the rulers brought onyx stones, and stones to be set, for the ephod, and for the breastplate; 28 And spice, and oil for the light, and for the anointing oil, and for the sweet incense. 29 The children of Israel brought a willing offering unto the LORD, every man and woman, whose heart made them willing to bring for all manner of work, which the LORD had commanded to be made by the hand of Moses.
30 And Moses said unto the children of Israel, See, the LORD hath called by name Bezaleel the son of Uri, the son of Hur, of the tribe of Judah; 31 And he hath filled him with the spirit of God, in wisdom, in understanding, and in knowledge, and in all manner of workmanship; 32 And to devise curious works, to work in gold, and in silver, and in brass, 33 And in the cutting of stones, to set them, and in carving of wood, to make any manner of cunning work. 34 And he hath put in his heart that he may teach, both he, and Aholiab, the son of Ahisamach, of the tribe of Dan. 35 Them hath he filled with wisdom of heart, to work all manner of work, of the engraver, and of the cunning work- man, and of the embroiderer, in blue, and in purple, in scarlet, and in fine linen, and of the weaver, even of them that do any work, and of those that devise cunning work.
Exodus Chapter 36 1 Then wrought Bezaleel and Aholiab, and every wise hearted man, in whom the LORD put wisdom and under-
standing to know how to work all manner of work for the service of the sanctuary, according to all that the LORD had commanded. 2 And Moses called Bezaleel and Aholiab, and every wise hearted man, in whose heart the LORD had put wisdom, even every one whose heart stirred him up to come unto the work to do it: 3 And they received of Moses all the offering, which the children of Israel had brought for the work of the service of the sanctuary, to make it withal. And they brought yet unto him free offerings every morning. 4 And all the wise men, that wrought all the work of the sanctuary, came every man from his work which they made;
5 And they spake unto Moses, saying, The people bring much more than enough for the service of the work, which the LORD commanded to make. 6 And Moses gave commandment, and they caused it to be proclaimed throughout the camp, saying, Let neither man nor woman make any more work for the offering of the sanctuary. So the people were restrained from bringing. 7 For the stuff they had was sufficient for all the work to make it, and too much.
8 And every wise hearted man among them that wrought the work of the tabernacle made ten curtains of fine twined linen, and blue, and purple, and scarlet: with cherubims of cunning work made he them. 9 The length of one curtain was twenty and eight cubits, and the breadth of one curtain four cubits: the curtains were all of one size. 10 And he coupled the five curtains one unto another: and the other five curtains he coupled one unto anoth- er. 11 And he made loops of blue on the edge of one curtain from the selvedge in the coupling: likewise he made in the uttermost side of another curtain, in the coupling of the second. 12 Fifty loops made he in one curtain, and fifty loops made he in the edge of the curtain which was in the coupling of the second: the loops held one curtain to an- other. 13 And he made fifty taches of gold, and coupled the curtains one unto another with the taches: so it became one tabernacle.
14 And he made curtains of goats’ hair for the tent over the tabernacle: eleven curtains he made them. 15 The length of one curtain was thirty cubits, and four cubits was the breadth of one curtain: the eleven curtains were of one size. 16 And he coupled five curtains by themselves, and six curtains by themselves. 17 And he made fifty loops
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upon the uttermost edge of the curtain in the coupling, and fifty loops made he upon the edge of the curtain which coupleth the second. 18 And he made fifty taches of brass to couple the tent together, that it might be one. 19 And he made a covering for the tent of rams’ skins dyed red, and a covering of badgers’ skins above that.
20 And he made boards for the tabernacle of shittim wood, standing up. 21 The length of a board was ten cubits, and the breadth of a board one cubit and a half. 22 One board had two tenons, equally distant one from another: thus did he make for all the boards of the tabernacle. 23 And he made boards for the tabernacle; twenty boards for the south side southward: 24 And forty sockets of silver he made under the twenty boards; two sockets under one board for his two tenons, and two sockets under another board for his two tenons. 25 And for the other side of the tabernacle, which is toward the north corner, he made twenty boards, 26 And their forty sockets of silver; two sock- ets under one board, and two sockets under another board. 27 And for the sides of the tabernacle westward he made six boards. 28 And two boards made he for the corners of the tabernacle in the two sides. 29 And they were coupled beneath, and coupled together at the head thereof, to one ring: thus he did to both of them in both the corners. 30 And there were eight boards; and their sockets were sixteen sockets of silver, under every board two sockets.
31 And he made bars of shittim wood; five for the boards of the one side of the tabernacle, 32 And five bars for the boards of the other side of the tabernacle, and five bars for the boards of the tabernacle for the sides westward. 33 And he made the middle bar to shoot through the boards from the one end to the other. 34 And he overlaid the boards with gold, and made their rings of gold to be places for the bars, and overlaid the bars with gold.
35 And he made a vail of blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine twined linen: with cherubims made he it of cun- ning work. 36 And he made thereunto four pillars of shittim wood, and overlaid them with gold: their hooks were of gold; and he cast for them four sockets of silver.
37 And he made an hanging for the tabernacle door of blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine twined linen, of needlework; 38 And the five pillars of it with their hooks: and he overlaid their chapiters and their fillets with gold: but their five sockets were of brass.
Exodus Chapter 37 1 And Bezaleel made the ark of shittim wood: two cubits and a half was the length of it, and a cubit and a half
the breadth of it, and a cubit and a half the height of it: 2 And he overlaid it with pure gold within and without, and made a crown of gold to it round about. 3 And he cast for it four rings of gold, to be set by the four corners of it; even two rings upon the one side of it, and two rings upon the other side of it. 4 And he made staves of shittim wood, and overlaid them with gold. 5 And he put the staves into the rings by the sides of the ark, to bear the ark.
6 And he made the mercy seat of pure gold: two cubits and a half was the length thereof, and one cubit and a half the breadth thereof. 7 And he made two cherubims of gold, beaten out of one piece made he them, on the two ends of the mercy seat; 8 One cherub on the end on this side, and another cherub on the other end on that side: out of the mercy seat made he the cherubims on the two ends thereof. 9 And the cherubims spread out their wings on high, and covered with their wings over the mercy seat, with their faces one to another; even to the mercy seatward were the faces of the cherubims.
10 And he made the table of shittim wood: two cubits was the length thereof, and a cubit the breadth thereof, and a cubit and a half the height thereof: 11 And he overlaid it with pure gold, and made thereunto a crown of gold round about. 12 Also he made thereunto a border of an handbreadth round about; and made a crown of gold for the border thereof round about. 13 And he cast for it four rings of gold, and put the rings upon the four corners that were in the four feet thereof. 14 Over against the border were the rings, the places for the staves to bear the table. 15 And he made the staves of shittim wood, and overlaid them with gold, to bear the table. 16 And he made the vessels which were upon the table, his dishes, and his spoons, and his bowls, and his covers to cover withal, of pure gold.
17 And he made the candlestick of pure gold: of beaten work made he the candlestick; his shaft, and his branch, his bowls, his knops, and his flowers, were of the same: 18 And six branches going out of the sides thereof; three branches of the candlestick out of the one side thereof, and three branches of the candlestick out of the other side thereof: 19 Three bowls made after the fashion of almonds in one branch, a knop and a flower; and three bowls made like almonds in another branch, a knop and a flower: so throughout the six branches going out of the candlestick. 20 And in the candlestick were four bowls made like almonds, his knops, and his flowers: 21 And a knop under two branches of the same, and a knop under two branches of the same, and a knop under two branches of the same, according to the six branches going out of it. 22 Their knops and their branches were of the same: all of it was one beaten work of pure gold. 23 And he made his seven lamps, and his snuffers, and his snuffdishes, of pure gold. 24 Of a talent of pure gold made he it, and all the vessels thereof.
25 And he made the incense altar of shittim wood: the length of it was a cubit, and the breadth of it a cubit; it was foursquare; and two cubits was the height of it; the horns thereof were of the same. 26 And he overlaid it with
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pure gold, both the top of it, and the sides thereof round about, and the horns of it: also he made unto it a crown of gold round about. 27 And he made two rings of gold for it under the crown thereof, by the two corners of it, upon the two sides thereof, to be places for the staves to bear it withal. 28 And he made the staves of shittim wood, and overlaid them with gold.
29 And he made the holy anointing oil, and the pure incense of sweet spices, according to the work of the apoth- ecary.
Exodus Chapter 38 1 And he made the altar of burnt offering of shittim wood: five cubits was the length thereof, and five cubits the
breadth thereof; it was foursquare; and three cubits the height thereof. 2 And he made the horns thereof on the four corners of it; the horns thereof were of the same: and he overlaid it with brass. 3 And he made all the vessels of the altar, the pots, and the shovels, and the basons, and the fleshhooks, and the firepans: all the vessels thereof made he of brass. 4 And he made for the altar a brasen grate of network under the compass thereof beneath unto the midst of it. 5 And he cast four rings for the four ends of the grate of brass, to be places for the staves. 6 And he made the staves of shittim wood, and overlaid them with brass. 7 And he put the staves into the rings on the sides of the altar, to bear it withal; he made the altar hollow with boards.
8 And he made the laver of brass, and the foot of it of brass, of the lookingglasses of the women assembling, which assembled at the door of the tabernacle of the congregation.
9 And he made the court: on the south side southward the hangings of the court were of fine twined linen, an hundred cubits: 10 Their pillars were twenty, and their brasen sockets twenty; the hooks of the pillars and their fillets were of silver. 11 And for the north side the hangings were an hundred cubits, their pillars were twenty, and their sockets of brass twenty; the hooks of the pillars and their fillets of silver. 12 And for the west side were hangings of fifty cubits, their pillars ten, and their sockets ten; the hooks of the pillars and their fillets of silver. 13 And for the east side eastward fifty cubits. 14 The hangings of the one side of the gate were fifteen cubits; their pillars three, and their sockets three. 15 And for the other side of the court gate, on this hand and that hand, were hangings of fifteen cubits; their pillars three, and their sockets three. 16 All the hangings of the court round about were of fine twined linen. 17 And the sockets for the pillars were of brass; the hooks of the pillars and their fillets of silver; and the overlaying of their chapiters of silver; and all the pillars of the court were filleted with silver. 18 And the hanging for the gate of the court was needlework, of blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine twined linen: and twenty cubits was the length, and the height in the breadth was five cubits, answerable to the hangings of the court. 19 And their pillars were four, and their sockets of brass four; their hooks of silver, and the overlaying of their chapiters and their fillets of silver. 20 And all the pins of the tabernacle, and of the court round about, were of brass.
21 This is the sum of the tabernacle, even of the tabernacle of testimony, as it was counted, according to the com- mandment of Moses, for the service of the Levites, by the hand of Ithamar, son to Aaron the priest. 22 And Bezaleel the son Uri, the son of Hur, of the tribe of Judah, made all that the LORD commanded Moses. 23 And with him was Aholiab, son of Ahisamach, of the tribe of Dan, an engraver, and a cunning workman, and an embroiderer in blue, and in purple, and in scarlet, and fine linen. 24 All the gold that was occupied for the work in all the work of the holy place, even the gold of the offering, was twenty and nine talents, and seven hundred and thirty shekels, after the shekel of the sanctuary. 25 And the silver of them that were numbered of the congregation was an hundred talents, and a thousand seven hundred and threescore and fifteen shekels, after the shekel of the sanctuary: 26 A bekah for every man, that is, half a shekel, after the shekel of the sanctuary, for every one that went to be numbered, from twenty years old and upward, for six hundred thousand and three thousand and five hundred and fifty men. 27 And of the hundred talents of silver were cast the sockets of the sanctuary, and the sockets of the vail; an hundred sockets of the hundred talents, a talent for a socket. 28 And of the thousand seven hundred seventy and five shekels he made hooks for the pillars, and overlaid their chapiters, and filleted them. 29 And the brass of the offering was seventy talents, and two thousand and four hundred shekels. 30 And therewith he made the sockets to the door of the tabernacle of the congregation, and the brasen altar, and the brasen grate for it, and all the vessels of the altar, 31 And the sockets of the court round about, and the sockets of the court gate, and all the pins of the tabernacle, and all the pins of the court round about.
Exodus Chapter 39 1 And of the blue, and purple, and scarlet, they made cloths of service, to do service in the holy place, and made
the holy garments for Aaron; as the LORD commanded Moses. 2 And he made the ephod of gold, blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine twined linen. 3 And they did beat the gold into thin plates, and cut it into wires, to work it in the blue, and in the purple, and in the scarlet, and in the fine linen, with cunning work. 4 They made shoulderpieces for it, to couple it together: by the two edges was it coupled together. 5 And the curious girdle of his ephod, that was
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upon it, was of the same, according to the work thereof; of gold, blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine twined linen; as the LORD commanded Moses.
6 And they wrought onyx stones inclosed in ouches of gold, graven, as signets are graven, with the names of the children of Israel. 7 And he put them on the shoulders of the ephod, that they should be stones for a memorial to the children of Israel; as the LORD commanded Moses.
8 And he made the breastplate of cunning work, like the work of the ephod; of gold, blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine twined linen. 9 It was foursquare; they made the breastplate double: a span was the length thereof, and a span the breadth thereof, being doubled. 10 And they set in it four rows of stones: the first row was a sardi- us, a topaz, and a carbuncle: this was the first row. 11 And the second row, an emerald, a sapphire, and a diamond. 12 And the third row, a ligure, an agate, and an amethyst. 13 And the fourth row, a beryl, an onyx, and a jasper: they were inclosed in ouches of gold in their inclosings. 14 And the stones were according to the names of the children of Israel, twelve, according to their names, like the engravings of a signet, every one with his name, according to the twelve tribes. 15 And they made upon the breastplate chains at the ends, of wreathen work of pure gold. 16 And they made two ouches of gold, and two gold rings; and put the two rings in the two ends of the breastplate. 17 And they put the two wreathen chains of gold in the two rings on the ends of the breastplate. 18 And the two ends of the two wreathen chains they fastened in the two ouches, and put them on the shoulderpieces of the ephod, before it. 19 And they made two rings of gold, and put them on the two ends of the breastplate, upon the border of it, which was on the side of the ephod inward. 20 And they made two other golden rings, and put them on the two sides of the ephod underneath, toward the forepart of it, over against the other coupling thereof, above the curious girdle of the ephod. 21 And they did bind the breastplate by his rings unto the rings of the ephod with a lace of blue, that it might be above the curious girdle of the ephod, and that the breastplate might not be loosed from the ephod; as the LORD commanded Moses.
22 And he made the robe of the ephod of woven work, all of blue. 23 And there was an hole in the midst of the robe, as the hole of an habergeon, with a band round about the hole, that it should not rend. 24 And they made upon the hems of the robe pomegranates of blue, and purple, and scarlet, and twined linen. 25 And they made bells of pure gold, and put the bells between the pomegranates upon the hem of the robe, round about between the pome- granates; 26 A bell and a pomegranate, a bell and a pomegranate, round about the hem of the robe to minister in; as the LORD commanded Moses.
27 And they made coats of fine linen of woven work for Aaron, and for his sons, 28 And a mitre of fine linen, and goodly bonnets of fine linen, and linen breeches of fine twined linen, 29 And a girdle of fine twined linen, and blue, and purple, and scarlet, of needlework; as the LORD commanded Moses.
30 And they made the plate of the holy crown of pure gold, and wrote upon it a writing, like to the engravings of a signet, HOLINESS TO THE LORD. 31 And they tied unto it a lace of blue, to fasten it on high upon the mitre; as the LORD commanded Moses.
32 Thus was all the work of the tabernacle of the tent of the congregation finished: and the children of Israel did according to all that the LORD commanded Moses, so did they.
33 And they brought the tabernacle unto Moses, the tent, and all his furniture, his taches, his boards, his bars, and his pillars, and his sockets, 34 And the covering of rams’ skins dyed red, and the covering of badgers’ skins, and the vail of the covering, 35 The ark of the testimony, and the staves thereof, and the mercy seat, 36 The table, and all the vessels thereof, and the shewbread, 37 The pure candlestick, with the lamps thereof, even with the lamps to be set in order, and all the vessels thereof, and the oil for light, 38 And the golden altar, and the anointing oil, and the sweet incense, and the hanging for the tabernacle door, 39 The brasen altar, and his grate of brass, his staves, and all his vessels, the laver and his foot, 40 The hangings of the court, his pillars, and his sockets, and the hanging for the court gate, his cords, and his pins, and all the vessels of the service of the tabernacle, for the tent of the congrega- tion, 41 The cloths of service to do service in the holy place, and the holy garments for Aaron the priest, and his sons’ garments, to minister in the priest’s office. 42 According to all that the LORD commanded Moses, so the children of Israel made all the work. 43 And Moses did look upon all the work, and, behold, they had done it as the LORD had commanded, even so had they done it: and Moses blessed them.
Exodus Chapter 40 1 And the LORD spake unto Moses, saying, 2 On the first day of the first month shalt thou set up the tabernacle
of the tent of the congregation. 3 And thou shalt put therein the ark of the testimony, and cover the ark with the vail. 4 And thou shalt bring in the table, and set in order the things that are to be set in order upon it; and thou shalt bring in the candlestick, and light the lamps thereof. 5 And thou shalt set the altar of gold for the incense before the ark of the testimony, and put the hanging of the door to the tabernacle. 6 And thou shalt set the altar of the burnt offering before the door of the tabernacle of the tent of the congregation. 7 And thou shalt set the laver between the
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tent of the congregation and the altar, and shalt put water therein. 8 And thou shalt set up the court round about, and hang up the hanging at the court gate. 9 And thou shalt take the anointing oil, and anoint the tabernacle, and all that is therein, and shalt hallow it, and all the vessels thereof: and it shall be holy. 10 And thou shalt anoint the altar of the burnt offering, and all his vessels, and sanctify the altar: and it shall be an altar most holy. 11 And thou shalt anoint the laver and his foot, and sanctify it. 12 And thou shalt bring Aaron and his sons unto the door of the tab- ernacle of the congregation, and wash them with water. 13 And thou shalt put upon Aaron the holy garments, and anoint him, and sanctify him; that he may minister unto me in the priest’s office. 14 And thou shalt bring his sons, and clothe them with coats: 15 And thou shalt anoint them, as thou didst anoint their father, that they may minister unto me in the priest’s office: for their anointing shall surely be an everlasting priesthood throughout their genera- tions.
16 Thus did Moses: according to all that the LORD commanded him, so did he. 17 And it came to pass in the first month in the second year, on the first day of the month, that the tabernacle
was reared up. 18 And Moses reared up the tabernacle, and fastened his sockets, and set up the boards thereof, and put in the bars thereof, and reared up his pillars. 19 And he spread abroad the tent over the tabernacle, and put the covering of the tent above upon it; as the LORD commanded Moses.
20 And he took and put the testimony into the ark, and set the staves on the ark, and put the mercy seat above upon the ark: 21 And he brought the ark into the tabernacle, and set up the vail of the covering, and covered the ark of the testimony; as the LORD commanded Moses.
22 And he put the table in the tent of the congregation, upon the side of the tabernacle northward, without the vail. 23 And he set the bread in order upon it before the LORD; as the LORD had commanded Moses.
24 And he put the candlestick in the tent of the congregation, over against the table, on the side of the tabernacle southward. 25 And he lighted the lamps before the LORD; as the LORD commanded Moses.
26 And he put the golden altar in the tent of the congregation before the vail: 27 And he burnt sweet incense thereon; as the LORD commanded Moses.
28 And he set up the hanging at the door of the tabernacle. 29 And he put the altar of burnt offering by the door of the tabernacle of the tent of the congregation, and offered upon it the burnt offering and the meat offering; as the LORD commanded Moses.
30 And he set the laver between the tent of the congregation and the altar, and put water there, to wash withal. 31 And Moses and Aaron and his sons washed their hands and their feet thereat: 32 When they went into the tent of the congregation, and when they came near unto the altar, they washed; as the LORD commanded Moses. 33 And he reared up the court round about the tabernacle and the altar, and set up the hanging of the court gate. So Moses finished the work.
34 Then a cloud covered the tent of the congregation, and the glory of the LORD filled the tabernacle. 35 And Moses was not able to enter into the tent of the congregation, because the cloud abode thereon, and the glory of the LORD filled the tabernacle. 36 And when the cloud was taken up from over the tabernacle, the children of Israel went onward in all their journeys: 37 But if the cloud were not taken up, then they journeyed not till the day that it was taken up. 38 For the cloud of the LORD was upon the tabernacle by day, and fire was on it by night, in the sight of all the house of Israel, throughout all their journeys.
American Standard Version
Genesis Chapter 1 1 In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. 2 And the earth was waste and void; and darkness was
upon the face of the deep: and the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters 3 And God said, Let there be light: and there was light. 4 And God saw the light, that it was good: and God di-
vided the light from the darkness. 5 And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night. And there was evening and there was morning, one day.
6 And God said, Let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters. 7 And God made the firmament, and divided the waters which were under the firmament from the waters which were above the firmament: and it was so. 8 And God called the firmament Heaven. And there was evening and there was morning, a second day.
9 And God said, Let the waters under the heavens be gathered together unto one place, and let the dry land appear: and it was so. 10 And God called the dry land Earth; and the gathering together of the waters called he Seas: and God saw that it was good. 11 And God said, Let the earth put forth grass, herbs yielding seed, [and] fruit-trees bearing fruit after their kind, wherein is the seed thereof, upon the earth: and it was so. 12 And the earth brought forth grass, herbs yielding seed after their kind, and trees bearing fruit, wherein is the seed thereof, after their kind:
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and God saw that it was good. 13 And there was evening and there was morning, a third day. 14 And God said, Let there be lights in the firmament of heaven to divide the day from the night; and let them
be for signs, and for seasons, and for days and years: 15 and let them be for lights in the firmament of heaven to give light upon the earth: and it was so. 16 And God made the two great lights; the greater light to rule the day, and the lesser light to rule the night: [he made] the stars also. 17 And God set them in the firmament of heaven to give light upon the earth, 18 and to rule over the day and over the night, and to divide the light from the darkness: and God saw that it was good. 19 And there was evening and there was morning, a fourth day.
20 And God said, Let the waters swarm with swarms of living creatures, and let birds fly above the earth in the open firmament of heaven. 21 And God created the great sea-monsters, and every living creature that moveth, wherewith the waters swarmed, after their kind, and every winged bird after its kind: and God saw that it was good. 22 And God blessed them, saying, Be fruitful, and multiply, and fill the waters in the seas, and let birds multiply on the earth. 23 And there was evening and there was morning, a fifth day.
24 And God said, Let the earth bring forth living creatures after their kind, cattle, and creeping things, and beasts of the earth after their kind: and it was so. 25 And God made the beasts of the earth after their kind, and the cattle after their kind, and everything that creepeth upon the ground after its kind: and God saw that it was good.
26 And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness: and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the birds of the heavens, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth. 27 And God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him; male and female created he them. 28 And God blessed them: and God said unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply, and re- plenish the earth, and subdue it; and have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the birds of the heavens, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth.
29 And God said, Behold, I have given you every herb yielding seed, which is upon the face of all the earth, and every tree, in which is the fruit of a tree yielding seed; to you it shall be for food: 30 and to every beast of the earth, and to every bird of the heavens, and to everything that creepeth upon the earth, wherein there is life, [I have given] every green herb for food: and it was so. 31 And God saw everything that he had made, and, behold, it was very good. And there was evening and there was morning, the sixth day.
Genesis Chapter 2 1 And the heavens and the earth were finished, and all the host of them. 2 And on the seventh day God finished
his work which he had made; and he rested on the seventh day from all his work which he had made. 3 And God blessed the seventh day, and hallowed it; because that in it he rested from all his work which God had created and made.
4 These are the generations of the heavens and of the earth when they were created, in the day that Jehovah God made earth and heaven. 5 And no plant of the field was yet in the earth, and no herb of the field had yet sprung up; for Jehovah God had not caused it to rain upon the earth: and there was not a man to till the ground; 6 but there went up a mist from the earth, and watered the whole face of the ground. 7 And Jehovah God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living soul.
8 And Jehovah God planted a garden eastward, in Eden; and there he put the man whom he had formed. 9 And out of the ground made Jehovah God to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight, and good for food; the tree of life also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. 10 And a river went out of Eden to water the garden; and from thence it was parted, and became four heads. 11 The name of the first is Pishon: that is it which compasseth the whole land of Havilah, where there is gold; 12 and the gold of that land is good: there is bdellium and the onyx stone. 13 And the name of the second river is Gihon: the same is it that compasseth the whole land of Cush. 14 And the name of the third river is Hiddekel: that is it which goeth in front of Assyria. And the fourth river is the Euphrates. 15 And Jehovah God took the man, and put him into the garden of Eden to dress it and to keep it.
16 And Jehovah God commanded the man, saying, Of every tree of the garden thou mayest freely eat: 17 but of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, thou shalt not eat of it: for in the day that thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die.
18 And Jehovah God said, It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him a help meet for him. 19 And out of the ground Jehovah God formed every beast of the field, and every bird of the heavens; and brought them unto the man to see what he would call them: and whatsoever the man called every living creature, that was the name thereof. 20 And the man gave names to all cattle, and to the birds of the heavens, and to every beast of the field; but for man there was not found a help meet for him.
21 And Jehovah God caused a deep sleep to fall upon the man, and he slept; and he took one of his ribs, and closed up the flesh instead thereof: 22 and the rib, which Jehovah God had taken from the man, made he a woman,
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and brought her unto the man. 23 And the man said, This is now bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh: she shall be called Woman, because she was taken out of Man. 24 Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh. 25 And they were both naked, the man and his wife, and were not ashamed.
Genesis Chapter 3 1 Now the serpent was more subtle than any beast of the field which Jehovah God had made. And he said unto
the woman, Yea, hath God said, Ye shall not eat of any tree of the garden? 2 And the woman said unto the serpent, Of the fruit of the trees of the garden we may eat: 3 but of the fruit of the tree which is in the midst of the garden, God hath said, Ye shall not eat of it, neither shall ye touch it, lest ye die. 4 And the serpent said unto the woman, Ye shall not surely die: 5 for God doth know that in the day ye eat thereof, then your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as God, knowing good and evil.
6 And when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was a delight to the eyes, and that the tree was to be desired to make one wise, she took of the fruit thereof, and did eat; and she gave also unto her hus- band with her, and he did eat. 7 And the eyes of them both were opened, and they knew that they were naked; and they sewed fig-leaves together, and made themselves aprons. 8 And they heard the voice of Jehovah God walking in the garden in the cool of the day: and the man and his wife hid themselves from the presence of Jehovah God amongst the trees of the garden.
9 And Jehovah God called unto the man, and said unto him, Where art thou? 10 And he said, I heard thy voice in the garden, and I was afraid, because I was naked; and I hid myself.
11 And he said, Who told thee that thou wast naked? Hast thou eaten of the tree, whereof I commanded thee that thou shouldest not eat? 12 And the man said, The woman whom thou gavest to be with me, she gave me of the tree, and I did eat. 13 And Jehovah God said unto the woman, What is this thou hast done? And the woman said, The serpent beguiled me, and I did eat.
14 And Jehovah God said unto the serpent, Because thou hast done this, cursed art thou above all cattle, and above every beast of the field; upon thy belly shalt thou go, and dust shalt thou eat all the days of thy life: 15 and I will put enmity between thee and the woman, and between thy seed and her seed: he shall bruise thy head, and thou shalt bruise his heel. 16 Unto the woman he said, I will greatly multiply thy pain and thy conception; in pain thou shalt bring forth children; and thy desire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee.
17 And unto Adam he said, Because thou hast hearkened unto the voice of thy wife, and hast eaten of the tree, of which I commanded thee, saying, Thou shalt not eat of it: cursed is the ground for thy sake; in toil shalt thou eat of it all the days of thy life; 18 thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee; and thou shalt eat the herb of the field; 19 in the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return. 20 And the man called his wife’s name Eve; because she was the mother of all living. 21 And Jehovah God made for Adam and for his wife coats of skins, and clothed them.
22 And Jehovah God said, Behold, the man is become as one of us, to know good and evil; and now, lest he put forth his hand, and take also of the tree of life, and eat, and live for ever- 23 therefore Jehovah God sent him forth from the garden of Eden, to till the ground from whence he was taken. 24 So he drove out the man; and he placed at the east of the garden of Eden the Cherubim, and the flame of a sword which turned every way, to keep the way of the tree of life.
Genesis Chapter 4 1 And the man knew Eve his wife; and she conceived, and bare Cain, and said, I have gotten a man with [the
help of ] Jehovah. 2 And again she bare his brother Abel. And Abel was a keeper of sheep, but Cain was a tiller of the ground.
3 And in process of time it came to pass, that Cain brought of the fruit of the ground an offering unto Jehovah. 4 And Abel, he also brought of the firstlings of his flock and of the fat thereof. And Jehovah had respect unto Abel and to his offering: 5 but unto Cain and to his offering he had not respect. And Cain was very wroth, and his coun- tenance fell.
6 And Jehovah said unto Cain, Why art thou wroth? and why is thy countenance fallen? 7 If thou doest well, shall it not be lifted up? and if thou doest not well, sin coucheth at the door: and unto thee shall be its desire, but do thou rule over it. 8 And Cain told Abel his brother. And it came to pass, when they were in the field, that Cain rose up against Abel his brother, and slew him.
9 And Jehovah said unto Cain, Where is Abel thy brother? And he said, I know not: am I my brother’s keep- er? 10 And he said, What hast thou done? the voice of thy brother’s blood crieth unto me from the ground. 11 And now cursed art thou from the ground, which hath opened its mouth to receive thy brother’s blood from thy hand;
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12 when thou tillest the ground, it shall not henceforth yield unto thee its strength; a fugitive and a wanderer shalt thou be in the earth.
13 And Cain said unto Jehovah, My punishment is greater than I can bear. 14 Behold, thou hast driven me out this day from the face of the ground; and from thy face shall I be hid; and I shall be a fugitive and a wanderer in the earth; and it will come to pass, that whosoever findeth me will slay me. 15 And Jehovah said unto him, Therefore whosoever slayeth Cain, vengeance shall be taken on him sevenfold. And Jehovah appointed a sign for Cain, lest any finding him should smite him.
16 And Cain went out from the presence of Jehovah, and dwelt in the land of Nod, on the east of Eden. 17 And Cain knew his wife; and she conceived, and bare Enoch: and he builded a city, and called the name of the city, after the name of his son, Enoch. 18 And unto Enoch was born Irad: and Irad begat Mehujael: and Mehujael begat Methushael; and Methushael begat Lamech.
19 And Lamech took unto him two wives: the name of the one was Adah, and the name of the other Zillah. 20 And Adah bare Jabal: he was the father of such as dwell in tents and [have] cattle. 21 And his brother’s name was Jubal: he was the father of all such as handle the harp and pipe. 22 And Zillah, she also bare Tubal-cain, the forger of every cutting instrument of brass and iron: and the sister of Tubal-cain was Naamah.
23 And Lamech said unto his wives: Adah and Zillah, hear my voice; Ye wives of Lamech, hearken unto my speech: For I have slain a man for wounding me, And a young man for bruising me: 24 If Cain shall be avenged sev- enfold, Truly Lamech seventy and sevenfold.
25 And Adam knew his wife again; and she bare a son, and called his name Seth. For, [said she], God hath ap- pointed me another seed instead of Abel; for Cain slew him. 26 And to Seth, to him also there was born a son; and he called his name Enosh. Then began men to call upon the name of Jehovah.
Genesis Chapter 5 1 This is the book of the generations of Adam. In the day that God created man, in the likeness of God made he
him; 2 male and female created he them, and blessed them, and called their name Adam, in the day when they were created.
3 And Adam lived a hundred and thirty years, and begat [a son] in his own likeness, after his image; and called his name Seth: 4 and the days of Adam after he begat Seth were eight hundred years: and he begat sons and daugh- ters. 5 And all the days that Adam lived were nine hundred and thirty years: and he died.
6 And Seth lived a hundred and five years, and begat Enosh: 7 and Seth lived after he begat Enosh eight hundred and seven years, and begat sons and daughters: 8 and all the days of Seth were nine hundred and twelve years: and he died.
9 And Enosh lived ninety years, and begat Kenan. 10 and Enosh lived after he begat Kenan eight hundred and fif- teen years, and begat sons and daughters: 11 and all the days of Enosh were nine hundred and five years: and he died.
12 And Kenan lived seventy years, and begat Mahalalel: 13 and Kenan lived after he begat Mahalalel eight hun- dred and forty years, and begat sons and daughters: 14 and all the days of Kenan were nine hundred and ten years: and he died.
15 And Mahalalel lived sixty and five years, and begat Jared: 16 And Mahalalel lived after he begat Jared eight hundred and thirty years, and begat sons and daughters:
17 and all the days of Mahalalel were eight hundred ninety and five years: and he died. 18 And Jared lived a hundred sixty and two years, and begat Enoch: 19 and Jared lived after he begat Enoch eight
hundred years, and begat sons and daughters: 20 And all the days of Jared were nine hundred sixty and two years: and he died.
21 And Enoch lived sixty and five years, and begat Methuselah: 22 and Enoch walked with God after he begat Methuselah three hundred years, and begat sons and daughters: 23 and all the days of Enoch were three hundred six- ty and five years: 24 and Enoch walked with God: and he was not; for God took him.
25 And Methuselah lived a hundred eighty and seven years, and begat Lamech: 26 and Methuselah lived after he begat Lamech seven hundred eighty and two years, and begat sons and daughters. 27 And all the days of Methuselah were nine hundred sixty and nine years: and he died.
28 And Lamech lived a hundred eighty and two years, and begat a son: 29 and he called his name Noah, saying, This same shall comfort us in our work and in the toil of our hands, [which cometh] because of the ground which Jehovah hath cursed. 30 And Lamech lived after he begat Noah five hundred ninety and five years, and begat sons and daughters: 31 And all the days of Lamech were seven hundred seventy and seven years: and he died. 32 And Noah was five hundred years old: And Noah begat Shem, Ham, and Japheth.
Genesis Chapter 6
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1 And it came to pass, when men began to multiply on the face of the ground, and daughters were born unto them, 2 that the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took them wives of all that they chose. 3 And Jehovah said, My spirit shall not strive with man for ever, for that he also is flesh: yet shall his days be a hundred and twenty years.
4 The Nephilim were in the earth in those days, and also after that, when the sons of God came unto the daugh- ters of men, and they bare children to them: the same were the mighty men that were of old, the men of renown.
5 And Jehovah saw that the wickedness of man was great in the earth, and that every imagination of the thoughts of his heart was only evil continually.
6 And it repented Jehovah that he had made man on the earth, and it grieved him at his heart. 7 And Jehovah said, I will destroy man whom I have created from the face of the ground; both man, and beast, and creeping things, and birds of the heavens; for it repenteth me that I have made them.
8 But Noah found favor in the eyes of Jehovah. 9 These are the generations of Noah. Noah was a righteous man, [and] perfect in his generations: Noah walked
with God. 10 And Noah begat three sons, Shem, Ham, and Japheth. 11 And the earth was corrupt before God, and the earth was filled with violence. 12 And God saw the earth, and,
behold, it was corrupt; for all flesh had corrupted their way upon the earth. 13 And God said unto Noah, The end of all flesh is come before me; for the earth is filled with violence through
them; and, behold, I will destroy them with the earth. 14 Make thee an ark of gopher wood; rooms shalt thou make in the ark, and shalt pitch it within and without
with pitch. 15 And this is how thou shalt make it: the length of the ark three hundred cubits, the breadth of it fifty cubits, and the height of it thirty cubits. 16 A light shalt thou make to the ark, and to a cubit shalt thou finish it upward; and the door of the ark shalt thou set in the side thereof; with lower, second, and third stories shalt thou make it. 17 And I, behold, I do bring the flood of waters upon this earth, to destroy all flesh, wherein is the breath of life, from under heaven; everything that is in the earth shall die. 18 But I will establish my covenant with thee; and thou shalt come into the ark, thou, and thy sons, and thy wife, and thy sons’ wives with thee. 19 And of every living thing of all flesh, two of every sort shalt thou bring into the ark, to keep them alive with thee; they shall be male and female. 20 Of the birds after their kind, and of the cattle after their kind, of every creeping thing of the ground after its kind, two of every sort shall come unto thee, to keep them alive. 21 And take thou unto thee of all food that is eaten, and gather it to thee; and it shall be for food for thee, and for them. 22 Thus did Noah; according to all that God commanded him, so did he.
Genesis Chapter 7 1 And Jehovah said unto Noah, Come thou and all thy house into the ark; for thee have I seen righteous before
me in this generation. 2 Of every clean beast thou shalt take to thee seven and seven, the male and his female; and of the beasts that are not clean two, the male and his female: 3 of the birds also of the heavens, seven and seven, male and female, to keep seed alive upon the face of all the earth. 4 For yet seven days, and I will cause it to rain upon the earth forty days and forty nights; and every living thing that I have made will I destroy from off the face of the ground.
5 And Noah did according unto all that Jehovah commanded him. 6 And Noah was six hundred years old when the flood of waters was upon the earth.
7 And Noah went in, and his sons, and his wife, and his sons’ wives with him, into the ark, because of the waters of the flood. 8 Of clean beasts, and of beasts that are not clean, and of birds, and of everything that creepeth upon the ground, 9 there went in two and two unto Noah into the ark, male and female, as God commanded Noah. 10 And it came to pass after the seven days, that the waters of the flood were upon the earth.
11 In the six hundredth year of Noah’s life, in the second month, on the seventeenth day of the month, on the same day were all the fountains of the great deep broken up, and the windows of heaven were opened. 12 And the rain was upon the earth forty days and forty nights.
13 In the selfsame day entered Noah, and Shem, and Ham, and Japheth, the sons of Noah, and Noah’s wife, and the three wives of his sons with them, into the ark; 14 they, and every beast after its kind, and all the cattle after their kind, and every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth after its kind, and every bird after its kind, every bird of every sort. 15 And they went in unto Noah into the ark, two and two of all flesh wherein is the breath of life. 16 And they that went in, went in male and female of all flesh, as God commanded him: and Jehovah shut him in.
17 And the flood was forty days upon the earth; and the waters increased, and bare up the ark, and it was lifted up above the earth. 18 And the waters prevailed, and increased greatly upon the earth; and the ark went upon the face of the waters. 19 And the waters prevailed exceedingly upon the earth; and all the high mountains that were under the whole heaven were covered. 20 Fifteen cubits upward did the waters prevail; and the mountains were
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covered. 21 And all flesh died that moved upon the earth, both birds, and cattle, and beasts, and every creeping thing that
creepeth upon the earth, and every man: 22 all in whose nostrils was the breath of the spirit of life, of all that was on the dry land, died. 23 And every living thing was destroyed that was upon the face of the ground, both man, and cat- tle, and creeping things, and birds of the heavens; and they were destroyed from the earth: and Noah only was left, and they that were with him in the ark. 24 And the waters prevailed upon the earth a hundred and fifty days.
Genesis Chapter 8 1 And God remembered Noah, and all the beasts, and all the cattle that were with him in the ark: and God
made a wind to pass over the earth, and the waters assuaged; 2 the fountains also of the deep and the windows of heaven were stopped, and the rain from heaven was restrained; 3 and the waters returned from off the earth contin- ually: and after the end of a hundred and fifty days the waters decreased.
4 And the ark rested in the seventh month, on the seventeenth day of the month, upon the mountains of Ararat. 5 And the waters decreased continually until the tenth month: in the tenth month, on the first day of the month, were the tops of the mountains seen.
6 And it came to pass at the end of forty days, that Noah opened the window of the ark which he had made: 7 and he sent forth a raven, and it went forth to and fro, until the waters were dried up from off the earth. 8 And he sent forth a dove from him, to see if the waters were abated from off the face of the ground; 9 but the dove found no rest for the sole of her foot, and she returned unto him to the ark; for the waters were on the face of the whole earth: and he put forth his hand, and took her, and brought her in unto him into the ark. 10 And he stayed yet other seven days; and again he sent forth the dove out of the ark; 11 and the dove came in to him at eventide; and, lo, in her mouth an olive-leaf plucked off: so Noah knew that the waters were abated from off the earth. 12 And he stayed yet other seven days, and sent forth the dove; and she returned not again unto him any more.
13 And it came to pass in the six hundred and first year, in the first month, the first day of the month, the waters were dried up from off the earth: and Noah removed the covering of the ark, and looked, and, behold, the face of the ground was dried. 14 And in the second month, on the seven and twentieth day of the month, was the earth dry.
15 And God spake unto Noah, saying, 16 Go forth from the ark, thou, and thy wife, and thy sons, and thy sons’ wives with thee. 17 Bring forth with thee every living thing that is with thee of all flesh, both birds, and cattle, and every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth; that they may breed abundantly in the earth, and be fruitful, and multiply upon the earth. 18 And Noah went forth, and his sons, and his wife, and his sons’ wives with him: 19 every beast, every creeping thing, and every bird, whatsoever moveth upon the earth, after their families, went forth out of the ark.
20 And Noah builded an altar unto Jehovah, and took of every clean beast, and of every clean bird, and offered burnt-offerings on the altar. 21 And Jehovah smelled the sweet savor; and Jehovah said in his heart, I will not again curse the ground any more for man’s sake, for that the imagination of man’s heart is evil from his youth; neither will I again smite any more everything living, as I have done. 22 While the earth remaineth, seedtime and harvest, and cold and heat, and summer and winter, and day and night shall not cease.
Genesis Chapter 9 1 And God blessed Noah and his sons, and said unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth.
2 And the fear of you and the dread of you shall be upon every beast of the earth, and upon every bird of the heav- ens; With all wherewith the ground teemeth, and all the fishes of the sea, into your hand are they delivered. 3 Every moving thing that liveth shall be food for you; As the green herb have I given you all. 4 But flesh with the life there- of, [which is] the blood thereof, shall ye not eat. 5 And surely your blood, [the blood] of your lives, will I require; At the hand of every beast will I require it. And at the hand of man, even at the hand of every man’s brother, will I require the life of man. 6 Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed: For in the image of God made he man. 7 And you, be ye fruitful, and multiply; Bring forth abundantly in the earth, and multiply therein.
8 And God spake unto Noah, and to his sons with him, saying, 9 And I, behold, I establish my covenant with you, and with your seed after you; 10 and with every living creature that is with you, the birds, the cattle, and every beast of the earth with you. Of all that go out of the ark, even every beast of the earth. 11 And I will establish my covenant with you; neither shall all flesh be cut off any more by the waters of the flood; neither shall there any more be a flood to destroy the earth.
12 And God said, This is the token of the covenant which I make between me and you and every living creature that is with you, for perpetual generations: 13 I do set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a token of a covenant between me and the earth. 14 And it shall come to pass, when I bring a cloud over the earth, that the bow shall be seen in the cloud, 15 and I will remember my covenant, which is between me and you and every living creature of
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all flesh; and the waters shall no more become a flood to destroy all flesh. 16 And the bow shall be in the cloud; and I will look upon it, that I may remember the everlasting covenant between God and every living creature of all flesh that is upon the earth. 17 And God said unto Noah, This is the token of the covenant which I have established between me and all flesh that is upon the earth.
Exodus Chapter 1 1 Now these are the names of the sons of Israel, who came into Egypt (every man and his household came with
Jacob): 2 Reuben, Simeon, Levi, and Judah, 3 Issachar, Zebulun, and Benjamin, 4 Dan and Naphtali, Gad and Asher. 5 And all the souls that came out of the loins of Jacob were seventy souls: and Joseph was in Egypt already. 6 And Joseph died, and all his brethren, and all that generation.
7 And the children of Israel were fruitful, and increased abundantly, and multiplied, and waxed exceeding mighty; and the land was filled with them.
8 Now there arose a new king over Egypt, who knew not Joseph. 9 And he said unto his people, Behold, the people of the children of Israel are more and mightier than we: 10 come, let us deal wisely with them, lest they mul- tiply, and it come to pass, that, when there falleth out any war, they also join themselves unto our enemies, and fight against us, and get them up out of the land. 11 Therefore they did set over them taskmasters to afflict them with their burdens. And they built for Pharaoh store-cities, Pithom and Raamses. 12 But the more they afflicted them, the more they multiplied and the more they spread abroad. And they were grieved because of the children of Israel. 13 And the Egyptians made the children of Israel to serve with rigor: 14 and they made their lives bitter with hard service, in mortar and in brick, and in all manner of service in the field, all their service, wherein they made them serve with rigor.
15 And the king of Egypt spake to the Hebrew midwives, of whom the name of the one was Shiphrah, and the name of the other Puah: 16 and he said, When ye do the office of a midwife to the Hebrew women, and see them upon the birth-stool; if it be a son, then ye shall kill him; but if it be a daughter, then she shall live. 17 But the mid- wives feared God, and did not as the king of Egypt commanded them, but saved the men-children alive. 18 And the king of Egypt called for the midwives, and said unto them, Why have ye done this thing, and have saved the men-children alive? 19 And the midwives said unto Pharaoh, Because the Hebrew women are not as the Egyptian women; for they are lively, and are delivered ere the midwife come unto them. 20 And God dealt well with the mid- wives: and the people multiplied, and waxed very mighty. 21 And it came to pass, because the midwives feared God, that he made them households. 22 And Pharaoh charged all his people, saying, Every son that is born ye shall cast into the river, and every daughter ye shall save alive.
Exodus Chapter 2 1 And there went a man of the house of Levi, and took to wife a daughter of Levi. 2 And the woman conceived,
and bare a son: and when she saw him that he was a goodly child, she hid him three months. 3 And when she could not longer hide him, she took for him an ark of bulrushes, and daubed it with slime and with pitch; and she put the child therein, and laid it in the flags by the river’s brink. 4 And his sister stood afar off, to know what would be done to him.
5 And the daughter of Pharaoh came down to bathe at the river; and her maidens walked along by the riv- er-side; and she saw the ark among the flags, and sent her handmaid to fetch it. 6 And she opened it, and saw the child: and, behold, the babe wept. And she had compassion on him, and said, This is one of the Hebrews’ children. 7 Then said his sister to Pharaoh’s daughter, Shall I go and call thee a nurse of the Hebrew women, that she may nurse the child for thee? 8 And Pharaoh’s daughter said to her, Go. And the maiden went and called the child’s mother. 9 And Pharaoh’s daughter said unto her, Take this child away, and nurse it for me, and I will give thee thy wages. And the woman took the child, and nursed it. 10 And the child grew, and she brought him unto Pharaoh’s daughter, and he became her son. And she called his name Moses, and said, Because I drew him out of the water.
11 And it came to pass in those days, when Moses was grown up, that he went out unto his brethren, and looked on their burdens: and he saw an Egyptian smiting a Hebrew, one of his brethren. 12 And he looked this way and that way, and when he saw that there was no man, he smote the Egyptian, and hid him in the sand. 13 And he went out the second day, and, behold, two men of the Hebrews were striving together: and he said to him that did the wrong, Wherefore smitest thou thy fellow? 14 And he said, Who made thee a prince and a judge over us? Thinkest thou to kill me, as thou killedst the Egyptian? And Moses feared, and said, Surely the thing is known. 15 Now when Pharaoh heard this thing, he sought to slay Moses. But Moses fled from the face of Pharaoh, and dwelt in the land of Midian: and he sat down by a well.
16 Now the priest of Midian had seven daughters: and they came and drew water, and filled the troughs to water their father’s flock. 17 And the shepherds came and drove them away; but Moses stood up and helped them, and
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watered their flock. 18 And when they came to Reuel their father, he said, How is it that ye are come so soon to- day? 19 And they said, An Egyptian delivered us out of the hand of the shepherds, and moreover he drew water for us, and watered the flock. 20 And he said unto his daughters, And where is he? Why is it that ye have left the man? Call him, that he may eat bread. 21 And Moses was content to dwell with the man: and he gave Moses Zipporah his daughter. 22 And she bare a son, and he called his name Gershom; for he said, I have been a sojourner in a foreign land.
23 And it came to pass in the course of those many days, that the king of Egypt died: and the children of Israel sighed by reason of the bondage, and they cried, and their cry came up unto God by reason of the bondage. 24 And God heard their groaning, and God remembered his covenant with Abraham, with Isaac, and with Jacob. 25 And God saw the children of Israel, and God took knowledge [of them].
Exodus Chapter 3 1 Now Moses was keeping the flock of Jethro his father-in-law, the priest of Midian: and he led the flock to the
back of the wilderness, and came to the mountain of God, unto Horeb. 2 And the angel of Jehovah appeared unto him in a flame of fire out of the midst of a bush: and he looked, and, behold, the bush burned with fire, and the bush was not consumed. 3 And Moses said, I will turn aside now, and see this great sight, why the bush is not burnt. 4 And when Jehovah saw that he turned aside to see, God called unto him out of the midst of the bush, and said, Moses, Moses. And he said, Here am I. 5 And he said, Draw not nigh hither: put off thy shoes from off thy feet, for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground. 6 Moreover he said, I am the God of thy father, the God of Abra- ham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob. And Moses hid his face; for he was afraid to look upon God.
7 And Jehovah said, I have surely seen the affliction of my people that are in Egypt, and have heard their cry by reason of their taskmasters; for I know their sorrows; 8 and I am come down to deliver them out of the hand of the Egyptians, and to bring them up out of that land unto a good land and a large, unto a land flowing with milk and honey; unto the place of the Canaanite, and the Hittite, and the Amorite, and the Perizzite, and the Hivite, and the Jebusite. 9 And now, behold, the cry of the children of Israel is come unto me: moreover I have seen the oppression wherewith the Egyptians oppress them. 10 Come now therefore, and I will send thee unto Pharaoh, that thou mayest bring forth my people the children of Israel out of Egypt.
11 And Moses said unto God, Who am I, that I should go unto Pharaoh, and that I should bring forth the children of Israel out of Egypt? 12 And he said, Certainly I will be with thee; and this shall be the token unto thee, that I have sent thee: when thou hast brought forth the people out of Egypt, ye shall serve God upon this mountain. 13 And Moses said unto God, Behold, when I come unto the children of Israel, and shall say unto them, The God of your fathers hath sent me unto you; and they shall say to me, What is his name? What shall I say unto them? 14 And God said unto Moses, I AM THAT I AM: and he said, Thus shalt thou say unto the children of Israel, I AM hath sent me unto you. 15 And God said moreover unto Moses, Thus shalt thou say unto the children of Israel, Jehovah, the God of your fathers, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob, hath sent me unto you: this is my name forever, and this is my memorial unto all generations.
16 Go, and gather the elders of Israel together, and say unto them, Jehovah, the God of your fathers, the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob, hath appeared unto me, saying, I have surely visited you, and [seen] that which is done to you in Egypt: 17 and I have said, I will bring you up out of the affliction of Egypt unto the land of the Canaanite, and the Hittite, and the Amorite, and the Perizzite, and the Hivite, and the Jebusite, unto a land flowing with milk and honey. 18 And they shall hearken to thy voice: and thou shalt come, thou and the elders of Israel, unto the king of Egypt, and ye shall say unto him, Jehovah, the God of the Hebrews, hath met with us: and now let us go, we pray thee, three days’ journey into the wilderness, that we may sacrifice to Jehovah our God.
19 And I know that the king of Egypt will not give you leave to go, no, not by a mighty hand. 20 And I will put forth my hand, and smite Egypt with all my wonders which I will do in the midst thereof: and after that he will let you go. 21 And I will give this people favor in the sight of the Egyptians: and it shall come to pass, that, when ye go, ye shall not go empty. 22 But every woman shall ask of her neighbor, and of her that sojourneth in her house, jewels of silver, and jewels of gold, and raiment: and ye shall put them upon your sons, and upon your daughters; and ye shall despoil the Egyptians.
Exodus Chapter 4 1 And Moses answered and said, But, behold, they will not believe me, nor hearken unto my voice; for they will
say, Jehovah hath not appeared unto thee. 2 And Jehovah said unto him, What is that in thy hand? And he said, A rod. 3 And he said, Cast in on the ground. And he cast it on the ground, and it became a serpent; and Moses fled from before it. 4 And Jehovah said unto Moses, Put forth thy hand, and take it by the tail: (and he put forth his hand, and laid hold of it, and it became a rod in his hand:) 5 That they may believe that Jehovah, the God of their
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fathers, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob, hath appeared unto thee. 6 And Jehovah said furthermore unto him, Put now thy hand into thy bosom. And he put his hand into his
bosom: and when he took it out, behold, his hand was leprous, as [white as] snow. 7 And he said, Put thy hand into thy bosom again. (And he put his hand into his bosom again; and when he took it out of his bosom, behold, it was turned again as his [other] flesh.) 8 And it shall come to pass, if they will not believe thee, neither hearken to the voice of the first sign, that they will believe the voice of the latter sign. 9 And it shall come to pass, if they will not believe even these two signs, neither hearken unto thy voice, that thou shalt take of the water of the river, and pour it upon the dry land: and the water which thou takest out of the river shall become blood upon the dry land.
10 And Moses said unto Jehovah, Oh, Lord, I am not eloquent, neither heretofore, nor since thou hast spoken unto thy servant; for I am slow of speech, and of a slow tongue. 11 And Jehovah said unto him, Who hath made man’s mouth? Or who maketh [a man] dumb, or deaf, or seeing, or blind? Is it not I, Jehovah? 12 Now therefore go, and I will be with thy mouth, and teach thee what thou shalt speak. 13 And he said, Oh, Lord, send, I pray thee, by the hand of him whom thou wilt send. 14 And the anger of Jehovah was kindled against Moses, and he said, Is there not Aaron thy brother the Levite? I know that he can speak well. And also, behold, he cometh forth to meet thee: and when he seeth thee, he will be glad in his heart. 15 And thou shalt speak unto him, and put the words in his mouth: and I will be with thy mouth, and with his mouth, and will teach you what ye shall do. 16 And he shall be thy spokesman unto the people; and it shall come to pass, that he shall be to thee a mouth, and thou shalt be to him as God. 17 And thou shalt take in thy hand this rod, wherewith thou shalt do the signs.
18 And Moses went and returned to Jethro his father-in-law, and said unto him, Let me go, I pray thee, and return unto my brethren that are in Egypt, and see whether they be yet alive. And Jethro said to Moses, Go in peace. 19 And Jehovah said unto Moses in Midian, Go, return into Egypt; for all the men are dead that sought thy life. 20 And Moses took his wife and his sons, and set them upon an ass, and he returned to the land of Egypt: and Moses took the rod of God in his hand. 21 And Jehovah said unto Moses, When thou goest back into Egypt, see that thou do before Pharaoh all the wonders which I have put in thy hand: but I will harden his heart and he will not let the people go. 22 And thou shalt say unto Pharaoh, Thus saith Jehovah, Israel is my son, my first-born: 23 and I have said unto thee, Let my son go, that he may serve me; and thou hast refused to let him go: behold, I will slay thy son, thy first-born.
24 And it came to pass on the way at the lodging-place, that Jehovah met him, and sought to kill him. 25 Then Zipporah took a flint, and cut off the foreskin of her son, and cast it at his feet; and she said, Surely a bridegroom of blood art thou to me. 26 So he let him alone. Then she said, A bridegroom of blood [art thou], because of the circumcision.
27 And Jehovah said to Aaron, Go into the wilderness to meet Moses. And he went, and met him in the moun- tain of God, and kissed him. 28 And Moses told Aaron all the words of Jehovah wherewith he had sent him, and all the signs wherewith he had charged him.
29 And Moses and Aaron went and gathered together all the elders of the children of Israel: 30 and Aaron spake all the words which Jehovah had spoken unto Moses, and did the signs in the sight of the people. 31 And the people believed: and when they heard that Jehovah had visited the children of Israel, and that he had seen their affliction, then they bowed their heads and worshipped.
Exodus Chapter 5 1 And afterward Moses and Aaron came, and said unto Pharaoh, Thus saith Jehovah, the God of Israel, Let my
people go, that they may hold a feast unto me in the wilderness. 2 And Pharaoh said, Who is Jehovah, that I should hearken unto his voice to let Israel go? I know not Jehovah, and moreover I will not let Israel go.
3 And they said, The God of the Hebrews hath met with us: let us go, we pray thee, three days’ journey into the wilderness, and sacrifice unto Jehovah our God, lest he fall upon us with pestilence, or with the sword. 4 And the king of Egypt said unto them, Wherefore do ye, Moses and Aaron, loose the people from their works? get you unto your burdens. 5 And Pharaoh said, Behold, the people of the land are now many, and ye make them rest from their burdens. 6 And the same day Pharaoh commanded the taskmasters of the people, and their officers, saying, 7 Ye shall no more give the people straw to make brick, as heretofore: let them go and gather straw for themselves. 8 And the number of the bricks, which they did make heretofore, ye shall lay upon them; ye shall not diminish aught thereof: for they are idle; therefore they cry, saying, Let us go and sacrifice to our God. 9 Let heavier work be laid upon the men, that they may labor therein; and let them not regard lying words.
10 And the taskmasters of the people went out, and their officers, and they spake to the people, saying, Thus saith Pharaoh, I will not give you straw. 11 Go yourselves, get you straw where ye can find it: for nought of your work shall be diminished. 12 So the people were scattered abroad throughout all the land of Egypt to gather stubble for straw. 13 And the taskmasters were urgent saying, Fulfil your works, [your] daily tasks, as when there was straw.
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14 And the officers of the children of Israel, whom Pharaoh’s taskmasters had set over them, were beaten, and de- manded, Wherefore have ye not fulfilled your task both yesterday and to-day, in making brick as heretofore?
15 Then the officers of the children of Israel came and cried unto Pharaoh, saying, Wherefore dealest thou thus with thy servants? 16 There is no straw given unto thy servants, and they say to us, Make brick: and, behold, thy servants are beaten; but the fault it in thine own people. 17 But he said, Ye are idle, ye are idle: therefore ye say, Let us go and sacrifice to Jehovah. 18 Go therefore now, and work; for there shall no straw be given you, yet shall ye deliver the number of bricks. 19 And the officers of the children of Israel did see that they were in evil case, when it was said, Ye shall not diminish aught from your bricks, [your] daily tasks.
20 And they met Moses and Aaron, who stood in the way, as they came forth from Pharaoh: 21 and they said unto them, Jehovah look upon you, and judge: because ye have made our savor to be abhorred in the eyes of Pha- raoh, and in the eyes of his servants, to put a sword in their hand to slay us. 22 And Moses returned unto Jehovah, and said, Lord, wherefore hast thou dealt ill with this people? why is it that thou hast sent me? 23 For since I came to Pharaoh to speak in thy name, he hath dealt ill with this people; neither hast thou delivered thy people at all.
Exodus Chapter 6 1 And Jehovah said unto Moses, Now shalt thou see what I will do to Pharaoh: for by a strong hand shall he
let them go, and by a strong hand shall he drive them out of his land. 2 And God spake unto Moses, and said unto him, I am Jehovah: 3 and I appeared unto Abraham, unto Isaac, and unto Jacob, as God Almighty; but by my name Jehovah I was not known to them. 4 And I have also established my covenant with them, to give them the land of Canaan, the land of their sojournings, wherein they sojourned. 5 And moreover I have heard the groaning of the children of Israel, whom the Egyptians keep in bondage; and I have remembered my covenant. 6 Wherefore say unto the children of Israel, I am Jehovah, and I will bring you out from under the burdens of the Egyptians, and I will rid you out of their bondage, and I will redeem you with an outstretched arm, and with great judgments: 7 and I will take you to me for a people, and I will be to you a God; and ye shall know that I am Jehovah your God, who bringeth you out from under the burdens of the Egyptians. 8 And I will bring you in unto the land which I sware to give to Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob; and I will give it you for a heritage: I am Jehovah.
9 And Moses spake so unto the children of Israel: but they hearkened not unto Moses for anguish of spirit, and for cruel bondage.
10 And Jehovah spake unto Moses, saying, 11 Go in, speak unto Pharaoh king of Egypt, that he let the children of Israel go out of his land. 12 And Moses spake before Jehovah, saying, Behold, the children of Israel have not hear- kened unto me; how then shall Pharaoh hear me, who am of uncircumcised lips? 13 And Jehovah spake unto Moses and unto Aaron, and gave them a charge unto the children of Israel, and unto Pharaoh king of Egypt, to bring the children of Israel out of the land of Egypt.
14 These are the heads of their fathers’ houses. The sons of Reuben the first-born of Israel: Hanoch, and Pallu, Hezron, and Carmi; these are the families of Reuben. 15 And the sons of Simeon: Jemuel, and Jamin, and Ohad, and Jachin, and Zohar, and Shaul the son of a Canaanitish woman; these are the families of Simeon.
16 And these are the names of the sons of Levi according to their generations: Gershon, and Kohath, and Merari; and the years of the life of Levi were a hundred thirty and seven years. 17 The sons of Gershon: Libni and Shimei, according to their families. 18 And the sons of Kohath: Amram, and Izhar, and Hebron, and Uzziel; and the years of the life of Kohath were a hundred thirty and three years. 19 And the sons of Merari: Mahli and Mushi. These are the families of the Levites according to their generations. 20 And Amram took him Jochebed his father’s sister to wife; and she bare him Aaron and Moses: and the years of the life of Amram were a hundred and thirty and seven years.
21 And the sons of Izhar: Korah, and Nepheg, and Zichri. 22 And the sons of Uzziel: Mishael, and Elzaphan, and Sithri. 23 And Aaron took him Elisheba, the daughter of Amminadab, the sister of Nahshon, to wife; and she bare him Nadab and Abihu, Eleazar and Ithamar. 24 And the sons of Korah: Assir, and Elkanah, and Abiasaph; these are the families of the Korahites. 25 And Eleazar Aaron’s son took him one of the daughters of Putiel to wife; and she bare him Phinehas. These are the heads of the fathers’ [houses] of the Levites according to their families. 26 These are that Aaron and Moses, to whom Jehovah said, Bring out the children of Israel from the land of Egypt according to their hosts. 27 These are they that spake to Pharaoh king of Egypt, to bring out the children of Israel from Egypt: these are that Moses and Aaron.
28 And it came to pass on the day when Jehovah spake unto Moses in the land of Egypt, 29 that Jehovah spake unto Moses, saying, I am Jehovah: speak thou unto Pharaoh king of Egypt all that I speak unto thee. 30 And Moses said before Jehovah, Behold, I am of uncircumcised lips, and how shall Pharaoh hearken unto me?
Exodus Chapter 7 1 And Jehovah said unto Moses, See, I have made thee as God to Pharaoh; and Aaron thy brother shall be thy
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prophet. 2 Thou shalt speak all that I command thee; and Aaron thy brother shall speak unto Pharaoh, that he let the children of Israel go out of his land. 3 And I will harden Pharaoh’s heart, and multiply my signs and my wonders in the land of Egypt. 4 But Pharaoh will not hearken unto you, and I will lay my hand upon Egypt, and bring forth my hosts, my people the children of Israel, out of the land of Egypt by great judgments. 5 And the Egyptians shall know that I am Jehovah, when I stretch forth my hand upon Egypt, and bring out the children of Israel from among them. 6 And Moses and Aaron did so; as Jehovah commanded them, so did they. 7 And Moses was fourscore years old, and Aaron fourscore and three years old, when they spake unto Pharaoh.
8 And Jehovah spake unto Moses and unto Aaron, saying, 9 When Pharaoh shall speak unto you, saying, Show a wonder for you; then thou shalt say unto Aaron, Take thy rod, and cast it down before Pharaoh, that it become a serpent.
10 And Moses and Aaron went in unto Pharaoh, and they did so, as Jehovah had commanded: and Aaron cast down his rod before Pharaoh and before his servants, and it became a serpent. 11 Then Pharaoh also called for the wise men and the sorcerers: and they also, the magicians of Egypt, did in like manner with their enchantments. 12 For they cast down every man his rod, and they became serpents: but Aaron’s rod swallowed up their rods. 13 And Pharaoh’s heart was hardened, and he hearkened not unto them; as Jehovah had spoken.
14 And Jehovah said unto Moses, Pharaoh’s heart is stubborn, he refuseth to let the people go. 15 Get thee unto Pharaoh in the morning; lo, he goeth out unto the water; and thou shalt stand by the river’s brink to meet him; and the rod which was turned to a serpent shalt thou take in thy hand. 16 And thou shalt say unto him, Jehovah, the God of the Hebrews, hath sent me unto thee, saying, Let my people go, that they may serve me in the wilderness: and, behold, hitherto thou hast not hearkened. 17 Thus saith Jehovah, In this thou shalt know that I am Jehovah: behold, I will smite with the rod that is in my hand upon the waters which are in the river, and they shall be turned to blood. 18 And the fish that are in the river shall die, and the river shall become foul; and the Egyptians shall loathe to drink water from the river.
19 And Jehovah said unto Moses, Say unto Aaron, Take thy rod, and stretch out thy hand over the waters of Egypt, over their rivers, over their streams, and over their pools, and over all their ponds of water, that they may become blood; and there shall be blood throughout all the land of Egypt, both in vessels of wood and in vessels of stone. 20 And Moses and Aaron did so, as Jehovah commanded; and he lifted up the rod, and smote the waters that were in the river, in the sight of Pharaoh, and in the sight of his servants; and all the waters that were in the river were turned to blood. 21 And the fish that were in the river died; and the river became foul, and the Egyptians could not drink water from the river; and the blood was throughout all the land of Egypt. 22 And the magicians of Egypt did in like manner with their enchantments: and Pharaoh’s heart was hardened, and he hearkened not unto them; as Jehovah had spoken. 23 And Pharaoh turned and went into his house, neither did he lay even this to heart. 24 And all the Egyptians digged round about the river for water to drink; for they could not drink of the water of the river. 25 And seven days were fulfilled, after that Jehovah had smitten the river.
Exodus Chapter 8 1 And Jehovah spake unto Moses, Go in unto Pharaoh, and say unto him, Thus saith Jehovah, Let my people go,
that they may serve me. 2 And if thou refuse to let them go, behold, I will smite all thy borders with frogs: 3 and the river shall swarm with frogs, which shall go up and come into thy house, and into thy bedchamber, and upon thy bed, and into the house of thy servants, and upon thy people, and into thine ovens, and into thy kneading-troughs: 4 and the frogs shall come up both upon thee, and upon thy people, and upon all thy servants.
5 And Jehovah said unto Moses, Say unto Aaron, Stretch forth thy hand with thy rod over the rivers, over the streams, and over the pools, and cause frogs to come up upon the land of Egypt. 6 And Aaron stretched out his hand over the waters of Egypt; and the frogs came up, and covered the land of Egypt. 7 And the magicians did in like manner with their enchantments, and brought up frogs upon the land of Egypt.
8 Then Pharaoh called for Moses and Aaron, and said, Entreat Jehovah, that he take away the frogs from me, and from my people; and I will let the people go, that they may sacrifice unto Jehovah. 9 And Moses said unto Pharaoh, Have thou this glory over me: against what time shall I entreat for thee, and for thy servants, and for thy people, that the frogs be destroyed from thee and thy houses, and remain in the river only? 10 And he said, Against to-morrow. And he said, Be it according to thy word; that thou mayest know that there is none like unto Jehovah our God. 11 And the frogs shall depart from thee, and from thy houses, and from thy servants, and from thy people; they shall remain in the river only. 12 And Moses and Aaron went out from Pharaoh: and Moses cried unto Jehovah concerning the frogs which he had brought upon Pharaoh. 13 And Jehovah did according to the word of Moses; and the frogs died out of the houses, out of the courts, and out of the fields. 14 And they gathered them together in heaps; and the land stank. 15 But when Pharaoh saw that there was respite, he hardened his heart, and hearkened not unto them, as Jehovah had spoken.
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16 And Jehovah said unto Moses, Say unto Aaron, Stretch out thy rod, and smite the dust of the earth, that is may become lice throughout all the land of Egypt. 17 And they did so; and Aaron stretched out his hand with his rod, and smote the dust of the earth, and there were lice upon man, and upon beast; all the dust of the earth became lice throughout all the land of Egypt. 18 And the magicians did so with their enchantments to bring forth lice, but they could not: and there were lice upon man, and upon beast. 19 Then the magicians said unto Pharaoh, This is the finger of God: and Pharaoh’s heart was hardened, and he hearkened not unto them; as Jehovah had spoken.
20 And Jehovah said unto Moses, Rise up early in the morning, and stand before Pharaoh; lo, he cometh forth to the water; and say unto him, Thus saith Jehovah, Let my people go, that they may serve me. 21 Else, if thou wilt not let my people go, behold, I will send swarms of flies upon thee, and upon they servants, and upon thy people, and into thy houses: and the houses of the Egyptians shall be full of swarms of flies, and also the ground whereon they are. 22 And I will set apart in that day the land of Goshen, in which my people dwell, that no swarms of flies shall be there; to the end thou mayest know that I am Jehovah in the midst of the earth. 23 And I will put a division between my people and thy people: by to-morrow shall this sign be. 24 And Jehovah did so; and there came grievous swarms of flies into the house of Pharaoh, and into his servants’ houses: and in all the land of Egypt the land was corrupted by reason of the swarms of flies.
25 And Pharaoh called for Moses and for Aaron, and said, Go ye, sacrifice to your God in the land. 26 And Moses said, It is not meet so to do; for we shall sacrifice the abomination of the Egyptians to Jehovah our God: lo, shall we sacrifice the abomination of the Egyptians before their eyes, and will they not stone us? 27 We will go three days’ journey into the wilderness, and sacrifice to Jehovah our God, as he shall command us. 28 And Pharaoh said, I will let you go, that ye may sacrifice to Jehovah your God in the wilderness; only ye shall not go very far away: entreat for me. 29 And Moses said, Behold, I go out from thee, and I will entreat Jehovah that the swarms of flies may depart from Pharaoh, from his servants, and from his people, to-morrow: only let not Pharaoh deal deceitfully any more in not letting the people go to sacrifice to Jehovah. 30 And Moses went out from Pharaoh, and entreated Jehovah. 31 And Jehovah did according to the word of Moses; and he removed the swarms of flies from Pharaoh, from his servants, and from his people; there remained not one. 32 And Pharaoh hardened his heart this time also, and he did not let the people go.
Exodus Chapter 9 1 Then Jehovah said unto Moses, Go in unto Pharaoh, and tell him, Thus saith Jehovah, the God of the Hebrews,
Let my people go, that they may serve me. 2 For if thou refuse to let them go, and wilt hold them still, 3 behold, the hand of Jehovah is upon thy cattle which are in the field, upon the horses, upon the asses, upon the camels, upon the herds, and upon the flocks: [there shall be] a very grievous murrain. 4 And Jehovah shall make a distinction between the cattle of Israel and the cattle of Egypt; and there shall nothing die of all that belongeth to the children of Israel. 5 And Jehovah appointed a set time, saying, To-morrow Jehovah shall do this thing in the land. 6 And Jeho- vah did that thing on the morrow; and all the cattle of Egypt died; but of the cattle of the children of Israel died not one. 7 And Pharaoh sent, and, behold, there was not so much as one of the cattle of the Israelites dead. But the heart of Pharaoh was stubborn, and he did not let the people go.
8 And Jehovah said unto Moses and unto Aaron, Take to you handfuls of ashes of the furnace, and let Moses sprinkle it toward heaven in the sight of Pharaoh. 9 And it shall become small dust over all the land of Egypt, and shall be a boil breaking forth with blains upon man and upon beast, throughout all the land of Egypt. 10 And they took ashes of the furnace, and stood before Pharaoh; and Moses sprinkled it up toward heaven; and it became a boil breaking forth with blains upon man and upon beast. 11 And the magicians could not stand before Moses because of the boils; for the boils were upon the magicians, and upon all the Egyptians. 12 And Jehovah hardened the heart of Pharaoh, and he hearkened not unto them, as Jehovah had spoken unto Moses.
13 And Jehovah said unto Moses, Rise up early in the morning, and stand before Pharaoh, and say unto him, Thus saith Jehovah, the God of the Hebrews, Let my people go, that they may serve me. 14 For I will this time send all my plagues upon thy heart, and upon thy servants, and upon thy people; that thou mayest know that there is none like me in all the earth. 15 For now I had put forth my hand, and smitten thee and thy people with pestilence, and thou hadst been cut off from the earth: 16 but in very deed for this cause have I made thee to stand, to show thee my power, and that my name may be declared throughout all the earth. 17 As yet exaltest thou thyself against my people, that thou wilt not let them go? 18 Behold, to-morrow about this time I will cause it to rain a very grievous hail, such as hath not been in Egypt since the day it was founded even until now. 19 Now therefore send, hasten in thy cattle and all that thou hast in the field; [for] every man and beast that shall be found in the field, and shall not be brought home, the hail shall come down upon them, and they shall die. 20 He that feared the word of Jehovah among the servants of Pharaoh made his servants and his cattle flee into the houses. 21 And he that regarded not the word of Jehovah left his servants and his cattle in the field.
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22 And Jehovah said unto Moses, Stretch forth thy hand toward heaven, that there may be hail in all the land of Egypt, upon man, and upon beast, and upon every herb of the field, throughout the land of Egypt. 23 And Moses stretched forth his rod toward heaven: and Jehovah sent thunder and hail, and fire ran down unto the earth; and Jehovah rained hail upon the land of Egypt. 24 So there was hail, and fire mingled with the hail, very grievous, such as had not been in all the land of Egypt since it became a nation. 25 And the hail smote throughout all the land of Egypt all that was in the field, both man and beast; and the hail smote every herb of the field, and brake every tree of the field. 26 Only in the land of Goshen, where the children of Israel were, was there no hail.
27 And Pharaoh sent, and called for Moses and Aaron, and said unto them, I have sinned this time: Jehovah is righteous, and I and my people are wicked. 28 Entreat Jehovah; for there hath been enough of [these] mighty thun- derings and hail; and I will let you go, and ye shall stay no longer. 29 And Moses said unto him, As soon as I am gone out of the city, I will spread abroad my hands unto Jehovah; the thunders shall cease, neither shall there be any more hail; that thou mayest know that the earth is Jehovah’s. 30 But as for thee and thy servants, I know that ye will not yet fear Jehovah God. 31 And the flax and the barley were smitten: for the barley was in the ear, and the flax was in bloom. 32 But the wheat and the spelt were not smitten: for they were not grown up. 33 And Moses went out of the city from Pharaoh, and spread abroad his hands unto Jehovah: and the thunders and hail ceased, and the rain was not poured upon the earth. 34 And when Pharaoh saw that the rain and the hail and the thunders were ceased, he sinned yet more, and hardened his heart, he and his servants. 35 And the heart of Pharaoh was hardened, and he did not let the children of Israel go, as Jehovah had spoken by Moses.
Exodus Chapter 10 1 And Jehovah said unto Moses, Go in unto Pharaoh: for I have hardened his heart, and the heart of his ser-
vants, that I may show these my signs in the midst of them, 2 and that thou mayest tell in the ears of thy son, and of thy son’s son, what things I have wrought upon Egypt, and my signs which I have done among them; that ye may know that I am Jehovah. 3 And Moses and Aaron went in unto Pharaoh, and said unto him, Thus saith Jehovah, the God of the Hebrews, How long wilt thou refuse to humble thyself before me? let my people go, that they may serve me. 4 Else, if thou refuse to let my people go, behold, to-morrow will I bring locusts into thy border: 5 and they shall cover the face of the earth, so that one shall not be able to see the earth: and they shall eat the residue of that which is escaped, which remaineth unto you from the hail, and shall eat every tree which groweth for you out of the field: 6 and thy houses shall be filled, and the houses of all thy servants, and the houses of all the Egyptians; as neither thy fathers nor thy fathers’ fathers have seen, since the day that they were upon the earth unto this day. And he turned, and went out from Pharaoh. 7 And Pharaoh’s servants said unto him, How long shall this man be a snare unto us? let the men go, that they may serve Jehovah their God: knowest thou not yet that Egypt is destroyed? 8 And Moses and Aaron were brought again unto Pharaoh: and he said unto them, Go, serve Jehovah your God; but who are they that shall go? 9 And Moses said, We will go with our young and with our old; with our sons and with our daughters, with our flocks and with our herds will we go; for we must hold a feast unto Jehovah. 10 And he said unto them, So be Jehovah with you, as I will let you go, and your little ones: look to it; for evil is before you. 11 Not so: go now ye that are men, and serve Jehovah; for that is what ye desire. And they were driven out from Pharaoh’s presence.
12 And Jehovah said unto Moses, Stretch out thy hand over the land of Egypt for the locusts, that they may come up upon the land of Egypt, and eat every herb of the land, even all that the hail hath left. 13 And Moses stretched forth his rod over the land of Egypt, and Jehovah brought an east wind upon the land all that day, and all the night; and when it was morning, the east wind brought the locusts. 14 And the locusts went up over all the land of Egypt, and rested in all the borders of Egypt; very grievous were they; before them there were no such locusts as they, neither after them shall be such. 15 For they covered the face of the whole earth, so that the land was darkened; and they did eat every herb of the land, and all the fruit of the trees which the hail had left: and there remained not any green thing, either tree or herb of the field, through all the land of Egypt.
16 Then Pharaoh called for Moses and Aaron in haste; and he said, I have sinned against Jehovah your God, and against you. 17 Now therefore forgive, I pray thee, my sin only this once, and entreat Jehovah your God, that he may take away from me this death only. 18 And he went out from Pharaoh, and entreated Jehovah. 19 And Jehovah turned an exceeding strong west wind, which took up the locusts, and drove them into the Red Sea; there remained not one locust in all the border of Egypt. 20 But Jehovah hardened Pharaoh’s heart, and he did not let the children of Israel go.
21 And Jehovah said unto Moses, Stretch out thy hand toward heaven, that there may be darkness over the land of Egypt, even darkness which may be felt. 22 And Moses stretched forth his hand toward heaven; and there was a thick darkness in all the land of Egypt three days; 23 they saw not one another, neither rose any one from his place for three days: but all the children of Israel had light in their dwellings.
24 And Pharaoh called unto Moses, and said, Go ye, serve Jehovah; only let your flocks and your herds be
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stayed: let your little ones also go with you. 25 And Moses said, Thou must also give into our hand sacrifices and burnt-offerings, that we may sacrifice unto Jehovah our God. 26 Our cattle also shall go with us; there shall not a hoof be left behind: for thereof must we take to serve Jehovah our God; and we know not with what we must serve Jehovah, until we come thither.
27 But Jehovah hardened Pharaoh’s heart, and he would not let them go. 28 And Pharaoh said unto him, Get thee from me, take heed to thyself, see my face no more; for in the day thou seest my face thou shalt die. 29 And Moses said, Thou hast spoken well. I will see thy face again no more.
Exodus Chapter 11 1 And Jehovah said unto Moses, Yet one plague more will I bring upon Pharaoh, and upon Egypt; afterwards he
will let you go hence: when he shall let you go, he shall surely thrust you out hence altogether. 2 Speak now in the ears of the people, and let them ask every man of his neighbor, and every woman of her neighbor, jewels of silver, and jewels of gold. 3 And Jehovah gave the people favor in the sight of the Egyptians. Moreover the man Moses was very great in the land of Egypt, in the sight of Pharaoh’s servants, and in the sight of the people.
4 And Moses said, Thus saith Jehovah, About midnight will I go out into the midst of Egypt: 5 and all the first-born in the land of Egypt shall die, from the first-born of Pharaoh that sitteth upon his throne, even unto the first-born of the maid-servant that is behind the mill; and all the first-born of cattle. 6 And there shall be a great cry throughout all the land of Egypt, such as there hath not been, nor shall be any more. 7 But against any of the chil- dren of Israel shall not a dog move his tongue, against man or beast: that ye may know how that Jehovah doth make a distinction between the Egyptians and Israel. 8 And all these thy servants shall come down unto me, and bow down themselves unto me, saying, Get thee out, and all the people that follow thee: and after that I will go out. And he went out from Pharaoh in hot anger. 9 And Jehovah said unto Moses, Pharaoh will not hearken unto you; that my wonders may be multiplied in the land of Egypt. 10 And Moses and Aaron did all these wonders before Pharaoh: and Jehovah hardened Pharaoh’s heart, and he did not let the children of Israel go out of his land.
Exodus Chapter 12 1 And Jehovah spake unto Moses and Aaron in the land of Egypt, saying, 2 This month shall be unto you the
beginning of months: it shall be the first month of the year to you. 3 Speak ye unto all the congregation of Israel, saying, In the tenth [day] of this month they shall take to them
every man a lamb, according to their fathers’ houses, a lamb for a household: 4 and if the household be too little for a lamb, then shall he and his neighbor next unto his house take one according to the number of the souls; according to every man’s eating ye shall make your count for the lamb. 5 Your lamb shall be without blemish, a male a year old: ye shall take it from the sheep, or from the goats: 6 and ye shall keep it until the fourteenth day of the same month; and the whole assembly of the congregation of Israel shall kill it at even. 7 And they shall take of the blood, and put it on the two side-posts and on the lintel, upon the houses wherein they shall eat it. 8 And they shall eat the flesh in that night, roast with fire, and unleavened bread; with bitter herbs they shall eat it. 9 Eat not of it raw, nor boiled at all with water, but roast with fire; its head with its legs and with the inwards thereof. 10 And ye shall let nothing of it remain until the morning; but that which remaineth of it until the morning ye shall burn with fire.
11 And thus shall ye eat it: with your loins girded, your shoes on your feet, and your staff in your hand; and ye shall eat it in haste: it is Jehovah’s passover. 12 For I will go through the land of Egypt in that night, and will smite all the first-born in the land of Egypt, both man and beast; and against all the gods of Egypt I will execute judgments: I am Jehovah. 13 And the blood shall be to you for a token upon the houses where ye are: and when I see the blood, I will pass over you, and there shall no plague be upon you to destroy you, when I smite the land of Egypt. 14 And this day shall be unto you for a memorial, and ye shall keep it a feast to Jehovah: throughout your generations ye shall keep it a feast by an ordinance for ever. 15 Seven days shall ye eat unleavened bread; even the first day ye shall put away leaven out of your houses: for whosoever eateth leavened bread from the first day until the seventh day, that soul shall be cut off from Israel. 16 And in the first day there shall be to you a holy convocation, and in the seventh day a holy convocation; no manner of work shall be done in them, save that which every man must eat, that only may be done by you. 17 And ye shall observe the [feast of ] unleavened bread; for in this selfsame day have I brought your hosts out of the land of Egypt: therefore shall ye observe this day throughout your generations by an ordinance for ever.
18 In the first [month], on the fourteenth day of the month at even, ye shall eat unleavened bread, until the one and twentieth day of the month at even. 19 Seven days shall there be no leaven found in your houses: for whosoever eateth that which is leavened, that soul shall be cut off from the congregation of Israel, whether he be a sojourner, or one that is born in the land. 20 Ye shall eat nothing leavened; in all your habitations shall ye eat unleavened bread.
21 Then Moses called for all the elders of Israel, and said unto them, Draw out, and take you lambs according
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to your families, and kill the passover. 22 And ye shall take a bunch of hyssop, and dip it in the blood that is in the basin, and strike the lintel and the two side-posts with the blood that is in the basin; and none of you shall go out of the door of his house until the morning. 23 For Jehovah will pass through to smite the Egyptians; and when he seeth the blood upon the lintel, and on the two side-posts, Jehovah will pass over the door, and will not suffer the destroy- er to come in unto your houses to smite you. 24 And ye shall observe this thing for an ordinance to thee and to thy sons for ever. 25 And it shall come to pass, when ye are come to the land which Jehovah will give you, according as he hath promised, that ye shall keep this service. 26 And it shall come to pass, when your children shall say unto you, What mean ye by this service? 27 that ye shall say, It is the sacrifice of Jehovah’s passover, who passed over the houses of the children of Israel in Egypt, when he smote the Egyptians, and delivered our houses. And the people bowed the head and worshipped. 28 And the children of Israel went and did so; as Jehovah had commanded Moses and Aaron, so did they.
29 And it came to pass at midnight, that Jehovah smote all the first-born in the land of Egypt, from the first-born of Pharaoh that sat on his throne unto the first-born of the captive that was in the dungeon; and all the first-born of cattle. 30 And Pharaoh rose up in the night, he, and all his servants, and all the Egyptians; and there was a great cry in Egypt, for there was not a house where there was not one dead.
31 And he called for Moses and Aaron by night, and said, Rise up, get you forth from among my people, both ye and the children of Israel; and go, serve Jehovah, as ye have said. 32 Take both your flocks and your herds, as ye have said, and be gone; and bless me also. 33 And the Egyptians were urgent upon the people, to send them out of the land in haste; for they said, We are all dead men. 34 And the people took their dough before it was leavened, their kneading-troughs being bound up in their clothes upon their shoulders. 35 And the children of Israel did accord- ing to the word of Moses; and they asked of the Egyptians jewels of silver, and jewels of gold, and raiment. 36 And Jehovah gave the people favor in the sight of the Egyptians, so that they let them have what they asked. And they despoiled the Egyptians.
37 And the children of Israel journeyed from Rameses to Succoth, about six hundred thousand on foot that were men, besides children. 38 And a mixed multitude went up also with them; and flocks, and herds, even very much cattle. 39 And they baked unleavened cakes of the dough which they brought forth out of Egypt; for it was not leavened, because they were thrust out of Egypt, and could not tarry, neither had they prepared for themselves any victuals.
40 Now the time that the children of Israel dwelt in Egypt was four hundred and thirty years. 41 And it came to pass at the end of four hundred and thirty years, even the selfsame day it came to pass, that all the hosts of Jehovah went out from the land of Egypt. 42 It is a night to be much observed unto Jehovah for bringing them out from the land of Egypt: this is that night of Jehovah, to be much observed of all the children of Israel throughout their gener- ations.
43 And Jehovah said unto Moses and Aaron, This is the ordinance of the passover: there shall no foreigner eat thereof; 44 but every man’s servant that is bought for money, when thou hast circumcised him, then shall he eat thereof. 45 A sojourner and a hired servant shall not eat thereof. 46 In one house shall it be eaten; thou shalt not carry forth aught of the flesh abroad out of the house; neither shall ye break a bone thereof. 47 All the congregation of Israel shall keep it. 48 And when a stranger shall sojourn with thee, and will keep the passover to Jehovah, let all his males be circumcised, and then let him come near and keep it; and he shall be as one that is born in the land: but no uncircumcised person shall eat thereof. 49 One law shall be to him that is home-born, and unto the stranger that sojourneth among you. 50 Thus did all the children of Israel; as Jehovah commanded Moses and Aaron, so did they. 51 And it came to pass the selfsame day, that Jehovah did bring the children of Israel out of the land of Egypt by their hosts.
Exodus Chapter 13 1 And Jehovah spake unto Moses, saying, 2 Sanctify unto me all the first-born, whatsoever openeth the womb
among the children of Israel, both of man and of beast: it is mine. 3 And Moses said unto the people, Remember this day, in which ye came out from Egypt, out of the house of
bondage; for by strength of hand Jehovah brought you out from this place: there shall no leavened bread be eaten. 4 This day ye go forth in the month Abib.
5 And it shall be, when Jehovah shall bring thee into the land of the Canaanite, and the Hittite, and the Amorite, and the Hivite, and the Jebusite, which he sware unto thy fathers to give thee, a land flowing with milk and honey, that thou shalt keep this service in this month. 6 Seven days thou shalt eat unleavened bread, and in the seventh day shall be a feast to Jehovah. 7 Unleavened bread shall be eaten throughout the seven days; and there shall no leavened bread be seen with thee, neither shall there be leaven seen with thee, in all thy borders.
8 And thou shalt tell thy son in that day, saying, It is because of that which Jehovah did for me when I came
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forth out of Egypt. 9 And it shall be for a sign unto thee upon thy hand, and for a memorial between thine eyes, that the law of Jehovah may be in thy mouth: for with a strong hand hath Jehovah brought thee out of Egypt. 10 Thou shalt therefore keep this ordinance in its season from year to year.
11 And it shall be, when Jehovah shall bring thee into the land of the Canaanite, as he sware unto thee and to thy fathers, and shall give it thee, 12 that thou shalt set apart unto Jehovah all that openeth the womb, and every first- ling which thou hast that cometh of a beast; the males shall be Jehovah’s. 13 And every firstling of an ass thou shalt redeem with a lamb; and if thou wilt not redeem it, then thou shalt break its neck: and all the first-born of man among thy sons shalt thou redeem.
14 And it shall be, when thy son asketh thee in time to come, saying, What is this? that thou shalt say unto him, By strength of hand Jehovah brought us out from Egypt, from the house of bondage: 15 and it came to pass, when Pharaoh would hardly let us go, that Jehovah slew all the first-born in the land of Egypt, both the first-born of man, and the first-born of beast: therefore I sacrifice to Jehovah all that openeth the womb, being males; but all the first- born of my sons I redeem. 16 And it shall be for a sign upon thy hand, and for frontlets between thine eyes: for by strength of hand Jehovah brought us forth out of Egypt.
17 And it came to pass, when Pharaoh had let the people go, that God led them not by the way of the land of the Philistines, although that was near; for God said, Lest peradventure the people repent when they see war, and they return to Egypt: 18 but God led the people about, by the way of the wilderness by the Red Sea: and the children of Israel went up armed out of the land of Egypt. 19 And Moses took the bones of Joseph with him: for he had straitly sworn the children of Israel, saying, God will surely visit you; and ye shall carry up my bones away hence with you.
20 And they took their journey from Succoth, and encamped in Etham, in the edge of the wilderness. 21 And Jehovah went before them by day in a pillar of cloud, to lead them the way, and by night in a pillar of fire, to give them light, that they might go by day and by night: 22 the pillar of cloud by day, and the pillar of fire by night, de- parted not from before the people.
Exodus Chapter 14 1 And Jehovah spake unto Moses, saying, 2 Speak unto the children of Israel, that they turn back and encamp
before Pihahiroth, between Migdol and the sea, before Baal-zephon: over against it shall ye encamp by the sea. 3 And Pharaoh will say of the children of Israel, They are entangled in the land, the wilderness hath shut them in. 4 And I will harden Pharaoh’s heart, and he shall follow after them; and I will get me honor upon Pharaoh, and upon all his host: and the Egyptians shall know that I am Jehovah. And they did so.
5 And it was told the king of Egypt that the people were fled: and the heart of Pharaoh and of his servants was changed towards the people, and they said, What is this we have done, that we have let Israel go from serving us? 6 And he made ready his chariot, and took his people with him: 7 and he took six hundred chosen chariots, and all the chariots of Egypt, and captains over all of them. 8 And Jehovah hardened the heart of Pharaoh king of Egypt, and he pursued after the children of Israel: for the children of Israel went out with a high hand. 9 And the Egyptians pursued after them, all the horses [and] chariots of Pharaoh, and his horsemen, and his army, and overtook them encamping by the sea, beside Pihahiroth, before Baal-zephon.
10 And when Pharaoh drew nigh, the children of Israel lifted up their eyes, and, behold, the Egyptians were marching after them; and they were sore afraid: and the children of Israel cried out unto Jehovah. 11 And they said unto Moses, Because there were no graves in Egypt, hast thou taken us away to die in the wilderness? wherefore hast thou dealt thus with us, to bring us forth out of Egypt? 12 Is not this the word that we spake unto thee in Egypt, saying, Let us alone, that we may serve the Egyptians? For it were better for us to serve the Egyptians, than that we should die in the wilderness.
13 And Moses said unto the people, Fear ye not, stand still, and see the salvation of Jehovah, which he will work for you to-day: for the Egyptians whom ye have seen to-day, ye shall see them again no more for ever. 14 Jehovah will fight for you, and ye shall hold your peace.
15 And Jehovah said unto Moses, Wherefore criest thou unto me? speak unto the children of Israel, that they go forward. 16 And lift thou up thy rod, and stretch out thy hand over the sea, and divide it: and the children of Israel shall go into the midst of the sea on dry ground. 17 And I, behold, I will harden the hearts of the Egyptians, and they shall go in after them: and I will get me honor upon Pharaoh, and upon all his host, upon his chariots, and upon his horsemen. 18 And the Egyptians shall know that I am Jehovah, when I have gotten me honor upon Pharaoh, upon his chariots, and upon his horsemen.
19 And the angel of God, who went before the camp of Israel, removed and went behind them; and the pillar of cloud removed from before them, and stood behind them: 20 and it came between the camp of Egypt and the camp of Israel; and there was the cloud and the darkness, yet gave it light by night: and the one came not near the other all the night.
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21 And Moses stretched out his hand over the sea; and Jehovah caused the sea to go [back] by a strong east wind all the night, and made the sea dry land, and the waters were divided. 22 And the children of Israel went into the midst of the sea upon the dry ground: and the waters were a wall unto them on their right hand, and on their left.
23 And the Egyptians pursued, and went in after them into the midst of the sea, all Pharaoh’s horses, his char- iots, and his horsemen. 24 And it came to pass in the morning watch, that Jehovah looked forth upon the host of the Egyptians through the pillar of fire and of cloud, and discomfited the host of the Egyptians. 25 And he took off their chariot wheels, and they drove them heavily; so that the Egyptians said, Let us flee from the face of Israel; for Jehovah fighteth for them against the Egyptians.
26 And Jehovah said unto Moses, Stretch out thy hand over the sea, that the waters may come again upon the Egyptians, upon their chariots, and upon their horsemen. 27 And Moses stretched forth his hand over the sea, and the sea returned to its strength when the morning appeared; and the Egyptians fled against it; and Jehovah over- threw the Egyptians in the midst of the sea. 28 And the waters returned, and covered the chariots, and the horsemen, even all the host of Pharaoh that went in after them into the sea; there remained not so much as one of them. 29 But the children of Israel walked upon dry land in the midst of the sea; and the waters were a wall unto them on their right hand, and on their left. 30 Thus Jehovah saved Israel that day out of the hand of the Egyptians; and Israel saw the Egyptians dead upon the sea-shore. 31 And Israel saw the great work which Jehovah did upon the Egyptians, and the people feared Jehovah: and they believed in Jehovah, and in his servant Moses.
Exodus Chapter 15 1 Then sang Moses and the children of Israel this song unto Jehovah, and spake, saying, I will sing unto Jehovah,
for he hath triumphed gloriously: The horse and his rider hath he thrown into the sea. 2 Jehovah is my strength and song, And he is become my salvation: This is my God, and I will praise him; My father’s God, and I will exalt him. 3 Jehovah is a man of war: Jehovah is his name. 4 Pharaoh’s chariots and his host hath he cast into the sea; And his chosen captains are sunk in the Red Sea. 5 The deeps cover them: They went down into the depths like a stone. 6 Thy right hand, O Jehovah, is glorious in power, Thy right hand, O Jehovah, dasheth in pieces the enemy. 7 And in the greatness of thine excellency thou overthrowest them that rise up against thee: Thou sendest forth thy wrath, it con- sumeth them as stubble. 8 And with the blast of thy nostrils the waters were piled up, The floods stood upright as a heap; The deeps were congealed in the heart of the sea. 9 The enemy said, I will pursue, I will overtake, I will divide the spoil; My desire shall be satisfied upon them; I will draw my sword, my hand shall destroy them. 10 Thou didst blow with thy wind, the sea covered them: They sank as lead in the mighty waters. 11 Who is like unto thee, O Jeho- vah, among the gods? Who is like thee, glorious in holiness, Fearful in praises, doing wonders? 12 Thou stretchedst out thy right hand, The earth swallowed them. 13 Thou in thy lovingkindness hast led the people that thou hast redeemed: Thou hast guided them in thy strength to thy holy habitation. 14 The peoples have heard, they tremble: Pangs have taken hold on the inhabitants of Philistia. 15 Then were the chiefs of Edom dismayed; The mighty men of Moab, trembling taketh hold upon them: All the inhabitants of Canaan are melted away. 16 Terror and dread falleth upon them; By the greatness of thine arm they are as still as a stone; Till thy people pass over, O Jehovah, Till the people pass over that thou hast purchased. 17 Thou wilt bring them in, and plant them in the mountain of thine in- heritance, The place, O Jehovah, which thou hast made for thee to dwell in, The sanctuary, O Lord, which thy hands have established. 18 Jehovah shall reign for ever and ever. 19 For the horses of Pharaoh went in with his chariots and with his horsemen into the sea, and Jehovah brought back the waters of the sea upon them; but the children of Isra- el walked on dry land in the midst of the sea.
20 And Miriam the prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand; and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with dances. 21 And Miriam answered them, Sing ye to Jehovah, for he hath triumphed glori- ously; The horse and his rider hath he thrown into the sea.
22 And Moses led Israel onward from the Red Sea, and they went out into the wilderness of Shur; and they went three days in the wilderness, and found no water.
23 And when they came to Marah, they could not drink of the waters of Marah, for they were bitter: therefore the name of it was called Marah. 24 And the people murmured against Moses, saying, What shall we drink? 25 An he cried unto Jehovah; And Jehovah showed him a tree, and he cast it into the waters, and the waters were made sweet. There he made for them a statute and an ordinance, and there he proved them; 26 and he said, If thou wilt diligently hearken to the voice of Jehovah thy God, and wilt do that which is right in his eyes, and wilt give ear to his commandments, and keep all his statutes, I will put none of the diseases upon thee, which I have put upon the Egyptians: for I am Jehovah that healeth thee.
27 And they came to Elim, where were twelve springs of water, and threescore and ten palm-trees: and they encamped there by the waters.
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Exodus Chapter 16 1 And they took their journey from Elim, and all the congregation of the children of Israel came unto the wil-
derness of Sin, which is between Elim and Sinai, on the fifteenth day of the second month after their departing out of the land of Egypt. 2 And the whole congregation of the children of Israel murmured against Moses and against Aaron in the wilderness: 3 and the children of Israel said unto them, Would that we had died by the hand of Jehovah in the land of Egypt, when we sat by the flesh-pots, when we did eat bread to the full; for ye have brought us forth into this wilderness, to kill this whole assembly with hunger.
4 Then said Jehovah unto Moses, Behold, I will rain bread from heaven for you; and the people shall go out and gather a day’s portion every day, that I may prove them, whether they will walk in my law, or not. 5 And it shall come to pass on the sixth day, that they shall prepare that which they bring in, and it shall be twice as much as they gather daily. 6 And Moses and Aaron said unto all the children of Israel, At even, then ye shall know that Jehovah hath brought you out from the land of Egypt; 7 and in the morning, then ye shall see the glory of Jehovah; for that he heareth your murmurings against Jehovah: and what are we, that ye murmur against us? 8 And Moses said, [This shall be], when Jehovah shall give you in the evening flesh to eat, and in the morning bread to the full; for that Jeho- vah heareth your murmurings which ye murmur against him: and what are we? your murmurings are not against us, but against Jehovah.
9 And Moses said unto Aaron, Say unto all the congregation of the children of Israel, Come near before Jeho- vah; for he hath heard your murmurings. 10 And it came to pass, as Aaron spake unto the whole congregation of the children of Israel, that they looked toward the wilderness, and, behold, the glory of Jehovah appeared in the cloud.
11 And Jehovah spake unto Moses, saying, 12 I have heard the murmurings of the children of Israel: speak unto them, saying, At even ye shall eat flesh, and in the morning ye shall be filled with bread: and ye shall know that I am Jehovah your God.
13 And it came to pass at even, that the quails came up, and covered the camp: and in the morning the dew lay round about the camp. 14 And when the dew that lay was gone up, behold, upon the face of the wilderness a small round thing, small as the hoar-frost on the ground. 15 And when the children of Israel saw it, they said one to another, What is it? For they knew not what it was. And Moses said unto them, It is the bread which Jehovah hath given you to eat.
16 This is the thing which Jehovah hath commanded, Gather ye of it every man according to his eating; an omer a head, according to the number of your persons, shall ye take it, every man for them that are in his tent. 17 And the children of Israel did so, and gathered some more, some less. 18 And when they measured it with an omer, he that gathered much had nothing over, and he that gathered little had no lack; they gathered every man according to his eating. 19 And Moses said unto them, Let no man leave of it till the morning. 20 Notwithstanding they hearkened not unto Moses; but some of them left of it until the morning, and it bred worms, and became foul: and Moses was wroth with them. 21 And they gathered it morning by morning, every man according to his eating: and when the sun waxed hot, it melted.
22 And it came to pass, that on the sixth day they gathered twice as much bread, two omers for each one: and all the rulers of the congregation came and told Moses. 23 And he said unto them, This is that which Jehovah hath spoken, Tomorrow is a solemn rest, a holy sabbath unto Jehovah: bake that which ye will bake, and boil that which ye will boil; and all that remaineth over lay up for you to be kept until the morning. 24 And they laid it up till the morning, as Moses bade: and it did not become foul, neither was there any worm therein. 25 And Moses said, Eat that to-day; for to-day is a sabbath unto Jehovah: to-day ye shall not find it in the field. 26 Six days ye shall gather it; but on the seventh day is the sabbath, in it there shall be none.
27 And it came to pass on the seventh day, that there went out some of the people to gather, and they found none. 28 And Jehovah said unto Moses, How long refuse ye to keep my commandments and my laws? 29 See, for that Jehovah hath given you the sabbath, therefore he giveth you on the sixth day the bread of two days; abide ye every man in his place, let no man go out of his place on the seventh day. 30 So the people rested on the seventh day. 31 And the house of Israel called the name thereof Manna: and it was like coriander seed, white; and the taste of it was like wafers [made] with honey.
32 And Moses said, This is the thing which Jehovah hath commanded, Let an omerful of it be kept throughout your generations, that they may see the bread wherewith I fed you in the wilderness, when I brought you forth from the land of Egypt. 33 And Moses said unto Aaron, Take a pot, and put an omerful of manna therein, and lay it up before Jehovah, to be kept throughout your generations. 34 As Jehovah commanded Moses, so Aaron laid it up before the Testimony, to be kept. 35 And the children of Israel did eat the manna forty years, until they came to a land inhabited; they did eat the manna, until they came unto the borders of the land of Canaan. 36 Now an omer is the tenth part of an ephah.
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Exodus Chapter 17 1 And all the congregation of the children of Israel journeyed from the wilderness of Sin, by their journeys,
according to the commandment of Jehovah, and encamped in Rephidim: and there was no water for the people to drink. 2 Wherefore the people stove with Moses, and said, Give us water that we may drink. And Moses said unto them, Why strive ye with me? Wherefore do ye tempt Jehovah? 3 And the people thirsted there for water; and the people murmured against Moses, and said, Wherefore hast thou brought us up out of Egypt, to kill us and our children and our cattle with thirst? 4 And Moses cried unto Jehovah, saying, What shall I do unto this people? They are almost ready to stone me. 5 And Jehovah said unto Moses, Pass on before the people, and take with thee of the elders of Israel; and they rod, wherewith thou smotest the river, take in thy hand, and go. 6 Behold, I will stand before thee there upon the rock in Horeb; and thou shalt smite the rock, and there shall come water out of it, that the people may drink. And Moses did so in the sight of the elders of Israel. 7 And he called the name of the place Massah, and Meribah, because of the striving of the children of Israel, and because they tempted Jehovah, saying, Is Jehovah among us, or not?
8 Then came Amalek, and fought with Israel in Rephidim. 9 And Moses said unto Joshua, Choose us out men, and go out, fight with Amalek: to-morrow I will stand on the top of the hill with the rod of God in my hand. 10 So Joshua did as Moses had said to him, and fought with Amalek: and Moses, Aaron, and Hur went up to the top of the hill. 11 And it came to pass, when Moses held up his hand, that Israel prevailed; and when he let down his hand, Amalek prevailed. 12 But Moses’ hands were heavy; and they took a stone, and put it under him, and he sat thereon; and Aaron and Hur stayed up his hands, the one on the one side, and the other on the other side; And his hands were steady until the going down of the sun. 13 And Joshua discomfited Amalek and his people with the edge of the sword. 14 And Jehovah said unto Moses, Write this for a memorial in a book, and rehearse it in the ears of Joshua: that I will utterly blot out the remembrance of Amalek from under heaven. 15 And Moses built an altar, and called the name of it Jehovah-nissi; 16 And he said, Jehovah hath sworn: Jehovah will have war with Amalek from genera- tion to generation.
Exodus Chapter 18 1 Now Jethro, the priest of Midian, Moses’ father-in-law, heard of all that God had done for Moses, and for
Israel his people, how that Jehovah had brought Israel out of Egypt. 2 And Jethro, Moses’ father-in-law, took Zippo- rah, Moses’ wife, after he had sent her away, 3 and her two sons; of whom the name of the one was Gershom; for he said, I have been a sojourner in a foreign land: 4 and the name of the other was Eliezer; for [he said], The God of my father was my help, and delivered me from the sword of Pharaoh. 5 And Jethro, Moses’ father-in-law, came with his sons and his wife unto Moses into the wilderness where he was encamped, at the mount of God: 6 and he said unto Moses, I, thy father-in-law Jethro, am come unto thee, and thy wife, and her two sons with her.
7 And Moses went out to meet his father-in-law, and did obeisance, and kissed him: and they asked each other of their welfare; and they came into the tent. 8 And Moses told his father-in-law all that Jehovah had done unto Pharaoh and to the Egyptians for Israel’s sake, all the travail that had come upon them by the way, and how Jehovah delivered them. 9 And Jethro rejoiced for all the goodness which Jehovah had done to Israel, in that he had delivered them out of the hand of the Egyptians. 10 And Jethro said, Blessed be Jehovah, who hath delivered you out of the hand of the Egyptians, and out of the hand of Pharaoh; who hath delivered the people from under the hand of the Egyptians. 11 Now I know that Jehovah is greater than all gods; yea, in the thing wherein they dealt proudly against them. 12 And Jethro, Moses’ father-in-law, took a burnt-offering and sacrifices for God: and Aaron came, and all the elders of Israel, to eat bread with Moses’ father-in-law before God.
13 And it came to pass on the morrow, that Moses sat to judge the people: and the people stood about Moses from the morning unto the evening. 14 And when Moses’ father-in-law saw all that he did to the people, he said, What is this thing that thou doest to the people? why sittest thou thyself alone, and all the people stand about thee from morning unto even? 15 And Moses said unto his father-in-law, Because the people come unto me to inquire of God: 16 when they have a matter, they come unto me; and I judge between a man and his neighbor, and I make them know the statutes of God, and his laws. 17 And Moses’ father-in-law said unto him, The thing that thou doest is not good. 18 Thou wilt surely wear away, both thou, and this people that is with thee: for the thing is too heavy for thee; thou art not able to perform it thyself alone. 19 Hearken now unto my voice, I will give thee counsel, and God be with thee: be thou for the people to God-ward, and bring thou the causes unto God: 20 and thou shalt teach them the statutes and the laws, and shalt show them the way wherein they must walk, and the work that they must do. 21 Moreover thou shalt provide out of all the people able men, such as fear God, men of truth, hating unjust gain; and place such over them, to be rulers of thousands, rulers of hundreds, rulers of fifties, and rulers of tens: 22 and let them judge the people at all seasons: and it shall be, that every great matter they shall bring unto thee, but every small matter they shall judge themselves: so shall it be easier for thyself, and they shall bear [the burden] with thee.
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23 If thou shalt do this thing, and God command thee so, then thou shalt be able to endure, and all this people also shall go to their place in peace. 24 So Moses hearkened to the voice of his father-in-law, and did all that he had said. 25 And Moses chose able men out of all Israel, and made them heads over the people, rulers of thousands, rulers of hundreds, rulers of fifties, and rulers of tens. 26 And they judged the people at all seasons: the hard causes they brought unto Moses, but every small matter they judged themselves.
27 And Moses let his father-in-law depart; and he went his way into his own land.
Exodus Chapter 19 1 In the third month after the children of Israel were gone forth out of the land of Egypt, the same day came
they into the wilderness of Sinai. 2 And when they were departed from Rephidim, and were come to the wilder- ness of Sinai, they encamped in the wilderness; and there Israel encamped before the mount. 3 And Moses went up unto God, and Jehovah called unto him out of the mountain, saying, Thus shalt thou say to the house of Jacob, and tell the children of Israel: 4 Ye have seen what I did unto the Egyptians, and how I bare you on eagles’ wings, and brought you unto myself. 5 Now therefore, if ye will obey my voice indeed, and keep my covenant, then ye shall be mine own possession from among all peoples: for all the earth is mine: 6 and ye shall be unto me a kingdom of priests, and a holy nation. These are the words which thou shalt speak unto the children of Israel.
7 And Moses came and called for the elders of the people, and set before them all these words which Jehovah commanded him. 8 And all the people answered together, and said, All that Jehovah hath spoken we will do. And Moses reported the words of the people unto Jehovah.
9 And Jehovah said unto Moses, Lo, I come unto thee in a thick cloud, that the people may hear when I speak with thee, and may also believe thee for ever. And Moses told the words of the people unto Jehovah.
10 And Jehovah said unto Moses, Go unto the people, and sanctify them to-day and to-morrow, and let them wash their garments, 11 and be ready against the third day; for the third day Jehovah will come down in the sight of all the people upon mount Sinai. 12 And thou shalt set bounds unto the people round about, saying, Take heed to yourselves, that ye go not up into the mount, or touch the border of it: whosoever toucheth the mount shall be surely put to death: 13 no hand shall touch him, but he shall surely be stoned, or shot through; whether it be beast or man, he shall not live: when the trumpet soundeth long, they shall come up to the mount.
14 And Moses went down from the mount unto the people, and sanctified the people; and they washed their garments. 15 And he said unto the people, Be ready against the third day: come not near a woman.
16 And it came to pass on the third day, when it was morning, that there were thunders and lightnings, and a thick cloud upon the mount, and the voice of a trumpet exceeding loud; and all the people that were in the camp trembled. 17 And Moses brought forth the people out of the camp to meet God; and they stood at the nether part of the mount. 18 And mount Sinai, the whole of it, smoked, because Jehovah descended upon it in fire; and the smoke thereof ascended as the smoke of a furnace, and the whole mount quaked greatly. 19 And when the voice of the trumpet waxed louder and louder, Moses spake, and God answered him by a voice. 20 And Jehovah came down upon mount Sinai, to the top of the mount: and Jehovah called Moses to the top of the mount; and Moses went up. 21 And Jehovah said unto Moses, Go down, charge the people, lest they break through unto Jehovah to gaze, and many of them perish. 22 And let the priests also, that come near to Jehovah, sanctify themselves, lest Jehovah break forth upon them. 23 And Moses said unto Jehovah, The people cannot come up to mount Sinai: for thou didst charge us, saying, Set bounds about the mount, and sanctify it. 24 And Jehovah said unto him, Go, get thee down; and thou shalt come up, thou, and Aaron with thee: but let not the priests and the people break through to come up unto Jehovah, lest he break forth upon them. 25 So Moses went down unto the people, and told them.
Exodus Chapter 20 1 And God spake all these words, saying, 2 I am Jehovah thy God, who brought thee out of the land of Egypt,
out of the house of bondage. 3 Thou shalt have no other gods before me. 4 Thou shalt not make unto thee a graven image, nor any likeness [of any thing] that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth. 5 Thou shalt not bow down thyself unto them, nor serve them, for I Jehovah thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children, upon the third and upon the fourth generation of them that hate me, 6 and showing lovingkindness unto thousands of them that love me and keep my commandments. 7 Thou shalt not take the name of Jehovah thy God in vain; for Jehovah will not hold him guiltless that taketh his name in vain. 8 Remember the sabbath day, to keep it holy. 9 Six days shalt thou labor, and do all thy work; 10 but the seventh day is a sabbath unto Jehovah thy God: [in it] thou shalt not do any work, thou, nor thy son, nor thy daughter, thy man-servant, nor thy maid-servant, nor thy cattle, nor thy stranger that is within thy gates: 11 for in six days Jehovah made heaven and earth, the sea, and all that in them is, and rested the seventh day: wherefore Jehovah blessed the sabbath day, and hallowed it.
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12 Honor thy father and thy mother, that thy days may be long in the land which Jehovah thy God giveth thee. 13 Thou shalt not kill. 14 Thou shalt not commit adultery. 15 Thou shalt not steal. 16 Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor. 17 Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife, nor his man-servant, nor his maid-servant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor anything that is thy neighbor’s.
18 And all the people perceived the thunderings, and the lightnings, and the voice of the trumpet, and the mountain smoking: and when the people saw it, they trembled, and stood afar off. 19 And they said unto Moses, Speak thou with us, and we will hear; but let not God speak with us, lest we die. 20 And Moses said unto the people, Fear not: for God is come to prove you, and that his fear may be before you, that ye sin not. 21 And the people stood afar off, and Moses drew near unto the thick darkness where God was.
22 And Jehovah said unto Moses, Thus thou shalt say unto the children of Israel, Ye yourselves have seen that I have talked with you from heaven. 23 Ye shall not make [other gods] with me; gods of silver, or gods of gold, ye shall not make unto you.
24 An altar of earth thou shalt make unto me, and shalt sacrifice thereon thy burnt-offerings, and thy peace-of- ferings, thy sheep, and thine oxen: in every place where I record my name I will come unto thee and I will bless thee. 25 And if thou make me an altar of stone, thou shalt not build it of hewn stones; for if thou lift up thy tool upon it, thou hast polluted it. 26 Neither shalt thou go up by steps unto mine altar, that thy nakedness be not uncovered thereon.
Exodus Chapter 21 1 Now these are the ordinances which thou shalt set before them. 2 If thou buy a Hebrew servant, six years he
shall serve: and in the seventh he shall go out free for nothing. 3 If he come in by himself, he shall go out by himself: if he be married, then his wife shall go out with him. 4 If his master give him a wife and she bear him sons or daugh- ters; the wife and her children shall be her master’s, and he shall go out by himself. 5 But if the servant shall plainly say, I love my master, my wife, and my children; I will not go out free: 6 then his master shall bring him unto God, and shall bring him to the door, or unto the door-post; and his master shall bore his ear through with an awl; and he shall serve him for ever.
7 And if a man sell his daughter to be a maid-servant, she shall not go out as the men-servants do. 8 If she please not her master, who hath espoused her to himself, then shall he let her be redeemed: to sell her unto a foreign peo- ple he shall have no power, seeing he hath dealt deceitfully with her. 9 And if he espouse her unto his son, he shall deal with her after the manner of daughters. 10 If he take him another [wife]; her food, her raiment, and her duty of marriage, shall he not diminish. 11 And if he do not these three things unto her, then shall she go out for nothing, without money.
12 He that smiteth a man, so that he dieth, shall surely be put to death. 13 And if a man lie not in wait, but God deliver [him] into his hand; then I will appoint thee a place whither he shall flee. 14 And if a man come presumptu- ously upon his neighbor, to slay him with guile; thou shalt take him from mine altar, that he may die.
15 And he that smiteth his father, or his mother, shall be surely put to death. 16 And he that stealeth a man, and selleth him, or if he be found in his hand, he shall surely be put to death. 17 And he that curseth his father or his mother, shall surely be put to death. 18 And if men contend, and one smite the other with a stone, or with his fist, and he die not, but keep his bed;
19 if he rise again, and walk abroad upon his staff, then shall he that smote him be quit: only he shall pay for the loss of his time, and shall cause him to be thoroughly healed.
20 And if a man smite his servant, or his maid, with a rod, and he die under his hand; he shall surely be pun- ished. 21 Notwithstanding, if he continue a day or two, he shall not be punished: for he is his money.
22 And if men strive together, and hurt a woman with child, so that her fruit depart, and yet no harm follow; he shall be surely fined, according as the woman’s husband shall lay upon him; and he shall pay as the judges deter- mine. 23 But if any harm follow, then thou shalt give life for life, 24 eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, 25 burning for burning, wound for wound, stripe for stripe.
26 And if a man smite the eye of his servant, or the eye of his maid, and destroy it; he shall let him go free for his eye’s sake. 27 And if he smite out his man-servant’s tooth, or his maid-servant’s tooth, he shall let him go free for his tooth’s sake.
28 And if an ox gore a man or a woman to death, the ox shall be surely stoned, and its flesh shall not be eaten; but the owner of the ox shall be quit. 29 But if the ox was wont to gore in time past, and it hath been testified to its owner, and he hath not kept it in, but it hath killed a man or a woman, the ox shall be stoned, and its owner also shall be put to death. 30 If there be laid on him a ransom, then he shall give for the redemption of his life whatso- ever is laid upon him. 31 Whether it have gored a son, or have gored a daughter, according to this judgment shall it be done unto him. 32 If the ox gore a man-servant or a maid-servant, there shall be given unto their master thirty
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shekels of silver, and the ox shall be stoned. 33 And if a man shall open a pit, or if a man shall dig a pit and not cover it, and an ox or an ass fall therein, 34 the
owner of the pit shall make it good; he shall give money unto the owner thereof, and the dead [beast] shall be his. 35 And if one man’s ox hurt another’s, so that it dieth, then they shall sell the live ox, and divide the price of it:
and the dead also they shall divide. 36 Or if it be known that the ox was wont to gore in time past, and its owner hath not kept it in, he shall surely pay ox for ox, and the dead [beast] shall be his own.
Exodus Chapter 22 1 If a man shall steal an ox, or a sheep, and kill it, or sell it; he shall pay five oxen for an ox, and four sheep for a
sheep. 2 If the thief be found breaking in, and be smitten so that he dieth, there shall be no bloodguiltiness for him. 3 If
the sun be risen upon him, there shall be bloodguiltiness for him; he shall make restitution: if he have nothing, then he shall be sold for his theft. 4 If the theft be found in his hand alive, whether it be ox, or ass, or sheep, he shall pay double.
5 If a man shall cause a field or vineyard to be eaten, and shall let his beast loose, and it feed in another man’s field; of the best of his own field, and of the best of his own vineyard, shall he make restitution.
6 If fire break out, and catch in thorns, so that the shocks of grain, or the standing grain, or the field are con- sumed; he that kindled the fire shall surely make restitution.
7 If a man shall deliver unto his neighbor money or stuff to keep, and it be stolen out of the man’s house; if the thief be found, he shall pay double. 8 If the thief be not found, then the master of the house shall come near unto God, [to see] whether he have not put his hand unto his neighbor’s goods. 9 For every matter of trespass, whether it be for ox, for ass, for sheep, for raiment, [or] for any manner of lost thing, whereof one saith, This is it, the cause of both parties shall come before God; he whom God shall condemn shall pay double unto his neighbor. 10 If a man deliver unto his neighbor an ass, or an ox, or a sheep, or any beast, to keep; and it die, or be hurt, or driven away, no man seeing it: 11 the oath of Jehovah shall be between them both, whether he hath not put his hand unto his neigh- bor’s goods; and the owner thereof shall accept it, and he shall not make restitution. 12 But if it be stolen from him, he shall make restitution unto the owner thereof. 13 If it be torn in pieces, let him bring it for witness: he shall not make good that which was torn.
14 And if a man borrow aught of his neighbor, and it be hurt, or die, the owner thereof not being with it, he shall surely make restitution. 15 If the owner thereof be with it, he shall not make it good: if it be a hired thing, it came for its hire.
16 And if a man entice a virgin that is not betrothed, and lie with her, he shall surely pay a dowry for her to be his wife. 17 If her father utterly refuse to give her unto him, he shall pay money according to the dowry of virgins.
18 Thou shalt not suffer a sorceress to live. 19 Whosoever lieth with a beast shall surely be put to death. 20 He that sacrificeth unto any god, save unto Jehovah only, shall be utterly destroyed. 21 And a sojourner shalt thou not wrong, neither shalt thou oppress him: for ye were sojourners in the land of
Egypt. 22 Ye shall not afflict any widow, or fatherless child. 23 If thou afflict them at all, and they cry at all unto me, I
will surely hear their cry; 24 and my wrath shall wax hot, and I will kill you with the sword; and your wives shall be widows, and your children fatherless.
25 If thou lend money to any of my people with thee that is poor, thou shalt not be to him as a creditor; neither shall ye lay upon him interest. 26 If thou at all take thy neighbor’s garment to pledge, thou shalt restore it unto him before the sun goeth down: 27 for that is his only covering, it is his garment for his skin: wherein shall he sleep? And it shall come to pass, when he crieth unto me, that I will hear; for I am gracious.
28 Thou shalt not revile God, nor curse a ruler of thy people. 29 Thou shalt not delay to offer of thy harvest, and of the outflow of thy presses. The first-born of thy sons shalt
thou give unto me. 30 Likewise shalt thou do with thine oxen, [and] with thy sheep: seven days it shall be with its dam; on the eighth day thou shalt give it me.
31 And ye shall be holy men unto me: therefore ye shall not eat any flesh that is torn of beasts in the field; ye shall cast it to the dogs.
Exodus Chapter 23 1 Thou shalt not take up a false report: put not thy hand with the wicked to be an unrighteous witness. 2 Thou shalt not follow a multitude to do evil; neither shalt thou speak in a cause to turn aside after a multitude
to wrest [justice]:
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3 neither shalt thou favor a poor man in his cause. 4 If thou meet thine enemy’s ox or his ass going astray, thou shalt surely bring it back to him again. 5 If thou see
the ass of him that hateth thee lying under his burden, thou shalt forbear to leave him, thou shalt surely release [it] with him. 6 Thou shalt not wrest the justice [due] to thy poor in his cause. 7 Keep thee far from a false matter; and the innocent and righteous slay thou not: for I will not justify the wicked.
8 And thou shalt take no bribe: for a bribe blindeth them that have sight, and perverteth the words of the righ- teous.
9 And a sojourner shalt thou not oppress: for ye know the heart of a sojourner, seeing ye were sojourners in the land of Egypt.
10 And six years thou shalt sow thy land, and shalt gather in the increase thereof: 11 but the seventh year thou shalt let it rest and lie fallow; that the poor of thy people may eat: and what they leave the beast of the field shall eat. In like manner thou shalt deal with thy vineyard, [and] with thy oliveyard. 12 Six days thou shalt do thy work, and on the seventh day thou shalt rest; that thine ox and thine ass may have rest, and the son of thy handmaid, and the sojourner, may be refreshed. 13 And in all things that I have said unto you take ye heed: and make no mention of the name of other gods, neither let it be heard out of thy mouth.
14 Three times thou shalt keep a feast unto me in the year. 15 The feast of unleavened bread shalt thou keep: seven days thou shalt eat unleavened bread, as I commanded thee, at the time appointed in the month Abib (for in it thou camest out from Egypt); and none shall appear before me empty: 16 and the feast of harvest, the first-fruits of thy labors, which thou sowest in the field: and the feast of ingathering, at the end of the year, when thou gatherest in thy labors out of the field. 17 Three times in the year all thy males shall appear before the Lord Jehovah. 18 Thou shalt not offer the blood of my sacrifice with leavened bread; neither shall the fat of my feast remain all night until the morning. 19 The first of the first-fruits of thy ground thou shalt bring into the house of Jehovah thy God. Thou shalt not boil a kid in it mother’s milk.
20 Behold, I send an angel before thee, to keep thee by the way, and to bring thee into the place which I have prepared. 21 Take ye heed before him, and hearken unto his voice; provoke him not; for he will not pardon your transgression: for my name is in him. 22 But if thou shalt indeed hearken unto his voice, and do all that I speak; then I will be an enemy unto thine enemies, and an adversary unto thine adversaries. 23 For mine angel shall go before thee, and bring thee in unto the Amorite, and the Hittite, and the Perizzite, and the Canaanite, the Hivite, and the Jebusite: and I will cut them off. 24 Thou shalt not bow down to their gods, nor serve them, nor do after their works; but thou shalt utterly overthrow them, and break in pieces their pillars. 25 And ye shall serve Jehovah your God, and he will bless thy bread, and thy water; and I will take sickness away from the midst of thee.
26 There shall none cast her young, nor be barren, in thy land: the number of thy days I will fulfil. 27 I will send my terror before thee, and will discomfit all the people to whom thou shalt come, and I will make all thine enemies turn their backs unto thee. 28 And I will send the hornet before thee, which shall drive out the Hivite, the Canaan- ite, and the Hittite, from before thee. 29 I will not drive them out from before thee in one year, lest the land become desolate, and the beasts of the field multiply against thee. 30 By little and little I will drive them out from before thee, until thou be increased, and inherit the land. 31 And I will set thy border from the Red Sea even unto the sea of the Philistines, and from the wilderness unto the River: for I will deliver the inhabitants of the land into your hand: and thou shalt drive them out before thee. 32 Thou shalt make no covenant with them, nor with their gods. 33 They shall not dwell in thy land, lest they make thee sin against me; for if thou serve their gods, it will surely be a snare unto thee.
Exodus Chapter 24 1 And he said unto Moses, Come up unto Jehovah, thou, and Aaron, Nadab, and Abihu, and seventy of the
elders of Israel; and worship ye afar off: 2 and Moses alone shall come near unto Jehovah; but they shall not come near; neither shall the people go up with him.
3 And Moses came and told the people all the words of Jehovah, and all the ordinances: and all the people answered with one voice, and said, All the words which Jehovah hath spoken will we do. 4 And Moses wrote all the words of Jehovah, and rose up early in the morning, and builded an altar under the mount, and twelve pillars, ac- cording to the twelve tribes of Israel. 5 And he sent young men of the children of Israel, who offered burnt-offerings, and sacrificed peace-offerings of oxen unto Jehovah. 6 And Moses took half of the blood, and put it in basins; and half of the blood he sprinkled on the altar. 7 And he took the book of the covenant, and read in the audience of the people: and they said, All that Jehovah hath spoken will we do, and be obedient. 8 And Moses took the blood, and sprinkled it on the people, and said, Behold the blood of the covenant, which Jehovah hath made with you concern- ing all these words.
9 Then went up Moses, and Aaron, Nadab, and Abihu, and seventy of the elders of Israel. 10 And they saw the
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God of Israel; and there was under his feet as it were a paved work of sapphire stone, and as it were the very heaven for clearness. 11 And upon the nobles of the children of Israel he laid not his hand: and they beheld God, and did eat and drink.
12 And Jehovah said unto Moses, Come up to me into the mount, and be there: and I will give thee the tables of stone, and the law and the commandment, which I have written, that thou mayest teach them. 13 And Moses rose up, and Joshua his minister: and Moses went up into the mount of God. 14 And he said unto the elders, Tarry ye here for us, until we come again unto you: and, behold, Aaron and Hur are with you: whosoever hath a cause, let him come near unto them. 15 And Moses went up into the mount, and the cloud covered the mount. 16 And the glo- ry of Jehovah abode upon mount Sinai, and the cloud covered it six days: and the seventh day he called unto Moses out of the midst of the cloud. 17 And the appearance of the glory of Jehovah was like devouring fire on the top of the mount in the eyes of the children of Israel. 18 And Moses entered into the midst of the cloud, and went up into the mount: and Moses was in the mount forty days and forty nights.
Exodus Chapter 25 1 And Jehovah spake unto Moses, saying, 2 Speak unto the children of Israel, that they take for me an offering: of
every man whose heart maketh him willing ye shall take my offering. 3 And this is the offering which ye shall take of them: gold, and silver, and brass, 4 and blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine linen, and goats’ [hair], 5 and rams’ skins dyed red, and sealskins, and acacia wood, 6 oil for the light, spices for the anointing oil, and for the sweet incense, 7 onyx stones, and stones to be set, for the ephod, and for the breastplate. 8 And let them make me a sanctu- ary, that I may dwell among them. 9 According to all that I show thee, the pattern of the tabernacle, and the pattern of all the furniture thereof, even so shall ye make it.
10 And they shall make an ark of acacia wood: two cubits and a half shall be the length thereof, and a cubit and a half the breadth thereof, and a cubit and a half the height thereof. 11 And thou shalt overlay it with pure gold, within and without shalt thou overlay it, and shalt make upon it a crown of gold round about. 12 And thou shalt cast four rings of gold for it, and put them in the four feet thereof; and two rings shall be on the one side of it, and two rings on the other side of it. 13 And thou shalt make staves of acacia wood, and overlay them with gold. 14 And thou shalt put the staves into the rings on the sides of the ark, wherewith to bear the ark. 15 The staves shall be in the rings of the ark: they shall not be taken from it. 16 And thou shalt put into the ark the testimony which I shall give thee. 17 And thou shalt make a mercy-seat of pure gold: two cubits and a half [shall be] the length thereof, and a cubit and a half the breadth thereof. 18 And thou shalt make two cherubim of gold; of beaten work shalt thou make them, at the two ends of the mercy-seat. 19 And make one cherub at the one end, and one cherub at the other end: of one piece with the mercy-seat shall ye make the cherubim on the two ends thereof. 20 And the cherubim shall spread out their wings on high, covering the mercy-seat with their wings, with their faces one to another; toward the mer- cy-seat shall the faces of the cherubim be. 21 And thou shalt put the mercy-seat above upon the ark; and in the ark thou shalt put the testimony that I shall give thee. 22 And there I will meet with thee, and I will commune with thee from above the mercy-seat, from between the two cherubim which are upon the ark of the testimony, of all things which I will give thee in commandment unto the children of Israel.
23 And thou shalt make a table of acacia wood: two cubits [shall be] the length thereof, and a cubit the breadth thereof, and a cubit and a half the height thereof. 24 And thou shalt overlay it with pure gold, and make thereto a crown of gold round about. 25 And thou shalt make unto it a border of a handbreadth round about; and thou shalt make a golden crown to the border thereof round about. 26 And thou shalt make for it four rings of gold, and put the rings in the four corners that are on the four feet thereof. 27 Close by the border shall the rings be, for places for the staves to bear the table. 28 And thou shalt make the staves of acacia wood, and overlay them with gold, that the table may be borne with them. 29 And thou shalt make the dishes thereof, and the spoons thereof, and the flagons thereof, and the bowls thereof, wherewith to pour out: of pure gold shalt thou make them. 30 And thou shalt set upon the table showbread before me alway.
31 And thou shalt make a candlestick of pure gold: of beaten work shall the candlestick be made, even its base, and its shaft; its cups, its knops, and its flowers, shall be of one piece with it. 32 And there shall be six branches going out of the sides thereof; three branches of the candlestick out of the one side thereof, and three branches of the candlestick out of the other side thereof: 33 three cups made like almond-blossoms in one branch, a knop and a flower; and three cups made like almond-blossoms in the other branch, a knop and a flower: so for the six branch- es going out of the candlestick: 34 and in the candlestick four cups made like almond-blossoms, the knops thereof, and the flowers thereof; 35 and a knop under two branches of one piece with it, and a knop under two branches of one piece with it, and a knop under two branches of one piece with it, for the six branches going out of the candle- stick. 36 Their knops and their branches shall be of one piece with it; the whole of it one beaten work of pure gold. 37 And thou shalt make the lamps thereof, seven: and they shall light the lamps thereof, to give light over against it.
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38 And the snuffers thereof, and the snuffdishes thereof, shall be of pure gold. 39 Of a talent of pure gold shall it be made, with all these vessels. 40 And see that thou make them after their pattern, which hath been showed thee in the mount.
Exodus Chapter 26 1 Moreover thou shalt make the tabernacle with ten curtains; of fine twined linen, and blue, and purple, and
scarlet, with cherubim the work of the skilful workman shalt thou make them. 2 The length of each curtain shall be eight and twenty cubits, and the breadth of each curtain four cubits: all the curtains shall have one measure. 3 Five curtains shall be coupled together one to another; and [the other] five curtains shall be coupled one to anoth- er. 4 And thou shalt make loops of blue upon the edge of the one curtain from the selvedge in the coupling; and likewise shalt thou make in the edge of the curtain that is outmost in the second coupling. 5 Fifty loops shalt thou make in the one curtain, and fifty loops shalt thou make in the edge of the curtain that is in the second coupling; the loops shall be opposite one to another. 6 And thou shalt make fifty clasps of gold, and couple the curtains one to another with the clasps: and the tabernacle shall be one [whole].
7 And thou shalt make curtains of goats’ [hair] for a tent over the tabernacle: eleven curtains shalt thou make them. 8 The length of each curtain shall be thirty cubits, and the breadth of each curtain four cubits: the eleven cur- tains shall have one measure. 9 And thou shalt couple five curtains by themselves, and six curtains by themselves, and shalt double over the sixth curtain in the forefront of the tent. 10 And thou shalt make fifty loops on the edge of the one curtain that is outmost in the coupling, and fifty loops upon the edge of the curtain which is [outmost in] the second coupling. 11 And thou shalt make fifty clasps of brass, and put the clasps into the loops, and couple the tent together, that it may be one. 12 And the overhanging part that remaineth of the curtains of the tent, the half cur- tain that remaineth, shall hang over the back of the tabernacle. 13 And the cubit on the one side, and the cubit on the other side, of that which remaineth in the length of the curtains of the tent, shall hang over the sides of the taberna- cle on this side and on that side, to cover it. 14 And thou shalt make a covering for the tent of rams’ skins dyed red, and a covering of sealskins above.
15 And thou shalt make the boards for the tabernacle of acacia wood, standing up. 16 Ten cubits shall be the length of a board, and a cubit and a half the breadth of each board. 17 Two tenons shall there be in each board, joined one to another: thus shalt thou make for all the boards of the tabernacle. 18 And thou shalt make the boards for the tabernacle, twenty boards for the south side southward. 19 And thou shalt make forty sockets of silver under the twenty boards; two sockets under one board for its two tenons, and two sockets under another board for its two tenons. 20 And for the second side of the tabernacle, on the north side, twenty boards, 21 and their forty sockets of silver; two sockets under one board, and two sockets under another board. 22 And for the hinder part of the taber- nacle westward thou shalt make six boards. 23 And two boards shalt thou make for the corners of the tabernacle in the hinder part. 24 And they shall be double beneath, and in like manner they shall be entire unto the top thereof unto one ring: thus shall it be for them both; they shall be for the two corners. 25 And there shall be eight boards, and their sockets of silver, sixteen sockets; two sockets under one board, and two sockets under another board.
26 And thou shalt make bars of acacia wood: five for the boards of the one side of the tabernacle, 27 and five bars for the boards of the other side of the tabernacle, and five bars for the boards of the side of the tabernacle, for the hinder part westward. 28 And the middle bar in the midst of the boards shall pass through from end to end. 29 And thou shalt overlay the boards with gold, and make their rings of gold for places for the bars: and thou shalt over- lay the bars with gold. 30 And thou shalt rear up the tabernacle according to the fashion thereof which hath been showed thee in the mount.
31 And thou shalt make a veil of blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine twined linen: with cherubim the work of the skilful workman shall it be made. 32 And thou shalt hang it upon four pillars of acacia overlaid with gold; their hooks [shall be] of gold, upon four sockets of silver.
33 And thou shalt hang up the veil under the clasps, and shalt bring in thither within the veil the ark of the testimony: and the veil shall separate unto you between the holy place and the most holy. 34 And thou shalt put the mercy-seat upon the ark of the testimony in the most holy place. 35 And thou shalt set the table without the veil, and the candlestick over against the table on the side of the tabernacle toward the south: and thou shalt put the table on the north side. 36 And thou shalt make a screen for the door of the Tent, of blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine twined linen, the work of the embroiderer. 37 And thou shalt make for the screen five pillars of acacia, and overlay them with gold: their hooks shall be of gold: and thou shalt cast five sockets of brass for them.
Exodus Chapter 27 1 And thou shalt make the altar of acacia wood, five cubits long, and five cubits broad; the altar shall be four-
square: and the height thereof shall be three cubits. 2 And thou shalt make the horns of it upon the four corners
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thereof; the horns thereof shall be of one piece with it: and thou shalt overlay it with brass. 3 And thou shalt make its pots to take away its ashes, and its shovels, and its basins, and its flesh-hooks, and its firepans: all the vessels thereof thou shalt make of brass. 4 And thou shalt make for it a grating of network of brass: and upon the net shalt thou make four brazen rings in the four corners thereof. 5 And thou shalt put it under the ledge round the altar beneath, that the net may reach halfway up the altar. 6 And thou shalt make staves for the altar, staves of acacia wood, and overlay them with brass. 7 And the staves thereof shall be put into the rings, and the staves shall be upon the two sides of the altar, in bearing it. 8 Hollow with planks shalt thou make it: as it hath been showed thee in the mount, so shall they make it.
9 And thou shalt make the court of the tabernacle: for the south side southward there shall be hangings for the court of fine twined linen a hundred cubits long for one side: 10 and the pillars thereof shall be twenty, and their sockets twenty, of brass; the hooks of the pillars and their fillets [shall be] of silver. 11 And likewise for the north side in length there shall be hangings a hundred cubits long, and the pillars thereof twenty, and their sockets twenty, of brass; the hooks of the pillars, and their fillets, of silver.
12 And for the breadth of the court on the west side shall be hangings of fifty cubits; their pillars ten, and their sockets ten. 13 And the breadth of the court on the east side eastward shall be fifty cubits. 14 The hangings for the one side [of the gate] shall be fifteen cubits; their pillars three, and their sockets three. 15 And for the other side shall be hangings of fifteen cubits; their pillars three, and their sockets three.
16 And for the gate of the court shall be a screen of twenty cubits, of blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine twined linen, the work of the embroiderer; their pillars four, and their sockets four. 17 All the pillars of the court round about shall be filleted with silver; their hooks of silver, and their sockets of brass.
18 The length of the court shall be a hundred cubits, and the breadth fifty every where, and the height five cubits, of fine twined linen, and their sockets of brass. 19 All the instruments of the tabernacle in all the service thereof, and all the pins thereof, and all the pins of the court, shall be of brass.
20 And thou shalt command the children of Israel, that they bring unto thee pure olive oil beaten for the light, to cause a lamp to burn continually. 21 In the tent of meeting, without the veil which is before the testimony, Aaron and his sons shall keep it in order from evening to morning before Jehovah: it shall be a statue for ever throughout their generations on the behalf of the children of Israel.
Exodus Chapter 28 1 And bring thou near unto thee Aaron thy brother, and his sons with him, from among the children of Israel,
that he may minister unto me in the priest’s office, even Aaron, Nadab and Abihu, Eleazar and Ithamar, Aaron’s sons. 2 And thou shalt make holy garments for Aaron thy brother, for glory and for beauty. 3 And thou shalt speak unto all that are wise-hearted, whom I have filled with the spirit of wisdom, that they make Aaron’s garments to sanctify him, that he may minister unto me in the priest’s office. 4 And these are the garments which they shall make: a breastplate, and an ephod, and a robe, and a coat of checker work, a mitre, and a girdle: and they shall make holy garments for Aaron thy brother, and his sons, that he may minister unto me in the priest’s office. 5 And they shall take the gold, and the blue, and the purple, and the scarlet, and the fine linen.
6 And they shall make the ephod of gold, of blue, and purple, scarlet, and fine twined linen, the work of the skil- ful workman. 7 It shall have two shoulder-pieces joined to the two ends thereof, that it may be joined together. 8 And the skilfully woven band, which is upon it, wherewith to gird it on, shall be like the work thereof [and] of the same piece; of gold, of blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine twined linen. 9 And thou shalt take two onyx stones, and grave on them the names of the children of Israel: 10 six of their names on the one stone, and the names of the six that remain on the other stone, according to their birth. 11 With the work of an engraver in stone, like the engrav- ings of a signet, shalt thou engrave the two stones, according to the names of the children of Israel: thou shalt make them to be inclosed in settings of gold. 12 And thou shalt put the two stones upon the shoulder-pieces of the ephod, to be stones of memorial for the children of Israel: and Aaron shall bear their names before Jehovah upon his two shoulders for a memorial.
13 And thou shalt make settings of gold, 14 and two chains of pure gold; like cords shalt thou make them, of wreathen work: and thou shalt put the wreathen chains on the settings.
15 And thou shalt make a breastplate of judgment, the work of the skilful workman; like the work of the ephod thou shalt make it; of gold, of blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine twined linen, shalt thou make it. 16 Foursquare it shall be [and] double; a span shall be the length thereof, and a span the breadth thereof. 17 And thou shalt set in it settings of stones, four rows of stones: a row of sardius, topaz, and carbuncle shall be the first row; 18 and the second row an emerald, a sapphire, and a diamond; 19 and the third row a jacinth, an agate, and an amethyst; 20 and the fourth row a beryl, and an onyx, and a jasper: they shall be inclosed in gold in their settings. 21 And the stones shall be according to the names of the children of Israel, twelve, according to their names; like the engravings of a signet,
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every one according to his name, they shall be for the twelve tribes. 22 And thou shalt make upon the breastplate chains like cords, of wreathen work of pure gold. 23 And thou shalt
make upon the breastplate two rings of gold, and shalt put the two rings on the two ends of the breastplate. 24 And thou shalt put the two wreathen chains of gold in the two rings at the ends of the breastplate. 25 And the [other] two ends of the two wreathen chains thou shalt put on the two settings, and put them on the shoulder-pieces of the ephod in the forepart thereof.
26 And thou shalt make two rings of gold, and thou shalt put them upon the two ends of the breastplate, upon the edge thereof, which is toward the side of the ephod inward. 27 And thou shalt make two rings of gold, and shalt put them on the two shoulder-pieces of the ephod underneath, in the forepart thereof, close by the coupling thereof, above the skilfully woven band of the ephod. 28 And they shall bind the breastplate by the rings thereof unto the rings of the ephod with a lace of blue, that it may be upon the skilfully woven band of the ephod, and that the breastplate be not loosed from the ephod. 29 And Aaron shall bear the names of the children of Israel in the breast- plate of judgment upon his heart, when he goeth in unto the holy place, for a memorial before Jehovah continually.
30 And thou shalt put in the breastplate of judgment the Urim and the Thummim; and they shall be upon Aar- on’s heart, when he goeth in before Jehovah: and Aaron shall bear the judgment of the children of Israel upon his heart before Jehovah continually.
31 And thou shalt make the robe of the ephod all of blue. 32 And it shall have a hole for the head in the midst thereof: it shall have a binding of woven work round about the hole of it, as it were the hole of a coat of mail, that it be not rent.
33 And upon the skirts of it thou shalt make pomegranates of blue, and of purple, and of scarlet, round about the skirts thereof; and bells of gold between them round about: 34 a golden bell and a pomegranate, a golden bell and a pomegranate, upon the skirts of the robe round about. 35 And it shall be upon Aaron to minister: and the sound thereof shall be heard when he goeth in unto the holy place before Jehovah, and when he cometh out, that he die not.
36 And thou shalt make a plate of pure gold, and grave upon it, like the engravings of a signet, HOLY TO JEHO- VAH. 37 And thou shalt put it on a lace of blue, and it shall be upon the mitre; upon the forefront of the mitre it shall be. 38 And it shall be upon Aaron’s forehead, and Aaron shall bear the iniquity of the holy things, which the chil- dren of Israel shall hallow in all their holy gifts; and it shall be always upon his forehead, that they may be accepted before Jehovah.
39 And thou shalt weave the coat in checker work of fine linen, and thou shalt make a mitre of fine linen, and thou shalt make a girdle, the work of the embroiderer.
40 And for Aaron’s sons thou shalt make coats, and thou shalt make for them girdles, and head-tires shalt thou make for them, for glory and for beauty. 41 And thou shalt put them upon Aaron thy brother, and upon his sons with him, and shalt anoint them, and consecrate them, and sanctify them, that they may minister unto me in the priest’s office. 42 And thou shalt make them linen breeches to cover the flesh of their nakedness; from the loins even unto the thighs they shall reach: 43 And they shall be upon Aaron, and upon his sons, when they go in unto the tent of meeting, or when they come near unto the altar to minister in the holy place; that they bear not iniquity, and die: it shall be a statute for ever unto him and unto his seed after him.
Exodus Chapter 29 1 And this is the thing that thou shalt do unto them to hallow them, to minister unto me in the priest’s office:
take one young bullock and two rams without blemish, 2 and unleavened bread, and cakes unleavened mingled with oil, and wafers unleavened anointed with oil: of fine wheaten flour shalt thou make them. 3 And thou shalt put them into one basket, and bring them in the basket, with the bullock and the two rams. 4 And Aaron and his sons thou shalt bring unto the door of the tent of meeting, and shalt wash them with water. 5 And thou shalt take the garments, and put upon Aaron the coat, and the robe of the ephod, and the ephod, and the breastplate, and gird him with the skilfully woven band of the ephod; 6 and thou shalt set the mitre upon his head, and put the holy crown upon the mitre. 7 Then shalt thou take the anointing oil, and pour it upon his head, and anoint him. 8 And thou shalt bring his sons, and put coats upon them. 9 And thou shalt gird them with girdles, Aaron and his sons, and bind head-tires on them: and they shall have the priesthood by a perpetual statute: and thou shalt consecrate Aaron and his sons. 10 And thou shalt bring the bullock before the tent of meeting: and Aaron and his sons shall lay their hands upon the head of the bullock. 11 And thou shalt kill the bullock before Jehovah, at the door of the tent of meeting. 12 And thou shalt take of the blood of the bullock, and put it upon the horns of the altar with thy finger; and thou shalt pour out all the blood at the base of the altar. 13 And thou shalt take all the fat that covereth the inwards, and the caul upon the liver, and the two kidneys, and the fat that is upon them, and burn them upon the altar. 14 But the flesh of the bullock, and its skin, and it dung, shalt thou burn with fire without the camp: it is a
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sin-offering. 15 Thou shalt also take the one ram; and Aaron and his sons shall lay their hands upon the head of the ram.
16 And thou shalt slay the ram, and thou shalt take its blood, and sprinkle it round about upon the altar. 17 And thou shalt cut the ram into its pieces, and wash its inwards, and its legs, and put them with its pieces, and with its head. 18 And thou shalt burn the whole ram upon the altar: it is a burnt-offering unto Jehovah; it is a sweet savor, an offer- ing made by fire unto Jehovah.
19 And thou shalt take the other ram; and Aaron and his sons shall lay their hands upon the head of the ram. 20 Then shalt thou kill the ram, and take of its blood, and put it upon the tip of the right ear of Aaron, and upon the tip of the right ear of his sons, and upon the thumb of their right hand, and upon the great toe of their right foot, and sprinkle the blood upon the altar round about. 21 And thou shalt take of the blood that is upon the altar, and of the anointing oil, and sprinkle it upon Aaron, and upon his garments, and upon his sons, and upon the garments of his sons with him: and he shall be hallowed, and his garments, and his sons, and his sons’ garments with him. 22 Also thou shalt take of the ram the fat, and the fat tail, and the fat that covereth the inwards, and the caul of the liver, and the two kidneys, and the fat that is upon them, and the right thigh (for it is a ram of consecration), 23 and one loaf of bread, and one cake of oiled bread, and one wafer, out of the basket of unleavened bread that is before Jehovah. 24 And thou shalt put the whole upon the hands of Aaron, and upon the hands of his sons, and shalt wave them for a wave-offering before Jehovah. 25 And thou shalt take them from their hands, and burn them on the altar upon the burnt-offering, for a sweet savor before Jehovah: it is an offering made by fire unto Jehovah. 26 And thou shalt take the breast of Aaron’s ram of consecration, and wave it for a wave-offering before Jehovah: and it shall be thy portion. 27 And thou shalt sanctify the breast of the wave-offering, and the thigh of the heave-offering, which is waved, and which is heaved up, of the ram of consecration, even of that which is for Aaron, and of that which is for his sons: 28 and it shall be for Aaron and his sons as [their] portion for ever from the children of Israel; for it is a heave-offering: and it shall be a heave-offering from the children of Israel of the sacrifices of their peace-offerings, even their heave-offering unto Jehovah.
29 And the holy garments of Aaron shall be for his sons after him, to be anointed in them, and to be consecrated in them. 30 Seven days shall the son that is priest in his stead put them on, when he cometh into the tent of meeting to minister in the holy place.
31 And thou shalt take the ram of consecration, and boil its flesh in a holy place. 32 And Aaron and his sons shall eat the flesh of the ram, and the bread that is in the basket, at the door of the tent of meeting. 33 And they shall eat those things wherewith atonement was made, to consecrate [and] to sanctify them: but a stranger shall not eat thereof, because they are holy. 34 And if aught of the flesh of the consecration, or of the bread, remain unto the morning, then thou shalt burn the remainder with fire: it shall not be eaten, because it is holy. 35 And thus shalt thou do unto Aaron, and to his sons, according to all that I have commanded thee: seven days shalt thou consecrate them. 36 And every day shalt thou offer the bullock of sin-offering for atonement: and thou shalt cleanse the altar, when thou makest atonement for it; and thou shalt anoint it, to sanctify it. 37 Seven days thou shalt make atonement for the altar, and sanctify it: and the altar shall be most holy; whatsoever toucheth the altar shall be holy.
38 Now this is that which thou shalt offer upon the altar: two lambs a year old day by day continually. 39 The one lamb thou shalt offer in the morning; and the other lamb thou shalt offer at even: 40 and with the one lamb a tenth part [of an ephah] of fine flour mingled with the fourth part of a hin of beaten oil, and the fourth part of a hin of wine for a drink-offering. 41 And the other lamb thou shalt offer at even, and shalt do thereto according to the meal-offering of the morning, and according to the drink-offering thereof, for a sweet savor, an offering made by fire unto Jehovah. 42 It shall be a continual burnt-offering throughout your generations at the door of the tent of meeting before Jehovah, where I will meet with you, to speak there unto thee. 43 And there I will meet with the chil- dren of Israel; and [the Tent] shall be sanctified by my glory. 44 And I will sanctify the tent of meeting, and the altar: Aaron also and his sons will I sanctify, to minister to me in the priest’s office.
45 And I will dwell among the children of Israel, and will be their God. 46 And they shall know that I am Jehovah their God, that brought them forth out of the land of Egypt, that I
might dwell among them: I am Jehovah their God.
Exodus Chapter 30 1 And thou shalt make an altar to burn incense upon: of acacia wood shalt thou make it. 2 A cubit shall be the
length thereof, and a cubit the breadth thereof; foursquare shall it be; and two cubits shall be the height thereof: the horns thereof shall be of one piece with it. 3 And thou shalt overlay it with pure gold, the top thereof, and the sides thereof round about, and the horns thereof; and thou shalt make unto it a crown of gold round about. 4 And two golden rings shalt thou make for it under the crown thereof; upon the two ribs thereof, upon the two sides of it shalt thou make them; and they shall be for places for staves wherewith to bear it. 5 And thou shalt make the staves
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of acacia wood, and overlay them with gold. 6 And thou shalt put it before the veil that is by the ark of the testimo- ny, before the mercy-seat that is over the testimony, where I will meet with thee. 7 And Aaron shall burn thereon incense of sweet spices: every morning, when he dresseth the lamps, he shall burn it. 8 And when Aaron lighteth the lamps at even, he shall burn it, a perpetual incense before Jehovah throughout your generations. 9 Ye shall offer no strange incense thereon, nor burnt-offering, nor meal-offering; and ye shall pour no drink-offering thereon. 10 And Aaron shall make atonement upon the horns of it once in the year; with the blood of the sin-offering of atonement once in the year shall he make atonement for it throughout your generations: it is most holy unto Jehovah.
11 And Jehovah spake unto Moses, saying, 12 When thou takest the sum of the children of Israel, according to those that are numbered of them, then shall they give every man a ransom for his soul unto Jehovah, when thou numberest them; that there be no plague among them, when thou numberest them. 13 This they shall give, every one that passeth over unto them that are numbered, half a shekel after the shekel of the sanctuary; (the shekel is twenty gerahs;) half a shekel for an offering to Jehovah. 14 Every one that passeth over unto them that are numbered, from twenty years old and upward, shall give the offering of Jehovah. 15 The rich shall not give more, and the poor shall not give less, than the half shekel, when they give the offering of Jehovah, to make atonement for your souls. 16 And thou shalt take the atonement money from the children of Israel, and shalt appoint it for the service of the tent of meeting; that it may be a memorial for the children of Israel before Jehovah, to make atonement for your souls.
17 And Jehovah spake unto Moses, saying, 18 Thou shalt also make a laver of brass, and the base thereof of brass, whereat to wash. And thou shalt put it between the tent of meeting and the altar, and thou shalt put water therein. 19 And Aaron and his sons shall wash their hands and their feet thereat: 20 when they go into the tent of meeting, they shall wash with water, that they die not; or when they come near to the altar to minister, to burn an offering made by fire unto Jehovah. 21 So they shall wash their hands and their feet, that they die not: and it shall be a statute for ever to them, even to him and to his seed throughout their generations.
22 Moreover Jehovah spake unto Moses, saying, 23 Take thou also unto thee the chief spices: of flowing myrrh five hundred [shekels], and of sweet cinnamon half so much, even two hundred and fifty, and of sweet calamus two hundred and fifty, 24 and of cassia five hundred, after the shekel of the sanctuary, and of olive oil a hin. 25 And thou shalt make it a holy anointing oil, a perfume compounded after the art of the perfumer: it shall be a holy anointing oil. 26 And thou shalt anoint therewith the tent of meeting, and the ark of the testimony, 27 and the table and all the vessels thereof, and the candlestick and the vessels thereof, and the altar of incense, 28 and the altar of burnt-offering with all the vessels thereof, and the laver and the base thereof. 29 And thou shalt sanctify them, that they may be most holy: whatsoever toucheth them shall be holy. 30 And thou shalt anoint Aaron and his sons, and sanctify them, that they may minister unto me in the priest’s office. 31 And thou shalt speak unto the children of Israel, saying, This shall be a holy anointing oil unto me throughout your generations. 32 Upon the flesh of man shall it not be poured, neither shall ye make any like it, according to the composition thereof: it is holy, [and] it shall be holy unto you. 33 Whosoever compoundeth any like it, or whosoever putteth any of it upon a stranger, he shall be cut off from his people.
34 And Jehovah said unto Moses, Take unto thee sweet spices, stacte, and onycha, and galbanum; sweet spices with pure frankincense: of each shall there be a like weight; 35 and thou shalt make of it incense, a perfume after the art of the perfumer, seasoned with salt, pure [and] holy: 36 and thou shalt beat some of it very small, and put of it before the testimony in the tent of meeting, where I will meet with thee: it shall be unto you most holy. 37 And the incense which thou shalt make, according to the composition thereof ye shall not make for yourselves: it shall be unto thee holy for Jehovah. 38 Whosoever shall make like unto that, to smell thereof, he shall be cut off from his people.
Exodus Chapter 31 1 And Jehovah spake unto Moses, saying, 2 See, I have called by name Bezalel the son of Uri, the son of Hur, of
the tribe of Judah: 3 and I have filled him with the Spirit of God, in wisdom, and in understanding, and in knowl- edge, and in all manner of workmanship, 4 to devise skilful works, to work in gold, and in silver, and in brass, 5 and in cutting of stones for setting, and in carving of wood, to work in all manner of workmanship. 6 And I, behold, I have appointed with him Oholiab, the son of Ahisamach, of the tribe of Dan; and in the heart of all that are wise-hearted I have put wisdom, that they may make all that I have commanded thee: 7 the tent of meeting, and the ark of the testimony, and the mercy-seat that is thereupon, and all the furniture of the Tent, 8 and the table and its vessels, and the pure candlestick with all its vessels, and the altar of incense, 9 and the altar of burnt-offering with all its vessels, and the laver and its base, 10 and the finely wrought garments, and the holy garments for Aaron the priest, and the garments of his sons, to minister in the priest’s office, 11 and the anointing oil, and the incense of sweet spices for the holy place: according to all that I have commanded thee shall they do.
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12 And Jehovah spake unto Moses, saying, 13 Speak thou also unto the children of Israel, saying, Verily ye shall keep my sabbaths: for it is a sign between me and you throughout your generations; that ye may know that I am Jehovah who sanctifieth you. 14 Ye shall keep the sabbath therefore; for it is holy unto you: every one that profaneth it shall surely be put to death; for whosoever doeth any work therein, that soul shall be cut off from among his peo- ple. 15 Six days shall work be done, but on the seventh day is a sabbath of solemn rest, holy to Jehovah: whosoever doeth any work on the sabbath day, he shall surely be put to death. 16 Wherefore the children of Israel shall keep the sabbath, to observe the sabbath throughout their generations, for a perpetual covenant. 17 It is a sign between me and the children of Israel for ever: for in six days Jehovah made heaven and earth, and on the seventh day he rested, and was refreshed.
18 And he gave unto Moses, when he had made an end of communing with him upon mount Sinai, the two tables of the testimony, tables of stone, written with the finger of God.
Exodus Chapter 32 1 And when the people saw that Moses delayed to come down from the mount, the people gathered themselves
together unto Aaron, and said unto him, Up, make us gods, which shall go before us; for as for this Moses, the man that brought us up out of the land of Egypt, we know not what is become of him. 2 And Aaron said unto them, Break off the golden rings, which are in the ears of your wives, of your sons, and of your daughters, and bring them unto me. 3 And all the people brake off the golden rings which were in their ears, and brought them unto Aaron. 4 And he received it at their hand, and fashioned it with a graving tool, and made it a molten calf: and they said, These are thy gods, O Israel, which brought thee up out of the land of Egypt. 5 And when Aaron saw [this], he built an altar before it; and Aaron made proclamation, and said, To-morrow shall be a feast to Jehovah. 6 And they rose up early on the morrow, and offered burnt-offerings, and brought peace-offerings; and the people sat down to eat and to drink, and rose up to play.
7 And Jehovah spake unto Moses, Go, get thee down; for thy people, that thou broughtest up out of the land of Egypt, have corrupted themselves: 8 they have turned aside quickly out of the way which I commanded them: they have made them a molten calf, and have worshipped it, and have sacrificed unto it, and said, These are thy gods, O Israel, which brought thee up out of the land of Egypt. 9 And Jehovah said unto Moses, I have seen this people, and, behold, it is a stiffnecked people: 10 now therefore let me alone, that my wrath may wax hot against them, and that I may consume them: and I will make of thee a great nation. 11 And Moses besought Jehovah his God, and said, Jehovah, why doth thy wrath wax hot against thy people, that thou hast brought forth out of the land of Egypt with great power and with a mighty hand? 12 Wherefore should the Egyptians speak, saying, For evil did he bring them forth, to slay them in the mountains, and to consume them from the face of the earth? Turn from thy fierce wrath, and repent of this evil against thy people. 13 Remember Abraham, Isaac, and Israel, thy servants, to whom thou swarest by thine own self, and saidst unto them, I will multiply your seed as the stars of heaven, and all this land that I have spoken of will I give unto your seed, and they shall inherit it for ever. 14 And Jehovah repented of the evil which he said he would do unto his people.
15 And Moses turned, and went down from the mount, with the two tables of the testimony in his hand; tables that were written on both their sides; on the one side and on the other were they written. 16 And the tables were the work of God, and the writing was the writing of God, graven upon the tables. 17 And when Joshua heard the noise of the people as they shouted, he said unto Moses, There is a noise of war in the camp. 18 And he said, It is not the voice of them that shout for mastery, neither is it the voice of them that cry for being overcome; but the noise of them that sing do I hear.
19 And it came to pass, as soon as he came nigh unto the camp, that he saw the calf and the dancing: and Moses’ anger waxed hot, and he cast the tables out of his hands, and brake them beneath the mount. 20 And he took the calf which they had made, and burnt it with fire, and ground it to powder, and strewed it upon the water, and made the children of Israel drink of it.
21 And Moses said unto Aaron, What did this people unto thee, that thou hast brought a great sin upon them? 22 And Aaron said, Let not the anger of my lord wax hot: thou knowest the people, that they are [set] on evil. 23 For they said unto me, Make us gods, which shall go before us; for as for this Moses, the man that brought us up out of the land of Egypt, we know not what is become of him. 24 And I said unto them, Whosoever hath any gold, let them break it off: so they gave it me; and I cast it into the fire, and there came out this calf.
25 And when Moses saw that the people were broken loose, (for Aaron had let them loose for a derision among their enemies,) 26 then Moses stood in the gate of the camp, and said, Whoso is on Jehovah’s side, [let him come] unto me. And all the sons of Levi gathered themselves together unto him. 27 And he said unto them, Thus saith Jehovah, the God of Israel, Put ye every man his sword upon his thigh, and go to and fro from gate to gate through- out the camp, and slay every man his brother, and every man his companion, and every man his neighbor. 28 And
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the sons of Levi did according to the word of Moses: and there fell of the people that day about three thousand men. 29 And Moses said, Consecrate yourselves to-day to Jehovah, yea, every man against his son, and against his brother; that he may bestow upon you a blessing this day.
30 And it came to pass on the morrow, that Moses said unto the people, Ye have sinned a great sin: and now I will go up unto Jehovah; peradventure I shall make atonement for your sin. 31 And Moses returned unto Jehovah, and said, Oh, this people have sinned a great sin, and have made them gods of gold. 32 Yet now, if thou wilt forgive their sin-; and if not, blot me, I pray thee, out of thy book which thou hast written. 33 And Jehovah said unto Moses, Whosoever hath sinned against me, him will I blot out of my book. 34 And now go, lead the people unto [the place] of which I have spoken unto thee: behold, mine angel shall go before thee; nevertheless in the day when I visit, I will visit their sin upon them. 35 And Jehovah smote the people, because they made the calf, which Aaron made.
Exodus Chapter 33 1 And Jehovah spake unto Moses, Depart, go up hence, thou and the people that thou hast brought up out of the
land of Egypt, unto the land of which I sware unto Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob, saying, Unto thy seed will I give it: 2 and I will send an angel before thee; and I will drive out the Canaanite, the Amorite, and the Hittite, and the Perizzite, the Hivite, and the Jebusite: 3 unto a land flowing with milk and honey: for I will not go up in the midst of thee, for thou art a stiffnecked people, lest I consume thee in the way.
4 And when the people heard these evil tidings, they mourned: and no man did put on him his ornaments. 5 And Jehovah said unto Moses, Say unto the children of Israel, Ye are a stiffnecked people; if I go up into the midst of thee for one moment, I shall consume thee: therefore now put off thy ornaments from thee, that I may know what to do unto thee. 6 And the children of Israel stripped themselves of their ornaments from mount Horeb on- ward.
7 Now Moses used to take the tent and to pitch it without the camp, afar off from the camp; and he called it, The tent of meeting. And it came to pass, that every one that sought Jehovah went out unto the tent of meeting, which was without the camp. 8 And it came to pass, when Moses went out unto the Tent, that all the people rose up, and stood, every man at his tent door, and looked after Moses, until he was gone into the Tent. 9 And it came to pass, when Moses entered into the Tent, the pillar of cloud descended, and stood at the door of the Tent: and [Jehovah] spake with Moses. 10 And all the people saw the pillar of cloud stand at the door of the Tent: and all the people rose up and worshipped, every man at his tent door. 11 And Jehovah spake unto Moses face to face, as a man speaketh unto his friend. And he turned again into the camp: but his minister Joshua, the son of Nun, a young man, departed not out of the Tent.
12 And Moses said unto Jehovah, See, thou sayest unto me, Bring up this people: and thou hast not let me know whom thou wilt send with me. Yet thou hast said, I know thee by name, and thou hast also found favor in my sight. 13 Now therefore, I pray thee, if I have found favor in thy sight, show me now thy ways, that I may know thee, to the end that I may find favor in thy sight: and consider that this nation is thy people. 14 And he said, My presence shall go [with thee], and I will give thee rest. 15 And he said unto him, If thy presence go not [with me], carry us not up hence. 16 For wherein now shall it be known that I have found favor in thy sight, I and thy people? is it not in that thou goest with us, so that we are separated, I and thy people, from all the people that are upon the face of the earth? 17 And Jehovah said unto Moses, I will do this thing also that thou hast spoken; for thou hast found favor in my sight, and I know thee by name. 18 And he said, Show me, I pray thee, thy glory. 19 And he said, I will make all my goodness pass before thee, and will proclaim the name of Jehovah before thee; and I will be gracious to whom I will be gracious, and will show mercy on whom I will show mercy. 20 And he said, Thou canst not see my face; for man shall not see me and live. 21 and Jehovah said, Behold, there is a place by me, and thou shalt stand upon the rock: 22 and it shall come to pass, while my glory passeth by, that I will put thee in a cleft of the rock, and will cover thee with my hand until I have passed by: 23 and I will take away my hand, and thou shalt see my back; but my face shall not be seen.
Exodus Chapter 34 1 And Jehovah said unto Moses, Hew thee two tables of stone like unto the first: and I will write upon the tables
the words that were on the first tables, which thou brakest. 2 And be ready by the morning, and come up in the morning unto mount Sinai, and present thyself there to me on the top of the mount. 3 And no man shall come up with thee; neither let any man be seen throughout all the mount; neither let the flocks nor herds feed before that mount.
4 And he hewed two tables of stone like unto the first; and Moses rose up early in the morning, and went up unto mount Sinai, as Jehovah had commanded him, and took in his hand two tables of stone.
5 And Jehovah descended in the cloud, and stood with him there, and proclaimed the name of Jehovah. 6 And
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Jehovah passed by before him, and proclaimed, Jehovah, Jehovah, a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abundant in lovingkindness and truth, 7 keeping lovingkindness for thousands, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin; and that will by no means clear [the guilty], visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children, and upon the children’s children, upon the third and upon the fourth generation. 8 And Moses made haste, and bowed his head toward the earth, and worshipped. 9 And he said, If now I have found favor in thy sight, O Lord, let the Lord, I pray thee, go in the midst of us; for it is a stiffnecked people; and pardon our iniquity and our sin, and take us for thine inheritance.
10 And he said, Behold, I make a covenant: before all thy people I will do marvels, such as have not been wrought in all the earth, nor in any nation; and all the people among which thou art shall see the work of Jehovah; for it is a terrible thing that I do with thee. 11 Observe thou that which I command thee this day: behold, I drive out before thee the Amorite, and the Canaanite, and the Hittite, and the Perizzite, and the Hivite, and the Jebusite. 12 Take heed to thyself, lest thou make a covenant with the inhabitants of the land whither thou goest, lest it be for a snare in the midst of thee: 13 but ye shall break down their altars, and dash in pieces their pillars, and ye shall cut down their Asherim; 14 for thou shalt worship no other god: for Jehovah, whose name is Jealous, is a jealous God: 15 lest thou make a covenant with the inhabitants of the land, and they play the harlot after their gods, and sacrifice unto their gods, and one call thee and thou eat of his sacrifice; 16 and thou take of their daughters unto thy sons, and their daughters play the harlot after their gods, and make thy sons play the harlot after their gods. 17 Thou shalt make thee no molten gods.
18 The feast of unleavened bread shalt thou keep. Seven days thou shalt eat unleavened bread, as I command- ed thee, at the time appointed in the month Abib; for in the month Abib thou camest out from Egypt. 19 All that openeth the womb is mine; and all thy cattle that is male, the firstlings of cow and sheep. 20 And the firstling of an ass thou shalt redeem with a lamb: and if thou wilt not redeem it, then thou shalt break its neck. All the first-born of thy sons thou shalt redeem. And none shall appear before me empty.
21 Six days thou shalt work, but on the seventh day thou shalt rest: in plowing time and in harvest thou shalt rest.
22 And thou shalt observe the feast of weeks, [even] of the first-fruits of wheat harvest, and the feast of ingather- ing at the year’s end.
23 Three times in the year shall all thy males appear before the Lord Jehovah, the God of Israel. 24 For I will cast out nations before thee, and enlarge thy borders: neither shall any man desire thy land, when thou goest up to ap- pear before Jehovah thy God three times in the year. 25 Thou shalt not offer the blood of my sacrifice with leavened bread; neither shall the sacrifice of the feast of the passover be left unto the morning. 26 The first of the first-fruits of thy ground thou shalt bring unto the house of Jehovah thy God. Thou shalt not boil a kid in its mother’s milk. 27 And Jehovah said unto Moses, Write thou these words: for after the tenor of these words I have made a covenant with thee and with Israel.
28 And he was there with Jehovah forty days and forty nights; he did neither eat bread, nor drink water. And he wrote upon the tables the words of the covenant, the ten commandments.
29 And it came to pass, when Moses came down from mount Sinai with the two tables of the testimony in Mo- ses’ hand, when he came down from the mount, that Moses knew not that the skin of his face shone by reason of his speaking with him. 30 And when Aaron and all the children of Israel saw Moses, behold, the skin of his face shone; and they were afraid to come nigh him. 31 And Moses called unto them; and Aaron and all the rulers of the congre- gation returned unto him: and Moses spake to them. 32 And afterward all the children of Israel came nigh: and he gave them in commandment all that Jehovah had spoken with him in mount Sinai. 33 And when Moses had done speaking with them, he put a veil on his face. 34 But when Moses went in before Jehovah to speak with him, he took the veil off, until he came out; and he came out, and spake unto the children of Israel that which he was command- ed. 35 And the children of Israel saw the face of Moses, that the skin of Moses’ face shone: and Moses put the veil upon his face again, until he went in to speak with him.
Exodus Chapter 35 1 And Moses assembled all the congregation of the children of Israel, and said unto them, These are the words
which Jehovah hath commanded, that ye should do them. 2 Six days shall work be done; but on the seventh day there shall be to you a holy day, a sabbath of solemn rest to Jehovah: whosoever doeth any work therein shall be put to death. 3 Ye shall kindle no fire throughout your habitations upon the sabbath day.
4 And Moses spake unto all the congregation of the children of Israel, saying, This is the thing which Jehovah commanded, saying, 5 Take ye from among you an offering unto Jehovah; whosoever is of a willing heart, let him bring it, Jehovah’s offering: gold, and silver, and brass, 6 and blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine linen, and goats’ [hair], 7 and rams’ skins dyed red, and sealskins, and acacia wood, 8 and oil for the light, and spices for the anointing
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oil, and for the sweet incense, 9 and onyx stones, and stones to be set, for the ephod, and for the breastplate. 10 And let every wise-hearted man among you come, and make all that Jehovah hath commanded: 11 the tabernacle, its tent, and its covering, its clasps, and its boards, its bars, its pillars, and its sockets; 12 the ark, and the staves thereof, the mercy-seat, and the veil of the screen; 13 the table, and its staves, and all its vessels, and the showbread; 14 the can- dlestick also for the light, and its vessels, and its lamps, and the oil for the light; 15 and the altar of incense, and its staves, and the anointing oil, and the sweet incense, and the screen for the door, at the door of the tabernacle; 16 the altar of burnt-offering, with its grating of brass, it staves, and all its vessels, the laver and its base; 17 the hangings of the court, the pillars thereof, and their sockets, and the screen for the gate of the court; 18 the pins of the tabernacle, and the pins of the court, and their cords; 19 the finely wrought garments, for ministering in the holy place, the holy garments for Aaron the priest, and the garments of his sons, to minister in the priest’s office.
20 And all the congregation of the children of Israel departed from the presence of Moses. 21 And they came, every one whose heart stirred him up, and every one whom his spirit made willing, [and] brought Jehovah’s offer- ing, for the work of the tent of meeting, and for all the service thereof, and for the holy garments. 22 And they came, both men and women, as many as were willing-hearted, [and] brought brooches, and ear-rings, and signet-rings, and armlets, all jewels of gold; even every man that offered an offering of gold unto Jehovah. 23 And every man, with whom was found blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine linen, and goats’ [hair], and rams’ skins dyed red, and seal- skins, brought them. 24 Every one that did offer an offering of silver and brass brought Jehovah’s offering; and every man, with whom was found acacia wood for any work of the service, brought it. 25 And all the women that were wise-hearted did spin with their hands, and brought that which they had spun, the blue, and the purple, the scarlet, and the fine linen. 26 And all the women whose heart stirred them up in wisdom spun the goats’ [hair]. 27 And the rulers brought the onyx stones, and the stones to be set, for the ephod, and for the breastplate; 28 and the spice, and the oil; for the light, and for the anointing oil, and for the sweet incense. 29 The children of Israel brought a free- will-offering unto Jehovah; every man and woman, whose heart made them willing to bring for all the work, which Jehovah had commanded to be made by Moses.
30 And Moses said unto the children of Israel, See, Jehovah hath called by name Bezalel the son of Uri, the son of Hur, of the tribe of Judah. 31 And he hath filled him with the Spirit of God, in wisdom, in understanding, and in knowledge, and in all manner of workmanship; 32 and to devise skilful works, to work in gold, and in silver, and in brass, 33 and in cutting of stones for setting, and in carving of wood, to work in all manner of skilful workmanship. 34 And he hath put in his heart that he may teach, both he, and Oholiab, the son of Ahisamach, of the tribe of Dan. 35 Them hath he filled with wisdom of heart, to work all manner of workmanship, of the engraver, and of the skilful workman, and of the embroiderer, in blue, and in purple, in scarlet, and in fine linen, and of the weaver, even of them that do any workmanship, and of those that devise skilful works.
Exodus Chapter 36 1 And Bezalel and Oholiab shall work, and every wise-hearted man, in whom Jehovah hath put wisdom and
understanding to know how to work all the work for the service of the sanctuary, according to all that Jehovah hath commanded. 2 And Moses called Bezalel and Oholiab, and every wise-hearted man, in whose heart Jehovah had put wisdom, even every one whose heart stirred him up to come unto the work to do it: 3 and they received of Moses all the offering which the children of Israel had brought for the work of the service of the sanctuary, wherewith to make it. And they brought yet unto him freewill-offerings every morning. 4 And all the wise men, that wrought all the work of the sanctuary, came every man from his work which they wrought.
5 And they spake unto Moses, saying, The people bring much more than enough for the service of the work which Jehovah commanded to make. 6 And Moses gave commandment, and they caused it to be proclaimed throughout the camp, saying, Let neither man nor woman make any more work for the offering of the sanctuary. So the people were restrained from bringing. 7 For the stuff they had was sufficient for all the work to make it, and too much.
8 And all the wise-hearted men among them that wrought the work made the tabernacle with ten curtains; of fine twined linen, and blue, and purple, and scarlet, with cherubim, the work of the skilful workman, [Bezalel] made them. 9 The length of each curtain was eight and twenty cubits, and the breadth of each curtain four cubits: all the curtains had one measure. 10 And he coupled five curtains one to another: and [the other] five curtains he coupled one to another. 11 And he made loops of blue upon the edge of the one curtain from the selvedge in the coupling: likewise he made in the edge of the curtain that was outmost in the second coupling. 12 Fifty loops made he in the one curtain, and fifty loops made he in the edge of the curtain that was in the second coupling: the loops were opposite one to another. 13 And he made fifty clasps of gold, and coupled the curtains one to another with the clasps: so the tabernacle was one.
14 And he made curtains of goats’ [hair] for a tent over the tabernacle: eleven curtains he made them. 15 The
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length of each curtain was thirty cubits, and four cubits the breadth of each curtain: the eleven curtains had one measure. 16 And he coupled five curtains by themselves, and six curtains by themselves. 17 And he made fifty loops on the edge of the curtain that was outmost in the coupling, and fifty loops made he upon the edge of the curtain which was [outmost in] the second coupling. 18 And he made fifty clasps of brass to couple the tent together, that it might be one. 19 And he made a covering for the tent of rams’ skins dyed red, and a covering of sealskins above.
20 And he made the boards for the tabernacle, of acacia wood, standing up. 21 Ten cubits was the length of a board, and a cubit and a half the breadth of each board. 22 Each board had two tenons, joined one to another: thus did he make for all the boards of the tabernacle. 23 And he made the boards for the tabernacle: twenty boards for the south side southward. 24 And he made forty sockets of silver under the twenty boards; two sockets under one board for its two tenons, and two sockets under another board for its two tenons. 25 And for the second side of the taber- nacle, on the north side, he made twenty boards, 26 and their forty sockets of silver; two sockets under one board, and two sockets under another board. 27 And for the hinder part of the tabernacle westward he made six boards. 28 And two boards made he for the corners of the tabernacle in the hinder part. 29 And they were double beneath; and in like manner they were entire unto the top thereof unto one ring: thus he did to both of them in the two cor- ners. 30 And there were eight boards, and their sockets of silver, sixteen sockets; under every board two sockets.
31 And he made bars of acacia wood; five for the boards of the one side of the tabernacle, 32 and five bars for the boards of the other side of the tabernacle, and five bars for the boards of the tabernacle for the hinder part westward. 33 And he made the middle bar to pass through in the midst of the boards from the one end to the other. 34 And he overlaid the boards with gold, and made their rings of gold for places for the bars, and overlaid the bars with gold.
35 And he made the veil of blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine twined linen: with cherubim, the work of the skilful workman, made he it. 36 And he made thereunto four pillars of acacia, and overlaid them with gold: their hooks were of gold; And he cast for them four sockets of silver.
37 And he made a screen for the door of the Tent, of blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine twined linen, the work of the embroiderer; 38 and the five pillars of it with their hooks: and he overlaid their capitals and their fillets with gold; and their five sockets were of brass.
Exodus Chapter 37 1 And Bezalel made the ark of acacia wood: two cubits and a half was the length of it, and a cubit and a half the
breadth of it, and a cubit and a half the height of it: 2 and he overlaid it with pure gold within and without, and made a crown of gold to it round about. 3 And he
cast for it four rings of gold, in the four feet thereof; even two rings on the one side of it, and two rings on the other side of it. 4 And he made staves of acacia wood, and overlaid them with gold. 5 And he put the staves into the rings on the sides of the ark, to bear the ark.
6 And he made a mercy-seat of pure gold: two cubits and a half [was] the length thereof, and a cubit and a half the breadth thereof. 7 And he made two cherubim of gold; of beaten work made he them, at the two ends of the mercy-seat; 8 one cherub at the one end, and one cherub at the other end: of one piece with the mercy-seat made he the cherubim at the two ends thereof. 9 And the cherubim spread out their wings on high, covering the mercy-seat with their wings, with their faces one to another; toward the mercy-seat were the faces of the cherubim.
10 And he made the table of acacia wood: two cubits [was] the length thereof, and a cubit the breadth thereof, and a cubit and a half the height thereof: 11 and he overlaid it with pure gold, and made thereto a crown of gold round about. 12 And he made unto it a border of a handbreadth round about, and made a golden crown to the bor- der thereof round about. 13 And he cast for it four rings of gold, and put the rings in the four corners that were on the four feet thereof. 14 Close by the border were the rings, the places for the staves to bear the table. 15 And he made the staves of acacia wood, and overlaid them with gold, to bear the table. 16 And he made the vessels which were upon the table, the dishes thereof, and the spoons thereof, and the bowls thereof, and the flagons thereof, where- with to pour out, of pure gold.
17 And he made the candlestick of pure gold: of beaten work made he the candlestick, even its base, and its shaft; its cups, it knops, and its flowers, were of one piece with it: 18 and there were six branches going out of the sides thereof; three branches of the candlestick out of the one side thereof, and three branches of the candlestick out of the other side thereof: 19 three cups made like almond-blossoms in one branch, a knop and a flower, and three cups made like almond-blossoms in the other branch, a knop and a flower: so for the six branches going out of the candlestick. 20 And in the candlestick were four cups made like almond-blossoms, the knops thereof, and the flowers thereof; 21 and a knop under two branches of one piece with it, and a knop under two branches of one piece with it, and a knop under two branches of one piece with it, for the six branches going out of it. 22 Their knops and their branches were of one piece with it: the whole of it was one beaten work of pure gold. 23 And he made the lamps
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thereof, seven, and the snuffers thereof, and the snuffdishes thereof, of pure gold. 24 Of a talent of pure gold made he it, and all the vessels thereof.
25 And he made the altar of incense of acacia wood: a cubit was the length thereof, and a cubit the breadth thereof, foursquare; and two cubits was the height thereof; the horns thereof were of one piece with it. 26 And he overlaid it with pure gold, the top thereof, and the sides thereof round about, and the horns of it: and he made unto it a crown of gold round about. 27 And he made for it two golden rings under the crown thereof, upon the two ribs thereof, upon the two sides of it, for places for staves wherewith to bear it. 28 And he made the staves of acacia wood, and overlaid them with gold.
29 And he made the holy anointing oil, and the pure incense of sweet spices, after the art of the perfumer.
Exodus Chapter 38 1 And he made the altar of burnt-offering of acacia wood: five cubits was the length thereof, and five cubits the
breadth thereof, foursquare; and three cubits the height thereof. 2 And he made the horns thereof upon the four corners of it; the horns thereof were of one piece with it: and he overlaid it with brass. 3 And he made all the vessels of the altar, the pots, and the shovels, and the basins, the flesh-hooks, and the firepans: all the vessels thereof made he of brass. 4 And he made for the altar a grating of network of brass, under the ledge round it beneath, reaching halfway up. 5 And he cast four rings for the four ends of the grating of brass, to be places for the staves. 6 And he made the staves of acacia wood, and overlaid them with brass. 7 And he put the staves into the rings on the sides of the altar, wherewith to bear it; he made it hollow with planks.
8 And he made the laver of brass, and the base thereof of brass, of the mirrors of the ministering women that ministered at the door of the tent of meeting.
9 And he made the court: for the south side southward the hangings of the court were of fine twined linen, a hundred cubits; 10 their pillars were twenty, and their sockets twenty, of brass; the hooks of the pillars and their fil- lets were of silver. 11 And for the north side a hundred cubits, their pillars twenty, and their sockets twenty, of brass; the hooks of the pillars, and their fillets, of silver. 12 And for the west side were hangings of fifty cubits, their pillars ten, and their sockets ten; the hooks of the pillars, and their fillets, of silver. 13 And for the east side eastward fifty cubits. 14 The hangings for the one side [of the gate] were fifteen cubits; their pillars three, and their sockets three; 15 and so for the other side: on this hand and that hand by the gate of the court were hangings of fifteen cubits; their pillars three, and their sockets three. 16 All the hangings of the court round about were of fine twined linen. 17 And the sockets for the pillars were of brass; the hooks of the pillars, and their fillets, of silver; and the overlaying of their capitals, of silver; and all the pillars of the court were filleted with silver. 18 And the screen for the gate of the court was the work of the embroiderer, of blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine twined linen: and twenty cubits was the length, and the height in the breadth was five cubits, answerable to the hangings of the court. 19 And their pillars were four, and their sockets four, of brass; their hooks of silver, and the overlaying of their capitals, and their fillets, of silver. 20 And all the pins of the tabernacle, and of the court round about, were of brass.
21 This is the sum of [the things for] the tabernacle, even the tabernacle of the testimony, as they were counted, according to the commandment of Moses, for the service of the Levites, by the hand of Ithamar, the son of Aaron the priest. 22 And Bezalel the son of Uri, the son of Hur, of the tribe of Judah, made all that Jehovah commanded Moses. 23 And with him was Oholiab, the son of Ahisamach, of the tribe of Dan, an engraver, and a skilful work- man, and an embroiderer in blue, and in purple, and in scarlet, and in fine linen. 24 All the gold that was used for the work in all the work of the sanctuary, even the gold of the offering, was twenty and nine talents, and seven hun- dred and thirty shekels, after the shekel of the sanctuary. 25 And the silver of them that were numbered of the con- gregation was a hundred talents, and a thousand seven hundred and threescore and fifteen shekels, after the shekel of the sanctuary: 26 a beka a head, [that is], half a shekel, after the shekel of the sanctuary, for every one that passed over to them that were numbered, from twenty years old and upward, for six hundred thousand and three thousand and five hundred and fifty men. 27 And the hundred talents of silver were for casting the sockets of the sanctuary, and the sockets of the veil; a hundred sockets for the hundred talents, a talent for a socket. 28 And of the thousand seven hundred seventy and five [shekels] he made hooks for the pillars, and overlaid their capitals, and made fillets for them. 29 And the brass of the offering was seventy talents, and two thousand and four hundred shekels. 30 And therewith he made the sockets to the door of the tent of meeting, and the brazen altar, and the brazen grating for it, and all the vessels of the altar, 31 and the sockets of the court round about, and the sockets of the gate of the court, and all the pins of the tabernacle, and all the pins of the court round about.
Exodus Chapter 39 1 And of the blue, and purple, and scarlet, they made finely wrought garments, for ministering in the holy place,
and made the holy garments for Aaron; as Jehovah commanded Moses. 2 And he made the ephod of gold, blue, and
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purple, and scarlet, and fine twined linen. 3 And they did beat the gold into thin plates, and cut it into wires, to work it in the blue, and in the purple, and in the scarlet, and in the fine linen, the work of the skilful workman. 4 They made shoulder-pieces for it, joined together; at the two ends was it joined together. 5 And the skilfully woven band, that was upon it, wherewith to gird it on, was of the same piece [and] like the work thereof; of gold, of blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine twined linen; as Jehovah commanded Moses.
6 And they wrought the onyx stones, inclosed in settings of gold, graven with the engravings of a signet, accord- ing to the names of the children of Israel. 7 And he put them on the shoulder-pieces of the ephod, to be stones of memorial for the children of Israel; as Jehovah commanded Moses.
8 And he made the breastplate, the work of the skilful workman, like the work of the ephod; of gold, of blue, and purple, and scarlet, and fine twined linen. 9 It was foursquare; they made the breastplate double: a span was the length thereof, and a span the breadth thereof, being double. 10 And they set in it four rows of stones. A row of sardius, topaz, and carbuncle was the first row; 11 and the second row, an emerald, a sapphire, and a diamond; 12 and the third row, a jacinth, an agate, and an amethyst; 13 and the fourth row, a beryl, an onyx, and a jaspar: they were inclosed in inclosings of gold in their settings. 14 And the stones were according to the names of the children of Isra- el, twelve, according to their names; like the engravings of a signet, every one according to his name, for the twelve tribes. 15 And they made upon the breastplate chains like cords, of wreathen work of pure gold. 16 And they made two settings of gold, and two gold rings, and put the two rings on the two ends of the breastplate. 17 And they put the two wreathen chains of gold in the two rings at the ends of the breastplate. 18 And the [other] two ends of the two wreathen chains they put on the two settings, and put them on the shoulder-pieces of the ephod, in the fore- part thereof. 19 And they made two rings of gold, and put them upon the two ends of the breastplate, upon the edge thereof, which was toward the side of the ephod inward. 20 And they made two rings of gold, and put them on the two shoulder-pieces of the ephod underneath, in the forepart thereof, close by the coupling thereof, above the skil- fully woven band of the ephod. 21 And they did bind the breastplate by the rings thereof unto the rings of the ephod with a lace of blue, that it might be upon the skilfully woven band of the ephod, and that the breastplate might not be loosed from the ephod; as Jehovah commanded Moses.
22 And he made the robe of the ephod of woven work, all of blue. 23 And the hole of the robe in the midst thereof, as the hole of a coat of mail, with a binding round about the hole of it, that it should not be rent. 24 And they made upon the skirts of the robe pomegranates of blue, and purple, and scarlet, [and] twined [linen]. 25 And they made bells of pure gold, and put the bells between the pomegranates upon the skirts of the robe round about, between the pomegranates; 26 a bell and a pomegranate, a bell and a pomegranate, upon the skirts of the robe round about, to minister in; as Jehovah commanded Moses.
27 And they made the coats of fine linen of woven work for Aaron, and for his sons, 28 and the mitre of fine linen, and the goodly head-tires of fine linen, and the linen breeches of fine twined linen, 29 and the girdle of fine twined linen, and blue, and purple, and scarlet, the work of the embroiderer; as Jehovah commanded Moses.
30 And they made the plate of the holy crown of pure gold, and wrote upon it a writing, like the engravings of a signet, HOLY TO JEHOVAH. 31 And they tied unto it a lace of blue, to fasten it upon the mitre above; as Jehovah commanded Moses.
32 Thus was finished all the work of the tabernacle of the tent of meeting: and the children of Israel did accord- ing to all that Jehovah commanded Moses; so did they.
33 And they brought the tabernacle unto Moses, the Tent, and all its furniture, its clasps, its boards, it bars, and its pillars, and it sockets; 34 and the covering of rams’ skins dyed red, and the covering of sealskins, and the veil of the screen; 35 the ark of the testimony, and the staves thereof, and the mercy-seat; 36 the table, all the vessels thereof, and the showbread; 37 the pure candlestick, the lamps thereof, even the lamps to be set in order, and all the vessels thereof, and the oil for the light; 38 and the golden altar, and the anointing oil, and the sweet incense, and the screen for the door of the Tent; 39 the brazen altar, and its grating of brass, its staves, and all its vessels, the laver and its base; 40 the hangings of the court, its pillars, and its sockets, and the screen for the gate of the court, the cords there- of, and the pins thereof, and all the instruments of the service of the tabernacle, for the tent of meeting; 41 the finely wrought garments for ministering in the holy place, and the holy garments for Aaron the priest, and the garments of his sons, to minister in the priest’s office. 42 According to all that Jehovah commanded Moses, so the children of Israel did all the work. 43 And Moses saw all the work, and, behold, they had done it; as Jehovah had commanded, even so had they done it: and Moses blessed them.
Exodus Chapter 40 1 And Jehovah spake unto Moses, saying, 2 On the first day of the first month shalt thou rear up the tabernacle
of the tent of meeting. 3 And thou shalt put therein the ark of the testimony, and thou shalt screen the ark with the veil. 4 And thou shalt bring in the table, and set in order the things that are upon it; and thou shalt bring in the can-
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dlestick, and light the lamps thereof. 5 And thou shalt set the golden altar for incense before the ark of the testimo- ny, and put the screen of the door to the tabernacle. 6 And thou shalt set the altar of burnt-offering before the door of the tabernacle of the tent of meeting. 7 And thou shalt set the laver between the tent of meeting and the altar, and shalt put water therein. 8 And thou shalt set up the court round about, and hang up the screen of the gate of the court. 9 And thou shalt take the anointing oil, and anoint the tabernacle, and all that is therein, and shalt hallow it, and all the furniture thereof: and it shall be holy. 10 And thou shalt anoint the altar of burnt-offering, and all its vessels, and sanctify the altar: and the altar shall be most holy. 11 And thou shalt anoint the laver and its base, and sanctify it. 12 And thou shalt bring Aaron and his sons unto the door of the tent of meeting, and shalt wash them with water. 13 And thou shalt put upon Aaron the holy garments; and thou shalt anoint him, and sanctify him, that he may minister unto me in the priest’s office. 14 And thou shalt bring his sons, and put coats upon them; 15 and thou shalt anoint them, as thou didst anoint their father, that they may minister unto me in the priest’s office: and their anointing shall be to them for an everlasting priesthood throughout their generations.
16 Thus did Moses: according to all that Jehovah commanded him, so did he. 17 And it came to pass in the first month in the second year, on the first day of the month, that the tabernacle
was reared up. 18 And Moses reared up the tabernacle, and laid its sockets, and set up the boards thereof, and put in the bars thereof, and reared up its pillars. 19 And he spread the tent over the tabernacle, and put the covering of the tent above upon it; as Jehovah commanded Moses.
20 And he took and put the testimony into the ark, and set the staves on the ark, and put the mercy-seat above upon the ark: 21 and he brought the ark into the tabernacle, and set up the veil of the screen, and screened the ark of the testimony; as Jehovah commanded Moses.
22 And he put the table in the tent of meeting, upon the side of the tabernacle northward, without the veil. 23 And he set the bread in order upon it before Jehovah; as Jehovah commanded Moses.
24 And he put the candlestick in the tent of meeting, over against the table, on the side of the tabernacle south- ward. 25 And he lighted the lamps before Jehovah; as Jehovah commanded Moses.
26 And he put the golden altar in the tent of meeting before the veil: 27 and he burnt thereon incense of sweet spices; as Jehovah commanded Moses.
28 And he put the screen of the door to the tabernacle. 29 And he set the altar of burnt-offering at the door of the tabernacle of the tent of meeting, and offered upon it the burnt-offering and the meal-offering; as Jehovah com- manded Moses.
30 And he set the laver between the tent of meeting and the altar, and put water therein, wherewith to wash. 31 And Moses and Aaron and his sons washed their hands and their feet thereat; 32 when they went into the tent of meeting, and when they came near unto the altar, they washed; as Jehovah commanded Moses. 33 And he reared up the court round about the tabernacle and the altar, and set up the screen of the gate of the court. So Moses finished the work.
34 Then the cloud covered the tent of meeting, and the glory of Jehovah filled the tabernacle. 35 And Moses was not able to enter into the tent of meeting, because the cloud abode thereon, and the glory of Jehovah filled the tab- ernacle. 36 And when the cloud was taken up from over the tabernacle, the children of Israel went onward, through- out all their journeys: 37 but if the cloud was not taken up, then they journeyed not till the day that it was taken up. 38 For the cloud of Jehovah was upon the tabernacle by day, and there was fire therein by night, in the sight of all the house of Israel, throughout all their journeys.
THE EpIC oF GILGAMESH
Oral and written versions between ca. 2500-1400 B.C.E. Sumer/Babylon
The story of Gilgamesh survives as the oldest epic in literature because it was preserved by rival societies in ancient Mesopotamia. The Sumerian story of this king of Uruk (modern day Warka in Iraq), who reigned around approximately 2700 B.C.E., was retold and rewritten by Babylonian, Assyrian, and Hittite scribes. The Standard Version, which modern scholars attribute to an Assyrian scribe/priest, combines many of the previous oral and written variants of the tale. The version of the epic presented here is a compilation of the Standard Version (which contains gaps where the tablets are damaged) and a variety of Assyrian, Babylonian, and Hittite versions that were discovered later. In the story, Gilgamesh (who is two-thirds divine and one-third human, a marvel of modern genetics) initially befriends Enkidu (also engineered by the gods) and then goes on a quest for immortality when he realizes that even semi-divine beings must die. Kept in the library of the Assyrian King Assurbanipal, the twelve clay tablets with the Standard Version were accidentally saved when, during the sack of Nineveh in 612 B.C.E., the
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walls of the library were caved in on the tablets. Archeologists discovered the eleventh tablet in the mid-1800s, which contains an account of the flood story that pre-dates the written version of the Biblical account of Noah, leading to the recovery of all twelve tablets, plus additional fragments. In 2003, in Warka, they found what is believed to be the tomb of Gilgamesh himself.
Sumerian/Babylonian Gods:
• An (Babylonian: Anu): god of heaven; may have been the main god before 2500 B.C.E.
• ninhursag (Babylonian: Aruru, Mammi): moth- er goddess; created the gods with An; assists in creation of man.
• Enlil (Babylonian: Ellil): god of air; pantheon leader from 2500 B.C.E.; “father” of the gods be- cause he is in charge (although An/Anu is actually the father of many of them); king of heaven & earth.
• Enki (Babylonian: Ea): lord of the abyss and wis- dom; god of water, creation, and fertility.
• nanna (Babylonian: Sin): moon god. • Inanna (Babylonian: Ishtar): goddess of love,
war, and fertility. • Utu (Babylonian: Shamash): god of the sun and
justice. • ninlil (Babylonian: Mullitu, Mylitta): bride of
Enlil.
Written by Laura J. Getty
Editor’s Note: I am combining two open access translations (one by R. Campbell Thompson and one by Wil- liam Muss-Arnolt). I have made changes freely to those texts in the interests of readability: accepting many suggest- ed additions, deleting others, altering word choice, adding some punctuation, and eliminating some of the more archaic language. By combining the two translations, the resulting text is as complete as I can make it at this point; the Thompson translation in particular draws on many fragments from Assyrian, Babylonian, and Hittite tablets that have been found after the Standard Version was discovered.
Edited by Laura J. Getty, University of North Georgia
The Epic of Gilgamesh
R. Campbell Thompson and William Muse Arnold (Compiled by Laura Getty)
He who has discovered the heart of all matters, let him teach the nation; He who all knowledge possesses should teach all the people; He shall impart his wisdom, and so they shall share it together. Gilgamesh—he was the Master of wisdom, with knowledge of all things; He discovered concealed secrets, handed down a story of times before the flood, 5 Went on a journey far away, returned all weary and worn with his toiling, Engraved on a table of stone his story. He it was who built the ramparts of Uruk, the high-walled, And he it was who set the foundation,
Image 1.7: The Flood Tablet | An original stone tablet, Tablet 11, from the Epic of Gilgamesh.
Author: User “BabelStone” Source: Wikimedia Commons License: CC0 1.0
License: Open Access
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As solid as brass, of Eanna, the sacred temple of Anu and Ishtar, 10 Strengthened its base, its threshold…. Two-thirds of Gilgamesh are divine, and one-third of him human….
[The tablet then tells how Gilgamesh becomes king of Uruk. The death of the previous king creates panic in the city, described below.]
The she-asses have trampled down their foals; The cows in madness turn upon their calves. And as the cattle were frightened, so were the people. 15 Like the doves, the maidens sigh and mourn. The gods of Uruk, the strong-walled, Assume the shape of flies and buzz about the streets. The protecting deities of Uruk, the strong-walled, Take on the shape of mice and hurry into their holes. 20 Three years the enemy besieged the city of Uruk; The city’s gates were barred, the bolts were shot. And even Ishtar, the goddess, could not make headway against the enemy.
[Then Gilgamesh comes to the city as her savior, and later on appears as her king. He saves the city, but unfortunately his rule is tyrannical, and the people of Uruk complain to the gods.]
“You gods of heaven, and you, Anu, Who brought my son into existence, save us! 25 He [Gilgamesh] has not a rival in all the land; The shock of his weapons has no peer, And cowed are the heroes of Uruk. Your people now come to you for help. Gilgamesh arrogantly leaves no son to his father, 30 Yet he should be the shepherd of the city.” Day and night they poured out their complaint: “He is the ruler of Uruk the strong-walled. He is the ruler—strong, cunning—but Gilgamesh does not leave a daughter to her mother, 35 Nor the maiden to the warrior, nor the wife to her husband.”
The gods of heaven heard their cry. Anu gave ear, called the lady Aruru: “It was you, O Aruru, Who made the first of mankind: create now a rival to him, So that he can strive with him; 40 Let them fight together, and Uruk will be given relief.” Upon hearing this Aruru created in her heart a man after the likeness of Anu. Aruru washed her hands, took a bit of clay, and cast it on the ground. Thus she created Enkidu, the hero, as if he were born of Ninurta (god of war and hunting). His whole body was covered with hair; he had long hair on his head like a woman; 45 His flowing hair was luxuriant like that of the corn-god. He ate herbs with the gazelles. He quenched his thirst with the beasts. He sported about with the creatures of the water.
Then did a hunter, a trapper, come face to face with this fellow, 50 Came on him one, two, three days, at the place where the beasts drank water. But when he saw him the hunter’s face looked troubled As he beheld Enkidu, and he returned to his home with his cattle. He was sad, and moaned, and wailed; His heart grew heavy, his face became clouded, 55 And sadness entered his mind.
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The hunter opened his mouth and said, addressing his father: “Father, there is a great fellow come forth from out of the mountains, His strength is the greatest the length and breadth of the country, Like to a double of Anu’s own self, his strength is enormous, 60 Ever he ranges at large over the mountains, and ever with cattle Grazes on herbage and ever he sets his foot to the water, So that I fear to approach him. The pits which I myself hollowed With my own hands he has filled in again, and the traps that I set Are torn up, and out of my clutches he has helped all the cattle escape, 65 And the beasts of the desert: to work at my fieldcraft, or hunt, he will not allow me.”
His father opened his mouth and said, addressing the hunter: “Gilgamesh dwells in Uruk, my son, whom no one has vanquished, It is his strength that is the greatest the length and breadth of the country, Like to a double of Anu’s own self, his strength is enormous, 70 Go, set your face towards Uruk: and when he hears of a monster, He will say ‘Go, O hunter, and take with you a courtesan-girl, a hetaera (a sacred temple girl from Eanna, the temple of Ishtar).
When he gathers the cattle again in their drinking place, So shall she put off her mantle, the charm of her beauty revealing; 75 Then he shall see her, and in truth will embrace her, and thereafter his cattle, With which he was reared, with straightaway forsake him.’”
Image 1.8: Gilgamesh Statue | This statue of Gilgamesh depicts him in his warrior’s outfit, holding a lion cub under one arm.
Author: User “zayzayem” Source: Wikimedia Commons License: CC BY-SA 2.0
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The hunter listened to the advice of his father and straightaway He went to Gilgamesh, taking the road towards Uruk. To Gilgamesh he came, and addressed his speech to him, saying: 80 “There is a great fellow come forth from out of the mountains, His strength is the greatest the length and breadth of the country, Like to a double of Anu’s own self, his strength is enormous, Ever he ranges at large over the mountains, and ever with cattle Grazes on herbage and ever he sets his foot to the water, 85 So that I fear to approach him. The pits which I myself hollowed With mine own hands he has filled in again, and the traps that I set Are torn up, and out of my clutches he has helped all the cattle escape, And the beasts of the desert: to work at my fieldcraft, or hunt, he will not allow me.”
Gilgamesh made this answer to the hunter: 90
“Go, O hunter, and take with you a courtesan-girl, a hetaera from Ishtar’s temple.
When he gathers the cattle again in their drinking place, So shall she put off her mantle, the charm of her beauty revealing; Then he shall see her, and in truth will embrace her, and thereafter his cattle, With which he was reared, with straightaway forsake him.” 95
Forth went the hunter, took with him a courtesan-girl, a hetaera, the woman Shamhat; Together they proceeded straightway, and On the third day they reached the appointed field. There the hunter and the hetaera rested. One day, two days, they lurked at the entrance to the well, 100 Where the cattle were accustomed to slake their thirst, Where the creatures of the waters were sporting. Then came Enkidu, whose home was the mountains, Who with gazelles ate herbs, And with the cattle slaked his thirst, 105 And with the creatures of the waters rejoiced his heart. And Shamhat beheld him.
“Behold, there he is,” the hunter exclaimed; “now reveal your body, Uncover your nakedness, and let him enjoy your favors. Be not ashamed, but yield to his sensuous lust. 110 He shall see you and shall approach you; Remove your garment, and he shall lie in your arms; Satisfy his desire after the manner of women; Then his cattle, raised with him on the field, shall forsake him While he firmly presses his breast on yours.” 115 And Shamhat revealed her body, uncovered her nakedness, And let him enjoy her favors. She was not ashamed, but yielded to his sensuous lust. She removed her garment, he lay in her arms, And she satisfied his desire after the manner of women. 120 He pressed his breast firmly upon hers. For six days and seven nights Enkidu enjoyed the love of Shamhat. And when he had sated himself with her charms, He turned his face toward his cattle. The gazelles, resting, beheld Enkidu; they and 125 The cattle of the field turned away from him. This startled Enkidu and his body grew faint; His knees became stiff, as his cattle departed, And he became less agile than before.
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And as he realized what had happened, he came to a decision. 130 He turned again, in love enthralled, to the feet of the temple girl, And gazed up into the face of Shamhat. And while she spoke, his ears listened attentively; And Shmahat spoke to Enkidu and said: “You are magnificant, Enkidu, you shall be like a god; 135 Why, then, do you lie down with the beasts of the field? Come, I will take you to strong-walled Uruk; To the glorious house, the dwelling of Anu and Ishtar, The palace of Gilgamesh, the hero who is perfect in strength, Surpassing, like a mountain bull, men in power.” 140 While she spoke this way to him, he listened to her wise speech. And Enkidu spoke to her, the temple girl: “Come then, Shamhat, take me, and lead me To the glorious dwelling, the sacred seat of Anu and Ishtar, To the palace of Gilgamesh, the hero who is perfect in strength, 145 Surpassing, like as a mountain bull, men in power. I will challenge him.”
Shamhat warned Enkidu, saying: “You will see Gilgamesh. I have seen his face; it glows with heroic courage. Strength he possesses, magnificent is his whole body. 150 His power is stronger than yours. He rests not nor tires, neither by day nor by night. O Enkidu, change your intention. Shamash loves Gilgamesh; Anu and Ea are whispering wisdom into his ear. 155 Before you come down from the mountain Gilgamesh will have seen you in a dream in Uruk.”
[Gilgamesh had a dream and was troubled because he could not interpret it.] Gilgamesh came, to understand the dream, and said to his mother:
“My mother, I dreamed a dream in my nightly vision; The stars of heaven, like Anu’s host, fell upon me. 160 Although I wrestled him, he was too strong for me, and even though I loosed his hold on me, I was unable to shake him off of me: and now, all the meanwhile, People from Uruk were standing around him. My own companions were kissing his feet; and I to my breast like a woman did hold him, Then I presented him low at your feet, that as my own equal you might recognize him.” 165 She who knows all wisdom answered her son; “The stars of the heavens represent your comrades, That which was like unto Anu’s own self, which fell on your shoulders, Which you did wrestle, but he was too strong for you, even though you loosed his hold on you, But you were unable to shake him off of you, 170 So you presented him low at my feet, that as your own equal I might recognize him—and you to your breast like a woman did hold him:
This is a stout heart, a friend, one ready to stand by a comrade, One whose strength is the greatest, the length and breadth of the country, Like to a double of Anu’s own self, his strength is enormous. 175 Now, since you to your breast did hold him the way you would a woman, This is a sign that you are the one he will never abandon: This is the meaning of your dream.” Again he spoke to his mother, “Mother, a second dream did I see: Into Uruk, the high-walled, 180
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Hurtled an axe, and they gathered about it: People were standing about it, the people all thronging before it, Artisans pressing behind it, while I at your feet did present it, I held it to me like a woman, that you might recognize it as my own equal.” She the all-wise, who knows all wisdom, thus answered her offspring: 185 “That axe you saw is a man; like a woman did you hold him, Against your breast, that as your own equal I might recognize him; This is a stout heart, a friend, one ready to stand by a comrade; He will never abandon you.”
[Meanwhile, Shamhat helps Enkidu adjust to living among humans.]
Then Shamhat spoke to Enkidu: “As I view you, even like a god, O Enkidu, you are, 190 Why with the beasts of the field did you ever roam through the wilderness? I’ll lead you to Uruk broad-marketed, yes, to the Temple Sacred, the dwelling of Anu—O Enkidu, come, so that I may guide you, To Eanna, the dwelling of Anu, where Gilgamesh lives, He, the supreme of creation; and you will embrace him, 195 And even as yourself you shall love him. O, get up from the ground—which is a shepherd’s bed only.” He heard what she said, welcomed her advice: the advice of the woman struck home. She took off one length of cloth wherewith she might clothe him: the other she herself wore,
And so, holding his hand like a brother, she led him 200 To the huts of the shepherds, the place of the sheepfolds. The shepherds Gathered at the sight of him.
He in the past was accustomed to suck the milk of the wild things! Bread which she set before him he broke, but he gazed and he stared: Enkidu did not know how to eat bread, nor had he the knowledge to drink mead! 205 Then the woman made answer, to Enkidu speaking, “Enkidu, taste of the bread, for it is life; in truth, the essential of life; Drink also of the mead, which is the custom of the country.”
Enkidu ate the bread, ate until he was gorged, Drank of the mead seven cups; his spirits rose, and he was exultant, 210 Glad was his heart, and cheerful his face: He anointed himself with oil: and thus became human. He put on a garment to be like a man and taking his weapons, He hunted the lions, which harried the shepherds all the nights, and he caught the jackals. He, having mastered the lions, let the shepherds sleep soundly. 215 Enkidu—he was their guardian—became a man of full vigor.
Enkidu saw a man passing by, and when he observed the fellow, He said to the woman: “Shamhat, bring me this fellow, Where is he going? I would know his intention.” Shamhat called to the man to come to them, asking: “O, what are you seeking, Sir?” 220 The man spoke, addressing them:
“I am going, then, to heap up the offerings such as are due to the city of Uruk; Come with me, and on behalf of the common good bring in the food of the city. You will see Gilgamesh, king of broad-marketed Uruk; After the wedding, he sleeps first with the bride, his birthright, before the husband.” 225 So, at the words of the fellow, they went with him to Uruk.
Enkidu, going in front with the temple girl coming behind him, Entered broad-marketed Uruk; the populace gathered behind him,
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Then, as he stopped in the street of broad-marketed Uruk, the people Thronging behind him exclaimed “Of a truth, like to Gilgamesh is he, 230 Shorter in stature, but his composition is stronger.”
Strewn is the couch for the love-rites, and Gilgamesh now in the night-time Comes to sleep, to delight in the woman, but Enkidu, standing There in the street, blocks the passage to Gilgamesh, threatening Gilgamesh with his strength. 235
Gilgamesh shows his rage, and he rushed to attack him: they met in the street. Enkidu barred up the door with his foot, and to Gilgamesh denied entry.
They grappled and snorted like bulls, and the threshold of the door Shattered: the very wall quivered as Gilgamesh with Enkidu grappled and wrestled.
Gilgamesh bent his leg to the ground [pinning Enkidu]: so his fury abated, 240 And his anger was quelled: Enkidu thus to Gilgamesh spoke:
“Of a truth, did your mother (Ninsun, the wild cow goddess) bear you, And only you: that choicest cow of the steer-folds, Ninsun exalted you above all heroes, and Enlil has given You the kingship over men.” 245
[The next part of the story is lost on a broken part of the tablet. When the story resumes, time has passed, and Gil- gamesh and Enkidu are now friends. Enkidu is grieving the loss of a woman: possibly Shamhat leaving him, possibly another woman who has died.]
Enkidu there as he stood listened to Gilgamesh’s words, grieving, Sitting in sorrow: his eyes filled with tears, and his arms lost their power, His body had lost its strength. Each clasped the hand of the other. Holding on to each other like brothers, and Enkidu answered Gilgamesh: “Friend, my darling has circled her arms around my neck to say goodbye, 250 Which is why my arms lose their power, my body has lost its strength.”
[Gilgamesh decides to distract his friend with a quest.]
Gilgamesh opened his mouth, and to Enkidu he spoke in this way: “I, my friend, am determined to go to the Forest of Cedars, Humbaba the Fierce lives there, I will overcome and destroy what is evil, Then will I cut down the Cedar trees.” 255 Enkidu opened his mouth, and to Gilgamesh he spoke in this way, “Know, then, my friend, that when I was roaming with the animals in the mountains I marched for a distance of two hours from the skirts of the Forest Into its depths. Humbaba—his roar was a whirlwind, Flame in his jaws, and his very breath Death! O, why have you desired 260 To accomplish this? To meet with Humbaba would be an unequal conflict.” Gilgamesh opened his mouth and to Enkidu he spoke in this way: “It is because I need the rich resources of its mountains that I go to the Forest.”
Enkidu opened his mouth and to Gilgamesh he spoke in this way: “But when we go to the Forest of Cedars, you will find that its guard is a fighter, 265 Strong, never sleeping. O Gilgamesh,
So that he can safeguard the Forest of Cedars, making it a terror to mortals, Enlil has appointed him—Humbaba, his roar is a whirlwind, Flame in his jaws, and his very breath Death! Yes, if he hears but a tread in the Forest, Hears but a tread on the road, he roars—‘Who is this come down to his Forest?’ 270
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And terrible consequences will seize him who comes down to his Forest.”
Gilgamesh opened his mouth and to Enkidu he spoke in this way: “Who, O my friend, is unconquered by death? A god, certainly, Lives forever in the daylight, but mortals—their days are all numbered, All that they do is but wind—But since you are now dreading death, 275 Offering nothing of your courage—I, I’ll be your protector, marching in front of you! Your own mouth shall tell others that you feared the onslaught of battle, Whereas I, if I should fall, will have established my name forever. It was Gilgamesh who fought with Humbaba, the Fierce! In the future, after my children are born to my house, and climb up into your lap, saying: 280 ‘Tell us all that you know,’ [what shall you say]?
When you talk this way, you make me long for the Cedars even more; I am determined to cut them down, so that I may gain fame everlasting.”
Gilgamesh spoke again to Enkidu, saying:
“Now, O my friend, I must give my orders to the craftsmen, 285 So that they cast in our presence our weapons.” They delivered the orders to the craftsmen: the mold did the workmen prepare, and the axes Monstrous they cast: yes, the axes did they cast, each weighing three talents; Glaives, too, monstrous they cast, with hilts each weighing two talents, Blades, thirty manas to each, corresponding to fit them: the inlay, 290 Gold thirty manas each sword: so were Gilgamesh and Enkidu laden Each with ten talents of weight.
And now in the Seven Bolt Portal of Uruk Hearing the noise did the artisans gather, assembled the people, There in the streets of broad-marketed Uruk, in Gilgamesh’s honor, 295 So did the Elders of Uruk the broad-marketed take seat before him. Gilgamesh spoke thus: “O Elders of Uruk the broad-marketed, hear me! I go against Humbaba, the Fierce, who shall say, when he hears that I am coming,
‘Ah, let me look on this Gilgamesh, he of whom people are speaking, He with whose fame the countries are filled’—’Then I will overwhelm him, 300 There in the Forest of Cedars—I’ll make the land hear it, How like a giant the hero of Uruk is—yes, for I am determined to cut down the Cedars So that I may gain fame everlasting.” To Gilgamesh the Elders of Uruk the broad-marketed gave this answer: “Gilgamesh, it is because you are young that your valor makes you too confident, 305 Nor do you know to the full what you seek to accomplish. News has come to our ears of Humbaba, who is twice the size of a man. Who of free will then would seek to oppose him or encounter his weapons? Who would march for two hours from the skirts of the Forest Into its depths? Humbaba, his roar is a whirlwind, 310 Flame is in his jaws, and his very breath is Death! O, why have you desired to accomplish this? To fight with Humbaba would be an unequal conflict.” Gilgamesh listened to the advice of his counselors and pondered, Then cried out to his friend: “Now, indeed, O my friend, will I voice my opinion. In truth, I dread him, and yet into the depths of the Forest I will go.” 315
And the Elders spoke:
“Gilgamesh, put not your faith in the strength of your own person solely, And do not trust your fighting skills too much. Truly, he who walks in front is able to safeguard a comrade,
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Your guide will guard you; so, let Enkidu walk in front of you, 320 For he knows the road to the Forest of Cedars; He lusts for battle, and threatens combat. Enkidu—he would watch over a friend, would safeguard a comrade, Yes, such a man would deliver his friend from out of the pitfalls. We, O King, in our conclave have paid close attention to your welfare; 325 You, O King, shall pay attention to us in return.” Gilgamesh opened his mouth and spoke to Enkidu, saying: “To the Palace of Splendor, O friend, come, let us go, To the presence of Ninsun, the glorious Queen, yes, to Ninsun, Wisest of all clever women, all-knowing; she will tell us how to proceed.” 330
They joined hands and went to the Palace of Splendor, Gilgamesh and Enkidu. To the glorious Queen, yes, to Ninsun Gilgamesh came, and he entered into her presence: “Ninsun, I want you to know that I am going on a long journey, To the home of Humbaba to encounter a threat that is unknown, 335 To follow a road which I know not, which will be new from the time of my starting, Until my return, until I arrive at the Forest of Cedars, Until I overthrow Humbaba, the Fierce, and destroy him. The Sun god abhors all evil things, Shamash hates evil; Ask him to help us.”
So Ninsun listened to her offspring, to Gilgamesh, 340
Entered her chamber and decked herself with the flowers of Tulal, Put the festival clothes on her body, Put on the festival adornments of her bosom, her head with a circlet crowned, Climbed the stairway, ascended to the roof, and the parapet mounted, Offered her incense to Shamash, her sacrifice offered to Shamash, 345 Then towards Shamash she lifted her hands in prayer, saying: “Why did you give this restlessness of spirit to Gilgamesh, my son? You gave him restlessness, and now he wants to go on a long journey To where Humbaba dwells, to encounter a threat that is unknown, To follow a road which he knows not, which will be new from the time of his starting, 350 Until his return, until he arrives at the Forest of Cedars, Until he overthrows Humbaba, the Fierce, and destroys him.
You abhor all evil things; you hate evil. Remember my son when that day comes, When he faces Humbaba. May Aya, your bride, remind you of my son.” Now Gilgamesh knelt before Shamash, to utter a prayer; tears streamed down his face: 355 “Here I present myself, Shamash, to lift up my hands in entreaty That my life may be spared; bring me again to the ramparts of Uruk: Give me your protection. I will give you homage.” And Shamash made answer, speaking through his oracle.
[Although the next lines are missing, Shamash evidently gives his permission, so Gilgamesh and Enkidu get ready for their journey.]
The artisans brought monstrous axes, they delivered the bow and the quiver 360 Into his hand; so, taking an ax, he slung on his quiver, He fastened his glaive to his baldrick. But before the two of them set forth on their journey, they offered Gifts to the Sun god, that he might bring them home to Uruk in safety.
Now the Elders give their blessings, to Gilgamesh giving 365 Counsel concerning the road: “O Gilgamesh, do not trust to your own power alone,
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Guard yourself; let Enkidu walk in front of you for protection. He is the one who discovered the way, the road he has traveled. Truly, all the paths of the Forest are under the watchful eye of Humbaba. May the Sun god grant you success to attain your ambition, 370 May he level the path that is blocked, cleave a road through the forest for you to walk. May the god Lugalbanda bring dreams to you, ones that shall make you glad, So that they help you achieve your purpose, for like a boy You have fixed your mind to the overthrow of Humbaba.
When you stop for the night, dig a well, so that the water in your skin-bottle 375 Will be pure, will be cool; Pour out an offering of water to the Sun god, and do not forget Lugalbanda.”
Gilgamesh drew his mantle around his shoulders, And they set forth together on the road to Humbaba. Every forty leagues they took a meal; 380 Every sixty leagues they took a rest. Gilgamesh walked to the summit and poured out his offering for the mountain: “Mountain, grant me a dream. . .” The mountain granted him a dream. . . Then a chill gust of wind made him sway like the corn of the mountains; 385 Straightaway, sleep that flows on man descended upon him: at midnight He suddenly ended his slumber and hurried to speak to his comrade: “Didn’t you call me, O friend? Why am I awakened from slumber? Didn’t you touch me—or has some spirit passed by me? Why do I tremble?” [Gilgamesh’s dream is terrifying, but Enkidu interprets it to mean that Shamash will help them defeat Humbaba. This process is repeated several times. Eventually, they arrive at the huge gate that guards the Cedar Forest.] Enkidu lifted his eyes and spoke to the Gate as if it were human: 390 “O Gate of the Forest, I for the last forty leagues have admired your wonderful timber, Your wood has no peer in other countries; Six gar your height, and two gar your breadth . . . O, if I had but known, O Gate, of your grandeur, Then I would lift an ax…[basically, I would have brought a bigger ax]. 395 [The heroes force the gate open.] They stood and stared at the Forest, they gazed at the height of the Cedars, Scanning the paths into the Forest: and where Humbaba walked Was a path: paths were laid out and well kept. They saw the cedar hill, the dwelling of gods, the sanctuary of Ishtar. In front of the hill a cedar stood of great splendor, 400 Fine and good was its shade, filling the heart with gladness. [From his words below, Humbaba must have taunted the heroes at this point, and Gilgamesh is preparing to attack Humbaba.] The Sung god saw Gilgamesh through the branches of the Cedar trees: Gilgamesh prayed to the Sun god for help. The Sun god heard the entreaty of Gilgamesh, And against Humbaba he raised mighty winds: yes, a great wind, 405 Wind from the North, a wind from the South, a tempest and storm wind, Chill wind, and whirlwind, a wind of all harm: eight winds he raised, Seizing Humbaba from the front and the back, so that he could not go forwards, Nor was he able to go back: and then Humbaba surrendered. Humbaba spoke to Gilgamesh this way: “O Gilgamesh, I pray you, 410 Stay now your hand: be now my master, and I’ll be your henchman: Disregard all the words which I spoke so boastfully against you.” Then Enkidu spoke to Gilgamesh: “Of the advice which Humbaba Gives to you—you cannot risk accepting it. Humbaba must not remain alive.” 420 [The section where they debate what to do is missing, but several versions have the end result.]
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They cut off the head of Humbaba and left the corpse to be devoured by vultures. [They return to Uruk after cutting down quite a few cedar trees.] Gilgamesh cleansed his weapons, he polished his arms. He took off the armor that was upon him. He put away His soiled garments and put on clean clothes; He covered himself with his ornaments, put on his baldrick. 425 Gilgamesh placed upon his head the crown. To win the favor and love of Gilgamesh, Ishtar, the lofty goddess, desired him and said: “Come, Gilgamesh, be my spouse, Give, O give to me your manly strength. Be my husband, let me be your wife, 430 And I will set you in a chariot embossed with precious stones and gold, With wheels made of gold, and shafts of sapphires. Large kudanu-lions you shall harness to it. Under sweet-smelling cedars you shall enter into our house. And when you enter into our house 435 You shall sit upon a lofty throne, and people shall kiss your feet; Kings and lords and rulers shall bow down before you. Whatever the mountain and the countryside produces, they shall bring to you as tribute. Your sheep shall bear twin-ewes. You shall sit upon a chariot that is splendid, 440 drawn by a team that has no equal.” Gilgamesh opened his mouth in reply, said to Lady Ishtar: “Yes, but what could I give you, if I should take you in marriage? I could provide you with oils for your body, and clothing: also, I could give you bread and other foods: there must be enough sustenance 445 Fit for divinity—I, too, must give you a drink fit for royalty. What, then, will be my advantage, supposing I take you in marriage? You are but a ruin that gives no shelter to man from the weather, You are but a back door that gives no resistance to blast or to windstorm, You are but a palace that collapses on the heroes within it, 450 You are but a pitfall with a covering that gives way treacherously, You are but pitch that defiles the man who carries it, You are but a bottle that leaks on him who carries it, You are but limestone that lets stone ramparts fall crumbling in ruin. You are but a sandal that causes its owner to trip. 455 Who was the husband you faithfully loved for all time? Who was your lord who gained the advantage over you? Come, and I will tell you the endless tale of your husbands.
Where is your husband Tammuz, who was to be forever? Well, I will tell you plainly the dire result of your behavior. 460 To Tammuz, the husband of your youth, You caused weeping and brought grief upon him every year.
[She sent Tammuz to the Underworld in her place, not telling him that he would only be able to return in the spring, like Persephone/Proserpina.]
The allallu-bird, so bright of colors, you loved; But its wing you broke and crushed, so that now it sits in the woods crying: ‘O my wing!’ 465 You also loved a lion, powerful in his strength; Seven and seven times did you dig a snaring pit for him. You also loved a horse, pre-eminent in battle, But with bridle, spur, and whip you forced it on, Forced it to run seven double-leagues at a stretch. 470 And when it was tired and wanted to drink, you still forced it on,
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Causing weeping and grief to its mother, Si-li-li. You also loved a shepherd of the flock Who continually poured out incense before you, And who, for your pleasure, slaughtered lambs day by day. 475 You smote him, and turned him into a tiger, So that his own sheep-boys drove him away, And his own dogs tore him to pieces. You also loved a gardener of your father, Who continually brought you delicacies, 480 And daily adorned your table for you. You cast your eye on him, saying:
‘O Ishullanu of mine, come, let me taste of your vigor, Let us enjoy your manhood.’
But he, Ishullanu, said to you ‘What are you asking of me? 485 I have only eaten what my mother has baked, [he is pure] And what you would give me would be bread of transgression, [she is not] Yes, and iniquity! Furthermore, when are thin reeds a cloak against winter?’ You heard his answer and smote him and make him a spider, Making him lodge midway up the wall of a dwelling—not to move upwards 490 In case there might be water draining from the roof; nor down, to avoid being crushed. So, too, would you love me and then treat me like them.”
When Ishtar heard such words, she became enraged, and went up into heaven, and came unto Anu [her father], and to Antum [her mother] she went, and spoke to them:
“My father, Gilgamesh has insulted me; 495 Gilgamesh has upbraided me with my evil deeds, My deeds of evil and of violence.” And Anu opened his mouth and spoke— Said unto her, the mighty goddess Ishtar: “You asked him to grant you the fruit of his body; 500 Therefore, he told you the tale of your deeds of evil and violence.”
Ishtar said to Anu, her father: “Father, O make me a Heavenly Bull, which shall defeat Gilgamesh, Fill its body with flame . . . . But if you will not make this Bull… 505 I will smite [the gates of the Underworld], break it down and release the ghosts,
Who shall then be more numerous than the living: More than the living will be the dead.”
Anu answered Ishtar, the Lady: “If I create the Heavenly Bull, for which you ask me, 510 Then seven years of famine will follow after his attack. Have you gathered corn enough, and enough fodder for the cattle?” Ishtar made answer, saying to Anu, her father: “Corn for mankind have I hoarded, have grown fodder for the cattle.”
[After this a hundred men attack the Bull, but with his fiery breath he annihilates them. Two hundred men then attack the Bull with the same result, and then three hundred more are overcome.]
Enkidu girded his middle; and straightway Enkidu, leaping, 515 Seized the Heavenly Bull by his horns, and headlong before him Cast down the Heavenly Bull his full length.
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[On an old Babylonian cylinder that depicts the fight, we see the Heavenly Bull standing on its hind feet, Enkidu holding the monster by its head and tail, while Gilgamesh plunges the dagger into its heart.]
Then Ishtar went up to the wall of Uruk, the strong-walled; She uttered a piercing cry and broke out into a curse, saying: “Woe to Gilgamesh, who thus has grieved me, and has killed the Heavenly Bull.” 520 But Enkidu, hearing these words of Ishtar, tore out the right side of the Heavenly Bull, And threw it into her face, saying: “I would do to you what I have done to him; Truly, I would hang the entrails on you like a girdle.” Then Ishtar gathered her followers, the temple girls, 525 The hierodules, and the sacred prostitutes. Over the right side of the Heavenly Bull she wept and lamented. But Gilgamesh assembled the people, and all his workmen. The workmen admired the size of its horns. Thirty minas of precious stones was their value; 530 Half of an inch in size was their thickness. Six measures of oil they both could hold. He dedicated it for the anointing of his god Lugalbanda. He brought the horns and hung them up in the shrine of his lordship. Then they washed their hands in the river Euphrates, 535 Took the road, and set out for the city, And rode through the streets of the city of Uruk. The people of Uruk assembled and looked with astonishment at the heroes. Gilgamesh then spoke to the servants of his palace And cried out to them, saying: “Who is the most glorious among the heroes? 540 Who shines among the men?” “Gilgamesh is the most glorious among the heroes, Gilgamesh shines among the men!” And Gilgamesh held a joyful feast in his palace. Then the heroes slept on their couches. And Enkidu slept, and saw a vision in his sleep. He arose and spoke to Gilgamesh in this way: “My friend, why have the great gods sat in counsel? 545 Gilgamesh, hear the dream which I saw in the night: said Enlil, Ea, and the Sun-god of heaven,
‘They have killed the Heavenly Bull and smote Humbaba, who guarded the cedars.’ Enlil said: ‘Enkidu shall die: but Gilgamesh shall not die. O Sun god, you helped them slay the Heavenly Bull and Humbaba. But now Enkidu shall die. Did you think it right to help them? You move among them like a mortal [although you are a god].’” 550
[The gods give Enkidu a fever. Enkidu curses the temple girl for bringing him to Uruk.]
“O hetaera, I will decree a terrible fate for you—your woes shall never end for all eternity. Come, I will curse thee with a bitter curse: may there never be satisfaction of your desires—and may disaster befall your house, may the gutters of the street be your dwelling, may the shade of the wall be your abode—may scorching heat and thirst destroy your strength.”
The Sun god heard him, and opened his mouth, and from out of the heavens 555 He called him: “O Enkidu, why do you curse the hetaera?
It was she who made you eat bread fit for the gods: yes, wine too, She made you drink, fit for royalty: a generous mantle She put on you, and she gave you Gilgamesh, a splendid comrade.
He will give you a magnificent funeral, 560 So that the gods of the Underworld will kiss your feet in their homage; He, too, will make all the people of Uruk lament in your honor, Making them mourn you, and damsels and heroes weep at your funeral,
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While he himself for your sake will cover himself in dust, And he will put on the skin of a lion and range over the desert.” 565
Enkidu listened to the words of the valiant Shamash, And when the Sun god finished speaking, Enkidu’s wrath was appeased.
“Hetaera, I call back my curse, and I will restore you to your place with blessings! May monarchs and princes and chiefs fall in love with you; And for you may the hero comb out his locks; whoever would embrace you, 570 Let him open his money pouch, and let your bed be azure and golden; May he entreat you kindly, let him heap treasure before you; May you enter into the presence of the gods; May you be the mother of seven brides.”
Enkidu said to Gilgamesh: 575 “Friend, a dream I have seen in my night-time: the sky was thundering, It echoed over the earth, and I by myself was standing, When I perceived a man, all dark was his face, And his nails were like the claws of a lion. He overcome me, pressed me down, and he seized me, 580 He led me to the Dwelling of Darkness, the home of Ereshkigal, Queen of the Underworld, To the Dwelling from which he who enters it never comes forth! By the road on which there can be no returning, To the Dwelling whose tenants are always bereft of the daylight, Where for their food is the dust, and the mud is their sustenance: bird-like, 585 They wear a garment of feathers: and, sitting there in the darkness, Never see the light.
Those who had worn crowns, who of old ruled over the country, They were the servants of Anu and Enlil who carried in the food, Served cool water from the skins. When I entered 590 Into this House of the Dust, High Priest and acolyte were sitting there, Seer and magician, the priest who the Sea of the great gods anointed, Here sat Etana the hero, the Queen of the Underworld also, Ereshkigal, in whose presence sat the Scribe of the Underworld, Belit-seri, and read before her; she lifted her head and beheld me [and I awoke in terror].” 595
And there lay Enkidu for twelve days; for twelve days he lay on his couch before he died.
Gilgamesh wept bitterly over the loss of his friend, and he lay on the ground, saying: “I am not dying, but weeping has entered into my heart; Fear of death has befallen me, and I lie here stretched out upon the ground. Listen to me, O Elders; I weep for my comrade Enkidu, 600 Bitterly crying like a wailing woman: my grip is slackened on my ax, For I have been assailed by sorrow and cast down in affliction.”
“Comrade and henchman, Enkidu—what is this slumber that has overcome you? Why are your eyes dark, why can you not hear me?” But he did not raise his eyes, and his heart, when Gilgamesh felt it, made no beat. 605 Then he covered his friend with a veil like a bride; Lifted his voice like a lion, Roared like a lioness robbed of her whelps. In front of his comrade He paced backwards and forwards, tearing his hair and casting away his finery, Plucking and casting away all the grace of his person. 610
Then when morning began to dawn, Gilgamesh said:
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“Friend, I will give you a magnificent funeral, So that the gods of the Underworld will kiss your feet in their homage; I will make all the people of Uruk lament in your honor, Making them mourn you, and damsels and heroes weep at your funeral, 615 While I myself for your sake will cover myself in dust, And I will put on the skin of a lion and range over the desert.”
Gilgamesh brought out also a mighty platter of wood from the highlands. He filled a bowl of bright ruby with honey; a bowl too of azure He filled with cream, for the gods. 620
Gilgamesh wept bitterly for his comrade, for Enkidu, ranging Over the desert: “I, too—shall I not die like Enkidu also? Sorrow hath entered my heart; I fear death as I range over the desert, So I will take the road to the presence of Utnapishtim, the offspring of Ubara-Tutu; And with speed will I travel.” 625
In darkness he arrived at the Gates of the Mountains, And he met with lions, terror falling on him; he lifted his head skywards, Offered his prayer to the Moon god, Sin: “O deliver me!” He took his ax in his hand and drew his glaive from his baldric, He leapt among them, smiting and crushing, and they were defeated. 630
As he reached the Mountains of Mashu, Where every day they keep watch over the Sun god’s rising and setting, The peaks rise up to the Zenith of Heaven, and downwards Deep into the Underworld reach their roots: and there at their portals stand sentry Scorpion-men, awful in terror, their very glance Death: and tremendous, 635 Shaking the hills, their magnificence; they are the Wardens of Shamash, Both at his rising and setting. No sooner did Gilgamesh see them Than from alarm and dismay was his face stricken with pallor, Senseless, he groveled before them. Then to his wife spoke the Scorpion: 640 “Look, he that comes to us—his body is the flesh of the gods.” Then his wife answered to the Scorpion-man: “Two parts of him are god-like; One third of him is human.”
[Gilgamesh explains why he is searching for Utnapishtim; it is a journey that no one else has ever taken, but the Scorpi- on-Man agrees to let him take the Road of the Sun—a tunnel that passes through the mountain. For twenty four hours, Gilgamesh travels in darkness, emerging into the Garden of the Gods, filled with fruit trees. Shamash enters the garden, and he is surprised to see Gilgamesh—or any human—in the garden.]
“This man is wearing the pelts of wild animals, and he has eaten their flesh. This is Gilgamesh, who has crossed over to where no man has been” 645 Shamash was touched with compassion, summoning Gilgamesh and saying: “Gilgamesh, why do you run so far, since the life that you seek You shall not find?” Whereupon Gilgamesh answered the Sun god, Shamash: “Shall I, after I roam up and down over the wastelands as a wanderer, Lay my head in the bowels of the earth, and throughout the years slumber 650 Forever? Let my eyes see the Sun and be sated with brightness, Yes, the darkness is banished far away, if there is enough brightness. When will the man who is dead ever again look on the light of the Sunshine?”
[Shamash lets him continue on his quest, although the Sun god has said already that humans cannot escape mortality. He approaches the house of Siduri, a winemaker, whose location beyond Mount Mashu would suggest that the gods must be among her customers.]
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Siduri, the maker of wine, wine was her trade; she was covered with a veil. Gilgamesh wandered towards her, covered in pelts. 655 He possessed the flesh of the gods, but woe was in his belly, Yes, and his face like a man who has gone on a far journey. The maker of wine saw him in the distance, and she wondered, She said in thought to herself: “This is one who would ravish a woman; Why does he come this way?” As soon as the Wine-maker saw him, 660 She barred the gate, barred the house door, barred her chamber door, and climbed to the terrace. Straight away Gilgamesh heard the sound of her shutting up the house, Lifted his chin, and so did he let his attention fall on her.
Gilgamesh spoke to her, to the Wine-maker, saying: “Wine-maker, what did you see, that you barred the gate, 665 Barred the house door, barred your chamber door? I will smite your gate, Breaking the bolt.”
The Wine-maker, speaking to Gilgamesh, answered him, saying: “Why is your vigor so wasted, why is your face sunken, Why does your spirit have such sorrow, and why has your cheerfulness ceased? 670 O, but there’s woe in your belly! Like one who has gone on a far journey Is your face—O, with cold and with heat is your face weathered, Like a man who has ranged over the desert.” Gilgamesh answered the Wine-maker, saying: “Wine-maker, it is not that my vigor is wasted, nor that my face is sunken, 675 Nor that my spirit has sorrow, nor that my cheerfulness has ceased,
No, it is not that there is woe in my belly, nor that my face is like one Who has gone on a far journey—nor is my face weathered Either by cold or by heat as I range over the desert. Enkidu—together we overcame all obstacles, ascending the mountains, 680 Captured the Heavenly Bull, and destroyed him: we overthrew Humbaba, He whose abode was in the Forest of Cedars; we slaughtered the lions
There in the mountain passes; with me enduring all hardships, Enkidu, he was my comrade—and his fate has overtaken him. I mourned him six days, until his burial; only then could I bury him. 685 I dreaded Death, so that I now range over the desert: the fate of my comrade Lay heavy on me—O, how do I give voice to what I feel? For the comrade I have so loved has become like dust, He whom I loved has become like the dust—I, shall I not, also, Lay me down like him, throughout all eternity never to return?” 690
The Wine-maker answered Gilgamesh:
“Gilgamesh, why do you run so far, since the life that you seek You shall not find? For the gods, in their creation of mortals, Allotted Death to man, but Life they retained in their keeping. Gilgamesh, fill your belly with food, 695 Each day and night be merry, and make every day a holiday, Each day and night dance and rejoice; wear clean clothes, Yes, let your head be washed clean, and bathe yourself in the water, Cherish the little one holding your hand; hold your spouse close to you and be happy, For this is what is given to mankind. 700
Gilgamesh continued his speech to the Wine-maker, saying: “Tell me, then, Wine-maker, which is the way to Utnapishtim?
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If it is possible, I will even cross the Ocean itself, But if it is impossible, then I will range over the desert.”
In this way did the Wine-maker answer him, saying: 705 “There has never been a crossing, O Gilgamesh: never before Has anyone, coming this far, been able to cross the Ocean: Shamash crosses it, of course, but who besides Shamash Makes the crossing? Rough is the passage, And deep are the Waters of Death when you reach them. 710 Gilgamesh, if by chance you succeed in crossing the Ocean, What will you do, when you arrive at the Waters of Death? Gilgamesh, there is a man called Urshanabi, boatman to Utnapishtim, He has the urnu for the crossing, Now go to him, and if it is possible to cross with him 715 Then cross—but if it is not possible, then retrace your steps homewards.”
Gilgamesh, hearing this, took his ax in his hand and went to see Urshanabi.
[Evidently, Gilgamesh is not thinking too clearly, since he displays his strength to Urshanabi by destroying the sails of the boat. Urshanabi is not entirely impressed.]
Then Urshanabi spoke to Gilgamesh, saying:
“Tell to me what is your name, for I am Urshanabi, henchman, Of far-off Utnapishtim.” Gilgamesh answered: 720 “Gilgamesh is my name, come hither from Uruk, One who has traversed the Mountains, a wearisome journey of Sunrise, Now that I have looked on your face, Urshanabi—let me see Utnapishtim, The Distant one!”
Urshanabi spoke to Gilgamesh, saying: 725
“Why is your vigor so wasted, why is your face sunken, Why does your spirit have such sorrow, and why has your cheerfulness ceased? O, but there’s woe in your belly! Like one who has gone on a far journey Is your face—O, with cold and with heat is your face weathered, Like a man who has ranged over the desert.” 730
Gilgamesh answered, “It is not that my vigor is wasted, nor that my face is sunken, Nor that my spirit has sorrow, nor that my cheerfulness has ceased,
No, it is not that there is woe in my belly, nor that my face is like one Who has gone on a far journey—nor is my face weathered Either by cold or by heat as I range over the desert. 735 Enkidu—together we overcame all obstacles, ascending the mountains, Captured the Heavenly Bull, and destroyed him: we overthrew Humbaba, He whose abode was in the Forest of Cedars; we slaughtered the lions
There in the mountain passes; with me enduring all hardships, Enkidu, he was my comrade—and his fate has overtaken him. 740 I mourned him six days, until his burial; only then could I bury him. I dreaded Death, so that I now range over the desert: the fate of my comrade Lay heavily on me—O, how do I give voice to what I feel? For the comrade I have so loved has become like dust, He whom I loved has become like the dust—I, shall I not, also, 745 Lay me down like him, throughout all eternity never to return?”
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Gilgamesh continued his speech to Urshanabi, saying: “Please tell me, Urshanabi, which is the way to Utnapishtim?
If it is possible, I will even cross the Ocean itself, But if it is impossible, then I will range over the desert.” 750
Urshanabi spoke to Gilgamesh, saying: “Gilgamesh, your own hand has hindered your crossing of the Ocean, You have destroyed the sails and destroyed the urnu.
Gilgamesh, take your axe in your hand; descend to the forest, Fashion one hundred twenty poles each of five gar in length; make knobs of bitumen, 755 Sockets, too, add those to the poles: bring them to me.” When Gilgamesh heard this, He took the ax in his hand, and the glaive drew forth from his baldric, Went to the forest, and poles each of five gar in length did he fashion, Knobs of bitumen he made, and he added sockets to the poles: and brought them to Urshanabi; Gilgamesh and Urshanabi then set forth in their vessel, 760 They launched the boat on the swell of the wave, and they themselves embarked. In three days they traveled the distance of a month and a half journey, And Urshanabi saw that they had arrived at the Waters of Death.
Urshanabi said to Gilgamesh: “Gilgamesh, take the first pole, thrust it into the water and push the vessel along, 765 But do not let the Waters of Death touch your hand. Gilgamesh, take a second, a third, and a fourth pole, Gilgamesh, take a fifth, a sixth, and a seventh pole, Gilgamesh, take an eighth, a ninth, and a tenth pole, Gilgamesh, take an eleventh, a twelfth pole!” 770 After one hundred twenty poles, Gilgamesh took off his garments, Set up the mast in its socket, and used the garments as a sail.
Utnapishtim looked into the distance and, inwardly musing, Said to himself: “Why are the sails of the vessel destroyed, And why does one who is not of my service ride on the vessel? 775 This is no mortal who comes, but he is no god either.”
[Utnapishtim asks Gilgamesh the same questions already asked by Siduri and Urshanabi, and Gilgamesh replies with the same answers.]
And Gilgamesh said Utnapishtim: “I have come here to find you, whom people call the ‘far-off,’ So I can turn to you for help; I have traveled through all the lands, I have crossed over the steep mountains, and I have crossed all the seas to find you, 780 To find life everlasting.”
Utnapishtim answered Gilgamesh, saying:
“Does anyone build a house that will stand forever, or sign a contract for all time? The dead are all alike, and Death makes no distinction between Servant and master, when they have reached their full span allotted. 785 Then do the Anunnaki, great gods, settle the destiny of mankind; Mammetum, Maker of Destiny with them, settles our destiny; Death and Life they determine; but the day of Death is not revealed.”
Gilgamesh said Utnapishtim: “I gaze on you in amazement, O Utnapishtim! 790 Your appearance has not changed, you are like me.
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And your nature itself has not changed, in your nature you are like me also, Though you now have eternal life. But my heart has still to struggle Against all the obstacles that no longer bother you. Tell me, how did you come to dwell here and obtain eternal life from the gods?” 795
[In the following passages, Utnapishtim tells Gilgamesh the story of the flood. In the story of Atrahasis, another name for Utnapishtim, the reason for the flood is that humans have been too noisy and the gods cannot sleep. The gods use the flood as a way to deal with human overpopulation.] Utnapishtim then said to Gilgamesh: “I will reveal to you, O Gilgamesh, the mysterious story, And one of the mysteries of the gods I will tell you. The city of Shurippak, a city which, as you know, Is situated on the bank of the river Euphrates. The gods within it 800 Decided to bring about a flood, even the great gods, As many as there were. But Ea, the lord of unfathomable wisdom, argued with them. Although he could not tell any human directly, he gave me a dream; In the dream, he told their plan first to a reed-hut, saying: ‘Reed-hut, reed-hut, clay-structure, clay-structure! 805 Reed-hut, hear; clay-structure, pay attention! Man of Shurippak, son of Ubara-Tutu, Build a house, construct a ship; Forsake your possessions, take heed! Abandon your goods, save your life, 810 And bring the living seed of every kind of creature into the ship. As for the ship, which you shall build, Let its proportions be well measured: Its breadth and its length shall bear proportion each to each, And into the sea then launch it.’ 815 I took heed, and said to Ea, my lord: ‘I will do, my lord, as you have commanded; I will observe and will fulfill the command. But what shall I say when the city questions me, the people, and the elders?’ Ea opened his mouth and spoke, 820 And he said to me, his servant: ‘Man, as an answer, say this to them: “I know that Enlil hates me. No longer can I live in your city; Nor on Enlil’s territory can I live securely any longer; 825 I will go down to the sea, I will live with Ea, my lord. He will pour down rich blessings. He will grant fowls in plenty and fish in abundance, Herds of cattle and an abundant harvest.”’ As soon as early dawn appeared, 830 I feared the brightness of the day; All that was necessary I collected together. On the fifth day I drew its design; In its middle part its sides were ten gar high; Ten gar also was the extent of its deck; 835 I added a front-roof to it and closed it in. I built it in six stories, Making seven floors in all; The interior of each I divided again into nine partitions. Beaks for water within I cut out. 840 I selected a pole and added all that was necessary. Three shar of pitch I smeared on its outside; Three shar of asphalt I used for the inside (to make it water-tight).
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Three shar of oil the men carried, carrying it in vessels. One shar of oil I kept out and used it for sacrifices, 845 While the other two shar the boatman stowed away. For the temple of the gods I slaughtered oxen; I killed lambs day by day. Jugs of cider, of oil, and of sweet wine, Large bowls, like river water flowing freely, I poured out as libations. 850 I made a feast to the gods like that of the New-Year’s Day. I added tackling above and below, and after all was finished, The ship sank into water two thirds of its height. With all that I possessed I filled it; With all the silver I had I filled it; 855 With all the gold I had I filled it; With living creatures of every kind I filled it. Then I embarked also all my family and my relatives, Cattle of the field, beasts of the field, and the righteous people—all of them I embarked. Ea had appointed a time, namely: 860 ‘When the rulers of darkness send at eventide a destructive rain, Then enter into the ship and shut its door.’ This very sign came to pass, and The rulers of darkness sent a destructive rain at eventide. I saw the approach of the storm, 865 And I was afraid to witness the storm; I entered the ship and shut the door. I entrusted the guidance of the ship to the boat-man, Entrusted the great house, and the contents therein. As soon as early dawn appeared, 870 There rose up from the horizon a black cloud, Within which the weather god thundered, And the king of the gods went before it. The destroyers passed across mountain and dale. They tore loose the restraints holding back the waters. 875 They caused the banks to overflow; The Anunnaki lifted up their torches, And with their brightness they illuminated the universe. The storm brought on by the gods swept even up to the heavens, And all light was turned into darkness. It flooded the land; it blew with violence; 880 And in one day it rose above the mountains. Like an onslaught in battle it rushed in on the people. Brother could not save brother. The gods even were afraid of the storm; They retreated and took refuge in the heaven of Anu. 885 There the gods crouched down like dogs, in heaven they sat cowering. Then Ishtar cried out like a woman in travail, And the lady of the gods lamented with a loud voice, saying: ‘The world of old has been turned back into clay, Because I assented to this evil in the assembly of the gods. 890 Alas, that I assented to this evil in the council of the gods, Alas, that I was for the destruction of my own people. Where is all that I have created, where is it? Like the spawn of fish it fills the sea.’ The gods wailed with her; 895 The gods were bowed down, and sat there weeping. Their lips were pressed together in fear and in terror. Six days and nights the wind blew, and storm and tempest overwhelmed the country. When the seventh day arrived, the tempest, the storm, the battle Which they had waged like a great host began to moderate. 900
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The sea quieted down; hurricane and storm ceased. I looked out upon the sea and raised loud my voice, But all mankind had turned back into clay. Like the surrounding field had become the bed of the rivers. I opened the air-hole and light fell upon my cheek. 905 Dumfounded I sank backward and sat weeping, While over my cheek flowed tears. I looked in every direction, and behold, all was sea. Now, after twelve days, there rose out of the water a strip of land. To Mount Nisir the ship drifted. 910 On Mount Nisir the boat stuck fast and it did not slip away. The first day, the second day, Mount Nisir held the ship fast, and did not let it slip away. The third day, the fourth day, Mount Nisir held the ship fast, and did not let it slip away. The fifth day, the sixth day, Mount Nisir held the ship fast, and did not let it slip away. When the seventh day arrived 915 I sent out a dove, and let her go. The dove flew hither and thither, But as there was no resting-place for her, she returned. Then I sent out a swallow, and let her go. The swallow flew hither and thither, 920 But as there was no resting-place for her she also returned. Then I sent out a raven, and let her go. The raven flew away and saw that the waters were receding. She settled down to feed, went away, and returned no more. Then I let everything go out of the boat, and I offered a sacrifice. 925 I poured out a libation on the peak of the mountain. I placed the censers seven and seven, And poured into them calamus, cedar wood, and sweet incense. The gods smelled the savor; The gods gathered like flies around the sacrifice. 930 But when the lady of the gods, Ishtar, drew close, She lifted up the precious necklace that Anu had made according to her wish and said: ‘All you gods here! by my necklace, I will not forget. These days will I remember, never will I forget them. Let the gods come to the offering; 935 But Enlil shall not come to the offering, Since rashly he caused the flood-storm, And handed over my people to destruction.’ Now, when Enlil drew close, and saw the ship, the god was angry, And anger against the gods filled his heart, and he said: 940 ‘Who then has escaped here with his life? No man was to survive the universal destruction.’ Then Ninurta opened his mouth and spoke, saying to Enlil: ‘Who but Ea could have planned this! For does not Ea know all arts?’ 945 Then Ea opened his mouth and spoke, saying to Enlil: ‘O wise one among the gods, how rash of you to bring about a flood-storm! On the sinner visit his sin, and on the wicked his wickedness; But be merciful, forbear, let not all be destroyed! Be considerate! Instead of sending a flood-storm, 950 Let lions come and diminish mankind; Instead of sending a flood-storm, Let tigers come and diminish mankind; Instead of sending a flood-storm, Let famine come and smite the land; 955 Instead of sending a flood-storm, Let pestilence come and kill off the people.
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I did not reveal the mystery of the great gods. Utnapishtim saw this in a dream, and so he heard the mystery of the gods.’ Enlil then arrived at a decision. 960 Enlil went up into the ship, Took me by the hand and led me out. He led out also my wife and made her kneel beside me; He turned us face to face, and standing between us, blessed us, saying: ‘Before this Utnapishtim was only human; 965 But now Utnapishtim and his wife shall be lofty like the gods; Let Utnapishtim live far away from men.’ Then they took us and let us dwell far away.” Utnapishtim said to Gilgamesh:
“Now as for you, which one of the gods shall give you the power, 970 So that you can obtain the life that you desire? Now sleep!” And for six days and seven nights Gilgamesh slept. Sleep came over him like a storm wind. Then Utnapishtim said to his wife: “Behold, here is the hero whose desire is life everlasting! 975 Sleep came over him like a storm wind.” And the wife replied to Utnapishtim, the far-away: “Restore him in health, before he returns on the road on which he came. Let him pass out through the great door unto his own country.” And Utnapishtim said to his wife: 980 “The suffering of the man pains you. Well, then, cook the food for him and place it at his head.” And while Gilgamesh slept on board the ship, She cooked the food to place it at his head. And while he slept on board the ship, 985 Firstly, his food was prepared; Secondly, it was peeled; thirdly, it was moistened; Fourthly, his food was cleaned; Fifthly, [seasoning] was added; Sixthly, it was cooked; 990 Seventhly, all of a sudden the man was restored, having eaten of the magic food. Then spoke Gilgamesh to Utnapishtim, the far-away: “I had collapsed into sleep, and you have charmed me in some way.” And Utnapishtim said to Gilgamesh: “I restored you when you ate the magic food.” 995 And Gilgamesh said to Utnapishtim, the far-away: “What shall I do, Utnapishtim? Where shall I go? The Demon of the Dead has seized my friend. Upon my couch Death now sits.”
And Utnapishtim said to Urshanabi, the ferryman: 1000 “Urshanabi, you allowed a man to cross with you, you let the boat carry both of you; Whoever attempts to board the boat, you should have stopped him. This man has his body covered with sores, And the eruption of his skin has altered the beauty of his body. Take him, Urshanabi, and bring him to the place of purification, 1005 Where he can wash his sores in water that they may become white as snow; Let him rub off his bad skin and the sea will carry it away; His body shall then appear well and healthy; Let the turban also be replaced on his head, and the garment that covers his nakedness. Until he returns to his city, until he arrives at his home, 1010 The garment shall not tear; it shall remain entirely new.”
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And Urshanabi took him and brought him to the place of purification, Where he washed his sores in water so that they became white as snow; He rubbed off his bad skin and the sea carried it away; His body appeared well and healthy again; 1015 He replaced also the turban on his head; And the garment that covered his nakedness; And until he returned to his city, until he arrived at his home, The garment did not tear, it remained entirely new.
After Gilgamesh and Urshanabi had returned from the place of purification, 1020 The wife of Utnapishtim spoke to her husband, saying: “Gilgamesh has labored long; What now will you give him before he returns to his country?” . Then Utnapishtim spoke to Gilgamesh, saying: “Gilgamesh, you have labored long. 1025 What now shall I give you before you return to your country? I will reveal to you, Gilgamesh, a mystery, And a secret of the gods I will tell you. There is a plant resembling buckthorn, its thorn stings like that of a bramble. 1030 If you eat that plant, you will regain the vigor of your youth.” When Gilgamesh had heard this, he bound heavy stones to his feet, Which dragged him down to the sea and in this way he found the plant. Then he grasped the magic plant. He removed the heavy stones from his feet and one dropped down into the sea, 1035 And the second stone he threw down to the first. And Gilgamesh said to Urshanabi, the ferryman: “Urshanabi, this plant is a plant of great power; I will take it to Uruk the strong-walled, I will cultivate the plant there and then harvest it. Its name will be ‘Even an old man will be rejuvenated!’ 1040 I will eat this plant and return again to the vigor of my youth.”
[They start out to return home to Uruk.] Every forty leagues they then took a meal: And every sixty leagues they took a rest. And Gilgamesh saw a well that was filled with cool and refreshing water; He stepped up to it and poured out some water. 1045 A serpent darted out; the plant slipped from Gilgamesh’s hands; The serpent came out of the well, and took the plant away, And he uttered a curse. And after this Gilgamesh sat down and wept. Tears flowed down his cheeks, 1050 And he said to Urshanabi, the ferryman: “Why, Urshanabi, did my hands tremble? Why did the blood of my heart stand still? Not on myself did I bestow any benefit. The serpent now has all of the benefit of this plant. 1055 After a journey of only forty leagues the plant has been snatched away, As I opened the well and lowered the vessel. I see the sign; this is an omen to me. I am to return, leaving the ship on the shore.”
Then they continued to take a meal every forty leagues, And every sixty leagues they took a rest, 1060 Until they arrived at Uruk the strong-walled.
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Gilgamesh then spoke to Urshanabi, the ferryman, saying: “Urshanabi, ascend and walk about on the wall of Uruk, Inspect the corner-stone, and examine its brick-work, made of burned brick, And its foundation strong. One shar is the size of the city, 1065 And one shar is the size of the gardens, And one shar is the size of Eanna, temple of Anu and Ishtar; Three shar is the size of Uruk strong-walled.”
[Now that Gilgamesh knows that he cannot have eternal life, he focuses instead on learning about the afterlife. He tries to find a way to talk to Enkidu by bringing back his ghost to haunt him. Gilgamesh speaks to the Architect of the Tem- ple, asking what he should do to avoid bringing back a ghost—while planning to do the opposite.] The Architect answered Gilgamesh, saying:
“Gilgamesh, to avoid ghosts, if you go to the temple, do not wear clean garments; 1070 Wear a garment that is dirty, so you do not attract them. Do not anoint yourself with sweet oil, in case at its fragrance Around you they gather: nor may you set a bow on the ground, or around you May circle those shot by the bow; nor may you carry a stick in your hand, Or ghosts who were beaten may gibber around you: nor may you put on a shoe, 1075 Which would make a loud echo on the ground: you may not kiss the wife whom you love; The wife whom you hate—you may not chastise her, Yes, and you may not kiss the child whom you love, Nor may you chastise the child whom you hate, For you must mourn their [the ghosts’] loss of the world.” 1080
So Gilgamesh went to the temples, Put on clean garments, and with sweet oil anointed himself: They gathered around the fragrance; Around him they gathered: he set the bow on the ground, and around him Circled the spirits—those who were shot by a bow gibbered at him; 1085 He carried a stick in his hand, and the ghosts who had been beaten gibbered at him. He put on a shoe and made a loud echo on the ground. He kissed the wife whom he loved, chastised the wife whom he hated, He kissed the child whom he loved, chastised the child whom he hated. They mourned their loss of the world, but Enkidu was not there. 1090
Gilgamesh went all alone to the temple of Enlil: “Enlil, my Father, the net of Death has stricken me also, holding me down to the earth. Enkidu—whom I pray that you will raise from the earth—was not seized by the Plague god, Or lost through a battle of mortals: it was only the earth which has seized him.” But Enlil, the Father, gave no answer. 1095
To the Moon god Gilgamesh went: “Moon god, my Father, the net of Death has stricken me also, holding me down to the earth. Enkidu—whom I pray that you will raise from the earth—was not seized by the Plague god, Or lost through a battle of mortals: it was only the earth which has seized him.” But Sin, the Moon god, gave no answer. 1100
Then to Ea Gilgamesh went: “Ea, my Father, the net of Death has stricken me also, holding me down to the earth. Enkidu—whom I pray that you will raise from the earth—was not seized by the Plague god, Or lost through a battle of mortals: it was only the earth which has seized him.”
Ea, the Father, heard him, and to Nergal, the warrior-hero, 1105 He spoke: “O Nergal, O warrior-hero, listen to me!
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Open now a hole in the earth, so that the spirit of Enkidu, rising, May come forth from the earth, and so speak with his brother.” Nergal, the warrior-hero, listened to Ea’s words, Opened, then, a hole in the earth, and the spirit of Enkidu issued 1110 Forth from the earth like a wind. They embraced and grieved together. Gilgamesh said: “Tell, O my friend, O tell me, I pray you, What have you seen of the laws of the Underworld?”
Enkidu said: “Do not ask; I will not tell you—for, were I to tell you Of what I have seen of the laws of the Underworld, you would sit down weeping!” 1115
Gilgamesh said: “Then let me sit down weeping.”
Enkidu said: “So be it: the friend you cared for now has worms in his body; The bride you loved is now filled with dust. Bitter and sad is all that formerly gladdened your heart.”
Gilgamesh said: “Did you see a hero, slain in battle?” 1120
“Yes—[when he died] his father and mother supported his head, And his wife knelt weeping at his side. The spirit of such a man is at rest. He lies on a couch and drinks pure water. But the man whose corpse remains unburied on the field— You and I have often seen such a man— 1125 His spirit does not find rest in the Underworld.
The man whose spirit has no one who cares for it— You and I have often seen such man— Consumes the dregs of the bowl, the broken remnants of food That are cast into the street.” 1130
[One important lesson for all readers of the poem is, therefore, “Take good care of your dead.” The rest of the tablet is damaged, although one alternate version of the story ends with the funeral of Gilgamesh many years later. Interestingly, once he settles down to become a good ruler, there is nothing more to say.]
THE ILIAD AnD THE oDySSEy
Homer
Composed orally ca. 800 B.C.E.; written down ca. 700 B.C.E. Greece
We know almost nothing about Homer; scholars debate whether one or more authors composed the epic po- ems attributed to him. It is possible that he was a Greek who lived on the coast of what is now Turkey, not far from the location of Troy. If so, his balanced depiction of the Greeks and the Trojans in the Iliad is noteworthy, since he would be a descendant of those Greeks who invaded the area approximately 400 years earlier, when the historical Troy was attacked and burned in around 1200 B.C.E. The Iliad encompasses a few weeks in the tenth year of the Trojan War, focusing on one episode in the life of the Greek warrior Achilles, while the Odyssey explains why Odys- seus spends twelve long years trying to go home. Homer’s grasp of Mediterranean geography is strong, as is evident when he traces the wandering route that Odysseus takes to return home to Ithaca after the war. Homer was not the first or the last to write about the Trojan War and its aftermath, but his version was the most famous, in part for his vivid descriptions (which would be imitated by other authors, including Virgil in his Aeneid, for centuries to come) For an audience that might not have witnessed a battle, Homer appeals to their senses through familiar sights and sounds; men hacking at each other with bronze weapons sound like a forest full of woodcutters hacking at trees. When Dante tries to describe the interior of Hell, he is imitating Virgil imitating Homer: familiar ways of seeing
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unfamiliar things. Homer’s version was also controversial; Greek writers such as Xenophanes criticized Homer for his impious depiction of the gods, who appear at times brutal, at times humorous. That criticism should remind us that Homer composed a literary version of events, rather than a strictly accurate view of his culture. What has never been controversial is Homer’s popularity, from his own time to the present day.
Written by Laura J. Getty
The Iliad
Homer, translated by Samuel Butler
Book I Sing, O goddess, the anger of Achilles son of Peleus,that brought countless ills upon the Achaeans. Many a
brave soul did it send hurrying down to Hades, and many a hero did it yield a prey to dogs and vultures, for so were the counsels of Jove fulfilled from the day on which the son of Atreus, king of men, and great Achilles, first fell out with one another.
And which of the gods was it that set them on to quarrel? It was the son of Jove and Leto; for he was angry with the king and sent a pestilence upon the host to plague the people, because the son of Atreus had dishonoured Chryses his priest. Now Chryses had come to the ships of the Achaeans to free his daughter, and had brought with him a great ransom: moreover he bore in his hand the sceptre of Apollo wreathed with a suppliant’s wreath and he besought the Achaeans, but most of all the two sons of Atreus, who were their chiefs.
“Sons of Atreus,” he cried, “and all other Achaeans, may the gods who dwell in Olympus grant you to sack the city of Priam, and to reach your homes in safety; but free my daughter, and accept a ransom for her, in reverence to Apollo, son of Jove.”
On this the rest of the Achaeans with one voice were for respecting the priest and taking the ransom that he offered; but not so Agamemnon, who spoke fiercely to him and sent him roughly away. “Old man,” said he, “let me not find you tarrying about our ships, nor yet coming hereafter. Your sceptre of the god and your wreath shall profit you nothing. I will not free her. She shall grow old in my house at Argos far from her own home, busying herself with her loom and visiting my couch; so go, and do not provoke me or it shall be the worse for you.”
The old man feared him and obeyed. Not a word he spoke, but went by the shore of the sounding sea and prayed apart to King Apollo whom lovely Leto had borne. “Hear me,” he cried, “O god of the silver bow, that pro- tectest Chryse and holy Cilla and rulest Tenedos with thy might, hear me oh thou of Sminthe. If I have ever decked your temple with garlands, or burned your thigh-bones in fat of bulls or goats, grant my prayer, and let your arrows avenge these my tears upon the Danaans.”
Thus did he pray, and Apollo heard his prayer. He came down furious from the summits of Olympus, with his bow and his quiver upon his shoulder, and the arrows rattled on his back with the rage that trembled within him. He sat himself down away from the ships with a face as dark as night, and his silver bow rang death as he shot his arrow in the midst of them. First he smote their mules and their hounds, but presently he aimed his shafts at the people themselves, and all day long the pyres of the dead were burning.
For nine whole days he shot his arrows among the people, but upon the tenth day Achilles called them in as- sembly—oved thereto by Juno, who saw the Achaeans in their death-throes and had compassion upon them. Then, when they were got together, he rose and spoke among them.
“Son of Atreus,” said he, “I deem that we should now turn roving home if we would escape destruction, for we are being cut down by war and pestilence at once. Let us ask some priest or prophet, or some reader of dreams (for dreams, too, are of Jove) who can tell us why Phoebus Apollo is so angry, and say whether it is for some vow that we have broken, or hecatomb that we have not offered, and whether he will accept the savour of lambs and goats without blemish, so as to take away the plague from us.”
With these words he sat down, and Calchas son of Thestor, wisest of augurs, who knew things past present and to come, rose to speak. He it was who had guided the Achaeans with their fleet to Ilius, through the prophesyings with which Phoebus Apollo had inspired him. With all sincerity and goodwill he addressed them thus:—
“Achilles, loved of heaven, you bid me tell you about the anger of King Apollo, I will therefore do so; but consid- er first and swear that you will stand by me heartily in word and deed, for I know that I shall offend one who rules the Argives with might, to whom all the Achaeans are in subjection. A plain man cannot stand against the anger of a king, who if he swallow his displeasure now, will yet nurse revenge till he has wreaked it. Consider, therefore, whether or no you will protect me.”
And Achilles answered, “Fear not, but speak as it is borne in upon you from heaven, for by Apollo, Calchas, to whom you pray, and whose oracles you reveal to us, not a Danaan at our ships shall lay his hand upon you, while I
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yet live to look upon the face of the earth—no, not though you name Agamemnon himself, who is by far the fore- most of the Achaeans.”
Thereon the seer spoke boldly. “The god,” he said, “is angry neither about vow nor hecatomb, but for his priest’s sake, whom Agamemnon has dishonoured, in that he would not free his daughter nor take a ransom for her; there- fore has he sent these evils upon us, and will yet send others. He will not deliver the Danaans from this pestilence till Agamemnon has restored the girl without fee or ransom to her father, and has sent a holy hecatomb to Chryse. Thus we may perhaps appease him.”
With these words he sat down, and Agamemnon rose in anger. His heart was black with rage, and his eyes flashed fire as he scowled on Calchas and said, “Seer of evil, you never yet prophesied smooth things concerning me, but have ever loved to foretell that which was evil. You have brought me neither comfort nor performance; and now you come seeing among Danaans, and saying that Apollo has plagued us because I would not take a ransom for this girl, the daughter of Chryses. I have set my heart on keeping her in my own house, for I love her better even than my own wife Clytemnestra, whose peer she is alike in form and feature, in understanding and accom- plishments. Still I will give her up if I must, for I would have the people live, not die; but you must find me a prize instead, or I alone among the Argives shall be without one. This is not well; for you behold, all of you, that my prize is to go elsewhither.”
And Achilles answered, “Most noble son of Atreus, covetous beyond all mankind, how shall the Achaeans find you another prize? We have no common store from which to take one. Those we took from the cities have been awarded; we cannot disallow the awards that have been made already. Give this girl, therefore, to the god, and if ever Jove grants us to sack the city of Troy we will requite you three and fourfold.”
Then Agamemnon said, “Achilles, valiant though you be, you shall not thus outwit me. You shall not overreach and you shall not persuade me. Are you to keep your own prize, while I sit tamely under my loss and give up the girl at your bidding? Let the Achaeans find me a prize in fair exchange to my liking, or I will come and take your own, or that of Ajax or of Ulysses; and he to whomsoever I may come shall rue my coming. But of this we will take thought hereafter; for the present, let us draw a ship into the sea, and find a crew for her expressly; let us put a heca- tomb on board, and let us send Chryseis also; further, let some chief man among us be in command, either Ajax, or Idomeneus, or yourself, son of Peleus, mighty warrior that you are, that we may offer sacrifice and appease the the anger of the god.”
Achilles scowled at him and answered, “You are steeped in insolence and lust of gain. With what heart can any of the Achaeans do your bidding, either on foray or in open fighting? I came not warring here for any ill the Tro- jans had done me. I have no quarrel with them. They have not raided my cattle nor my horses, nor cut down my harvests on the rich plains of Phthia; for between me and them there is a great space, both mountain and sounding sea. We have followed you, Sir Insolence! for your pleasure, not ours — to gain satisfaction from the Trojans for your shameless self and for Menelaus. You forget this, and threaten to rob me of the prize for which I have toiled, and which the sons of the Achaeans have given me. Never when the Achaeans sack any rich city of the Trojans do I receive so good a prize as you do, though it is my hands that do the better part of the fighting. When the sharing comes, your share is far the largest, and I, forsooth, must go back to my ships, take what I can get and be thankful, when my labour of fighting is done. Now, therefore, I shall go back to Phthia; it will be much better for me to return home with my ships, for I will not stay here dishonoured to gather gold and substance for you.”
And Agamemnon answered, “Fly if you will, I shall make you no prayers to stay you. I have others here who will do me honour, and above all Jove, the lord of counsel. There is no king here so hateful to me as you are, for you are ever quarrelsome and ill affected. What though you be brave? Was it not heaven that made you so? Go home, then, with your ships and comrades to lord it over the Myrmidons. I care neither for you nor for your anger; and thus will I do: since Phoebus Apollo is taking Chryseis from me, I shall send her with my ship and my followers, but I shall come to your tent and take your own prize Briseis, that you may learn how much stronger I am than you are, and that another may fear to set himself up as equal or comparable with me.”
The son of Peleus was furious, and his heart within his shaggy breast was divided whether to draw his sword, push the others aside, and kill the son of Atreus, or to restrain himself and check his anger. While he was thus in two minds, and was drawing his mighty sword from its scabbard, Minerva came down from heaven (for Juno had sent her in the love she bore to them both), and seized the son of Peleus by his yellow hair, visible to him alone, for of the others no man could see her. Achilles turned in amaze, and by the fire that flashed from her eyes at once knew that she was Minerva. “Why are you here,” said he, “daughter of aegis-bearing Jove? To see the pride of Agam- emnon, son of Atreus? Let me tell you—and it shall surely be—he shall pay for this insolence with his life.”
And Minerva said, “I come from heaven, if you will hear me, to bid you stay your anger. Juno has sent me, who cares for both of you alike. Cease, then, this brawling, and do not draw your sword; rail at him if you will, and your railing will not be vain, for I tell you—and it shall surely be—that you shall hereafter receive gifts three times as splendid by reason of this present insult. Hold, therefore, and obey.”
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“Goddess,” answered Achilles, “however angry a man may be, he must do as you two command him. This will be best, for the gods ever hear the prayers of him who has obeyed them.”
He stayed his hand on the silver hilt of his sword, and thrust it back into the scabbard as Minerva bade him. Then she went back to Olympus among the other gods, and to the house of aegis-bearing Jove.
But the son of Peleus again began railing at the son of Atreus, for he was still in a rage. “Wine-bibber,” he cried, “with the face of a dog and the heart of a hind, you never dare to go out with the host in fight, nor yet with our chosen men in ambuscade. You shun this as you do death itself. You had rather go round and rob his prizes from any man who contradicts you. You devour your people, for you are king over a feeble folk; otherwise, son of Atreus, henceforward you would insult no man. Therefore I say, and swear it with a great oath—nay, by this my sceptre which shalt sprout neither leaf nor shoot, nor bud anew from the day on which it left its parent stem upon the mountains—for the axe stripped it of leaf and bark, and now the sons of the Achaeans bear it as judges and guard- ians of the decrees of heaven—so surely and solemnly do I swear that hereafter they shall look fondly for Achilles and shall not find him. In the day of your distress, when your men fall dying by the murderous hand of Hector, you shall not know how to help them, and shall rend your heart with rage for the hour when you offered insult to the bravest of the Achaeans.”
With this the son of Peleus dashed his gold-bestudded sceptre on the ground and took his seat, while the son of Atreus was beginning fiercely from his place upon the other side. Then uprose smooth-tongued Nestor, the facile speaker of the Pylians, and the words fell from his lips sweeter than honey. Two generations of men born and bred in Pylos had passed away under his rule, and he was now reigning over the third. With all sincerity and goodwill, therefore, he addressed them thus:—
“Of a truth,” he said, “a great sorrow has befallen the Achaean land. Surely Priam with his sons would rejoice, and the Trojans be glad at heart if they could hear this quarrel between you two, who are so excellent in fight and counsel. I am older than either of you; therefore be guided by me. Moreover I have been the familiar friend of men even greater than you are, and they did not disregard my counsels. Never again can I behold such men as Pirithous and Dryas shepherd of his people, or as Caeneus, Exadius, godlike Polyphemus, and Theseus son of Aegeus, peer of the immortals. These were the mightiest men ever born upon this earth: mightiest were they, and when they fought the fiercest tribes of mountain savages they utterly overthrew them. I came from distant Pylos, and went about among them, for they would have me come, and I fought as it was in me to do. Not a man now living could withstand them, but they heard my words, and were persuaded by them. So be it also with yourselves, for this is the more excellent way. Therefore, Agamemnon, though you be strong, take not this girl away, for the sons of the Achaeans have already given her to Achilles; and you, Achilles, strive not further with the king, for no man who by the grace of Jove wields a sceptre has like honour with Agamemnon. You are strong, and have a goddess for your mother; but Agamemnon is stronger than you, for he has more people under him. Son of Atreus, check your anger, I implore you; end this quarrel with Achilles, who in the day of battle is a tower of strength to the Achaeans.”
And Agamemnon answered, “Sir, all that you have said is true, but this fellow must needs become our lord and master: he must be lord of all, king of all, and captain of all, and this shall hardly be. Granted that the gods have made him a great warrior, have they also given him the right to speak with railing?”
Achilles interrupted him. “I should be a mean coward,” he cried, “were I to give in to you in all things. Order other people about, not me, for I shall obey no longer. Furthermore I say—and lay my saying to your heart—I shall fight neither you nor any man about this girl, for those that take were those also that gave. But of all else that is at my ship you shall carry away nothing by force. Try, that others may see; if you do, my spear shall be reddened with your blood.”
When they had quarrelled thus angrily, they rose, and broke up the assembly at the ships of the Achaeans. The son of Peleus went back to his tents and ships with the son of Menoetius and his company, while Agamemnon drew a vessel into the water and chose a crew of twenty oarsmen. He escorted Chryseis on board and sent moreover a hecatomb for the god. And Ulysses went as captain.
These, then, went on board and sailed their ways over the sea. But the son of Atreus bade the people purify themselves; so they purified themselves and cast their filth into the sea. Then they offered hecatombs of bulls and goats without blemish on the sea-shore, and the smoke with the savour of their sacrifice rose curling up towards heaven.
Thus did they busy themselves throughout the host. But Agamemnon did not forget the threat that he had made Achilles, and called his trusty messengers and squires Talthybius and Eurybates. “Go,” said he, “to the tent of Achilles, son of Peleus; take Briseis by the hand and bring her hither; if he will not give her I shall come with others and take her—which will press him harder.”
He charged them straightly further and dismissed them, whereon they went their way sorrowfully by the sea- side, till they came to the tents and ships of the Myrmidons. They found Achilles sitting by his tent and his ships, and ill-pleased he was when he beheld them. They stood fearfully and reverently before him, and never a word did
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they speak, but he knew them and said, “Welcome, heralds, messengers of gods and men; draw near; my quarrel is not with you but with Agamemnon who has sent you for the girl Briseis. Therefore, Patroclus, bring her and give her to them, but let them be witnesses by the blessed gods, by mortal men, and by the fierceness of Agamemnon’s anger, that if ever again there be need of me to save the people from ruin, they shall seek and they shall not find. Agamemnon is mad with rage and knows not how to look before and after that the Achaeans may fight by their ships in safety.”
Patroclus did as his dear comrade had bidden him. He brought Briseis from the tent and gave her over to the heralds, who took her with them to the ships of the Achaeans— and the woman was loth to go. Then Achilles went all alone by the side of the hoar sea, weeping and looking out upon the boundless waste of waters. He raised his hands in prayer to his immortal mother, “Mother,” he cried, “you bore me doomed to live but for a little season; surely Jove, who thunders from Olympus, might have made that little glorious. It is not so. Agamemnon, son of Atreus, has done me dishonour, and has robbed me of my prize by force.”
As he spoke he wept aloud, and his mother heard him where she was sitting in the depths of the sea hard by the old man her father. Forthwith she rose as it were a grey mist out of the waves, sat down before him as he stood weeping, caressed him with her hand, and said, “My son, why are you weeping? What is it that grieves you? Keep it not from me, but tell me, that we may know it together.”
Achilles drew a deep sigh and said, “You know it; why tell you what you know well already? We went to Thebe the strong city of Eetion, sacked it, and brought hither the spoil. The sons of the Achaeans shared it duly among themselves, and chose lovely Chryseis as the meed of Agamemnon; but Chryses, priest of Apollo, came to the ships of the Achaeans to free his daughter, and brought with him a great ransom: moreover he bore in his hand the sceptre of Apollo, wreathed with a suppliant’s wreath, and he besought the Achaeans, but most of all the two sons of Atreus who were their chiefs.
“On this the rest of the Achaeans with one voice were for respecting the priest and taking the ransom that he offered; but not so Agamemnon, who spoke fiercely to him and sent him roughly away. So he went back in anger, and Apollo, who loved him dearly, heard his prayer. Then the god sent a deadly dart upon the Argives, and the people died thick on one another, for the arrows went everywhither among the wide host of the Achaeans. At last a seer in the fulness of his knowledge declared to us the oracles of Apollo, and I was myself first to say that we should appease him. Whereon the son of Atreus rose in anger, and threatened that which he has since done. The Achaeans are now taking the girl in a ship to Chryse, and sending gifts of sacrifice to the god; but the heralds have just taken from my tent the daughter of Briseus, whom the Achaeans had awarded to myself.
“Help your brave son, therefore, if you are able. Go to Olympus, and if you have ever done him service in word or deed, implore the aid of Jove. Ofttimes in my father’s house have I heard you glory in that you alone of the immortals saved the son of Saturn from ruin, when the others, with Juno, Neptune, and Pallas Minerva would have put him in bonds. It was you, goddess, who delivered him by calling to Olympus the hundred-handed mon- ster whom gods call Briareus, but men Aegaeon, for he is stronger even than his father; when therefore he took his seat all-glorious beside the son of Saturn, the other gods were afraid, and did not bind him. Go, then, to him, remind him of all this, clasp his knees, and bid him give succour to the Trojans. Let the Achaeans be hemmed in at the sterns of their ships, and perish on the sea-shore, that they may reap what joy they may of their king, and that Agamemnon may rue his blindness in offering insult to the foremost of the Achaeans.”
Thetis wept and answered, “My son, woe is me that I should have borne or suckled you. Would indeed that you had lived your span free from all sorrow at your ships, for it is all too brief; alas, that you should be at once short of life and long of sorrow above your peers: woe, therefore, was the hour in which I bore you; nevertheless I will go to the snowy heights of Olympus, and tell this tale to Jove, if he will hear our prayer: meanwhile stay where you are with your ships, nurse your anger against the Achaeans, and hold aloof from fight. For Jove went yesterday to Oceanus, to a feast among the Ethiopians, and the other gods went with him. He will return to Olympus twelve days hence; I will then go to his mansion paved with bronze and will beseech him; nor do I doubt that I shall be able to persuade him.”
On this she left him, still furious at the loss of her that had been taken from him. Meanwhile Ulysses reached Chryse with the hecatomb. When they had come inside the harbour they furled the sails and laid them in the ship’s hold; they slackened the forestays, lowered the mast into its place, and rowed the ship to the place where they would have her lie; there they cast out their mooring-stones and made fast the hawsers. They then got out upon the sea- shore and landed the hecatomb for Apollo; Chryseis also left the ship, and Ulysses led her to the altar to deliver her into the hands of her father. “Chryses,” said he, “King Agamemnon has sent me to bring you back your child, and to offer sacrifice to Apollo on behalf of the Danaans, that we may propitiate the god, who has now brought sorrow upon the Argives.”
So saying he gave the girl over to her father, who received her gladly, and they ranged the holy hecatomb all orderly round the altar of the god. They washed their hands and took up the barley-meal to sprinkle over the vic-
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tims, while Chryses lifted up his hands and prayed aloud on their behalf. “Hear me,” he cried, “O god of the silver bow, that protectest Chryse and holy Cilla, and rulest Tenedos with thy might. Even as thou didst hear me aforetime when I prayed, and didst press hardly upon the Achaeans, so hear me yet again, and stay this fearful pestilence from the Danaans.”
Thus did he pray, and Apollo heard his prayer. When they had done praying and sprinkling the barley-meal, they drew back the heads of the victims and killed and flayed them. They cut out the thigh-bones, wrapped them round in two layers of fat, set some pieces of raw meat on the top of them, and then Chryses laid them on the wood fire and poured wine over them, while the young men stood near him with five-pronged spits in their hands. When the thigh-bones were burned and they had tasted the inward meats, they cut the rest up small, put the pieces upon the spits, roasted them till they were done, and drew them off: then, when they had finished their work and the feast was ready, they ate it, and every man had his full share, so that all were satisfied. As soon as they had had enough to eat and drink, pages filled the mixing-bowl with wine and water and handed it round, after giving every man his drink-offering.
Thus all day long the young men worshipped the god with song, hymning him and chaunting the joyous paean, and the god took pleasure in their voices; but when the sun went down, and it came on dark, they laid themselves down to sleep by the stern cables of the ship, and when the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared they again set sail for the host of the Achaeans. Apollo sent them a fair wind, so they raised their mast and hoisted their white sails aloft. As the sail bellied with the wind the ship flew through the deep blue water, and the foam hissed against her bows as she sped onward. When they reached the wide-stretching host of the Achaeans, they drew the vessel ashore, high and dry upon the sands, set her strong props beneath her, and went their ways to their own tents and ships.
But Achilles abode at his ships and nursed his anger. He went not to the honourable assembly, and sallied not forth to fight, but gnawed at his own heart, pining for battle and the war-cry.
Now after twelve days the immortal gods came back in a body to Olympus, and Jove led the way. Thetis was not unmindful of the charge her son had laid upon her, so she rose from under the sea and went through great heaven with early morning to Olympus, where she found the mighty son of Saturn sitting all alone upon its topmost ridges. She sat herself down before him, and with her left hand seized his knees, while with her right she caught him under the chin, and besought him, saying—
“Father Jove, if I ever did you service in word or deed among the immortals, hear my prayer, and do honour to my son, whose life is to be cut short so early. King Agamemnon has dishonoured him by taking his prize and keep- ing her. Honour him then yourself, Olympian lord of counsel, and grant victory to the Trojans, till the Achaeans give my son his due and load him with riches in requital.”
Jove sat for a while silent, and without a word, but Thetis still kept firm hold of his knees, and besought him a second time. “Incline your head,” said she, “and promise me surely, or else deny me—for you have nothing to fear— that I may learn how greatly you disdain me.”
At this Jove was much troubled and answered, “I shall have trouble if you set me quarrelling with Juno, for she will provoke me with her taunting speeches; even now she is always railing at me before the other gods and accus- ing me of giving aid to the Trojans. Go back now, lest she should find out. I will consider the matter, and will bring it about as wish. See, I incline my head that you believe me. This is the most solemn that I can give to any god. I never recall my word, or deceive, or fail to do what I say, when I have nodded my head.”
As he spoke the son of Saturn bowed his dark brows, and the ambrosial locks swayed on his immortal head, till vast Olympus reeled.
When the pair had thus laid their plans, they parted—Jove to his house, while the goddess quitted the splen- dour of Olympus, and plunged into the depths of the sea. The gods rose from their seats, before the coming of their sire. Not one of them dared to remain sitting, but all stood up as he came among them. There, then, he took his seat. But Juno, when she saw him, knew that he and the old merman’s daughter, silver-footed Thetis, had been hatching mischief, so she at once began to upbraid him. “Trickster,” she cried, “which of the gods have you been taking into your counsels now? You are always settling matters in secret behind my back, and have never yet told me, if you could help it, one word of your intentions.”
“Juno,” replied the sire of gods and men, “you must not expect to be informed of all my counsels. You are my wife, but you would find it hard to understand them. When it is proper for you to hear, there is no one, god or man, who will be told sooner, but when I mean to keep a matter to myself, you must not pry nor ask questions.”
“Dread son of Saturn,” answered Juno, “what are you talking about? I? Pry and ask questions? Never. I let you have your own way in everything. Still, I have a strong misgiving that the old merman’s daughter Thetis has been talking you over, for she was with you and had hold of your knees this self-same morning. I believe, therefore, that you have been promising her to give glory to Achilles, and to kill much people at the ships of the Achaeans.”
“Wife,” said Jove, “I can do nothing but you suspect me and find it out. You will take nothing by it, for I shall
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only dislike you the more, and it will go harder with you. Granted that it is as you say; I mean to have it so; sit down and hold your tongue as I bid you for if I once begin to lay my hands about you, though all heaven were on your side it would profit you nothing.”
On this Juno was frightened, so she curbed her stubborn will and sat down in silence. But the heavenly beings were disquieted throughout the house of Jove, till the cunning workman Vulcan began to try and pacify his mother Juno. “It will be intolerable,” said he, “if you two fall to wrangling and setting heaven in an uproar about a pack of mortals. If such ill counsels are to prevail, we shall have no pleasure at our banquet. Let me then advise my moth- er—and she must herself know that it will be better—to make friends with my dear father Jove, lest he again scold her and disturb our feast. If the Olympian Thunderer wants to hurl us all from our seats, he can do so, for he is far the strongest, so give him fair words, and he will then soon be in a good humour with us.”
As he spoke, he took a double cup of nectar, and placed it in his mother’s hand. “Cheer up, my dear mother,” said he, “and make the best of it. I love you dearly, and should be very sorry to see you get a thrashing; however grieved I might be, I could not help for there is no standing against Jove. Once before when I was trying to help you, he caught me by the foot and flung me from the heavenly threshold. All day long from morn till eve, was I falling, till at sunset I came to ground in the island of Lemnos, and there I lay, with very little life left in me, till the Sintians came and tended me.”
Juno smiled at this, and as she smiled she took the cup from her son’s hands. Then Vulcan drew sweet nectar from the mixing-bowl, and served it round among the gods, going from left to right; and the blessed gods laughed out a loud applause as they saw him ing bustling about the heavenly mansion.
Thus through the livelong day to the going down of the sun they feasted, and every one had his full share, so that all were satisfied. Apollo struck his lyre, and the Muses lifted up their sweet voices, calling and answering one anoth- er. But when the sun’s glorious light had faded, they went home to bed, each in his own abode, which lame Vulcan with his consummate skill had fashioned for them. So Jove, the Olympian Lord of Thunder, hied him to the bed in which he always slept; and when he had got on to it he went to sleep, with Juno of the golden throne by his side.
Book II Now the other gods and the armed warriors on the plain slept soundly, but Jove was wakeful, for he was think-
ing how to do honour to Achilles, and destroyed much people at the ships of the Achaeans. In the end he deemed it would be best to send a lying dream to King Agamemnon; so he called one to him and said to it, “Lying Dream, go to the ships of the Achaeans, into the tent of Agamemnon, and say to him word to word as I now bid you. Tell him to get the Achaeans instantly under arms, for he shall take Troy. There are no longer divided counsels among the gods; Juno has brought them to her own mind, and woe betides the Trojans.”
The dream went when it had heard its message, and soon reached the ships of the Achaeans. It sought Agam- emnon son of Atreus and found him in his tent, wrapped in a profound slumber. It hovered over his head in the likeness of Nestor, son of Neleus, whom Agamemnon honoured above all his councillors, and said:—
“You are sleeping, son of Atreus; one who has the welfare of his host and so much other care upon his shoulders should dock his sleep. Hear me at once, for I come as a messenger from Jove, who, though he be not near, yet takes thought for you and pities you. He bids you get the Achaeans instantly under arms, for you shall take Troy. There are no longer divided counsels among the gods; Juno has brought them over to her own mind, and woe betides the Trojans at the hands of Jove. Remember this, and when you wake see that it does not escape you.”
The dream then left him, and he thought of things that were, surely not to be accomplished. He thought that on that same day he was to take the city of Priam, but he little knew what was in the mind of Jove, who had many another hard-fought fight in store alike for Danaans and Trojans. Then presently he woke, with the divine message still ringing in his ears; so he sat upright, and put on his soft shirt so fair and new, and over this his heavy cloak. He bound his sandals on to his comely feet, and slung his silver-studded sword about his shoulders; then he took the imperishable staff of his father, and sallied forth to the ships of the Achaeans.
The goddess Dawn now wended her way to vast Olympus that she might herald day to Jove and to the other immortals, and Agamemnon sent the criers round to call the people in assembly; so they called them and the peo- ple gathered thereon. But first he summoned a meeting of the elders at the ship of Nestor king of Pylos, and when they were assembled he laid a cunning counsel before them.
“My friends,” said he, “I have had a dream from heaven in the dead of night, and its face and figure resembled none but Nestor’s. It hovered over my head and said, ‘You are sleeping, son of Atreus; one who has the welfare of his host and so much other care upon his shoulders should dock his sleep. Hear me at once, for I am a messenger from Jove, who, though he be not near, yet takes thought for you and pities you. He bids you get the Achaeans instantly under arms, for you shall take Troy. There are no longer divided counsels among the gods; Juno has brought them over to her own mind, and woe betides the Trojans at the hands of Jove. Remember this.’ The dream then vanished
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and I awoke. Let us now, therefore, arm the sons of the Achaeans. But it will be well that I should first sound them, and to this end I will tell them to fly with their ships; but do you others go about among the host and prevent their doing so.”
He then sat down, and Nestor the prince of Pylos with all sincerity and goodwill addressed them thus: “My friends,” said he, “princes and councillors of the Argives, if any other man of the Achaeans had told us of this dream we should have declared it false, and would have had nothing to do with it. But he who has seen it is the foremost man among us; we must therefore set about getting the people under arms.”
With this he led the way from the assembly, and the other sceptred kings rose with him in obedience to the word of Agamemnon; but the people pressed forward to hear. They swarmed like bees that sally from some hollow cave and flit in countless throng among the spring flowers, bunched in knots and clusters; even so did the mighty multitude pour from ships and tents to the assembly, and range themselves upon the wide-watered shore, while among them ran Wildfire Rumour, messenger of Jove, urging them ever to the fore. Thus they gathered in a pell- mell of mad confusion, and the earth groaned under the tramp of men as the people sought their places. Nine heralds went crying about among them to stay their tumult and bid them listen to the kings, till at last they were got into their several places and ceased their clamour. Then King Agamemnon rose, holding his sceptre. This was the work of Vulcan, who gave it to Jove the son of Saturn. Jove gave it to Mercury, slayer of Argus, guide and guardian. King Mercury gave it to Pelops, the mighty charioteer, and Pelops to Atreus, shepherd of his people. Atreus, when he died, left it to Thyestes, rich in flocks, and Thyestes in his turn left it to be borne by Agamemnon, that he might be lord of all Argos and of the isles. Leaning, then, on his sceptre, he addressed the Argives.
“My friends,” he said, “heroes, servants of Mars, the hand of heaven has been laid heavily upon me. Cruel Jove gave me his solemn promise that I should sack the city of Priam before returning, but he has played me false, and is now bidding me go ingloriously back to Argos with the loss of much people. Such is the will of Jove, who has laid many a proud city in the dust, as he will yet lay others, for his power is above all. It will be a sorry tale hereafter that an Achaean host, at once so great and valiant, battled in vain against men fewer in number than themselves; but as yet the end is not in sight. Think that the Achaeans and Trojans have sworn to a solemn covenant, and that they have each been numbered—the Trojans by the roll of their householders, and we by companies of ten; think further that each of our companies desired to have a Trojan householder to pour out their wine; we are so greatly more in number that full many a company would have to go without its cup-bearer. But they have in the town allies from other places, and it is these that hinder me from being able to sack the rich city of Ilius. Nine of Jove years are gone; the timbers of our ships have rotted; their tackling is sound no longer. Our wives and little ones at home look anxiously for our coming, but the work that we came hither to do has not been done. Now, therefore, let us all do as I say: let us sail back to our own land, for we shall not take Troy.”
With these words he moved the hearts of the multitude, so many of them as knew not the cunning counsel of Agamemnon. They surged to and fro like the waves of the Icarian Sea, when the east and south winds break from heaven’s clouds to lash them; or as when the west wind sweeps over a field of corn and the ears bow beneath the blast, even so were they swayed as they flew with loud cries towards the ships, and the dust from under their feet rose heavenward. They cheered each other on to draw the ships into the sea; they cleared the channels in front of them; they began taking away the stays from underneath them, and the welkin rang with their glad cries, so eager were they to return.
Then surely the Argives would have returned after a fashion that was not fated. But Juno said to Minerva, “Alas, daughter of aegis-bearing Jove, unweariable, shall the Argives fly home to their own land over the broad sea, and leave Priam and the Trojans the glory of still keeping Helen, for whose sake so many of the Achaeans have died at Troy, far from their homes? Go about at once among the host, and speak fairly to them, man by man, that they draw not their ships into the sea.”
Minerva was not slack to do her bidding. Down she darted from the topmost summits of Olympus, and in a moment she was at the ships of the Achaeans. There she found Ulysses, peer of Jove in counsel, standing alone. He had not as yet laid a hand upon his ship, for he was grieved and sorry; so she went close up to him and said, “Ulyss- es, noble son of Laertes, are you going to fling yourselves into your ships and be off home to your own land in this way? Will you leave Priam and the Trojans the glory of still keeping Helen, for whose sake so many of the Achaeans have died at Troy, far from their homes? Go about at once among the host, and speak fairly to them, man by man, that they draw not their ships into the sea.”
Ulysses knew the voice as that of the goddess: he flung his cloak from him and set off to run. His servant Eury- bates, a man of Ithaca, who waited on him, took charge of the cloak, whereon Ulysses went straight up to Agamemnon and received from him his ancestral, imperishable staff. With this he went about among the ships of the Achaeans.
Whenever he met a king or chieftain, he stood by him and spoke him fairly. “Sir,” said he, “this flight is coward- ly and unworthy. Stand to your post, and bid your people also keep their places. You do not yet know the full mind of Agamemnon; he was sounding us, and ere long will visit the Achaeans with his displeasure. We were not all of
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us at the council to hear what he then said; see to it lest he be angry and do us a mischief; for the pride of kings is great, and the hand of Jove is with them.”
But when he came across any common man who was making a noise, he struck him with his staff and rebuked him, saying, “Sirrah, hold your peace, and listen to better men than yourself. You are a coward and no soldier; you are nobody either in fight or council; we cannot all be kings; it is not well that there should be many masters; one man must be supreme—one king to whom the son of scheming Saturn has given the sceptre of sovereignty over you all.”
Thus masterfully did he go about among the host, and the people hurried back to the council from their tents and ships with a sound as the thunder of surf when it comes crashing down upon the shore, and all the sea is in an uproar.
The rest now took their seats and kept to their own several places, but Thersites still went on wagging his un- bridled tongue—a man of many words, and those unseemly; a monger of sedition, a railer against all who were in authority, who cared not what he said, so that he might set the Achaeans in a laugh. He was the ugliest man of all those that came before Troy—bandy-legged, lame of one foot, with his two shoulders rounded and hunched over his chest. His head ran up to a point, but there was little hair on the top of it. Achilles and Ulysses hated him worst of all, for it was with them that he was most wont to wrangle; now, however, with a shrill squeaky voice he began heaping his abuse on Agamemnon. The Achaeans were angry and disgusted, yet none the less he kept on brawling and bawling at the son of Atreus.
“Agamemnon,” he cried, “what ails you now, and what more do you want? Your tents are filled with bronze and with fair women, for whenever we take a town we give you the pick of them. Would you have yet more gold, which some Trojan is to give you as a ransom for his son, when I or another Achaean has taken him prisoner? or is it some young girl to hide and lie with? It is not well that you, the ruler of the Achaeans, should bring them into such misery. Weakling cowards, women rather than men, let us sail home, and leave this fellow here at Troy to stew in his own meeds of honour, and discover whether we were of any service to him or no. Achilles is a much better man than he is, and see how he has treated him—robbing him of his prize and keeping it himself. Achilles takes it meekly and shows no fight; if he did, son of Atreus, you would never again insult him.”
Thus railed Thersites, but Ulysses at once went up to him and rebuked him sternly. “Check your glib tongue, Thersites,” said be, “and babble not a word further. Chide not with princes when you have none to back you. There is no viler creature come before Troy with the sons of Atreus. Drop this chatter about kings, and neither revile them nor keep harping about going home. We do not yet know how things are going to be, nor whether the Achaeans are to return with good success or evil. How dare you gibe at Agamemnon because the Danaans have awarded him so many prizes? I tell you, therefore—and it shall surely be—that if I again catch you talking such nonsense, I will ei- ther forfeit my own head and be no more called father of Telemachus, or I will take you, strip you stark naked, and whip you out of the assembly till you go blubbering back to the ships.”
On this he beat him with his staff about the back and shoulders till he dropped and fell a-weeping. The golden sceptre raised a bloody weal on his back, so he sat down frightened and in pain, looking foolish as he wiped the tears from his eyes. The people were sorry for him, yet they laughed heartily, and one would turn to his neighbour saying, “Ulysses has done many a good thing ere now in fight and council, but he never did the Argives a better turn than when he stopped this fellow’s mouth from prating further. He will give the kings no more of his inso- lence.”
Thus said the people. Then Ulysses rose, sceptre in hand, and Minerva in the likeness of a herald bade the peo- ple be still, that those who were far off might hear him and consider his council. He therefore with all sincerity and goodwill addressed them thus:—
“King Agamemnon, the Achaeans are for making you a by-word among all mankind. They forget the prom- ise they made you when they set out from Argos, that you should not return till you had sacked the town of Troy, and, like children or widowed women, they murmur and would set off homeward. True it is that they have had toil enough to be disheartened. A man chafes at having to stay away from his wife even for a single month, when he is on shipboard, at the mercy of wind and sea, but it is now nine long years that we have been kept here; I cannot, therefore, blame the Achaeans if they turn restive; still we shall be shamed if we go home empty after so long a stay—therefore, my friends, be patient yet a little longer that we may learn whether the prophesyings of Calchas were false or true.
“All who have not since perished must remember as though it were yesterday or the day before, how the ships of the Achaeans were detained in Aulis when we were on our way hither to make war on Priam and the Trojans. We were ranged round about a fountain offering hecatombs to the gods upon their holy altars, and there was a fine plane-tree from beneath which there welled a stream of pure water. Then we saw a prodigy; for Jove sent a fearful serpent out of the ground, with blood-red stains upon its back, and it darted from under the altar on to the plane- tree. Now there was a brood of young sparrows, quite small, upon the topmost bough, peeping out from under the
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leaves, eight in all, and their mother that hatched them made nine. The serpent ate the poor cheeping things, while the old bird flew about lamenting her little ones; but the serpent threw his coils about her and caught her by the wing as she was screaming. Then, when he had eaten both the sparrow and her young, the god who had sent him made him become a sign; for the son of scheming Saturn turned him into stone, and we stood there wondering at that which had come to pass. Seeing, then, that such a fearful portent had broken in upon our hecatombs, Calchas forthwith declared to us the oracles of heaven. ‘Why, Achaeans,’ said he, ‘are you thus speechless? Jove has sent us this sign, long in coming, and long ere it be fulfilled, though its fame shall last for ever. As the serpent ate the eight fledglings and the sparrow that hatched them, which makes nine, so shall we fight nine years at Troy, but in the tenth shall take the town.’ This was what he said, and now it is all coming true. Stay here, therefore, all of you, till we take the city of Priam.”
On this the Argives raised a shout, till the ships rang again with the uproar. Nestor, knight of Gerene, then ad- dressed them. “Shame on you,” he cried, “to stay talking here like children, when you should fight like men. Where are our covenants now, and where the oaths that we have taken? Shall our counsels be flung into the fire, with our drink-offerings and the right hands of fellowship wherein we have put our trust? We waste our time in words, and for all our talking here shall be no further forward. Stand, therefore, son of Atreus, by your own steadfast purpose; lead the Argives on to battle, and leave this handful of men to rot, who scheme, and scheme in vain, to get back to Argos ere they have learned whether Jove be true or a liar. For the mighty son of Saturn surely promised that we should succeed, when we Argives set sail to bring death and destruction upon the Trojans. He showed us favourable signs by flashing his lightning on our right hands; therefore let none make haste to go till he has first lain with the wife of some Trojan, and avenged the toil and sorrow that he has suffered for the sake of Helen. Nevertheless, if any man is in such haste to be at home again, let him lay his hand to his ship that he may meet his doom in the sight of all. But, O king, consider and give ear to my counsel, for the word that I say may not be neglected lightly. Divide your men, Agamemnon, into their several tribes and clans, that clans and tribes may stand by and help one another. If you do this, and if the Achaeans obey you, you will find out who, both chiefs and peoples, are brave, and who are cowards; for they will vie against the other. Thus you shall also learn whether it is through the counsel of heaven or the cowardice of man that you shall fail to take the town.”
And Agamemnon answered, “Nestor, you have again outdone the sons of the Achaeans in counsel. Would, by Father Jove, Minerva, and Apollo, that I had among them ten more such councillors, for the city of King Pri- am would then soon fall beneath our hands, and we should sack it. But the son of Saturn afflicts me with bootless wranglings and strife. Achilles and I are quarrelling about this girl, in which matter I was the first to offend; if we can be of one mind again, the Trojans will not stave off destruction for a day. Now, therefore, get your morning meal, that our hosts join in fight. Whet well your spears; see well to the ordering of your shields; give good feeds to your horses, and look your chariots carefully over, that we may do battle the livelong day; for we shall have no rest, not for a moment, till night falls to part us. The bands that bear your shields shall be wet with the sweat upon your shoulders, your hands shall weary upon your spears, your horses shall steam in front of your chariots, and if I see any man shirking the fight, or trying to keep out of it at the ships, there shall be no help for him, but he shall be a prey to dogs and vultures.”
Thus he spoke, and the Achaeans roared applause. As when the waves run high before the blast of the south wind and break on some lofty headland, dashing against it and buffeting it without ceasing, as the storms from every quarter drive them, even so did the Achaeans rise and hurry in all directions to their ships. There they lighted their fires at their tents and got dinner, offering sacrifice every man to one or other of the gods, and praying each one of them that he might live to come out of the fight. Agamemnon, king of men, sacrificed a fat five-year-old bull to the mighty son of Saturn, and invited the princes and elders of his host. First he asked Nestor and King Idome- neus, then the two Ajaxes and the son of Tydeus, and sixthly Ulysses, peer of gods in counsel; but Menelaus came of his own accord, for he knew how busy his brother then was. They stood round the bull with the barley-meal in their hands, and Agamemnon prayed, saying, “Jove, most glorious, supreme, that dwellest in heaven, and ridest upon the storm-cloud, grant that the sun may not go down, nor the night fall, till the palace of Priam is laid low, and its gates are consumed with fire. Grant that my sword may pierce the shirt of Hector about his heart, and that full many of his comrades may bite the dust as they fall dying round him.”
Thus he prayed, but the son of Saturn would not fulfil his prayer. He accepted the sacrifice, yet none the less increased their toil continually. When they had done praying and sprinkling the barley-meal upon the victim, they drew back its head, killed it, and then flayed it. They cut out the thigh-bones, wrapped them round in two layers of fat, and set pieces of raw meat on the top of them. These they burned upon the split logs of firewood, but they spitted the inward meats, and held them in the flames to cook. When the thigh-bones were burned, and they had tasted the inward meats, they cut the rest up small, put the pieces upon spits, roasted them till they were done, and drew them off; then, when they had finished their work and the feast was ready, they ate it, and every man had his full share, so that all were satisfied. As soon as they had had enough to eat and drink, Nestor, knight of Gerene,
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began to speak. “King Agamemnon,” said he, “let us not stay talking here, nor be slack in the work that heaven has put into our hands. Let the heralds summon the people to gather at their several ships; we will then go about among the host, that we may begin fighting at once.”
Thus did he speak, and Agamemnon heeded his words. He at once sent the criers round to call the people in assembly. So they called them, and the people gathered thereon. The chiefs about the son of Atreus chose their men and marshalled them, while Minerva went among them holding her priceless aegis that knows neither age nor death. From it there waved a hundred tassels of pure gold, all deftly woven, and each one of them worth a hundred oxen. With this she darted furiously everywhere among the hosts of the Achaeans, urging them forward, and put- ting courage into the heart of each, so that he might fight and do battle without ceasing. Thus war became sweeter in their eyes even than returning home in their ships. As when some great forest fire is raging upon a mountain top and its light is seen afar, even so as they marched the gleam of their armour flashed up into the firmament of heaven.
They were like great flocks of geese, or cranes, or swans on the plain about the waters of Cayster, that wing their way hither and thither, glorying in the pride of flight, and crying as they settle till the fen is alive with their scream- ing. Even thus did their tribes pour from ships and tents on to the plain of the Scamander, and the ground rang as brass under the feet of men and horses. They stood as thick upon the flower-bespangled field as leaves that bloom in summer.
As countless swarms of flies buzz around a herdsman’s homestead in the time of spring when the pails are drenched with milk, even so did the Achaeans swarm on to the plain to charge the Trojans and destroy them.
The chiefs disposed their men this way and that before the fight began, drafting them out as easily as goatherds draft their flocks when they have got mixed while feeding; and among them went King Agamemnon, with a head and face like Jove the lord of thunder, a waist like Mars, and a chest like that of Neptune. As some great bull that lords it over the herds upon the plain, even so did Jove make the son of Atreus stand peerless among the multitude of heroes.
And now, O Muses, dwellers in the mansions of Olympus, tell me—for you are goddesses and are in all places so that you see all things, while we know nothing but by report—who were the chiefs and princes of the Danaans? As for the common soldiers, they were so that I could not name every single one of them though I had ten tongues, and though my voice failed not and my heart were of bronze within me, unless you, O Olympian Muses, daughters of aegis-bearing Jove, were to recount them to me. Nevertheless, I will tell the captains of the ships and all the fleet together.
Peneleos, Leitus, Arcesilaus, Prothoenor, and Clonius were captains of the Boeotians. These were they that dwelt in Hyria and rocky Aulis, and who held Schoenus, Scolus, and the highlands of Eteonus, with Thespeia, Graia, and the fair city of Mycalessus. They also held Harma, Eilesium, and Erythrae; and they had Eleon, Hyle, and Peteon; Ocalea and the strong fortress of Medeon; Copae, Eutresis, and Thisbe the haunt of doves; Coronea, and the pastures of Haliartus; Plataea and Glisas; the fortress of Thebes the less; holy Onchestus with its famous grove of Neptune; Arne rich in vineyards; Midea, sacred Nisa, and Anthedon upon the sea. From these there came fifty ships, and in each there were a hundred and twenty young men of the Boeotians.
Ascalaphus and Ialmenus, sons of Mars, led the people that dwelt in Aspledon and Orchomenus the realm of Minyas. Astyoche a noble maiden bore them in the house of Actor son of Azeus; for she had gone with Mars secret- ly into an upper chamber, and he had lain with her. With these there came thirty ships.
The Phoceans were led by Schedius and Epistrophus, sons of mighty Iphitus the son of Naubolus. These were they that held Cyparissus, rocky Pytho, holy Crisa, Daulis, and Panopeus; they also that dwelt in Anemorea and Hyampolis, and about the waters of the river Cephissus, and Lilaea by the springs of the Cephissus; with their chief- tains came forty ships, and they marshalled the forces of the Phoceans, which were stationed next to the Boeotians, on their left.
Ajax, the fleet son of Oileus, commanded the Locrians. He was not so great, nor nearly so great, as Ajax the son of Telamon. He was a little man, and his breastplate was made of linen, but in use of the spear he excelled all the Hellenes and the Achaeans. These dwelt in Cynus, Opous, Calliarus, Bessa, Scarphe, fair Augeae, Tarphe, and Thro- nium about the river Boagrius. With him there came forty ships of the Locrians who dwell beyond Euboea.
The fierce Abantes held Euboea with its cities, Chalcis, Eretria, Histiaea rich in vines, Cerinthus upon the sea, and the rock-perched town of Dium; with them were also the men of Carystus and Styra; Elephenor of the race of Mars was in command of these; he was son of Chalcodon, and chief over all the Abantes. With him they came, fleet of foot and wearing their hair long behind, brave warriors, who would ever strive to tear open the corslets of their foes with their long ashen spears. Of these there came fifty ships.
And they that held the strong city of Athens, the people of great Erechtheus, who was born of the soil itself, but Jove’s daughter, Minerva, fostered him, and established him at Athens in her own rich sanctuary. There, year by year, the Athenian youths worship him with sacrifices of bulls and rams. These were commanded by Menestheus,
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son of Peteos. No man living could equal him in the marshalling of chariots and foot soldiers. Nestor could alone rival him, for he was older. With him there came fifty ships.
Ajax brought twelve ships from Salamis, and stationed them alongside those of the Athenians. The men of Argos, again, and those who held the walls of Tiryns, with Hermione, and Asine upon the gulf;
Troezene, Eionae, and the vineyard lands of Epidaurus; the Achaean youths, moreover, who came from Aegina and Mases; these were led by Diomed of the loud battle-cry, and Sthenelus son of famed Capaneus. With them in command was Euryalus, son of king Mecisteus, son of Talaus; but Diomed was chief over them all. With these there came eighty ships.
Those who held the strong city of Mycenae, rich Corinth and Cleonae; Orneae, Araethyrea, and Licyon, where Adrastus reigned of old; Hyperesia, high Gonoessa, and Pellene; Aegium and all the coast-land round about Helice; these sent a hundred ships under the command of King Agamemnon, son of Atreus. His force was far both finest and most numerous, and in their midst was the king himself, all glorious in his armour of gleaming bronze—fore- most among the heroes, for he was the greatest king, and had most men under him.
And those that dwelt in Lacedaemon, lying low among the hills, Pharis, Sparta, with Messe the haunt of doves; Bryseae, Augeae, Amyclae, and Helos upon the sea; Laas, moreover, and Oetylus; these were led by Menelaus of the loud battle-cry, brother to Agamemnon, and of them there were sixty ships, drawn up apart from the others. Among them went Menelaus himself, strong in zeal, urging his men to fight; for he longed to avenge the toil and sorrow that he had suffered for the sake of Helen.
The men of Pylos and Arene, and Thryum where is the ford of the river Alpheus; strong Aipy, Cyparisseis, and Amphigenea; Pteleum, Helos, and Dorium, where the Muses met Thamyris, and stilled his minstrelsy for ever. He was returning from Oechalia, where Eurytus lived and reigned, and boasted that he would surpass even the Muses, daughters of aegis-bearing Jove, if they should sing against him; whereon they were angry, and maimed him. They robbed him of his divine power of song, and thenceforth he could strike the lyre no more. These were commanded by Nestor, knight of Gerene, and with him there came ninety ships.
And those that held Arcadia, under the high mountain of Cyllene, near the tomb of Aepytus, where the people fight hand to hand; the men of Pheneus also, and Orchomenus rich in flocks; of Rhipae, Stratie, and bleak Enispe; of Tegea and fair Mantinea; of Stymphelus and Parrhasia; of these King Agapenor son of Ancaeus was commander, and they had sixty ships. Many Arcadians, good soldiers, came in each one of them, but Agamemnon found them the ships in which to cross the sea, for they were not a people that occupied their business upon the waters.
The men, moreover, of Buprasium and of Elis, so much of it as is enclosed between Hyrmine, Myrsinus upon the sea-shore, the rock Olene and Alesium. These had four leaders, and each of them had ten ships, with many Epeans on board. Their captains were Amphimachus and Thalpius—the one, son of Cteatus, and the other, of Eury- tus—both of the race of Actor. The two others were Diores, son of Amarynces, and Polyxenus, son of King Agasthe- nes, son of Augeas.
And those of Dulichium with the sacred Echinean islands, who dwelt beyond the sea off Elis; these were led by Meges, peer of Mars, and the son of valiant Phyleus, dear to Jove, who quarrelled with his father, and went to settle in Dulichium. With him there came forty ships.
Ulysses led the brave Cephallenians, who held Ithaca, Neritum with its forests, Crocylea, rugged Aegilips, Samos and Zacynthus, with the mainland also that was over against the islands. These were led by Ulysses, peer of Jove in counsel, and with him there came twelve ships.
Thoas, son of Andraemon, commanded the Aetolians, who dwelt in Pleuron, Olenus, Pylene, Chalcis by the sea, and rocky Calydon, for the great king Oeneus had now no sons living, and was himself dead, as was also gold- en-haired Meleager, who had been set over the Aetolians to be their king. And with Thoas there came forty ships.
The famous spearsman Idomeneus led the Cretans, who held Cnossus, and the well-walled city of Gortys; Lyctus also, Miletus and Lycastus that lies upon the chalk; the populous towns of Phaestus and Rhytium, with the other peoples that dwelt in the hundred cities of Crete. All these were led by Idomeneus, and by Meriones, peer of murderous Mars. And with these there came eighty ships.
Tlepolemus, son of Hercules, a man both brave and large of stature, brought nine ships of lordly warriors from Rhodes. These dwelt in Rhodes which is divided among the three cities of Lindus, Ielysus, and Cameirus, that lies upon the chalk. These were commanded by Tlepolemus, son of Hercules by Astyochea, whom he had carried off from Ephyra, on the river Selleis, after sacking many cities of valiant warriors. When Tlepolemus grew up, he killed his father’s uncle Licymnius, who had been a famous warrior in his time, but was then grown old. On this he built himself a fleet, gathered a great following, and fled beyond the sea, for he was menaced by the other sons and grandsons of Hercules. After a voyage. during which he suffered great hardship, he came to Rhodes, where the people divided into three communities, according to their tribes, and were dearly loved by Jove, the lord, of gods and men; wherefore the son of Saturn showered down great riches upon them.
And Nireus brought three ships from Syme—Nireus, who was the handsomest man that came up under Ilius of
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all the Danaans after the son of Peleus—but he was a man of no substance, and had but a small following. And those that held Nisyrus, Crapathus, and Casus, with Cos, the city of Eurypylus, and the Calydnian islands,
these were commanded by Pheidippus and Antiphus, two sons of King Thessalus the son of Hercules. And with them there came thirty ships.
Those again who held Pelasgic Argos, Alos, Alope, and Trachis; and those of Phthia and Hellas the land of fair women, who were called Myrmidons, Hellenes, and Achaeans; these had fifty ships, over which Achilles was in command. But they now took no part in the war, inasmuch as there was no one to marshal them; for Achilles stayed by his ships, furious about the loss of the girl Briseis, whom he had taken from Lyrnessus at his own great peril, when he had sacked Lyrnessus and Thebe, and had overthrown Mynes and Epistrophus, sons of king Evenor, son of Selepus. For her sake Achilles was still grieving, but ere long he was again to join them.
And those that held Phylace and the flowery meadows of Pyrasus, sanctuary of Ceres; Iton, the mother of sheep; Antrum upon the sea, and Pteleum that lies upon the grass lands. Of these brave Protesilaus had been cap- tain while he was yet alive, but he was now lying under the earth. He had left a wife behind him in Phylace to tear her cheeks in sorrow, and his house was only half finished, for he was slain by a Dardanian warrior while leaping foremost of the Achaeans upon the soil of Troy. Still, though his people mourned their chieftain, they were not without a leader, for Podarces, of the race of Mars, marshalled them; he was son of Iphiclus, rich in sheep, who was the son of Phylacus, and he was own brother to Protesilaus, only younger, Protesilaus being at once the elder and the more valiant. So the people were not without a leader, though they mourned him whom they had lost. With him there came forty ships.
And those that held Pherae by the Boebean lake, with Boebe, Glaphyrae, and the populous city of Iolcus, these with their eleven ships were led by Eumelus, son of Admetus, whom Alcestis bore to him, loveliest of the daughters of Pelias.
And those that held Methone and Thaumacia, with Meliboea and rugged Olizon, these were led by the skilful archer Philoctetes, and they had seven ships, each with fifty oarsmen all of them good archers; but Philoctetes was lying in great pain in the Island of Lemnos, where the sons of the Achaeans left him, for he had been bitten by a poisonous water snake. There he lay sick and sorry, and full soon did the Argives come to miss him. But his people, though they felt his loss were not leaderless, for Medon, the bastard son of Oileus by Rhene, set them in array.
Those, again, of Tricca and the stony region of Ithome, and they that held Oechalia, the city of Oechalian Eury- tus, these were commanded by the two sons of Aesculapius, skilled in the art of healing, Podalirius and Machaon. And with them there came thirty ships.
The men, moreover, of Ormenius, and by the fountain of Hypereia, with those that held Asterius, and the white crests of Titanus, these were led by Eurypylus, the son of Euaemon, and with them there came forty ships.
Those that held Argissa and Gyrtone, Orthe, Elone, and the white city of Oloosson, of these brave Polypoetes was leader. He was son of Pirithous, who was son of Jove himself, for Hippodameia bore him to Pirithous on the day when he took his revenge on the shaggy mountain savages and drove them from Mt. Pelion to the Aithices. But Polypoetes was not sole in command, for with him was Leonteus, of the race of Mars, who was son of Coronus, the son of Caeneus. And with these there came forty ships.
Guneus brought two and twenty ships from Cyphus, and he was followed by the Enienes and the valiant Per- aebi, who dwelt about wintry Dodona, and held the lands round the lovely river Titaresius, which sends its waters into the Peneus. They do not mingle with the silver eddies of the Peneus, but flow on the top of them like oil; for the Titaresius is a branch of dread Orcus and of the river Styx.
Of the Magnetes, Prothous son of Tenthredon was commander. They were they that dwelt about the river Pene- us and Mt. Pelion. Prothous, fleet of foot, was their leader, and with him there came forty ships.
Such were the chiefs and princes of the Danaans. Who, then, O Muse, was the foremost, whether man or horse, among those that followed after the sons of Atreus?
Of the horses, those of the son of Pheres were by far the finest. They were driven by Eumelus, and were as fleet as birds. They were of the same age and colour, and perfectly matched in height. Apollo, of the silver bow, had bred them in Perea—both of them mares, and terrible as Mars in battle. Of the men, Ajax, son of Telamon, was much the foremost so long as Achilles’ anger lasted, for Achilles excelled him greatly and he had also better horses; but Achilles was now holding aloof at his ships by reason of his quarrel with Agamemnon, and his people passed their time upon the sea shore, throwing discs or aiming with spears at a mark, and in archery. Their horses stood each by his own chariot, champing lotus and wild celery. The chariots were housed under cover, but their owners, for lack of leadership, wandered hither and thither about the host and went not forth to fight.
Thus marched the host like a consuming fire, and the earth groaned beneath them when the lord of thunder is angry and lashes the land about Typhoeus among the Arimi, where they say Typhoeus lies. Even so did the earth groan beneath them as they sped over the plain.
And now Iris, fleet as the wind, was sent by Jove to tell the bad news among the Trojans. They were gathered in
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assembly, old and young, at Priam’s gates, and Iris came close up to Priam, speaking with the voice of Priam’s son Polites, who, being fleet of foot, was stationed as watchman for the Trojans on the tomb of old Aesyetes, to look out for any sally of the Achaeans. In his likeness Iris spoke, saying, “Old man, you talk idly, as in time of peace, while war is at hand. I have been in many a battle, but never yet saw such a host as is now advancing. They are crossing the plain to attack the city as thick as leaves or as the sands of the sea. Hector, I charge you above all others, do as I say. There are many allies dispersed about the city of Priam from distant places and speaking divers tongues. There- fore, let each chief give orders to his own people, setting them severally in array and leading them forth to battle.”
Thus she spoke, but Hector knew that it was the goddess, and at once broke up the assembly. The men flew to arms; all the gates were opened, and the people thronged through them, horse and foot, with the tramp as of a great multitude.
Now there is a high mound before the city, rising by itself upon the plain. Men call it Batieia, but the gods know that it is the tomb of lithe Myrine. Here the Trojans and their allies divided their forces.
Priam’s son, great Hector of the gleaming helmet, commanded the Trojans, and with him were arrayed by far the greater number and most valiant of those who were longing for the fray.
The Dardanians were led by brave Aeneas, whom Venus bore to Anchises, when she, goddess though she was, had lain with him upon the mountain slopes of Ida. He was not alone, for with him were the two sons of Antenor, Archilochus and Acamas, both skilled in all the arts of war.
They that dwelt in Telea under the lowest spurs of Mt. Ida, men of substance, who drink the limpid waters of the Aesepus, and are of Trojan blood—these were led by Pandarus son of Lycaon, whom Apollo had taught to use the bow.
They that held Adresteia and the land of Apaesus, with Pityeia, and the high mountain of Tereia—these were led by Adrestus and Amphius, whose breastplate was of linen. These were the sons of Merops of Percote, who ex- celled in all kinds of divination. He told them not to take part in the war, but they gave him no heed, for fate lured them to destruction.
They that dwelt about Percote and Practius, with Sestos, Abydos, and Arisbe—these were led by Asius, son of Hyrtacus, a brave commander—Asius, the son of Hyrtacus, whom his powerful dark bay steeds, of the breed that comes from the river Selleis, had brought from Arisbe.
Hippothous led the tribes of Pelasgian spearsmen, who dwelt in fertile Larissa—Hippothous, and Pylaeus of the race of Mars, two sons of the Pelasgian Lethus, son of Teutamus.
Acamas and the warrior Peirous commanded the Thracians and those that came from beyond the mighty stream of the Hellespont.
Euphemus, son of Troezenus, the son of Ceos, was captain of the Ciconian spearsmen. Pyraechmes led the Paeonian archers from distant Amydon, by the broad waters of the river Axius, the fairest
that flow upon the earth. The Paphlagonians were commanded by stout-hearted Pylaemanes from Enetae, where the mules run wild in
herds. These were they that held Cytorus and the country round Sesamus, with the cities by the river Parthenius, Cromna, Aegialus, and lofty Erithini.
Odius and Epistrophus were captains over the Halizoni from distant Alybe, where there are mines of silver. Chromis, and Ennomus the augur, led the Mysians, but his skill in augury availed not to save him from destruc-
tion, for he fell by the hand of the fleet descendant of Aeacus in the river, where he slew others also of the Trojans. Phorcys, again, and noble Ascanius led the Phrygians from the far country of Ascania, and both were eager for
the fray. Mesthles and Antiphus commanded the Meonians, sons of Talaemenes, born to him of the Gygaean lake. These
led the Meonians, who dwelt under Mt. Tmolus. Nastes led the Carians, men of a strange speech. These held Miletus and the wooded mountain of Phthires, with
the water of the river Maeander and the lofty crests of Mt. Mycale. These were commanded by Nastes and Amphi- machus, the brave sons of Nomion. He came into the fight with gold about him, like a girl; fool that he was, his gold was of no avail to save him, for he fell in the river by the hand of the fleet descendant of Aeacus, and Achilles bore away his gold.
Sarpedon and Glaucus led the Lycians from their distant land, by the eddying waters of the Xanthus.
Book III When the companies were thus arrayed, each under its own captain, the Trojans advanced as a flight of wild
fowl or cranes that scream overhead when rain and winter drive them over the flowing waters of Oceanus to bring death and destruction on the Pygmies, and they wrangle in the air as they fly; but the Achaeans marched silently, in high heart, and minded to stand by one another.
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As when the south wind spreads a curtain of mist upon the mountain tops, bad for shepherds but better than night for thieves, and a man can see no further than he can throw a stone, even so rose the dust from under their feet as they made all speed over the plain.
When they were close up with one another, Alexandrus came forward as champion on the Trojan side. On his shoulders he bore the skin of a panther, his bow, and his sword, and he brandished two spears shod with bronze as a challenge to the bravest of the Achaeans to meet him in single fight. Menelaus saw him thus stride out before the ranks, and was glad as a hungry lion that lights on the carcase of some goat or horned stag, and devours it there and then, though dogs and youths set upon him. Even thus was Menelaus glad when his eyes caught sight of Alex- andrus, for he deemed that now he should be revenged. He sprang, therefore, from his chariot, clad in his suit of armour.
Alexandrus quailed as he saw Menelaus come forward, and shrank in fear of his life under cover of his men. As one who starts back affrighted, trembling and pale, when he comes suddenly upon a serpent in some moun- tain glade, even so did Alexandrus plunge into the throng of Trojan warriors, terror-stricken at the sight of the son Atreus.
Then Hector upbraided him. “Paris,” said he, “evil-hearted Paris, fair to see, but woman-mad, and false of tongue, would that you had never been born, or that you had died unwed. Better so, than live to be disgraced and looked askance at. Will not the Achaeans mock at us and say that we have sent one to champion us who is fair to see but who has neither wit nor courage? Did you not, such as you are, get your following together and sail beyond the seas? Did you not from your a far country carry off a lovely woman wedded among a people of warriors—to bring sorrow upon your father, your city, and your whole country, but joy to your enemies, and hang-dog shamefacedness to yourself ? And now can you not dare face Menelaus and learn what manner of man he is whose wife you have stolen? Where indeed would be your lyre and your love-tricks, your comely locks and your fair favour, when you were lying in the dust before him? The Trojans are a weak-kneed people, or ere this you would have had a shirt of stones for the wrongs you have done them.”
And Alexandrus answered, “Hector, your rebuke is just. You are hard as the axe which a shipwright wields at his work, and cleaves the timber to his liking. As the axe in his hand, so keen is the edge of your scorn. Still, taunt me not with the gifts that golden Venus has given me; they are precious; let not a man disdain them, for the gods give them where they are minded, and none can have them for the asking. If you would have me do battle with Mene- laus, bid the Trojans and Achaeans take their seats, while he and I fight in their midst for Helen and all her wealth. Let him who shall be victorious and prove to be the better man take the woman and all she has, to bear them to his home, but let the rest swear to a solemn covenant of peace whereby you Trojans shall stay here in Troy, while the others go home to Argos and the land of the Achaeans.”
When Hector heard this he was glad, and went about among the Trojan ranks holding his spear by the middle to keep them back, and they all sat down at his bidding: but the Achaeans still aimed at him with stones and arrows, till Agamemnon shouted to them saying, “Hold, Argives, shoot not, sons of the Achaeans; Hector desires to speak.”
They ceased taking aim and were still, whereon Hector spoke. “Hear from my mouth,” said he, “Trojans and Achaeans, the saying of Alexandrus, through whom this quarrel has come about. He bids the Trojans and Achaeans lay their armour upon the ground, while he and Menelaus fight in the midst of you for Helen and all her wealth. Let him who shall be victorious and prove to be the better man take the woman and all she has, to bear them to his own home, but let the rest swear to a solemn covenant of peace.”
Thus he spoke, and they all held their peace, till Menelaus of the loud battle-cry addressed them. “And now,” he said, “hear me too, for it is I who am the most aggrieved. I deem that the parting of Achaeans and Trojans is at hand, as well it may be, seeing how much have suffered for my quarrel with Alexandrus and the wrong he did me. Let him who shall die, die, and let the others fight no more. Bring, then, two lambs, a white ram and a black ewe, for Earth and Sun, and we will bring a third for Jove. Moreover, you shall bid Priam come, that he may swear to the covenant himself; for his sons are high-handed and ill to trust, and the oaths of Jove must not be transgressed or taken in vain. Young men’s minds are light as air, but when an old man comes he looks before and after, deeming that which shall be fairest upon both sides.”
The Trojans and Achaeans were glad when they heard this, for they thought that they should now have rest. They backed their chariots toward the ranks, got out of them, and put off their armour, laying it down upon the ground; and the hosts were near to one another with a little space between them. Hector sent two messengers to the city to bring the lambs and to bid Priam come, while Agamemnon told Talthybius to fetch the other lamb from the ships, and he did as Agamemnon had said.
Meanwhile Iris went to Helen in the form of her sister-in-law, wife of the son of Antenor, for Helicaon, son of Antenor, had married Laodice, the fairest of Priam’s daughters. She found her in her own room, working at a great web of purple linen, on which she was embroidering the battles between Trojans and Achaeans, that Mars had made them fight for her sake. Iris then came close up to her and said, “Come hither, child, and see the strange
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doings of the Trojans and Achaeans till now they have been warring upon the plain, mad with lust of battle, but now they have left off fighting, and are leaning upon their shields, sitting still with their spears planted beside them. Alexandrus and Menelaus are going to fight about yourself, and you are to the the wife of him who is the victor.”
Thus spoke the goddess, and Helen’s heart yearned after her former husband, her city, and her parents. She threw a white mantle over her head, and hurried from her room, weeping as she went, not alone, but attended by two of her handmaids, Aethrae, daughter of Pittheus, and Clymene. And straightway they were at the Scaean gates.
The two sages, Ucalegon and Antenor, elders of the people, were seated by the Scaean gates, with Priam, Pan- thous, Thymoetes, Lampus, Clytius, and Hiketaon of the race of Mars. These were too old to fight, but they were fluent orators, and sat on the tower like cicales that chirrup delicately from the boughs of some high tree in a wood. When they saw Helen coming towards the tower, they said softly to one another, “Small wonder that Trojans and Achaeans should endure so much and so long, for the sake of a woman so marvellously and divinely lovely. Still, fair though she be, let them take her and go, or she will breed sorrow for us and for our children after us.”
But Priam bade her draw nigh. “My child,” said he, “take your seat in front of me that you may see your former husband, your kinsmen and your friends. I lay no blame upon you, it is the gods, not you who are to blame. It is they that have brought about this terrible war with the Achaeans. Tell me, then, who is yonder huge hero so great and goodly? I have seen men taller by a head, but none so comely and so royal. Surely he must be a king.”
“Sir,” answered Helen, “father of my husband, dear and reverend in my eyes, would that I had chosen death rather than to have come here with your son, far from my bridal chamber, my friends, my darling daughter, and all the companions of my girlhood. But it was not to be, and my lot is one of tears and sorrow. As for your question, the hero of whom you ask is Agamemnon, son of Atreus, a good king and a brave soldier, brother-in-law as surely as that he lives, to my abhorred and miserable self.”
The old man marvelled at him and said, “Happy son of Atreus, child of good fortune. I see that the Achaeans are subject to you in great multitudes. When I was in Phrygia I saw much horsemen, the people of Otreus and of Mygdon, who were camping upon the banks of the river Sangarius; I was their ally, and with them when the Ama- zons, peers of men, came up against them, but even they were not so many as the Achaeans.”
The old man next looked upon Ulysses; “Tell me,” he said, “who is that other, shorter by a head than Agamem- non, but broader across the chest and shoulders? His armour is laid upon the ground, and he stalks in front of the ranks as it were some great woolly ram ordering his ewes.”
And Helen answered, “He is Ulysses, a man of great craft, son of Laertes. He was born in rugged Ithaca, and excels in all manner of stratagems and subtle cunning.”
On this Antenor said, “Madam, you have spoken truly. Ulysses once came here as envoy about yourself, and Menelaus with him. I received them in my own house, and therefore know both of them by sight and conversation. When they stood up in presence of the assembled Trojans, Menelaus was the broader shouldered, but when both were seated Ulysses had the more royal presence. After a time they delivered their message, and the speech of Me- nelaus ran trippingly on the tongue; he did not say much, for he was a man of few words, but he spoke very clearly and to the point, though he was the younger man of the two; Ulysses, on the other hand, when he rose to speak, was at first silent and kept his eyes fixed upon the ground. There was no play nor graceful movement of his sceptre; he kept it straight and stiff like a man unpractised in oratory—one might have taken him for a mere churl or simple- ton; but when he raised his voice, and the words came driving from his deep chest like winter snow before the wind, then there was none to touch him, and no man thought further of what he looked like.”
Priam then caught sight of Ajax and asked, “Who is that great and goodly warrior whose head and broad shoul- ders tower above the rest of the Argives?”
“That,” answered Helen, “is huge Ajax, bulwark of the Achaeans, and on the other side of him, among the Cretans, stands Idomeneus looking like a god, and with the captains of the Cretans round him. Often did Menelaus receive him as a guest in our house when he came visiting us from Crete. I see, moreover, many other Achaeans whose names I could tell you, but there are two whom I can nowhere find, Castor, breaker of horses, and Pollux the mighty boxer; they are children of my mother, and own brothers to myself. Either they have not left Lacedaemon, or else, though they have brought their ships, they will not show themselves in battle for the shame and disgrace that I have brought upon them.”
She knew not that both these heroes were already lying under the earth in their own land of Lacedaemon. Meanwhile the heralds were bringing the holy oath-offerings through the city—two lambs and a goatskin of
wine, the gift of earth; and Idaeus brought the mixing bowl and the cups of gold. He went up to Priam and said, “Son of Laomedon, the princes of the Trojans and Achaeans bid you come down on to the plain and swear to a solemn covenant. Alexandrus and Menelaus are to fight for Helen in single combat, that she and all her wealth may go with him who is the victor. We are to swear to a solemn covenant of peace whereby we others shall dwell here in Troy, while the Achaeans return to Argos and the land of the Achaeans.”
The old man trembled as he heard, but bade his followers yoke the horses, and they made all haste to do so. He
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mounted the chariot, gathered the reins in his hand, and Antenor took his seat beside him; they then drove through the Scaean gates on to the plain. When they reached the ranks of the Trojans and Achaeans they left the chariot, and with measured pace advanced into the space between the hosts.
Agamemnon and Ulysses both rose to meet them. The attendants brought on the oath-offerings and mixed the wine in the mixing-bowls; they poured water over the hands of the chieftains, and the son of Atreus drew the dag- ger that hung by his sword, and cut wool from the lambs’ heads; this the men-servants gave about among the Trojan and Achaean princes, and the son of Atreus lifted up his hands in prayer. “Father Jove,” he cried, “that rulest in Ida, most glorious in power, and thou oh Sun, that seest and givest ear to all things, Earth and Rivers, and ye who in the realms below chastise the soul of him that has broken his oath, witness these rites and guard them, that they be not vain. If Alexandrus kills Menelaus, let him keep Helen and all her wealth, while we sail home with our ships; but if Menelaus kills Alexandrus, let the Trojans give back Helen and all that she has; let them moreover pay such fine to the Achaeans as shall be agreed upon, in testimony among those that shall be born hereafter. Aid if Priam and his sons refuse such fine when Alexandrus has fallen, then will I stay here and fight on till I have got satisfaction.”
As he spoke he drew his knife across the throats of the victims, and laid them down gasping and dying upon the ground, for the knife had reft them of their strength. Then they poured wine from the mixing-bowl into the cups, and prayed to the everlasting gods, saying, Trojans and Achaeans among one another, “Jove, most great and glori- ous, and ye other everlasting gods, grant that the brains of them who shall first sin against their oaths—of them and their children—may be shed upon the ground even as this wine, and let their wives become the slaves of strangers.”
Thus they prayed, but not as yet would Jove grant them their prayer. Then Priam, descendant of Dardanus, spoke, saying, “Hear me, Trojans and Achaeans, I will now go back to the wind-beaten city of Ilius: I dare not with my own eyes witness this fight between my son and Menelaus, for Jove and the other immortals alone know which shall fall.”
On this he laid the two lambs on his chariot and took his seat. He gathered the reins in his hand, and Antenor sat beside him; the two then went back to Ilius. Hector and Ulysses measured the ground, and cast lots from a hel- met of bronze to see which should take aim first. Meanwhile the two hosts lifted up their hands and prayed saying, “Father Jove, that rulest from Ida, most glorious in power, grant that he who first brought about this war between us may die, and enter the house of Hades, while we others remain at peace and abide by our oaths.”
Great Hector now turned his head aside while he shook the helmet, and the lot of Paris flew out first. The others took their several stations, each by his horses and the place where his arms were lying, while Alexandrus, husband of lovely Helen, put on his goodly armour. First he greaved his legs with greaves of good make and fitted with ancle-clasps of silver; after this he donned the cuirass of his brother Lycaon, and fitted it to his own body; he hung his silver-studded sword of bronze about his shoulders, and then his mighty shield. On his comely head he set his helmet, well-wrought, with a crest of horse-hair that nodded menacingly above it, and he grasped a redoubtable spear that suited his hands. In like fashion Menelaus also put on his armour.
When they had thus armed, each amid his own people, they strode fierce of aspect into the open space, and both Trojans and Achaeans were struck with awe as they beheld them. They stood near one another on the mea- sured ground, brandishing their spears, and each furious against the other. Alexandrus aimed first, and struck the round shield of the son of Atreus, but the spear did not pierce it, for the shield turned its point. Menelaus next took aim, praying to Father Jove as he did so. “King Jove,” he said, “grant me revenge on Alexandrus who has wronged me; subdue him under my hand that in ages yet to come a man may shrink from doing ill deeds in the house of his host.”
He poised his spear as he spoke, and hurled it at the shield of Alexandrus. Through shield and cuirass it went, and tore the shirt by his flank, but Alexandrus swerved aside, and thus saved his life. Then the son of Atreus drew his sword, and drove at the projecting part of his helmet, but the sword fell shivered in three or four pieces from his hand, and he cried, looking towards Heaven, “Father Jove, of all gods thou art the most despiteful; I made sure of my revenge, but the sword has broken in my hand, my spear has been hurled in vain, and I have not killed him.”
With this he flew at Alexandrus, caught him by the horsehair plume of his helmet, and began dragging him to- wards the Achaeans. The strap of the helmet that went under his chin was choking him, and Menelaus would have dragged him off to his own great glory had not Jove’s daughter Venus been quick to mark and to break the strap of oxhide, so that the empty helmet came away in his hand. This he flung to his comrades among the Achaeans, and was again springing upon Alexandrus to run him through with a spear, but Venus snatched him up in a moment (as a god can do), hid him under a cloud of darkness, and conveyed him to his own bedchamber.
Then she went to call Helen, and found her on a high tower with the Trojan women crowding round her. She took the form of an old woman who used to dress wool for her when she was still in Lacedaemon, and of whom she was very fond. Thus disguised she plucked her by perfumed robe and said, “Come hither; Alexandrus says you are to go to the house; he is on his bed in his own room, radiant with beauty and dressed in gorgeous apparel. No one would think he had just come from fighting, but rather that he was going to a dance, or had done dancing and was
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sitting down.” With these words she moved the heart of Helen to anger. When she marked the beautiful neck of the goddess,
her lovely bosom, and sparkling eyes, she marvelled at her and said, “Goddess, why do you thus beguile me? Are you going to send me afield still further to some man whom you have taken up in Phrygia or fair Meonia? Mene- laus has just vanquished Alexandrus, and is to take my hateful self back with him. You are come here to betray me. Go sit with Alexandrus yourself; henceforth be goddess no longer; never let your feet carry you back to Olympus; worry about him and look after him till he make you his wife, or, for the matter of that, his slave—but me? I shall not go; I can garnish his bed no longer; I should be a by-word among all the women of Troy. Besides, I have trouble on my mind.”
Venus was very angry, and said, “Bold hussy, do not provoke me; if you do, I shall leave you to your fate and hate you as much as I have loved you. I will stir up fierce hatred between Trojans and Achaeans, and you shall come to a bad end.”
At this Helen was frightened. She wrapped her mantle about her and went in silence, following the goddess and unnoticed by the Trojan women.
When they came to the house of Alexandrus the maid-servants set about their work, but Helen went into her own room, and the laughter-loving goddess took a seat and set it for her facing Alexandrus. On this Helen, daugh- ter of aegis-bearing Jove, sat down, and with eyes askance began to upbraid her husband.
“So you are come from the fight,” said she; “would that you had fallen rather by the hand of that brave man who was my husband. You used to brag that you were a better man with hands and spear than Menelaus. go, but I then, an challenge him again—but I should advise you not to do so, for if you are foolish enough to meet him in single combat, you will soon all by his spear.”
And Paris answered, “Wife, do not vex me with your reproaches. This time, with the help of Minerva, Mene- laus has vanquished me; another time I may myself be victor, for I too have gods that will stand by me. Come, let us lie down together and make friends. Never yet was I so passionately enamoured of you as at this moment—not even when I first carried you off from Lacedaemon and sailed away with you—not even when I had converse with you upon the couch of love in the island of Cranae was I so enthralled by desire of you as now.” On this he led her towards the bed, and his wife went with him.
Thus they laid themselves on the bed together; but the son of Atreus strode among the throng, looking every- where for Alexandrus, and no man, neither of the Trojans nor of the allies, could find him. If they had seen him they were in no mind to hide him, for they all of them hated him as they did death itself. Then Agamemnon, king of men, spoke, saying, “Hear me, Trojans, Dardanians, and allies. The victory has been with Menelaus; therefore give back Helen with all her wealth, and pay such fine as shall be agreed upon, in testimony among them that shall be born hereafter.”
Thus spoke the son of Atreus, and the Achaeans shouted in applause.
Book IV Now the gods were sitting with Jove in council upon the golden floor while Hebe went round pouring out
nectar for them to drink, and as they pledged one another in their cups of gold they looked down upon the town of Troy. The son of Saturn then began to tease Juno, talking at her so as to provoke her. “Menelaus,” said he, “has two good friends among the goddesses, Juno of Argos, and Minerva of Alalcomene, but they only sit still and look on, while Venus keeps ever by Alexandrus’ side to defend him in any danger; indeed she has just rescued him when he made sure that it was all over with him—for the victory really did lie with Menelaus. We must consider what we shall do about all this; shall we set them fighting anew or make peace between them? If you will agree to this last Menelaus can take back Helen and the city of Priam may remain still inhabited.”
Minerva and Juno muttered their discontent as they sat side by side hatching mischief for the Trojans. Minerva scowled at her father, for she was in a furious passion with him, and said nothing, but Juno could not contain her- self. “Dread son of Saturn,” said she, “what, pray, is the meaning of all this? Is my trouble, then, to go for nothing, and the sweat that I have sweated, to say nothing of my horses, while getting the people together against Priam and his children? Do as you will, but we other gods shall not all of us approve your counsel.”
Jove was angry and answered, “My dear, what harm have Priam and his sons done you that you are so hotly bent on sacking the city of Ilius? Will nothing do for you but you must within their walls and eat Priam raw, with his sons and all the other Trojans to boot? Have it your own way then; for I would not have this matter become a bone of contention between us. I say further, and lay my saying to your heart, if ever I want to sack a city belonging to friends of yours, you must not try to stop me; you will have to let me do it, for I am giving in to you sorely against my will. Of all inhabited cities under the sun and stars of heaven, there was none that I so much respected as Ilius with Priam and his whole people. Equitable feasts were never wanting about my altar, nor the savour of burning fat,
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which is honour due to ourselves.” “My own three favourite cities,” answered Juno, “are Argos, Sparta, and Mycenae. Sack them whenever you may
be displeased with them. I shall not defend them and I shall not care. Even if I did, and tried to stay you, I should take nothing by it, for you are much stronger than I am, but I will not have my own work wasted. I too am a god and of the same race with yourself. I am Saturn’s eldest daughter, and am honourable not on this ground only, but also because I am your wife, and you are king over the gods. Let it be a case, then, of give-and-take between us, and the rest of the gods will follow our lead. Tell Minerva to go and take part in the fight at once, and let her contrive that the Trojans shall be the first to break their oaths and set upon the Achaeans.”
The sire of gods and men heeded her words, and said to Minerva, “Go at once into the Trojan and Achaean hosts, and contrive that the Trojans shall be the first to break their oaths and set upon the Achaeans.”
This was what Minerva was already eager to do, so down she darted from the topmost summits of Olympus. She shot through the sky as some brilliant meteor which the son of scheming Saturn has sent as a sign to mariners or to some great army, and a fiery train of light follows in its wake. The Trojans and Achaeans were struck with awe as they beheld, and one would turn to his neighbour, saying, “Either we shall again have war and din of combat, or Jove the lord of battle will now make peace between us.”
Thus did they converse. Then Minerva took the form of Laodocus, son of Antenor, and went through the ranks of the Trojans to find Pandarus, the redoubtable son of Lycaon. She found him standing among the stalwart heroes who had followed him from the banks of the Aesopus, so she went close up to him and said, “Brave son of Lycaon, will you do as I tell you? If you dare send an arrow at Menelaus you will win honour and thanks from all the Tro- jans, and especially from prince Alexandrus—he would be the first to requite you very handsomely if he could see Menelaus mount his funeral pyre, slain by an arrow from your hand. Take your home aim then, and pray to Lycian Apollo, the famous archer; vow that when you get home to your strong city of Zelea you will offer a hecatomb of firstling lambs in his honour.”
His fool’s heart was persuaded, and he took his bow from its case. This bow was made from the horns of a wild ibex which he had killed as it was bounding from a rock; he had stalked it, and it had fallen as the arrow struck it to the heart. Its horns were sixteen palms long, and a worker in horn had made them into a bow, smoothing them well down, and giving them tips of gold. When Pandarus had strung his bow he laid it carefully on the ground, and his brave followers held their shields before him lest the Achaeans should set upon him before he had shot Menelaus. Then he opened the lid of his quiver and took out a winged arrow that had yet been shot, fraught with the pangs of death. He laid the arrow on the string and prayed to Lycian Apollo, the famous archer, vowing that when he got home to his strong city of Zelea he would offer a hecatomb of firstling lambs in his honour. He laid the notch of the arrow on the oxhide bowstring, and drew both notch and string to his breast till the arrow-head was near the bow; then when the bow was arched into a half-circle he let fly, and the bow twanged, and the string sang as the arrow flew gladly on over the heads of the throng.
But the blessed gods did not forget thee, O Menelaus, and Jove’s daughter, driver of the spoil, was the first to stand before thee and ward off the piercing arrow. She turned it from his skin as a mother whisks a fly from off her child when it is sleeping sweetly; she guided it to the part where the golden buckles of the belt that passed over his double cuirass were fastened, so the arrow struck the belt that went tightly round him. It went right through this and through the cuirass of cunning workmanship; it also pierced the belt beneath it, which he wore next his skin to keep out darts or arrows; it was this that served him in the best stead, nevertheless the arrow went through it and grazed the top of the skin, so that blood began flowing from the wound.
As when some woman of Meonia or Caria strains purple dye on to a piece of ivory that is to be the cheek-piece of a horse, and is to be laid up in a treasure house — many a knight is fain to bear it, but the king keeps it as an ornament of which both horse and driver may be proud—even so, O Menelaus, were your shapely thighs and your legs down to your fair ancles stained with blood.
When King Agamemnon saw the blood flowing from the wound he was afraid, and so was brave Menelaus himself till he saw that the barbs of the arrow and the thread that bound the arrow-head to the shaft were still outside the wound. Then he took heart, but Agamemnon heaved a deep sigh as he held Menelaus’s hand in his own, and his comrades made moan in concert. “Dear brother, “he cried, “I have been the death of you in pledging this covenant and letting you come forward as our champion. The Trojans have trampled on their oaths and have wounded you; nevertheless the oath, the blood of lambs, the drink-offerings and the right hands of fellowship in which have put our trust shall not be vain. If he that rules Olympus fulfil it not here and now, he will yet fulfil it hereafter, and they shall pay dearly with their lives and with their wives and children. The day will surely come when mighty Ilius shall be laid low, with Priam and Priam’s people, when the son of Saturn from his high throne shall overshadow them with his awful aegis in punishment of their present treachery. This shall surely be; but how, Menelaus, shall I mourn you, if it be your lot now to die? I should return to Argos as a by-word, for the Achaeans will at once go home. We shall leave Priam and the Trojans the glory of still keeping Helen, and the earth will rot
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your bones as you lie here at Troy with your purpose not fulfilled. Then shall some braggart Trojan leap upon your tomb and say, ‘Ever thus may Agamemnon wreak his vengeance; he brought his army in vain; he is gone home to his own land with empty ships, and has left Menelaus behind him.’ Thus will one of them say, and may the earth then swallow me.”
But Menelaus reassured him and said, “Take heart, and do not alarm the people; the arrow has not struck me in a mortal part, for my outer belt of burnished metal first stayed it, and under this my cuirass and the belt of mail which the bronze-smiths made me.”
And Agamemnon answered, “I trust, dear Menelaus, that it may be even so, but the surgeon shall examine your wound and lay herbs upon it to relieve your pain.”
He then said to Talthybius, “Talthybius, tell Machaon, son to the great physician, Aesculapius, to come and see Menelaus immediately. Some Trojan or Lycian archer has wounded him with an arrow to our dismay, and to his own great glory.”
Talthybius did as he was told, and went about the host trying to find Machaon. Presently he found standing amid the brave warriors who had followed him from Tricca; thereon he went up to him and said, “Son of Aescu- lapius, King Agamemnon says you are to come and see Menelaus immediately. Some Trojan or Lycian archer has wounded him with an arrow to our dismay and to his own great glory.”
Thus did he speak, and Machaon was moved to go. They passed through the spreading host of the Achaeans and went on till they came to the place where Menelaus had been wounded and was lying with the chieftains gath- ered in a circle round him. Machaon passed into the middle of the ring and at once drew the arrow from the belt, bending its barbs back through the force with which he pulled it out. He undid the burnished belt, and beneath this the cuirass and the belt of mail which the bronze-smiths had made; then, when he had seen the wound, he wiped away the blood and applied some soothing drugs which Chiron had given to Aesculapius out of the good will he bore him.
While they were thus busy about Menelaus, the Trojans came forward against them, for they had put on their armour, and now renewed the fight.
You would not have then found Agamemnon asleep nor cowardly and unwilling to fight, but eager rather for the fray. He left his chariot rich with bronze and his panting steeds in charge of Eurymedon, son of Ptolemaeus the son of Peiraeus, and bade him hold them in readiness against the time his limbs should weary of going about and giving orders to so many, for he went among the ranks on foot. When he saw men hasting to the front he stood by them and cheered them on. “Argives,” said he, “slacken not one whit in your onset; father Jove will be no helper of liars; the Trojans have been the first to break their oaths and to attack us; therefore they shall be devoured of vul- tures; we shall take their city and carry off their wives and children in our ships.”
But he angrily rebuked those whom he saw shirking and disinclined to fight. “Argives,” he cried, “cowardly miserable creatures, have you no shame to stand here like frightened fawns who, when they can no longer scud over the plain, huddle together, but show no fight? You are as dazed and spiritless as deer. Would you wait till the Trojans reach the sterns of our ships as they lie on the shore, to see, whether the son of Saturn will hold his hand over you to protect you?”
Thus did he go about giving his orders among the ranks. Passing through the crowd, he came presently on the Cretans, arming round Idomeneus, who was at their head, fierce as a wild boar, while Meriones was bringing up the battalions that were in the rear. Agamemnon was glad when he saw him, and spoke him fairly. “Idomeneus,” said he, “I treat you with greater distinction than I do any others of the Achaeans, whether in war or in other things, or at table. When the princes are mixing my choicest wines in the mixing-bowls, they have each of them a fixed al- lowance, but your cup is kept always full like my own, that you may drink whenever you are minded. Go, therefore, into battle, and show yourself the man you have been always proud to be.”
Idomeneus answered, “I will be a trusty comrade, as I promised you from the first I would be. Urge on the other Achaeans, that we may join battle at once, for the Trojans have trampled upon their covenants. Death and destruc- tion shall be theirs, seeing they have been the first to break their oaths and to attack us.”
The son of Atreus went on, glad at heart, till he came upon the two Ajaxes arming themselves amid a host of foot-soldiers. As when a goat-herd from some high post watches a storm drive over the deep before the west wind—black as pitch is the offing and a mighty whirlwind draws towards him, so that he is afraid and drives his flock into a cave—even thus did the ranks of stalwart youths move in a dark mass to battle under the Ajaxes, horrid with shield and spear. Glad was King Agamemnon when he saw them. “No need,” he cried, “to give orders to such leaders of the Argives as you are, for of your own selves you spur your men on to fight with might and main. Would, by father Jove, Minerva, and Apollo that all were so minded as you are, for the city of Priam would then soon fall beneath our hands, and we should sack it.”
With this he left them and went onward to Nestor, the facile speaker of the Pylians, who was marshalling his men and urging them on, in company with Pelagon, Alastor, Chromius, Haemon, and Bias shepherd of his peo-
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ple. He placed his knights with their chariots and horses in the front rank, while the foot-soldiers, brave men and many, whom he could trust, were in the rear. The cowards he drove into the middle, that they might fight whether they would or no. He gave his orders to the knights first, bidding them hold their horses well in hand, so as to avoid confusion. “Let no man,” he said, “relying on his strength or horsemanship, get before the others and engage singly with the Trojans, nor yet let him lag behind or you will weaken your attack; but let each when he meets an enemy’s chariot throw his spear from his own; this be much the best; this is how the men of old took towns and strongholds; in this wise were they minded.”
Thus did the old man charge them, for he had been in many a fight, and King Agamemnon was glad. “I wish,” he said to him, that your limbs were as supple and your strength as sure as your judgment is; but age, the common enemy of mankind, has laid his hand upon you; would that it had fallen upon some other, and that you were still young.”
And Nestor, knight of Gerene, answered, “Son of Atreus, I too would gladly be the man I was when I slew mighty Ereuthalion; but the gods will not give us everything at one and the same time. I was then young, and now I am old; still I can go with my knights and give them that counsel which old men have a right to give. The wielding of the spear I leave to those who are younger and stronger than myself.”
Agamemnon went his way rejoicing, and presently found Menestheus, son of Peteos, tarrying in his place, and with him were the Athenians loud of tongue in battle. Near him also tarried cunning Ulysses, with his sturdy Cephallenians round him; they had not yet heard the battle-cry, for the ranks of Trojans and Achaeans had only just begun to move, so they were standing still, waiting for some other columns of the Achaeans to attack the Trojans and begin the fighting. When he saw this Agamemnon rebuked them and said, “Son of Peteos, and you other, steeped in cunning, heart of guile, why stand you here cowering and waiting on others? You two should be of all men foremost when there is hard fighting to be done, for you are ever foremost to accept my invitation when we councillors of the Achaeans are holding feast. You are glad enough then to take your fill of roast meats and to drink wine as long as you please, whereas now you would not care though you saw ten columns of Achaeans engage the enemy in front of you.”
Ulysses glared at him and answered, “Son of Atreus, what are you talking about? How can you say that we are slack? When the Achaeans are in full fight with the Trojans, you shall see, if you care to do so, that the father of Telemachus will join battle with the foremost of them. You are talking idly.”
When Agamemnon saw that Ulysses was angry, he smiled pleasantly at him and withdrew his words. “Ulysses,” said he, “noble son of Laertes, excellent in all good counsel, I have neither fault to find nor orders to give you, for I know your heart is right, and that you and I are of a mind. Enough; I will make you amends for what I have said, and if any ill has now been spoken may the gods bring it to nothing.”
He then left them and went on to others. Presently he saw the son of Tydeus, noble Diomed, standing by his chariot and horses, with Sthenelus the son of Capaneus beside him; whereon he began to upbraid him. “Son of Tydeus,” he said, “why stand you cowering here upon the brink of battle? Tydeus did not shrink thus, but was ever ahead of his men when leading them on against the foe—so, at least, say they that saw him in battle, for I never set eyes upon him myself. They say that there was no man like him. He came once to Mycenae, not as an enemy but as a guest, in company with Polynices to recruit his forces, for they were levying war against the strong city of The- bes, and prayed our people for a body of picked men to help them. The men of Mycenae were willing to let them have one, but Jove dissuaded them by showing them unfavourable omens. Tydeus, therefore, and Polynices went their way. When they had got as far the deep-meadowed and rush-grown banks of the Aesopus, the Achaeans sent Tydeus as their envoy, and he found the Cadmeans gathered in great numbers to a banquet in the house of Eteocles. Stranger though he was, he knew no fear on finding himself single-handed among so many, but challenged them to contests of all kinds, and in each one of them was at once victorious, so mightily did Minerva help him. The Cadmeans were incensed at his success, and set a force of fifty youths with two captains—the godlike hero Maeon, son of Haemon, and Polyphontes, son of Autophonus—at their head, to lie in wait for him on his return journey; but Tydeus slew every man of them, save only Maeon, whom he let go in obedience to heaven’s omens. Such was Tydeus of Aetolia. His son can talk more glibly, but he cannot fight as his father did.”
Diomed made no answer, for he was shamed by the rebuke of Agamemnon; but the son of Capaneus took up his words and said, “Son of Atreus, tell no lies, for you can speak truth if you will. We boast ourselves as even better men than our fathers; we took seven-gated Thebes, though the wall was stronger and our men were fewer in num- ber, for we trusted in the omens of the gods and in the help of Jove, whereas they perished through their own sheer folly; hold not, then, our fathers in like honour with us.”
Diomed looked sternly at him and said, “Hold your peace, my friend, as I bid you. It is not amiss that Agam- emnon should urge the Achaeans forward, for the glory will be his if we take the city, and his the shame if we are vanquished. Therefore let us acquit ourselves with valour.”
As he spoke he sprang from his chariot, and his armour rang so fiercely about his body that even a brave man might well have been scared to hear it.
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As when some mighty wave that thunders on the beach when the west wind has lashed it into fury—it has reared its head afar and now comes crashing down on the shore; it bows its arching crest high over the jagged rocks and spews its salt foam in all directions—even so did the serried phalanxes of the Danaans march steadfastly to bat- tle. The chiefs gave orders each to his own people, but the men said never a word; no man would think it, for huge as the host was, it seemed as though there was not a tongue among them, so silent were they in their obedience; and as they marched the armour about their bodies glistened in the sun. But the clamour of the Trojan ranks was as that of many thousand ewes that stand waiting to be milked in the yards of some rich flockmaster, and bleat incessantly in answer to the bleating of their lambs; for they had not one speech nor language, but their tongues were diverse, and they came from many different places. These were inspired of Mars, but the others by Minerva—and with them came Panic, Rout, and Strife whose fury never tires, sister and friend of murderous Mars, who, from being at first but low in stature, grows till she uprears her head to heaven, though her feet are still on earth. She it was that went about among them and flung down discord to the waxing of sorrow with even hand between them.
When they were got together in one place shield clashed with shield and spear with spear in the rage of battle. The bossed shields beat one upon another, and there was a tramp as of a great multitude—death-cry and shout of triumph of slain and slayers, and the earth ran red with blood. As torrents swollen with rain course madly down their deep channels till the angry floods meet in some gorge, and the shepherd the hillside hears their roaring from afar—even such was the toil and uproar of the hosts as they joined in battle.
First Antilochus slew an armed warrior of the Trojans, Echepolus, son of Thalysius, fighting in the foremost ranks. He struck at the projecting part of his helmet and drove the spear into his brow; the point of bronze pierced the bone, and darkness veiled his eyes; headlong as a tower he fell amid the press of the fight, and as he dropped King Elephenor, son of Chalcodon and captain of the proud Abantes began dragging him out of reach of the darts that were falling around him, in haste to strip him of his armour. But his purpose was not for long; Agenor saw him haling the body away, and smote him in the side with his bronze-shod spear — for as he stooped his side was left unprotected by his shield—and thus he perished. Then the fight between Trojans and Achaeans grew furious over his body, and they flew upon each other like wolves, man and man crushing one upon the other.
Forthwith Ajax, son of Telamon, slew the fair youth Simoeisius, son of Anthemion, whom his mother bore by the banks of the Simois, as she was coming down from Mt. Ida, where she had been with her parents to see their flocks. Therefore he was named Simoeisius, but he did not live to pay his parents for his rearing, for he was cut off untimely by the spear of mighty Ajax, who struck him in the breast by the right nipple as he was coming on among the foremost fighters; the spear went right through his shoulder, and he fell as a poplar that has grown straight and tall in a meadow by some mere, and its top is thick with branches. Then the wheelwright lays his axe to its roots that he may fashion a felloe for the wheel of some goodly chariot, and it lies seasoning by the waterside. In such wise did Ajax fell to earth Simoeisius, son of Anthemion. Thereon Antiphus of the gleaming corslet, son of Priam, hurled a spear at Ajax from amid the crowd and missed him, but he hit Leucus, the brave comrade of Ulysses, in the groin, as he was dragging the body of Simoeisius over to the other side; so he fell upon the body and loosed his hold upon it. Ulysses was furious when he saw Leucus slain, and strode in full armour through the front ranks till he was quite close; then he glared round about him and took aim, and the Trojans fell back as he did so. His dart was not sped in vain, for it struck Democoon, the bastard son of Priam, who had come to him from Abydos, where he had charge of his father’s mares. Ulysses, infuriated by the death of his comrade, hit him with his spear on one temple, and the bronze point came through on the other side of his forehead. Thereon darkness veiled his eyes, and his armour rang rattling round him as he fell heavily to the ground. Hector, and they that were in front, then gave round while the Argives raised a shout and drew off the dead, pressing further forward as they did so. But Apollo looked down from Pergamus and called aloud to the Trojans, for he was displeased. “Trojans,” he cried, “rush on the foe, and do not let yourselves be thus beaten by the Argives. Their skins are not stone nor iron that when hit them you do them no harm. Moreover, Achilles, the son of lovely Thetis, is not fighting, but is nursing his anger at the ships.”
Thus spoke the mighty god, crying to them from the city, while Jove’s redoubtable daughter, the Trito-born, went about among the host of the Achaeans, and urged them forward whenever she beheld them slackening.
Then fate fell upon Diores, son of Amarynceus, for he was struck by a jagged stone near the ancle of his right leg. He that hurled it was Peirous, son of Imbrasus, captain of the Thracians, who had come from Aenus; the bones and both the tendons were crushed by the pitiless stone. He fell to the ground on his back, and in his death throes stretched out his hands towards his comrades. But Peirous, who had wounded him, sprang on him and thrust a spear into his belly, so that his bowels came gushing out upon the ground, and darkness veiled his eyes. As he was leaving the body, Thoas of Aetolia struck him in the chest near the nipple, and the point fixed itself in his lungs. Thoas came close up to him, pulled the spear out of his chest, and then drawing his sword, smote him in the middle of the belly so that he died; but he did not strip him of his armour, for his Thracian comrades, men who wear their hair in a tuft at the top of their heads, stood round the body and kept him off with their long spears for all his great
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stature and valour; so he was driven back. Thus the two corpses lay stretched on earth near to one another, the one captain of the Thracians and the other of the Epeans; and many another fell round them.
And now no man would have made light of the fighting if he could have gone about among it scatheless and unwounded, with Minerva leading him by the hand, and protecting him from the storm of spears and arrows. For many Trojans and Achaeans on that day lay stretched side by side face downwards upon the earth.
Book V Then Pallas Minerva put valour into the heart of Diomed, son of Tydeus, that he might excel all the other
Argives, and cover himself with glory. She made a stream of fire flare from his shield and helmet like the star that shines most brilliantly in summer after its bath in the waters of Oceanus—even such a fire did she kindle upon his head and shoulders as she bade him speed into the thickest hurly-burly of the fight.
Now there was a certain rich and honourable man among the Trojans, priest of Vulcan, and his name was Dares. He had two sons, Phegeus and Idaeus, both of them skilled in all the arts of war. These two came forward from the main body of Trojans, and set upon Diomed, he being on foot, while they fought from their chariot. When they were close up to one another, Phegeus took aim first, but his spear went over Diomed’s left shoulder without hitting him. Diomed then threw, and his spear sped not in vain, for it hit Phegeus on the breast near the nipple, and he fell from his chariot. Idaeus did not dare to bestride his brother’s body, but sprang from the chariot and took to flight, or he would have shared his brother’s fate; whereon Vulcan saved him by wrapping him in a cloud of darkness, that his old father might not be utterly overwhelmed with grief; but the son of Tydeus drove off with the horses, and bade his followers take them to the ships. The Trojans were scared when they saw the two sons of Dares, one of them in fright and the other lying dead by his chariot. Minerva, therefore, took Mars by the hand and said, “Mars, Mars, bane of men, bloodstained stormer of cities, may we not now leave the Trojans and Achaeans to fight it out, and see to which of the two Jove will vouchsafe the victory? Let us go away, and thus avoid his anger.”
So saying, she drew Mars out of the battle, and set him down upon the steep banks of the Scamander. Upon this the Danaans drove the Trojans back, and each one of their chieftains killed his man. First King Agamemnon flung mighty Odius, captain of the Halizoni, from his chariot. The spear of Agamemnon caught him on the broad of his back, just as he was turning in flight; it struck him between the shoulders and went right through his chest, and his armour rang rattling round him as he fell heavily to the ground.
Then Idomeneus killed Phaesus, son of Borus the Meonian, who had come from Varne. Mighty Idomeneus speared him on the right shoulder as he was mounting his chariot, and the darkness of death enshrouded him as he fell heavily from the car.
The squires of Idomeneus spoiled him of his armour, while Menelaus, son of Atreus, killed Scamandrius the son of Strophius, a mighty huntsman and keen lover of the chase. Diana herself had taught him how to kill every kind of wild creature that is bred in mountain forests, but neither she nor his famed skill in archery could now save him, for the spear of Menelaus struck him in the back as he was flying; it struck him between the shoulders and went right through his chest, so that he fell headlong and his armour rang rattling round him.
Meriones then killed Phereclus the son of Tecton, who was the son of Hermon, a man whose hand was skilled in all manner of cunning workmanship, for Pallas Minerva had dearly loved him. He it was that made the ships for Alexandrus, which were the beginning of all mischief, and brought evil alike both on the Trojans and on Alexan- drus himself; for he heeded not the decrees of heaven. Meriones overtook him as he was flying, and struck him on the right buttock. The point of the spear went through the bone into the bladder, and death came upon him as he cried aloud and fell forward on his knees.
Meges, moreover, slew Pedaeus, son of Antenor, who, though he was a bastard, had been brought up by Theano as one of her own children, for the love she bore her husband. The son of Phyleus got close up to him and drove a spear into the nape of his neck: it went under his tongue all among his teeth, so he bit the cold bronze, and fell dead in the dust.
And Eurypylus, son of Euaemon, killed Hypsenor, the son of noble Dolopion, who had been made priest of the river Scamander, and was honoured among the people as though he were a god. Eurypylus gave him chase as he was flying before him, smote him with his sword upon the arm, and lopped his strong hand from off it. The bloody hand fell to the ground, and the shades of death, with fate that no man can withstand, came over his eyes.
Thus furiously did the battle rage between them. As for the son of Tydeus, you could not say whether he was more among the Achaeans or the Trojans. He rushed across the plain like a winter torrent that has burst its barrier in full flood; no dykes, no walls of fruitful vineyards can embank it when it is swollen with rain from heaven, but in a moment it comes tearing onward, and lays many a field waste that many a strong man hand has reclaimed — even so were the dense phalanxes of the Trojans driven in rout by the son of Tydeus, and many though they were, they dared not abide his onslaught.
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Now when the son of Lycaon saw him scouring the plain and driving the Trojans pell-mell before him, he aimed an arrow and hit the front part of his cuirass near the shoulder: the arrow went right through the metal and pierced the flesh, so that the cuirass was covered with blood. On this the son of Lycaon shouted in triumph, “Knights Trojans, come on; the bravest of the Achaeans is wounded, and he will not hold out much longer if King Apollo was indeed with me when I sped from Lycia hither.”
Thus did he vaunt; but his arrow had not killed Diomed, who withdrew and made for the chariot and horses of Sthenelus, the son of Capaneus. “Dear son of Capaneus,” said he, “come down from your chariot, and draw the arrow out of my shoulder.”
Sthenelus sprang from his chariot, and drew the arrow from the wound, whereon the blood came spouting out through the hole that had been made in his shirt. Then Diomed prayed, saying, “Hear me, daughter of aegis-bearing Jove, unweariable, if ever you loved my father well and stood by him in the thick of a fight, do the like now by me; grant me to come within a spear’s throw of that man and kill him. He has been too quick for me and has wounded me; and now he is boasting that I shall not see the light of the sun much longer.”
Thus he prayed, and Pallas Minerva heard him; she made his limbs supple and quickened his hands and his feet. Then she went up close to him and said, “Fear not, Diomed, to do battle with the Trojans, for I have set in your heart the spirit of your knightly father Tydeus. Moreover, I have withdrawn the veil from your eyes, that you know gods and men apart. If, then, any other god comes here and offers you battle, do not fight him; but should Jove’s daughter Venus come, strike her with your spear and wound her.”
When she had said this Minerva went away, and the son of Tydeus again took his place among the foremost fighters, three times more fierce even than he had been before. He was like a lion that some mountain shepherd has wounded, but not killed, as he is springing over the wall of a sheep-yard to attack the sheep. The shepherd has roused the brute to fury but cannot defend his flock, so he takes shelter under cover of the buildings, while the sheep, panic-stricken on being deserted, are smothered in heaps one on top of the other, and the angry lion leaps out over the sheep-yard wall. Even thus did Diomed go furiously about among the Trojans.
He killed Astynous, and shepherd of his people, the one with a thrust of his spear, which struck him above the nipple, the other with a sword—cut on the collar-bone, that severed his shoulder from his neck and back. He let both of them lie, and went in pursuit of Abas and Polyidus, sons of the old reader of dreams Eurydamas: they never came back for him to read them any more dreams, for mighty Diomed made an end of them. He then gave chase to Xanthus and Thoon, the two sons of Phaenops, both of them very dear to him, for he was now worn out with age, and begat no more sons to inherit his possessions. But Diomed took both their lives and left their father sorrowing bitterly, for he nevermore saw them come home from battle alive, and his kinsmen divided his wealth among themselves.
Then he came upon two sons of Priam, Echemmon and Chromius, as they were both in one chariot. He sprang upon them as a lion fastens on the neck of some cow or heifer when the herd is feeding in a coppice. For all their vain struggles he flung them both from their chariot and stripped the armour from their bodies. Then he gave their horses to his comrades to take them back to the ships.
When Aeneas saw him thus making havoc among the ranks, he went through the fight amid the rain of spears to see if he could find Pandarus. When he had found the brave son of Lycaon he said, “Pandarus, where is now your bow, your winged arrows, and your renown as an archer, in respect of which no man here can rival you nor is there any in Lycia that can beat you? Lift then your hands to Jove and send an arrow at this fellow who is going so mas- terfully about, and has done such deadly work among the Trojans. He has killed many a brave man—unless indeed he is some god who is angry with the Trojans about their sacrifices, and and has set his hand against them in his displeasure.”
And the son of Lycaon answered, “Aeneas, I take him for none other than the son of Tydeus. I know him by his shield, the visor of his helmet, and by his horses. It is possible that he may be a god, but if he is the man I say he is, he is not making all this havoc without heaven’s help, but has some god by his side who is shrouded in a cloud of darkness, and who turned my arrow aside when it had hit him. I have taken aim at him already and hit him on the right shoulder; my arrow went through the breastpiece of his cuirass; and I made sure I should send him hurrying to the world below, but it seems that I have not killed him. There must be a god who is angry with me. Moreover I have neither horse nor chariot. In my father’s stables there are eleven excellent chariots, fresh from the builder, quite new, with cloths spread over them; and by each of them there stand a pair of horses, champing barley and rye; my old father Lycaon urged me again and again when I was at home and on the point of starting, to take chariots and horses with me that I might lead the Trojans in battle, but I would not listen to him; it would have been much better if I had done so, but I was thinking about the horses, which had been used to eat their fill, and I was afraid that in such a great gathering of men they might be ill-fed, so I left them at home and came on foot to Ilius armed only with my bow and arrows. These it seems, are of no use, for I have already hit two chieftains, the sons of Atreus and of Tydeus, and though I drew blood surely enough, I have only made them still more furious. I did ill to take my bow down from its peg on the day I led my band of Trojans to Ilius in Hector’s service, and if ever I get home again
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to set eyes on my native place, my wife, and the greatness of my house, may some one cut my head off then and there if I do not break the bow and set it on a hot fire—such pranks as it plays me.”
Aeneas answered, “Say no more. Things will not mend till we two go against this man with chariot and horses and bring him to a trial of arms. Mount my chariot, and note how cleverly the horses of Tros can speed hither and thither over the plain in pursuit or flight. If Jove again vouchsafes glory to the son of Tydeus they will carry us safely back to the city. Take hold, then, of the whip and reins while I stand upon the car to fight, or else do you wait this man’s onset while I look after the horses.”
“Aeneas.” replied the son of Lycaon, “take the reins and drive; if we have to fly before the son of Tydeus the horses will go better for their own driver. If they miss the sound of your voice when they expect it they may be frightened, and refuse to take us out of the fight. The son of Tydeus will then kill both of us and take the horses. Therefore drive them yourself and I will be ready for him with my spear.”
They then mounted the chariot and drove full-speed towards the son of Tydeus. Sthenelus, son of Capaneus, saw them coming and said to Diomed, “Diomed, son of Tydeus, man after my own heart, I see two heroes speeding towards you, both of them men of might the one a skilful archer, Pandarus son of Lycaon, the other, Aeneas, whose sire is Anchises, while his mother is Venus. Mount the chariot and let us retreat. Do not, I pray you, press so furi- ously forward, or you may get killed.”
Diomed looked angrily at him and answered: “Talk not of flight, for I shall not listen to you: I am of a race that knows neither flight nor fear, and my limbs are as yet unwearied. I am in no mind to mount, but will go against them even as I am; Pallas Minerva bids me be afraid of no man, and even though one of them escape, their steeds shall not take both back again. I say further, and lay my saying to your heart—if Minerva sees fit to vouchsafe me the glory of killing both, stay your horses here and make the reins fast to the rim of the chariot; then be sure you spring Aeneas’ horses and drive them from the Trojan to the Achaean ranks. They are of the stock that great Jove gave to Tros in payment for his son Ganymede, and are the finest that live and move under the sun. King Anchises stole the blood by putting his mares to them without Laomedon’s knowledge, and they bore him six foals. Four are still in his stables, but he gave the other two to Aeneas. We shall win great glory if we can take them.”
Thus did they converse, but the other two had now driven close up to them, and the son of Lycaon spoke first. “Great and mighty son,” said he, “of noble Tydeus, my arrow failed to lay you low, so I will now try with my spear.”
He poised his spear as he spoke and hurled it from him. It struck the shield of the son of Tydeus; the bronze point pierced it and passed on till it reached the breastplate. Thereon the son of Lycaon shouted out and said, “You are hit clean through the belly; you will not stand out for long, and the glory of the fight is mine.”
But Diomed all undismayed made answer, “You have missed, not hit, and before you two see the end of this matter one or other of you shall glut tough-shielded Mars with his blood.”
With this he hurled his spear, and Minerva guided it on to Pandarus’s nose near the eye. It went crashing in among his white teeth; the bronze point cut through the root of his to tongue, coming out under his chin, and his glistening armour rang rattling round him as he fell heavily to the ground. The horses started aside for fear, and he was reft of life and strength.
Aeneas sprang from his chariot armed with shield and spear, fearing lest the Achaeans should carry off the body. He bestrode it as a lion in the pride of strength, with shield and on spear before him and a cry of battle on his lips resolute to kill the first that should dare face him. But the son of Tydeus caught up a mighty stone, so huge and great that as men now are it would take two to lift it; nevertheless he bore it aloft with ease unaided, and with this he struck Aeneas on the groin where the hip turns in the joint that is called the “cup-bone.” The stone crushed this joint, and broke both the sinews, while its jagged edges tore away all the flesh. The hero fell on his knees, and propped himself with his hand resting on the ground till the darkness of night fell upon his eyes. And now Aeneas, king of men, would have perished then and there, had not his mother, Jove’s daughter Venus, who had conceived him by Anchises when he was herding cattle, been quick to mark, and thrown her two white arms about the body of her dear son. She protected him by covering him with a fold of her own fair garment, lest some Danaan should drive a spear into his breast and kill him.
Thus, then, did she bear her dear son out of the fight. But the son of Capaneus was not unmindful of the orders that Diomed had given him. He made his own horses fast, away from the hurly-burly, by binding the reins to the rim of the chariot. Then he sprang upon Aeneas’s horses and drove them from the Trojan to the Achaean ranks. When he had so done he gave them over to his chosen comrade Deipylus, whom he valued above all others as the one who was most like-minded with himself, to take them on to the ships. He then remounted his own chariot, seized the reins, and drove with all speed in search of the son of Tydeus.
Now the son of Tydeus was in pursuit of the Cyprian goddess, spear in hand, for he knew her to be feeble and not one of those goddesses that can lord it among men in battle like Minerva or Enyo the waster of cities, and when at last after a long chase he caught her up, he flew at her and thrust his spear into the flesh of her delicate hand. The point tore through the ambrosial robe which the Graces had woven for her, and pierced the skin between her wrist
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and the palm of her hand, so that the immortal blood, or ichor, that flows in the veins of the blessed gods, came pouring from the wound; for the gods do not eat bread nor drink wine, hence they have no blood such as ours, and are immortal. Venus screamed aloud, and let her son fall, but Phoebus Apollo caught him in his arms, and hid him in a cloud of darkness, lest some Danaan should drive a spear into his breast and kill him; and Diomed shouted out as he left her, “Daughter of Jove, leave war and battle alone, can you not be contented with beguiling silly women? If you meddle with fighting you will get what will make you shudder at the very name of war.”
The goddess went dazed and discomfited away, and Iris, fleet as the wind, drew her from the throng, in pain and with her fair skin all besmirched. She found fierce Mars waiting on the left of the battle, with his spear and his two fleet steeds resting on a cloud; whereon she fell on her knees before her brother and implored him to let her have his horses. “Dear brother,” she cried, “save me, and give me your horses to take me to Olympus where the gods dwell. I am badly wounded by a mortal, the son of Tydeus, who would now fight even with father Jove.”
Thus she spoke, and Mars gave her his gold-bedizened steeds. She mounted the chariot sick and sorry at heart, while Iris sat beside her and took the reins in her hand. She lashed her horses on and they flew forward nothing loth, till in a trice they were at high Olympus, where the gods have their dwelling. There she stayed them, unloosed them from the chariot, and gave them their ambrosial forage; but Venus flung herself on to the lap of her mother Dione, who threw her arms about her and caressed her, saying, “Which of the heavenly beings has been treating you in this way, as though you had been doing something wrong in the face of day?”
And laughter-loving Venus answered, “Proud Diomed, the son of Tydeus, wounded me because I was bearing my dear son Aeneas, whom I love best of all mankind, out of the fight. The war is no longer one between Trojans and Achaeans, for the Danaans have now taken to fighting with the immortals.”
“Bear it, my child,” replied Dione, “and make the best of it. We dwellers in Olympus have to put up with much at the hands of men, and we lay much suffering on one another. Mars had to suffer when Otus and Ephialtes, chil- dren of Aloeus, bound him in cruel bonds, so that he lay thirteen months imprisoned in a vessel of bronze. Mars would have then perished had not fair Eeriboea, stepmother to the sons of Aloeus, told Mercury, who stole him away when he was already well-nigh worn out by the severity of his bondage. Juno, again, suffered when the mighty son of Amphitryon wounded her on the right breast with a three-barbed arrow, and nothing could assuage her pain. So, also, did huge Hades, when this same man, the son of aegis-bearing Jove, hit him with an arrow even at the gates of hell, and hurt him badly. Thereon Hades went to the house of Jove on great Olympus, angry and full of pain; and the arrow in his brawny shoulder caused him great anguish till Paeeon healed him by spreading soothing herbs on the wound, for Hades was not of mortal mould. Daring, head-strong, evildoer who recked not of his sin in shooting the gods that dwell in Olympus. And now Minerva has egged this son of Tydeus on against yourself, fool that he is for not reflecting that no man who fights with gods will live long or hear his children prattling about his knees when he returns from battle. Let, then, the son of Tydeus see that he does not have to fight with one who is stronger than you are. Then shall his brave wife Aegialeia, daughter of Adrestus, rouse her whole house from sleep, wailing for the loss of her wedded lord, Diomed the bravest of the Achaeans.”
So saying, she wiped the ichor from the wrist of her daughter with both hands, whereon the pain left her, and her hand was healed. But Minerva and Juno, who were looking on, began to taunt Jove with their mocking talk, and Minerva was first to speak. “Father Jove,” said she, “do not be angry with me, but I think the Cyprian must have been persuading some one of the Achaean women to go with the Trojans of whom she is so very fond, and while caressing one or other of them she must have torn her delicate hand with the gold pin of the woman’s brooch.”
The sire of gods and men smiled, and called golden Venus to his side. “My child,” said he, “it has not been given you to be a warrior. Attend, henceforth, to your own delightful matrimonial duties, and leave all this fighting to Mars and to Minerva.”
Thus did they converse. But Diomed sprang upon Aeneas, though he knew him to be in the very arms of Apol- lo. Not one whit did he fear the mighty god, so set was he on killing Aeneas and stripping him of his armour. Thrice did he spring forward with might and main to slay him, and thrice did Apollo beat back his gleaming shield. When he was coming on for the fourth time, as though he were a god, Apollo shouted to him with an awful voice and said, “Take heed, son of Tydeus, and draw off; think not to match yourself against gods, for men that walk the earth cannot hold their own with the immortals.”
The son of Tydeus then gave way for a little space, to avoid the anger of the god, while Apollo took Aeneas out of the crowd and set him in sacred Pergamus, where his temple stood. There, within the mighty sanctuary, Latona and Diana healed him and made him glorious to behold, while Apollo of the silver bow fashioned a wraith in the likeness of Aeneas, and armed as he was. Round this the Trojans and Achaeans hacked at the bucklers about one another’s breasts, hewing each other’s round shields and light hide-covered targets. Then Phoebus Apollo said to Mars, “Mars, Mars, bane of men, blood-stained stormer of cities, can you not go to this man, the son of Tydeus, who would now fight even with father Jove, and draw him out of the battle? He first went up to the Cyprian and wounded her in the hand near her wrist, and afterwards sprang upon me too, as though he were a god.”
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He then took his seat on the top of Pergamus, while murderous Mars went about among the ranks of the Tro- jans, cheering them on, in the likeness of fleet Acamas chief of the Thracians. “Sons of Priam,” said he, “how long will you let your people be thus slaughtered by the Achaeans? Would you wait till they are at the walls of Troy? Ae- neas the son of Anchises has fallen, he whom we held in as high honour as Hector himself. Help me, then, to rescue our brave comrade from the stress of the fight.”
With these words he put heart and soul into them all. Then Sarpedon rebuked Hector very sternly. “Hector,” said he, “where is your prowess now? You used to say that though you had neither people nor allies you could hold the town alone with your brothers and brothers-in-law. I see not one of them here; they cower as hounds before a lion; it is we, your allies, who bear the brunt of the battle. I have come from afar, even from Lycia and the banks of the river Xanthus, where I have left my wife, my infant son, and much wealth to tempt whoever is needy; nev- ertheless, I head my Lycian soldiers and stand my ground against any who would fight me though I have nothing here for the Achaeans to plunder, while you look on, without even bidding your men stand firm in defence of their wives. See that you fall not into the hands of your foes as men caught in the meshes of a net, and they sack your fair city forthwith. Keep this before your mind night and day, and beseech the captains of your allies to hold on without flinching, and thus put away their reproaches from you.”
So spoke Sarpedon, and Hector smarted under his words. He sprang from his chariot clad in his suit of armour, and went about among the host brandishing his two spears, exhorting the men to fight and raising the terrible cry of battle. Then they rallied and again faced the Achaeans, but the Argives stood compact and firm, and were not driven back. As the breezes sport with the chaff upon some goodly threshing-floor, when men are winnowing— while yellow Ceres blows with the wind to sift the chaff from the grain, and the chaff—heaps grow whiter and whit- er—even so did the Achaeans whiten in the dust which the horses’ hoofs raised to the firmament of heaven, as their drivers turned them back to battle, and they bore down with might upon the foe. Fierce Mars, to help the Trojans, covered them in a veil of darkness, and went about everywhere among them, inasmuch as Phoebus Apollo had told him that when he saw Pallas, Minerva leave the fray he was to put courage into the hearts of the Trojans—for it was she who was helping the Danaans. Then Apollo sent Aeneas forth from his rich sanctuary, and filled his heart with valour, whereon he took his place among his comrades, who were overjoyed at seeing him alive, sound, and of a good courage; but they could not ask him how it had all happened, for they were too busy with the turmoil raised by Mars and by Strife, who raged insatiably in their midst.
The two Ajaxes, Ulysses and Diomed, cheered the Danaans on, fearless of the fury and onset of the Trojans. They stood as still as clouds which the son of Saturn has spread upon the mountain tops when there is no air and fierce Boreas sleeps with the other boisterous winds whose shrill blasts scatter the clouds in all directions—even so did the Danaans stand firm and unflinching against the Trojans. The son of Atreus went about among them and exhorted them. “My friends,” said he, “quit yourselves like brave men, and shun dishonour in one another’s eyes amid the stress of battle. They that shun dishonour more often live than get killed, but they that fly save neither life nor name.”
As he spoke he hurled his spear and hit one of those who were in the front rank, the comrade of Aeneas, De- icoon son of Pergasus, whom the Trojans held in no less honour than the sons of Priam, for he was ever quick to place himself among the foremost. The spear of King Agamemnon struck his shield and went right through it, for the shield stayed it not. It drove through his belt into the lower part of his belly, and his armour rang rattling round him as he fell heavily to the ground.
Then Aeneas killed two champions of the Danaans, Crethon and Orsilochus. Their father was a rich man who lived in the strong city of Phere and was descended from the river Alpheus, whose broad stream flows through the land of the Pylians. The river begat Orsilochus, who ruled over much people and was father to Diocles, who in his turn begat twin sons, Crethon and Orsilochus, well skilled in all the arts of war. These, when they grew up, went to Ilius with the Argive fleet in the cause of Menelaus and Agamemnon sons of Atreus, and there they both of them fell. As two lions whom their dam has reared in the depths of some mountain forest to plunder homesteads and carry off sheep and cattle till they get killed by the hand of man, so were these two vanquished by Aeneas, and fell like high pine-trees to the ground.
Brave Menelaus pitied them in their fall, and made his way to the front, clad in gleaming bronze and brandishing his spear, for Mars egged him on to do so with intent that he should be killed by Aeneas; but Antilochus the son of Nestor saw him and sprang forward, fearing that the king might come to harm and thus bring all their labour to noth- ing; when, therefore Aeneas and Menelaus were setting their hands and spears against one another eager to do battle, Antilochus placed himself by the side of Menelaus. Aeneas, bold though he was, drew back on seeing the two heroes side by side in front of him, so they drew the bodies of Crethon and Orsilochus to the ranks of the Achaeans and com- mitted the two poor fellows into the hands of their comrades. They then turned back and fought in the front ranks.
They killed Pylaemenes peer of Mars, leader of the Paphlagonian warriors. Menelaus struck him on the col- lar-bone as he was standing on his chariot, while Antilochus hit his charioteer and squire Mydon, the son of
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Atymnius, who was turning his horses in flight. He hit him with a stone upon the elbow, and the reins, enriched with white ivory, fell from his hands into the dust. Antilochus rushed towards him and struck him on the temples with his sword, whereon he fell head first from the chariot to the ground. There he stood for a while with his head and shoulders buried deep in the dust—for he had fallen on sandy soil till his horses kicked him and laid him flat on the ground, as Antilochus lashed them and drove them off to the host of the Achaeans.
But Hector marked them from across the ranks, and with a loud cry rushed towards them, followed by the strong battalions of the Trojans. Mars and dread Enyo led them on, she fraught with ruthless turmoil of battle, while Mars wielded a monstrous spear, and went about, now in front of Hector and now behind him.
Diomed shook with passion as he saw them. As a man crossing a wide plain is dismayed to find himself on the brink of some great river rolling swiftly to the sea—he sees its boiling waters and starts back in fear—even so did the son of Tydeus give ground. Then he said to his men, “My friends, how can we wonder that Hector wields the spear so well? Some god is ever by his side to protect him, and now Mars is with him in the likeness of mortal man. Keep your faces therefore towards the Trojans, but give ground backwards, for we dare not fight with gods.”
As he spoke the Trojans drew close up, and Hector killed two men, both in one chariot, Menesthes and Anchi- alus, heroes well versed in war. Ajax son of Telamon pitied them in their fall; he came close up and hurled his spear, hitting Amphius the son of Selagus, a man of great wealth who lived in Paesus and owned much corn-growing land, but his lot had led him to come to the aid of Priam and his sons. Ajax struck him in the belt; the spear pierced the lower part of his belly, and he fell heavily to the ground. Then Ajax ran towards him to strip him of his armour, but the Trojans rained spears upon him, many of which fell upon his shield. He planted his heel upon the body and drew out his spear, but the darts pressed so heavily upon him that he could not strip the goodly armour from his shoulders. The Trojan chieftains, moreover, many and valiant, came about him with their spears, so that he dared not stay; great, brave and valiant though he was, they drove him from them and he was beaten back.
Thus, then, did the battle rage between them. Presently the strong hand of fate impelled Tlepolemus, the son of Hercules, a man both brave and of great stature, to fight Sarpedon; so the two, son and grandson of great Jove, drew near to one another, and Tlepolemus spoke first. “Sarpedon,” said he, “councillor of the Lycians, why should you come skulking here you who are a man of peace? They lie who call you son of aegis-bearing Jove, for you are little like those who were of old his children. Far other was Hercules, my own brave and lion-hearted father, who came here for the horses of Laomedon, and though he had six ships only, and few men to follow him, sacked the city of Ilius and made a wilderness of her highways. You are a coward, and your people are falling from you. For all your strength, and all your coming from Lycia, you will be no help to the Trojans but will pass the gates of Hades van- quished by my hand.”
And Sarpedon, captain of the Lycians, answered, “Tlepolemus, your father overthrew Ilius by reason of Laome- don’s folly in refusing payment to one who had served him well. He would not give your father the horses which he had come so far to fetch. As for yourself, you shall meet death by my spear. You shall yield glory to myself, and your soul to Hades of the noble steeds.”
Thus spoke Sarpedon, and Tlepolemus upraised his spear. They threw at the same moment, and Sarpedon struck his foe in the middle of his throat; the spear went right through, and the darkness of death fell upon his eyes. Tlepolemus’s spear struck Sarpedon on the left thigh with such force that it tore through the flesh and grazed the bone, but his father as yet warded off destruction from him.
His comrades bore Sarpedon out of the fight, in great pain by the weight of the spear that was dragging from his wound. They were in such haste and stress as they bore him that no one thought of drawing the spear from his thigh so as to let him walk uprightly. Meanwhile the Achaeans carried off the body of Tlepolemus, whereon Ulysses was moved to pity, and panted for the fray as he beheld them. He doubted whether to pursue the son of Jove, or to make slaughter of the Lycian rank and file; it was not decreed, however, that he should slay the son of Jove; Minerva, there- fore, turned him against the main body of the Lycians. He killed Coeranus, Alastor, Chromius, Alcandrus, Halius, Noemon, and Prytanis, and would have slain yet more, had not great Hector marked him, and sped to the front of the fight clad in his suit of mail, filling the Danaans with terror. Sarpedon was glad when he saw him coming, and be- sought him, saying, “Son of Priam, let me not he here to fall into the hands of the Danaans. Help me, and since I may not return home to gladden the hearts of my wife and of my infant son, let me die within the walls of your city.”
Hector made him no answer, but rushed onward to fall at once upon the Achaeans and. kill many among them. His comrades then bore Sarpedon away and laid him beneath Jove’s spreading oak tree. Pelagon, his friend and comrade drew the spear out of his thigh, but Sarpedon fainted and a mist came over his eyes. Presently he came to himself again, for the breath of the north wind as it played upon him gave him new life, and brought him out of the deep swoon into which he had fallen.
Meanwhile the Argives were neither driven towards their ships by Mars and Hector, nor yet did they attack them; when they knew that Mars was with the Trojans they retreated, but kept their faces still turned towards the foe. Who, then, was first and who last to be slain by Mars and Hector? They were valiant Teuthras, and Orestes the
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renowned charioteer, Trechus the Aetolian warrior, Oenomaus, Helenus the son of Oenops, and Oresbius of the gleaming girdle, who was possessed of great wealth, and dwelt by the Cephisian lake with the other Boeotians who lived near him, owners of a fertile country.
Now when the goddess Juno saw the Argives thus falling, she said to Minerva, “Alas, daughter of aegis-bearing Jove, unweariable, the promise we made Menelaus that he should not return till he had sacked the city of Ilius will be of none effect if we let Mars rage thus furiously. Let us go into the fray at once.”
Minerva did not gainsay her. Thereon the august goddess, daughter of great Saturn, began to harness her gold-bedizened steeds. Hebe with all speed fitted on the eight-spoked wheels of bronze that were on either side of the iron axle-tree. The felloes of the wheels were of gold, imperishable, and over these there was a tire of bronze, wondrous to behold. The naves of the wheels were silver, turning round the axle upon either side. The car itself was made with plaited bands of gold and silver, and it had a double top-rail running all round it. From the body of the car there went a pole of silver, on to the end of which she bound the golden yoke, with the bands of gold that were to go under the necks of the horses Then Juno put her steeds under the yoke, eager for battle and the war-cry.
Meanwhile Minerva flung her richly embroidered vesture, made with her own hands, on to her father’s thresh- old, and donned the shirt of Jove, arming herself for battle. She threw her tasselled aegis about her shoulders, wreathed round with Rout as with a fringe, and on it were Strife, and Strength, and Panic whose blood runs cold; moreover there was the head of the dread monster Gorgon, grim and awful to behold, portent of aegis-bearing Jove. On her head she set her helmet of gold, with four plumes, and coming to a peak both in front and behind—decked with the emblems of a hundred cities; then she stepped into her flaming chariot and grasped the spear, so stout and sturdy and strong, with which she quells the ranks of heroes who have displeased her. Juno lashed the horses on, and the gates of heaven bellowed as they flew open of their own accord—gates over which the flours preside, in whose hands are Heaven and Olympus, either to open the dense cloud that hides them, or to close it. Through these the goddesses drove their obedient steeds, and found the son of Saturn sitting all alone on the topmost ridges of Olympus. There Juno stayed her horses, and spoke to Jove the son of Saturn, lord of all. “Father Jove,” said she, “are you not angry with Mars for these high doings? how great and goodly a host of the Achaeans he has destroyed to my great grief, and without either right or reason, while the Cyprian and Apollo are enjoying it all at their ease and setting this unrighteous madman on to do further mischief. I hope, Father Jove, that you will not be angry if I hit Mars hard, and chase him out of the battle.”
And Jove answered, “Set Minerva on to him, for she punishes him more often than any one else does.” Juno did as he had said. She lashed her horses, and they flew forward nothing loth midway betwixt earth and
sky. As far as a man can see when he looks out upon the sea from some high beacon, so far can the loud-neighing horses of the gods spring at a single bound. When they reached Troy and the place where its two flowing streams Simois and Scamander meet, there Juno stayed them and took them from the chariot. She hid them in a thick cloud, and Simois made ambrosia spring up for them to eat; the two goddesses then went on, flying like turtle- doves in their eagerness to help the Argives. When they came to the part where the bravest and most in number were gathered about mighty Diomed, fighting like lions or wild boars of great strength and endurance, there Juno stood still and raised a shout like that of brazen-voiced Stentor, whose cry was as loud as that of fifty men together. “Argives,” she cried; “shame on cowardly creatures, brave in semblance only; as long as Achilles was fighting, fi his spear was so deadly that the Trojans dared not show themselves outside the Dardanian gates, but now they sally far from the city and fight even at your ships.”
With these words she put heart and soul into them all, while Minerva sprang to the side of the son of Tydeus, whom she found near his chariot and horses, cooling the wound that Pandarus had given him. For the sweat caused by the hand that bore the weight of his shield irritated the hurt: his arm was weary with pain, and he was lifting up the strap to wipe away the blood. The goddess laid her hand on the yoke of his horses and said, “The son of Tydeus is not such another as his father. Tydeus was a little man, but he could fight, and rushed madly into the fray even when I told him not to do so. When he went all unattended as envoy to the city of Thebes among the Cadmeans, I bade him feast in their houses and be at peace; but with that high spirit which was ever present with him, he challenged the youth of the Cadmeans, and at once beat them in all that he attempted, so mightily did I help him. I stand by you too to protect you, and I bid you be instant in fighting the Trojans; but either you are tired out, or you are afraid and out of heart, and in that case I say that you are no true son of Tydeus the son of Oeneus.”
Diomed answered, “I know you, goddess, daughter of aegis-bearing Jove, and will hide nothing from you. I am not afraid nor out of heart, nor is there any slackness in me. I am only following your own instructions; you told me not to fight any of the blessed gods; but if Jove’s daughter Venus came into battle I was to wound her with my spear. Therefore I am retreating, and bidding the other Argives gather in this place, for I know that Mars is now lording it in the field.”
“Diomed, son of Tydeus,” replied Minerva, “man after my own heart, fear neither Mars nor any other of the immortals, for I will befriend you. Nay, drive straight at Mars, and smite him in close combat; fear not this raging
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madman, villain incarnate, first on one side and then on the other. But now he was holding talk with Juno and my- self, saying he would help the Argives and attack the Trojans; nevertheless he is with the Trojans, and has forgotten the Argives.”
With this she caught hold of Sthenelus and lifted him off the chariot on to the ground. In a second he was on the ground, whereupon the goddess mounted the car and placed herself by the side of Diomed. The oaken axle groaned aloud under the burden of the awful goddess and the hero; Pallas Minerva took the whip and reins, and drove straight at Mars. He was in the act of stripping huge Periphas, son of Ochesius and bravest of the Aetolians. Bloody Mars was stripping him of his armour, and Minerva donned the helmet of Hades, that he might not see her; when, therefore, he saw Diomed, he made straight for him and let Periphas lie where he had fallen. As soon as they were at close quarters he let fly with his bronze spear over the reins and yoke, thinking to take Diomed’s life, but Minerva caught the spear in her hand and made it fly harmlessly over the chariot. Diomed then threw, and Pallas Minerva drove the spear into the pit of Mars’s stomach where his under-girdle went round him. There Diomed wounded him, tearing his fair flesh and then drawing his spear out again. Mars roared as loudly as nine or ten thousand men in the thick of a fight, and the Achaeans and Trojans were struck with panic, so terrible was the cry he raised.
As a dark cloud in the sky when it comes on to blow after heat, even so did Diomed son of Tydeus see Mars ascend into the broad heavens. With all speed he reached high Olympus, home of the gods, and in great pain sat down beside Jove the son of Saturn. He showed Jove the immortal blood that was flowing from his wound, and spoke piteously, saying, “Father Jove, are you not angered by such doings? We gods are continually suffering in the most cruel manner at one another’s hands while helping mortals; and we all owe you a grudge for having begotten that mad termagant of a daughter, who is always committing outrage of some kind. We other gods must all do as you bid us, but her you neither scold nor punish; you encourage her because the pestilent creature is your daughter. See how she has been inciting proud Diomed to vent his rage on the immortal gods. First he went up to the Cyprian and wounded her in the hand near her wrist, and then he sprang upon me too as though he were a god. Had I not run for it I must either have lain there for long enough in torments among the ghastly corpes, or have been eaten alive with spears till I had no more strength left in me.”
Jove looked angrily at him and said, “Do not come whining here, Sir Facing-bothways. I hate you worst of all the gods in Olympus, for you are ever fighting and making mischief. You have the intolerable and stubborn spirit of your mother Juno: it is all I can do to manage her, and it is her doing that you are now in this plight: still, I cannot let you remain longer in such great pain; you are my own off-spring, and it was by me that your mother conceived you; if, however, you had been the son of any other god, you are so destructive that by this time you should have been lying lower than the Titans.”
He then bade Paeeon heal him, whereon Paeeon spread pain-killing herbs upon his wound and cured him, for he was not of mortal mould. As the juice of the fig-tree curdles milk, and thickens it in a moment though it is liq- uid, even so instantly did Paeeon cure fierce Mars. Then Hebe washed him, and clothed him in goodly raiment, and he took his seat by his father Jove all glorious to behold.
But Juno of Argos and Minerva of Alalcomene, now that they had put a stop to the murderous doings of Mars, went back again to the house of Jove.
Book VI THE fight between Trojans and Achaeans was now left to rage as it would, and the tide of war surged hither
and thither over the plain as they aimed their bronze-shod spears at one another between the streams of Simois and Xanthus.
First, Ajax son of Telamon, tower of strength to the Achaeans, broke a phalanx of the Trojans, and came to the assistance of his comrades by killing Acamas son of Eussorus, the best man among the Thracians, being both brave and of great stature. The spear struck the projecting peak of his helmet: its bronze point then went through his fore- head into the brain, and darkness veiled his eyes.
Then Diomed killed Axylus son of Teuthranus, a rich man who lived in the strong city of Arisbe, and was beloved by all men; for he had a house by the roadside, and entertained every one who passed; howbeit not one of his guests stood before him to save his life, and Diomed killed both him and his squire Calesius, who was then his charioteer—so the pair passed beneath the earth.
Euryalus killed Dresus and Opheltius, and then went in pursuit of Aesepus and Pedasus, whom the naiad nymph Abarbarea had borne to noble Bucolion. Bucolion was eldest son to Laomedon, but he was a bastard. While tending his sheep he had converse with the nymph, and she conceived twin sons; these the son of Mecisteus now slew, and he stripped the armour from their shoulders. Polypoetes then killed Astyalus, Ulysses Pidytes of Percote, and Teucer Aretaon. Ablerus fell by the spear of Nestor’s son Antilochus, and Agamemnon, king of men, killed Ela-
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tus who dwelt in Pedasus by the banks of the river Satnioeis. Leitus killed Phylacus as he was flying, and Eurypylus slew Melanthus.
Then Menelaus of the loud war-cry took Adrestus alive, for his horses ran into a tamarisk bush, as they were flying wildly over the plain, and broke the pole from the car; they went on towards the city along with the others in full flight, but Adrestus rolled out, and fell in the dust flat on his face by the wheel of his chariot; Menelaus came up to him spear in hand, but Adrestus caught him by the knees begging for his life. “Take me alive,” he cried, “son of Atreus, and you shall have a full ransom for me: my father is rich and has much treasure of gold, bronze, and wrought iron laid by in his house. From this store he will give you a large ransom should he hear of my being alive and at the ships of the Achaeans.”
Thus did he plead, and Menelaus was for yielding and giving him to a squire to take to the ships of the Achae- ans, but Agamemnon came running up to him and rebuked him. “My good Menelaus,” said he, “this is no time for giving quarter. Has, then, your house fared so well at the hands of the Trojans? Let us not spare a single one of them—not even the child unborn and in its mother’s womb; let not a man of them be left alive, but let all in Ilius perish, unheeded and forgotten.”
Thus did he speak, and his brother was persuaded by him, for his words were just. Menelaus, therefore, thrust Adrestus from him, whereon King Agamemnon struck him in the flank, and he fell: then the son of Atreus planted his foot upon his breast to draw his spear from the body.
Meanwhile Nestor shouted to the Argives, saying, “My friends, Danaan warriors, servants of Mars, let no man lag that he may spoil the dead, and bring back much booty to the ships. Let us kill as many as we can; the bodies will lie upon the plain, and you can despoil them later at your leisure.”
With these words he put heart and soul into them all. And now the Trojans would have been routed and driven back into Ilius, had not Priam’s son Helenus, wisest of augurs, said to Hector and Aeneas, “Hector and Aeneas, you two are the mainstays of the Trojans and Lycians, for you are foremost at all times, alike in fight and counsel; hold your ground here, and go about among the host to rally them in front of the gates, or they will fling themselves into the arms of their wives, to the great joy of our foes. Then, when you have put heart into all our companies, we will stand firm here and fight the Danaans however hard they press us, for there is nothing else to be done. Meanwhile do you, Hector, go to the city and tell our mother what is happening. Tell her to bid the matrons gather at the tem- ple of Minerva in the acropolis; let her then take her key and open the doors of the sacred building; there, upon the knees of Minerva, let her lay the largest, fairest robe she has in her house—the one she sets most store by; let her, moreover, promise to sacrifice twelve yearling heifers that have never yet felt the goad, in the temple of the goddess, if she will take pity on the town, with the wives and little ones of the Trojans, and keep the son of Tydeus from fall- ing on the goodly city of Ilius; for he fights with fury and fills men’s souls with panic. I hold him mightiest of them all; we did not fear even their great champion Achilles, son of a goddess though he be, as we do this man: his rage is beyond all bounds, and there is none can vie with him in prowess”
Hector did as his brother bade him. He sprang from his chariot, and went about everywhere among the host, brandishing his spears, urging the men on to fight, and raising the dread cry of battle. Thereon they rallied and again faced the Achaeans, who gave ground and ceased their murderous onset, for they deemed that some one of the immortals had come down from starry heaven to help the Trojans, so strangely had they rallied. And Hector shouted to the Trojans, “Trojans and allies, be men, my friends, and fight with might and main, while I go to Ilius and tell the old men of our council and our wives to pray to the gods and vow hecatombs in their honour.”
With this he went his way, and the black rim of hide that went round his shield beat against his neck and his ankles.
Then Glaucus son of Hippolochus, and the son of Tydeus went into the open space between the hosts to fight in single combat. When they were close up to one another Diomed of the loud war-cry was the first to speak. “Who, my good sir,” said he, “who are you among men? I have never seen you in battle until now, but you are daring be- yond all others if you abide my onset. Woe to those fathers whose sons face my might. If, however, you are one of the immortals and have come down from heaven, I will not fight you; for even valiant Lycurgus, son of Dryas, did not live long when he took to fighting with the gods. He it was that drove the nursing women who were in charge of frenzied Bacchus through the land of Nysa, and they flung their thyrsi on the ground as murderous Lycurgus beat them with his oxgoad. Bacchus himself plunged terror-stricken into the sea, and Thetis took him to her bosom to comfort him, for he was scared by the fury with which the man reviled him. Thereon the gods who live at ease were angry with Lycurgus and the son of Saturn struck him blind, nor did he live much longer after he had become hateful to the immortals. Therefore I will not fight with the blessed gods; but if you are of them that eat the fruit of the ground, draw near and meet your doom.”
And the son of Hippolochus answered, son of Tydeus, why ask me of my lineage? Men come and go as leaves year by year upon the trees. Those of autumn the wind sheds upon the ground, but when spring returns the forest buds forth with fresh vines. Even so is it with the generations of mankind, the new spring up as the old are passing
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away. If, then, you would learn my descent, it is one that is well known to many. There is a city in the heart of Argos, pasture land of horses, called Ephyra, where Sisyphus lived, who was the craftiest of all mankind. He was the son of Aeolus, and had a son named Glaucus, who was father to Bellerophon, whom heaven endowed with the most surpass- ing comeliness and beauty. But Proetus devised his ruin, and being stronger than he, drove him from the land of the Argives, over which Jove had made him ruler. For Antea, wife of Proetus, lusted after him, and would have had him lie with her in secret; but Bellerophon was an honourable man and would not, so she told lies about him to Proteus. ‘Pro- etus,’ said she, ‘kill Bellerophon or die, for he would have had converse with me against my will.’ The king was angered, but shrank from killing Bellerophon, so he sent him to Lycia with lying letters of introduction, written on a folded tablet, and containing much ill against the bearer. He bade Bellerophon show these letters to his father-in-law, to the end that he might thus perish; Bellerophon therefore went to Lycia, and the gods convoyed him safely.
“When he reached the river Xanthus, which is in Lycia, the king received him with all goodwill, feasted him nine days, and killed nine heifers in his honour, but when rosy-fingered morning appeared upon the tenth day, he questioned him and desired to see the letter from his son-in-law Proetus. When he had received the wicked letter he first commanded Bellerophon to kill that savage monster, the Chimaera, who was not a human being, but a goddess, for she had the head of a lion and the tail of a serpent, while her body was that of a goat, and she breathed forth flames of fire; but Bellerophon slew her, for he was guided by signs from heaven. He next fought the far-famed Solymi, and this, he said, was the hardest of all his battles. Thirdly, he killed the Amazons, women who were the peers of men, and as he was returning thence the king devised yet another plan for his destruction; he picked the bravest warriors in all Lycia, and placed them in ambuscade, but not a man ever came back, for Bellerophon killed every one of them. Then the king knew that he must be the valiant offspring of a god, so he kept him in Lycia, gave him his daughter in marriage, and made him of equal honour in the kingdom with himself; and the Lycians gave him a piece of land, the best in all the country, fair with vineyards and tilled fields, to have and to hold.
“The king’s daughter bore Bellerophon three children, Isander, Hippolochus, and Laodameia. Jove, the lord of counsel, lay with Laodameia, and she bore him noble Sarpedon; but when Bellerophon came to be hated by all the gods, he wandered all desolate and dismayed upon the Alean plain, gnawing at his own heart, and shunning the path of man. Mars, insatiate of battle, killed his son Isander while he was fighting the Solymi; his daughter was killed by Diana of the golden reins, for she was angered with her; but Hippolochus was father to myself, and when he sent me to Troy he urged me again and again to fight ever among the foremost and outvie my peers, so as not to shame the blood of my fathers who were the noblest in Ephyra and in all Lycia. This, then, is the descent I claim.”
Thus did he speak, and the heart of Diomed was glad. He planted his spear in the ground, and spoke to him with friendly words. “Then,” he said, you are an old friend of my father’s house. Great Oeneus once entertained Bel- lerophon for twenty days, and the two exchanged presents. Oeneus gave a belt rich with purple, and Bellerophon a double cup, which I left at home when I set out for Troy. I do not remember Tydeus, for he was taken from us while I was yet a child, when the army of the Achaeans was cut to pieces before Thebes. Henceforth, however, I must be your host in middle Argos, and you mine in Lycia, if I should ever go there; let us avoid one another’s spears even during a general engagement; there are many noble Trojans and allies whom I can kill, if I overtake them and heav- en delivers them into my hand; so again with yourself, there are many Achaeans whose lives you may take if you can; we two, then, will exchange armour, that all present may know of the old ties that subsist between us.”
With these words they sprang from their chariots, grasped one another’s hands, and plighted friendship. But the son of Saturn made Glaucus take leave of his wits, for he exchanged golden armour for bronze, the worth of a hundred head of cattle for the worth of nine.
Now when Hector reached the Scaean gates and the oak tree, the wives and daughters of the Trojans came run- ning towards him to ask after their sons, brothers, kinsmen, and husbands: he told them to set about praying to the gods, and many were made sorrowful as they heard him.
Presently he reached the splendid palace of King Priam, adorned with colonnades of hewn stone. In it there were fifty bedchambers—all of hewn stone—built near one another, where the sons of Priam slept, each with his wedded wife. Opposite these, on the other side the courtyard, there were twelve upper rooms also of hewn stone for Priam’s daughters, built near one another, where his sons-in-law slept with their wives. When Hector got there, his fond mother came up to him with Laodice the fairest of her daughters. She took his hand within her own and said, “My son, why have you left the battle to come hither? Are the Achaeans, woe betide them, pressing you hard about the city that you have thought fit to come and uplift your hands to Jove from the citadel? Wait till I can bring you wine that you may make offering to Jove and to the other immortals, and may then drink and be refreshed. Wine gives a man fresh strength when he is wearied, as you now are with fighting on behalf of your kinsmen.”
And Hector answered, “Honoured mother, bring no wine, lest you unman me and I forget my strength. I dare not make a drink-offering to Jove with unwashed hands; one who is bespattered with blood and filth may not pray to the son of Saturn. Get the matrons together, and go with offerings to the temple of Minerva driver of the spoil; there, upon the knees of Minerva, lay the largest and fairest robe you have in your house — the one you set most
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store by; promise, moreover, to sacrifice twelve yearling heifers that have never yet felt the goad, in the temple of the goddess if she will take pity on the town, with the wives and little ones of the Trojans, and keep the son of Tydeus from off the goodly city of Ilius, for he fights with fury, and fills men’s souls with panic. Go, then, to the temple of Minerva, while I seek Paris and exhort him, if he will hear my words. Would that the earth might open her jaws and swallow him, for Jove bred him to be the bane of the Trojans, and of Priam and Priam’s sons. Could I but see him go down into the house of Hades, my heart would forget its heaviness.”
His mother went into the house and called her waiting-women who gathered the matrons throughout the city. She then went down into her fragrant store-room, where her embroidered robes were kept, the work of Sidonian women, whom Alexandrus had brought over from Sidon when he sailed the seas upon that voyage during which he carried off Helen. Hecuba took out the largest robe, and the one that was most beautifully enriched with embroi- dery, as an offering to Minerva: it glittered like a star, and lay at the very bottom of the chest. With this she went on her way and many matrons with her.
When they reached the temple of Minerva, lovely Theano, daughter of Cisseus and wife of Antenor, opened the doors, for the Trojans had made her priestess of Minerva. The women lifted up their hands to the goddess with a loud cry, and Theano took the robe to lay it upon the knees of Minerva, praying the while to the daughter of great Jove. “Holy Minerva,” she cried, “protectress of our city, mighty goddess, break the spear of Diomed and lay him low before the Scaean gates. Do this, and we will sacrifice twelve heifers that have never yet known the goad, in your temple, if you will have pity upon the town, with the wives and little ones If the Trojans.” Thus she prayed, but Pallas Minerva granted not her prayer.
While they were thus praying to the daughter of great Jove, Hector went to the fair house of Alexandrus, which he had built for him by the foremost builders in the land. They had built him his house, storehouse, and courtyard near those of Priam and Hector on the acropolis. Here Hector entered, with a spear eleven cubits long in his hand; the bronze point gleamed in front of him, and was fastened to the shaft of the spear by a ring of gold. He found Alexandrus within the house, busied about his armour, his shield and cuirass, and handling his curved bow; there, too, sat Argive Helen with her women, setting them their several tasks; and as Hector saw him he rebuked him with words of scorn. “Sir,” said he, “you do ill to nurse this rancour; the people perish fighting round this our town; you would yourself chide one whom you saw shirking his part in the combat. Up then, or ere long the city will be in a blaze.”
And Alexandrus answered, “Hector, your rebuke is just; listen therefore, and believe me when I tell you that I am not here so much through rancour or ill-will towards the Trojans, as from a desire to indulge my grief. My wife was even now gently urging me to battle, and I hold it better that I should go, for victory is ever fickle. Wait, then, while I put on my armour, or go first and I will follow. I shall be sure to overtake you.”
Hector made no answer, but Helen tried to soothe him. “Brother,” said she, “to my abhorred and sinful self, would that a whirlwind had caught me up on the day my mother brought me forth, and had borne me to some mountain or to the waves of the roaring sea that should have swept me away ere this mischief had come about. But, since the gods have devised these evils, would, at any rate, that I had been wife to a better man—to one who could smart under dishonour and men’s evil speeches. This fellow was never yet to be depended upon, nor never will be, and he will surely reap what he has sown. Still, brother, come in and rest upon this seat, for it is you who bear the brunt of that toil that has been caused by my hateful self and by the sin of Alexandrus—both of whom Jove has doomed to be a theme of song among those that shall be born hereafter.”
And Hector answered, “Bid me not be seated, Helen, for all the goodwill you bear me. I cannot stay. I am in haste to help the Trojans, who miss me greatly when I am not among them; but urge your husband, and of his own self also let him make haste to overtake me before I am out of the city. I must go home to see my household, my wife and my little son, for I know not whether I shall ever again return to them, or whether the gods will cause me to fill by the hands of the Achaeans.”
Then Hector left her, and forthwith was at his own house. He did not find Andromache, for she was on the wall with her child and one of her maids, weeping bitterly. Seeing, then, that she was not within, he stood on the thresh- old of the women’s rooms and said, “Women, tell me, and tell me true, where did Andromache go when she left the house? Was it to my sisters, or to my brothers’ wives? or is she at the temple of Minerva where the other women are propitiating the awful goddess?”
His good housekeeper answered, “Hector, since you bid me tell you truly, she did not go to your sisters nor to your brothers’ wives, nor yet to the temple of Minerva, where the other women are propitiating the awful goddess, but she is on the high wall of Ilius, for she had heard the Trojans were being hard pressed, and that the Achaeans were in great force: she went to the wall in frenzied haste, and the nurse went with her carrying the child.”
Hector hurried from the house when she had done speaking, and went down the streets by the same way that he had come. When he had gone through the city and had reached the Scaean gates through which he would go out on to the plain, his wife came running towards him, Andromache, daughter of great Eetion who ruled in Thebe
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under the wooded slopes of Mt. Placus, and was king of the Cilicians. His daughter had married Hector, and now came to meet him with a nurse who carried his little child in her bosom—a mere babe. Hector’s darling son, and lovely as a star. Hector had named him Scamandrius, but the people called him Astyanax, for his father stood alone as chief guardian of Ilius. Hector smiled as he looked upon the boy, but he did not speak, and Andromache stood by him weeping and taking his hand in her own. “Dear husband,” said she, “your valour will bring you to destruction; think on your infant son, and on my hapless self who ere long shall be your widow—for the Achaeans will set upon you in a body and kill you. It would be better for me, should I lose you, to lie dead and buried, for I shall have noth- ing left to comfort me when you are gone, save only sorrow. I have neither father nor mother now. Achilles slew my father when he sacked Thebe the goodly city of the Cilicians. He slew him, but did not for very shame despoil him; when he had burned him in his wondrous armour, he raised a barrow over his ashes and the mountain nymphs, daughters of aegis-bearing Jove, planted a grove of elms about his tomb. I had seven brothers in my father’s house, but on the same day they all went within the house of Hades. Achilles killed them as they were with their sheep and cattle. My mother—her who had been queen of all the land under Mt. Placus—he brought hither with the spoil, and freed her for a great sum, but the archer — queen Diana took her in the house of your father. Nay—Hector—you who to me are father, mother, brother, and dear husband—have mercy upon me; stay here upon this wall; make not your child fatherless, and your wife a widow; as for the host, place them near the fig-tree, where the city can be best scaled, and the wall is weakest. Thrice have the bravest of them come thither and assailed it, under the two Ajaxes, Idomeneus, the sons of Atreus, and the brave son of Tydeus, either of their own bidding, or because some soothsay- er had told them.”
And Hector answered, “Wife, I too have thought upon all this, but with what face should I look upon the Trojans, men or women, if I shirked battle like a coward? I cannot do so: I know nothing save to fight bravely in the forefront of the Trojan host and win renown alike for my father and myself. Well do I know that the day will surely come when mighty Ilius shall be destroyed with Priam and Priam’s people, but I grieve for none of these—not even for Hecuba, nor King Priam, nor for my brothers many and brave who may fall in the dust before their foes—for none of these do I grieve as for yourself when the day shall come on which some one of the Achaeans shall rob you for ever of your freedom, and bear you weeping away. It may be that you will have to ply the loom in Argos at the bidding of a mistress, or to fetch water from the springs Messeis or Hypereia, treated brutally by some cruel task-master; then will one say who sees you weeping, ‘She was wife to Hector, the bravest warrior among the Tro- jans during the war before Ilius.’ On this your tears will break forth anew for him who would have put away the day of captivity from you. May I lie dead under the barrow that is heaped over my body ere I hear your cry as they carry you into bondage.”
He stretched his arms towards his child, but the boy cried and nestled in his nurse’s bosom, scared at the sight of his father’s armour, and at the horse-hair plume that nodded fiercely from his helmet. His father and mother laughed to see him, but Hector took the helmet from his head and laid it all gleaming upon the ground. Then he took his darling child, kissed him, and dandled him in his arms, praying over him the while to Jove and to all the gods. “Jove,” he cried, “grant that this my child may be even as myself, chief among the Trojans; let him be not less excellent in strength, and let him rule Ilius with his might. Then may one say of him as he comes from battle, ‘The son is far better than the father.’ May he bring back the blood-stained spoils of him whom he has laid low, and let his mother’s heart be glad.’”
With this he laid the child again in the arms of his wife, who took him to her own soft bosom, smiling through her tears. As her husband watched her his heart yearned towards her and he caressed her fondly, saying, “My own wife, do not take these things too bitterly to heart. No one can hurry me down to Hades before my time, but if a man’s hour is come, be he brave or be he coward, there is no escape for him when he has once been born. Go, then, within the house, and busy yourself with your daily duties, your loom, your distaff, and the ordering of your ser- vants; for war is man’s matter, and mine above all others of them that have been born in Ilius.”
He took his plumed helmet from the ground, and his wife went back again to her house, weeping bitterly and often looking back towards him. When she reached her home she found her maidens within, and bade them all join in her lament; so they mourned Hector in his own house though he was yet alive, for they deemed that they should never see him return safe from battle, and from the furious hands of the Achaeans.
Paris did not remain long in his house. He donned his goodly armour overlaid with bronze, and hasted through the city as fast as his feet could take him. As a horse, stabled and fed, breaks loose and gallops gloriously over the plain to the place where he is wont to bathe in the fair-flowing river—he holds his head high, and his mane streams upon his shoulders as he exults in his strength and flies like the wind to the haunts and feeding ground of the mares—even so went forth Paris from high Pergamus, gleaming like sunlight in his armour, and he laughed aloud as he sped swiftly on his way. Forthwith he came upon his brother Hector, who was then turning away from the place where he had held converse with his wife, and he was himself the first to speak. “Sir,” said he, “I fear that I have kept you waiting when you are in haste, and have not come as quickly as you bade me.”
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“My good brother,” answered Hector, “you fight bravely, and no man with any justice can make light of your do- ings in battle. But you are careless and wilfully remiss. It grieves me to the heart to hear the ill that the Trojans speak about you, for they have suffered much on your account. Let us be going, and we will make things right hereafter, should Jove vouchsafe us to set the cup of our deliverance before ever-living gods of heaven in our own homes, when we have chased the Achaeans from Troy.”
Book VII WITH these words Hector passed through the gates, and his brother Alexandrus with him, both eager for the
fray. As when heaven sends a breeze to sailors who have long looked for one in vain, and have laboured at their oars till they are faint with toil, even so welcome was the sight of these two heroes to the Trojans.
Thereon Alexandrus killed Menesthius the son of Areithous; he lived in Ame, and was son of Areithous the Mace-man, and of Phylomedusa. Hector threw a spear at Eioneus and struck him dead with a wound in the neck under the bronze rim of his helmet. Glaucus, moreover, son of Hippolochus, captain of the Lycians, in hard hand- to-hand fight smote Iphinous son of Dexius on the shoulder, as he was springing on to his chariot behind his fleet mares; so he fell to earth from the car, and there was no life left in him.
When, therefore, Minerva saw these men making havoc of the Argives, she darted down to Ilius from the sum- mits of Olympus, and Apollo, who was looking on from Pergamus, went out to meet her; for he wanted the Trojans to be victorious. The pair met by the oak tree, and King Apollo son of Jove was first to speak. “What would you have said he, “daughter of great Jove, that your proud spirit has sent you hither from Olympus? Have you no pity upon the Trojans, and would you incline the scales of victory in favour of the Danaans? Let me persuade you—for it will be better thus—stay the combat for to-day, but let them renew the fight hereafter till they compass the doom of Ilius, since you goddesses have made up your minds to destroy the city.”
And Minerva answered, “So be it, Far-Darter; it was in this mind that I came down from Olympus to the Tro- jans and Achaeans. Tell me, then, how do you propose to end this present fighting?”
Apollo, son of Jove, replied, “Let us incite great Hector to challenge some one of the Danaans in single combat; on this the Achaeans will be shamed into finding a man who will fight him.”
Minerva assented, and Helenus son of Priam divined the counsel of the gods; he therefore went up to Hector and said, “Hector son of Priam, peer of gods in counsel, I am your brother, let me then persuade you. Bid the other Trojans and Achaeans all of them take their seats, and challenge the best man among the Achaeans to meet you in single combat. I have heard the voice of the ever-living gods, and the hour of your doom is not yet come.”
Hector was glad when he heard this saying, and went in among the Trojans, grasping his spear by the middle to hold them back, and they all sat down. Agamemnon also bade the Achaeans be seated. But Minerva and Apollo, in the likeness of vultures, perched on father Jove’s high oak tree, proud of their men; and the ranks sat close ranged together, bristling with shield and helmet and spear. As when the rising west wind furs the face of the sea and the waters grow dark beneath it, so sat the companies of Trojans and Achaeans upon the plain. And Hector spoke thus:—
“Hear me, Trojans and Achaeans, that I may speak even as I am minded; Jove on his high throne has brought our oaths and covenants to nothing, and foreshadows ill for both of us, till you either take the towers of Troy, or are yourselves vanquished at your ships. The princes of the Achaeans are here present in the midst of you; let him, then, that will fight me stand forward as your champion against Hector. Thus I say, and may Jove be witness between us. If your champion slay me, let him strip me of my armour and take it to your ships, but let him send my body home that the Trojans and their wives may give me my dues of fire when I am dead. In like manner, if Apollo vouchsafe me glory and I slay your champion, I will strip him of his armour and take it to the city of Ilius, where I will hang it in the temple of Apollo, but I will give up his body, that the Achaeans may bury him at their ships, and the build him a mound by the wide waters of the Hellespont. Then will one say hereafter as he sails his ship over the sea, ‘This is the monument of one who died long since a champion who was slain by mighty Hector.’ Thus will one say, and my fame shall not be lost.”
Thus did he speak, but they all held their peace, ashamed to decline the challenge, yet fearing to accept it, till at last Menelaus rose and rebuked them, for he was angry. “Alas,” he cried, “vain braggarts, women forsooth not men, double-dyed indeed will be the stain upon us if no man of the Danaans will now face Hector. May you be turned every man of you into earth and water as you sit spiritless and inglorious in your places. I will myself go out against this man, but the upshot of the fight will be from on high in the hands of the immortal gods.”
With these words he put on his armour; and then, O Menelaus, your life would have come to an end at the hands of hands of Hector, for he was far better the man, had not the princes of the Achaeans sprung upon you and checked you. King Agamemnon caught him by the right hand and said, “Menelaus, you are mad; a truce to this folly. Be patient in spite of passion, do not think of fighting a man so much stronger than yourself as Hector son of
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Priam, who is feared by many another as well as you. Even Achilles, who is far more doughty than you are, shrank from meeting him in battle. Sit down your own people, and the Achaeans will send some other champion to fight Hector; fearless and fond of battle though he be, I ween his knees will bend gladly under him if he comes out alive from the hurly-burly of this fight.”
With these words of reasonable counsel he persuaded his brother, whereon his squires gladly stripped the armour from off his shoulders. Then Nestor rose and spoke, “Of a truth,” said he, “the Achaean land is fallen upon evil times. The old knight Peleus, counsellor and orator among the Myrmidons, loved when I was in his house to question me concerning the race and lineage of all the Argives. How would it not grieve him could he hear of them as now quailing before Hector? Many a time would he lift his hands in prayer that his soul might leave his body and go down within the house of Hades. Would, by father Jove, Minerva, and Apollo, that I were still young and strong as when the Pylians and Arcadians were gathered in fight by the rapid river Celadon under the walls of Pheia, and round about the waters of the river Iardanus. The godlike hero Ereuthalion stood forward as their champion, with the armour of King Areithous upon his shoulders—Areithous whom men and women had surnamed ‘the Mace- man,’ because he fought neither with bow nor spear, but broke the battalions of the foe with his iron mace. Lycurgus killed him, not in fair fight, but by entrapping him in a narrow way where his mace served him in no stead; for Lycurgus was too quick for him and speared him through the middle, so he fell to earth on his back. Lycurgus then spoiled him of the armour which Mars had given him, and bore it in battle thenceforward; but when he grew old and stayed at home, he gave it to his faithful squire Ereuthalion, who in this same armour challenged the foremost men among us. The others quaked and quailed, but my high spirit bade me fight him though none other would venture; I was the youngest man of them all; but when I fought him Minerva vouchsafed me victory. He was the biggest and strongest man that ever I killed, and covered much ground as he lay sprawling upon the earth. Would that I were still young and strong as I then was, for the son of Priam would then soon find one who would face him. But you, foremost among the whole host though you be, have none of you any stomach for fighting Hector.”
Thus did the old man rebuke them, and forthwith nine men started to their feet. Foremost of all uprose King Agamemnon, and after him brave Diomed the son of Tydeus. Next were the two Ajaxes, men clothed in valour as with a garment, and then Idomeneus, and Meriones his brother in arms. After these Eurypylus son of Euaemon, Thoas the son of Andraemon, and Ulysses also rose. Then Nestor knight of Gerene again spoke, saying: “Cast lots among you to see who shall be chosen. If he come alive out of this fight he will have done good service alike to his own soul and to the Achaeans.”
Thus he spoke, and when each of them had marked his lot, and had thrown it into the helmet of Agamemnon son of Atreus, the people lifted their hands in prayer, and thus would one of them say as he looked into the vault of heaven, “Father Jove, grant that the lot fall on Ajax, or on the son of Tydeus, or upon the king of rich Mycene himself.”
As they were speaking, Nestor knight of Gerene shook the helmet, and from it there fell the very lot which they wanted—the lot of Ajax. The herald bore it about and showed it to all the chieftains of the Achaeans, going from left to right; but they none of of them owned it. When, however, in due course he reached the man who had written upon it and had put it into the helmet, brave Ajax held out his hand, and the herald gave him the lot. When Ajax saw him mark he knew it and was glad; he threw it to the ground and said, “My friends, the lot is mine, and I rejoice, for I shall vanquish Hector. I will put on my armour; meanwhile, pray to King Jove in silence among your- selves that the Trojans may not hear you—or aloud if you will, for we fear no man. None shall overcome me, neither by force nor cunning, for I was born and bred in Salamis, and can hold my own in all things.”
With this they fell praying to King Jove the son of Saturn, and thus would one of them say as he looked into the vault of heaven, “Father Jove that rulest from Ida, most glorious in power, vouchsafe victory to Ajax, and let him win great glory: but if you wish well to Hector also and would protect him, grant to each of them equal fame and prowess.
Thus they prayed, and Ajax armed himself in his suit of gleaming bronze. When he was in full array he sprang forward as monstrous Mars when he takes part among men whom Jove has set fighting with one another—even so did huge Ajax, bulwark of the Achaeans, spring forward with a grim smile on his face as he brandished his long spear and strode onward. The Argives were elated as they beheld him, but the Trojans trembled in every limb, and the heart even of Hector beat quickly, but he could not now retreat and withdraw into the ranks behind him, for he had been the challenger. Ajax came up bearing his shield in front of him like a wall—a shield of bronze with seven folds of oxhide—the work of Tychius, who lived in Hyle and was by far the best worker in leather. He had made it with the hides of seven full-fed bulls, and over these he had set an eighth layer of bronze. Holding this shield before him, Ajax son of Telamon came close up to Hector, and menaced him saying, “Hector, you shall now learn, man to man, what kind of champions the Danaans have among them even besides lion-hearted Achilles cleaver of the ranks of men. He now abides at the ships in anger with Agamemnon shepherd of his people, but there are many of us who are well able to face you; therefore begin the fight.”
And Hector answered, “Noble Ajax, son of Telamon, captain of the host, treat me not as though I were some
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puny boy or woman that cannot fight. I have been long used to the blood and butcheries of battle. I am quick to turn my leathern shield either to right or left, for this I deem the main thing in battle. I can charge among the chari- ots and horsemen, and in hand to hand fighting can delight the heart of Mars; howbeit I would not take such a man as you are off his guard—but I will smite you openly if I can.”
He poised his spear as he spoke, and hurled it from him. It struck the sevenfold shield in its outermost layer— the eighth, which was of bronze—and went through six of the layers but in the seventh hide it stayed. Then Ajax threw in his turn, and struck the round shield of the son of Priam. The terrible spear went through his gleaming shield, and pressed onward through his cuirass of cunning workmanship; it pierced the shirt against his side, but he swerved and thus saved his life. They then each of them drew out the spear from his shield, and fell on one another like savage lions or wild boars of great strength and endurance: the son of Priam struck the middle of Ajax’s shield, but the bronze did not break, and the point of his dart was turned. Ajax then sprang forward and pierced the shield of Hector; the spear went through it and staggered him as he was springing forward to attack; it gashed his neck and the blood came pouring from the wound, but even so Hector did not cease fighting; he gave ground, and with his brawny hand seized a stone, rugged and huge, that was lying upon the plain; with this he struck the shield of Ajax on the boss that was in its middle, so that the bronze rang again. But Ajax in turn caught up a far larger stone, swung it aloft, and hurled it with prodigious force. This millstone of a rock broke Hector’s shield inwards and threw him down on his back with the shield crushing him under it, but Apollo raised him at once. Thereon they would have hacked at one another in close combat with their swords, had not heralds, messengers of gods and men, come forward, one from the Trojans and the other from the Achaeans—Talthybius and Idaeus both of them honourable men; these parted them with their staves, and the good herald Idaeus said, “My sons, fight no longer, you are both of you valiant, and both are dear to Jove; we know this; but night is now falling, and the behests of night may not be well gainsaid.”
Ajax son of Telamon answered, “Idaeus, bid Hector say so, for it was he that challenged our princes. Let him speak first and I will accept his saying.”
Then Hector said, “Ajax, heaven has vouchsafed you stature and strength, and judgement; and in wielding the spear you excel all others of the Achaeans. Let us for this day cease fighting; hereafter we will fight anew till heaven decide between us, and give victory to one or to the other; night is now falling, and the behests of night may not be well gainsaid. Gladden, then, the hearts of the Achaeans at your ships, and more especially those of your own fol- lowers and clansmen, while I, in the great city of King Priam, bring comfort to the Trojans and their women, who vie with one another in their prayers on my behalf. Let us, moreover, exchange presents that it may be said among the Achaeans and Trojans, ‘They fought with might and main, but were reconciled and parted in friendship.’
On this he gave Ajax a silver-studded sword with its sheath and leathern baldric, and in return Ajax gave him a girdle dyed with purple. Thus they parted, the one going to the host of the Achaeans, and the other to that of the Trojans, who rejoiced when they saw their hero come to them safe and unharmed from the strong hands of mighty Ajax. They led him, therefore, to the city as one that had been saved beyond their hopes. On the other side the Achaeans brought Ajax elated with victory to Agamemnon.
When they reached the quarters of the son of Atreus, Agamemnon sacrificed for them a five-year-old bull in honour of Jove the son of Saturn. They flayed the carcass, made it ready, and divided it into joints; these they cut carefully up into smaller pieces, putting them on the spits, roasting them sufficiently, and then drawing them off. When they had done all this and had prepared the feast, they ate it, and every man had his full and equal share, so that all were satisfied, and King Agamemnon gave Ajax some slices cut lengthways down the loin, as a mark of special honour. As soon as they had had enough to cat and drink, old Nestor whose counsel was ever truest began to speak; with all sincerity and goodwill, therefore, he addressed them thus:—
“Son of Atreus, and other chieftains, inasmuch as many of the Achaeans are now dead, whose blood Mars has shed by the banks of the Scamander, and their souls have gone down to the house of Hades, it will be well when morning comes that we should cease fighting; we will then wheel our dead together with oxen and mules and burn them not far from the ships, that when we sail hence we may take the bones of our comrades home to their chil- dren. Hard by the funeral pyre we will build a barrow that shall be raised from the plain for all in common; near this let us set about building a high wall, to shelter ourselves and our ships, and let it have well-made gates that there may be a way through them for our chariots. Close outside we will dig a deep trench all round it to keep off both horse and foot, that the Trojan chieftains may not bear hard upon us.”
Thus he spoke, and the princess shouted in applause. Meanwhile the Trojans held a council, angry and full of discord, on the acropolis by the gates of King Priam’s palace; and wise Antenor spoke. “Hear me he said, “Trojans, Dar- danians, and allies, that I may speak even as I am minded. Let us give up Argive Helen and her wealth to the sons of Atreus, for we are now fighting in violation of our solemn covenants, and shall not prosper till we have done as I say.”
He then sat down and Alexandrus husband of lovely Helen rose to speak. “Antenor,” said he, “your words are not to my liking; you can find a better saying than this if you will; if, however, you have spoken in good earnest,
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then indeed has heaven robbed you of your reason. I will speak plainly, and hereby notify to the Trojans that I will not give up the woman; but the wealth that I brought home with her from Argos I will restore, and will add yet further of my own.”
On this, when Paris had spoken and taken his seat, Priam of the race of Dardanus, peer of gods in council, rose and with all sincerity and goodwill addressed them thus: “Hear me, Trojans, Dardanians, and allies, that I may speak even as I am minded. Get your suppers now as hitherto throughout the city, but keep your watches and be wakeful. At daybreak let Idaeus go to the ships, and tell Agamemnon and Menelaus sons of Atreus the saying of Alexandrus through whom this quarrel has come about; and let him also be instant with them that they now cease fighting till we burn our dead; hereafter we will fight anew, till heaven decide between us and give victory to one or to the other.”
Thus did he speak, and they did even as he had said. They took supper in their companies and at daybreak Idaeus went his wa to the ships. He found the Danaans, servants of Mars, in council at the stern of Agamemnon’s ship, and took his place in the midst of them. “Son of Atreus,” he said, “and princes of the Achaean host, Priam and the other noble Trojans have sent me to tell you the saying of Alexandrus through whom this quarrel has come about, if so be that you may find it acceptable. All the treasure he took with him in his ships to Troy—would that he had sooner perished—he will restore, and will add yet further of his own, but he will not give up the wedded wife of Menelaus, though the Trojans would have him do so. Priam bade me inquire further if you will cease fighting till we burn our dead; hereafter we will fight anew, till heaven decide between us and give victory to one or to the other.”
They all held their peace, but presently Diomed of the loud war-cry spoke, saying, “Let there be no taking, nei- ther treasure, nor yet Helen, for even a child may see that the doom of the Trojans is at hand.”
The sons of the Achaeans shouted applause at the words that Diomed had spoken, and thereon King Agamem- non said to Idaeus, “Idaeus, you have heard the answer the Achaeans make you-and I with them. But as concerning the dead, I give you leave to burn them, for when men are once dead there should be no grudging them the rites of fire. Let Jove the mighty husband of Juno be witness to this covenant.”
As he spoke he upheld his sceptre in the sight of all the gods, and Idaeus went back to the strong city of Ilius. The Trojans and Dardanians were gathered in council waiting his return; when he came, he stood in their midst and delivered his message. As soon as they heard it they set about their twofold labour, some to gather the corpses, and others to bring in wood. The Argives on their part also hastened from their ships, some to gather the corpses, and others to bring in wood.
The sun was beginning to beat upon the fields, fresh risen into the vault of heaven from the slow still currents of deep Oceanus, when the two armies met. They could hardly recognise their dead, but they washed the clotted gore from off them, shed tears over them, and lifted them upon their waggons. Priam had forbidden the Trojans to wail aloud, so they heaped their dead sadly and silently upon the pyre, and having burned them went back to the city of Ilius. The Achaeans in like manner heaped their dead sadly and silently on the pyre, and having burned them went back to their ships.
Now in the twilight when it was not yet dawn, chosen bands of the Achaeans were gathered round the pyre and built one barrow that was raised in common for all, and hard by this they built a high wall to shelter themselves and their ships; they gave it strong gates that there might be a way through them for their chariots, and close outside it they dug a trench deep and wide, and they planted it within with stakes.
Thus did the Achaeans toil, and the gods, seated by the side of Jove the lord of lightning, marvelled at their great work; but Neptune, lord of the earthquake, spoke, saying, “Father Jove, what mortal in the whole world will again take the gods into his counsel? See you not how the Achaeans have built a wall about their ships and driven a trench all round it, without offering hecatombs to the gods? The The fame of this wall will reach as far as dawn itself, and men will no longer think anything of the one which Phoebus Apollo and myself built with so much labour for Laomedon.”
Jove was displeased and answered, “What, O shaker of the earth, are you talking about? A god less powerful than yourself might be alarmed at what they are doing, but your fame reaches as far as dawn itself. Surely when the Achaeans have gone home with their ships, you can shatter their wall and Ring it into the sea; you can cover the beach with sand again, and the great wall of the Achaeans will then be utterly effaced.”
Thus did they converse, and by sunset the work of the Achaeans was completed; they then slaughtered oxen at their tents and got their supper. Many ships had come with wine from Lemnos, sent by Euneus the son of Jason, born to him by Hypsipyle. The son of Jason freighted them with ten thousand measures of wine, which he sent specially to the sons of Atreus, Agamemnon and Menelaus. From this supply the Achaeans bought their wine, some with bronze, some with iron, some with hides, some with whole heifers, and some again with captives. They spread a goodly banquet and feasted the whole night through, as also did the Trojans and their allies in the city. But all the time Jove boded them ill and roared with his portentous thunder. Pale fear got hold upon them, and they spilled the wine from their cups on to the ground, nor did any dare drink till he had made offerings to the most mighty son of Saturn. Then they laid themselves down to rest and enjoyed the boon of sleep.
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Book VIII NOW when Morning, clad in her robe of saffron, had begun to suffuse light over the earth, Jove called the gods
in council on the topmost crest of serrated Olympus. Then he spoke and all the other gods gave ear. “Hear me,” said he, “gods and goddesses, that I may speak even as I am minded. Let none of you neither goddess nor god try to cross me, but obey me every one of you that I may bring this matter to an end. If I see anyone acting apart and helping either Trojans or Danaans, he shall be beaten inordinately ere he come back again to Olympus; or I will hurl him down into dark Tartarus far into the deepest pit under the earth, where the gates are iron and the floor bronze, as far beneath Hades as heaven is high above the earth, that you may learn how much the mightiest I am among you. Try me and find out for yourselves. Hangs me a golden chain from heaven, and lay hold of it all of you, gods and goddesses together—tug as you will, you will not drag Jove the supreme counsellor from heaven to earth; but were I to pull at it myself I should draw you up with earth and sea into the bargain, then would I bind the chain about some pinnacle of Olympus and leave you all dangling in the mid firmament. So far am I above all others either of gods or men.”
They were frightened and all of them of held their peace, for he had spoken masterfully; but at last Minerva an- swered, “Father, son of Saturn, king of kings, we all know that your might is not to be gainsaid, but we are also sorry for the Danaan warriors, who are perishing and coming to a bad end. We will, however, since you so bid us, refrain from actual fighting, but we will make serviceable suggestions to the Argives that they may not all of them perish in your displeasure.”
Jove smiled at her and answered, “Take heart, my child, Trito-born; I am not really in earnest, and I wish to be kind to you.”
With this he yoked his fleet horses, with hoofs of bronze and manes of glittering gold. He girded himself also with gold about the body, seized his gold whip and took his seat in his chariot. Thereon he lashed his horses and they flew forward nothing loth midway twixt earth and starry heaven. After a while he reached many-fountained Ida, mother of wild beasts, and Gargarus, where are his grove and fragrant altar. There the father of gods and men stayed his horses, took them from the chariot, and hid them in a thick cloud; then he took his seat all glorious upon the topmost crests, looking down upon the city of Troy and the ships of the Achaeans.
The Achaeans took their morning meal hastily at the ships, and afterwards put on their armour. The Trojans on the other hand likewise armed themselves throughout the city, fewer in numbers but nevertheless eager perforce to do battle for their wives and children. All the gates were flung wide open, and horse and foot sallied forth with the tramp as of a great multitude.
When they were got together in one place, shield clashed with shield, and spear with spear, in the conflict of mail-clad men. Mighty was the din as the bossed shields pressed hard on one another—death—cry and shout of triumph of slain and slayers, and the earth ran red with blood.
Now so long as the day waxed and it was still morning their weapons beat against one another, and the people fell, but when the sun had reached mid-heaven, the sire of all balanced his golden scales, and put two fates of death within them, one for the Trojans and the other for the Achaeans. He took the balance by the middle, and when he lifted it up the day of the Achaeans sank; the death-fraught scale of the Achaeans settled down upon the ground, while that of the Trojans rose heavenwards. Then he thundered aloud from Ida, and sent the glare of his lightning upon the Achaeans; when they saw this, pale fear fell upon them and they were sore afraid.
Idomeneus dared not stay nor yet Agamemnon, nor did the two Ajaxes, servants of Mars, hold their ground. Nestor knight of Gerene alone stood firm, bulwark of the Achaeans, not of his own will, but one of his horses was disabled. Alexandrus husband of lovely Helen had hit it with an arrow just on the top of its head where the mane begins to grow away from the skull, a very deadly place. The horse bounded in his anguish as the arrow pierced his brain, and his struggles threw others into confusion. The old man instantly began cutting the traces with his sword, but Hector’s fleet horses bore down upon him through the rout with their bold charioteer, even Hector himself, and the old man would have perished there and then had not Diomed been quick to mark, and with a loud cry called Ulysses to help him.
“Ulysses,” he cried, “noble son of Laertes where are you flying to, with your back turned like a coward? See that you are not struck with a spear between the shoulders. Stay here and help me to defend Nestor from this man’s furious onset.”
Ulysses would not give ear, but sped onward to the ships of the Achaeans, and the son of Tydeus flinging him- self alone into the thick of the fight took his stand before the horses of the son of Neleus. “Sir,” said he, “these young warriors are pressing you hard, your force is spent, and age is heavy upon you, your squire is naught, and your hors- es are slow to move. Mount my chariot and see what the horses of Tros can do—how cleverly they can scud hither and thither over the plain either in flight or in pursuit. I took them from the hero Aeneas. Let our squires attend to
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your own steeds, but let us drive mine straight at the Trojans, that Hector may learn how furiously I too can wield my spear.”
Nestor knight of Gerene hearkened to his words. Thereon the doughty squires, Sthenelus and kind-hearted Eurymedon, saw to Nestor’s horses, while the two both mounted Diomed’s chariot. Nestor took the reins in his hands and lashed the horses on; they were soon close up with Hector, and the son of Tydeus aimed a spear at him as he was charging full speed towards them. He missed him, but struck his charioteer and squire Eniopeus son of noble Thebaeus in the breast by the nipple while the reins were in his hands, so that he died there and then, and the horses swerved as he fell headlong from the chariot. Hector was greatly grieved at the loss of his charioteer, but let him lie for all his sorrow, while he went in quest of another driver; nor did his steeds have to go long without one, for he presently found brave Archeptolemus the son of Iphitus, and made him get up behind the horses, giving the reins into his hand.
All had then been lost and no help for it, for they would have been penned up in Ilius like sheep, had not the sire of gods and men been quick to mark, and hurled a fiery flaming thunderbolt which fell just in front of Diomed’s horses with a flare of burning brimstone. The horses were frightened and tried to back beneath the car, while the reins dropped from Nestor’s hands. Then he was afraid and said to Diomed, “Son of Tydeus, turn your horses in flight; see you not that the hand of Jove is against you? To-day he vouchsafes victory to Hector; to-morrow, if it so please him, he will again grant it to ourselves; no man, however brave, may thwart the purpose of Jove, for he is far stronger than any.”
Diomed answered, “All that you have said is true; there is a grief however which pierces me to the very heart, for Hector will talk among the Trojans and say, ‘The son of Tydeus fled before me to the ships.’ This is the vaunt he will make, and may earth then swallow me.”
“Son of Tydeus,” replied Nestor, “what mean you? Though Hector say that you are a coward the Trojans and Dardanians will not believe him, nor yet the wives of the mighty warriors whom you have laid low.”
So saying he turned the horses back through the thick of the battle, and with a cry that rent the air the Trojans and Hector rained their darts after them. Hector shouted to him and said, “Son of Tydeus, the Danaans have done you honour hitherto as regards your place at table, the meals they give you, and the filling of your cup with wine. Henceforth they will despise you, for you are become no better than a woman. Be off, girl and coward that you are, you shall not scale our walls through any flinching upon my part; neither shall you carry off our wives in your ships, for I shall kill you with my own hand.”
The son of Tydeus was in two minds whether or no to turn his horses round again and fight him. Thrice did he doubt, and thrice did Jove thunder from the heights of Ida in token to the Trojans that he would turn the battle in their favour. Hector then shouted to them and said, “Trojans, Lycians, and Dardanians, lovers of close fighting, be men, my friends, and fight with might and with main; I see that Jove is minded to vouchsafe victory and great glory to myself, while he will deal destruction upon the Danaans. Fools, for having thought of building this weak and worthless wall. It shall not stay my fury; my horses will spring lightly over their trench, and when I am at their ships forget not to bring me fire that I may burn them, while I slaughter the Argives who will be all dazed and bewildered by the smoke.”
Then he cried to his horses, “Xanthus and Podargus, and you Aethon and goodly Lampus, pay me for your keep now and for all the honey-sweet corn with which Andromache daughter of great Eetion has fed you, and for she has mixed wine and water for you to drink whenever you would, before doing so even for me who am her own hus- band. Haste in pursuit, that we may take the shield of Nestor, the fame of which ascends to heaven, for it is of solid gold, arm-rods and all, and that we may strip from the shoulders of Diomed. the cuirass which Vulcan made him. Could we take these two things, the Achaeans would set sail in their ships this self-same night.”
Thus did he vaunt, but Queen Juno made high Olympus quake as she shook with rage upon her throne. Then said she to the mighty god of Neptune, “What now, wide ruling lord of the earthquake? Can you find no compas- sion in your heart for the dying Danaans, who bring you many a welcome offering to Helice and to Aegae? Wish them well then. If all of us who are with the Danaans were to drive the Trojans back and keep Jove from helping them, he would have to sit there sulking alone on Ida.”
King Neptune was greatly troubled and answered, “Juno, rash of tongue, what are you talking about? We other gods must not set ourselves against Jove, for he is far stronger than we are.”
Thus did they converse; but the whole space enclosed by the ditch, from the ships even to the wall, was filled with horses and warriors, who were pent up there by Hector son of Priam, now that the hand of Jove was with him. He would even have set fire to the ships and burned them, had not Queen Juno put it into the mind of Agamem- non, to bestir himself and to encourage the Achaeans. To this end he went round the ships and tents carrying a great purple cloak, and took his stand by the huge black hull of Ulysses’ ship, which was middlemost of all; it was from this place that his voice would carry farthest, on the one hand towards the tents of Ajax son of Telamon, and on the other towards those of Achilles—for these two heroes, well assured of their own strength, had valorously
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drawn up their ships at the two ends of the line. From this spot then, with a voice that could be heard afar, he shout- ed to the Danaans, saying, “Argives, shame on you cowardly creatures, brave in semblance only; where are now our vaunts that we should prove victorious—the vaunts we made so vaingloriously in Lemnos, when we ate the flesh of horned cattle and filled our mixing-bowls to the brim? You vowed that you would each of you stand against a hundred or two hundred men, and now you prove no match even for one—for Hector, who will be ere long setting our ships in a blaze. Father Jove, did you ever so ruin a great king and rob him so utterly of his greatness? yet, when to my sorrow I was coming hither, I never let my ship pass your altars without offering the fat and thigh-bones of heifers upon every one of them, so eager was I to sack the city of Troy. Vouchsafe me then this prayer—suffer us to escape at any rate with our lives, and let not the Achaeans be so utterly vanquished by the Trojans.”
Thus did he pray, and father Jove pitying his tears vouchsafed him that his people should live, not die; forthwith he sent them an eagle, most unfailingly portentous of all birds, with a young fawn in its talons; the eagle dropped the fawn by the altar on which the Achaeans sacrificed to Jove the lord of omens; When, therefore, the people saw that the bird had come from Jove, they sprang more fiercely upon the Trojans and fought more boldly.
There was no man of all the many Danaans who could then boast that he had driven his horses over the trench and gone forth to fight sooner than the son of Tydeus; long before any one else could do so he slew an armed war- rior of the Trojans, Agelaus the son of Phradmon. He had turned his horses in flight, but the spear struck him in the back midway between his shoulders and went right through his chest, and his armour rang rattling round him as he fell forward from his chariot.
After him came Agamemnon and Menelaus, sons of Atreus, the two Ajaxes clothed in valour as with a garment, Idomeneus and his companion in arms Meriones, peer of murderous Mars, and Eurypylus the brave son of Euae- mon. Ninth came Teucer with his bow, and took his place under cover of the shield of Ajax son of Telamon. When Ajax lifted his shield Teucer would peer round, and when he had hit any one in the throng, the man would fall dead; then Teucer would hie back to Ajax as a child to its mother, and again duck down under his shield.
Which of the Trojans did brave Teucer first kill? Orsilochus, and then Ormenus and Ophelestes, Daetor, Chro- mius, and godlike Lycophontes, Amopaon son of Polyaemon, and Melanippus. these in turn did he lay low upon the earth, and King Agamemnon was glad when he saw him making havoc of the Trojans with his mighty bow. He went up to him and said, “Teucer, man after my own heart, son of Telamon, captain among the host, shoot on, and be at once the saving of the Danaans and the glory of your father Telamon, who brought you up and took care of you in his own house when you were a child, bastard though you were. Cover him with glory though he is far off; I will promise and I will assuredly perform; if aegis-bearing Jove and Minerva grant me to sack the city of Ilius, you shall have the next best meed of honour after my own—a tripod, or two horses with their chariot, or a woman who shall go up into your bed.”
And Teucer answered, “Most noble son of Atreus, you need not urge me; from the moment we began to drive them back to Ilius, I have never ceased so far as in me lies to look out for men whom I can shoot and kill; I have shot eight barbed shafts, and all of them have been buried in the flesh of warlike youths, but this mad dog I cannot hit.”
As he spoke he aimed another arrow straight at Hector, for he was bent on hitting him; nevertheless he missed him, and the arrow hit Priam’s brave son Gorgythion in the breast. His mother, fair Castianeira, lovely as a goddess, had been married from Aesyme, and now he bowed his head as a garden poppy in full bloom when it is weighed down by showers in spring—even thus heavy bowed his head beneath the weight of his helmet.
Again he aimed at Hector, for he was longing to hit him, and again his arrow missed, for Apollo turned it aside; but he hit Hector’s brave charioteer Archeptolemus in the breast, by the nipple, as he was driving furiously into the fight. The horses swerved aside as he fell headlong from the chariot, and there was no life left in him. Hector was greatly grieved at the loss of his charioteer, but for all his sorrow he let him lie where he fell, and bade his brother Cebriones, who was hard by, take the reins. Cebriones did as he had said. Hector thereon with a loud cry sprang from his chariot to the ground, and seizing a great stone made straight for Teucer with intent kill him. Teucer had just taken an arrow from his quiver and had laid it upon the bow-string, but Hector struck him with the jagged stone as he was taking aim and drawing the string to his shoulder; he hit him just where the collar-bone divides the neck from the chest, a very deadly place, and broke the sinew of his arm so that his wrist was less, and the bow dropped from his hand as he fell forward on his knees. Ajax saw that his brother had fallen, and running towards him bestrode him and sheltered him with his shield. Meanwhile his two trusty squires, Mecisteus son of Echius, and Alastor, came up and bore him to the ships groaning in his great pain. glad when he saw
Jove now again put heart into the Trojans, and they drove the Achaeans to their deep trench with Hector in all his glory at their head. As a hound grips a wild boar or lion in flank or buttock when he gives him chase, and watches warily for his wheeling, even so did Hector follow close upon the Achaeans, ever killing the hindmost as they rushed panic-stricken onwards. When they had fled through the set stakes and trench and many Achaeans had been laid low at the hands of the Trojans, they halted at their ships, calling upon one another and praying every
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man instantly as they lifted up their hands to the gods; but Hector wheeled his horses this way and that, his eyes glaring like those of Gorgo or murderous Mars.
Juno when she saw them had pity upon them, and at once said to Minerva, “Alas, child of aegis-bearing Jove, shall you and I take no more thought for the dying Danaans, though it be the last time we ever do so? See how they perish and come to a bad end before the onset of but a single man. Hector the son of Priam rages with intolerable fury, and has already done great mischief.”
Minerva answered, “Would, indeed, this fellow might die in his own land, and fall by the hands of the Achae- ans; but my father Jove is mad with spleen, ever foiling me, ever headstrong and unjust. He forgets how often I saved his son when he was worn out by the labours Eurystheus had laid on him. He would weep till his cry came up to heaven, and then Jove would send me down to help him; if I had had the sense to foresee all this, when Eurystheus sent him to the house of Hades, to fetch the hell-hound from Erebus, he would never have come back alive out of the deep waters of the river Styx. And now Jove hates me, while he lets Thetis have her way because she kissed his knees and took hold of his beard, when she was begging him to do honour to Achilles. I shall know what to do next time he begins calling me his grey-eyed darling. Get our horses ready, while I go within the house of aegis-bearing Jove and put on my armour; we shall then find out whether Priam’s son Hector will be glad to meet us in the highways of battle, or whether the Trojans will glut hounds and vultures with the fat of their flesh as they he dead by the ships of the Achaeans.”
Thus did she speak and white-armed Juno, daughter of great Saturn, obeyed her words; she set about harness- ing her gold-bedizened steeds, while Minerva daughter of aegis-bearing Jove flung her richly vesture, made with her own hands, on to the threshold of her father, and donned the shirt of Jove, arming herself for battle. Then she stepped into her flaming chariot, and grasped the spear so stout and sturdy and strong with which she quells the ranks of heroes who have displeased her. Juno lashed her horses, and the gates of heaven bellowed as they flew open of their own accord—gates over which the Hours preside, in whose hands are heaven and Olympus, either to open the dense cloud that hides them or to close it. Through these the goddesses drove their obedient steeds.
But father Jove when he saw them from Ida was very angry, and sent winged Iris with a message to them. “Go,” said he, “fleet Iris, turn them back, and see that they do not come near me, for if we come to fighting there will be mischief. This is what I say, and this is what I mean to do. I will lame their horses for them; I will hurl them from their chariot, and will break it in pieces. It will take them all ten years to heal the wounds my lightning shall inflict upon them; my grey-eyed daughter will then learn what quarrelling with her father means. I am less surprised and angry with Juno, for whatever I say she always contradicts me.”
With this Iris went her way, fleet as the wind, from the heights of Ida to the lofty summits of Olympus. She met the goddesses at the outer gates of its many valleys and gave them her message. “What,” said she, “are you about? Are you mad? The son of Saturn forbids going. This is what he says, and this is he means to do, he will lame your horses for you, he will hurl you from your chariot, and will break it in pieces. It will take you all ten years to heal the wounds his lightning will inflict upon you, that you may learn, grey-eyed goddess, what quarrelling with your father means. He is less hurt and angry with Juno, for whatever he says she always contradicts him but you, bold bold hussy, will you really dare to raise your huge spear in defiance of Jove?”
With this she left them, and Juno said to Minerva, “Of a truth, child of aegis-bearing Jove, I am not for fighting men’s battles further in defiance of Jove. Let them live or die as luck will have it, and let Jove mete out his judge- ments upon the Trojans and Danaans according to his own pleasure.”
She turned her steeds; the Hours presently unyoked them, made them fast to their ambrosial mangers, and leaned the chariot against the end wall of the courtyard. The two goddesses then sat down upon their golden thrones, amid the company of the other gods; but they were very angry.
Presently father Jove drove his chariot to Olympus, and entered the assembly of gods. The mighty lord of the earthquake unyoked his horses for him, set the car upon its stand, and threw a cloth over it. Jove then sat down upon his golden throne and Olympus reeled beneath him. Minerva and Juno sat alone, apart from Jove, and neither spoke nor asked him questions, but Jove knew what they meant, and said, “Minerva and Juno, why are you so angry? Are you fatigued with killing so many of your dear friends the Trojans? Be this as it may, such is the might of my hands that all the gods in Olympus cannot turn me; you were both of you trembling all over ere ever you saw the fight and its terrible doings. I tell you therefore-and it would have surely been—I should have struck you with lighting, and your chariots would never have brought you back again to Olympus.”
Minerva and Juno groaned in spirit as they sat side by side and brooded mischief for the Trojans. Minerva sat silent without a word, for she was in a furious passion and bitterly incensed against her father; but Juno could not contain herself and said, “What, dread son of Saturn, are you talking about? We know how great your power is, nevertheless we have compassion upon the Danaan warriors who are perishing and coming to a bad end. We will, however, since you so bid us, refrain from actual fighting, but we will make serviceable suggestions to the Argives, that they may not all of them perish in your displeasure.”
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And Jove answered, “To-morrow morning, Juno, if you choose to do so, you will see the son of Saturn de- stroying large numbers of the Argives, for fierce Hector shall not cease fighting till he has roused the son of Peleus when they are fighting in dire straits at their ships’ sterns about the body of Patroclus. Like it or no, this is how it is decreed; for aught I care, you may go to the lowest depths beneath earth and sea, where Iapetus and Saturn dwell in lone Tartarus with neither ray of light nor breath of wind to cheer them. You may go on and on till you get there, and I shall not care one whit for your displeasure; you are the greatest vixen living.”
Juno made him no answer. The sun’s glorious orb now sank into Oceanus and drew down night over the land. Sorry indeed were the Trojans when light failed them, but welcome and thrice prayed for did darkness fall upon the Achaeans.
Then Hector led the Trojans back from the ships, and held a council on the open space near the river, where there was a spot ear corpses. They left their chariots and sat down on the ground to hear the speech he made them. He grasped a spear eleven cubits long, the bronze point of which gleamed in front of it, while the ring round the spear-head was of gold Spear in hand he spoke. “Hear me,” said he, “Trojans, Dardanians, and allies. I deemed but now that I should destroy the ships and all the Achaeans with them ere I went back to Ilius, but darkness came on too soon. It was this alone that saved them and their ships upon the seashore. Now, therefore, let us obey the behests of night, and prepare our suppers. Take your horses out of their chariots and give them their feeds of corn; then make speed to bring sheep and cattle from the city; bring wine also and corn for your horses and gather much wood, that from dark till dawn we may burn watchfires whose flare may reach to heaven. For the Achaeans may try to fly beyond the sea by night, and they must not embark scatheless and unmolested; many a man among them must take a dart with him to nurse at home, hit with spear or arrow as he is leaping on board his ship, that others may fear to bring war and weeping upon the Trojans. Moreover let the heralds tell it about the city that the growing youths and grey-bearded men are to camp upon its heaven-built walls. Let the women each of them light a great fire in her house, and let watch be safely kept lest the town be entered by surprise while the host is outside. See to it, brave Trojans, as I have said, and let this suffice for the moment; at daybreak I will instruct you further. I pray in hope to Jove and to the gods that we may then drive those fate-sped hounds from our land, for ‘tis the fates that have borne them and their ships hither. This night, therefore, let us keep watch, but with early morning let us put on our armour and rouse fierce war at the ships of the Achaeans; I shall then know whether brave Diomed the son of Tydeus will drive me back from the ships to the wall, or whether I shall myself slay him and carry off his blood- stained spoils. To-morrow let him show his mettle, abide my spear if he dare. I ween that at break of day, he shall be among the first to fall and many another of his comrades round him. Would that I were as sure of being immortal and never growing old, and of being worshipped like Minerva and Apollo, as I am that this day will bring evil to the Argives.”
Thus spoke Hector and the Trojans shouted applause. They took their sweating steeds from under the yoke, and made them fast each by his own chariot. They made haste to bring sheep and cattle from the city, they brought wine also and corn from their houses and gathered much wood. They then offered unblemished hecatombs to the immortals, and the wind carried the sweet savour of sacrifice to heaven—but the blessed gods partook not thereof, for they bitterly hated Ilius with Priam and Priam’s people. Thus high in hope they sat through the livelong night by the highways of war, and many a watchfire did they kindle. As when the stars shine clear, and the moon is bright— there is not a breath of air, not a peak nor glade nor jutting headland but it stands out in the ineffable radiance that breaks from the serene of heaven; the stars can all of them be told and the heart of the shepherd is glad—even thus shone the watchfires of the Trojans before Ilius midway between the ships and the river Xanthus. A thousand camp- fires gleamed upon the plain, and in the glow of each there sat fifty men, while the horses, champing oats and corn beside their chariots, waited till dawn should come.
Book IX THUS did the Trojans watch. But Panic, comrade of blood-stained Rout, had taken fast hold of the Achaeans
and their princes were all of them in despair. As when the two winds that blow from Thrace—the north and the northwest—spring up of a sudden and rouse the fury of the main—in a moment the dark waves uprear their heads and scatter their sea-wrack in all directions—even thus troubled were the hearts of the Achaeans.
The son of Atreus in dismay bade the heralds call the people to a council man by man, but not to cry the matter aloud; he made haste also himself to call them, and they sat sorry at heart in their assembly. Agamemnon shed tears as it were a running stream or cataract on the side of some sheer cliff; and thus, with many a heavy sigh he spoke to the Achaeans. “My friends,” said he, “princes and councillors of the Argives, the hand of heaven has been laid heavily upon me. Cruel Jove gave me his solemn promise that I should sack the city of Troy before returning, but he has played me false, and is now bidding me go ingloriously back to Argos with the loss of much people. Such is the will of Jove, who has laid many a proud city in the dust as he will yet lay others, for his power is above all. Now,
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therefore, let us all do as I say and sail back to our own country, for we shall not take Troy.” Thus he spoke, and the sons of the Achaeans for a long while sat sorrowful there, but they all held their peace,
till at last Diomed of the loud battle-cry made answer saying, “Son of Atreus, I will chide your folly, as is my right in council. Be not then aggrieved that I should do so. In the first place you attacked me before all the Danaans and said that I was a coward and no soldier. The Argives young and old know that you did so. But the son of scheming Saturn endowed you by halves only. He gave you honour as the chief ruler over us, but valour, which is the highest both right and might he did not give you. Sir, think you that the sons of the Achaeans are indeed as unwarlike and cowardly as you say they are? If your own mind is set upon going home—go—the way is open to you; the many ships that followed you from Mycene stand ranged upon the seashore; but the rest of us stay here till we have sacked Troy. Nay though these too should turn homeward with their ships, Sthenelus and myself will still fight on till we reach the goal of Ilius, for for heaven was with us when we came.”
The sons of the Achaeans shouted applause at the words of Diomed, and presently Nestor rose to speak. “Son of Tydeus,” said he, “in war your prowess is beyond question, and in council you excel all who are of your own years; no one of the Achaeans can make light of what you say nor gainsay it, but you have not yet come to the end of the whole matter. You are still young—you might be the youngest of my own children—still you have spoken wisely and have counselled the chief of the Achaeans not without discretion; nevertheless I am older than you and I will tell you every” thing; therefore let no man, not even King Agamemnon, disregard my saying, for he that foments civil discord is a clanless, hearthless outlaw.
“Now, however, let us obey the behests of night and get our suppers, but let the sentinels every man of them camp by the trench that is without the wall. I am giving these instructions to the young men; when they have been attended to, do you, son of Atreus, give your orders, for you are the most royal among us all. Prepare a feast for your councillors; it is right and reasonable that you should do so; there is abundance of wine in your tents, which the ships of the Achaeans bring from Thrace daily. You have everything at your disposal wherewith to entertain guests, and you have many subjects. When many are got together, you can be guided by him whose counsel is wisest—and sorely do we need shrewd and prudent counsel, for the foe has lit his watchfires hard by our ships. Who can be oth- er than dismayed? This night will either be the ruin of our host, or save it.”
Thus did he speak, and they did even as he had said. The sentinels went out in their armour under command of Nestor’s son Thrasymedes, a captain of the host, and of the bold warriors Ascalaphus and Ialmenus: there were also Meriones, Aphareus and Deipyrus, and the son of Creion, noble Lycomedes. There were seven captains of the sen- tinels, and with each there went a hundred youths armed with long spears: they took their places midway between the trench and the wall, and when they had done so they lit their fires and got every man his supper.
The son of Atreus then bade many councillors of the Achaeans to his quarters prepared a great feast in their honour. They laid their hands on the good things that were before them, and as soon as they had enough to eat and drink, old Nestor, whose counsel was ever truest, was the first to lay his mind before them. He, therefore, with all sincerity and goodwill addressed them thus.
“With yourself, most noble son of Atreus, king of men, Agamemnon, will I both begin my speech and end it, for you are king over much people. Jove, moreover, has vouchsafed you to wield the sceptre and to uphold righ- teousness, that you may take thought for your people under you; therefore it behooves you above all others both to speak and to give ear, and to out the counsel of another who shall have been minded to speak wisely. All turns on you and on your commands, therefore I will say what I think will be best. No man will be of a truer mind than that which has been mine from the hour when you, sir, angered Achilles by taking the girl Briseis from his tent against my judgment. I urged you not to do so, but you yielded to your own pride, and dishonoured a hero whom heaven itself had honoured—for you still hold the prize that had been awarded to him. Now, however, let us think how we may appease him, both with presents and fair speeches that may conciliate him.”
And King Agamemnon answered, “Sir, you have reproved my folly justly. I was wrong. I own it. One whom heaven befriends is in himself a host, and Jove has shown that he befriends this man by destroying much people of the Achaeans. I was blinded with passion and yielded to my worser mind; therefore I will make amends, and will give him great gifts by way of atonement. I will tell them in the presence of you all. I will give him seven tripods that have never yet been on the fire, and ten talents of gold. I will give him twenty iron cauldrons and twelve strong horses that have won races and carried off prizes. Rich, indeed, both in land and gold is he that has as many prizes as my horses have won me. I will give him seven excellent workwomen, Lesbians, whom I chose for myself when he took Lesbos—all of surpassing beauty. I will give him these, and with them her whom I erewhile took from him, the daughter of Briseus; and I swear a great oath that I never went up into her couch, nor have been with her after the manner of men and women.
“All these things will I give him now down, and if hereafter the gods vouchsafe me to sack the city of Priam, let him come when we Achaeans are dividing the spoil, and load his ship with gold and bronze to his liking; further- more let him take twenty Trojan women, the loveliest after Helen herself. Then, when we reach Achaean Argos,
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wealthiest of all lands, he shall be my son-in-law and I will show him like honour with my own dear son Orestes, who is being nurtured in all abundance. I have three daughters, Chrysothemis, Laodice, and lphianassa, let him take the one of his choice, freely and without gifts of wooing, to the house of Peleus; I will add such dower to boot as no man ever yet gave his daughter, and will give him seven well established cities, Cardamyle, Enope, and Hire, where there is grass; holy Pherae and the rich meadows of Anthea; Aepea also, and the vine-clad slopes of Pedasus, all near the sea, and on the borders of sandy Pylos. The men that dwell there are rich in cattle and sheep; they will honour him with gifts as though he were a god, and be obedient to his comfortable ordinances. All this will I do if he will now forgo his anger. Let him then yieldit is only Hades who is utterly ruthless and unyielding—and hence he is of all gods the one most hateful to mankind. Moreover I am older and more royal than himself. Therefore, let him now obey me.”
Then Nestor answered, “Most noble son of Atreus, king of men, Agamemnon. The gifts you offer are no small ones, let us then send chosen messengers, who may go to the tent of Achilles son of Peleus without delay. Let those go whom I shall name. Let Phoenix, dear to Jove, lead the way; let Ajax and Ulysses follow, and let the heralds Odi- us and Eurybates go with them. Now bring water for our hands, and bid all keep silence while we pray to Jove the son of Saturn, if so be that he may have mercy upon us.”
Thus did he speak, and his saying pleased them well. Men-servants poured water over the hands of the guests, while pages filled the mixing-bowls with wine and water, and handed it round after giving every man his drink-of- fering; then, when they had made their offerings, and had drunk each as much as he was minded, the envoys set out from the tent of Agamemnon son of Atreus; and Nestor, looking first to one and then to another, but most especial- ly at Ulysses, was instant with them that they should prevail with the noble son of Peleus.
They went their way by the shore of the sounding sea, and prayed earnestly to earth-encircling Neptune that the high spirit of the son of Aeacus might incline favourably towards them. When they reached the ships and tents of the Myrmidons, they found Achilles playing on a lyre, fair, of cunning workmanship, and its cross-bar was of silver. It was part of the spoils which he had taken when he sacked the city of Eetion, and he was now diverting himself with it and singing the feats of heroes. He was alone with Patroclus, who sat opposite to him and said nothing, waiting till he should cease singing. Ulysses and Ajax now came in—Ulysses leading the way—and stood before him. Achilles sprang from his seat with the lyre still in his hand, and Patroclus, when he saw the strangers, rose also. Achilles then greeted them saying, “All hail and welcome—you must come upon some great matter, you, who for all my anger are still dearest to me of the Achaeans.”
With this he led them forward, and bade them sit on seats covered with purple rugs; then he said to Patroclus who was close by him, “Son of Menoetius, set a larger bowl upon the table, mix less water with the wine, and give every man his cup, for these are very dear friends, who are now under my roof.”
Patroclus did as his comrade bade him; he set the chopping-block in front of the fire, and on it he laid the loin of a sheep, the loin also of a goat, and the chine of a fat hog. Automedon held the meat while Achilles chopped it; he then sliced the pieces and put them on spits while the son of Menoetius made the fire burn high. When the flame had died down, he spread the embers, laid the spits on top of them, lifting them up and setting them upon the spit- racks; and he sprinkled them with salt. When the meat was roasted, he set it on platters, and handed bread round the table in fair baskets, while Achilles dealt them their portions. Then Achilles took his seat facing Ulysses against the opposite wall, and bade his comrade Patroclus offer sacrifice to the gods; so he cast the offerings into the fire, and they laid their hands upon the good things that were before them. As soon as they had had enough to eat and drink, Ajax made a sign to Phoenix, and when he saw this, Ulysses filled his cup with wine and pledged Achilles.
“Hail,” said he, “Achilles, we have had no scant of good cheer, neither in the tent of Agamemnon, nor yet here; there has been plenty to eat and drink, but our thought turns upon no such matter. Sir, we are in the face of great disaster, and without your help know not whether we shall save our fleet or lose it. The Trojans and their allies have camped hard by our ships and by the wall; they have lit watchfires throughout their host and deem that nothing can now prevent them from falling on our fleet. Jove, moreover, has sent his lightnings on their right; Hector, in all his glory, rages like a maniac; confident that Jove is with him he fears neither god nor man, but is gone raving mad, and prays for the approach of day. He vows that he will hew the high sterns of our ships in pieces, set fire to their hulls, and make havoc of the Achaeans while they are dazed and smothered in smoke; I much fear that heaven will make good his boasting, and it will prove our lot to perish at Troy far from our home in Argos. Up, then, and late though it be, save the sons of the Achaeans who faint before the fury of the Trojans. You will repent bitterly hereafter if you do not, for when the harm is done there will be no curing it; consider ere it be too late, and save the Danaans from destruction.
“My good friend, when your father Peleus sent you from Phthia to Agamemnon, did he not charge you say- ing, ‘Son, Minerva and Juno will make you strong if they choose, but check your high temper, for the better part is in goodwill. Eschew vain quarrelling, and the Achaeans old and young will respect you more for doing so.’ These were his words, but you have forgotten them. Even now, however, be appeased, and put away your anger from you.
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Agamemnon will make you great amends if you will forgive him; listen, and I will tell you what he has said in his tent that he will give you. He will give you seven tripods that have never yet been on the fire, and ten talents of gold; twenty iron cauldrons, and twelve strong horses that have won races and carried off prizes. Rich indeed both in land and gold is he who has as many prizes as these horses have won for Agamemnon. Moreover he will give you seven excellent workwomen, Lesbians, whom he chose for himself, when you took Lesbos—all of surpassing beauty. He will give you these, and with them her whom he erewhile took from you, the daughter of Briseus, and he will swear a great oath, he has never gone up into her couch nor been with her after the manner of men and women. All these things will he give you now down, and if hereafter the gods vouchsafe him to sack the city of Priam, you can come when we Achaeans are dividing the spoil, and load your ship with gold and bronze to your liking. You can take twenty Trojan women, the loveliest after Helen herself. Then, when we reach Achaean Argos, wealthiest of all lands, you shall be his son-in-law, and he will show you like honour with his own dear son Orestes, who is being nurtured in all abundance. Agamemnon has three daughters, Chrysothemis, Laodice, and Iphianassa; you may take the one of your choice, freely and without gifts of wooing, to the house of Peleus; he will add such dower to boot as no man ever yet gave his daughter, and will give you seven well-established cities, Cardamyle, Enope, and Hire where there is grass; holy Pheras and the rich meadows of Anthea; Aepea also, and the vine-clad slopes of Pedasus, all near the sea, and on the borders of sandy Pylos. The men that dwell there are rich in cattle and sheep; they will honour you with gifts as though were a god, and be obedient to your comfortable ordinances. All this will he do if you will now forgo your anger. Moreover, though you hate both him and his gifts with all your heart, yet pity the rest of the Achaeans who are being harassed in all their host; they will honour you as a god, and you will earn great glory at their hands. You might even kill Hector; he will come within your reach, for he is infatuated, and declares that not a Danaan whom the ships have brought can hold his own against him.”
Achilles answered, “Ulysses, noble son of Laertes, I should give you formal notice plainly and in all fixity of purpose that there be no more of this cajoling, from whatsoever quarter it may come. Him do I hate even as the gates of hell who says one thing while he hides another in his heart; therefore I will say what I mean. I will be appeased neither by Agamemnon son of Atreus nor by any other of the Danaans, for I see that I have no thanks for all my fighting. He that fights fares no better than he that does not; coward and hero are held in equal honour, and death deals like measure to him who works and him who is idle. I have taken nothing by all my hardships—with my life ever in my hand; as a bird when she has found a morsel takes it to her nestlings, and herself fares hardly, even so man a long night have I been wakeful, and many a bloody battle have I waged by day against those who were fight- ing for their women. With my ships I have taken twelve cities, and eleven round about Troy have I stormed with my men by land; I took great store of wealth from every one of them, but I gave all up to Agamemnon son of Atreus. He stayed where he was by his ships, yet of what came to him he gave little, and kept much himself.
“Nevertheless he did distribute some meeds of honour among the chieftains and kings, and these have them still; from me alone of the Achaeans did he take the woman in whom I delighted—let him keep her and sleep with her. Why, pray, must the Argives needs fight the Trojans? What made the son of Atreus gather the host and bring them? Was it not for the sake of Helen? Are the sons of Atreus the only men in the world who love their wives? Any man of common right feeling will love and cherish her who is his own, as I this woman, with my whole heart, though she was but a fruitling of my spear. Agamemnon has taken her from me; he has played me false; I know him; let him tempt me no further, for he shall not move me. Let him look to you, Ulysses, and to the other princes to save his ships from burning. He has done much without me already. He has built a wall; he has dug a trench deep and wide all round it, and he has planted it within with stakes; but even so he stays not the murderous might of Hector. So long as I fought the Achaeans Hector suffered not the battle range far from the city walls; he would come to the Scaean gates and to the oak tree, but no further. Once he stayed to meet me and hardly did he escape my onset: now, however, since I am in no mood to fight him, I will to-morrow offer sacrifice to Jove and to all the gods; I will draw my ships into the water and then victual them duly; to-morrow morning, if you care to look, you will see my ships on the Hellespont, and my men rowing out to sea with might and main. If great Neptune vouchsafes me a fair passage, in three days I shall be in Phthia. I have much there that I left behind me when I came here to my sorrow, and I shall bring back still further store of gold, of red copper, of fair women, and of iron, my share of the spoils that we have taken; but one prize, he who gave has insolently taken away. Tell him all as I now bid you, and tell him in public that the Achaeans may hate him and beware of him should he think that he can yet dupe others for his effrontery never fails him.
“As for me, hound that he is, he dares not look me in the face. I will take no counsel with him, and will under- take nothing in common with him. He has wronged me and deceived me enough, he shall not cozen me further; let him go his own way, for Jove has robbed him of his reason. I loathe his presents, and for himself care not one straw. He may offer me ten or even twenty times what he has now done, nay—not though it be all that he has in the world, both now or ever shall have; he may promise me the wealth of Orchomenus or of Egyptian Thebes, which is the richest city in the whole world, for it has a hundred gates through each of which two hundred men may drive at
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once with their chariots and horses; he may offer me gifts as the sands of the sea or the dust of the plain in multi- tude, but even so he shall not move me till I have been revenged in full for the bitter wrong he has done me. I will not marry his daughter; she may be fair as Venus, and skilful as Minerva, but I will have none of her: let another take her, who may be a good match for her and who rules a larger kingdom. If the gods spare me to return home, Peleus will find me a wife; there are Achaean women in Hellas and Phthia, daughters of kings that have cities under them; of these I can take whom I will and marry her. Many a time was I minded when at home in Phthia to woo and wed a woman who would make me a suitable wife, and to enjoy the riches of my old father Peleus. My life is more to me than all the wealth of Ilius while it was yet at peace before the Achaeans went there, or than all the treasure that lies on the stone floor of Apollo’s temple beneath the cliffs of Pytho. Cattle and sheep are to be had for harrying, and a man buy both tripods and horses if he wants them, but when his life has once left him it can neither be bought nor harried back again.
“My mother Thetis tells me that there are two ways in which I may meet my end. If I stay here and fight, I shall not return alive but my name will live for ever: whereas if I go home my name will die, but it will be long ere death shall take me. To the rest of you, then, I say, ‘Go home, for you will not take Ilius.’ Jove has held his hand over her to protect her, and her people have taken heart. Go, therefore, as in duty bound, and tell the princes of the Achaeans the message that I have sent them; tell them to find some other plan for the saving of their ships and people, for so long as my displeasure lasts the one that they have now hit upon may not be. As for Phoenix, let him sleep here that he may sail with me in the morning if he so will. But I will not take him by force.”
They all held their peace, dismayed at the sternness with which he had denied them, till presently the old knight Phoenix in his great fear for the ships of the Achaeans, burst into tears and said, “Noble Achilles, if you are now minded to return, and in the fierceness of your anger will do nothing to save the ships from burning, how, my son, can I remain here without you? Your father Peleus bade me go with you when he sent you as a mere lad from Phthia to Agamemnon. You knew nothing neither of war nor of the arts whereby men make their mark in council, and he sent me with you to train you in all excellence of speech and action. Therefore, my son, I will not stay here without you—no, not though heaven itself vouchsafe to strip my years from off me, and make me young as I was when I first left Hellas the land of fair women. I was then flying the anger of father Amyntor, son of Ormenus, who was furious with me in the matter of his concubine, of whom he was enamoured to the wronging of his wife my mother. My mother, therefore, prayed me without ceasing to lie with the woman myself, that so she hate my father, and in the course of time I yielded. But my father soon came to know, and cursed me bitterly, calling the dread Erinyes to witness. He prayed that no son of mine might ever sit upon knees—and the gods, Jove of the world below and awful Proserpine, fulfilled his curse. I took counsel to kill him, but some god stayed my rashness and bade me think on men’s evil tongues and how I should be branded as the murderer of my father: nevertheless I could not bear to stay in my father’s house with him so bitter a against me. My cousins and clansmen came about me, and pressed me sorely to remain; many a sheep and many an ox did they slaughter, and many a fat hog did they set down to roast before the fire; many a jar, too, did they broach of my father’s wine. Nine whole nights did they set a guard over me taking it in turns to watch, and they kept a fire always burning, both in the cloister of the outer court and in the inner court at the doors of the room wherein I lay; but when the darkness of the tenth night came, I broke through the closed doors of my room, and climbed the wall of the outer court after passing quickly and unperceived through the men on guard and the women servants. I then fled through Hellas till I came to fertile Phthia, mother of sheep, and to King Peleus, who made me welcome and treated me as a father treats an only son who will be heir to all his wealth. He made me rich and set me over much people, establishing me on the borders of Phthia where I was chief ruler over the Dolopians.
“It was I, Achilles, who had the making of you; I loved you with all my heart: for you would eat neither at home nor when you had gone out elsewhere, till I had first set you upon my knees, cut up the dainty morsel that you were to eat, and held the wine-cup to your lips. Many a time have you slobbered your wine in baby helplessness over my shirt; I had infinite trouble with you, but I knew that heaven had vouchsafed me no offspring of my own, and I made a son of you, Achilles, that in my hour of need you might protect me. Now, therefore, I say battle with your pride and beat it; cherish not your anger for ever; the might and majesty of heaven are more than ours, but even heaven may be appeased; and if a man has sinned he prays the gods, and reconciles them to himself by his piteous cries and by frankincense, with drink-offerings and the savour of burnt sacrifice. For prayers are as daughters to great Jove; halt, wrinkled, with eyes askance, they follow in the footsteps of sin, who, being fierce and fleet of foot, leaves them far behind him, and ever baneful to mankind outstrips them even to the ends of the world; but never- theless the prayers come hobbling and healing after. If a man has pity upon these daughters of Jove when they draw near him, they will bless him and hear him too when he is praying; but if he deny them and will not listen to them, they go to Jove the son of Saturn and pray that he may presently fall into sin—to his ruing bitterly hereafter. There- fore, Achilles, give these daughters of Jove due reverence, and bow before them as all good men will bow. Were not the son of Atreus offering you gifts and promising others later—if he were still furious and implacable—I am not
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he that would bid you throw off your anger and help the Achaeans, no matter how great their need; but he is giving much now, and more hereafter; he has sent his captains to urge his suit, and has chosen those who of all the Argives are most acceptable to you; make not then their words and their coming to be of none effect. Your anger has been righteous so far. We have heard in song how heroes of old time quarrelled when they were roused to fury, but still they could be won by gifts, and fair words could soothe them.
“I have an old story in my mind—a very old one—but you are all friends and I will tell it. The Curetes and the Aetolians were fighting and killing one another round Calydon—the Aetolians defending the city and the Curetes trying to destroy it. For Diana of the golden throne was angry and did them hurt because Oeneus had not offered her his harvest first-fruits. The other gods had all been feasted with hecatombs, but to the daughter of great Jove alone he had made no sacrifice. He had forgotten her, or somehow or other it had escaped him, and this was a grievous sin. Thereon the archer goddess in her displeasure sent a prodigious creature against him—a savage wild boar with great white tusks that did much harm to his orchard lands, uprooting apple-trees in full bloom and throwing them to the ground. But Meleager son of Oeneus got huntsmen and hounds from many cities and killed it—for it was so monstrous that not a few were needed, and many a man did it stretch upon his funeral pyre. On this the goddess set the Curetes and the Aetolians fighting furiously about the head and skin of the boar.
“So long as Meleager was in the field things went badly with the Curetes, and for all their numbers they could not hold their ground under the city walls; but in the course of time Meleager was angered as even a wise man will sometimes be. He was incensed with his mother Althaea, and therefore stayed at home with his wedded wife fair Cleopatra, who was daughter of Marpessa daughter of Euenus, and of Ides the man then living. He it was who took his bow and faced King Apollo himself for fair Marpessa’s sake; her father and mother then named her Alcyone, be- cause her mother had mourned with the plaintive strains of the halcyon-bird when Phoebus Apollo had carried her off. Meleager, then, stayed at home with Cleopatra, nursing the anger which he felt by reason of his mother’s curses. His mother, grieving for the death of her brother, prayed the gods, and beat the earth with her hands, calling upon Hades and on awful Proserpine; she went down upon her knees and her bosom was wet with tears as she prayed that they would kill her son—and Erinys that walks in darkness and knows no ruth heard her from Erebus.
“Then was heard the din of battle about the gates of Calydon, and the dull thump of the battering against their walls. Thereon the elders of the Aetolians besought Meleager; they sent the chiefest of their priests, and begged him to come out and help them, promising him a great reward. They bade him choose fifty plough-gates, the most fertile in the plain of Calydon, the one-half vineyard and the other open plough-land. The old warrior Oeneus im- plored him, standing at the threshold of his room and beating the doors in supplication. His sisters and his mother herself besought him sore, but he the more refused them; those of his comrades who were nearest and dearest to him also prayed him, but they could not move him till the foe was battering at the very doors of his chamber, and the Curetes had scaled the walls and were setting fire to the city. Then at last his sorrowing wife detailed the hor- rors that befall those whose city is taken; she reminded him how the men are slain, and the city is given over to the flames, while the women and children are carried into captivity; when he heard all this, his heart was touched, and he donned his armour to go forth. Thus of his own inward motion he saved the city of the Aetolians; but they now gave him nothing of those rich rewards that they had offered earlier, and though he saved the city he took nothing by it. Be not then, my son, thus minded; let not heaven lure you into any such course. When the ships are burning it will be a harder matter to save them. Take the gifts, and go, for the Achaeans will then honour you as a god; whereas if you fight without taking them, you may beat the battle back, but you will not be held in like honour.”
And Achilles answered, “Phoenix, old friend and father, I have no need of such honour. I have honour from Jove himself, which will abide with me at my ships while I have breath in my body, and my limbs are strong. I say further—and lay my saying to your heart—vex me no more with this weeping and lamentation, all in the cause of the son of Atreus. Love him so well, and you may lose the love I bear you. You ought to help me rather in troubling those that trouble me; be king as much as I am, and share like honour with myself; the others shall take my answer; stay here yourself and sleep comfortably in your bed; at daybreak we will consider whether to remain or go.”
On this she nodded quietly to Patroclus as a sign that he was to prepare a bed for Phoenix, and that the others should take their leave. Ajax son of Telamon then said, “Ulysses, noble son of Laertes, let us be gone, for I see that our journey is vain. We must now take our answer, unwelcome though it be, to the Danaans who are waiting to receive it. Achilles is savage and remorseless; he is cruel, and cares nothing for the love his comrades lavished upon him more than on all the others. He is implacable — and yet if a man’s brother or son has been slain he will accept a fine by way of amends from him that killed him, and the wrong-doer having paid in full remains in peace among his own people; but as for you, Achilles, the gods have put a wicked unforgiving spirit in your heart, and this, all about one single girl, whereas we now offer you the seven best we have, and much else into the bargain. Be then of a more gracious mind, respect the hospitality of your own roof. We are with you as messengers from the host of the Danaans, and would fain he held nearest and dearest to yourself of all the Achaeans.”
“Ajax,” replied Achilles, “noble son of Telamon, you have spoken much to my liking, but my blood boils when I
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think it all over, and remember how the son of Atreus treated me with contumely as though I were some vile tramp, and that too in the presence of the Argives. Go, then, and deliver your message; say that I will have no concern with fighting till Hector, son of noble Priam, reaches the tents of the Myrmidons in his murderous course, and flings fire upon their ships. For all his lust of battle, I take it he will be held in check when he is at my own tent and ship.”
On this they took every man his double cup, made their drink-offerings, and went back to the ships, Ulysses leading the way. But Patroclus told his men and the maid-servants to make ready a comfortable bed for Phoenix; they therefore did so with sheepskins, a rug, and a sheet of fine linen. The old man then laid himself down and wait- ed till morning came. But Achilles slept in an inner room, and beside him the daughter of Phorbas lovely Diomede, whom he had carried off from Lesbos. Patroclus lay on the other side of the room, and with him fair Iphis whom Achilles had given him when he took Scyros the city of Enyeus.
When the envoys reached the tents of the son of Atreus, the Achaeans rose, pledged them in cups of gold, and began to question them. King Agamemnon was the first to do so. Tell me, Ulysses,” said he, “will he save the ships from burning, or did be refuse, and is he still furious?”
Ulysses answered, “Most noble son of Atreus, king of men, Agamemnon, Achilles will not be calmed, but is more fiercely angry than ever, and spurns both you and your gifts. He bids you take counsel with the Achaeans to save the ships and host as you best may; as for himself, he said that at daybreak he should draw his ships into the water. He said further that he should advise every one to sail home likewise, for that you will not reach the goal of Ilius. ‘Jove,’ he said, ‘has laid his hand over the city to protect it, and the people have taken heart.’ This is what he said, and the others who were with me can tell you the same story—Ajax and the two heralds, men, both of them, who may be trusted. The old man Phoenix stayed where he was to sleep, for so Achilles would have it, that he might go home with him in the morning if he so would; but he will not take him by force.”
They all held their peace, sitting for a long time silent and dejected, by reason of the sternness with which Achilles had refused them, till presently Diomed said, “Most noble son of Atreus, king of men, Agamemnon, you ought not to have sued the son of Peleus nor offered him gifts. He is proud enough as it is, and you have encouraged him in his pride am further. Let him stay or go as he will. He will fight later when he is in the humour, and heaven puts it in his mind to do so. Now, therefore, let us all do as I say; we have eaten and drunk our fill, let us then take our rest, for in rest there is both strength and stay. But when fair rosy-fingered morn appears, forthwith bring out your host and your horsemen in front of the ships, urging them on, and yourself fighting among the foremost.”
Thus he spoke, and the other chieftains approved his words. They then made their drink-offerings and went every man to his own tent, where they laid down to rest and enjoyed the boon of sleep.
Book X NOW the other princes of the Achaeans slept soundly the whole night through, but Agamemnon son of Atreus
was troubled, so that he could get no rest. As when fair Juno’s lord flashes his lightning in token of great rain or hail or snow when the snow-flakes whiten the ground, or again as a sign that he will open the wide jaws of hungry war, even so did Agamemnon heave many a heavy sigh, for his soul trembled within him. When he looked upon the plain of Troy he marvelled at the many watchfires burning in front of Ilius, and at the sound of pipes and flutes and of the hum of men, but when presently he turned towards the ships and hosts of the Achaeans, he tore his hair by handfuls before Jove on high, and groaned aloud for the very disquietness of his soul. In the end he deemed it best to go at once to Nestor son of Neleus, and see if between them they could find any way of the Achaeans from destruction. He therefore rose, put on his shirt, bound his sandals about his comely feet, flung the skin of a huge tawny lion over his shoulders—a skin that reached his feet—and took his spear in his hand.
Neither could Menelaus sleep, for he, too, boded ill for the Argives who for his sake had sailed from far over the seas to fight the Trojans. He covered his broad back with the skin of a spotted panther, put a casque of bronze upon his head, and took his spear in his brawny hand. Then he went to rouse his brother, who was by far the most powerful of the Achaeans, and was honoured by the people as though he were a god. He found him by the stern of his ship already putting his goodly array about his shoulders, and right glad was he that his brother had come.
Menelaus spoke first. “Why,” said he, “my dear brother, are you thus arming? Are you going to send any of our comrades to exploit the Trojans? I greatly fear that no one will do you this service, and spy upon the enemy alone in the dead of night. It will be a deed of great daring.”
And King Agamemnon answered, “Menelaus, we both of us need shrewd counsel to save the Argives and our ships, for Jove has changed his mind, and inclines towards Hector’s sacrifices rather than ours. I never saw nor heard tell of any man as having wrought such ruin in one day as Hector has now wrought against the sons of the Achaeans—and that too of his own unaided self, for he is son neither to god nor goddess. The Argives will rue it long and deeply. Run, therefore, with all speed by the line of the ships, and call Ajax and Idomeneus. Meanwhile I will go to Nestor, and bid him rise and go about among the companies of our sentinels to give them their instruc-
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tions; they will listen to him sooner than to any man, for his own son, and Meriones brother in arms to Idomeneus, are captains over them. It was to them more particularly that we gave this charge.”
Menelaus replied, “How do I take your meaning? Am I to stay with them and wait your coming, or shall I return here as soon as I have given your orders?” “Wait,” answered King Agamemnon, “for there are so many paths about the camp that we might miss one another. Call every man on your way, and bid him be stirring; name him by his lineage and by his father’s name, give each all titular observance, and stand not too much upon your own digni- ty; we must take our full share of toil, for at our birth Jove laid this heavy burden upon us.”
With these instructions he sent his brother on his way, and went on to Nestor shepherd of his people. He found him sleeping in his tent hard by his own ship; his goodly armour lay beside him—his shield, his two spears and his helmet; beside him also lay the gleaming girdle with which the old man girded himself when he armed to lead his people into battle—for his age stayed him not. He raised himself on his elbow and looked up at Agamemnon. “Who is it,” said he, “that goes thus about the host and the ships alone and in the dead of night, when men are sleeping? Are you looking for one of your mules or for some comrade? Do not stand there and say nothing, but speak. What is your business?”
And Agamemnon answered, “Nestor, son of Neleus, honour to the Achaean name, it is I, Agamemnon son of Atreus, on whom Jove has laid labour and sorrow so long as there is breath in my body and my limbs carry me. I am thus abroad because sleep sits not upon my eyelids, but my heart is big with war and with the jeopardy of the Achaeans. I am in great fear for the Danaans. I am at sea, and without sure counsel; my heart beats as though it would leap out of my body, and my limbs fail me. If then you can do anything—for you too cannot sleep—let us go the round of the watch, and see whether they are drowsy with toil and sleeping to the neglect of their duty. The enemy is encamped hard and we know not but he may attack us by night.”
Nestor replied, “Most noble son of Atreus, king of men, Agamemnon, Jove will not do all for Hector that Hec- tor thinks he will; he will have troubles yet in plenty if Achilles will lay aside his anger. I will go with you, and we will rouse others, either the son of Tydeus, or Ulysses, or fleet Ajax and the valiant son of Phyleus. Some one had also better go and call Ajax and King Idomeneus, for their ships are not near at hand but the farthest of all. I cannot however refrain from blaming Menelaus, much as I love him and respect him—and I will say so plainly, even at the risk of offending you—for sleeping and leaving all this trouble to yourself. He ought to be going about imploring aid from all the princes of the Achaeans, for we are in extreme danger.”
And Agamemnon answered, “Sir, you may sometimes blame him justly, for he is often remiss and unwilling to exert himself—not indeed from sloth, nor yet heedlessness, but because he looks to me and expects me to take the lead. On this occasion, however, he was awake before I was, and came to me of his own accord. I have already sent him to call the very men whom you have named. And now let us be going. We shall find them with the watch outside the gates, for it was there I said that we would meet them.”
“In that case,” answered Nestor, “the Argives will not blame him nor disobey his orders when he urges them to fight or gives them instructions.”
With this he put on his shirt, and bound his sandals about his comely feet. He buckled on his purple coat, of two thicknesses, large, and of a rough shaggy texture, grasped his redoubtable bronze-shod spear, and wended his way along the line of the Achaean ships. First he called loudly to Ulysses peer of gods in counsel and woke him, for he was soon roused by the sound of the battle-cry. He came outside his tent and said, “Why do you go thus alone about the host, and along the line of the ships in the stillness of the night? What is it that you find so urgent?” And Nestor knight of Gerene answered, “Ulysses, noble son of Laertes, take it not amiss, for the Achaeans are in great straits. Come with me and let us wake some other, who may advise well with us whether we shall fight or fly.”
On this Ulysses went at once into his tent, put his shield about his shoulders and came out with them. First they went to Diomed son of Tydeus, and found him outside his tent clad in his armour with his comrades sleep- ing round him and using their shields as pillows; as for their spears, they stood upright on the spikes of their butts that were driven into the ground, and the burnished bronze flashed afar like the lightning of father Jove. The hero was sleeping upon the skin of an ox, with a piece of fine carpet under his head; Nestor went up to him and stirred him with his heel to rouse him, upbraiding him and urging him to bestir himself. “Wake up,” he exclaimed, “son of Tydeus. How can you sleep on in this way? Can you not see that the Trojans are encamped on the brow of the plain hard by our ships, with but a little space between us and them?”
On these words Diomed leaped up instantly and said, “Old man, your heart is of iron; you rest not one moment from your labours. Are there no younger men among the Achaeans who could go about to rouse the princes? There is no tiring you.”
And Nestor knight of Gerene made answer, “My son, all that you have said is true. I have good sons, and also much people who might call the chieftains, but the Achaeans are in the gravest danger; life and death are balanced as it were on the edge of a razor. Go then, for you are younger than I, and of your courtesy rouse Ajax and the fleet son of Phyleus.”
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Diomed threw the skin of a great tawny lion about his shoulders—a skin that reached his feet—and grasped his spear. When he had roused the heroes, he brought them back with him; they then went the round of those who were on guard, and found the captains not sleeping at their posts but wakeful and sitting with their arms about them. As sheep dogs that watch their flocks when they are yarded, and hear a wild beast coming through the moun- tain forest towards them—forthwith there is a hue and cry of dogs and men, and slumber is broken—even so was sleep chased from the eyes of the Achaeans as they kept the watches of the wicked night, for they turned constantly towards the plain whenever they heard any stir among the Trojans. The old man was glad bade them be of good cheer. “Watch on, my children,” said he, “and let not sleep get hold upon you, lest our enemies triumph over us.”
With this he passed the trench, and with him the other chiefs of the Achaeans who had been called to the coun- cil. Meriones and the brave son of Nestor went also, for the princes bade them. When they were beyond the trench that was dug round the wall they held their meeting on the open ground where there was a space clear of corpses, for it was here that when night fell Hector had turned back from his onslaught on the Argives. They sat down, therefore, and held debate with one another.
Nestor spoke first. “My friends,” said he, “is there any man bold enough to venture the Trojans, and cut off some straggler, or us news of what the enemy mean to do whether they will stay here by the ships away from the city, or whether, now that they have worsted the Achaeans, they will retire within their walls. If he could learn all this and come back safely here, his fame would be high as heaven in the mouths of all men, and he would be rewarded richly; for the chiefs from all our ships would each of them give him a black ewe with her lamb—which is a present of surpassing value—and he would be asked as a guest to all feasts and clan-gatherings.”
They all held their peace, but Diomed of the loud war-cry spoke saying, “Nestor, gladly will I visit the host of the Trojans over against us, but if another will go with me I shall do so in greater confidence and comfort. When two men are together, one of them may see some opportunity which the other has not caught sight of; if a man is alone he is less full of resource, and his wit is weaker.”
On this several offered to go with Diomed. The two Ajaxes, servants of Mars, Meriones, and the son of Nestor all wanted to go, so did Menelaus son of Atreus; Ulysses also wished to go among the host of the Trojans, for he was ever full of daring, and thereon Agamemnon king of men spoke thus: “Diomed,” said he, “son of Tydeus, man after my own heart, choose your comrade for yourself—take the best man of those that have offered, for many would now go with you. Do not through delicacy reject the better man, and take the worst out of respect for his lineage, because he is of more royal blood.”
He said this because he feared for Menelaus. Diomed answered, “If you bid me take the man of my own choice, how in that case can I fail to think of Ulysses, than whom there is no man more eager to face all kinds of danger— and Pallas Minerva loves him well? If he were to go with me we should pass safely through fire itself, for he is quick to see and understand.”
“Son of Tydeus,” replied Ulysses, “say neither good nor ill about me, for you are among Argives who know me well. Let us be going, for the night wanes and dawn is at hand. The stars have gone forward, two-thirds of the night are already spent, and the third is alone left us.”
They then put on their armour. Brave Thrasymedes provided the son of Tydeus with a sword and a shield (for he had left his own at his ship) and on his head he set a helmet of bull’s hide without either peak or crest; it is called a skull-cap and is a common headgear. Meriones found a bow and quiver for Ulysses, and on his head he set a leathern helmet that was lined with a strong plaiting of leathern thongs, while on the outside it was thickly studded with boar’s teeth, well and skilfully set into it; next the head there was an inner lining of felt. This helmet had been stolen by Autolycus out of Eleon when he broke into the house of Amyntor son of Ormenus. He gave it to Am- phidamas of Cythera to take to Scandea, and Amphidamas gave it as a guest-gift to Molus, who gave it to his son Meriones; and now it was set upon the head of Ulysses.
When the pair had armed, they set out, and left the other chieftains behind them. Pallas Minerva sent them a heron by the wayside upon their right hands; they could not see it for the darkness, but they heard its cry. Ulysses was glad when he heard it and prayed to Minerva: “Hear me,” he cried, “daughter of aegis-bearing Jove, you who spy out all my ways and who are with me in all my hardships; befriend me in this mine hour, and grant that we may return to the ships covered with glory after having achieved some mighty exploit that shall bring sorrow to the Trojans.”
Then Diomed of the loud war-cry also prayed: “Hear me too,” said he, “daughter of Jove, unweariable; be with me even as you were with my noble father Tydeus when he went to Thebes as envoy sent by the Achaeans. He left the Achaeans by the banks of the river Aesopus, and went to the city bearing a message of peace to the Cadmeians; on his return thence, with your help, goddess, he did great deeds of daring, for you were his ready helper. Even so guide me and guard me now, and in return I will offer you in sacrifice a broad-browed heifer of a year old, unbro- ken, and never yet brought by man under the yoke. I will gild her horns and will offer her up to you in sacrifice.”
Thus they prayed, and Pallas Minerva heard their prayer. When they had done praying to the daughter of great
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Jove, they went their way like two lions prowling by night amid the armour and blood-stained bodies of them that had fallen.
Neither again did Hector let the Trojans sleep; for he too called the princes and councillors of the Trojans that he might set his counsel before them. “Is there one,” said he, “who for a great reward will do me the service of which I will tell you? He shall be well paid if he will. I will give him a chariot and a couple of horses, the fleetest that can be found at the ships of the Achaeans, if he will dare this thing; and he will win infinite honour to boot; he must go to the ships and find out whether they are still guarded as heretofore, or whether now that we have beaten them the Achaeans design to fly, and through sheer exhaustion are neglecting to keep their watches.”
They all held their peace; but there was among the Trojans a certain man named Dolon, son of Eumedes, the famous herald—a man rich in gold and bronze. He was ill-favoured, but a good runner, and was an only son among five sisters. He it was that now addressed the Trojans. “I, Hector,” said he, “Will to the ships and will exploit them. But first hold up your sceptre and swear that you will give me the chariot, bedight with bronze, and the horses that now carry the noble son of Peleus. I will make you a good scout, and will not fail you. I will go through the host from one end to the other till I come to the ship of Agamemnon, where I take it the princes of the Achaeans are now consulting whether they shall fight or fly.”
When he had done speaking Hector held up his sceptre, and swore him his oath saying, “May Jove the thunder- ing husband of Juno bear witness that no other Trojan but yourself shall mount those steeds, and that you shall have your will with them for ever.”
The oath he swore was bootless, but it made Dolon more keen on going. He hung his bow over his shoul- der, and as an overall he wore the skin of a grey wolf, while on his head he set a cap of ferret skin. Then he took a pointed javelin, and left the camp for the ships, but he was not to return with any news for Hector. When he had left the horses and the troops behind him, he made all speed on his way, but Ulysses perceived his coming and said to Diomed, “Diomed, here is some one from the camp; I am not sure whether he is a spy, or whether it is some thief who would plunder the bodies of the dead; let him get a little past us, we can then spring upon him and take him. If, however, he is too quick for us, go after him with your spear and hem him in towards the ships away from the Trojan camp, to prevent his getting back to the town.”
With this they turned out of their way and lay down among the corpses. Dolon suspected nothing and soon passed them, but when he had got about as far as the distance by which a mule-plowed furrow exceeds one that has been ploughed by oxen (for mules can plow fallow land quicker than oxen) they ran after him, and when he heard their footsteps he stood still, for he made sure they were friends from the Trojan camp come by Hector’s orders to bid him return; when, however, they were only a spear’s cast, or less away form him, he saw that they were ene- mies as fast as his legs could take him. The others gave chase at once, and as a couple of well-trained hounds press forward after a doe or hare that runs screaming in front of them, even so did the son of Tydeus and Ulysses pursue Dolon and cut him off from his own people. But when he had fled so far towards the ships that he would soon have fallen in with the outposts, Minerva infused fresh strength into the son of Tydeus for fear some other of the Achae- ans might have the glory of being first to hit him, and he might himself be only second; he therefore sprang forward with his spear and said, “Stand, or I shall throw my spear, and in that case I shall soon make an end of you.”
He threw as he spoke, but missed his aim on purpose. The dart flew over the man’s right shoulder, and then stuck in the ground. He stood stock still, trembling and in great fear; his teeth chattered, and he turned pale with fear. The two came breathless up to him and seized his hands, whereon he began to weep and said, “Take me alive; I will ransom myself; we have great store of gold, bronze, and wrought iron, and from this my father will satisfy you with a very large ransom, should he hear of my being alive at the ships of the Achaeans.”
“Fear not,” replied Ulysses, “let no thought of death be in your mind; but tell me, and tell me true, why are you thus going about alone in the dead of night away from your camp and towards the ships, while other men are sleep- ing? Is it to plunder the bodies of the slain, or did Hector send you to spy out what was going on at the ships? Or did you come here of your own mere notion?”
Dolon answered, his limbs trembling beneath him: “Hector, with his vain flattering promises, lured me from my better judgement. He said he would give me the horses of the noble son of Peleus and his bronze-bedizened chariot; he bade me go through the darkness of the flying night, get close to the enemy, and find out whether the ships are still guarded as heretofore, or whether, now that we have beaten them, the Achaeans design to fly, and through sheer exhaustion are neglecting to keep their watches.”
Ulysses smiled at him and answered, “You had indeed set your heart upon a great reward, but the horses of the descendant of Aeacus are hardly to be kept in hand or driven by any other mortal man than Achilles himself, whose mother was an immortal. But tell me, and tell me true, where did you leave Hector when you started? Where lies his armour and his horses? How, too, are the watches and sleeping-ground of the Trojans ordered? What are their plans? Will they stay here by the ships and away from the city, or now that they have worsted the Achaeans, will they retire within their walls?”
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And Dolon answered, “I will tell you truly all. Hector and the other councillors are now holding conference by the monument of great Ilus, away from the general tumult; as for the guards about which you ask me, there is no chosen watch to keep guard over the host. The Trojans have their watchfires, for they are bound to have them; they, therefore, are awake and keep each other to their duty as sentinels; but the allies who have come from other places are asleep and leave it to the Trojans to keep guard, for their wives and children are not here.”
Ulysses then said, “Now tell me; are they sleeping among the Trojan troops, or do they lie apart? Explain this that I may understand it.”
“I will tell you truly all,” replied Dolon. “To the seaward lie the Carians, the Paeonian bowmen, the Leleges, the Cauconians, and the noble Pelasgi. The Lysians and proud Mysians, with the Phrygians and Meonians, have their place on the side towards Thymbra; but why ask about an this? If you want to find your way into the host of the Trojans, there are the Thracians, who have lately come here and lie apart from the others at the far end of the camp; and they have Rhesus son of Eioneus for their king. His horses are the finest and strongest that I have ever seen, they are whiter than snow and fleeter than any wind that blows. His chariot is bedight with silver and gold, and he has brought his marvellous golden armour, of the rarest workmanship—too splendid for any mortal man to carry, and meet only for the gods. Now, therefore, take me to the ships or bind me securely here, until you come back and have proved my words whether they be false or true.”
Diomed looked sternly at him and answered, “Think not, Dolon, for all the good information you have given us, that you shall escape now you are in our hands, for if we ransom you or let you go, you will come some second time to the ships of the Achaeans either as a spy or as an open enemy, but if I kill you and an end of you, you will give no more trouble.”
On this Dolon would have caught him by the beard to beseech him further, but Diomed struck him in the mid- dle of his neck with his sword and cut through both sinews so that his head fell rolling in the dust while he was yet speaking. They took the ferret-skin cap from his head, and also the wolf-skin, the bow, and his long spear. Ulysses hung them up aloft in honour of Minerva the goddess of plunder, and prayed saying, “Accept these, goddess, for we give them to you in preference to all the gods in Olympus: therefore speed us still further towards the horses and sleeping-ground of the Thracians.”
With these words he took the spoils and set them upon a tamarisk tree, and they marked the place by pulling up reeds and gathering boughs of tamarisk that they might not miss it as they came back through the’ flying hours of darkness. The two then went onwards amid the fallen armour and the blood, and came presently to the company of Thracian soldiers, who were sleeping, tired out with their day’s toil; their goodly armour was lying on the ground beside them all orderly in three rows, and each man had his yoke of horses beside him. Rhesus was sleeping in the middle, and hard by him his horses were made fast to the topmost rim of his chariot. Ulysses from some way off saw him and said, “This, Diomed, is the man, and these are the horses about which Dolon whom we killed told us. Do your very utmost; dally not about your armour, but loose the horses at once—or else kill the men yourself, while I see to the horses.”
Thereon Minerva put courage into the heart of Diomed, and he smote them right and left. They made a hid- eous groaning as they were being hacked about, and the earth was red with their blood. As a lion springs furiously upon a flock of sheep or goats when he finds without their shepherd, so did the son of Tydeus set upon the Thracian soldiers till he had killed twelve. As he killed them Ulysses came and drew them aside by their feet one by one, that the horses might go forward freely without being frightened as they passed over the dead bodies, for they were not yet used to them. When the son of Tydeus came to the king, he killed him too (which made thirteen), as he was breathing hard, for by the counsel of Minerva an evil dream, the seed of Oeneus, hovered that night over his head. Meanwhile Ulysses untied the horses, made them fast one to another and drove them off, striking them with his bow, for he had forgotten to take the whip from the chariot. Then he whistled as a sign to Diomed.
But Diomed stayed where he was, thinking what other daring deed he might accomplish. He was doubting whether to take the chariot in which the king’s armour was lying, and draw it out by the pole, or to lift the armour out and carry it off; or whether again, he should not kill some more Thracians. While he was thus hesitating Miner- va came up to him and said, “Get back, Diomed, to the ships or you may be driven thither, should some other god rouse the Trojans.”
Diomed knew that it was the goddess, and at once sprang upon the horses. Ulysses beat them with his bow and they flew onward to the ships of the Achaeans.
But Apollo kept no blind look-out when he saw Minerva with the son of Tydeus. He was angry with her, and coming to the host of the Trojans he roused Hippocoon, a counsellor of the Thracians and a noble kinsman of Rhesus. He started up out of his sleep and saw that the horses were no longer in their place, and that the men were gasping in their death-agony; on this he groaned aloud, and called upon his friend by name. Then the whole Trojan camp was in an uproar as the people kept hurrying together, and they marvelled at the deeds of the heroes who had now got away towards the ships.
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When they reached the place where they had killed Hector’s scout, Ulysses stayed his horses, and the son of Tydeus, leaping to the ground, placed the blood-stained spoils in the hands of Ulysses and remounted: then he lashed the horses onwards, and they flew forward nothing loth towards the ships as though of their own free will. Nestor was first to hear the tramp of their feet. “My friends,” said he, “princes and counsellors of the Argives, shall I guess right or wrong?—but I must say what I think: there is a sound in my ears as of the tramp of horses. I hope it may Diomed and Ulysses driving in horses from the Trojans, but I much fear that the bravest of the Argives may have come to some harm at their hands.”
He had hardly done speaking when the two men came in and dismounted, whereon the others shook hands right gladly with them and congratulated them. Nestor knight of Gerene was first to question them. “Tell me,” said he, “renowned Ulysses, how did you two come by these horses? Did you steal in among the Trojan forces, or did some god meet you and give them to you? They are like sunbeams. I am well conversant with the Trojans, for old warrior though I am I never hold back by the ships, but I never yet saw or heard of such horses as these are. Surely some god must have met you and given them to you, for you are both of dear to Jove, and to Jove’s daughter Miner- va.”
And Ulysses answered, “Nestor son of Neleus, honour to the Achaean name, heaven, if it so will, can give us even better horses than these, for the gods are far mightier than we are. These horses, however, about which you ask me, are freshly come from Thrace. Diomed killed their king with the twelve bravest of his companions. Hard by the ships we took a thirteenth man—a scout whom Hector and the other Trojans had sent as a spy upon our ships.”
He laughed as he spoke and drove the horses over the ditch, while the other Achaeans followed him gladly. When they reached the strongly built quarters of the son of Tydeus, they tied the horses with thongs of leather to the manger, where the steeds of Diomed stood eating their sweet corn, but Ulysses hung the blood-stained spoils of Dolon at the stern of his ship, that they might prepare a sacred offering to Minerva. As for themselves, they went into the sea and washed the sweat from their bodies, and from their necks and thighs. When the sea-water had tak- en all the sweat from off them, and had refreshed them, they went into the baths and washed themselves. After they had so done and had anointed themselves with oil, they sat down to table, and drawing from a full mixing-bowl, made a drink-offering of wine to Minerva.
Book XI AND now as Dawn rose from her couch beside Tithonus, harbinger of light alike to mortals and immortals,
Jove sent fierce Discord with the ensign of war in her hands to the ships of the Achaeans. She took her stand by the huge black hull of Ulysses’ ship which was middlemost of all, so that her voice might carry farthest on either side, on the one hand towards the tents of Ajax son of Telamon, and on the other towards those of Achilles—for these two heroes, well-assured of their own strength, had valorously drawn up their ships at the two ends of the line. There she took her stand, and raised a cry both loud and shrill that filled the Achaeans with courage, giving them heart to fight resolutely and with all their might, so that they had rather stay there and do battle than go home in their ships.
The son of Atreus shouted aloud and bade the Argives gird themselves for battle while he put on his armour. First he girded his goodly greaves about his legs, making them fast with ankle clasps of silver; and about his chest he set the breastplate which Cinyras had once given him as a guest-gift. It had been noised abroad as far as Cyprus that the Achaeans were about to sail for Troy, and therefore he gave it to the king. It had ten courses of dark cyanus, twelve of gold, and ten of tin. There were serpents of cyanus that reared themselves up towards the neck, three upon either side, like the rainbows which the son of Saturn has set in heaven as a sign to mortal men. About his shoulders he threw his sword, studded with bosses of gold; and the scabbard was of silver with a chain of gold wherewith to hang it. He took moreover the richly-dight shield that covered his body when he was in battle—fair to see, with ten circles of bronze running all round see, wit it. On the body of the shield there were twenty bosses of white tin, with another of dark cyanus in the middle: this last was made to show a Gorgon’s head, fierce and grim, with Rout and Panic on either side. The band for the arm to go through was of silver, on which there was a writhing snake of cy- anus with three heads that sprang from a single neck, and went in and out among one another. On his head Agam- emnon set a helmet, with a peak before and behind, and four plumes of horse-hair that nodded menacingly above it; then he grasped two redoubtable bronze-shod spears, and the gleam of his armour shot from him as a flame into the firmament, while Juno and Minerva thundered in honour of the king of rich Mycene.
Every man now left his horses in charge of his charioteer to hold them in readiness by the trench, while he went into battle on foot clad in full armour, and a mighty uproar rose on high into the dawning. The chiefs were armed and at the trench before the horses got there, but these came up presently. The son of Saturn sent a portent of evil sound about their host, and the dew fell red with blood, for he was about to send many a brave man hurrying down to Hades.
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The Trojans, on the other side upon the rising slope of the plain, were gathered round great Hector, noble Poly- damas, Aeneas who was honoured by the Trojans like an immortal, and the three sons of Antenor, Polybus, Agenor, and young Acamas beauteous as a god. Hector’s round shield showed in the front rank, and as some baneful star that shines for a moment through a rent in the clouds and is again hidden beneath them; even so was Hector now seen in the front ranks and now again in the hindermost, and his bronze armour gleamed like the lightning of aegis-bearing Jove.
And now as a band of reapers mow swathes of wheat or barley upon a rich man’s land, and the sheaves fall thick before them, even so did the Trojans and Achaeans fall upon one another; they were in no mood for yielding but fought like wolves, and neither side got the better of the other. Discord was glad as she beheld them, for she was the only god that went among them; the others were not there, but stayed quietly each in his own home among the dells and valleys of Olympus. All of them blamed the son of Saturn for wanting to Live victory to the Trojans, but father Jove heeded them not: he held aloof from all, and sat apart in his all-glorious majesty, looking down upon the city of the Trojans, the ships of the Achaeans, the gleam of bronze, and alike upon the slayers and on the slain.
Now so long as the day waxed and it was still morning, their darts rained thick on one another and the people perished, but as the hour drew nigh when a woodman working in some mountain forest will get his midday meal— for he has felled till his hands are weary; he is tired out, and must now have food—then the Danaans with a cry that rang through all their ranks, broke the battalions of the enemy. Agamemnon led them on, and slew first Bienor, a leader of his people, and afterwards his comrade and charioteer Oileus, who sprang from his chariot and was com- ing full towards him; but Agamemnon struck him on the forehead with his spear; his bronze visor was of no avail against the weapon, which pierced both bronze and bone, so that his brains were battered in and he was killed in full fight.
Agamemnon stripped their shirts from off them and left them with their breasts all bare to lie where they had fallen. He then went on to kill Isus and Antiphus two sons of Priam, the one a bastard, the other born in wedlock; they were in the same chariot—the bastard driving, while noble Antiphus fought beside him. Achilles had once tak- en both of them prisoners in the glades of Ida, and had bound them with fresh withes as they were shepherding, but he had taken a ransom for them; now, however, Agamemnon son of Atreus smote Isus in the chest above the nipple with his spear, while he struck Antiphus hard by the ear and threw him from his chariot. Forthwith he stripped their goodly armour from off them and recognized them, for he had already seen them at ships when Achilles brought them in from Ida. As a lion fastens on the fawns of a hind and crushes them in his great jaws, robbing them of their tender life while he on his way back to his lair—the hind can do nothing for them even though she be close by, for she is in an agony of fear, and flies through the thick forest, sweating, and at her utmost speed before the mighty monster—so, no man of the Trojans could help Isus and Antiphus, for they were themselves flying panic before the Argives.
Then King Agamemnon took the two sons of Antimachus, Pisander and brave Hippolochus. It was Antimachus who had been foremost in preventing Helen’s being restored to Menelaus, for he was largely bribed by Alexandrus; and now Agamemnon took his two sons, both in the same chariot, trying to bring their horses to a stand—for they had lost hold of the reins and the horses were mad with fear. The son of Atreus sprang upon them like a lion, and the pair besought him from their chariot. “Take us alive,” they cried, “son of Atreus, and you shall receive a great ransom for us. Our father Antimachus has great store of gold, bronze, and wrought iron, and from this he will satis- fy you with a very large ransom should he hear of our being alive at the ships of the Achaeans.”
With such piteous words and tears did they beseech the king, but they heard no pitiful answer in return. “If,” said Agamemnon, “you are sons of Antimachus, who once at a council of Trojans proposed that Menelaus and Ulysses, who had come to you as envoys, should be killed and not suffered to return, you shall now pay for the foul iniquity of your father.”
As he spoke he felled Pisander from his chariot to the earth, smiting him on the chest with his spear, so that he lay face uppermost upon the ground. Hippolochus fled, but him too did Agamemnon smite; he cut off his hands and his head—which he sent rolling in among the crowd as though it were a ball. There he let them both lie, and wherever the ranks were thickest thither he flew, while the other Achaeans followed. Foot soldiers drove the foot soldiers of the foe in rout before them, and slew them; horsemen did the like by horsemen, and the thundering tramp of the horses raised a cloud of dust frim off the plain. King Agamemnon followed after, ever slaying them and cheering on the Achaeans. As when some mighty forest is all ablaze—the eddying gusts whirl fire in all directions till the thickets shrivel and are consumed before the blast of the flame—even so fell the heads of the flying Trojans before Agamemnon son of Atreus, and many a noble pair of steeds drew an empty chariot along the highways of war, for lack of drivers who were lying on the plain, more useful now to vultures than to their wives.
Jove drew Hector away from the darts and dust, with the carnage and din of battle; but the son of Atreus sped onwards, calling out lustily to the Danaans. They flew on by the tomb of old Ilus, son of Dardanus, in the middle of the plain, and past the place of the wild fig-tree making always for the city—the son of Atreus still shouting, and
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with hands all bedrabbled in gore; but when they had reached the Scaean gates and the oak tree, there they halted and waited for the others to come up. Meanwhile the Trojans kept on flying over the middle of the plain like a herd cows maddened with fright when a lion has attacked them in the dead of night—he springs on one of them, seizes her neck in the grip of his strong teeth and then laps up her blood and gorges himself upon her entrails—even so did King Agamemnon son of Atreus pursue the foe, ever slaughtering the hindmost as they fled pell-mell before him. Many a man was flung headlong from his chariot by the hand of the son of Atreus, for he wielded his spear with fury.
But when he was just about to reach the high wall and the city, the father of gods and men came down from heaven and took his seat, thunderbolt in hand, upon the crest of many-fountained Ida. He then told Iris of the gold- en wings to carry a message for him. “Go,” said he, “fleet Iris, and speak thus to Hector—say that so long as he sees Agamemnon heading his men and making havoc of the Trojan ranks, he is to keep aloof and bid the others bear the brunt of the battle, but when Agamemnon is wounded either by spear or arrow, and takes to his chariot, then will I vouchsafe him strength to slay till he reach the ships and night falls at the going down of the sun.”
Iris hearkened and obeyed. Down she went to strong Ilius from the crests of Ida, and found Hector son of Priam standing by his chariot and horses. Then she said, “Hector son of Priam, peer of gods in counsel, father Jove has sent me to bear you this message—so long as you see Agamemnon heading his men and making havoc of the Trojan ranks, you are to keep aloof and bid the others bear the brunt of the battle, but when Agamemnon is wound- ed either by spear or arrow, and takes to his chariot, then will Jove vouchsafe you strength to slay till you reach the ships, and till night falls at the going down of the sun.”
When she had thus spoken Iris left him, and Hector sprang full armed from his chariot to the ground, bran- dishing his spear as he went about everywhere among the host, cheering his men on to fight, and stirring the dread strife of battle. The Trojans then wheeled round, and again met the Achaeans, while the Argives on their part strengthened their battalions. The battle was now in array and they stood face to face with one another, Agamem- non ever pressing forward in his eagerness to be ahead of all others.
Tell me now ye Muses that dwell in the mansions of Olympus, who, whether of the Trojans or of their allies, was first to face Agamemnon? It was Iphidamas son of Antenor, a man both brave and of great stature, who was brought up in fertile Thrace the mother of sheep. Cisses, his mother’s father, brought him up in his own house when he was a child—Cisses, father to fair Theano. When he reached manhood, Cisses would have kept him there, and was for giving him his daughter in marriage, but as soon as he had married he set out to fight the Achaeans with twelve ships that followed him: these he had left at Percote and had come on by land to Ilius. He it was that naw met Agamemnon son of Atreus. When they were close up with one another, the son of Atreus missed his aim, and Iphidamas hit him on the girdle below the cuirass and then flung himself upon him, trusting to his strength of arm; the girdle, however, was not pierced, nor nearly so, for the point of the spear struck against the silver and was turned aside as though it had been lead: King Agamemnon caught it from his hand, and drew it towards him with the fury of a lion; he then drew his sword, and killed Iphidamas by striking him on the neck. So there the poor fel- low lay, sleeping a sleep as it were of bronze, killed in the defence of his fellow-citizens, far from his wedded wife, of whom he had had no joy though he had given much for her: he had given a hundred-head of cattle down, and had promised later on to give a thousand sheep and goats mixed, from the countless flocks of which he was possessed. Agamemnon son of Atreus then despoiled him, and carried off his armour into the host of the Achaeans.
When noble Coon, Antenor’s eldest son, saw this, sore indeed were his eyes at the sight of his fallen brother. Unseen by Agamemnon he got beside him, spear in hand, and wounded him in the middle of his arm below the elbow, the point of the spear going right through the arm. Agamemnon was convulsed with pain, but still not even for this did he leave off struggling and fighting, but grasped his spear that flew as fleet as the wind, and sprang upon Coon who was trying to drag off the body of his brother—his father’s son—by the foot, and was crying for help to all the bravest of his comrades; but Agamemnon struck him with a bronze-shod spear and killed him as he was dragging the dead body through the press of men under cover of his shield: he then cut off his head, standing over the body of Iphidamas. Thus did the sons of Antenor meet their fate at the hands of the son of Atreus, and go down into the house of Hades.
As long as the blood still welled warm from his wound Agamemnon went about attacking the ranks of the enemy with spear and sword and with great handfuls of stone, but when the blood had ceased to flow and the wound grew dry, the pain became great. As the sharp pangs which the Eilithuiae, goddesses of childbirth, daughters of Juno and dispensers of cruel pain, send upon a woman when she is in labour—even so sharp were the pangs of the son of Atreus. He sprang on to his chariot, and bade his charioteer drive to the ships, for he was in great agony. With a loud clear voice he shouted to the Danaans, “My friends, princes and counsellors of the Argives, defend the ships yourselves, for Jove has not suffered me to fight the whole day through against the Trojans.”
With this the charioteer turned his horses towards the ships, and they flew forward nothing loth. Their chests were white with foam and their bellies with dust, as they drew the wounded king out of the battle.
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When Hector saw Agamemnon quit the field, he shouted to the Trojans and Lycians saying, “Trojans, Lycians, and Dardanian warriors, be men, my friends, and acquit yourselves in battle bravely; their best man has left them, and Jove has vouchsafed me a great triumph; charge the foe with your chariots that. you may win still greater glory.”
With these words he put heart and soul into them all, and as a huntsman hounds his dogs on against a lion or wild boar, even so did Hector, peer of Mars, hound the proud Trojans on against the Achaeans. Full of hope he plunged in among the foremost, and fell on the fight like some fierce tempest that swoops down upon the sea, and lashes its deep blue waters into fury.
What, then is the full tale of those whom Hector son of Priam killed in the hour of triumph which Jove then vouchsafed him? First Asaeus, Autonous, and Opites; Dolops son of Clytius, Opheltius and Agelaus; Aesymnus, Orus and Hipponous steadfast in battle; these chieftains of the Achaeans did Hector slay, and then he fell upon the rank and file. As when the west wind hustles the clouds of the white south and beats them down with the fierceness of its fury—the waves of the sea roll high, and the spray is flung aloft in the rage of the wandering wind—even so thick were the heads of them that fell by the hand of Hector.
All had then been lost and no help for it, and the Achaeans would have fled pell-mell to their ships, had not Ulysses cried out to Diomed, “Son of Tydeus, what has happened to us that we thus forget our prowess? Come, my good fellow, stand by my side and help me, we shall be shamed for ever if Hector takes the ships.”
And Diomed answered, “Come what may, I will stand firm; but we shall have scant joy of it, for Jove is minded to give victory to the Trojans rather than to us.”
With these words he struck Thymbraeus from his chariot to the ground, smiting him in the left breast with his spear, while Ulysses killed Molion who was his squire. These they let lie, now that they had stopped their fighting; the two heroes then went on playing havoc with the foe, like two wild boars that turn in fury and rend the hounds that hunt them. Thus did they turn upon the Trojans and slay them, and the Achaeans were thankful to have breathing time in their flight from Hector.
They then took two princes with their chariot, the two sons of Merops of Percote, who excelled all others in the arts of divination. He had forbidden his sons to go to the war, but they would not obey him, for fate lured them to their fall. Diomed son of Tydeus slew them both and stripped them of their armour, while Ulysses killed Hippoda- mus and Hypeirochus.
And now the son of Saturn as he looked down from Ida ordained that neither side should have the advantage, and they kept on killing one another. The son of Tydeus speared Agastrophus son of Paeon in the hip-joint with his spear. His chariot was not at hand for him to fly with, so blindly confident had he been. His squire was in charge of it at some distance and he was fighting on foot among the foremost until he lost his life. Hector soon marked the havoc Diomed and Ulysses were making, and bore down upon them with a loud cry, followed by the Trojan ranks; brave Diomed was dismayed when he saw them, and said to Ulysses who was beside him, “Great Hector is bearing down upon us and we shall be undone; let us stand firm and wait his onset.”
He poised his spear as he spoke and hurled it, nor did he miss his mark. He had aimed at Hector’s head near the top of his helmet, but bronze was turned by bronze, and Hector was untouched, for the spear was stayed by the visored helm made with three plates of metal, which Phoebus Apollo had given him. Hector sprang back with a great bound under cover of the ranks; he fell on his knees and propped himself with his brawny hand leaning on the ground, for darkness had fallen on his eyes. The son of Tydeus having thrown his spear dashed in among the foremost fighters, to the place where he had seen it strike the ground; meanwhile Hector recovered himself and springing back into his chariot mingled with the crowd, by which means he saved his life. But Diomed made at him with his spear and said, “Dog, you have again got away though death was close on your heels. Phoebus Apollo, to whom I ween you pray ere you go into battle, has again saved you, nevertheless I will meet you and make and end of you hereafter, if there is any god who will stand by me too and be my helper. For the present I must pursue those I can lay hands on.”
As he spoke he began stripping the spoils from the son of Paeon, but Alexandrus husband of lovely Helen aimed an arrow at him, leaning against a pillar of the monument which men had raised to Ilus son of Dardanus, a ruler in days of old. Diomed had taken the cuirass from off the breast of Agastrophus, his heavy helmet also, and the shield from off his shoulders, when Paris drew his bow and let fly an arrow that sped not from his hand in vain, but pierced the flat of Diomed’s right foot, going right through it and fixing itself in the ground. Thereon Paris with a hearty laugh sprang forward from his hiding-place, and taunted him saying, “You are wounded—my arrow has not been shot in vain; would that it had hit you in the belly and killed you, for thus the Trojans, who fear you as goats fear a lion, would have had a truce from evil.”
Diomed all undaunted answered, “Archer, you who without your bow are nothing, slanderer and seducer, if you were to be tried in single combat fighting in full armour, your bow and your arrows would serve you in little stead. Vain is your boast in that you have scratched the sole of my foot. I care no more than if a girl or some silly boy had hit me. A worthless coward can inflict but a light wound; when I wound a man though I but graze his skin
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it is another matter, for my weapon will lay him low. His wife will tear her cheeks for grief and his children will be fatherless: there will he rot, reddening the earth with his blood, and vultures, not women, will gather round him.”
Thus he spoke, but Ulysses came up and stood over him. Under this cover he sat down to draw the arrow from his foot, and sharp was the pain he suffered as he did so. Then he sprang on to his chariot and bade the charioteer drive him to the ships, for he was sick at heart.
Ulysses was now alone; not one of the Argives stood by him, for they were all panic-stricken. “Alas,” said he to himself in his dismay, “what will become of me? It is ill if I turn and fly before these odds, but it will be worse if I am left alone and taken prisoner, for the son of Saturn has struck the rest of the Danaans with panic. But why talk to myself in this way? Well do I know that though cowards quit the field, a hero, whether he wound or be wounded, must stand firm and hold his own.”
While he was thus in two minds, the ranks of the Trojans advanced and hemmed him in, and bitterly did they come to me it. As hounds and lusty youths set upon a wild boar that sallies from his lair whetting his white tusks— they attack him from every side and can hear the gnashing of his jaws, but for all his fierceness they still hold their ground—even so furiously did the Trojans attack Ulysses. First he sprang spear in hand upon Deiopites and wounded him on the shoulder with a downward blow; then he killed Thoon and Ennomus. After these he struck Chersidamas in the loins under his shield as he had just sprung down from his chariot; so he fell in the dust and clutched the earth in the hollow of his hand. These he let lie, and went on to wound Charops son of Hippasus own brother to noble Socus. Socus, hero that he was, made all speed to help him, and when he was close to Ulysses he said, “Far-famed Ulysses, insatiable of craft and toil, this day you shall either boast of having killed both the sons of Hippasus and stripped them of their armour, or you shall fall before my spear.”
With these words he struck the shield of Ulysses. The spear went through the shield and passed on through his richly wrought cuirass, tearing the flesh from his side, but Pallas Minerva did not suffer it to pierce the entrails of the hero. Ulysses knew that his hour was not yet come, but he gave ground and said to Socus, “Wretch, you shall now surely die. You have stayed me from fighting further with the Trojans, but you shall now fall by my spear, yield- ing glory to myself, and your soul to Hades of the noble steeds.”
Socus had turned in flight, but as he did so, the spear struck him in the back midway between the shoulders, and went right through his chest. He fell heavily to the ground and Ulysses vaunted over him saying, “O Socus, son of Hippasus tamer of horses, death has been too quick for you and you have not escaped him: poor wretch, not even in death shall your father and mother close your eyes, but the ravening vultures shall enshroud you with the flapping of their dark wings and devour you. Whereas even though I fall the Achaeans will give me my due rites of burial.”
So saying he drew Socus’s heavy spear out of his flesh and from his shield, and the blood welled forth when the spear was withdrawn so that he was much dismayed. When the Trojans saw that Ulysses was bleeding they raised a great shout and came on in a body towards him; he therefore gave ground, and called his comrades to come and help him. Thrice did he cry as loudly as man can cry, and thrice did brave Menelaus hear him; he turned, therefore, to Ajax who was close beside him and said, “Ajax, noble son of Telamon, captain of your people, the cry of Ulysses rings in my ears, as though the Trojans had cut him off and were worsting him while he is single-handed. Let us make our way through the throng; it will be well that we defend him; I fear he may come to harm for all his valour if he be left without support, and the Danaans would miss him sorely.”
He led the way and mighty Ajax went with him. The Trojans had gathered round Ulysses like ravenous moun- tain jackals round the carcase of some homed stag that has been hit with an arrow—the stag has fled at full speed so long as his blood was warm and his strength has lasted, but when the arrow has overcome him, the savage jackals devour him in the shady glades of the forest. Then heaven sends a fierce lion thither, whereon the jackals fly in terror and the lion robs them of their prey—even so did Trojans many and brave gather round crafty Ulysses, but the hero stood at bay and kept them off with his spear. Ajax then came up with his shield before him like a wall, and stood hard by, whereon the Trojans fled in all directions. Menelaus took Ulysses by the hand, and led him out of the press while his squire brought up his chariot, but Ajax rushed furiously on the Trojans and killed Doryclus, a bastard son of Priam; then he wounded Pandocus, Lysandrus, Pyrasus, and Pylartes; as some swollen torrent comes rushing in full flood from the mountains on to the plain, big with the rain of heaven—many a dry oak and many a pine does it engulf, and much mud does it bring down and cast into the sea—even so did brave Ajax chase the foe furiously over the plain, slaying both men and horses.
Hector did not yet know what Ajax was doing, for he was fighting on the extreme left of the battle by the banks of the river Scamander, where the carnage was thickest and the war-cry loudest round Nestor and brave Idome- neus. Among these Hector was making great slaughter with his spear and furious driving, and was destroying the ranks that were opposed to him; still the Achaeans would have given no ground, had not Alexandrus husband of lovely Helen stayed the prowess of Machaon shepherd of his people, by wounding him in the right shoulder with a triple-barbed arrow. The Achaeans were in great fear that as the fight had turned against them the Trojans might
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take him prisoner, and Idomeneus said to Nestor, “Nestor son of Neleus, honour to the Achaean name, mount your chariot at once; take Machaon with you and drive your horses to the ships as fast as you can. A physician is worth more than several other men put together, for he can cut out arrows and spread healing herbs.”
Nestor knight of Gerene did as Idomeneus had counselled; he at once mounted his chariot, and Machaon son of the famed physician Aesculapius went with him. He lashed his horses and they flew onward nothing loth towards the ships, as though of their own free will.
Then Cebriones seeing the Trojans in confusion said to Hector from his place beside him, “Hector, here are we two fighting on the extreme wing of the battle, while the other Trojans are in pell-mell rout, they and their horses. Ajax son of Telamon is driving them before him; I know him by the breadth of his shield: let us turn our chariot and horses thither, where horse and foot are fighting most desperately, and where the cry of battle is loudest.”
With this he lashed his goodly steeds, and when they felt the whip they drew the chariot full speed among the Achaeans and Trojans, over the bodies and shields of those that had fallen: the axle was bespattered with blood, and the rail round the car was covered with splashes both from the horses’ hoofs and from the tyres of the wheels. Hector tore his way through and flung himself into the thick of the fight, and his presence threw the Danaans into confusion, for his spear was not long idle; nevertheless though he went among the ranks with sword and spear, and throwing great stones, he avoided Ajax son of Telamon, for Jove would have been angry with him if he had fought a better man than himself.
Then father Jove from his high throne struck fear into the heart of Ajax, so that he stood there dazed and threw his shield behind him—looking fearfully at the throng of his foes as though he were some wild beast, and turning hither and thither but crouching slowly backwards. As peasants with their hounds chase a lion from their stock- yard, and watch by night to prevent his carrying off the pick of their herd—he makes his greedy spring, but in vain, for the darts from many a strong hand fall thick around him, with burning brands that scare him for all his fury, and when morning comes he slinks foiled and angry away—even so did Ajax, sorely against his will, retreat angrily before the Trojans, fearing for the ships of the Achaeans. Or as some lazy ass that has had many a cudgel broken about his back, when he into a field begins eating the corn—boys beat him but he is too many for them, and though they lay about with their sticks they cannot hurt him; still when he has had his fill they at last drive him from the field—even so did the Trojans and their allies pursue great Ajax, ever smiting the middle of his shield with their darts. Now and again he would turn and show fight, keeping back the battalions of the Trojans, and then he would again retreat; but he prevented any of them from making his way to the ships. Single-handed he stood midway between the Trojans and Achaeans: the spears that sped from their hands stuck some of them in his mighty shield, while many, though thirsting for his blood, fell to the ground ere they could reach him to the wounding of his fair flesh.
Now when Eurypylus the brave son of Euaemon saw that Ajax was being overpowered by the rain of arrows, he went up to him and hurled his spear. He struck Apisaon son of Phausius in the liver below the midriff, and laid him low. Eurypylus sprang upon him, and stripped the armour from his shoulders; but when Alexandrus saw him, he aimed an arrow at him which struck him in the right thigh; the arrow broke, but the point that was left in the wound dragged on the thigh; he drew back, therefore, under cover of his comrades to save his life, shouting as he did so to the Danaans, “My friends, princes and counsellors of the Argives, rally to the defence of Ajax who is being overpowered, and I doubt whether he will come out of the fight alive. Hither, then, to the rescue of great Ajax son of Telamon.”
Even so did he cry when he was wounded; thereon the others came near, and gathered round him, holding their shields upwards from their shoulders so as to give him cover. Ajax then made towards them, and turned round to stand at bay as soon as he had reached his men.
Thus then did they fight as it were a flaming fire. Meanwhile the mares of Neleus, all in a lather with sweat, were bearing Nestor out of the fight, and with him Machaon shepherd of his people. Achilles saw and took note, for he was standing on the stern of his ship watching the hard stress and struggle of the fight. He called from the ship to his comrade Patroclus, who heard him in the tent and came out looking like Mars himself—here indeed was the beginning of the ill that presently befell him. “Why,” said he, “Achilles do you call me? what do you what do you want with me?” And Achilles answered, “Noble son of Menoetius, man after my own heart, I take it that I shall now have the Achaeans praying at my knees, for they are in great straits; go, Patroclus, and ask Nestor who is that he is bearing away wounded from the field; from his back I should say it was Machaon son of Aesculapius, but I could not see his face for the horses went by me at full speed.”
Patroclus did as his dear comrade had bidden him, and set off running by the ships and tents of the Achaeans. When Nestor and Machaon had reached the tents of the son of Neleus, they dismounted, and an esquire, Eu-
rymedon, took the horses from the chariot. The pair then stood in the breeze by the seaside to dry the sweat from their shirts, and when they had so done they came inside and took their seats. Fair Hecamede, whom Nestor had had awarded to him from Tenedos when Achilles took it, mixed them a mess; she was daughter of wise Arsinous,
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and the Achaeans had given her to Nestor because he excelled all of them in counsel. First she set for them a fair and well-made table that had feet of cyanus; on it there was a vessel of bronze and an onion to give relish to the drink, with honey and cakes of barley-meal. There was also a cup of rare workmanship which the old man had brought with him from home, studded with bosses of gold; it had four handles, on each of which there were two golden doves feeding, and it had two feet to stand on. Any one else would hardly have been able to lift it from the table when it was full, but Nestor could do so quite easily. In this the woman, as fair as a goddess, mixed them a mess with Pramnian wine; she grated goat’s milk cheese into it with a bronze grater, threw in a handful of white barley-meal, and having thus prepared the mess she bade them drink it. When they had done so and had thus quenched their thirst, they fell talking with one another, and at this moment Patroclus appeared at the door.
When the old man saw him he sprang from his seat, seized his hand, led him into the tent, and bade him take his place among them; but Patroclus stood where he was and said, “Noble sir, I may not stay, you cannot persuade me to come in; he that sent me is not one to be trifled with, and he bade me ask who the wounded man was whom you were bearing away from the field. I can now see for myself that he is Machaon shepherd of his people. I must go back and tell Achilles. You, sir, know what a terrible man he is, and how ready to blame even where no blame should lie.”
And Nestor answered, “Why should Achilles care to know how many of the Achaeans may be wounded? He recks not of the dismay that reigns in our host; our most valiant chieftains lie disabled, brave Diomed son of Tydeus is wounded; so are Ulysses and Agamemnon; Eurypylus has been hit with an arrow in the thigh, and I have just been bringing this man from the field—he too wounded—with an arrow; nevertheless Achilles, so valiant though he be, cares not and knows no ruth. Will he wait till the ships, do what we may, are in a blaze, and we perish one upon the other? As for me, I have no strength nor stay in me any longer; would that I Were still young and strong as in the days when there was a fight between us and the men of Elis about some cattle-raiding. I then killed Itymo- neus the valiant son of Hypeirochus a dweller in Elis, as I was driving in the spoil; he was hit by a dart thrown my hand while fighting in the front rank in defence of his cows, so he fell and the country people around him were in great fear. We drove off a vast quantity of booty from the plain, fifty herds of cattle and as many flocks of sheep; fifty droves also of pigs, and as many wide-spreading flocks of goats. Of horses moreover we seized a hundred and fifty, all of them mares, and many had foals running with them. All these did we drive by night to Pylus the city of Neleus, taking them within the city; and the heart of Neleus was glad in that I had taken so much, though it was the first time I had ever been in the field. At daybreak the heralds went round crying that all in Elis to whom there was a debt owing should come; and the leading Pylians assembled to divide the spoils. There were many to whom the Epeans owed chattels, for we men of Pylus were few and had been oppressed with wrong; in former years Hercules had come, and had laid his hand heavy upon us, so that all our best men had perished. Neleus had had twelve sons, but I alone was left; the others had all been killed. The Epeans presuming upon all this had looked down upon us and had done us much evil. My father chose a herd of cattle and a great flock of sheep—three hundred in all—and he took their shepherds with him, for there was a great debt due to him in Elis, to wit four horses, winners of prizes. They and their chariots with them had gone to the games and were to run for a tripod, but King Augeas took them, and sent back their driver grieving for the loss of his horses. Neleus was angered by what he had both said and done, and took great value in return, but he divided the rest, that no man might have less than his full share.
“Thus did we order all things, and offer sacrifices to the gods throughout the city; but three days afterwards the Epeans came in a body, many in number, they and their chariots, in full array, and with them the two Moliones in their armour, though they were still lads and unused to fighting. Now there is a certain town, Thryoessa, perched upon a rock on the river Alpheus, the border city Pylus; this they would destroy, and pitched their camp about it, but when they had crossed their whole plain, Minerva darted down by night from Olympus and bade us set our- selves in array; and she found willing soldiers in Pylos, for the men meant fighting. Neleus would not let me arm, and hid my horses, for he said that as yet I could know nothing about war; nevertheless Minerva so ordered the fight that, all on foot as I was, I fought among our mounted forces and vied with the foremost of them. There is a river Minyeius that falls into the sea near Arene, and there they that were mounted (and I with them) waited till morning, when the companies of foot soldiers came up with us in force. Thence in full panoply and equipment we came towards noon to the sacred waters of the Alpheus, and there we offered victims to almighty Jove, with a bull to Alpheus, another to Neptune, and a herd-heifer to Minerva. After this we took supper in our companies, and laid us down to rest each in his armour by the river.
“The Epeans were beleaguering the city and were determined to take it, but ere this might be there was a des- perate fight in store for them. When the sun’s rays began to fall upon the earth we joined battle, praying to Jove and to Minerva, and when the fight had begun, I was the first to kill my man and take his horses—to wit the warrior Mulius. He was son-in-law to Augeas, having married his eldest daughter, golden-haired Agamede, who knew the virtues of every herb which grows upon the face of the earth. I speared him as he was coming towards me, and when he fell headlong in the dust, I sprang upon his chariot and took my place in the front ranks. The Epeans fled
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in all directions when they saw the captain of their horsemen (the best man they had) laid low, and I swept down on them like a whirlwind, taking fifty chariots—and in each of them two men bit the dust, slain by my spear. I should have even killed the two Moliones sons of Actor, unless their real father, Neptune lord of the earthquake, had hid- den them in a thick mist and borne them out of the fight. Thereon Jove vouchsafed the Pylians a great victory, for we chased them far over the plain, killing the men and bringing in their armour, till we had brought our horses to Buprasium rich in wheat and to the Olenian rock, with the hill that is called Alision, at which point Minerva turned the people back. There I slew the last man and left him; then the Achaeans drove their horses back from Buprasium to Pylos and gave thanks to Jove among the gods, and among mortal men to Nestor.
“Such was I among my peers, as surely as ever was, but Achilles is for keeping all his valour for himself; bitterly will he rue it hereafter when the host is being cut to pieces. My good friend, did not Menoetius charge you thus, on the day when he sent you from Phthia to Agamemnon? Ulysses and I were in the house, inside, and heard all that he said to you; for we came to the fair house of Peleus while beating up recruits throughout all Achaea, and when we got there we found Menoetius and yourself, and Achilles with you. The old knight Peleus was in the outer court, roasting the fat thigh-bones of a heifer to Jove the lord of thunder; and he held a gold chalice in his hand from which he poured drink-offerings of wine over the burning sacrifice. You two were busy cutting up the heifer, and at that moment we stood at the gates, whereon Achilles sprang to his feet, led us by the hand into the house, placed us at table, and set before us such hospitable entertainment as guests expect. When we had satisfied ourselves with meat and drink, I said my say and urged both of you to join us. You were ready enough to do so, and the two old men charged you much and straitly. Old Peleus bade his son Achilles fight ever among the foremost and outvie his peers, while Menoetius the son of Actor spoke thus to you: ‘My son,’ said he, ‘Achilles is of nobler birth than you are, but you are older than he, though he is far the better man of the two. Counsel him wisely, guide him in the right way, and he will follow you to his own profit.’ Thus did your father charge you, but you have forgotten; neverthe- less, even now, say all this to Achilles if he will listen to you. Who knows but with heaven’s help you may talk him over, for it is good to take a friend’s advice. If, however, he is fearful about some oracle, or if his mother has told him something from Jove, then let him send you, and let the rest of the Myrmidons follow with you, if perchance you may bring light and saving to the Danaans. And let him send you into battle clad in his own armour, that the Trojans may mistake you for him and leave off fighting; the sons of the Achaeans may thus have time to get their breath, for they are hard pressed and there is little breathing time in battle. You, who are fresh, might easily drive a tired enemy back to his walls and away from the tents and ships.”
With these words he moved the heart of Patroclus, who set off running by the line of the ships to Achilles, descendant of Aeacus. When he had got as far as the ships of Ulysses, where was their place of assembly and court of justice, with their altars dedicated to the gods, Eurypylus son of Euaemon met him, wounded in the thigh with an arrow, and limping out of the fight. Sweat rained from his head and shoulders, and black blood welled from his cruel wound, but his mind did not wander. The son of Menoetius when he saw him had compassion upon him and spoke piteously saying, “O unhappy princes and counsellors of the Danaans, are you then doomed to feed the hounds of Troy with your fat, far from your friends and your native land? say, noble Eurypylus, will the Achaeans be able to hold great Hector in check, or will they fall now before his spear?”
Wounded Eurypylus made answer, “Noble Patroclus, there is no hope left for the Achaeans but they will perish at their ships. All they that were princes among us are lying struck down and wounded at the hands of the Trojans, who are waxing stronger and stronger. But save me and take me to your ship; cut out the arrow from my thigh; wash the black blood from off it with warm water, and lay upon it those gracious herbs which, so they say, have been shown you by Achilles, who was himself shown them by Chiron, most righteous of all the centaurs. For of the physicians Podalirius and Machaon, I hear that the one is lying wounded in his tent and is himself in need of heal- ing, while the other is fighting the Trojans upon the plain.”
“Hero Eurypylus,” replied the brave son of Menoetius, “how may these things be? What can I do? I am on my way to bear a message to noble Achilles from Nestor of Gerene, bulwark of the Achaeans, but even so I will not be unmindful your distress.”
With this he clasped him round the middle and led him into the tent, and a servant, when he saw him, spread bullock-skins on the ground for him to lie on. He laid him at full length and cut out the sharp arrow from his thigh; he washed the black blood from the wound with warm water; he then crushed a bitter herb, rubbing it between his hands, and spread it upon the wound; this was a virtuous herb which killed all pain; so the wound presently dried and the blood left off flowing.
Book XII SO THE son of Menoetius was attending to the hurt of Eurypylus within the tent, but the Argives and Trojans
still fought desperately, nor were the trench and the high wall above it, to keep the Trojans in check longer. They
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had built it to protect their ships, and had dug the trench all round it that it might safeguard both the ships and the rich spoils which they had taken, but they had not offered hecatombs to the gods. It had been built without the consent of the immortals, and therefore it did not last. So long as Hector lived and Achilles nursed his anger, and so long as the city of Priam remained untaken, the great wall of the Achaeans stood firm; but when the bravest of the Trojans were no more, and many also of the Argives, though some were yet left alive when, moreover, the city was sacked in the tenth year, and the Argives had gone back with their ships to their own country—then Neptune and Apollo took counsel to destroy the wall, and they turned on to it the streams of all the rivers from Mount Ida into the sea, Rhesus, Heptaporus, Caresus, Rhodius, Grenicus, Aesopus, and goodly Scamander, with Simois, where many a shield and helm had fallen, and many a hero of the race of demigods had bitten the dust. Phoebus Apollo turned the mouths of all these rivers together and made them flow for nine days against the wall, while Jove rained the whole time that he might wash it sooner into the sea. Neptune himself, trident in hand, surveyed the work and threw into the sea all the foundations of beams and stones which the Achaeans had laid with so much toil; he made all level by the mighty stream of the Hellespont, and then when he had swept the wall away he spread a great beach of sand over the place where it had been. This done he turned the rivers back into their old courses.
This was what Neptune and Apollo were to do in after time; but as yet battle and turmoil were still raging round the wall till its timbers rang under the blows that rained upon them. The Argives, cowed by the scourge of Jove, were hemmed in at their ships in fear of Hector the mighty minister of Rout, who as heretofore fought with the force and fury of a whirlwind. As a lion or wild boar turns fiercely on the dogs and men that attack him, while these form solid wall and shower their javelins as they face him — his courage is all undaunted, but his high spirit will be the death of him; many a time does he charge at his pursuers to scatter them, and they fall back as often as he does so—even so did Hector go about among the host exhorting his men, and cheering them on to cross the trench.
But the horses dared not do so, and stood neighing upon its brink, for the width frightened them. They could neither jump it nor cross it, for it had overhanging banks all round upon either side, above which there were the sharp stakes that the sons of the Achaeans had planted so close and strong as a defence against all who would assail it; a horse, therefore, could not get into it and draw his chariot after him, but those who were on foot kept trying their very utmost. Then Polydamas went up to Hector and said, “Hector, and you other captains of the Trojans and allies, it is madness for us to try and drive our horses across the trench; it will be very hard to cross, for it is full of sharp stakes, and beyond these there is the wall. Our horses therefore cannot get down into it, and would be of no use if they did; moreover it is a narrow place and we should come to harm. If, indeed, great Jove is minded to help the Trojans, and in his anger will utterly destroy the Achaeans, I would myself gladly see them perish now and here far from Argos; but if they should rally and we are driven back from the ships pell-mell into the trench there will be not so much as a man get back to the city to tell the tale. Now, therefore, let us all do as I say; let our squires hold our horses by the trench, but let us follow Hector in a body on foot, clad in full armour, and if the day of their doom is at hand the Achaeans will not be able to withstand us.”
Thus spoke Polydamas and his saying pleased Hector, who sprang in full armour to the ground, and all the oth- er Trojans, when they saw him do so, also left their chariots. Each man then gave his horses over to his charioteer in charge to hold them ready for him at the trench. Then they formed themselves into companies, made themselves ready, and in five bodies followed their leaders. Those that went with Hector and Polydamas were the bravest and most in number, and the most determined to break through the wall and fight at the ships. Cebriones was also joined with them as third in command, for Hector had left his chariot in charge of a less valiant soldier. The next company was led by Paris, Alcathous, and Agenor; the third by Helenus and Deiphobus, two sons of Priam, and with them was the hero Asius—Asius the son of Hyrtacus, whose great black horses of the breed that comes from the river Selleis had brought him from Arisbe. Aeneas the valiant son of Anchises led the fourth; he and the two sons of Antenor, Archelochus and Acamas, men well versed in all the arts of war. Sarpedon was captain over the allies, and took with him Glaucus and Asteropaeus whom he deemed most valiant after himself—for he was far the best man of them all. These helped to array one another in their ox-hide shields, and then charged straight at the Danaans, for they felt sure that they would not hold out longer and that they should themselves now fall upon the ships.
The rest of the Trojans and their allies now followed the counsel of Polydamas but Asius son of Hyrtacus would not leave his horses and his esquire behind him; in his foolhardiness he took them on with him towards the ships, nor did he fail to come by his end in consequence. Nevermore was he to return to wind-beaten Ilius, exulting in his chariot and his horses; ere he could do so, death of ill-omened name had overshadowed him and he had fallen by the spear of Idomeneus the noble son of Deucalion. He had driven towards the left wing of the ships, by which way the Achaeans used to return with their chariots and horses from the plain. Hither he drove and found the gates with their doors opened wide, and the great bar down—for the gatemen kept them open so as to let those of their com- rades enter who might be flying towards the ships. Hither of set purpose did he direct his horses, and his men fol- lowed him with a loud cry, for they felt sure that the Achaeans would not hold out longer, and that they should now
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fall upon the ships. Little did they know that at the gates they should find two of the bravest chieftains, proud sons of the fighting Lapithae—the one, Polypoetes, mighty son of Pirithous, and the other Leonteus, peer of murderous Mars. These stood before the gates like two high oak trees upon the mountains, that tower from their wide-spread- ing roots, and year after year battle with wind and rain—even so did these two men await the onset of great Asius confidently and without flinching. The Trojans led by him and by Iamenus, Orestes, Adamas the son of Asius, Thoon and Oenomaus, raised a loud cry of battle and made straight for the wall, holding their shields of dry ox- hide above their heads; for a while the two defenders remained inside and cheered the Achaeans on to stand firm in the defence of their ships; when, however, they saw that the Trojans were attacking the wall, while the Danaans were crying out for help and being routed, they rushed outside and fought in front of the gates like two wild boars upon the mountains that abide the attack of men and dogs, and charging on either side break down the wood all round them tearing it up by the roots, and one can hear the clattering of their tusks, till some one hits them and makes an end of them—even so did the gleaming bronze rattle about their breasts, as the weapons fell upon them; for they fought with great fury, trusting to their own prowess and to those who were on the wall above them. These threw great stones at their assailants in defence of themselves their tents and their ships. The stones fell thick as the flakes of snow which some fierce blast drives from the dark clouds and showers down in sheets upon the earth—even so fell the weapons from the hands alike of Trojans and Achaeans. Helmet and shield rang out as the great stones rained upon them, and Asius the son of Hyrtacus in his dismay cried aloud and smote his two thighs. “Father Jove,” he cried, “of a truth you too are altogether given to lying. I made sure the Argive heroes could not withstand us, whereas like slim-waisted wasps, or bees that have their nests in the rocks by the wayside—they leave not the holes wherein they have built undefended, but fight for their little ones against all who would take them — even so these men, though they be but two, will not be driven from the gates, but stand firm either to slay or be slain.”
He spoke, but moved not the mind of Jove, whose counsel it then was to give glory to Hector. Meanwhile the rest of the Trojans were fighting about the other gates; I, however, am no god to be able to tell about all these things, for the battle raged everywhere about the stone wall as it were a fiery furnace. The Argives, discomfited though they were, were forced to defend their ships, and all the gods who were defending the Achaeans were vexed in spirit; but the Lapithae kept on fighting with might and main.
Thereon Polypoetes, mighty son of Pirithous, hit Damasus with a spear upon his cheek-pierced helmet. The helmet did not protect him, for the point of the spear went through it, and broke the bone, so that the brain inside was scattered about, and he died fighting. He then slew Pylon and Ormenus. Leonteus, of the race of Mars, killed Hippomachus the son of Antimachus by striking him with his spear upon the girdle. He then drew his sword and sprang first upon Antiphates whom he killed in combat, and who fell face upwards on the earth. After him he killed Menon, Iamenus, and Orestes, and laid them low one after the other.
While they were busy stripping the armour from these heroes, the youths who were led on by Polydamas and Hector (and these were the greater part and the most valiant of those that were trying to break through the wall and fire the ships) were still standing by the trench, uncertain what they should do; for they had seen a sign from heav- en when they had essayed to cross it—a soaring eagle that flew skirting the left wing of their host, with a monstrous blood-red snake in its talons still alive and struggling to escape. The snake was still bent on revenge, wriggling and twisting itself backwards till it struck the bird that held it, on the neck and breast; whereon the bird being in pain, let it fall, dropping it into the middle of the host, and then flew down the wind with a sharp cry. The Trojans were struck with terror when they saw the snake, portent of aegis-bearing Jove, writhing in the midst of them, and Poly- damas went up to Hector and said, “Hector, at our councils of war you are ever given to rebuke me, even when I speak wisely, as though it were not well, forsooth, that one of the people should cross your will either in the field or at the council board; you would have them support you always: nevertheless I will say what I think will be best; let us not now go on to fight the Danaans at their ships, for I know what will happen if this soaring eagle which skirted the left wing of our with a monstrous blood-red snake in its talons (the snake being still alive) was really sent as an omen to the Trojans on their essaying to cross the trench. The eagle let go her hold; she did not succeed in taking it home to her little ones, and so will it be—with ourselves; even though by a mighty effort we break through the gates and wall of the Achaeans, and they give way before us, still we shall not return in good order by the way we came, but shall leave many a man behind us whom the Achaeans will do to death in defence of their ships. Thus would any seer who was expert in these matters, and was trusted by the people, read the portent.”
Hector looked fiercely at him and said, “Polydamas, I like not of your reading. You can find a better saying than this if you will. If, however, you have spoken in good earnest, then indeed has heaven robbed you of your reason. You would have me pay no heed to the counsels of Jove, nor to the promises he made me—and he bowed his head in confirmation; you bid me be ruled rather by the flight of wild-fowl. What care I whether they fly towards dawn or dark, and whether they be on my right hand or on my left? Let us put our trust rather in the counsel of great Jove, king of mortals and immortals. There is one omen, and one only—that a man should fight for his country. Why are you so fearful? Though we be all of us slain at the ships of the Argives you are not likely to be killed your-
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self, for you are not steadfast nor courageous. If you will. not fight, or would talk others over from doing so, you shall fall forthwith before my spear.”
With these words he led the way, and the others followed after with a cry that rent the air. Then Jove the lord of thunder sent the blast of a mighty wind from the mountains of Ida, that bore the dust down towards the ships; he thus lulled the Achaeans into security, and gave victory to Hector and to the Trojans, who, trusting to their own might and to the signs he had shown them, essayed to break through the great wall of the Achaeans. They tore down the breastworks from the walls, and overthrew the battlements; they upheaved the buttresses, which the Achaeans had set in front of the wall in order to support it; when they had pulled these down they made sure of breaking through the wall, but the Danaans still showed no sign of giving ground; they still fenced the battlements with their shields of ox-hide, and hurled their missiles down upon the foe as soon as any came below the wall.
The two Ajaxes went about everywhere on the walls cheering on the Achaeans, giving fair words to some while they spoke sharply to any one whom they saw to be remiss. “My friends,” they cried, “Argives one and all—good bad and indifferent, for there was never fight yet, in which all were of equal prowess—there is now work enough, as you very well know, for all of you. See that you none of you turn in flight towards the ships, daunted by the shouting of the foe, but press forward and keep one another in heart, if it may so be that Olympian Jove the lord of lightning will vouchsafe us to repel our foes, and drive them back towards the city.”
Thus did the two go about shouting and cheering the Achaeans on. As the flakes that fall thick upon a winter’s day, when Jove is minded to snow and to display these his arrows to mankind—he lulls the wind to rest, and snows hour after hour till he has buried the tops of the high mountains, the headlands that jut into the sea, the grassy plains, and the tilled fields of men; the snow lies deep upon the forelands, and havens of the grey sea, but the waves as they come rolling in stay it that it can come no further, though all else is wrapped as with a mantle so heavy are the heavens with snow—even thus thickly did the stones fall on one side and on the other, some thrown at the Tro- jans, and some by the Trojans at the Achaeans; and the whole wall was in an uproar.
Still the Trojans and brave Hector would not yet have broken down the gates and the great bar, had not Jove turned his son Sarpedon against the Argives as a lion against a herd of horned cattle. Before him he held his shield of hammered bronze, that the smith had beaten so fair and round, and had lined with ox hides which he had made fast with rivets of gold all round the shield; this he held in front of him, and brandishing his two spears came on like some lion of the wilderness, who has been long famished for want of meat and will dare break even into a well-fenced homestead to try and get at the sheep. He may find the shepherds keeping watch over their flocks with dogs and spears, but he is in no mind to be driven from the fold till he has had a try for it; he will either spring on a sheep and carry it off, or be hit by a spear from strong hand—even so was Sarpedon fain to attack the wall and break down its battlements. Then he said to Glaucus son of Hippolochus, “Glaucus, why in Lycia do we receive especial honour as regards our place at table? Why are the choicest portions served us and our cups kept brimming, and why do men look up to us as though we were gods? Moreover we hold a large estate by the banks of the river Xanthus, fair with orchard lawns and wheat-growing land; it becomes us, therefore, to take our stand at the head of all the Lycians and bear the brunt of the fight, that one may say to another, Our princes in Lycia eat the fat of the land and drink best of wine, but they are fine fellows; they fight well and are ever at the front in battle.’ My good friend, if, when we were once out of this fight, we could escape old age and death thenceforward and for ever, I should neither press forward myself nor bid you do so, but death in ten thousand shapes hangs ever over our heads, and no man can elude him; therefore let us go forward and either win glory for ourselves, or yield it to another.”
Glaucus heeded his saying, and the pair forthwith led on the host of Lycians. Menestheus son of Peteos was dismayed when he saw them, for it was against his part of the wall that they came—bringing destruction with them; he looked along the wall for some chieftain to support his comrades and saw the two Ajaxes, men ever eager for the fray, and Teucer, who had just come from his tent, standing near them; but he could not make his voice heard by shouting to them, so great an uproar was there from crashing shields and helmets and the battering of gates with a din which reached the skies. For all the gates had been closed, and the Trojans were hammering at them to try and break their way through them. Menestheus, therefore, sent Thootes with a message to Ajax. “Run, good Thootes,” said and call Ajax, or better still bid both come, for it will be all over with us here directly; the leaders of the Lycians are upon us, men who have ever fought desperately heretofore. But if the have too much on their hands to let them come, at any rate let Ajax son of Telamon do so, and let Teucer the famous bowman come with him.”
The messenger did as he was told, and set off running along the wall of the Achaeans. When he reached the Ajaxes he said to them, “Sirs, princes of the Argives, the son of noble Peteos bids you come to him for a while and help him. You had better both come if you can, or it will be all over with him directly; the leaders of the Lycians are upon him, men who have ever fought desperately heretofore; if you have too much on your hands to let both come, at any rate let Ajax son of Telamon do so, and let Teucer the famous bowman come with him.”
Great Ajax, son of Telamon, heeded the message, and at once spoke to the son of Oileus. “Ajax,” said he, “do you two, yourself and brave Lycomedes, stay here and keep the Danaans in heart to fight their hardest. I will go over
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yonder, and bear my part in the fray, but I will come back here at once as soon as I have given them the help they need.”
With this, Ajax son of Telamon set off, and Teucer his brother by the same father went also, with Pandion to carry Teucer’s bow. They went along inside the wall, and when they came to the tower where Menestheus was (and hard pressed indeed did they find him) the brave captains and leaders of the Lycians were storming the battlements as it were a thick dark cloud, fighting in close quarters, and raising the battle-cry aloud.
First, Ajax son of Telamon killed brave Epicles, a comrade of Sarpedon, hitting him with a jagged stone that lay by the battlements at the very top of the wall. As men now are, even one who is in the bloom of youth could hardly lift it with his two hands, but Ajax raised it high aloft and flung it down, smashing Epicles’ four-crested helmet so that the bones of his head were crushed to pieces, and he fell from the high wall as though he were diving, with no more life left in him. Then Teucer wounded Glaucus the brave son of Hippolochus as he was coming on to attack the wall. He saw his shoulder bare and aimed an arrow at it, which made Glaucus leave off fighting. Thereon he sprang covertly down for fear some of the Achaeans might see that he was wounded and taunt him. Sarpedon was stung with grief when he saw Glaucus leave him, still he did not leave off fighting, but aimed his spear at Alcma- on the son of Thestor and hit him. He drew his spear back again Alcmaon came down headlong after it with his bronzed armour rattling round him. Then Sarpedon seized the battlement in his strong hands, and tugged at it till it an gave way together, and a breach was made through which many might pass.
Ajax and Teucer then both of them attacked him. Teucer hit him with an arrow on the band that bore the shield which covered his body, but Jove saved his son from destruction that he might not fall by the ships’ sterns. Mean- while Ajax sprang on him and pierced his shield, but the spear did not go clean through, though it hustled him back that he could come on no further. He therefore retired a little space from the battlement, yet without losing all his ground, for he still thought to cover himself with glory. Then he turned round and shouted to the brave Lycians saying, “Lycians, why do you thus fail me? For all my prowess I cannot break through the wall and open a way to the ships single-handed. Come close on behind me, for the more there are of us the better.”
The Lycians, shamed by his rebuke, pressed closer round him who was their counsellor their king. The Argives on their part got their men in fighting order within the wall, and there was a deadly struggle between them. The Lycians could not break through the wall and force their way to the ships, nor could the Danaans drive the Lycians from the wall now that they had once reached it. As two men, measuring-rods in hand, quarrel about their bound- aries in a field that they own in common, and stickle for their rights though they be but in a mere strip, even so did the battlements now serve as a bone of contention, and they beat one another’s round shields for their possession. Many a man’s body was wounded with the pitiless bronze, as he turned round and bared his back to the foe, and many were struck clean through their shields; the wall and battlements were everywhere deluged with the blood alike of Trojans and of Achaeans. But even so the Trojans could not rout the Achaeans, who still held on; and as some honest hard-working woman weighs wool in her balance and sees that the scales be true, for she would gain some pitiful earnings for her little ones, even so was the fight balanced evenly between them till the time came when Jove gave the greater glory to Hector son of Priam, who was first to spring towards the wall of the Achaeans. As he did so, he cried aloud to the Trojans, “Up, Trojans, break the wall of the Argives, and fling fire upon their ships.”
Thus did he hound them on, and in one body they rushed straight at the wall as he had bidden them, and scaled the battlements with sharp spears in their hands. Hector laid hold of a stone that lay just outside the gates and was thick at one end but pointed at the other; two of the best men in a town, as men now are, could hardly raise it from the ground and put it on to a waggon, but Hector lifted it quite easily by himself, for the son of scheming Saturn made it light for him. As a shepherd picks up a ram’s fleece with one hand and finds it no burden, so easily did Hector lift the great stone and drive it right at the doors that closed the gates so strong and so firmly set. These doors were double and high, and were kept closed by two cross-bars to which there was but one key. When he had got close up to them, Hector strode towards them that his blow might gain in force and struck them in the middle, leaning his whole weight against them. He broke both hinges, and the stone fell inside by reason of its great weight. The portals re-echoed with the sound, the bars held no longer, and the doors flew open, one one way, and the other the other, through the force of the blow. Then brave Hector leaped inside with a face as dark as that of flying night. The gleaming bronze flashed fiercely about his body and he had tow spears in his hand. None but a god could have withstood him as he flung himself into the gateway, and his eyes glared like fire. Then he turned round towards the Trojans and called on them to scale the wall, and they did as he bade them—some of them at once climbing over the wall, while others passed through the gates. The Danaans then fled panic-stricken towards their ships, and all was uproar and confusion.
Book XIII
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NOW when Jove had thus brought Hector and the Trojans to the ships, he left them to their never-ending toil, and turned his keen eyes away, looking elsewhither towards the horse-breeders of Thrace, the Mysians, fighters at close quarters, the noble Hippemolgi, who live on milk, and the Abians, justest of mankind. He no longer turned so much as a glance towards Troy, for he did not think that any of the immortals would go and help either Trojans or Danaans.
But King Neptune had kept no blind look-out; he had been looking admiringly on the battle from his seat on the topmost crests of wooded Samothrace, whence he could see all Ida, with the city of Priam and the ships of the Achaeans. He had come from under the sea and taken his place here, for he pitied the Achaeans who were being overcome by the Trojans; and he was furiously angry with Jove.
Presently he came down from his post on the mountain top, and as he strode swiftly onwards the high hills and the forest quaked beneath the tread of his immortal feet. Three strides he took, and with the fourth he reached his goal—Aegae, where is his glittering golden palace, imperishable, in the depths of the sea. When he got there, he yoked his fleet brazen-footed steeds with their manes of gold all flying in the wind; he clothed himself in raiment of gold, grasped his gold whip, and took his stand upon his chariot. As he went his way over the waves the sea-mon- sters left their lairs, for they knew their lord, and came gambolling round him from every quarter of the deep, while the sea in her gladness opened a path before his chariot. So lightly did the horses fly that the bronze axle of the car was not even wet beneath it; and thus his bounding steeds took him to the ships of the Achaeans.
Now there is a certain huge cavern in the depths of the sea midway between Tenedos and rocky Imbrus; here Neptune lord of the earthquake stayed his horses, unyoked them, and set before them their ambrosial forage. He hobbled their feet with hobbles of gold which none could either unloose or break, so that they might stay there in that place until their lord should return. This done he went his way to the host of the Achaeans.
Now the Trojans followed Hector son of Priam in close array like a storm-cloud or flame of fire, fighting with might and main and raising the cry battle; for they deemed that they should take the ships of the Achaeans and kill all their chiefest heroes then and there. Meanwhile earth-encircling Neptune lord of the earthquake cheered on the Argives, for he had come up out of the sea and had assumed the form and voice of Calchas.
First he spoke to the two Ajaxes, who were doing their best already, and said, “Ajaxes, you two can be the saving of the Achaeans if you will put out all your strength and not let yourselves be daunted. I am not afraid that the Trojans, who have got over the wall in force, will be victorious in any other part, for the Achaeans can hold all of them in check, but I much fear that some evil will befall us here where furious Hector, who boasts himself the son of great Jove himself, is leading them on like a pillar of flame. May some god, then, put it into your hearts to make a firm stand here, and to incite others to do the like. In this case you will drive him from the ships even though he be inspired by Jove himself.”
As he spoke the earth-encircling lord of the earthquake struck both of them with his sceptre and filled their hearts with daring. He made their legs light and active, as also their hands and their feet. Then, as the soaring falcon poises on the wing high above some sheer rock, and presently swoops down to chase some bird over the plain, even so did Neptune lord of the earthquake wing his flight into the air and leave them. Of the two, swift Ajax son of Oil- eus was the first to know who it was that had been speaking with them, and said to Ajax son of Telamon, “Ajax, this is one of the gods that dwell on Olympus, who in the likeness of the prophet is bidding us fight hard by our ships. It was not Calchas the seer and diviner of omens; I knew him at once by his feet and knees as he turned away, for the gods are soon recognised. Moreover I feel the lust of battle burn more fiercely within me, while my hands and my feet under me are more eager for the fray.”
And Ajax son of Telamon answered, “I too feel my hands grasp my spear more firmly; my strength is greater, and my feet more nimble; I long, moreover, to meet furious Hector son of Priam, even in single combat.”
Thus did they converse, exulting in the hunger after battle with which the god had filled them. Meanwhile the earth-encircler roused the Achaeans, who were resting in the rear by the ships overcome at once by hard fighting and by grief at seeing that the Trojans had got over the wall in force. Tears began falling from their eyes as they be- held them, for they made sure that they should not escape destruction; but the lord of the earthquake passed lightly about among them and urged their battalions to the front.
First he went up to Teucer and Leitus, the hero Peneleos, and Thoas and Deipyrus; Meriones also and Antilo- chus, valiant warriors; all did he exhort. “Shame on you young Argives,” he cried, “it was on your prowess I relied for the saving of our ships; if you fight not with might and main, this very day will see us overcome by the Trojans. Of a truth my eyes behold a great and terrible portent which I had never thought to see—the Trojans at our ships— they, who were heretofore like panic-stricken hinds, the prey of jackals and wolves in a forest, with no strength but in flight for they cannot defend themselves. Hitherto the Trojans dared not for one moment face the attack of the Achaeans, but now they have sallied far from their city and are fighting at our very ships through the cowardice of our leader and the disaffection of the people themselves, who in their discontent care not to fight in defence of the ships but are being slaughtered near them. True, King Agamemnon son of Atreus is the cause of our disaster by
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having insulted the son of Peleus, still this is no reason why we should leave off fighting. Let us be quick to heal, for the hearts of the brave heal quickly. You do ill to be thus remiss, you, who are the finest soldiers in our whole army. I blame no man for keeping out of battle if he is a weakling, but I am indignant with such men as you are. My good friends, matters will soon become even worse through this slackness; think, each one of you, of his own honour and credit, for the hazard of the fight is extreme. Great Hector is now fighting at our ships; he has broken through the gates and the strong bolt that held them.”
Thus did the earth-encircler address the Achaeans and urge them on. Thereon round the two Ajaxes there gath- ered strong bands of men, of whom not even Mars nor Minerva, marshaller of hosts could make light if they went among them, for they were the picked men of all those who were now awaiting the onset of Hector and the Trojans. They made a living fence, spear to spear, shield to shield, buckler to buckler, helmet to helmet, and man to man. The horse-hair crests on their gleaming helmets touched one another as they nodded forward, so closely seffied were they; the spears they brandished in their strong hands were interlaced, and their hearts were set on battle.
The Trojans advanced in a dense body, with Hector at their head pressing right on as a rock that comes thun- dering down the side of some mountain from whose brow the winter torrents have torn it; the foundations of the dull thing have been loosened by floods of rain, and as it bounds headlong on its way it sets the whole forest in an uproar; it swerves neither to right nor left till it reaches level ground, but then for all its fury it can go no further— even so easily did Hector for a while seem as though he would career through the tents and ships of the Achaeans till he had reached the sea in his murderous course; but the closely serried battalions stayed him when he reached them, for the sons of the Achaeans thrust at him with swords and spears pointed at both ends, and drove him from them so that he staggered and gave ground; thereon he shouted to the Trojans, “Trojans, Lycians, and Dardanians, fighters in close combat, stand firm: the Achaeans have set themselves as a wall against me, but they will not check me for long; they will give ground before me if the mightiest of the gods, the thundering spouse of Juno, has indeed inspired my onset.”
With these words he put heart and soul into them all. Deiphobus son of Priam went about among them intent on deeds of daring with his round shield before him, under cover of which he strode quickly forward. Meriones took aim at him with a spear, nor did he fail to hit the broad orb of ox-hide; but he was far from piercing it for the spear broke in two pieces long ere he could do so; moreover Deiphobus had seen it coming and had held his shield well away from him. Meriones drew back under cover of his comrades, angry alike at having failed to vanquish Deiphobus, and having broken his spear. He turned therefore towards the ships and tents to fetch a spear which he had left behind in his tent.
The others continued fighting, and the cry of battle rose up into the heavens. Teucer son of Telamon was the first to kill his man, to wit, the warrior Imbrius son of Mentor rich in horses. Until the Achaeans came he had lived in Pedaeum, and had married Medesicaste a bastard daughter of Priam; but on the arrival of the Danaan fleet he had gone back to Ilius, and was a great man among the Trojans, dwelling near Priam himself, who gave him like honour with his own sons. The son of Telamon now struck him under the ear with a spear which he then drew back again, and Imbrius fell headlong as an ash-tree when it is felled on the crest of some high mountain beacon, and its delicate green foliage comes toppling down to the ground. Thus did he fall with his bronze-dight armour ringing harshly round him, and Teucer sprang forward with intent to strip him of his armour; but as he was doing so, Hector took aim at him with a spear. Teucer saw the spear coming and swerved aside, whereon it hit Amphima- chus, son of Cteatus son of Actor, in the chest as he was coming into battle, and his armour rang rattling round him as he fell heavily to the ground. Hector sprang forward to take Amphimachus’s helmet from off his temples, and in a moment Ajax threw a spear at him, but did not wound him, for he was encased all over in his terrible armour; nevertheless the spear struck the boss of his shield with such force as to drive him back from the two corpses, which the Achaeans then drew off. Stichius and Menestheus, captains of the Athenians, bore away Amphimachus to the host of the Achaeans, while the two brave and impetuous Ajaxes did the like by Imbrius. As two lions snatch a goat from the hounds that have it in their fangs, and bear it through thick brushwood high above the ground in their jaws, thus did the Ajaxes bear aloft the body of Imbrius, and strip it of its armour. Then the son of Oileus severed the head from the neck in revenge for the death of Amphimachus, and sent it whirling over the crowd as though it had been a ball, till fell in the dust at Hector’s feet.
Neptune was exceedingly angry that his grandson Amphimachus should have fallen; he therefore went to the tents and ships of the Achaeans to urge the Danaans still further, and to devise evil for the Trojans. Idomeneus met him, as he was taking leave of a comrade, who had just come to him from the fight, wounded in the knee. His fellow-soldiers bore him off the field, and Idomeneus having given orders to the physicians went on to his tent, for he was still thirsting for battle. Neptune spoke in the likeness and with the voice of Thoas son of Andraemon who ruled the Aetolians of all Pleuron and high Calydon, and was honoured among his people as though he were a god. “Idomeneus,” said he, “lawgiver to the Cretans, what has now become of the threats with which the sons of the Achaeans used to threaten the Trojans?”
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And Idomeneus chief among the Cretans answered, “Thoas, no one, so far as I know, is in fault, for we can all fight. None are held back neither by fear nor slackness, but it seems to be the of almighty Jove that the Achaeans should perish ingloriously here far from Argos: you, Thoas, have been always staunch, and you keep others in heart if you see any fail in duty; be not then remiss now, but exhort all to do their utmost.”
To this Neptune lord of the earthquake made answer, “Idomeneus, may he never return from Troy, but remain here for dogs to batten upon, who is this day wilfully slack in fighting. Get your armour and go, we must make all haste together if we may be of any use, though we are only two. Even cowards gain courage from companionship, and we two can hold our own with the bravest.”
Therewith the god went back into the thick of the fight, and Idomeneus when he had reached his tent donned his armour, grasped his two spears, and sallied forth. As the lightning which the son of Saturn brandishes from bright Olympus when he would show a sign to mortals, and its gleam flashes far and wide—even so did his armour gleam about him as he ran. Meriones his sturdy squire met him while he was still near his tent (for he was going to fetch his spear) and Idomeneus said
“Meriones, fleet son of Molus, best of comrades, why have you left the field? Are you wounded, and is the point of the weapon hurting you? or have you been sent to fetch me? I want no fetching; I had far rather fight than stay in my tent.”
“Idomeneus,” answered Meriones, “I come for a spear, if I can find one in my tent; I have broken the one I had, in throwing it at the shield of Deiphobus.”
And Idomeneus captain of the Cretans answered, “You will find one spear, or twenty if you so please, standing up against the end wall of my tent. I have taken them from Trojans whom I have killed, for I am not one to keep my enemy at arm’s length; therefore I have spears, bossed shields, helmets, and burnished corslets.”
Then Meriones said, “I too in my tent and at my ship have spoils taken from the Trojans, but they are not at hand. I have been at all times valorous, and wherever there has been hard fighting have held my own among the foremost. There may be those among the Achaeans who do not know how I fight, but you know it well enough yourself.”
Idomeneus answered, “I know you for a brave man: you need not tell me. If the best men at the ships were being chosen to go on an ambush—and there is nothing like this for showing what a man is made of; it comes out then who is cowardly and who brave; the coward will change colour at every touch and turn; he is full of fears, and keeps shifting his weight first on one knee and then on the other; his heart beats fast as he thinks of death, and one can hear the chattering of his teeth; whereas the brave man will not change colour nor be on finding himself in ambush, but is all the time longing to go into action—if the best men were being chosen for such a service, no one could make light of your courage nor feats of arms. If you were struck by a dart or smitten in close combat, it would not be from behind, in your neck nor back, but the weapon would hit you in the chest or belly as you were pressing forward to a place in the front ranks. But let us no longer stay here talking like children, lest we be ill spoken of; go, fetch your spear from the tent at once.”
On this Meriones, peer of Mars, went to the tent and got himself a spear of bronze. He then followed after Idomeneus, big with great deeds of valour. As when baneful Mars sallies forth to battle, and his son Panic so strong and dauntless goes with him, to strike terror even into the heart of a hero—the pair have gone from Thrace to arm themselves among the Ephyri or the brave Phlegyans, but they will not listen to both the contending hosts, and will give victory to one side or to the other—even so did Meriones and Idomeneus, captains of men, go out to battle clad in their bronze armour. Meriones was first to speak. “Son of Deucalion,” said he, “where would you have us begin fighting? On the right wing of the host, in the centre, or on the left wing, where I take it the Achaeans will be weakest?”
Idomeneus answered, “There are others to defend the centre—the two Ajaxes and Teucer, who is the finest archer of all the Achaeans, and is good also in a hand-to-hand fight. These will give Hector son of Priam enough to do; fight as he may, he will find it hard to vanquish their indomitable fury, and fire the ships, unless the son of Saturn fling a firebrand upon them with his own hand. Great Ajax son of Telamon will yield to no man who is in mortal mould and eats the grain of Ceres, if bronze and great stones can overthrow him. He would not yield even to Achilles in hand-to-hand fight, and in fleetness of foot there is none to beat him; let us turn therefore towards the left wing, that we may know forthwith whether we are to give glory to some other, or he to us.”
Meriones, peer of fleet Mars, then led the way till they came to the part of the host which Idomeneus had named.
Now when the Trojans saw Idomeneus coming on like a flame of fire, him and his squire clad in their richly wrought armour, they shouted and made towards him all in a body, and a furious hand-to-hand fight raged under the ships’ sterns. Fierce as the shrill winds that whistle upon a day when dust lies deep on the roads, and the gusts raise it into a thick cloud—even such was the fury of the combat, and might and main did they hack at each oth- er with spear and sword throughout the host. The field bristled with the long and deadly spears which they bore.
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Dazzling was the sheen of their gleaming helmets, their fresh-burnished breastplates, and glittering shields as they joined battle with one another. Iron indeed must be his courage who could take pleasure in the sight of such a tur- moil, and look on it without being dismayed.
Thus did the two mighty sons of Saturn devise evil for mortal heroes. Jove was minded to give victory to the Trojans and to Hector, so as to do honour to fleet Achilles, nevertheless he did not mean to utterly overthrow the Achaean host before Ilius, and only wanted to glorify Thetis and her valiant son. Neptune on the other hand went about among the Argives to incite them, having come up from the grey sea in secret, for he was grieved at seeing them vanquished by the Trojans, and was furiously angry with Jove. Both were of the same race and country, but Jove was elder born and knew more, therefore Neptune feared to defend the Argives openly, but in the likeness of man, he kept on encouraging them throughout their host. Thus, then, did these two devise a knot of war and battle, that none could unloose or break, and set both sides tugging at it, to the failing of men’s knees beneath them.
And now Idomeneus, though his hair was already flecked with grey, called loud on the Danaans and spread panic among the Trojans as he leaped in among them. He slew Othryoneus from Cabesus, a sojourner, who had but lately come to take part in the war. He sought Cassandra the fairest of Priam’s daughters in marriage, but offered no gifts of wooing, for he promised a great thing, to wit, that he would drive the sons of the Achaeans willy nilly from Troy; old King Priam had given his consent and promised her to him, whereon he fought on the strength of the promises thus made to him. Idomeneus aimed a spear, and hit him as he came striding on. His cuirass of bronze did not protect him, and the spear stuck in his belly, so that he fell heavily to the ground. Then Idomeneus vaunted over him saying, “Othryoneus, there is no one in the world whom I shall admire more than I do you, if you indeed perform what you have promised Priam son of Dardanus in return for his daughter. We too will make you an offer; we will give you the loveliest daughter of the son of Atreus, and will bring her from Argos for you to marry, if you will sack the goodly city of Ilius in company with ourselves; so come along with me, that we may make a covenant at the ships about the marriage, and we will not be hard upon you about gifts of wooing.”
With this Idomeneus began dragging him by the foot through the thick of the fight, but Asius came up to protect the body, on foot, in front of his horses which his esquire drove so close behind him that he could feel their ‘breath upon his shoulder. He was longing to strike down Idomeneus, but ere he could do so Idomeneus smote him with his spear in the throat under the chin, and the bronze point went clean through it. He fell as an oak, or poplar, or pine which shipwrights have felled for ship’s timber upon the mountains with whetted axes—even thus did he lie full length in front of his chariot and horses, grinding his teeth and clutching at the bloodstained just. His chario- teer was struck with panic and did not dare turn his horses round and escape: thereupon Antilochus hit him in the middle of his body with a spear; his cuirass of bronze did not protect him, and the spear stuck in his belly. He fell gasping from his chariot and Antilochus great Nestor’s son, drove his horses from the Trojans to the Achaeans.
Deiphobus then came close up to Idomeneus to avenge Asius, and took aim at him with a spear, but Idomene- us was on the look-out and avoided it, for he was covered by the round shield he always bore—a shield of oxhide and bronze with two arm-rods on the inside. He crouched under cover of this, and the spear flew over him, but the shield rang out as the spear grazed it, and the weapon sped not in vain from the strong hand of Deiphobus, for it struck Hypsenor son of Hippasus, shepherd of his people, in the liver under the midriff, and his limbs failed beneath him. Deiphobus vaunted over him and cried with a loud voice saying, “Of a truth Asius has not fallen un- avenied; he will be glad even while passing into the house of Hades, strong warden of the gate, that I have sent some one to escort him.”
Thus did he vaunt, and the Argives were stung by his saying. Noble Antilochus was more angry than any one, but grief did not make him forget his friend and comrade. He ran up to him, bestrode him, and covered him with his shield; then two of his staunch comrades, Mecisteus son of Echius, and Alastor stooped down, and bore him away groaning heavily to the ships. But Idomeneus ceased not his fury. He kept on striving continually either to enshroud some Trojan in the darkness of death, or himself to fall while warding off the evil day from the Achae- ans. Then fell Alcathous son of noble Aesyetes: he was son-in-law to Anchises, having married his eldest daughter Hippodameia who was the darling of her father and mother, and excelled all her generation in beauty, accomplish- ments, and understanding, wherefore the bravest man in all Troy had taken her to wife—him did Neptune lay low by the hand of Idomeneus, blinding his bright eyes and binding his strong limbs in fetters so that he could neither go back nor to one side, but stood stock still like pillar or lofty tree when Idomeneus struck him with a spear in the middle of his chest. The coat of mail that had hitherto protected his body was now broken, and rang harshly as the spear tore through it. He fell heavily to the ground, and the spear stuck in his heart, which still beat, and made the butt-end of the spear quiver till dread Mars put an end to his life. Idomeneus vaunted over him and cried with a loud voice saying, “Deiphobus, since you are in a mood to vaunt, shall we cry quits now that we have killed three men to your one? Nay, sir, stand in fight with me yourself, that you may learn what manner of Jove-begotten man am I that have come hither. Jove first begot Minos chief ruler in Crete, and Minos in his turn begot a son, noble Deucalion; Deucalion begot me to be a ruler over many men in Crete, and my ships have now brought me hither, to
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be the bane of yourself, your father, and the Trojans.” Thus did he speak, and Deiphobus was in two minds, whether to go back and fetch some other Trojan to help
him, or to take up the challenge single-handed. In the end, he deemed it best to go and fetch Aeneas, whom he found standing in the rear, for he had long been aggrieved with Priam because in spite his brave deeds he did not give him his due share of honour. Deiphobus went up to him and said, “Aeneas, prince among the Trojans, if you know any ties of kinship, help me now to defend the body of your sister’s husband; come with me to the rescue of Alcathous, who being husband to your sister brought you up when you were a child in his house, and now Idome- neus has slain him.”
With these words he moved the heart of Aeneas, and he went in pursuit of Idomeneus, big with great deeds of valour; but Idomeneus was not to be thus daunted as though he were a mere child; he held his ground as a wild boar at bay upon the mountains, who abides the coming of a great crowd of men in some lonely place—the bris- tles stand upright on his back, his eyes flash fire, and he whets his tusks in his eagerness to defend himself against hounds and men—even so did famed Idomeneus hold his ground and budge not at the coming of Aeneas. He cried aloud to his comrades looking towards Ascalaphus, Aphareus, Deipyrus, Meriones, and Antilochus, all of them brave soldiers—“Hither my friends,” he cried, “and leave me not single-handed—I go in great fear by fleet Aeneas, who is coming against me, and is a redoubtable dispenser of death battle. Moreover he is in the flower of youth when a man’s strength is greatest; if I was of the same age as he is and in my present mind, either he or I should soon bear away the prize of victory
On this, all of them as one man stood near him, shield on shoulder. Aeneas on the other side called to his comrades, looking towards Deiphobus, Paris, and Agenor, who were leaders of the Trojans along with himself, and the people followed them as sheep follow the ram when they go down to drink after they have been feeding, and the heart of the shepherd is glad—even so was the heart of Aeneas gladdened when he saw his people follow him.
Then they fought furiously in close combat about the body of Alcathous, wielding their long spears; and the bronze armour about their bodies rang fearfully as they took aim at one another in the press of the fight, while the two heroes Aeneas and Idomeneus, peers of Mars, outxied every one in their desire to hack at each other with sword and spear. Aeneas took aim first, but Idomeneus was on the lookout and avoided the spear, so that it sped from Aeneas’ strong hand in vain, and fell quivering in the ground. Idomeneus meanwhile smote Oenomaus in the middle of his belly, and broke the plate of his corslet, whereon his bowels came gushing out and he clutched the earth in the palms of his hands as he fell sprawling in the dust. Idomeneus drew his spear out of the body, but could not strip him of the rest of his armour for the rain of darts that were showered upon him: moreover his strength was now beginning to fail him so that he could no longer charge, and could neither spring forward to recover his own weapon nor swerve aside to avoid one that was aimed at him; therefore, though he still defended himself in hand-to-hand fight, his heavy feet could not bear him swiftly out of the battle. Deiphobus aimed a spear at him as he was retreating slowly from the field, for his bitterness against him was as fierce as ever, but again he missed him, and hit Ascalaphus, the son of Mars; the spear went through his shoulder, and he clutched the earth in the palms of his hands as he fell sprawling in the dust.
Grim Mars of awful voice did not yet know that his son had fallen, for he was sitting on the summits of Olym- pus under the golden clouds, by command of Jove, where the other gods were also sitting, forbidden to take part in the battle. Meanwhile men fought furiously about the body. Deiphobus tore the helmet from off his head, but Meriones sprang upon him, and struck him on the arm with a spear so that the visored helmet fell from his hand and came ringing down upon the ground. Thereon Meriones sprang upon him like a vulture, drew the spear from his shoulder, and fell back under cover of his men. Then Polites, own brother of Deiphobus passed his arms around his waist, and bore him away from the battle till he got to his horses that were standing in the rear of the fight with the chariot and their driver. These took him towards the city groaning and in great pain, with the blood flowing from his arm.
The others still fought on, and the battle-cry rose to heaven without ceasing. Aeneas sprang on Aphareus son of Caletor, and struck him with a spear in his throat which was turned towards him; his head fell on one side, his hel- met and shield came down along with him, and death, life’s foe, was shed around him. Antilochus spied his chance, flew forward towards Thoon, and wounded him as he was turning round. He laid open the vein that runs all the way up the back to the neck; he cut this vein clean away throughout its whole course, and Thoon fell in the dust face upwards, stretching out his hands imploringly towards his comrades. Antilochus sprang upon him and stripped the armour from his shoulders, glaring round him fearfully as he did so. The Trojans came about him on every side and struck his broad and gleaming shield, but could not wound his body, for Neptune stood guard over the son of Nestor, though the darts fell thickly round him. He was never clear of the foe, but was always in the thick of the fight; his spear was never idle; he poised and aimed it in every direction, so eager was he to hit some one from a distance or to fight him hand to hand.
As he was thus aiming among the crowd, he was seen by Adamas son of Asius, who rushed towards him and
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struck him with a spear in the middle of his shield, but Neptune made its point without effect, for he grudged him the life of Antilochus. One half, therefore, of the spear stuck fast like a charred stake in Antilochus’s shield, while the other lay on the ground. Adamas then sought shelter under cover of his men, but Meriones followed after and hit him with a spear midway between the private parts and the navel, where a wound is particualrly painful to wretched mortals. There did Meriones transfix him, and he writhed convulsively about the spear as some bull whom mountain herdsmen have bound with ropes of withes and are taking away perforce. Even so did he move convulsively for a while, but not for very long, till Meriones came up and drew the spear out of his body, and his eyes were veiled in darkness.
Helenus then struck Deipyrus with a great Thracian sword, hitting him on the temple in close combat and tear- ing the helmet from his head; the helmet fell to the ground, and one of those who were fighting on the Achaean side took charge of it as it rolled at his feet, but the eyes of Deipyrus were closed in the darkness of death.
On this Menelaus was grieved, and made menacingly towards Helenus, brandishing his spear; but Helenus drew his bow, and the two attacked one another at one and the same moment, the one with his spear, and the other with his bow and arrow. The son of Priam hit the breastplate of Menelaus’s corslet, but the arrow glanced from off it. As black beans or pulse come pattering down on to a threshing-floor from the broad winnowing-shovel, blown by shrill winds and shaken by the shovel—even so did the arrow glance off and recoil from the shield of Menelaus, who in his turn wounded the hand with which Helenus carried his bow; the spear went right through his hand and stuck in the bow itself, so that to his life he retreated under cover of his men, with his hand dragging by his side— for the spear weighed it down till Agenor drew it out and bound the hand carefully up in a woollen sling which his esquire had with him.
Pisander then made straight at Menelaus—his evil destiny luring him on to his doom, for he was to fall in fight with you, O Menelaus. When the two were hard by one another the spear of the son of Atreus turned aside and he missed his aim; Pisander then struck the shield of brave Menelaus but could not pierce it, for the shield stayed the spear and broke the shaft; nevertheless he was glad and made sure of victory; forthwith, however, the son of Atreus drew his sword and sprang upon him. Pisander then seized the bronze battle-axe, with its long and polished handle of olive wood that hung by his side under his shield, and the two made at one another. Pisander struck the peak of Menelaus’s crested helmet just under the crest itself, and Menelaus hit Pisander as he was coming towards him, on the forehead, just at the rise of his nose; the bones cracked and his two gore-bedrabbled eyes fell by his feet in the dust. He fell backwards to the ground, and Menelaus set his heel upon him, stripped him of his armour, and vaunted over him saying, “Even thus shall you Trojans leave the ships of the Achaeans, proud and insatiate of battle though you be: nor shall you lack any of the disgrace and shame which you have heaped upon myself. Cowardly she-wolves that you are, you feared not the anger of dread Jove, avenger of violated hospitality, who will one day destroy your city; you stole my wedded wife and wickedly carried off much treasure when you were her guest, and now you would fling fire upon our ships, and kill our heroes. A day will come when, rage as you may, you shall be stayed. O father Jove, you, who they say art above all both gods and men in wisdom, and from whom all things that befall us do proceed, how can you thus favour the Trojans—men so proud and overweening, that they are never tired of fighting? All things pall after a while—sleep, love, sweet song, and stately dance—still these are things of which a man would surely have his fill rather than of battle, whereas it is of battle that the Trojans are insatiate.”
So saying Menelaus stripped the blood-stained armour from the body of Pisander, and handed it over to his men; then he again ranged himself among those who were in the front of the fight.
Harpalion son of King Pylaemenes then sprang upon him; he had come to fight at Troy along with his father, but he did not go home again. He struck the middle of Menelaus’s shield with his spear but could not pierce it, and to save his life drew back under cover of his men, looking round him on every side lest he should be wounded. But Meriones aimed a bronze-tipped arrow at him as he was leaving the field, and hit him on the right buttock; the arrow pierced the bone through and through, and penetrated the bladder, so he sat down where he was and breathed his last in the arms of his comrades, stretched like a worm upon the ground and watering the earth with the blood that flowed from his wound. The brave Paphlagonians tended him with all due care; they raised him into his chariot, and bore him sadly off to the city of Troy; his father went also with him weeping bitterly, but there was no ransom that could bring his dead son to life again.
Paris was deeply grieved by the death of Harpalion, who was his host when he went among the Paphlagonians; he aimed an arrow, therefore, in order to avenge him. Now there was a certain man named Euchenor, son of Poly- idus the prophet, a brave man and wealthy, whose home was in Corinth. This Euchenor had set sail for Troy well knowing that it would be the death of him, for his good old father Polyidus had often told him that he must either stay at home and die of a terrible disease, or go with the Achaeans and perish at the hands of the Trojans; he chose, therefore, to avoid incurring the heavy fine the Achaeans would have laid upon him, and at the same time to escape the pain and suffering of disease. Paris now smote him on the jaw under his ear, whereon the life went out of him and he was enshrouded in the darkness of death.
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Thus then did they fight as it were a flaming fire. But Hector had not yet heard, and did not know that the Argives were making havoc of his men on the left wing of the battle, where the Achaeans ere long would have triumphed over them, so vigorously did Neptune cheer them on and help them. He therefore held on at the point where he had first forced his way through the gates and the wall, after breaking through the serried ranks of Da- naan warriors. It was here that the ships of Ajax and Protesilaus were drawn up by the sea-shore; here the wall was at its lowest, and the fight both of man and horse raged most fiercely. The Boeotians and the Ionians with their long tunics, the Locrians, the men of Phthia, and the famous force of the Epeans could hardly stay Hector as he rushed on towards the ships, nor could they drive him from them, for he was as a wall of fire. The chosen men of the Athe- nians were in the van, led by Menestheus son of Peteos, with whom were also Pheidas, Stichius, and stalwart Bias: Meges son of Phyleus, Amphion, and Dracius commanded the Epeans, while Medon and staunch Podarces led the men of Phthia. Of these, Medon was bastard son to Oileus and brother of Ajax, but he lived in Phylace away from his own country, for he had killed the brother of his stepmother Eriopis, the wife of Oileus; the other, Podarces, was the son of Iphiclus son of Phylacus. These two stood in the van of the Phthians, and defended the ships along with the Boeotians.
Ajax son of Oileus never for a moment left the side of Ajax son of Telamon, but as two swart oxen both strain their utmost at the plough which they are drawing in a fallow field, and the sweat steams upwards from about the roots of their horns—nothing but the yoke divides them as they break up the ground till they reach the end of the field—even so did the two Ajaxes stand shoulder to shoulder by one another. Many and brave comrades followed the son of Telamon, to relieve him of his shield when he was overcome with sweat and toil, but the Locrians did not follow so close after the son of Oileus, for they could not hold their own in a hand-to-hand fight. They had no bronze helmets with plumes of horse-hair, neither had they shields nor ashen spears, but they had come to Troy armed with bows, and with slings of twisted wool from which they showered their missiles to break the ranks of the Trojans. The others, therefore, with their heavy armour bore the brunt of the fight with the Trojans and with Hector, while the Locrians shot from behind, under their cover; and thus the Trojans began to lose heart, for the arrows threw them into confusion.
The Trojans would now have been driven in sorry plight from the ships and tents back to windy Ilius, had not Polydamas presently said to Hector, “Hector, there is no persuading you to take advice. Because heaven has so rich- ly endowed you with the arts of war, you think that you must therefore excel others in counsel; but you cannot thus claim preeminence in all things. Heaven has made one man an excellent soldier; of another it has made a dancer or a singer and player on the lyre; while yet in another Jove has implanted a wise understanding of which men reap fruit to the saving of many, and he himself knows more about it than any one; therefore I will say what I think will be best. The fight has hemmed you in as with a circle of fire, and even now that the Trojans are within the wall some of them stand aloof in full armour, while others are fighting scattered and outnumbered near the ships. Draw back, therefore, and call your chieftains round you, that we may advise together whether to fall now upon the ships in the hope that heaven may vouchsafe us victory, or to beat a retreat while we can yet safely do so. I greatly fear that the Achaeans will pay us their debt of yesterday in full, for there is one abiding at their ships who is never weary of battle, and who will not hold aloof much longer.”
Thus spoke Polydamas, and his words pleased Hector well. He sprang in full armour from his chariot and said, “Polydamas, gather the chieftains here; I will go yonder into the fight, but will return at once when I have given them their orders.”
He then sped onward, towering like a snowy mountain, and with a loud cry flew through the ranks of the Trojans and their allies. When they heard his voice they all hastened to gather round Polydamas the excellent son of Panthous, but Hector kept on among the foremost, looking everywhere to find Deiphobus and prince Helenus, Ad- amas son of Asius, and Asius son of Hyrtacus; living, indeed, and scatheless he could no longer find them, for the two last were lying by the sterns of the Achaean ships, slain by the Argives, while the others had been also stricken and wounded by them; but upon the left wing of the dread battle he found Alexandrus, husband of lovely Helen, cheering his men and urging them on to fight. He went up to him and upbraided him. “Paris,” said he, “evil-hearted Paris, fair to see but woman-mad and false of tongue, where are Deiphobus and King Helenus? Where are Adamas son of Asius, and Asius son of Hyrtacus? Where too is Othryoneus? Ilius is undone and will now surely fall!”
Alexandrus answered, “Hector, why find fault when there is no one to find fault with? I should hold aloof from battle on any day rather than this, for my mother bore me with nothing of the coward about me. From the moment when you set our men fighting about the ships we have been staying here and doing battle with the Danaans. Our comrades about whom you ask me are dead; Deiphobus and King Helenus alone have left the field, wounded both of them in the hand, but the son of Saturn saved them alive. Now, therefore, lead on where you would have us go, and we will follow with right goodwill; you shall not find us fail you in so far as our strength holds out, but no man can do more than in him lies, no matter how willing he may be.”
With these words he satisfied his brother, and the two went towards the part of the battle where the fight was
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thickest, about Cebriones, brave Polydamas, Phalces, Orthaeus, godlike Polyphetes, Palmys, Ascanius, and Morys son of Hippotion, who had come from fertile Ascania on the preceding day to relieve other troops. Then Jove urged them on to fight. They flew forth like the blasts of some fierce wind that strike earth in the van of a thunderstorm— they buffet the salt sea into an uproar; many and mighty are the great waves that come crashing in one after the other upon the shore with their arching heads all crested with foam—even so did rank behind rank of Trojans ar- rayed in gleaming armour follow their leaders onward. The way was led by Hector son of Priam, peer of murderous Mars, with his round shield before him—his shield of ox-hides covered with plates of bronze—and his gleaming helmet upon his temples. He kept stepping forward under cover of his shield in every direction, making trial of the ranks to see if they would give way be him, but he could not daunt the courage of the Achaeans. Ajax was the first to stride out and challenge him. “Sir,” he cried, “draw near; why do you think thus vainly to dismay the Argives? We Achaeans are excellent soldiers, but the scourge of Jove has fallen heavily upon us. Your heart, forsooth, is set on destroying our ships, but we too have bands that can keep you at bay, and your own fair town shall be sooner taken and sacked by ourselves. The time is near when you shall pray Jove and all the gods in your flight, that your steeds may be swifter than hawks as they raise the dust on the plain and bear you back to your city.”
As he was thus speaking a bird flew by upon his right hand, and the host of the Achaeans shouted, for they took heart at the omen. But Hector answered, “Ajax, braggart and false of tongue, would that I were as sure of being son for evermore to aegis-bearing Jove, with Queen Juno for my mother, and of being held in like honour with Minerva and Apollo, as I am that this day is big with the destruction of the Achaeans; and you shall fall among them if you dare abide my spear; it shall rend your fair body and bid you glut our hounds and birds of prey with your fat and your flesh, as you fall by the ships of the Achaeans.”
With these words he led the way and the others followed after with a cry that rent the air, while the host shout- ed behind them. The Argives on their part raised a shout likewise, nor did they forget their prowess, but stood firm against the onslaught of the Trojan chieftains, and the cry from both the hosts rose up to heaven and to the bright- ness of Jove’s presence.
Book XIV NESTOR was sitting over his wine, but the cry of battle did not escape him, and he said to the son of Aescula-
pius, “What, noble Machaon, is the meaning of all this? The shouts of men fighting by our ships grow stronger and stronger; stay here, therefore, and sit over your wine, while fair Hecamede heats you a bath and washes the clotted blood from off you. I will go at once to the look-out station and see what it is all about.”
As he spoke he took up the shield of his son Thrasymedes that was lying in his tent, all gleaming with bronze, for Thrasymedes had taken his father’s shield; he grasped his redoubtable bronze-shod spear, and as soon as he was outside saw the disastrous rout of the Achaeans who, now that their wall was overthrown, were flying pell-mell be- fore the Trojans. As when there is a heavy swell upon the sea, but the waves are dumb—they keep their eyes on the watch for the quarter whence the fierce winds may spring upon them, but they stay where they are and set neither this way nor that, till some particular wind sweeps down from heaven to determine them—even so did the old man ponder whether to make for the crowd of Danaans, or go in search of Agamemnon. In the end he deemed it best to go to the son of Atreus; but meanwhile the hosts were fighting and killing one another, and the hard bronze rattled on their bodies, as they thrust at one another with their swords and spears.
The wounded kings, the son of Tydeus, Ulysses, and Agamemnon son of Atreus, fell in Nestor as they were coming up from their ships—for theirs were drawn up some way from where the fighting was going on, being on the shore itself inasmuch as they had been beached first, while the wall had been built behind the hindermost. The stretch of the shore, wide though it was, did not afford room for all the ships, and the host was cramped for space, therefore they had placed the ships in rows one behind the other, and had filled the whole opening of the bay be- tween the two points that formed it. The kings, leaning on their spears, were coming out to survey the fight, being in great anxiety, and when old Nestor met them they were filled with dismay. Then King Agamemnon said to him, “Nestor son of Neleus, honour to the Achaean name, why have you left the battle to come hither? I fear that what dread Hector said will come true, when he vaunted among the Trojans saying that he would not return to Ilius till he had fired our ships and killed us; this is what he said, and now it is all coming true. Alas! others of the Achaeans, like Achilles, are in anger with me that they refuse to fight by the sterns of our ships.”
Then Nestor knight of Gerene answered, “It is indeed as you say; it is all coming true at this moment, and even Jove who thunders from on high cannot prevent it. Fallen is the wall on which we relied as an impregnable bulwark both for us and our fleet. The Trojans are fighting stubbornly and without ceasing at the ships; look where you may you cannot see from what quarter the rout of the Achaeans is coming; they are being killed in a confused mass and the battle-cry ascends to heaven; let us think, if counsel can be of any use, what we had better do; but I do not advise our going into battle ourselves, for a man cannot fight when he is wounded.”
And King Agamemnon answered, “Nestor, if the Trojans are indeed fighting at the rear of our ships, and neither
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the wall nor the trench has served us—over which the Danaans toiled so hard, and which they deemed would be an impregnable bulwark both for us and our fleet—I see it must be the will of Jove that the Achaeans should perish ingloriously here, far from Argos. I knew when Jove was willing to defend us, and I know now that he is raising the Trojans to like honour with the gods, while us, on the other hand, he bas bound hand and foot. Now, therefore, let us all do as I say; let us bring down the ships that are on the beach and draw them into the water; let us make them fast to their mooring-stones a little way out, against the fall of night—if even by night the Trojans will desist from fighting; we may then draw down the rest of the fleet. There is nothing wrong in flying ruin even by night. It is bet- ter for a man that he should fly and be saved than be caught and killed.”
Ulysses looked fiercely at him and said, “Son of Atreus, what are you talking about? Wretch, you should have commanded some other and baser army, and not been ruler over us to whom Jove has allotted a life of hard fighting from youth to old age, till we every one of us perish. Is it thus that you would quit the city of Troy, to win which we have suffered so much hardship? Hold your peace, lest some other of the Achaeans hear you say what no man who knows how to give good counsel, no king over so great a host as that of the Argives should ever have let fall from his lips. I despise your judgement utterly for what you have been saying. Would you, then, have us draw down our ships into the water while the battle is raging, and thus play further into the hands of the conquering Trojans? It would be ruin; the Achaeans will not go on fighting when they see the ships being drawn into the water, but will cease attack- ing and keep turning their eyes towards them; your counsel, therefore, Sir captain, would be our destruction.”
Agamemnon answered, “Ulysses, your rebuke has stung me to the heart. I am not, however, ordering the Achaeans to draw their ships into the sea whether they will or no. Some one, it may be, old or young, can offer us better counsel which I shall rejoice to hear.”
Then said Diomed, “Such an one is at hand; he is not far to seek, if you will listen to me and not resent my speaking though I am younger than any of you. I am by lineage son to a noble sire, Tydeus, who lies buried at The- bes. For Portheus had three noble sons, two of whom, Agrius and Melas, abode in Pleuron and rocky Calydon. The third was the knight Oeneus, my father’s father, and he was the most valiant of them all. Oeeneus remained in his own country, but my father (as Jove and the other gods ordained it) migrated to Argos. He married into the fami- ly of Adrastus, and his house was one of great abundance, for he had large estates of rich corn-growing land, with much orchard ground as well, and he had many sheep; moreover he excelled all the Argives in the use of the spear. You must yourselves have heard whether these things are true or no; therefore when I say well despise not my words as though I were a coward or of ignoble birth. I say, then, let us go to the fight as we needs must, wounded though we be. When there, we may keep out of the battle and beyond the range of the spears lest we get fresh wounds in addition to what we have already, but we can spur on others, who have been indulging their spleen and holding aloof from battle hitherto.”
Thus did he speak; whereon they did even as he had said and set out, King Agamemnon leading the way. Meanwhile Neptune had kept no blind look-out, and came up to them in the semblance of an old man. He
took Agamemnon’s right hand in his own and said, “Son of Atreus, I take it Achilles is glad now that he sees the Achaeans routed and slain, for he is utterly without remorse—may he come to a bad end and heaven confound him. As for yourself, the blessed gods are not yet so bitterly angry with you but that the princes and counsellors of the Trojans shall again raise the dust upon the plain, and you shall see them flying from the ships and tents towards their city.”
With this he raised a mighty cry of battle, and sped forward to the plain. The voice that came from his deep chest was as that of nine or ten thousand men when they are shouting in the thick of a fight, and it put fresh cour- age into the hearts of the Achaeans to wage war and do battle without ceasing.
Juno of the golden throne looked down as she stood upon a peak of Olympus and her heart was gladdened at the sight of him who was at once her brother and her brother-in-law, hurrying hither and thither amid the fighting. Then she turned her eyes to Jove as he sat on the topmost crests of many-fountained Ida, and loathed him. She set herself to think how she might hoodwink him, and in the end she deemed that it would be best for her to go to Ida and array herself in rich attire, in the hope that Jove might become enamoured of her, and wish to embrace her. While he was thus engaged a sweet and careless sleep might be made to steal over his eyes and senses.
She went, therefore, to the room which her son Vulcan had made her, and the doors of which he had cunningly fastened by means of a secret key so that no other god could open them. Here she entered and closed the doors be- hind her. She cleansed all the dirt from her fair body with ambrosia, then she anointed herself with olive oil, ambro- sial, very soft, and scented specially for herself—if it were so much as shaken in the bronze-floored house of Jove, the scent pervaded the universe of heaven and earth. With this she anointed her delicate skin, and then she plaited the fair ambrosial locks that flowed in a stream of golden tresses from her immortal head. She put on the wondrous robe which Minerva had worked for her with consummate art, and had embroidered with manifold devices; she fastened it about her bosom with golden clasps, and she girded herself with a girdle that had a hundred tassels: then she fastened her earrings, three brilliant pendants that glistened most beautifully, through the pierced lobes of her
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ears, and threw a lovely new veil over her head. She bound her sandals on to her feet, and when she had arrayed herself perfectly to her satisfaction, she left her room and called Venus to come aside and speak to her. “My dear child,” said she, “will you do what I am going to ask of you, or will refuse me because you are angry at my being on the Danaan side, while you are on the Trojan?”
Jove’s daughter Venus answered, “Juno, august queen of goddesses, daughter of mighty Saturn, say what you want, and I will do it for at once, if I can, and if it can be done at all.”
Then Juno told her a lying tale and said, “I want you to endow me with some of those fascinating charms, the spells of which bring all things mortal and immortal to your feet. I am going to the world’s end to visit Oceanus (from whom all we gods proceed) and mother Tethys: they received me in their house, took care of me, and brought me up, having taken me over from Rhaea when Jove imprisoned great Saturn in the depths that are under earth and sea. I must go and see them that I may make peace between them; they have been quarrelling, and are so angry that they have not slept with one another this long while; if I can bring them round and restore them to one another’s embraces, they will be grateful to me and love me for ever afterwards.”
Thereon laughter-loving Venus said, “I cannot and must not refuse you, for you sleep in the arms of Jove who is our king.”
As she spoke she loosed from her bosom the curiously embroidered girdle into which all her charms had been wrought—love, desire, and that sweet flattery which steals the judgement even of the most prudent. She gave the girdle to Juno and said, “Take this girdle wherein all my charms reside and lay it in your bosom. If you will wear it I promise you that your errand, be it what it may, will not be bootless.”
When she heard this Juno smiled, and still smiling she laid the girdle in her bosom. Venus now went back into the house of Jove, while Juno darted down from the summits of Olympus. She
passed over Pieria and fair Emathia, and went on and on till she came to the snowy ranges of the Thracian horse- men, over whose topmost crests she sped without ever setting foot to ground. When she came to Athos she went on over the, waves of the sea till she reached Lemnos, the city of noble Thoas. There she met Sleep, own brother to Death, and caught him by the hand, saying, “Sleep, you who lord it alike over mortals and immortals, if you ever did me a service in times past, do one for me now, and I shall be grateful to you ever after. Close Jove’s keen eyes for me in slumber while I hold him clasped in my embrace, and I will give you a beautiful golden seat, that can never fall to pieces; my clubfooted son Vulcan shall make it for you, and he shall give it a footstool for you to rest your fair feet upon when you are at table.”
Then Sleep answered, “Juno, great queen of goddesses, daughter of mighty Saturn, I would lull any other of the gods to sleep without compunction, not even excepting the waters of Oceanus from whom all of them proceed, but I dare not go near Jove, nor send him to sleep unless he bids me. I have had one lesson already through doing what you asked me, on the day when Jove’s mighty son Hercules set sail from Ilius after having sacked the city of the Tro- jans. At your bidding I suffused my sweet self over the mind of aegis-bearing Jove, and laid him to rest; meanwhile you hatched a plot against Hercules, and set the blasts of the angry winds beating upon the sea, till you took him to the goodly city of Cos away from all his friends. Jove was furious when he awoke, and began hurling the gods about all over the house; he was looking more particularly for myself, and would have flung me down through space into the sea where I should never have been heard of any more, had not Night who cows both men and gods protected me. I fled to her and Jove left off looking for me in spite of his being so angry, for he did not dare do anything to displease Night. And now you are again asking me to do something on which I cannot venture.”
And Juno said, “Sleep, why do you take such notions as those into your head? Do you think Jove will be as anx- ious to help the Trojans, as he was about his own son? Come, I will marry you to one of the youngest of the Graces, and she shall be your own—Pasithea, whom you have always wanted to marry.”
Sleep was pleased when he heard this, and answered, “Then swear it to me by the dread waters of the river Styx; lay one hand on the bounteous earth, and the other on the sheen of the sea, so that all the gods who dwell down below with Saturn may be our witnesses, and see that you really do give me one of the youngest of the Graces—Pa- sithea, whom I have always wanted to marry.”
Juno did as he had said. She swore, and invoked all the gods of the nether world, who are called Titans, to wit- ness. When she had completed her oath, the two enshrouded themselves in a thick mist and sped lightly forward, leaving Lemnos and Imbrus behind them. Presently they reached many-fountained Ida, mother of wild beasts, and Lectum where they left the sea to go on by land, and the tops of the trees of the forest soughed under the going of their feet. Here Sleep halted, and ere Jove caught sight of him he climbed a lofty pine-tree — the tallest that reared its head towards heaven on all Ida. He hid himself behind the branches and sat there in the semblance of the sweet-singing bird that haunts the mountains and is called Chalcis by the gods, but men call it Cymindis. Juno then went to Gargarus, the topmost peak of Ida, and Jove, driver of the clouds, set eyes upon her. As soon as he did so he became inflamed with the same passionate desire for her that he had felt when they had first enjoyed each other’s embraces, and slept with one another without their dear parents knowing anything about it. He went up to her and
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said, “What do you want that you have come hither from Olympus—and that too with neither chariot nor horses to convey you?”
Then Juno told him a lying tale and said, “I am going to the world’s end, to visit Oceanus, from whom all we gods proceed, and mother Tethys; they received me into their house, took care of me, and brought me up. I must go and see them that I may make peace between them: they have been quarrelling, and are so angry that they have not slept with one another this long time. The horses that will take me over land and sea are stationed on the lowermost spurs of many-fountained Ida, and I have come here from Olympus on purpose to consult you. I was afraid you might be angry with me later on, if I went to the house of Oceanus without letting you know.”
And Jove said, “Juno, you can choose some other time for paying your visit to Oceanus—for the present let us devote ourselves to love and to the enjoyment of one another. Never yet have I been so overpowered by passion neither for goddess nor mortal woman as I am at this moment for yourself—not even when I was in love with the wife of Ixion who bore me Pirithous, peer of gods in counsel, nor yet with Danae the daintily-ancled daughter of Acrisius, who bore me the famed hero Perseus. Then there was the daughter of Phoenix, who bore me Minos and Rhadamanthus: there was Semele, and Alcmena in Thebes by whom I begot my lion-hearted son Hercules, while Semele became mother to Bacchus the comforter of mankind. There was queen Ceres again, and lovely Leto, and yourself—but with none of these was I ever so much enamoured as I now am with you.”
Juno again answered him with a lying tale. “Most dread son of Saturn,” she exclaimed, “what are you talking about? Would you have us enjoy one another here on the top of Mount Ida, where everything can be seen? What if one of the ever-living gods should see us sleeping together, and tell the others? It would be such a scandal that when I had risen from your embraces I could never show myself inside your house again; but if you are so minded, there is a room which your son Vulcan has made me, and he has given it good strong doors; if you would so have it, let us go thither and lie down.”
And Jove answered, “Juno, you need not be afraid that either god or man will see you, for I will enshroud both of us in such a dense golden cloud, that the very sun for all his bright piercing beams shall not see through it.”
With this the son of Saturn caught his wife in his embrace; whereon the earth sprouted them a cushion of young grass, with dew-bespangled lotus, crocus, and hyacinth, so soft and thick that it raised them well above the ground. Here they laid themselves down and overhead they were covered by a fair cloud of gold, from which there fell glittering dew-drops.
Thus, then, did the sire of all things repose peacefully on the crest of Ida, overcome at once by sleep and love, and he held his spouse in his arms. Meanwhile Sleep made off to the ships of the Achaeans, to tell earth-encircling Neptune, lord of the earthquake. When he had found him he said, “Now, Neptune, you can help the Danaans with a will, and give them victory though it be only for a short time while Jove is still sleeping. I have sent him into a sweet slumber, and Juno has beguiled him into going to bed with her.”
Sleep now departed and went his ways to and fro among mankind, leaving Neptune more eager than ever to help the Danaans. He darted forward among the first ranks and shouted saying, “Argives, shall we let Hector son of Priam have the triumph of taking our ships and covering himself with glory? This is what he says that he shall now do, seeing that Achilles is still in dudgeon at his ship; We shall get on very well without him if we keep each other in heart and stand by one another. Now, therefore, let us all do as I say. Let us each take the best and largest shield we can lay hold of, put on our helmets, and sally forth with our longest spears in our hands; will lead you on, and Hec- tor son of Priam, rage as he may, will not dare to hold out against us. If any good staunch soldier has only a small shield, let him hand it over to a worse man, and take a larger one for himself.”
Thus did he speak, and they did even as he had said. The son of Tydeus, Ulysses, and Agamemnon, wounded though they were, set the others in array, and went about everywhere effecting the exchanges of armour; the most valiant took the best armour, and gave the worse to the worse man. When they had donned their bronze armour they marched on with Neptune at their head. In his strong hand he grasped his terrible sword, keen of edge and flashing like lightning; woe to him who comes across it in the day of battle; all men quake for fear and keep away from it.
Hector on the other side set the Trojans in array. Thereon Neptune and Hector waged fierce war on one anoth- er—Hector on the Trojan and Neptune on the Argive side. Mighty was the uproar as the two forces met; the sea came rolling in towards the ships and tents of the Achaeans, but waves do not thunder on the shore more loudly when driven before the blast of Boreas, nor do the flames of a forest fire roar more fiercely when it is well alight upon the mountains, nor does the wind bellow with ruder music as it tears on through the tops of when it is blow- ing its hardest, than the terrible shout which the Trojans and Achaeans raised as they sprang upon one another.
Hector first aimed his spear at Ajax, who was turned full towards him, nor did he miss his aim. The spear struck him where two bands passed over his chest—the band of his shield and that of his silver-studded sword—and these protected his body. Hector was angry that his spear should have been hurled in vain, and withdrew under cover of his men. As he was thus retreating, Ajax son of Telamon struck him with a stone, of which there were many lying
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about under the men’s feet as they fought—brought there to give support to the ships’ sides as they lay on the shore. Ajax caught up one of them and struck Hector above the rim of his shield close to his neck; the blow made him spin round like a top and reel in all directions. As an oak falls headlong when uprooted by the lightning flash of father Jove, and there is a terrible smell of brimstone—no man can help being dismayed if he is standing near it, for a thunderbolt is a very awful thing—even so did Hector fall to earth and bite the dust. His spear fell from his hand, but his shield and helmet were made fast about his body, and his bronze armour rang about him.
The sons of the Achaeans came running with a loud cry towards him, hoping to drag him away, and they showered their darts on the Trojans, but none of them could wound him before he was surrounded and covered by the princes Polydamas, Aeneas, Agenor, Sarpedon captain of the Lycians, and noble Glaucus: of the others, too, there was not one who was unmindful of him, and they held their round shields over him to cover him. His com- rades then lifted him off the ground and bore him away from the battle to the place where his horses stood waiting for him at the rear of the fight with their driver and the chariot; these then took him towards the city groaning and in great pain. When they reached the ford of the air stream of Xanthus, begotten of Immortal Jove, they took him from off his chariot and laid him down on the ground; they poured water over him, and as they did so he breathed again and opened his eyes. Then kneeling on his knees he vomited blood, but soon fell back on to the ground, and his eyes were again closed in darkness for he was still sturined by the blow.
When the Argives saw Hector leaving the field, they took heart and set upon the Trojans yet more furiously. Ajax fleet son of Oileus began by springing on Satnius son of Enops and wounding him with his spear: a fair naiad nymph had borne him to Enops as he was herding cattle by the banks of the river Satnioeis. The son of Oileus came up to him and struck him in the flank so that he fell, and a fierce fight between Trojans and Danaans raged round his body. Polydamas son of Panthous drew near to avenge him, and wounded Prothoenor son of Areilycus on the right shoulder; the terrible spear went right through his shoulder, and he clutched the earth as he fell in the dust. Polydamas vaunted loudly over him saying, “Again I take it that the spear has not sped in vain from the strong hand of the son of Panthous; an Argive has caught it in his body, and it will serve him for a staff as he goes down into the house of Hades.”
The Argives were maddened by this boasting. Ajax son of Telamon was more angry than any, for the man had fallen close be, him; so he aimed at Polydamas as he was retreating, but Polydamas saved himself by swerving aside and the spear struck Archelochus son of Antenor, for heaven counselled his destruction; it struck him where the head springs from the neck at the top joint of the spine, and severed both the tendons at the back of the head. His head, mouth, and nostrils reached the ground long before his legs and knees could do so, and Ajax shouted to Polydamas saying, “Think, Polydamas, and tell me truly whether this man is not as well worth killing as Prothoenor was: he seems rich, and of rich family, a brother, it may be, or son of the knight Antenor, for he is very like him.”
But he knew well who it was, and the Trojans were greatly angered. Acamas then bestrode his brother’s body and wounded Promachus the Boeotian with his spear, for he was trying to drag his brother’s body away. Acamas vaunted loudly over him saying, “Argive archers, braggarts that you are, toil and suffering shall not be for us only, but some of you too shall fall here as well as ourselves. See how Promachus now sleeps, vanquished by my spear; payment for my brother’s blood has not long delayed; a man, therefore, may well be thankful if he leaves a kinsman in his house behind him to avenge his fall.”
His taunts infuriated the Argives, and Peneleos was more enraged than any of them. He sprang towards Acam- as, but Acamas did not stand his ground, and he killed Ilioneus son of the rich flock-master Phorbas, whom Mer- cury had favoured and endowed with greater wealth than any other of the Trojans. Ilioneus was his only son, and Peneleos now wounded him in the eye under his eyebrows, tearing the eye-ball from its socket: the spear went right through the eye into the nape of the neck, and he fell, stretching out both hands before him. Peneleos then drew his sword and smote him on the neck, so that both head and helmet came tumbling down to the ground with the spear still sticking in the eye; he then held up the head, as though it had been a poppy-head, and showed it to the Trojans, vaunting over them as he did so. “Trojans,” he cried, “bid the father and mother of noble Ilioneus make moan for him in their house, for the wife also of Promachus son of Alegenor will never be gladdened by the coming of her dear husband—when we Argives return with our ships from Troy.”
As he spoke fear fell upon them, and every man looked round about to see whither he might fly for safety. Tell me now, O Muses that dwell on Olympus, who was the first of the Argives to bear away blood-stained
spoils after Neptune lord of the earthquake had turned the fortune of war. Ajax son of Telamon was first to wound Hyrtius son of Gyrtius, captain of the staunch Mysians. Antilochus killed Phalces and Mermerus, while Meriones slew Morys and Hippotion, Teucer also killed Prothoon and Periphetes. The son of Atreus then wounded Hyper- enor shepherd of his people, in the flank, and the bronze point made his entrails gush out as it tore in among them; on this his life came hurrying out of him at the place where he had been wounded, and his eyes were closed in dark- ness. Ajax son of Oileus killed more than any other, for there was no man so fleet as he to pursue flying foes when Jove had spread panic among them.
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Book XV BUT when their flight had taken them past the trench and the set stakes, and many had fallen by the hands of
the Danaans, the Trojans made a halt on reaching their chariots, routed and pale with fear. Jove now woke on the crests of Ida, where he was lying with golden-throned Juno by his side, and starting to his feet he saw the Trojans and Achaeans, the one thrown into confusion, and the others driving them pell-mell before them with King Nep- tune in their midst. He saw Hector lying on the ground with his comrades gathered round him, gasping for breath, wandering in mind and vomiting blood, for it was not the feeblest of the Achaeans who struck him.
The sire of gods and men had pity on him, and looked fiercely on Juno. “I see, Juno,” said he, “you mischief— making trickster, that your cunning has stayed Hector from fighting and has caused the rout of his host. I am in half a mind to thrash you, in which case you will be the first to reap the fruits of your scurvy knavery. Do you not remember how once upon a time I had you hanged? I fastened two anvils on to your feet, and bound your hands in a chain of gold which none might break, and you hung in mid-air among the clouds. All the gods in Olympus were in a fury, but they could not reach you to set you free; when I caught any one of them I gripped him and hurled him from the heavenly threshold till he came fainting down to earth; yet even this did not relieve my mind from the incessant anxiety which I felt about noble Hercules whom you and Boreas had spitefully conveyed beyond the seas to Cos, after suborning the tempests; but I rescued him, and notwithstanding all his mighty labours I brought him back again to Argos. I would remind you of this that you may learn to leave off being so deceitful, and discover how much you are likely to gain by the embraces out of which you have come here to trick me.”
Juno trembled as he spoke, and said, “May heaven above and earth below be my witnesses, with the waters of the river Styx—and this is the most solemn oath that a blessed god can take—nay, I swear also by your own al- mighty head and by our bridal bed—things over which I could never possibly perjure myself—that Neptune is not punishing Hector and the Trojans and helping the Achaeans through any doing of mine; it is all of his own mere motion because he was sorry to see the Achaeans hard pressed at their ships: if I were advising him, I should tell him to do as you bid him.”
The sire of gods and men smiled and answered, “If you, Juno, were always to support me when we sit in coun- cil of the gods, Neptune, like it or no, would soon come round to your and my way of thinking. If, then, you are speaking the truth and mean what you say, go among the rank and file of the gods, and tell Iris and Apollo lord of the bow, that I want them — Iris, that she may go to the Achaean host and tell Neptune to leave off fighting and go home, and Apollo, that he may send Hector again into battle and give him fresh strength; he will thus forget his present sufferings, and drive the Achaeans back in confusion till they fall among the ships of Achilles son of Pele- us. Achilles will then send his comrade Patroclus into battle, and Hector will kill him in front of Ilius after he has slain many warriors, and among them my own noble son Sarpedon. Achilles will kill Hector to avenge Patroclus, and from that time I will bring it about that the Achaeans shall persistently drive the Trojans back till they fulfil the counsels of Minerva and take Ilius. But I will not stay my anger, nor permit any god to help the Danaans till I have accomplished the desire of the son of Peleus, according to the promise I made by bowing my head on the day when Thetis touched my knees and besought me to give him honour.”
Juno heeded his words and went from the heights of Ida to great Olympus. Swift as the thought of one whose fancy carries him over vast continents, and he says to himself, “Now I will be here, or there,” and he would have all manner of things—even so swiftly did Juno wing her way till she came to high Olympus and went in among the gods who were gathered in the house of Jove. When they saw her they all of them came up to her, and held out their cups to her by way of greeting. She let the others be, but took the cup offered her by lovely Themis, who was first to come running up to her. “Juno,” said she, “why are you here? And you seem troubled—has your husband the son of Saturn been frightening you?”
And Juno answered, “Themis, do not ask me about it. You know what a proud and cruel disposition my hus- band has. Lead the gods to table, where you and all the immortals can hear the wicked designs which he has avowed. Many a one, mortal and immortal, will be angered by them, however peaceably he may be feasting now.”
On this Juno sat down, and the gods were troubled throughout the house of Jove. Laughter sat on her lips but her brow was furrowed with care, and she spoke up in a rage. “Fools that we are,” she cried, “to be thus madly angry with Jove; we keep on wanting to go up to him and stay him by force or by persuasion, but he sits aloof and cares for nobody, for he knows that he is much stronger than any other of the immortals. Make the best, therefore, of whatever ills he may choose to send each one of you; Mars, I take it, has had a taste of them already, for his son As- calaphus has fallen in battle—the man whom of all others he loved most dearly and whose father he owns himself to be.”
When he heard this Mars smote his two sturdy thighs with the flat of his hands, and said in anger, “Do not blame me, you gods that dwell in heaven, if I go to the ships of the Achaeans and avenge the death of my son, even
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though it end in my being struck by Jove’s lightning and lying in blood and dust among the corpses.” As he spoke he gave orders to yoke his horses Panic and Rout, while he put on his armour. On this, Jove would
have been roused to still more fierce and implacable enmity against the other immortals, had not Minerva, ararmed for the safety of the gods, sprung from her seat and hurried outside. She tore the helmet from his head and the shield from his shoulders, and she took the bronze spear from his strong hand and set it on one side; then she said to Mars, “Madman, you are undone; you have ears that hear not, or you have lost all judgement and understanding; have you not heard what Juno has said on coming straight from the presence of Olympian Jove? Do you wish to go through all kinds of suffering before you are brought back sick and sorry to Olympus, after having caused infinite mischief to all us others? Jove would instantly leave the Trojans and Achaeans to themselves; he would come to Olympus to punish us, and would grip us up one after another, guilty or not guilty. Therefore lay aside your anger for the death of your son; better men than he have either been killed already or will fall hereafter, and one cannot protect every one’s whole family.”
With these words she took Mars back to his seat. Meanwhile Juno called Apollo outside, with Iris the messenger of the gods. “Jove,” she said to them, “desires you to go to him at once on Mt. Ida; when you have seen him you are to do as he may then bid you.”
Thereon Juno left them and resumed her seat inside, while Iris and Apollo made all haste on their way. When they reached many-fountained Ida, mother of wild beasts, they found Jove seated on topmost Gargarus with a fra- grant cloud encircling his head as with a diadem. They stood before his presence, and he was pleased with them for having been so quick in obeying the orders his wife had given them.
He spoke to Iris first. “Go,” said he, “fleet Iris, tell King Neptune what I now bid you—and tell him true. Bid him leave off fighting, and either join the company of the gods, or go down into the sea. If he takes no heed and disobeys me, let him consider well whether he is strong enough to hold his own against me if I attack him. I am older and much stronger than he is; yet he is not afraid to set himself up as on a level with myself, of whom all the other gods stand in awe.”
Iris, fleet as the wind, obeyed him, and as the cold hail or snowflakes that fly from out the clouds before the blast of Boreas, even so did she wing her way till she came close up to the great shaker of the earth. Then she said, “I have come, O dark-haired king that holds the world in his embrace, to bring you a message from Jove. He bids you leave off fighting, and either join the company of the gods or go down into the sea; if, however, you take no heed and disobey him, he says he will come down here and fight you. He would have you keep out of his reach, for he is older and much stronger than you are, and yet you are not afraid to set yourself up as on a level with himself, of whom all the other gods stand in awe.”
Neptune was very angry and said, “Great heavens! strong as Jove may be, he has said more than he can do if he has threatened violence against me, who am of like honour with himself. We were three brothers whom Rhea bore to Saturn—Jove, myself, and Hades who rules the world below. Heaven and earth were divided into three parts, and each of us was to have an equal share. When we cast lots, it fell to me to have my dwelling in the sea for evermore; Hades took the darkness of the realms under the earth, while air and sky and clouds were the portion that fell to Jove; but earth and great Olympus are the common property of all. Therefore I will not walk as Jove would have me. For all his strength, let him keep to his own third share and be contented without threatening to lay hands upon me as though I were nobody. Let him keep his bragging talk for his own sons and daughters, who must perforce obey him.
Iris fleet as the wind then answered, “Am I really, Neptune, to take this daring and unyielding message to Jove, or will you reconsider your answer? Sensible people are open to argument, and you know that the Erinyes always range themselves on the side of the older person.”
Neptune answered, “Goddess Iris, your words have been spoken in season. It is well when a messenger shows so much discretion. Nevertheless it cuts me to the very heart that any one should rebuke so angrily another who is his own peer, and of like empire with himself. Now, however, I will give way in spite of my displeasure; furthermore let me tell you, and I mean what I say—if contrary to the desire of myself, Minerva driver of the spoil, Juno, Mer- cury, and King Vulcan, Jove spares steep Ilius, and will not let the Achaeans have the great triumph of sacking it, let him understand that he will incur our implacable resentment.”
Neptune now left the field to go down under the sea, and sorely did the Achaeans miss him. Then Jove said to Apollo, “Go, dear Phoebus, to Hector, for Neptune who holds the earth in his embrace has now gone down under the sea to avoid the severity of my displeasure. Had he not done so those gods who are below with Saturn would have come to hear of the fight between us. It is better for both of us that he should have curbed his anger and kept out of my reach, for I should have had much trouble with him. Take, then, your tasselled aegis, and shake it furious- ly, so as to set the Achaean heroes in a panic; take, moreover, brave Hector, O Far-Darter, into your own care, and rouse him to deeds of daring, till the Achaeans are sent flying back to their ships and to the Hellespont. From that point I will think it well over, how the Achaeans may have a respite from their troubles.”
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Apollo obeyed his father’s saying, and left the crests of Ida, flying like a falcon, bane of doves and swiftest of all birds. He found Hector no longer lying upon the ground, but sitting up, for he had just come to himself again. He knew those who were about him, and the sweat and hard breathing had left him from the moment when the will of aegis-bearing Jove had revived him. Apollo stood beside him and said, “Hector, son of Priam, why are you so faint, and why are you here away from the others? Has any mishap befallen you?”
Hector in a weak voice answered, “And which, kind sir, of the gods are you, who now ask me thus? Do you not know that Ajax struck me on the chest with a stone as I was killing his comrades at the ships of the Achaeans, and compelled me to leave off fighting? I made sure that this very day I should breathe my last and go down into the house of Hades.”
Then King Apollo said to him, “Take heart; the son of Saturn has sent you a mighty helper from Ida to stand by you and defend you, even me, Phoebus Apollo of the golden sword, who have been guardian hitherto not only of yourself but of your city. Now, therefore, order your horsemen to drive their chariots to the ships in great multi- tudes. I will go before your horses to smooth the way for them, and will turn the Achaeans in flight.”
As he spoke he infused great strength into the shepherd of his people. And as a horse, stabled and full-fed, breaks loose and gallops gloriously over the plain to the place where he is wont to take his bath in the river—he tosses his head, and his mane streams over his shoulders as in all the pride of his strength he flies full speed to the pastures where the mares are feeding—even so Hector, when he heard what the god said, urged his horsemen on, and sped forward as fast as his limbs could take him. As country peasants set their hounds on to a homed stag or wild goat—he has taken shelter under rock or thicket, and they cannot find him, but, lo, a bearded lion whom their shouts have roused stands in their path, and they are in no further humour for the chase—even so the Achaeans were still charging on in a body, using their swords and spears pointed at both ends, but when they saw Hector going about among his men they were afraid, and their hearts fell down into their feet.
Then spoke Thoas son of Andraemon, leader of the Aetolians, a man who could throw a good throw, and who was staunch also in close fight, while few could surpass him in debate when opinions were divided. He then with all sincerity and goodwill addressed them thus: “What, in heaven’s name, do I now see? Is it not Hector come to life again? Every one made sure he had been killed by Ajax son of Telamon, but it seems that one of the gods has again rescued him. He has killed many of us Danaans already, and I take it will yet do so, for the hand of Jove must be with him or he would never dare show himself so masterful in the forefront of the battle. Now, therefore, let us all do as I say; let us order the main body of our forces to fall back upon the ships, but let those of us who profess to be the flower of the army stand firm, and see whether we cannot hold Hector back at the point of our spears as soon as he comes near us; I conceive that he will then think better of it before he tries to charge into the press of the Danaans.”
Thus did he speak, and they did even as he had said. Those who were about Ajax and King Idomeneus, the followers moreover of Teucer, Meriones, and Meges peer of Mars called all their best men about them and sustained the fight against Hector and the Trojans, but the main body fell back upon the ships of the Achaeans.
The Trojans pressed forward in a dense body, with Hector striding on at their head. Before him went Phoebus Apollo shrouded in cloud about his shoulders. He bore aloft the terrible aegis with its shaggy fringe, which Vulcan the smith had given Jove to strike terror into the hearts of men. With this in his hand he led on the Trojans.
The Argives held together and stood their ground. The cry of battle rose high from either side, and the arrows flew from the bowstrings. Many a spear sped from strong hands and fastened in the bodies of many a valiant war- rior, while others fell to earth midway, before they could taste of man’s fair flesh and glut themselves with blood. So long as Phoebus Apollo held his aegis quietly and without shaking it, the weapons on either side took effect and the people fell, but when he shook it straight in the face of the Danaans and raised his mighty battle-cry their hearts fainted within them and they forgot their former prowess. As when two wild beasts spring in the dead of night on a herd of cattle or a large flock of sheep when the herdsman is not there—even so were the Danaans struck helpless, for Apollo filled them with panic and gave victory to Hector and the Trojans.
The fight then became more scattered and they killed one another where they best could. Hector killed Stichius and Arcesilaus, the one, leader of the Boeotians, and the other, friend and comrade of Menestheus. Aeneas killed Medon and Iasus. The first was bastard son to Oileus, and brother to Ajax, but he lived in Phylace away from his own country, for he had killed a man, a kinsman of his stepmother Eriopis whom Oileus had married. Iasus had become a leader of the Athenians, and was son of Sphelus the son of Boucolos. Polydamas killed Mecisteus, and Polites Echius, in the front of the battle, while Agenor slew Clonius. Paris struck Deiochus from behind in the lower part of the shoulder, as he was flying among the foremost, and the point of the spear went clean through him.
While they were spoiling these heroes of their armour, the Achaeans were flying pellmell to the trench and the set stakes, and were forced back within their wall. Hector then cried out to the Trojans, “Forward to the ships, and let the spoils be. If I see any man keeping back on the other side the wall away from the ships I will have him killed: his kinsmen and kinswomen shall not give him his dues of fire, but dogs shall tear him in pieces in front of our city.”
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As he spoke he laid his whip about his horses’ shoulders and called to the Trojans throughout their ranks; the Trojans shouted with a cry that rent the air, and kept their horses neck and neck with his own. Phoebus Apollo went before, and kicked down the banks of the deep trench into its middle so as to make a great broad bridge, as broad as the throw of a spear when a man is trying his strength. The Trojan battalions poured over the bridge, and Apollo with his redoubtable aegis led the way. He kicked down the wall of the Achaeans as easily as a child who playing on the sea-shore has built a house of sand and then kicks it down again and destroys it—even so did you, O Apollo, shed toil and trouble upon the Argives, filling them with panic and confusion.
Thus then were the Achaeans hemmed in at their ships, calling out to one another and raising their hands with loud cries every man to heaven. Nestor of Gerene, tower of strength to the Achaeans, lifted up his hands to the starry firmament of heaven, and prayed more fervently than any of them. “Father Jove,” said he, “if ever any one in wheat-growing Argos burned you fat thigh-bones of sheep or heifer and prayed that he might return safely home, whereon you bowed your head to him in assent, bear it in mind now, and suffer not the Trojans to triumph thus over the Achaeans.”
All counselling Jove thundered loudly in answer to die prayer of the aged son of Neleus. When the heard Jove thunder they flung themselves yet more fiercely on the Achaeans. As a wave breaking over the bulwarks of a ship when the sea runs high before a gale—for it is the force of the wind that makes the waves so great—even so did the Trojans spring over the wall with a shout, and drive their chariots onwards. The two sides fought with their dou- ble-pointed spears in hand-to-hand encounter-the Trojans from their chariots, and the Achaeans climbing up into their ships and wielding the long pikes that were lying on the decks ready for use in a sea-fight, jointed and shod with bronze.
Now Patroclus, so long as the Achaeans and Trojans were fighting about the wall, but were not yet within it and at the ships, remained sitting in the tent of good Eurypylus, entertaining him with his conversation and spreading herbs over his wound to ease his pain. When, however, he saw the Trojans swarming through the breach in the wall, while the Achaeans were clamouring and struck with panic, he cried aloud, and smote his two thighs with the flat of his hands. “Eurypylus,” said he in his dismay, “I know you want me badly, but I cannot stay with you any longer, for there is hard fighting going on; a servant shall take care of you now, for I must make all speed to Achilles, and induce him to fight if I can; who knows but with heaven’s help I may persuade him. A man does well to listen to the advice of a friend.”
When he had thus spoken he went his way. The Achaeans stood firm and resisted the attack of the Trojans, yet though these were fewer in number, they could not drive them back from the ships, neither could the Trojans break the Achaean ranks and make their way in among the tents and ships. As a carpenter’s line gives a true edge to a piece of ship’s timber, in the hand of some skilled workman whom Minerva has instructed in all kinds of useful arts — even so level was the issue of the fight between the two sides, as they fought some round one and some round another.
Hector made straight for Ajax, and the two fought fiercely about the same ship. Hector could not force Ajax back and fire the ship, nor yet could Ajax drive Hector from the spot to which heaven had brought him.
Then Ajax struck Caletor son of Clytius in the chest with a spear as he was bringing fire towards the ship. He fell heavily to the ground and the torch dropped from his hand. When Hector saw his cousin fallen in front of the ship he shouted to the Trojans and Lycians saying, “Trojans, Lycians, and Dardanians good in close fight, bate not a jot, but rescue the son of Clytius lest the Achaeans strip him of his armour now that he has fallen.”
He then aimed a spear at Ajax, and missed him, but he hit Lycophron a follower of Ajax, who came from Cythera, but was living with Ajax inasmuch as he had killed a man among the Cythereans. Hector’s spear struck him on the head below the ear, and he fell headlong from the ship’s prow on to the ground with no life left in him. Ajax shook with rage and said to his brother, “Teucer, my good fellow, our trusty comrade the son of Mastor has fallen, he came to live with us from Cythera and whom we honoured as much as our own parents. Hector has just killed him; fetch your deadly arrows at once and the bow which Phoebus Apollo gave you.”
Teucer heard him and hastened towards him with his bow and quiver in his hands. Forthwith he showered his arrows on the Trojans, and hit Cleitus the son of Pisenor, comrade of Polydamas the noble son of Panthous, with the reins in his hands as he was attending to his horses; he was in the middle of the very thickest part of the fight, doing good service to Hector and the Trojans, but evil had now come upon him, and not one of those who were fain to do so could avert it, for the arrow struck him on the back of the neck. He fell from his chariot and his horses shook the empty car as they swerved aside. King Polydamas saw what had happened, and was the first to come up to the horses; he gave them in charge to Astynous son of Protiaon, and ordered him to look on, and to keep the horses near at hand. He then went back and took his place in the front ranks.
Teucer then aimed another arrow at Hector, and there would have been no more fighting at the ships if he had hit him and killed him then and there: Jove, however, who kept watch over Hector, had his eyes on Teucer, and de- prived him of his triumph, by breaking his bowstring for him just as he was drawing it and about to take his aim; on
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this the arrow went astray and the bow fell from his hands. Teucer shook with anger and said to his brother, “Alas, see how heaven thwarts us in all we do; it has broken my bowstring and snatched the bow from my hand, though I strung it this selfsame morning that it might serve me for many an arrow.”
Ajax son of Telamon answered, “My good fellow, let your bow and your arrows be, for Jove has made them use- less in order to spite the Danaans. Take your spear, lay your shield upon your shoulder, and both fight the Trojans yourself and urge others to do so. They may be successful for the moment but if we fight as we ought they will find it a hard matter to take the ships.”
Teucer then took his bow and put it by in his tent. He hung a shield four hides thick about his shoulders, and on his comely head he set his helmet well wrought with a crest of horse-hair that nodded menacingly above it; he grasped his redoubtable bronze-shod spear, and forthwith he was by the side of Ajax.
When Hector saw that Teucer’s bow was of no more use to him, he shouted out to the Trojans and Lycians, “Trojans, Lycians, and Dardanians good in close fight, be men, my friends, and show your mettle here at the ships, for I see the weapon of one of their chieftains made useless by the hand of Jove. It is easy to see when Jove is helping people and means to help them still further, or again when he is bringing them down and will do nothing for them; he is now on our side, and is going against the Argives. Therefore swarm round the ships and fight. If any of you is struck by spear or sword and loses his life, let him die; he dies with honour who dies fighting for his country; and he will leave his wife and children safe behind him, with his house and allotment unplundered if only the Achaeans can be driven back to their own land, they and their ships.”
With these words he put heart and soul into them all. Ajax on the other side exhorted his comrades saying, “Shame on you Argives, we are now utterly undone, unless we can save ourselves by driving the enemy from our ships. Do you think, if Hector takes them, that you will be able to get home by land? Can you not hear him cheering on his whole host to fire our fleet, and bidding them remember that they are not at a dance but in battle? Our only course is to fight them with might and main; we had better chance it, life or death, once for all, than fight long and without issue hemmed in at our ships by worse men than ourselves.”
With these words he put life and soul into them all. Hector then killed Schedius son of Perimedes, leader of the Phoceans, and Ajax killed Laodamas captain of foot soldiers and son to Antenor. Polydamas killed Otus of Cyllene a comrade of the son of Phyleus and chief of the proud Epeans. When Meges saw this he sprang upon him, but Polydamas crouched down, and he missed him, for Apollo would not suffer the son of Panthous to fall in battle; but the spear hit Croesmus in the middle of his chest, whereon he fell heavily to the ground, and Meges stripped him of his armour. At that moment the valiant soldier Dolops son of Lampus sprang upon Lampus was son of Laomedon and for his valour, while his son Dolops was versed in all the ways of war. He then struck the middle of the son of Phyleus’ shield with his spear, setting on him at close quarters, but his good corslet made with plates of metal saved him; Phyleus had brought it from Ephyra and the river Selleis, where his host, King Euphetes, had given it him to wear in battle and protect him. It now served to save the life of his son. Then Meges struck the topmost crest of Dolops’s bronze helmet with his spear and tore away its plume of horse-hair, so that all newly dyed with scarlet as it was it tumbled down into the dust. While he was still fighting and confident of victory, Menelaus came up to help Meges, and got by the side of Dolops unperceived; he then speared him in the shoulder, from behind, and the point, driven so furiously, went through into his chest, whereon he fell headlong. The two then made towards him to strip him of his armour, but Hector called on all his brothers for help, and he especially upbraided brave Melanippus son of Hiketaon, who erewhile used to pasture his herds of cattle in Percote before the war broke out; but when the ships of the Danaans came, he went back to Ilius, where he was eminent among the Trojans, and lived near Priam who treated him as one of his own sons. Hector now rebuked him and said, “Why, Melanippus, are we thus remiss? do you take no note of the death of your kinsman, and do you not see how they are trying to take Dolops’s armour? Follow me; there must be no fighting the Argives from a distance now, but we must do so in close combat till either we kill them or they take the high wall of Ilius and slay her people.”
He led on as he spoke, and the hero Melanippus followed after. Meanwhile Ajax son of Telamon was cheering on the Argives. “My friends,” he cried, “be men, and fear dishonour; quit yourselves in battle so as to win respect from one another. Men who respect each other’s good opinion are less likely to be killed than those who do not, but in flight there is neither gain nor glory.”
Thus did he exhort men who were already bent upon driving back the Trojans. They laid his words to heart and hedged the ships as with a wall of bronze, while Jove urged on the Trojans. Menelaus of the loud battle-cry urged Antilochus on. “Antilochus,” said he, “you are young and there is none of the Achaeans more fleet of foot or more valiant than you are. See if you cannot spring upon some Trojan and kill him.”
He hurried away when he had thus spurred Antilochus, who at once darted out from the front ranks and aimed a spear, after looking carefully round him. The Trojans fell back as he threw, and the dart did not speed from his hand without effect, for it struck Melanippus the proud son of Hiketaon in the breast by the nipple as he was coming forward, and his armour rang rattling round him as he fell heavily to the ground. Antilochus sprang upon
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him as a dog springs on a fawn which a hunter has hit as it was breaking away from its covert, and killed it. Even so, O Melanippus, did stalwart Antilochus spring upon you to strip you of your armour; but noble Hector marked him, and came running up to him through the thick of the battle. Antilochus, brave soldier though he was, would not stay to face him, but fled like some savage creature which knows it has done wrong, and flies, when it has killed a dog or a man who is herding his cattle, before a body of men can be gathered to attack it. Even so did the son of Nestor fly, and the Trojans and Hector with a cry that rent the air showered their weapons after him; nor did he turn round and stay his flight till he had reached his comrades.
The Trojans, fierce as lions, were still rushing on towards the ships in fulfilment of the behests of Jove who kept spurring them on to new deeds of daring, while he deadened the courage of the Argives and defeated them by en- couraging the Trojans. For he meant giving glory to Hector son of Priam, and letting him throw fire upon the ships, till he had fulfilled the unrighteous prayer that Thetis had made him; Jove, therefore, bided his time till he should see the glare of a blazing ship. From that hour he was about so to order that the Trojans should be driven back from the ships and to vouchsafe glory to the Achaeans. With this purpose he inspired Hector son of Priam, who was cager enough already, to assail the ships. His fury was as that of Mars, or as when a fire is raging in the glades of some dense forest upon the mountains; he foamed at the mouth, his eyes glared under his terrible eye-brows, and his helmet quivered on his temples by reason of the fury with which he fought. Jove from heaven was with him, and though he was but one against many, vouchsafed him victory and glory; for he was doomed to an early death, and already Pallas Minerva was hurrying on the hour of his destruction at the hands of the son of Peleus. Now, however, he kept trying to break the ranks of the enemy wherever he could see them thickest, and in the goodliest armour; but do what he might he could not break through them, for they stood as a tower foursquare, or as some high cliff rising from the grey sea that braves the anger of the gale, and of the waves that thunder up against it. He fell upon them like flames of fire from every quarter. As when a wave, raised mountain high by wind and storm, breaks over a ship and covers it deep in foam, the fierce winds roar against the mast, the hearts of the sailors fail them for fear, and they are saved but by a very little from destruction—even so were the hearts of the Achaeans fainting within them. Or as a savage lion attacking a herd of cows while they are feeding by thousands in the low-lying meadows by some wide-watered shore—the herdsman is at his wit’s end how to protect his herd and keeps going about now in the van and now in the rear of his cattle, while the lion springs into the thick of them and fastens on a cow so that they all tremble for fear—even so were the Achaeans utterly panic-stricken by Hector and father Jove. Never- theless Hector only killed Periphetes of Mycenae; he was son of Copreus who was wont to take the orders of King Eurystheus to mighty Hercules, but the son was a far better man than the father in every way; he was fleet of foot, a valiant warrior, and in understanding ranked among the foremost men of Mycenae. He it was who then afforded Hector a triumph, for as he was turning back he stumbled against the rim of his shield which reached his feet, and served to keep the javelins off him. He tripped against this and fell face upward, his helmet ringing loudly about his head as he did so. Hector saw him fall and ran up to him; he then thrust a spear into his chest, and killed him close to his own comrades. These, for all their sorrow, could not help him for they were themselves terribly afraid of Hector.
They had now reached the ships and the prows of those that had been drawn up first were on every side of them, but the Trojans came pouring after them. The Argives were driven back from the first row of ships, but they made a stand by their tents without being broken up and scattered; shame and fear restrained them. They kept shouting incessantly to one another, and Nestor of Gerene, tower of strength to the Achaeans, was loudest in im- ploring every man by his parents, and beseeching him to stand firm.
“Be men, my friends,” he cried, “and respect one another’s good opinion. Think, all of you, on your children, your wives, your property, and your parents whether these be alive or dead. On their behalf though they are not here, I implore you to stand firm, and not to turn in flight.”
With these words he put heart and soul into them all. Minerva lifted the thick veil of darkness from their eyes, and much light fell upon them, alike on the side of the ships and on that where the fight was raging. They could see Hector and all his men, both those in the rear who were taking no part in the battle, and those who were fighting by the ships.
Ajax could not bring himself to retreat along with the rest, but strode from deck to deck with a great sea-pike in his hands twelve cubits long and jointed with rings. As a man skilled in feats of horsemanship couples four horses together and comes tearing full speed along the public way from the country into some large town—many both men and women marvel as they see him for he keeps all the time changing his horse, springing from one to another without ever missing his feet while the horses are at a gallop—even so did Ajax go striding from one ship’s deck to another, and his voice went up into the heavens. He kept on shouting his orders to the Danaans and exhorting them to defend their ships and tents; neither did Hector remain within the main body of the Trojan warriors, but as a dun eagle swoops down upon a flock of wild-fowl feeding near a river-geese, it may be, or cranes, or long-necked swans—even so did Hector make straight for a dark-prowed ship, rushing right towards it; for Jove with his mighty
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hand impelled him forward, and roused his people to follow him. And now the battle again raged furiously at the ships. You would have thought the men were coming on fresh
and unwearied, so fiercely did they fight; and this was the mind in which they were—the Achaeans did not believe they should escape destruction but thought themselves doomed, while there was not a Trojan but his heart beat high with the hope of firing the ships and putting the Achaean heroes to the sword.
Thus were the two sides minded. Then Hector seized the stern of the good ship that had brought Protesilaus to Troy, but never bore him back to his native land. Round this ship there raged a close hand-to-hand fight between Danaans and Trojans. They did not fight at a distance with bows and javelins, but with one mind hacked at one another in close combat with their mighty swords and spears pointed at both ends; they fought moreover with keen battle-axes and with hatchets. Many a good stout blade hilted and scabbarded with iron, fell from hand or shoulder as they fought, and the earth ran red with blood. Hector, when he had seized the ship, would not loose his hold but held on to its curved stern and shouted to the Trojans, “Bring fire, and raise the battle-cry all of you with a single voice. Now has Jove vouchsafed us a day that will pay us for all the rest; this day we shall take the ships which came hither against heaven’s will, and which have caused us such infinite suffering through the cowardice of our coun- cillors, who when I would have done battle at the ships held me back and forbade the host to follow me; if Jove did then indeed warp our judgements, himself now commands me and cheers me on.”
As he spoke thus the Trojans sprang yet more fiercely on the Achaeans, and Ajax no longer held his ground, for he was overcome by the darts that were flung at him, and made sure that he was doomed. Therefore he left the raised deck at the stern, and stepped back on to the seven-foot bench of the oarsmen. Here he stood on the look- out, and with his spear held back Trojan whom he saw bringing fire to the ships. All the time he kept on shouting at the top of his voice and exhorting the Danaans. “My friends,” he cried, “Danaan heroes, servants of Mars, be men my friends, and fight with might and with main. Can we hope to find helpers hereafter, or a wall to shield us more surely than the one we have? There is no strong city within reach, whence we may draw fresh forces to turn the scales in our favour. We are on the plain of the armed Trojans with the sea behind us, and far from our own coun- try. Our salvation, therefore, is in the might of our hands and in hard fighting.”
As he spoke he wielded his spear with still greater fury, and when any Trojan made towards the ships with fire at Hector’s bidding, he would be on the look-out for him, and drive at him with his long spear. Twelve men did he thus kill in hand-to-hand fight before the ships.
Book XVI
THUS did they fight about the ship of Protesilaus. Then Patroclus drew near to Achilles with tears welling from his eyes, as from some spring whose crystal stream falls over the ledges of a high precipice. When Achilles saw him thus weeping he was sorry for him and said, “Why, Patroclus, do you stand there weeping like some silly child that comes running to her mother, and begs to be taken up and carried—she catches hold of her mother’s dress to stay her though she is in a hurry, and looks tearfully up until her mother carries her—even such tears, Patroclus, are you now shedding. Have you anything to say to the Myrmidons or to myself ? or have you had news from Phthia which you alone know? They tell me Menoetius son of Actor is still alive, as also Peleus son of Aeacus, among the Myrmi- dons—men whose loss we two should bitterly deplore; or are you grieving about the Argives and the way in which they are being killed at the ships, throu their own high-handed doings? Do not hide anything from me but tell me that both of us may know about it.”
Then, O knight Patroclus, with a deep sigh you answered, “Achilles, son of Peleus, foremost champion of the Achaeans, do not be angry, but I weep for the disaster that has now befallen the Argives. All those who have been their champions so far are lying at the ships, wounded by sword or spear. Brave Diomed son of Tydeus has been hit with a spear, while famed Ulysses and Agamemnon have received sword-wounds; Eurypylus again has been struck with an arrow in the thigh; skilled apothecaries are attending to these heroes, and healing them of their wounds; are you still, O Achilles, so inexorable? May it never be my lot to nurse such a passion as you have done, to the baning of your own good name. Who in future story will speak well of you unless you now save the Argives from ruin? You know no pity; knight Peleus was not your father nor Thetis your mother, but the grey sea bore you and the sheer cliffs begot you, so cruel and remorseless are you. If however you are kept back through knowledge of some oracle, or if your mother Thetis has told you something from the mouth of Jove, at least send me and the Myrmidons with me, if I may bring deliverance to the Danaans. Let me moreover wear your armour; the Trojans may thus mistake me for you and quit the field, so that the hard-pressed sons of the Achaeans may have breathing time—which while they are fighting may hardly be. We who are fresh might soon drive tired men back from our ships and tents to their own city.”
He knew not what he was asking, nor that he was suing for his own destruction. Achilles was deeply moved and answered, “What, noble Patroclus, are you saying? I know no prophesyings which I am heeding, nor has my mother
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told me anything from the mouth of Jove, but I am cut to the very heart that one of my own rank should dare to rob me because he is more powerful than I am. This, after all that I have gone through, is more than I can endure. The girl whom the sons of the Achaeans chose for me, whom I won as the fruit of my spear on having sacked a city—her has King Agamemnon taken from me as though I were some common vagrant. Still, let bygones be bygones: no man may keep his anger for ever; I said I would not relent till battle and the cry of war had reached my own ships; nevertheless, now gird my armour about your shoulders, and lead the Myrmidons to battle, for the dark cloud of Trojans has burst furiously over our fleet; the Argives are driven back on to the beach, cooped within a narrow space, and the whole people of Troy has taken heart to sally out against them, because they see not the visor of my helmet gleaming near them. Had they seen this, there would not have been a creek nor grip that had not been filled with their dead as they fled back again. And so it would have been, if only King Agamemnon had dealt fairly by me. As it is the Trojans have beset our host. Diomed son of Tydeus no longer wields his spear to defend the Danaans, neither have I heard the voice of the son of Atreus coming from his hated head, whereas that of murderous Hector rings in my cars as he gives orders to the Trojans, who triumph over the Achaeans and fill the whole plain with their cry of battle. But even so, Patroclus, fall upon them and save the fleet, lest the Trojans fire it and prevent us from being able to return. Do, however, as I now bid you, that you may win me great honour from all the Danaans, and that they may restore the girl to me again and give me rich gifts into the bargain. When you have driven the Trojans from the ships, come back again. Though Juno’s thundering husband should put triumph within your reach, do not fight the Trojans further in my absence, or you will rob me of glory that should be mine. And do not for lust of bat- tle go on killing the Trojans nor lead the Achaeans on to Ilius, lest one of the ever-living gods from Olympus attack you—for Phoebus Apollo loves them well: return when you have freed the ships from peril, and let others wage war upon the plain. Would, by father Jove, Minerva, and Apollo, that not a single man of all the Trojans might be left alive, nor yet of the Argives, but that we two might be alone left to tear aside the mantle that veils the brow of Troy.”
Thus did they converse. But Ajax could no longer hold his ground for the shower of darts that rained upon him; the will of Jove and the javelins of the Trojans were too much for him; the helmet that gleamed about his temples rang with the continuous clatter of the missiles that kept pouring on to it and on to the cheek-pieces that protected his face. Moreover his left shoulder was tired with having held his shield so long, yet for all this, let fly at him as they would, they could not make him give ground. He could hardly draw his breath, the sweat rained from every pore of his body, he had not a moment’s respite, and on all sides he was beset by danger upon danger.
And now, tell me, O Muses that hold your mansions on Olympus, how fire was thrown upon the ships of the Achaeans. Hector came close up and let drive with his great sword at the ashen spear of Ajax. He cut it clean in two just behind where the point was fastened on to the shaft of the spear. Ajax, therefore, had now nothing but a headless spear, while the bronze point flew some way off and came ringing down on to the ground. Ajax knew the hand of heaven in this, and was dismayed at seeing that Jove had now left him utterly defenceless and was willing victory for the Trojans. Therefore he drew back, and the Trojans flung fire upon the ship which was at once wrapped in flame.
The fire was now flaring about the ship’s stern, whereon Achilles smote his two thighs and said to Patroclus, “Up, noble knight, for I see the glare of hostile fire at our fleet; up, lest they destroy our ships, and there be no way by which we may retreat. Gird on your armour at once while I call our people together.”
As he spoke Patroclus put on his armour. First he greaved his legs with greaves of good make, and fitted with ancle-clasps of silver; after this he donned the cuirass of the son of Aeacus, richly inlaid and studded. He hung his silver-studded sword of bronze about his shoulders, and then his mighty shield. On his comely head he set his helmet, well wrought, with a crest of horse-hair that nodded menacingly above it. He grasped two redoubtable spears that suited his hands, but he did not take the spear of noble Achilles, so stout and strong, for none other of the Achaeans could wield it, though Achilles could do so easily. This was the ashen spear from Mount Pelion, which Chiron had cut upon a mountain top and had given to Peleus, wherewith to deal out death among heroes. He bade Automedon yoke his horses with all speed, for he was the man whom he held in honour next after Achilles, and on whose support in battle he could rely most firmly. Automedon therefore yoked the fleet horses Xanthus and Bali- us, steeds that could fly like the wind: these were they whom the harpy Podarge bore to the west wind, as she was grazing in a meadow by the waters of the river Oceanus. In the side traces he set the noble horse Pedasus, whom Achilles had brought away with him when he sacked the city of Eetion, and who, mortal steed though he was, could take his place along with those that were immortal.
Meanwhile Achilles went about everywhere among the tents, and bade his Myrmidons put on their armour. Even as fierce ravening wolves that are feasting upon a homed stag which they have killed upon the mountains, and their jaws are red with blood—they go in a pack to lap water from the clear spring with their long thin tongues; and they reek of blood and slaughter; they know not what fear is, for it is hunger drives them—even so did the leaders and counsellors of the Myrmidons gather round the good squire of the fleet descendant of Aeacus, and among them stood Achilles himself cheering on both men and horses.
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Fifty ships had noble Achilles brought to Troy, and in each there was a crew of fifty oarsmen. Over these he set five captains whom he could trust, while he was himself commander over them all. Menesthius of the gleaming corslet, son to the river Spercheius that streams from heaven, was captain of the first company. Fair Polydora daugh- ter of Peleus bore him to ever-flowing Spercheius—a woman mated with a god—but he was called son of Borus son of Perieres, with whom his mother was living as his wedded wife, and who gave great wealth to gain her. The second company was led by noble Eudorus, son to an unwedded woman. Polymele, daughter of Phylas the graceful dancer, bore him; the mighty slayer of Argos was enamoured of her as he saw her among the singing women at a dance held in honour of Diana the rushing huntress of the golden arrows; he therefore— Mercury, giver of all good—went with her into an upper chamber, and lay with her in secret, whereon she bore him a noble son Eudorus, singularly fleet of foot and in fight valiant. When Ilithuia goddess of the pains of child-birth brought him to the light of day, and he saw the face of the sun, mighty Echecles son of Actor took the mother to wife, and gave great wealth to gain her, but her father Phylas brought the child up, and took care of him, doting as fondly upon him as though he were his own son. The third company was led by Pisander son of Maemalus, the finest spearman among all the Myrmidons next to Achilles’ own comrade Patroclus. The old knight Phoenix was captain of the fourth company, and Alcimedon, noble son of Laerceus of the fifth.
When Achilles had chosen his men and had stationed them all with their captains, he charged them straitly saying, “Myrmidons, remember your threats against the Trojans while you were at the ships in the time of my anger, and you were all complaining of me. ‘Cruel son of Peleus,’ you would say, ‘your mother must have suckled you on gall, so ruthless are you. You keep us here at the ships against our will; if you are so relentless it were better we went home over the sea.’ Often have you gathered and thus chided with me. The hour is now come for those high feats of arms that you have so long been pining for, therefore keep high hearts each one of you to do battle with the Tro- jans.”
With these words he put heart and soul into them all, and they serried their companies yet more closely when they heard the of their king. As the stones which a builder sets in the wall of some high house which is to give shelter from the winds—even so closely were the helmets and bossed shields set against one another. Shield pressed on shield, helm on helm, and man on man; so close were they that the horse-hair plumes on the gleaming ridges of their helmets touched each other as they bent their heads.
In front of them all two men put on their armour—Patroclus and Automedon—two men, with but one mind to lead the Myrmidons. Then Achilles went inside his tent and opened the lid of the strong chest which silver-footed Thetis had given him to take on board ship, and which she had filled with shirts, cloaks to keep out the cold, and good thick rugs. In this chest he had a cup of rare workmanship, from which no man but himself might drink, nor would he make offering from it to any other god save only to father Jove. He took the cup from the chest and cleansed it with sulphur; this done he rinsed it clean water, and after he had washed his hands he drew wine. Then he stood in the middle of the court and prayed, looking towards heaven, and making his drink-offering of wine; nor was he unseen of Jove whose joy is in thunder. “King Jove,” he cried, “lord of Dodona, god of the Pelasgi, who dwellest afar, you who hold wintry Dodona in your sway, where your prophets the Selli dwell around you with their feet unwashed and their couches made upon the ground—if you heard me when I prayed to you aforetime, and did me honour while you sent disaster on the Achaeans, vouchsafe me now the fulfilment of yet this further prayer. I shall stay here where my ships are lying, but I shall send my comrade into battle at the head of many Myrmidons. Grant, O all-seeing Jove, that victory may go with him; put your courage into his heart that Hector may learn whether my squire is man enough to fight alone, or whether his might is only then so indomitable when I myself enter the turmoil of war. Afterwards when he has chased the fight and the cry of battle from the ships, grant that he may return unharmed, with his armour and his comrades, fighters in close combat.”
Thus did he pray, and all-counselling Jove heard his prayer. Part of it he did indeed vouchsafe him—but not the whole. He granted that Patroclus should thrust back war and battle from the ships, but refused to let him come safely out of the fight.
When he had made his drink-offering and had thus prayed, Achilles went inside his tent and put back the cup into his chest.
Then he again came out, for he still loved to look upon the fierce fight that raged between the Trojans and Achaeans.
Meanwhile the armed band that was about Patroclus marched on till they sprang high in hope upon the Tro- jans. They came swarming out like wasps whose nests are by the roadside, and whom silly children love to tease, whereon any one who happens to be passing may get stung—or again, if a wayfarer going along the road vexes them by accident, every wasp will come flying out in a fury to defend his little ones—even with such rage and cour- age did the Myrmidons swarm from their ships, and their cry of battle rose heavenwards. Patroclus called out to his men at the top of his voice, “Myrmidons, followers of Achilles son of Peleus, be men my friends, fight with might and with main, that we may win glory for the son of Peleus, who is far the foremost man at the ships of the Ar-
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gives—he, and his close fighting followers. The son of Atreus King Agamemnon will thus learn his folly in showing no respect to the bravest of the Achaeans.”
With these words he put heart and soul into them all, and they fell in a body upon the Trojans. The ships rang again with the cry which the Achaeans raised, and when the Trojans saw the brave son of Menoetius and his squire all gleaming in their armour, they were daunted and their battalions were thrown into confusion, for they thought the fleet son of Peleus must now have put aside his anger, and have been reconciled to Agamemnon; every one, therefore, looked round about to see whither he might fly for safety.
Patroclus first aimed a spear into the middle of the press where men were packed most closely, by the stern of the ship of Protesilaus. He hit Pyraechmes who had led his Paeonian horsemen from the Amydon and the broad waters of the river Axius; the spear struck him on the right shoulder, and with a groan he fell backwards in the dust; on this his men were thrown into confusion, for by killing their leader, who was the finest soldier among them, Pa- troclus struck panic into them all. He thus drove them from the ship and quenched the fire that was then blazing— leaving the half-burnt ship to lie where it was. The Trojans were now driven back with a shout that rent the skies, while the Danaans poured after them from their ships, shouting also without ceasing. As when Jove, gatherer of the thunder-cloud, spreads a dense canopy on the top of some lofty mountain, and all the peaks, the jutting headlands, and forest glades show out in the great light that flashes from the bursting heavens, even so when the Danaans had now driven back the fire from their ships, they took breath for a little while; but the fury of the fight was not yet over, for the Trojans were not driven back in utter rout, but still gave battle, and were ousted from their ground only by sheer fighting.
The fight then became more scattered, and the chieftains killed one another when and how they could. The valiant son of Menoetius first drove his spear into the thigh of Areilycus just as he was turning round; the point went clean through, and broke the bone so that he fell forward. Meanwhile Menelaus struck Thoas in the chest, where it was exposed near the rim of his shield, and he fell dead. The son of Phyleus saw Amphiclus about to attack him, and ere he could do so took aim at the upper part of his thigh, where the muscles are thicker than in any other part; the spear tore through all the sinews of the leg, and his eyes were closed in darkness. Of the sons of Nestor one, Antilochus, speared Atymnius, driving the point of the spear through his throat, and down he fell. Maris then sprang on Antilochus in hand-to-hand fight to avenge his brother, and bestrode the body spear in hand; but valiant Thrasymedes was too quick for him, and in a moment had struck him in the shoulder ere he could deal his blow; his aim was true, and the spear severed all the muscles at the root of his arm, and tore them right down to the bone, so he fell heavily to the ground and his eyes were closed in darkness. Thus did these two noble comrades of Sarpe- don go down to Erebus slain by the two sons of Nestor; they were the warrior sons of Amisodorus, who had reared the invincible Chimaera, to the bane of many. Ajax son of Oileus sprang on Cleobulus and took him alive as he was entangled in the crush; but he killed him then and there by a sword-blow on the neck. The sword reeked with his blood, while dark death and the strong hand of fate gripped him and closed his eyes.
Peneleos and Lycon now met in close fight, for they had missed each other with their spears. They had both thrown without effect, so now they drew their swords. Lycon struck the plumed crest of Peneleos’ helmet but his sword broke at the hilt, while Peneleos smote Lycon on the neck under the ear. The blade sank so deep that the head was held on by nothing but the skin, and there was no more life left in him. Meriones gave chase to Acamas on foot and caught him up just as he was about to mount his chariot; he drove a spear through his right shoulder so that he fell headlong from the car, and his eyes were closed in darkness. Idomeneus speared Erymas in the mouth; the bronze point of the spear went clean through it beneath the brain, crashing in among the white bones and smashing them up. His teeth were all of them knocked out and the blood came gushing in a stream from both his eyes; it also came gurgling up from his mouth and nostrils, and the darkness of death enfolded him round about.
Thus did these chieftains of the Danaans each of them kill his man. As ravening wolves seize on kids or lambs, fastening on them when they are alone on the hillsides and have strayed from the main flock through the careless- ness of the shepherd—and when the wolves see this they pounce upon them at once because they cannot defend themselves—even so did the Danaans now fall on the Trojans, who fled with ill-omened cries in their panic and had no more fight left in them.
Meanwhile great Ajax kept on trying to drive a spear into Hector, but Hector was so skilful that he held his broad shoulders well under cover of his ox-hide shield, ever on the look-out for the whizzing of the arrows and the heavy thud of the spears. He well knew that the fortunes of the day had changed, but still stood his ground and tried to protect his comrades.
As when a cloud goes up into heaven from Olympus, rising out of a clear sky when Jove is brewing a gale—even with such panic stricken rout did the Trojans now fly, and there was no order in their going. Hector’s fleet horses bore him and his armour out of the fight, and he left the Trojan host penned in by the deep trench against their will. Many a yoke of horses snapped the pole of their chariots in the trench and left their master’s car behind them. Patroclus gave chase, calling impetuously on the Danaans and full of fury against the Trojans, who, being now no
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longer in a body, filled all the ways with their cries of panic and rout; the air was darkened with the clouds of dust they raised, and the horses strained every nerve in their flight from the tents and ships towards the city.
Patroclus kept on heading his horses wherever he saw most men flying in confusion, cheering on his men the while. Chariots were being smashed in all directions, and many a man came tumbling down from his own car to fall beneath the wheels of that of Patroclus, whose immortal steeds, given by the gods to Peleus, sprang over the trench at a bound as they sped onward. He was intent on trying to get near Hector, for he had set his heart on spearing him, but Hector’s horses were now hurrying him away. As the whole dark earth bows before some tempest on an autumn day when Jove rains his hardest to punish men for giving crooked judgement in their courts, and arriving justice therefrom without heed to the decrees of heaven—all the rivers run full and the torrents tear many a new channel as they roar headlong from the mountains to the dark sea, and it fares ill with the works of men—even such was the stress and strain of the Trojan horses in their flight.
Patroclus now cut off the battalions that were nearest to him and drove them back to the ships. They were doing their best to reach the city, but he would not Yet them, and bore down on them between the river and the ships and wall. Many a fallen comrade did he then avenge. First he hit Pronous with a spear on the chest where it was exposed near the rim of his shield, and he fell heavily to the ground. Next he sprang on Thestor son of Enops, who was sitting all huddled up in his chariot, for he had lost his head and the reins had been torn out of his hands. Patroclus went up to him and drove a spear into his right jaw; he thus hooked him by the teeth and the spear pulled him over the rim of his car, as one who sits at the end of some jutting rock and draws a strong fish out of the sea with a hook and a line—even so with his spear did he pull Thestor all gaping from his chariot; he then threw him down on his face and he died while falling. On this, as Erylaus was on to attack him, he struck him full on the head with a stone, and his brains were all battered inside his helmet, whereon he fell headlong to the ground and the pangs of death took hold upon him. Then he laid low, one after the other, Erymas, Amphoterus, Epaltes, Tlepolemus, Echius son of Damastor, Pyris, lpheus, Euippus and Polymelus son of Argeas.
Now when Sarpedon saw his comrades, men who wore ungirdled tunics, being overcome by Patroclus son of Menoetius, he rebuked the Lycians saying. “Shame on you, where are you flying to? Show your mettle; I will myself meet this man in fight and learn who it is that is so masterful; he has done us much hurt, and has stretched many a brave man upon the ground.”
He sprang from his chariot as he spoke, and Patroclus, when he saw this, leaped on to the ground also. The two then rushed at one another with loud cries like eagle-beaked crook-taloned vultures that scream and tear at one another in some high mountain fastness.
The son of scheming Saturn looked down upon them in pity and said to Juno who was his wife and sister, “Alas, that it should be the lot of Sarpedon whom I love so dearly to perish by the hand of Patroclus. I am in two minds whether to catch him up out of the fight and set him down safe and sound in the fertile land of Lycia, or to let him now fall by the hand of the son of Menoetius.”
And Juno answered, “Most dread son of Saturn, what is this that you are saying? Would you snatch a mortal man, whose doom has long been fated, out of the jaws of death? Do as you will, but we shall not all of us be of your mind. I say further, and lay my saying to your heart, that if you send Sarpedon safely to his own home, some other of the gods will be also wanting to escort his son out of battle, for there are many sons of gods fighting round the city of Troy, and you will make every one jealous. If, however, you are fond of him and pity him, let him indeed fall by the hand of Patroclus, but as soon as the life is gone out of him, send Death and sweet Sleep to bear him off the field and take him to the broad lands of Lycia, where his brothers and his kinsmen will bury him with mound and pillar, in due honour to the dead.”
The sire of gods and men assented, but he shed a rain of blood upon the earth in honour of his son whom Pa- troclus was about to kill on the rich plain of Troy far from his home.
When they were now come close to one another Patroclus struck Thrasydemus, the brave squire of Sarpedon, in the lower part of the belly, and killed him. Sarpedon then aimed a spear at Patroclus and missed him, but he struck the horse Pedasus in the right shoulder, and it screamed aloud as it lay, groaning in the dust until the life went out of it. The other two horses began to plunge; the pole of the chariot cracked and they got entangled in the reins through the fall of the horse that was yoked along with them; but Automedon knew what to do; without the loss of a moment he drew the keen blade that hung by his sturdy thigh and cut the third horse adrift; whereon the other two righted themselves, and pulling hard at the reins again went together into battle.
Sarpedon now took a second aim at Patroclus, and again missed him, the point of the spear passed over his left shoulder without hitting him. Patroclus then aimed in his turn, and the spear sped not from his hand in vain, for he hit Sarpedon just where the midriff surrounds the ever-beating heart. He fell like some oak or silver poplar or tall pine to which woodmen have laid their axes upon the mountains to make timber for ship-building—even so did he lie stretched at full length in front of his chariot and horses, moaning and clutching at the blood-stained dust. As when a lion springs with a bound upon a herd of cattle and fastens on a great black bull which dies bellowing in
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its clutches—even so did the leader of the Lycian warriors struggle in death as he fell by the hand of Patroclus. He called on his trusty comrade and said, “Glaucus, my brother, hero among heroes, put forth all your strength, fight with might and main, now if ever quit yourself like a valiant soldier. First go about among the Lycian captains and bid them fight for Sarpedon; then yourself also do battle to save my armour from being taken. My name will haunt you henceforth and for ever if the Achaeans rob me of my armour now that I have fallen at their ships. Do your very utmost and call all my people together.”
Death closed his eyes as he spoke. Patroclus planted his heel on his breast and drew the spear from his body, whereon his senses came out along with it, and he drew out both spear-point and Sarpedon’s soul at the same time. Hard by the Myrmidons held his snorting steeds, who were wild with panic at finding themselves deserted by their lords.
Glaucus was overcome with grief when he heard what Sarpedon said, for he could not help him. He had to support his arm with his other hand, being in great pain through the wound which Teucer’s arrow had given him when Teucer was defending the wall as he, Glaucus, was assailing it. Therefore he prayed to far-darting Apollo say- ing, “Hear me O king from your seat, may be in the rich land of Lycia, or may be in Troy, for in all places you can hear the prayer of one who is in distress, as I now am. I have a grievous wound; my hand is aching with pain, there is no staunching the blood, and my whole arm drags by reason of my hurt, so that I cannot grasp my sword nor go among my foes and fight them, thou our prince, Jove’s son Sarpedon, is slain. Jove defended not his son, do you, therefore, O king, heal me of my wound, ease my pain and grant me strength both to cheer on the Lycians and to fight along with them round the body of him who has fallen.”
Thus did he pray, and Apollo heard his prayer. He eased his pain, staunched the black blood from the wound, and gave him new strength. Glaucus perceived this, and was thankful that the mighty god had answered his prayer; forthwith, therefore, he went among the Lycian captains, and bade them come to fight about the body of Sarpedon. From these he strode on among the Trojans to Polydamas son of Panthous and Agenor; he then went in search of Aeneas and Hector, and when he had found them he said, “Hector, you have utterly forgotten your allies, who lan- guish here for your sake far from friends and home while you do nothing to support them. Sarpedon leader of the Lycian warriors has fallen—he who was at once the right and might of Lycia; Mars has laid him low by the spear of Patroclus. Stand by him, my friends, and suffer not the Myrmidons to strip him of his armour, nor to treat his body with contumely in revenge for all the Danaans whom we have speared at the ships.”
As he spoke the Trojans were plunged in extreme and ungovernable grief; for Sarpedon, alien though he was, had been one of the main stays of their city, both as having much people with him, and himself the foremost among them all. Led by Hector, who was infuriated by the fall of Sarpedon, they made instantly for the Danaans with all their might, while the undaunted spirit of Patroclus son of Menoetius cheered on the Achaeans. First he spoke to the two Ajaxes, men who needed no bidding. “Ajaxes,” said he, “may it now please you to show youselves the men you have always been, or even better—Sarpedon is fallen — he who was first to overleap the wall of the Achaeans; let us take the body and outrage it; let us strip the armour from his shoulders, and kill his comrades if they try to rescue his body.”
He spoke to men who of themselves were full eager; both sides, therefore, the Trojans and Lycians on the one hand, and the Myrmidons and Achaeans on the other, strengthened their battalions, and fought desperately about the body of Sarpedon, shouting fiercely the while. Mighty was the din of their armour as they came together, and Jove shed a thick darkness over the fight, to increase the of the battle over the body of his son.
At first the Trojans made some headway against the Achaeans, for one of the best men among the Myrmidons was killed, Epeigeus, son of noble Agacles who had erewhile been king in the good city of Budeum; but presently, having killed a valiant kinsman of his own, he took refuge with Peleus and Thetis, who sent him to Ilius the land of noble steeds to fight the Trojans under Achilles. Hector now struck him on the head with a stone just as he had caught hold of the body, and his brains inside his helmet were all battered in, so that he fell face foremost upon the body of Sarpedon, and there died. Patroclus was enraged by the death of his comrade, and sped through the front ranks as swiftly as a hawk that swoops down on a flock of daws or starlings. Even so swiftly, O noble knight Patro- clus, did you make straight for the Lycians and Trojans to avenge your comrade. Forthwith he struck Sthenelaus the son of Ithaemenes on the neck with a stone, and broke the tendons that join it to the head and spine. On this Hector and the front rank of his men gave ground. As far as a man can throw a javelin when competing for some prize, or even in battle—so far did the Trojans now retreat before the Achaeans. Glaucus, captain of the Lycians, was the first to rally them, by killing Bathycles son of Chalcon who lived in Hellas and was the richest man among the Myrmidons. Glaucus turned round suddenly, just as Bathycles who was pursuing him was about to lay hold of him, and drove his spear right into the middle of his chest, whereon he fell heavily to the ground, and the fall of so good a man filled the Achaeans with dismay, while the Trojans were exultant, and came up in a body round the corpse. Nevertheless the Achaeans, mindful of their prowess, bore straight down upon them.
Meriones then killed a helmed warrior of the Trojans, Laogonus son of Onetor, who was priest of Jove of Mt.
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Ida, and was honoured by the people as though he were a god. Meriones struck him under the jaw and ear, so that life went out of him and the darkness of death laid hold upon him. Aeneas then aimed a spear at Meriones, hop- ing to hit him under the shield as he was advancing, but Meriones saw it coming and stooped forward to avoid it, whereon the spear flew past him and the point stuck in the ground, while the butt-end went on quivering till Mars robbed it of its force. The spear, therefore, sped from Aeneas’s hand in vain and fell quivering to the ground. Aeneas was angry and said, “Meriones, you are a good dancer, but if I had hit you my spear would soon have made an end of you.”
And Meriones answered, “Aeneas, for all your bravery, you will not be able to make an end of every one who comes against you. You are only a mortal like myself, and if I were to hit you in the middle of your shield with my spear, however strong and self-confident you may be, I should soon vanquish you, and you would yield your life to Hades of the noble steeds.”
On this the son of Menoetius rebuked him and said, “Meriones, hero though you be, you should not speak thus; taunting speeches, my good friend, will not make the Trojans draw away from the dead body; some of them must go under ground first; blows for battle, and words for council; fight, therefore, and say nothing.”
He led the way as he spoke and the hero went forward with him. As the sound of woodcutters in some forest glade upon the mountains—and the thud of their axes is heard afar — even such a din now rose from earth-clash of bronze armour and of good ox-hide shields, as men smote each other with their swords and spears pointed at both ends. A man had need of good eyesight now to know Sarpedon, so covered was he from head to foot with spears and blood and dust. Men swarmed about the body, as flies that buzz round the full milk-pails in spring when they are brimming with milk—even so did they gather round Sarpedon; nor did Jove turn his keen eyes away for one moment from the fight, but kept looking at it all the time, for he was settling how best to kill Patroclus, and consid- ering whether Hector should be allowed to end him now in the fight round the body of Sarpedon, and strip him of his armour, or whether he should let him give yet further trouble to the Trojans. In the end, he deemed it best that the brave squire of Achilles son of Peleus should drive Hector and the Trojans back towards the city and take the lives of many. First, therefore, he made Hector turn fainthearted, whereon he mounted his chariot and fled, bidding the other Trojans fly also, for he saw that the scales of Jove had turned against him. Neither would the brave Lycians stand firm; they were dismayed when they saw their king lying struck to the heart amid a heap of corpses—for when the son of Saturn made the fight wax hot many had fallen above him. The Achaeans, therefore stripped the gleaming armour from his shoulders and the brave son of Menoetius gave it to his men to take to the ships. Then Jove lord of the storm-cloud said to Apollo, “Dear Phoebus, go, I pray you, and take Sarpedon out of range of the weapons; cleanse the black blood from off him, and then bear him a long way off where you may wash him in the river, anoint him with ambrosia, and clothe him in immortal raiment; this done, commit him to the arms of the two fleet messengers, Death, and Sleep, who will carry him straightway to the rich land of Lycia, where his brothers and kinsmen will inter him, and will raise both mound and pillar to his memory, in due honour to the dead.”
Thus he spoke. Apollo obeyed his father’s saying, and came down from the heights of Ida into the thick of the fight; forthwith he took Sarpedon out of range of the weapons, and then bore him a long way off, where he washed him in the river, anointed him with ambrosia and clothed him in immortal raiment; this done, he committed him to the arms of the two fleet messengers, Death, and Sleep, who presently set him down in the rich land of Lycia.
Meanwhile Patroclus, with many a shout to his horses and to Automedon, pursued the Trojans and Lycians in the pride and foolishness of his heart. Had he but obeyed the bidding of the son of Peleus, he would have, escaped death and have been scatheless; but the counsels of Jove pass man’s understanding; he will put even a brave man to flight and snatch victory from his grasp, or again he will set him on to fight, as he now did when he put a high spirit into the heart of Patroclus.
Who then first, and who last, was slain by you, O Patroclus, when the gods had now called you to meet your doom? First Adrestus, Autonous, Echeclus, Perimus the son of Megas, Epistor and Melanippus; after these he killed Elasus, Mulius, and Pylartes. These he slew, but the rest saved themselves by flight.
The sons of the Achaeans would now have taken Troy by the hands of Patroclus, for his spear flew in all direc- tions, had not Phoebus Apollo taken his stand upon the wall to defeat his purpose and to aid the Trojans. Thrice did Patroclus charge at an angle of the high wall, and thrice did Apollo beat him back, striking his shield with his own immortal hands. When Patroclus was coming on like a god for yet a fourth time, Apollo shouted to him with an awful voice and said, “Draw back, noble Patroclus, it is not your lot to sack the city of the Trojan chieftains, nor yet will it be that of Achilles who is a far better man than you are.” On hearing this, Patroclus withdrew to some dis- tance and avoided the anger of Apollo.
Meanwhile Hector was waiting with his horses inside the Scaean gates, in doubt whether to drive out again and go on fighting, or to call the army inside the gates. As he was thus doubting Phoebus Apollo drew near him in the likeness of a young and lusty warrior Asius, who was Hector’s uncle, being own brother to Hecuba, and son of Dy- mas who lived in Phrygia by the waters of the river Sangarius; in his likeness Jove’s son Apollo now spoke to Hector
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saying, “Hector, why have you left off fighting? It is ill done of you. If I were as much better a man than you, as I am worse, you should soon rue your slackness. Drive straight towards Patroclus, if so be that Apollo may grant you a triumph over him, and you may rull him.”
With this the god went back into the hurly-burly, and Hector bade Cebriones drive again into the fight. Apollo passed in among them, and struck panic into the Argives, while he gave triumph to Hector and the Trojans. Hec- tor let the other Danaans alone and killed no man, but drove straight at Patroclus. Patroclus then sprang from his chariot to the ground, with a spear in his left hand, and in his right a jagged stone as large as his hand could hold. He stood still and threw it, nor did it go far without hitting some one; the cast was not in vain, for the stone struck Cebriones, Hector’s charioteer, a bastard son of Priam, as he held the reins in his hands. The stone hit him on the forehead and drove his brows into his head for the bone was smashed, and his eyes fell to the ground at his feet. He dropped dead from his chariot as though he were diving, and there was no more life left in him. Over him did you then vaunt, O knight Patroclus, saying, “Bless my heart, how active he is, and how well he dives. If we had been at sea this fellow would have dived from the ship’s side and brought up as many oysters as the whole crew could stom- ach, even in rough water, for he has dived beautifully off his chariot on to the ground. It seems, then, that there are divers also among the Trojans.”
As he spoke he flung himself on Cebriones with the spring, as it were, of a lion that while attacking a stockyard is himself struck in the chest, and his courage is his own bane—even so furiously, O Patroclus, did you then spring upon Cebriones. Hector sprang also from his chariot to the ground. The pair then fought over the body of Cebri- ones. As two lions fight fiercely on some high mountain over the body of a stag that they have killed, even so did these two mighty warriors, Patroclus son of Menoetius and brave Hector, hack and hew at one another over the corpse of Cebriones. Hector would not let him go when he had once got him by the head, while Patroclus kept fast hold of his feet, and a fierce fight raged between the other Danaans and Trojans. As the east and south wind buf- fet one another when they beat upon some dense forest on the mountains—there is beech and ash and spreading cornel; the to of the trees roar as they beat on one another, and one can hear the boughs cracking and breaking— even so did the Trojans and Achaeans spring upon one another and lay about each other, and neither side would give way. Many a pointed spear fell to ground and many a winged arrow sped from its bow-string about the body of Cebriones; many a great stone, moreover, beat on many a shield as they fought around his body, but there he lay in the whirling clouds of dust, all huge and hugely, heedless of his driving now.
So long as the sun was still high in mid-heaven the weapons of either side were alike deadly, and the people fell; but when he went down towards the time when men loose their oxen, the Achaeans proved to be beyond all forecast stronger, so that they drew Cebriones out of range of the darts and tumult of the Trojans, and stripped the armour from his shoulders. Then Patroclus sprang like Mars with fierce intent and a terrific shout upon the Trojans, and thrice did he kill nine men; but as he was coming on like a god for a time, then, O Patroclus, was the hour of your end approaching, for Phoebus fought you in fell earnest. Patroclus did not see him as he moved about in the crush, for he was enshrouded in thick darkness, and the god struck him from behind on his back and his broad shoulders with the flat of his hand, so that his eyes turned dizzy. Phoebus Apollo beat the helmet from off his head, and it rolled rattling off under the horses’ feet, where its horse-hair plumes were all begrimed with dust and blood. Never indeed had that helmet fared so before, for it had served to protect the head and comely forehead of the god- like hero Achilles. Now, however, Zeus delivered it over to be worn by Hector. Nevertheless the end of Hector also was near. The bronze-shod spear, so great and so strong, was broken in the hand of Patroclus, while his shield that covered him from head to foot fell to the ground as did also the band that held it, and Apollo undid the fastenings of his corslet.
On this his mind became clouded; his limbs failed him, and he stood as one dazed; whereon Euphorbus son of Panthous a Dardanian, the best spearman of his time, as also the finest horseman and fleetest runner, came behind him and struck him in the back with a spear, midway between the shoulders. This man as soon as ever he had come up with his chariot had dismounted twenty men, so proficient was he in all the arts of war—he it was, O knight Patroclus, that first drove a weapon into you, but he did not quite overpower you. Euphorbus then ran back into the crowd, after drawing his ashen spear out of the wound; he would not stand firm and wait for Patroclus, unarmed though he now was, to attack him; but Patroclus unnerved, alike by the blow the god had given him and by the spear-wound, drew back under cover of his men in fear for his life. Hector on this, seeing him to be wound- ed and giving ground, forced his way through the ranks, and when close up with him struck him in the lower part of the belly with a spear, driving the bronze point right through it, so that he fell heavily to the ground to the great of the Achaeans. As when a lion has fought some fierce wild-boar and worsted him—the two fight furiously upon the mountains over some little fountain at which they would both drink, and the lion has beaten the boar till he can hardly breathe—even so did Hector son of Priam take the life of the brave son of Menoetius who had killed so many, striking him from close at hand, and vaunting over him the while. “Patroclus,” said he, “you deemed that you should sack our city, rob our Trojan women of their freedom, and carry them off in your ships to your own country.
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Fool; Hector and his fleet horses were ever straining their utmost to defend them. I am foremost of all the Trojan warriors to stave the day of bondage from off them; as for you, vultures shall devour you here. Poor wretch, Achilles with all his bravery availed you nothing; and yet I ween when you left him he charged you straitly saying, ‘Come not back to the ships, knight Patroclus, till you have rent the bloodstained shirt of murderous Hector about his body. Thus I ween did he charge you, and your fool’s heart answered him ‘yea’ within you.”
Then, as the life ebbed out of you, you answered, O knight Patroclus: “Hector, vaunt as you will, for Jove the son of Saturn and Apollo have vouchsafed you victory; it is they who have vanquished me so easily, and they who have stripped the armour from my shoulders; had twenty such men as you attacked me, all of them would have fallen before my spear. Fate and the son of Leto have overpowered me, and among mortal men Euphorbus; you are your- self third only in the killing of me. I say further, and lay my saying to your heart, you too shall live but for a little season; death and the day of your doom are close upon you, and they will lay you low by the hand of Achilles son of Aeacus.”
When he had thus spoken his eyes were closed in death, his soul left his body and flitted down to the house of Hades, mourning its sad fate and bidding farewell to the youth and vigor of its manhood. Dead though he was, Hector still spoke to him saying, “Patroclus, why should you thus foretell my doom? Who knows but Achilles, son of lovely Thetis, may be smitten by my spear and die before me?”
As he spoke he drew the bronze spear from the wound, planting his foot upon the body, which he thrust off and let lie on its back. He then went spear in hand after Automedon, squire of the fleet descendant of Aeacus, for he longed to lay him low, but the immortal steeds which the gods had given as a rich gift to Peleus bore him swiftly from the field.
Book XVII BRAVE Menelaus son of Atreus now came to know that Patroclus had fallen, and made his way through the
front ranks clad in full armour to bestride him. As a cow stands lowing over her first calf, even so did yellow-haired Menelaus bestride Patroclus. He held his round shield and his spear in front of him, resolute to kill any who should dare face him. But the son of Panthous had also noted the body, and came up to Menelaus saying, “Menelaus, son of Atreus, draw back, leave the body, and let the bloodstained spoils be. I was first of the Trojans and their brave allies to drive my spear into Patroclus, let me, therefore, have my full glory among the Trojans, or I will take aim and kill you.”
To this Menelaus answered in great anger “By father Jove, boasting is an ill thing. The pard is not more bold, nor the lion nor savage wild-boar, which is fiercest and most dauntless of all creatures, than are the proud sons of Panthous. Yet Hyperenor did not see out the days of his youth when he made light of me and withstood me, deem- ing me the meanest soldier among the Danaans. His own feet never bore him back to gladden his wife and parents. Even so shall I make an end of you too, if you withstand me; get you back into the crowd and do not face me, or it shall be worse for you. Even a fool may be wise after the event.”
Euphorbus would not listen, and said, “Now indeed, Menelaus, shall you pay for the death of my brother over whom you vaunted, and whose wife you widowed in her bridal chamber, while you brought grief unspeakable on his parents. I shall comfort these poor people if I bring your head and armour and place them in the hands of Pan- thous and noble Phrontis. The time is come when this matter shall be fought out and settled, for me or against me.”
As he spoke he struck Menelaus full on the shield, but the spear did not go through, for the shield turned its point. Menelaus then took aim, praying to father Jove as he did so; Euphorbus was drawing back, and Menelaus struck him about the roots of his throat, leaning his whole weight on the spear, so as to drive it home. The point went clean through his neck, and his armour rang rattling round him as he fell heavily to the ground. His hair which was like that of the Graces, and his locks so deftly bound in bands of silver and gold, were all bedrabbled with blood. As one who has grown a fine young olive tree in a clear space where there is abundance of water—the plant is full of promise, and though the winds beat upon it from every quarter it puts forth its white blossoms till the blasts of some fierce hurricane sweep down upon it and level it with the ground—even so did Menelaus strip the fair youth Euphorbus of his armour after he had slain him. Or as some fierce lion upon the mountains in the pride of his strength fastens on the finest heifer in a herd as it is feeding—first he breaks her neck with his strong jaws, and then gorges on her blood and entrails; dogs and shepherds raise a hue and cry against him, but they stand aloof and will not come close to him, for they are pale with fear—even so no one had the courage to face valiant Mene- laus. The son of Atreus would have then carried off the armour of the son of Panthous with ease, had not Phoebus Apollo been angry, and in the guise of Mentes chief of the Cicons incited Hector to attack him. “Hector,” said he, “you are now going after the horses of the noble son of Aeacus, but you will not take them; they cannot be kept in hand and driven by mortal man, save only by Achilles, who is son to an immortal mother. Meanwhile Menelaus son of Atreus has bestridden the body of Patroclus and killed the noblest of the Trojans, Euphorbus son of Panthous, so
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that he can fight no more.” The god then went back into the toil and turmoil, but the soul of Hector was darkened with a cloud of grief; he
looked along the ranks and saw Euphorbus lying on the ground with the blood still flowing from his wound, and Menelaus stripping him of his armour. On this he made his way to the front like a flame of fire, clad in his gleaming armour, and crying with a loud voice. When the son of Atreus heard him, he said to himself in his dismay, “Alas! what shall I do? I may not let the Trojans take the armour of Patroclus who has fallen fighting on my behalf, lest some Danaan who sees me should cry shame upon me. Still if for my honour’s sake I fight Hector and the Trojans single-handed, they will prove too many for me, for Hector is bringing them up in force. Why, however, should I thus hesitate? When a man fights in despite of heaven with one whom a god befriends, he will soon rue it. Let no Danaan think ill of me if I give place to Hector, for the hand of heaven is with him. Yet, if I could find Ajax, the two of us would fight Hector and heaven too, if we might only save the body of Patroclus for Achilles son of Peleus. This, of many evils would be the least.”
While he was thus in two minds, the Trojans came up to him with Hector at their head; he therefore drew back and left the body, turning about like some bearded lion who is being chased by dogs and men from a stockyard with spears and hue and cry, whereon he is daunted and slinks sulkily off—even so did Menelaus son of Atreus turn and leave the body of Patroclus. When among the body of his men, he looked around for mighty Ajax son of Telamon, and presently saw him on the extreme left of the fight, cheering on his men and exhorting them to keep on fighting, for Phoebus Apollo had spread a great panic among them. He ran up to him and said, “Ajax, my good friend, come with me at once to dead Patroclus, if so be that we may take the body to Achilles—as for his armour, Hector already has it.”
These words stirred the heart of Ajax, and he made his way among the front ranks, Menelaus going with him. Hector had stripped Patroclus of his armour, and was dragging him away to cut off his head and take the body to fling before the dogs of Troy. But Ajax came up with his shield like wall before him, on which Hector withdrew under shelter of his men, and sprang on to his chariot, giving the armour over to the Trojans to take to the city, as a great trophy for himself; Ajax, therefore, covered the body of Patroclus with his broad shield and bestrode him; as a lion stands over his whelps if hunters have come upon him in a forest when he is with his little ones—in the pride and fierceness of his strength he draws his knit brows down till they cover his eyes—even so did Ajax bestride the body of Patroclus, and by his side stood Menelaus son of Atreus, nursing great sorrow in his heart.
Then Glaucus son of Hippolochus looked fiercely at Hector and rebuked him sternly. “Hector,” said he, “you make a brave show, but in fight you are sadly wanting. A runaway like yourself has no claim to so great a reputation. Think how you may now save your town and citadel by the hands of your own people born in Ilius; for you will get no Lycians to fight for you, seeing what thanks they have had for their incessant hardships. Are you likely, sir, to do anything to help a man of less note, after leaving Sarpedon, who was at once your guest and comrade in arms, to be the spoil and prey of the Danaans? So long as he lived he did good service both to your city and yourself; yet you had no stomach to save his body from the dogs. If the Lycians will listen to me, they will go home and leave Troy to its fate. If the Trojans had any of that daring fearless spirit which lays hold of men who are fighting for their coun- try and harassing those who would attack it, we should soon bear off Patroclus into Ilius. Could we get this dead man away and bring him into the city of Priam, the Argives would readily give up the armour of Sarpedon, and we should get his body to boot. For he whose squire has been now killed is the foremost man at the ships of the Achae- ans—he and his close-fighting followers. Nevertheless you dared not make a stand against Ajax, nor face him, eye to eye, with battle all round you, for he is a braver man than you are.”
Hector scowled at him and answered, “Glaucus, you should know better. I have held you so far as a man of more understanding than any in all Lycia, but now I despise you for saying that I am afraid of Ajax. I fear neither battle nor the din of chariots, but Jove’s will is stronger than ours; Jove at one time makes even a strong man draw back and snatches victory from his grasp, while at another he will set him on to fight. Come hither then, my friend, stand by me and see indeed whether I shall play the coward the whole day through as you say, or whether I shall not stay some even of the boldest Danaans from fighting round the body of Patroclus.”
As he spoke he called loudly on the Trojans saying, “Trojans, Lycians, and Dardanians, fighters in close combat, be men, my friends, and fight might and main, while I put on the goodly armour of Achilles, which I took when I killed Patroclus.”
With this Hector left the fight, and ran full speed after his men who were taking the armour of Achilles to Troy, but had not yet got far. Standing for a while apart from the woeful fight, he changed his armour. His own he sent to the strong city of Ilius and to the Trojans, while he put on the immortal armour of the son of Peleus, which the gods had given to Peleus, who in his age gave it to his son; but the son did not grow old in his father’s armour.
When Jove, lord of the storm-cloud, saw Hector standing aloof and arming himself in the armour of the son of Peleus, he wagged his head and muttered to himself saying, “A! poor wretch, you arm in the armour of a hero, before whom many another trembles, and you reck nothing of the doom that is already close upon you. You have
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killed his comrade so brave and strong, but it was not well that you should strip the armour from his head and shoulders. I do indeed endow you with great might now, but as against this you shall not return from battle to lay the armour of the son of Peleus before Andromache.”
The son of Saturn bowed his portentous brows, and Hector fitted the armour to his body, while terrible Mars entered into him, and filled his whole body with might and valour. With a shout he strode in among the allies, and his armour flashed about him so that he seemed to all of them like the great son of Peleus himself. He went about among them and cheered them on—Mesthles, Glaucus, Medon, Thersilochus, Asteropaeus, Deisenor and Hippot- hous, Phorcys, Chromius and Ennomus the augur. All these did he exhort saying, “Hear me, allies from other cities who are here in your thousands, it was not in order to have a crowd about me that I called you hither each from his several city, but that with heart and soul you might defend the wives and little ones of the Trojans from the fierce Achaeans. For this do I oppress my people with your food and the presents that make you rich. Therefore turn, and charge at the foe, to stand or fall as is the game of war; whoever shall bring Patroclus, dead though he be, into the hands of the Trojans, and shall make Ajax give way before him, I will give him one half of the spoils while I keep the other. He will thus share like honour with myself.”
When he had thus spoken they charged full weight upon the Danaans with their spears held out before them, and the hopes of each ran high that he should force Ajax son of Telamon to yield up the body—fools that they were, for he was about to take the lives of many. Then Ajax said to Menelaus, “My good friend Menelaus, you and I shall hardly come out of this fight alive. I am less concerned for the body of Patroclus, who will shortly become meat for the dogs and vultures of Troy, than for the safety of my own head and yours. Hector has wrapped us round in a storm of battle from every quarter, and our destruction seems now certain. Call then upon the princes of the Da- naans if there is any who can hear us.”
Menelaus did as he said, and shouted to the Danaans for help at the top of his voice. “My friends,” he cried, “princes and counsellors of the Argives, all you who with Agamemnon and Menelaus drink at the public cost, and give orders each to his own people as Jove vouchsafes him power and glory, the fight is so thick about me that I can- not distinguish you severally; come on, therefore, every man unbidden, and think it shame that Patroclus should become meat and morsel for Trojan hounds.”
Fleet Ajax son of Oileus heard him and was first to force his way through the fight and run to help him. Next came Idomeneus and Meriones his esquire, peer of murderous Mars. As for the others that came into the fight after these, who of his own self could name them?
The Trojans with Hector at their head charged in a body. As a great wave that comes thundering in at the mouth of some heaven-born river, and the rocks that jut into the sea ring with the roar of the breakers that beat and buffet them—even with such a roar did the Trojans come on; but the Achaeans in singleness of heart stood firm about the son of Menoetius, and fenced him with their bronze shields. Jove, moreover, hid the brightness of their helmets in a thick cloud, for he had borne no grudge against the son of Menoetius while he was still alive and squire to the descendant of Aeacus; therefore he was loth to let him fall a prey to the dogs of his foes the Trojans, and urged his comrades on to defend him.
At first the Trojans drove the Achaeans back, and they withdrew from the dead man daunted. The Trojans did not succeed in killing any one, nevertheless they drew the body away. But the Achaeans did not lose it long, for Ajax, foremost of all the Danaans after the son of Peleus alike in stature and prowess, quickly rallied them and made towards the front like a wild boar upon the mountains when he stands at bay in the forest glades and routs the hounds and lusty youths that have attacked him—even so did Ajax son of Telamon passing easily in among the phalanxes of the Trojans, disperse those who had bestridden Patroclus and were most bent on winning glory by dragging him off to their city. At this moment Hippothous brave son of the Pelasgian Lethus, in his zeal for Hector and the Trojans, was dragging the body off by the foot through the press of the fight, having bound a strap round the sinews near the ancle; but a mischief soon befell him from which none of those could save him who would have gladly done so, for the son of Telamon sprang forward and smote him on his bronze-cheeked helmet. The plumed headpiece broke about the point of the weapon, struck at once by the spear and by the strong hand of Ajax, so that the bloody brain came oozing out through the crest-socket. His strength then failed him and he let Patroclus’ foot drop from his hand, as he fell full length dead upon the body; thus he died far from the fertile land of Larissa, and never repaid his parents the cost of bringing him up, for his life was cut short early by the spear of mighty Ajax. Hector then took aim at Ajax with a spear, but he saw it coming and just managed to avoid it; the spear passed on and struck Schedius son of noble Iphitus, captain of the Phoceans, who dwelt in famed Panopeus and reigned over much people; it struck him under the middle of the collar-bone the bronze point went right through him, coming out at the bottom of his shoulder-blade, and his armour rang rattling round him as he fell heavily to the ground. Ajax in his turn struck noble Phorcys son of Phaenops in the middle of the belly as he was bestriding Hippothous, and broke the plate of his cuirass; whereon the spear tore out his entrails and he clutched the ground in his palm as he fell to earth. Hector and those who were in the front rank then gave ground, while the Argives raised a loud cry
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of triumph, and drew off the bodies of Phorcys and Hippothous which they stripped presently of their armour. The Trojans would now have been worsted by the brave Achaeans and driven back to Ilius through their own
cowardice, while the Argives, so great was their courage and endurance, would have achieved a triumph even against the will of Jove, if Apollo had not roused Aeneas, in the likeness of Periphas son of Epytus, an attendant who had grown old in the service of Aeneas’ aged father, and was at all times devoted to him. In his likeness, then, Apollo said, “Aeneas, can you not manage, even though heaven be against us, to save high Ilius? I have known men, whose numbers, courage, and self-reliance have saved their people in spite of Jove, whereas in this case he would much rather give victory to us than to the Danaans, if you would only fight instead of being so terribly afraid.”
Aeneas knew Apollo when he looked straight at him, and shouted to Hector saying, “Hector and all other Tro- jans and allies, shame on us if we are beaten by the Achaeans and driven back to Ilius through our own cowardice. A god has just come up to me and told me that Jove the supreme disposer will be with us. Therefore let us make for the Danaans, that it may go hard with them ere they bear away dead Patroclus to the ships.”
As he spoke he sprang out far in front of the others, who then rallied and again faced the Achaeans. Aeneas speared Leiocritus son of Arisbas, a valiant follower of Lycomedes, and Lycomedes was moved with pity as he saw him fall; he therefore went close up, and speared Apisaon son of Hippasus shepherd of his people in the liver under the midriff, so that he died; he had come from fertile Paeonia and was the best man of them all after Asteropaeus. Asteropaeus flew forward to avenge him and attack the Danaans, but this might no longer be, inasmuch as those about Patroclus were well covered by their shields, and held their spears in front of them, for Ajax had given them strict orders that no man was either to give ground, or to stand out before the others, but all were to hold well together about the body and fight hand to hand. Thus did huge Ajax bid them, and the earth ran red with blood as the corpses fell thick on one another alike on the side of the Trojans and allies, and on that of the Danaans; for these last, too, fought no bloodless fight though many fewer of them perished, through the care they took to defend and stand by one another.
Thus did they fight as it were a flaming fire; it seemed as though it had gone hard even with the sun and moon, for they were hidden over all that part where the bravest heroes were fighting about the dead son of Menoetius, whereas the other Danaans and Achaeans fought at their ease in full daylight with brilliant sunshine all round them, and there was not a cloud to be seen neither on plain nor mountain. These last moreover would rest for a while and leave off fighting, for they were some distance apart and beyond the range of one another’s weapons, whereas those who were in the thick of the fray suffered both from battle and darkness. All the best of them were being worn out by the great weight of their armour, but the two valiant heroes, Thrasymedes and Antilochus, had not yet heard of the death of Patroclus, and believed him to be still alive and leading the van against the Trojans; they were keeping themselves in reserve against the death or rout of their own comrades, for so Nestor had ordered when he sent them from the ships into battle.
Thus through the livelong day did they wage fierce war, and the sweat of their toil rained ever on their legs under them, and on their hands and eyes, as they fought over the squire of the fleet son of Peleus. It was as when a man gives a great ox-hide all drenched in fat to his men, and bids them stretch it; whereon they stand round it in a ring and tug till the moisture leaves it, and the fat soaks in for the many that pull at it, and it is well stretched— even so did the two sides tug the dead body hither and thither within the compass of but a little space—the Trojans steadfastly set on drag ing it into Ilius, while the Achaeans were no less so on taking it to their ships; and fierce was the fight between them. Not Mars himself the lord of hosts, nor yet Minerva, even in their fullest fury could make light of such a battle.
Such fearful turmoil of men and horses did Jove on that day ordain round the body of Patroclus. Meanwhile Achilles did not know that he had fallen, for the fight was under the wall of Troy a long way off the ships. He had no idea, therefore, that Patroclus was dead, and deemed that he would return alive as soon as he had gone close up to the gates. He knew that he was not to sack the city neither with nor without himself, for his mother had often told him this when he had sat alone with her, and she had informed him of the counsels of great Jove. Now, however, she had not told him how great a disaster had befallen him in the death of the one who was far dearest to him of all his comrades.
The others still kept on charging one another round the body with their pointed spears and killing each other. Then would one say, “My friends, we can never again show our faces at the ships—better, and greatly better, that earth should open and swallow us here in this place, than that we should let the Trojans have the triumph of bear- ing off Patroclus to their city.”
The Trojans also on their part spoke to one another saying, “Friends, though we fall to a man beside this body, let none shrink from fighting.” With such words did they exhort each other. They fought and fought, and an iron clank rose through the void air to the brazen vault of heaven. The horses of the descendant of Aeacus stood out of the fight and wept when they heard that their driver had been laid low by the hand of murderous Hector. Autome- don, valiant son of Diores, lashed them again and again; many a time did he speak kindly to them, and many a time
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did he upbraid them, but they would neither go back to the ships by the waters of the broad Hellespont, nor yet into battle among the Achaeans; they stood with their chariot stock still, as a pillar set over the tomb of some dead man or woman, and bowed their heads to the ground. Hot tears fell from their eyes as they mourned the loss of their charioteer, and their noble manes drooped all wet from under the yokestraps on either side the yoke.
The son of Saturn saw them and took pity upon their sorrow. He wagged his head, and muttered to himself, saying, “Poor things, why did we give you to King Peleus who is a mortal, while you are yourselves ageless and immortal? Was it that you might share the sorrows that befall mankind? for of all creatures that live and move upon the earth there is none so pitiable as he is—still, Hector son of Priam shall drive neither you nor your chariot. I will not have it. It is enough that he should have the armour over which he vaunts so vainly. Furthermore I will give you strength of heart and limb to bear Automedon safely to the ships from battle, for I shall let the Trojans triumph still further, and go on killing till they reach the ships; whereon night shall fall and darkness overshadow the land.”
As he spoke he breathed heart and strength into the horses so that they shook the dust from out of their manes, and bore their chariot swiftly into the fight that raged between Trojans and Achaeans. Behind them fought Autom- edon full of sorrow for his comrade, as a vulture amid a flock of geese. In and out, and here and there, full speed he dashed amid the throng of the Trojans, but for all the fury of his pursuit he killed no man, for he could not wield his spear and keep his horses in hand when alone in the chariot; at last, however, a comrade, Alcimedon, son of Laerces son of Haemon caught sight of him and came up behind his chariot. “Automedon,” said he, “what god has put this folly into your heart and robbed you of your right mind, that you fight the Trojans in the front rank single-handed? He who was your comrade is slain, and Hector plumes himself on being armed in the armour of the descendant of Aeacus.”
Automedon son of Diores answered, “Alcimedon, there is no one else who can control and guide the immortal steeds so well as you can, save only Patroclus — while he was alive—peer of gods in counsel. Take then the whip and reins, while I go down from the car and fight.
Alcimedon sprang on to the chariot, and caught up the whip and reins, while Automedon leaped from off the car. When Hector saw him he said to Aeneas who was near him, “Aeneas, counsellor of the mail-clad Trojans, I see the steeds of the fleet son of Aeacus come into battle with weak hands to drive them. I am sure, if you think well, that we might take them; they will not dare face us if we both attack them.”
The valiant son of Anchises was of the same mind, and the pair went right on, with their shoulders covered un- der shields of tough dry ox-hide, overlaid with much bronze. Chromius and Aretus went also with them, and their hearts beat high with hope that they might kill the men and capture the horses — fools that they were, for they were not to return scatheless from their meeting with Automedon, who prayed to father Jove and was forthwith filled with courage and strength abounding. He turned to his trusty comrade Alcimedon and said, “Alcimedon, keep your horses so close up that I may feel their breath upon my back; I doubt that we shall not stay Hector son of Priam till he has killed us and mounted behind the horses; he will then either spread panic among the ranks of the Achaeans, or himself be killed among the foremost.”
On this he cried out to the two Ajaxes and Menelaus, “Ajaxes captains of the Argives, and Menelaus, give the dead body over to them that are best able to defend it, and come to the rescue of us living; for Hector and Aeneas who are the two best men among the Trojans, are pressing us hard in the full tide of war. Nevertheless the issue lies on the lap of heaven, I will therefore hurl my spear and leave the rest to Jove.”
He poised and hurled as he spoke, whereon the spear struck the round shield of Aretus, and went right through it for the shield stayed it not, so that it was driven through his belt into the lower part of his belly. As when some sturdy youth, axe in hand, deals his blow behind the horns of an ox and severs the tendons at the back of its neck so that it springs forward and then drops, even so did Aretus give one bound and then fall on his back the spear quivering in his body till it made an end of him. Hector then aimed a spear at Automedon but he saw it coming and stooped forward to avoid it, so that it flew past him and the point stuck in the ground, while the butt-end went on quivering till Mars robbed it of its force. They would then have fought hand to hand with swords had not the two Ajaxes forced their way through the crowd when they heard their comrade calling, and parted them for all their fury—for Hector, Aeneas, and Chromius were afraid and drew back, leaving Aretus to lie there struck to the heart. Automedon, peer of fleet Mars, then stripped him of his armour and vaunted over him saying, “I have done little to assuage my sorrow for the son of Menoetius, for the man I have killed is not so good as he was.”
As he spoke he took the blood-stained spoils and laid them upon his chariot; then he mounted the car with his hands and feet all steeped in gore as a lion that has been gorging upon a bull.
And now the fierce groanful fight again raged about Patroclus, for Minerva came down from heaven and roused its fury by the command of far-seeing Jove, who had changed his mind and sent her to encourage the Da- naans. As when Jove bends his bright bow in heaven in token to mankind either of war or of the chill storms that stay men from their labour and plague the flocks—even so, wrapped in such radiant raiment, did Minerva go in among the host and speak man by man to each. First she took the form and voice of Phoenix and spoke to Mene-
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laus son of Atreus, who was standing near her. “Menelaus,” said she, “it will be shame and dishonour to you, if dogs tear the noble comrade of Achilles under the walls of Troy. Therefore be staunch, and urge your men to be so also.”
Menelaus answered, “Phoenix, my good old friend, may Minerva vouchsafe me strength and keep the darts from off me, for so shall I stand by Patroclus and defend him; his death has gone to my heart, but Hector is as a raging fire and deals his blows without ceasing, for Jove is now granting him a time of triumph.”
Minerva was pleased at his having named herself before any of the other gods. Therefore she put strength into his knees and shoulders, and made him as bold as a fly, which, though driven off will yet come again and bite if it can, so dearly does it love man’s blood—even so bold as this did she make him as he stood over Patroclus and threw his spear. Now there was among the Trojans a man named Podes, son of Eetion, who was both rich and valiant. Hector held him in the highest honour for he was his comrade and boon companion; the spear of Menelaus struck this man in the girdle just as he had turned in flight, and went right through him. Whereon he fell heavily forward, and Menelaus son of Atreus drew off his body from the Trojans into the ranks of his own people.
Apollo then went up to Hector and spurred him on to fight, in the likeness of Phaenops son of Asius who lived in Abydos and was the most favoured of all Hector’s guests. In his likeness Apollo said, “Hector, who of the Achae- ans will fear you henceforward now that you have quailed before Menelaus who has ever been rated poorly as a soldier? Yet he has now got a corpse away from the Trojans single-handed, and has slain your own true comrade, a man brave among the foremost, Podes son of Eetion.
A dark cloud of grief fell upon Hector as he heard, and he made his way to the front clad in full armour. There- on the son of Saturn seized his bright tasselled aegis, and veiled Ida in cloud: he sent forth his lightnings and his thunders, and as he shook his aegis he gave victory to the Trojans and routed the Achaeans.
The panic was begun by Peneleos the Boeotian, for while keeping his face turned ever towards the foe he had been hit with a spear on the upper part of the shoulder; a spear thrown by Polydamas had grazed the top of the bone, for Polydamas had come up to him and struck him from close at hand. Then Hector in close combat struck Leitus son of noble Alectryon in the hand by the wrist, and disabled him from fighting further. He looked about him in dismay, knowing that never again should he wield spear in battle with the Trojans. While Hector was in pursuit of Leitus, Idomeneus struck him on the breastplate over his chest near the nipple; but the spear broke in the shaft, and the Trojans cheered aloud. Hector then aimed at Idomeneus son of Deucalion as he was standing on his chariot, and very narrowly missed him, but the spear hit Coiranus, a follower and charioteer of Meriones who had come with him from Lyctus. Idomeneus had left the ships on foot and would have afforded a great triumph to the Trojans if Coiranus had not driven quickly up to him, he therefore brought life and rescue to Idomeneus, but him- self fell by the hand of murderous Hector. For Hector hit him on the jaw under the ear; the end of the spear drove out his teeth and cut his tongue in two pieces, so that he fell from his chariot and let the reins fall to the ground. Meriones gathered them up from the ground and took them into his own hands, then he said to Idomeneus, “Lay on, till you get back to the ships, for you must see that the day is no longer ours.”
On this Idomeneus lashed the horses to the ships, for fear had taken hold upon him. Ajax and Menelaus noted how Jove had turned the scale in favour of the Trojans, and Ajax was first to speak.
“Alas,” said he, “even a fool may see that father Jove is helping the Trojans. All their weapons strike home; no matter whether it be a brave man or a coward that hurls them, Jove speeds all alike, whereas ours fall each one of them without effect. What, then, will be best both as regards rescuing the body, and our return to the joy of our friends who will be grieving as they look hitherwards; for they will make sure that nothing can now check the terrible hands of Hector, and that he will fling himself upon our ships. I wish that some one would go and tell the son of Peleus at once, for I do not think he can have yet heard the sad news that the dearest of his friends has fallen. But I can see not a man among the Achaeans to send, for they and their chariots are alike hidden in darkness. O father Jove, lift this cloud from over the sons of the Achaeans; make heaven serene, and let us see; if you will that we per- ish, let us fall at any rate by daylight.”
Father Jove heard him and had compassion upon his tears. Forthwith he chased away the cloud of darkness, so that the sun shone out and all the fighting was revealed. Ajax then said to Menelaus, “Look, Menelaus, and if Anti- lochus son of Nestor be still living, send him at once to tell Achilles that by far the dearest to him of all his comrades has fallen.”
Menelaus heeded his words and went his way as a lion from a stockyard—the lion is tired of attacking the men and hounds, who keep watch the whole night through and will not let him feast on the fat of their herd. In his lust of meat he makes straight at them but in vain, for darts from strong hands assail him, and burning brands which daunt him for all his hunger, so in the morning he slinks sulkily away—even so did Menelaus sorely against his will leave Patroclus, in great fear lest the Achaeans should be driven back in rout and let him fall into the hands of the foe. He charged Meriones and the two Ajaxes straitly saying, “Ajaxes and Meriones, leaders of the Argives, now indeed remember how good Patroclus was; he was ever courteous while alive, bear it in mind now that he is dead.”
With this Menelaus left them, looking round him as keenly as an eagle, whose sight they say is keener than that
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of any other bird—however high he may be in the heavens, not a hare that runs can escape him by crouching under bush or thicket, for he will swoop down upon it and make an end of it—even so, O Menelaus, did your keen eyes range round the mighty host of your followers to see if you could find the son of Nestor still alive. Presently Me- nelaus saw him on the extreme left of the battle cheering on his men and exhorting them to fight boldly. Menelaus went up to him and said, “Antilochus, come here and listen to sad news, which I would indeed were untrue. You must see with your own eyes that heaven is heaping calamity upon the Danaans, and giving victory to the Trojans. Patroclus has fallen, who was the bravest of the Achaeans, and sorely will the Danaans miss him. Run instantly to the ships and tell Achilles, that he may come to rescue the body and bear it to the ships. As for the armour, Hector already has it.”
Antilochus was struck with horror. For a long time he was speechless; his eyes filled with tears and he could find no utterance, but he did as Menelaus had said, and set off running as soon as he had given his armour to a comrade, Laodocus, who was wheeling his horses round, close beside him.
Thus, then, did he run weeping from the field, to carry the bad news to Achilles son of Peleus. Nor were you, O Menelaus, minded to succour his harassed comrades, when Antilochus had left the Pylians—and greatly did they miss him—but he sent them noble Thrasymedes, and himself went back to Patroclus. He came running up to the two Ajaxes and said, “I have sent Antilochus to the ships to tell Achilles, but rage against Hector as he may, he can- not come, for he cannot fight without armour. What then will be our best plan both as regards rescuing the dead, and our own escape from death amid the battle-cries of the Trojans?”
Ajax answered, “Menelaus, you have said well: do you, then, and Meriones stoop down, raise the body, and bear it out of the fray, while we two behind you keep off Hector and the Trojans, one in heart as in name, and long used to fighting side by side with one another.”
On this Menelaus and Meriones took the dead man in their arms and lifted him high aloft with a great effort. The Trojan host raised a hue and cry behind them when they saw the Achaeans bearing the body away, and flew af- ter them like hounds attacking a wounded boar at the loo of a band of young huntsmen. For a while the hounds fly at him as though they would tear him in pieces, but now and again he turns on them in a fury, scaring and scatter- ing them in all directions—even so did the Trojans for a while charge in a body, striking with sword and with spears pointed ai both the ends, but when the two Ajaxes faced them and stood at bay, they would turn pale and no man dared press on to fight further about the dead.
In this wise did the two heroes strain every nerve to bear the body to the ships out of the fight. The battle raged round them like fierce flames that when once kindled spread like wildfire over a city, and the houses fall in the glare of its burning—even such was the roar and tramp of men and horses that pursued them as they bore Patroclus from the field. Or as mules that put forth all their strength to draw some beam or great piece of ship’s timber down a rough mountain-track, and they pant and sweat as they, go even so did Menelaus and pant and sweat as they bore the body of Patroclus. Behind them the two Ajaxes held stoutly out. As some wooded mountain-spur that stretch- es across a plain will turn water and check the flow even of a great river, nor is there any stream strong enough to break through it—even so did the two Ajaxes face the Trojans and stern the tide of their fighting though they kept pouring on towards them and foremost among them all was Aeneas son of Anchises with valiant Hector. As a flock of daws or starlings fall to screaming and chattering when they see a falcon, foe to i’ll small birds, come soaring near them, even so did the Achaean youth raise a babel of cries as they fled before Aeneas and Hector, unmindful of their former prowess. In the rout of the Danaans much goodly armour fell round about the trench, and of fighting there was no end.
Book XVIII THUS then did they fight as it were a flaming fire. Meanwhile the fleet runner Antilochus, who had been sent
as messenger, reached Achilles, and found him sitting by his tall ships and boding that which was indeed too surely true. “Alas,” said he to himself in the heaviness of his heart, “why are the Achaeans again scouring the plain and flocking towards the ships? Heaven grant the gods be not now bringing that sorrow upon me of which my mother Thetis spoke, saying that while I was yet alive the bravest of the Myrmidons should fall before the Trojans, and see the light of the sun no longer. I fear the brave son of Menoetius has fallen through his own daring and yet I bade him return to the ships as soon as he had driven back those that were bringing fire against them, and not join battle with Hector.”
As he was thus pondering, the son of Nestor came up to him and told his sad tale, weeping bitterly the while. “Alas,” he cried, “son of noble Peleus, I bring you bad tidings, would indeed that they were untrue. Patroclus has fallen, and a fight is raging about his naked body—for Hector holds his armour.”
A dark cloud of grief fell upon Achilles as he listened. He filled both hands with dust from off the ground, and poured it over his head, disfiguring his comely face, and letting the refuse settle over his shirt so fair and new. He
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flung himself down all huge and hugely at full length, and tore his hair with his hands. The bondswomen whom Achilles and Patroclus had taken captive screamed aloud for grief, beating their breasts, and with their limbs failing them for sorrow. Antilochus bent over him the while, weeping and holding both his hands as he lay groaning for he feared that he might plunge a knife into his own throat. Then Achilles gave a loud cry and his mother heard him as she was sitting in the depths of the sea by the old man her father, whereon she screamed, and all the goddesses daughters of Nereus that dwelt at the bottom of the sea, came gathering round her. There were Glauce, Thalia and Cymodoce, Nesaia, Speo, thoe and dark-eyed Halie, Cymothoe, Actaea and Limnorea, Melite, Iaera, Amphithoe and Agave, Doto and Proto, Pherusa and Dynamene, Dexamene, Amphinome and Callianeira, Doris, Panope, and the famous sea-nymph Galatea, Nemertes, Apseudes and Callianassa. There were also Clymene, Ianeira and Ianas- sa, Maera, Oreithuia and Amatheia of the lovely locks, with other Nereids who dwell in the depths of the sea. The crystal cave was filled with their multitude and they all beat their breasts while Thetis led them in their lament.
“Listen,” she cried, “sisters, daughters of Nereus, that you may hear the burden of my sorrows. Alas, woe is me, woe in that I have borne the most glorious of offspring. I bore him fair and strong, hero among heroes, and he shot up as a sapling; I tended him as a plant in a goodly garden, and sent him with his ships to Ilius to fight the Trojans, but never shall I welcome him back to the house of Peleus. So long as he lives to look upon the light of the sun he is in heaviness, and though I go to him I cannot help him. Nevertheless I will go, that I may see my dear son and learn what sorrow has befallen him though he is still holding aloof from battle.”
She left the cave as she spoke, while the others followed weeping after, and the waves opened a path before them. When they reached the rich plain of Troy, they came up out of the sea in a long line on to the sands, at the place where the ships of the Myrmidons were drawn up in close order round the tents of Achilles. His mother went up to him as he lay groaning; she laid her hand upon his head and spoke piteously, saying, “My son, why are you thus weeping? What sorrow has now befallen you? Tell me; hide it not from me. Surely Jove has granted you the prayer you made him, when you lifted up your hands and besought him that the Achaeans might all of them be pent up at their ships, and rue it bitterly in that you were no longer with them.”
Achilles groaned and answered, “Mother, Olympian Jove has indeed vouchsafed me the fulfilment of my prayer, but what boots it to me, seeing that my dear comrade Patroclus has fallen—he whom I valued more than all others, and loved as dearly as my own life? I have lost him; aye, and Hector when he had killed him stripped the wondrous armour, so glorious to behold, which the gods gave to Peleus when they laid you in the couch of a mortal man. Would that you were still dwelling among the immortal sea-nymphs, and that Peleus had taken to himself some mortal bride. For now you shall have grief infinite by reason of the death of that son whom you can never welcome home—nay, I will not live nor go about among mankind unless Hector fall by my spear, and thus pay me for having slain Patroclus son of Menoetius.”
Thetis wept and answered, “Then, my son, is your end near at hand—for your own death awaits you full soon after that of Hector.”
Then said Achilles in his great grief, “I would die here and now, in that I could not save my comrade. He has fallen far from home, and in his hour of need my hand was not there to help him. What is there for me? Return to my own land I shall not, and I have brought no saving neither to Patroclus nor to my other comrades of whom so many have been slain by mighty Hector; I stay here by my ships a bootless burden upon the earth, I, who in fight have no peer among the Achaeans, though in council there are better than I. Therefore, perish strife both from among gods and men, and anger, wherein even a righteous man will harden his heart—which rises up in the soul of a man like smoke, and the taste thereof is sweeter than drops of honey. Even so has Agamemnon angered me. And yet—so be it, for it is over; I will force my soul into subjection as I needs must; I will go; I will pursue Hector who has slain him whom I loved so dearly, and will then abide my doom when it may please Jove and the other gods to send it. Even Hercules, the best beloved of Jove—even he could not escape the hand of death, but fate and Juno’s fierce anger laid him low, as I too shall lie when I am dead if a like doom awaits me. Till then I will win fame, and will bid Trojan and Dardanian women wring tears from their tender cheeks with both their hands in the grievous- ness of their great sorrow; thus shall they know that he who has held aloof so long will hold aloof no longer. Hold me not back, therefore, in the love you bear me, for you shall not move me.”
Then silver-footed Thetis answered, “My son, what you have said is true. It is well to save your comrades from destruction, but your armour is in the hands of the Trojans; Hector bears it in triumph upon his own shoulders. Full well I know that his vaunt shall not be lasting, for his end is close at hand; go not, however, into the press of battle till you see me return hither; to-morrow at break of day I shall be here, and will bring you goodly armour from King Vulcan.”
On this she left her brave son, and as she turned away she said to the sea-nymphs her sisters, “Dive into the bosom of the sea and go to the house of the old sea-god my father. Tell him everything; as for me, I will go to the cunning workman Vulcan on high Olympus, and ask him to provide my son with a suit of splendid armour.”
When she had so said, they dived forthwith beneath the waves, while silver-footed Thetis went her way that she
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might bring the armour for her son. Thus, then, did her feet bear the goddess to Olympus, and meanwhile the Achaeans were flying with loud cries
before murderous Hector till they reached the ships and the Hellespont, and they could not draw the body of Mars’s servant Patroclus out of reach of the weapons that were showered upon him, for Hector son of Priam with his host and horsemen had again caught up to him like the flame of a fiery furnace; thrice did brave Hector seize him by the feet, striving with might and main to draw him away and calling loudly on the Trojans, and thrice did the two Ajax- es, clothed in valour as with a garment, beat him from off the body; but all undaunted he would now charge into the thick of the fight, and now again he would stand still and cry aloud, but he would give no ground. As upland shepherds that cannot chase some famished lion from a carcase, even so could not the two Ajaxes scare Hector son of Priam from the body of Patroclus.
And now he would even have dragged it off and have won imperishable glory, had not Iris fleet as the wind, winged her way as messenger from Olympus to the son of Peleus and bidden him arm. She came secretly without the knowledge of Jove and of the other gods, for Juno sent her, and when she had got close to him she said, “Up, son of Peleus, mightiest of all mankind; rescue Patroclus about whom this fearful fight is now raging by the ships. Men are killing one another, the Danaans in defence of the dead body, while the Trojans are trying to hale it away, and take it to wind Ilius: Hector is the most furious of them all; he is for cutting the head from the body and fixing it on the stakes of the wall. Up, then, and bide here no longer; shrink from the thought that Patroclus may become meat for the dogs of Troy. Shame on you, should his body suffer any kind of outrage.”
And Achilles said, “Iris, which of the gods was it that sent you to me?” Iris answered, “It was Juno the royal spouse of Jove, but the son of Saturn does not know of my coming, nor yet
does any other of the immortals who dwell on the snowy summits of Olympus.” Then fleet Achilles answered her saying, “How can I go up into the battle? They have my armour. My mother
forbade me to arm till I should see her come, for she promised to bring me goodly armour from Vulcan; I know no man whose arms I can put on, save only the shield of Ajax son of Telamon, and he surely must be fighting in the front rank and wielding his spear about the body of dead Patroclus.”
Iris said, ‘We know that your armour has been taken, but go as you are; go to the deep trench and show yourelf before the Trojans, that they may fear you and cease fighting. Thus will the fainting sons of the Achaeans gain some brief breathing-time, which in battle may hardly be.”
Iris left him when she had so spoken. But Achilles dear to Jove arose, and Minerva flung her tasselled aegis round his strong shoulders; she crowned his head with a halo of golden cloud from which she kindled a glow of gleaming fire. As the smoke that goes up into heaven from some city that is being beleaguered on an island far out at sea—all day long do men sally from the city and fight their hardest, and at the going down of the sun the line of beacon-fires blazes forth, flaring high for those that dwell near them to behold, if so be that they may come with their ships and succour them—even so did the light flare from the head of Achilles, as he stood by the trench, going beyond the wall — but he aid not join the Achaeans for he heeded the charge which his mother laid upon him.
There did he stand and shout aloud. Minerva also raised her voice from afar, and spread terror unspeakable among the Trojans. Ringing as the note of a trumpet that sounds alarm then the foe is at the gates of a city, even so brazen was the voice of the son of Aeacus, and when the Trojans heard its clarion tones they were dismayed; the horses turned back with their chariots for they boded mischief, and their drivers were awe-struck by the steady flame which the grey-eyed goddess had kindled above the head of the great son of Peleus.
Thrice did Achilles raise his loud cry as he stood by the trench, and thrice were the Trojans and their brave al- lies thrown into confusion; whereon twelve of their noblest champions fell beneath the wheels of their chariots and perished by their own spears. The Achaeans to their great joy then drew Patroclus out of reach of the weapons, and laid him on a litter: his comrades stood mourning round him, and among them fleet Achilles who wept bitterly as he saw his true comrade lying dead upon his bier. He had sent him out with horses and chariots into battle, but his return he was not to welcome.
Then Juno sent the busy sun, loth though he was, into the waters of Oceanus; so he set, and the Achaeans had rest from the tug and turmoil of war.
Now the Trojans when they had come out of the fight, unyoked their horses and gathered in assembly before preparing their supper. They kept their feet, nor would any dare to sit down, for fear had fallen upon them all be- cause Achilles had shown himself after having held aloof so long from battle. Polydamas son of Panthous was first to speak, a man of judgement, who alone among them could look both before and after. He was comrade to Hector, and they had been born upon the same night; with all sincerity and goodwill, therefore, he addressed them thus:—
“Look to it well, my friends; I would urge you to go back now to your city and not wait here by the ships till morning, for we are far from our walls. So long as this man was at enmity with Agamemnon the Achaeans were easier to deal with, and I would have gladly camped by the ships in the hope of taking them; but now I go in great fear of the fleet son of Peleus; he is so daring that he will never bide here on the plain whereon the Trojans and
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Achaeans fight with equal valour, but he will try to storm our city and carry off our women. Do then as I say, and let us retreat. For this is what will happen. The darkness of night will for a time stay the son of Peleus, but if he find us here in the morning when he sallies forth in full armour, we shall have knowledge of him in good earnest. Glad indeed will he be who can escape and get back to Ilius, and many a Trojan will become meat for dogs and vultures may I never live to hear it. If we do as I say, little though we may like it, we shall have strength in counsel during the night, and the great gates with the doors that close them will protect the city. At dawn we can arm and take our stand on the walls; he will then rue it if he sallies from the ships to fight us. He will go back when he has given his horses their fill of being driven all whithers under our walls, and will be in no mind to try and force his way into the city. Neither will he ever sack it, dogs shall devour him ere he do so.”
Hector looked fiercely at him and answered, “Polydamas, your words are not to my liking in that you bid us go back and be pent within the city. Have you not had enough of being cooped up behind walls? In the old-days the city of Priam was famous the whole world over for its wealth of gold and bronze, but our treasures are wasted out of our houses, and much goods have been sold away to Phrygia and fair Meonia, for the hand of Jove has been laid heavily upon us. Now, therefore, that the son of scheming Saturn has vouchsafed me to win glory here and to hem the Achaeans in at their ships, prate no more in this fool’s wise among the people. You will have no man with you; it shall not be; do all of you as I now say;—take your suppers in your companies throughout the host, and keep your watches and be wakeful every man of you. If any Trojan is uneasy about his possessions, let him gather them and give them out among the people. Better let these, rather than the Achaeans, have them. At daybreak we will arm and fight about the ships; granted that Achilles has again come forward to defend them, let it be as he will, but it shall go hard with him. I shall not shun him, but will fight him, to fall or conquer. The god of war deals out like measure to all, and the slayer may yet be slain.”
Thus spoke Hector; and the Trojans, fools that they were, shouted in applause, for Pallas Minerva had robbed them of their understanding. They gave ear to Hector with his evil counsel, but the wise words of Polydamas no man would heed. They took their supper throughout the host, and meanwhile through the whole night the Achae- ans mourned Patroclus, and the son of Peleus led them in their lament. He laid his murderous hands upon the breast of his comrade, groaning again and again as a bearded lion when a man who was chasing deer has robbed him of his young in some dense forest; when the lion comes back he is furious, and searches dingle and dell to track the hunter if he can find him, for he is mad with rage—even so with many a sigh did Achilles speak among the Myrmidons saying, “Alas! vain were the words with which I cheered the hero Menoetius in his own house; I said that I would bring his brave son back again to Opoeis after he had sacked Ilius and taken his share of the spoils— but Jove does not give all men their heart’s desire. The same soil shall be reddened here at Troy by the blood of us both, for I too shall never be welcomed home by the old knight Peleus, nor by my mother Thetis, but even in this place shall the earth cover me. Nevertheless, O Patroclus, now that I am left behind you, I will not bury you, till I have brought hither the head and armour of mighty Hector who has slain you. Twelve noble sons of Trojans will I behead before your bier to avenge you; till I have done so you shall lie as you are by the ships, and fair women of Troy and Dardanus, whom we have taken with spear and strength of arm when we sacked men’s goodly cities, shall weep over you both night and day.”
Then Achilles told his men to set a large tripod upon the fire that they might wash the clotted gore from off Pa- troclus. Thereon they set a tripod full of bath water on to a clear fire: they threw sticks on to it to make it blaze, and the water became hot as the flame played about the belly of the tripod. When the water in the cauldron was boiling they washed the body, anointed it with oil, and closed its wounds with ointment that had been kept nine years. Then they laid it on a bier and covered it with a linen cloth from head to foot, and over this they laid a fair white robe. Thus all night long did the Myrmidons gather round Achilles to mourn Patroclus.
Then Jove said to Juno his sister-wife, “So, Queen Juno, you have gained your end, and have roused fleet Achil- les. One would think that the Achaeans were of your own flesh and blood.”
And Juno answered, “Dread son of Saturn, why should you say this thing? May not a man though he be only mortal and knows less than we do, do what he can for another person? And shall not I—foremost of all goddesses both by descent and as wife to you who reign in heaven — devise evil for the Trojans if I am angry with them?”
Thus did they converse. Meanwhile Thetis came to the house of Vulcan, imperishable, star-bespangled, fairest of the abodes in heaven, a house of bronze wrought by the lame god’s own hands. She found him busy with his bellows, sweating and hard at work, for he was making twenty tripods that were to stand by the wall of his house, and he set wheels of gold under them all that they might go of their own selves to the assemblies of the gods, and come back again—marvels indeed to see. They were finished all but the ears of cunning workmanship which yet remained to be fixed to them: these he was now fixing, and he was hammering at the rivets. While he was thus at work silver-footed Thetis came to the house. Charis, of graceful head-dress, wife to the far-famed lame god, came towards her as soon as she saw her, and took her hand in her own, saying, “Why have you come to our house, The- tis, honoured and ever welcome—for you do not visit us often? Come inside and let me set refreshment before you.”
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The goddess led the way as she spoke, and bade Thetis sit on a richly decorated seat inlaid with silver; there was a footstool also under her feet. Then she called Vulcan and said, “Vulcan, come here, Thetis wants you”; and the far-famed lame god answered, “Then it is indeed an august and honoured goddess who has come here; she it was that took care of me when I was suffering from the heavy fall which I had through my cruel mother’s anger—for she would have got rid of me because I was lame. It would have gone hardly with me had not Eurynome, daughter of the ever-encircling waters of Oceanus, and Thetis, taken me to their bosom. Nine years did I stay with them, and many beautiful works in bronze, brooches, spiral armlets, cups, and chains, did I make for them in their cave, with the roaring waters of Oceanus foaming as they rushed ever past it; and no one knew, neither of gods nor men, save only Thetis and Eurynome who took care of me. If, then, Thetis has come to my house I must make her due requital for having saved me; entertain her, therefore, with all hospitality, while I put by my bellows and all my tools.”
On this the mighty monster hobbled off from his anvil, his thin legs plying lustily under him. He set the bellows away from the fire, and gathered his tools into a silver chest. Then he took a sponge and washed his face and hands, his shaggy chest and brawny neck; he donned his shirt, grasped his strong staff, and limped towards the door. There were golden handmaids also who worked for him, and were like real young women, with sense and reason, voice also and strength, and all the learning of the immortals; these busied themselves as the king bade them, while he drew near to Thetis, seated her upon a goodly seat, and took her hand in his own, saying, “Why have you come to our house, Thetis honoured and ever welcome—for you do not visit us often? Say what you want, and I will do it for you at once if I can, and if it can be done at all.”
Thetis wept and answered, “Vulcan, is there another goddess in Olympus whom the son of Saturn has been pleased to try with so much affliction as he has me? Me alone of the marine goddesses did he make subject to a mortal husband, Peleus son of Aeacus, and sorely against my will did I submit to the embraces of one who was but mortal, and who now stays at home worn out with age. Neither is this all. Heaven vouchsafed me a son, hero among heroes, and he shot up as a sapling. I tended him as a plant in a goodly garden and sent him with his ships to Ilius to fight the Trojans, but never shall I welcome him back to the house of Peleus. So long as he lives to look upon the light of the sun, he is in heaviness, and though I go to him I cannot help him; King Agamemnon has made him give up the maiden whom the sons of the Achaeans had awarded him, and he wastes with sorrow for her sake. Then the Trojans hemmed the Achaeans in at their ships’ sterns and would not let them come forth; the elders, therefore, of the Argives besought Achilles and offered him great treasure, whereon he refused to bring deliverance to them himself, but put his own armour on Patroclus and sent him into the fight with much people after him. All day long they fought by the Scaean gates and would have taken the city there and then, had not Apollo vouchsafed glory to Hector and slain the valiant son of Menoetius after he had done the Trojans much evil. Therefore I am suppliant at your knees if haply you may be pleased to provide my son, whose end is near at hand, with helmet and shield, with goodly greaves fitted with ancle-clasps, and with a breastplate, for he lost his own when his true comrade fell at the hands of the Trojans, and he now lies stretched on earth in the bitterness of his soul.”
And Vulcan answered, “Take heart, and be no more disquieted about this matter; would that I could hide him from death’s sight when his hour is come, so surely as I can find him armour that shall amaze the eyes of all who behold it.”
When he had so said he left her and went to his bellows, turning them towards the fire and bidding them do their office. Twenty bellows blew upon the melting-pots, and they blew blasts of every kind, some fierce to help him when he had need of them, and others less strong as Vulcan willed it in the course of his work. He threw tough copper into the fire, and tin, with silver and gold; he set his great anvil on its block, and with one hand grasped his mighty hammer while he took the tongs in the other.
First he shaped the shield so great and strong, adorning it all over and binding it round with a gleaming circuit in three layers; and the baldric was made of silver. He made the shield in five thicknesses, and with many a wonder did his cunning hand enrich it.
He wrought the earth, the heavens, and the sea; the moon also at her full and the untiring sun, with all the signs that glorify the face of heaven—the Pleiads, the Hyads, huge Orion, and the Bear, which men also call the Wain and which turns round ever in one place, facing. Orion, and alone never dips into the stream of Oceanus.
He wrought also two cities, fair to see and busy with the hum of men. In the one were weddings and wed- ding-feasts, and they were going about the city with brides whom they were escorting by torchlight from their chambers. Loud rose the cry of Hymen, and the youths danced to the music of flute and lyre, while the women stood each at her house door to see them.
Meanwhile the people were gathered in assembly, for there was a quarrel, and two men were wrangling about the blood-money for a man who had been killed, the one saying before the people that he had paid damages in full, and the other that he had not been paid. Each was trying to make his own case good, and the people took sides, each man backing the side that he had taken; but the heralds kept them back, and the elders sate on their seats of stone in a solemn circle, holding the staves which the heralds had put into their hands. Then they rose and each
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in his turn gave judgement, and there were two talents laid down, to be given to him whose judgement should be deemed the fairest.
About the other city there lay encamped two hosts in gleaming armour, and they were divided whether to sack it, or to spare it and accept the half of what it contained. But the men of the city would not yet consent, and armed themselves for a surprise; their wives and little children kept guard upon the walls, and with them were the men who were past fighting through age; but the others sallied forth with Mars and Pallas Minerva at their head—both of them wrought in gold and clad in golden raiment, great and fair with their armour as befitting gods, while they that followed were smaller. When they reached the place where they would lay their ambush, it was on a riverbed to which live stock of all kinds would come from far and near to water; here, then, they lay concealed, clad in full ar- mour. Some way off them there were two scouts who were on the look-out for the coming of sheep or cattle, which presently came, followed by two shepherds who were playing on their pipes, and had not so much as a thought of danger. When those who were in ambush saw this, they cut off the flocks and herds and killed the shepherds. Mean- while the besiegers, when they heard much noise among the cattle as they sat in council, sprang to their horses, and made with all speed towards them; when they reached them they set battle in array by the banks of the river, and the hosts aimed their bronze-shod spears at one another. With them were Strife and Riot, and fell Fate who was dragging three men after her, one with a fresh wound, and the other unwounded, while the third was dead, and she was dragging him along by his heel: and her robe was bedrabbled in men’s blood. They went in and out with one another and fought as though they were living people haling away one another’s dead.
He wrought also a fair fallow field, large and thrice ploughed already. Many men were working at the plough within it, turning their oxen to and fro, furrow after furrow. Each time that they turned on reaching the headland a man would come up to them and give them a cup of wine, and they would go back to their furrows looking forward to the time when they should again reach the headland. The part that they had ploughed was dark behind them, so that the field, though it was of gold, still looked as if it were being ploughed—very curious to behold.
He wrought also a field of harvest corn, and the reapers were reaping with sharp sickles in their hands. Swathe after swathe fell to the ground in a straight line behind them, and the binders bound them in bands of twisted straw. There were three binders, and behind them there were boys who gathered the cut corn in armfuls and kept on bringing them to be bound: among them all the owner of the land stood by in silence and was glad. The servants were getting a meal ready under an oak, for they had sacrificed a great ox, and were busy cutting him up, while the women were making a porridge of much white barley for the labourers’ dinner.
He wrought also a vineyard, golden and fair to see, and the vines were loaded with grapes. The bunches over- head were black, but the vines were trained on poles of silver. He ran a ditch of dark metal all round it, and fenced it with a fence of tin; there was only one path to it, and by this the vintagers went when they would gather the vintage. Youths and maidens all blithe and full of glee, carried the luscious fruit in plaited baskets; and with them there went a boy who made sweet music with his lyre, and sang the Linus-song with his clear boyish voice.
He wrought also a herd of homed cattle. He made the cows of gold and tin, and they lowed as they came full speed out of the yards to go and feed among the waving reeds that grow by the banks of the river. Along with the cattle there went four shepherds, all of them in gold, and their nine fleet dogs went with them. Two terrible lions had fastened on a bellowing bull that was with the foremost cows, and bellow as he might they haled him, while the dogs and men gave chase: the lions tore through the bull’s thick hide and were gorging on his blood and bowels, but the herdsmen were afraid to do anything, and only hounded on their dogs; the dogs dared not fasten on the lions but stood by barking and keeping out of harm’s way.
The god wrought also a pasture in a fair mountain dell, and large flock of sheep, with a homestead and huts, and sheltered sheepfolds.
Furthermore he wrought a green, like that which Daedalus once made in Cnossus for lovely Ariadne. Hereon there danced youths and maidens whom all would woo, with their hands on one another’s wrists. The maidens wore robes of light linen, and the youths well woven shirts that were slightly oiled. The girls were crowned with garlands, while the young men had daggers of gold that hung by silver baldrics; sometimes they would dance deftly in a ring with merry twinkling feet, as it were a potter sitting at his work and making trial of his wheel to see whether it will run, and sometimes they would go all in line with one another, and much people was gathered joyously about the green. There was a bard also to sing to them and play his lyre, while two tumblers went about performing in the midst of them when the man struck up with his tune.
All round the outermost rim of the shield he set the mighty stream of the river Oceanus. Then when he had fashioned the shield so great and strong, he made a breastplate also that shone brighter than
fire. He made helmet, close fitting to the brow, and richly worked, with a golden plume overhanging it; and he made greaves also of beaten tin.
Lastly, when the famed lame god had made all the armour, he took it and set it before the mother of Achilles; whereon she darted like a falcon from the snowy summits of Olympus and bore away the gleaming armour from
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the house of Vulcan.
Book XIX NOW when Dawn in robe of saffron was hasting from the streams of Oceanus, to bring light to mortals and
immortals, Thetis reached the ships with the armour that the god had given her. She found her son fallen about the body of Patroclus and weeping bitterly. Many also of his followers were weeping round him, but when the goddess came among them she clasped his hand in her own, saying, “My son, grieve as we may we must let this man lie, for it is by heaven’s will that he has fallen; now, therefore, accept from Vulcan this rich and goodly armour, which no man has ever yet borne upon his shoulders.”
As she spoke she set the armour before Achilles, and it rang out bravely as she did so. The Myrmidons were struck with awe, and none dared look full at it, for they were afraid; but Achilles was roused to still greater fury, and his eyes gleamed with a fierce light, for he was glad when he handled the splendid present which the god had made him. Then, as soon as he had satisfied himself with looking at it, he said to his mother, “Mother, the god has given me armour, meet handiwork for an immortal and such as no living could have fashioned; I will now arm, but I much fear that flies will settle upon the son of Menoetius and breed worms about his wounds, so that his body, now he is dead, will be disfigured and the flesh will rot.”
Silver-footed Thetis answered, “My son, be not disquieted about this matter. I will find means to protect him from the swarms of noisome flies that prey on the bodies of men who have been killed in battle. He may lie for a whole year, and his flesh shall still be as sound as ever, or even sounder. Call, therefore, the Achaean heroes in as- sembly; unsay your anger against Agamemnon; arm at once, and fight with might and main.”
As she spoke she put strength and courage into his heart, and she then dropped ambrosia and red nectar into the wounds of Patroclus, that his body might suffer no change.
Then Achilles went out upon the seashore, and with a loud cry called on the Achaean heroes. On this even those who as yet had stayed always at the ships, the pilots and helmsmen, and even the stewards who were about the ships and served out rations, all came to the place of assembly because Achilles had shown himself after having held aloof so long from fighting. Two sons of Mars, Ulysses and the son of Tydeus, came limping, for their wounds still pained them; nevertheless they came, and took their seats in the front row of the assembly. Last of all came Agamemnon, king of men, he too wounded, for Coon son of Antenor had struck him with a spear in battle.
When the Achaeans were got together Achilles rose and said, “Son of Atreus, surely it would have been better alike for both you and me, when we two were in such high anger about Briseis, surely it would have been better, had Diana’s arrow slain her at the ships on the day when I took her after having sacked Lyrnessus. For so, many an Achaean the less would have bitten dust before the foe in the days of my anger. It has been well for Hector and the Trojans, but the Achaeans will long indeed remember our quarrel. Now, however, let it be, for it is over. If we have been angry, necessity has schooled our anger. I put it from me: I dare not nurse it for ever; therefore, bid the Achae- ans arm forthwith that I may go out against the Trojans, and learn whether they will be in a mind to sleep by the ships or no. Glad, I ween, will he be to rest his knees who may fly my spear when I wield it.”
Thus did he speak, and the Achaeans rejoiced in that he had put away his anger. Then Agamemnon spoke, rising in his place, and not going into the middle of the assembly. “Danaan heroes,”
said he, “servants of Mars, it is well to listen when a man stands up to speak, and it is not seemly to interrupt him, or it will go hard even with a practised speaker. Who can either hear or speak in an uproar? Even the finest orator will be disconcerted by it. I will expound to the son of Peleus, and do you other Achaeans heed me and mark me well. Often have the Achaeans spoken to me of this matter and upbraided me, but it was not I that did it: Jove, and Fate, and Erinys that walks in darkness struck me mad when we were assembled on the day that I took from Achil- les the meed that had been awarded to him. What could I do? All things are in the hand of heaven, and Folly, eldest of Jove’s daughters, shuts men’s eyes to their destruction. She walks delicately, not on the solid earth, but hovers over the heads of men to make them stumble or to ensnare them.
“Time was when she fooled Jove himself, who they say is greatest whether of gods or men; for Juno, woman though she was, beguiled him on the day when Alcmena was to bring forth mighty Hercules in the fair city of The- bes. He told it out among the gods saying, ‘Hear me all gods and goddesses, that I may speak even as I am minded; this day shall an Ilithuia, helper of women who are in labour, bring a man child into the world who shall be lord over all that dwell about him who are of my blood and lineage.’ Then said Juno all crafty and full of guile, ‘You will play false, and will not hold to your word. Swear me, O Olympian, swear me a great oath, that he who shall this day fall between the feet of a woman, shall be lord over all that dwell about him who are of your blood and lineage.’
“Thus she spoke, and Jove suspected her not, but swore the great oath, to his much ruing thereafter. For Juno darted down from the high summit of Olympus, and went in haste to Achaean Argos where she knew that the noble wife of Sthenelus son of Perseus then was. She being with child and in her seventh month, Juno brought the
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child to birth though there was a month still wanting, but she stayed the offspring of Alcmena, and kept back the Ilithuiae. Then she went to tell Jove the son of Saturn, and said, ‘Father Jove, lord of the lightning—I have a word for your ear. There is a fine child born this day, Eurystheus, son to Sthenelus the son of Perseus; he is of your lineage; it is well, therefore, that he should reign over the Argives.’
“On this Jove was stung to the very quick, and in his rage he caught Folly by the hair, and swore a great oath that never should she again invade starry heaven and Olympus, for she was the bane of all. Then he whirled her round with a twist of his hand, and flung her down from heaven so that she fell on to the fields of mortal men; and he was ever angry with her when he saw his son groaning under the cruel labours that Eurystheus laid upon him. Even so did I grieve when mighty Hector was killing the Argives at their ships, and all the time I kept thinking of Folly who had so baned me. I was blind, and Jove robbed me of my reason; I will now make atonement, and will add much treasure by way of amends. Go, therefore, into battle, you and your people with you. I will give you all that Ulysses offered you yesterday in your tents: or if it so please you, wait, though you would fain fight at once, and my squires shall bring the gifts from my ship, that you may see whether what I give you is enough.”
And Achilles answered, “Son of Atreus, king of men Agamemnon, you can give such gifts as you think proper, or you can withhold them: it is in your own hands. Let us now set battle in array; it is not well to tarry talking about trifles, for there is a deed which is as yet to do. Achilles shall again be seen fighting among the foremost, and laying low the ranks of the Trojans: bear this in mind each one of you when he is fighting.”
Then Ulysses said, “Achilles, godlike and brave, send not the Achaeans thus against Ilius to fight the Trojans fasting, for the battle will be no brief one, when it is once begun, and heaven has filled both sides with fury; bid them first take food both bread and wine by the ships, for in this there is strength and stay. No man can do battle the livelong day to the going down of the sun if he is without food; however much he may want to fight his strength will fail him before he knows it; hunger and thirst will find him out, and his limbs will grow weary under him. But a man can fight all day if he is full fed with meat and wine; his heart beats high, and his strength will stay till he has routed all his foes; therefore, send the people away and bid them prepare their meal; King Agamemnon will bring out the gifts in presence of the assembly, that all may see them and you may be satisfied. Moreover let him swear an oath before the Argives that he has never gone up into the couch of Briseis, nor been with her after the manner of men and women; and do you, too, show yourself of a gracious mind; let Agamemnon entertain you in his tents with a feast of reconciliation, that so you may have had your dues in full. As for you, son of Atreus, treat people more righteously in future; it is no disgrace even to a king that he should make amends if he was wrong in the first instance.”
And King Agamemnon answered, “Son of Laertes, your words please me well, for throughout you have spoken wisely. I will swear as you would have me do; I do so of my own free will, neither shall I take the name of heaven in vain. Let, then, Achilles wait, though he would fain fight at once, and do you others wait also, till the gifts come from my tent and we ratify the oath with sacrifice. Thus, then, do I charge you: take some noble young Achaeans with you, and bring from my tents the gifts that I promised yesterday to Achilles, and bring the women also; fur- thermore let Talthybius find me a boar from those that are with the host, and make it ready for sacrifice to Jove and to the sun.”
Then said Achilles, “Son of Atreus, king of men Agamemnon, see to these matters at some other season, when there is breathing time and when I am calmer. Would you have men eat while the bodies of those whom Hector son of Priam slew are still lying mangled upon the plain? Let the sons of the Achaeans, say I, fight fasting and without food, till we have avenged them; afterwards at the going down of the sun let them eat their fill. As for me, Patroclus is lying dead in my tent, all hacked and hewn, with his feet to the door, and his comrades are mourning round him. Therefore I can take thought of nothing save only slaughter and blood and the rattle in the throat of the dying.”
Ulysses answered, “Achilles, son of Peleus, mightiest of all the Achaeans, in battle you are better than I, and that more than a little, but in counsel I am much before you, for I am older and of greater knowledge. Therefore be patient under my words. Fighting is a thing of which men soon surfeit, and when Jove, who is wars steward, weighs the upshot, it may well prove that the straw which our sickles have reaped is far heavier than the grain. It may not be that the Achaeans should mourn the dead with their bellies; day by day men fall thick and threefold continually; when should we have respite from our sorrow? Let us mourn our dead for a day and bury them out of sight and mind, but let those of us who are left eat and drink that we may arm and fight our foes more fiercely. In that hour let no man hold back, waiting for a second summons; such summons shall bode ill for him who is found lagging behind at our ships; let us rather sally as one man and loose the fury of war upon the Trojans.”
When he had thus spoken he took with him the sons of Nestor, with Meges son of Phyleus, Thoas, Meriones, Lycomedes son of Creontes, and Melanippus, and went to the tent of Agamemnon son of Atreus. The word was not sooner said than the deed was done: they brought out the seven tripods which Agamemnon had promised, with the twenty metal cauldrons and the twelve horses; they also brought the women skilled in useful arts, seven in number, with Briseis, which made eight. Ulysses weighed out the ten talents of gold and then led the way back, while the
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young Achaeans brought the rest of the gifts, and laid them in the middle of the assembly. Agamemnon then rose, and Talthybius whose voice was like that of a god came to him with the boar. The son
of Atreus drew the knife which he wore by the scabbard of his mighty sword, and began by cutting off some bris- tles from the boar, lifting up his hands in prayer as he did so. The other Achaeans sat where they were all silent and orderly to hear the king, and Agamemnon looked into the vault of heaven and prayed saying, “I call Jove the first and mightiest of all gods to witness, I call also Earth and Sun and the Erinyes who dwell below and take vengeance on him who shall swear falsely, that I have laid no hand upon the girl Briseis, neither to take her to my bed nor oth- erwise, but that she has remained in my tents inviolate. If I swear falsely may heaven visit me with all the penalties which it metes out to those who perjure themselves.”
He cut the boar’s throat as he spoke, whereon Talthybius whirled it round his head, and flung it into the wide sea to feed the fishes. Then Achilles also rose and said to the Argives, “Father Jove, of a truth you blind men’s eyes and bane them. The son of Atreus had not else stirred me to so fierce an anger, nor so stubbornly taken Briseis from me against my will. Surely Jove must have counselled the destruction of many an Argive. Go, now, and take your food that we may begin fighting.”
On this he broke up the assembly, and every man went back to his own ship. The Myrmidons attended to the presents and took them away to the ship of Achilles. They placed them in his tents, while the stable-men drove the horses in among the others.
Briseis, fair as Venus, when she saw the mangled body of Patroclus, flung herself upon it and cried aloud, tear- ing her breast, her neck, and her lovely face with both her hands. Beautiful as a goddess she wept and said, “Patro- clus, dearest friend, when I went hence I left you living; I return, O prince, to find you dead; thus do fresh sorrows multiply upon me one after the other. I saw him to whom my father and mother married me, cut down before our city, and my three own dear brothers perished with him on the self-same day; but you, Patroclus, even when Achil- les slew my husband and sacked the city of noble Mynes, told me that I was not to weep, for you said you would make Achilles marry me, and take me back with him to Phthia, we should have a wedding feast among the Myrmi- dons. You were always kind to me and I shall never cease to grieve for you.”
She wept as she spoke, and the women joined in her lament-making as though their tears were for Patroclus, but in truth each was weeping for her own sorrows. The elders of the Achaeans gathered round Achilles and prayed him to take food, but he groaned and would not do so. “I pray you,” said he, “if any comrade will hear me, bid me neither eat nor drink, for I am in great heaviness, and will stay fasting even to the going down of the sun.”
On this he sent the other princes away, save only the two sons of Atreus and Ulysses, Nestor, Idomeneus, and the knight Phoenix, who stayed behind and tried to comfort him in the bitterness of his sorrow: but he would not be comforted till he should have flung himself into the jaws of battle, and he fetched sigh on sigh, thinking ever of Patroclus. Then he said—
“Hapless and dearest comrade, you it was who would get a good dinner ready for me at once and without delay when the Achaeans were hasting to fight the Trojans; now, therefore, though I have meat and drink in my tents, yet will I fast for sorrow. Grief greater than this I could not know, not even though I were to hear of the death of my father, who is now in Phthia weeping for the loss of me his son, who am here fighting the Trojans in a strange land for the accursed sake of Helen, nor yet though I should hear that my son is no more—he who is being brought up in Scyros—if indeed Neoptolemus is still living. Till now I made sure that I alone was to fall here at Troy away from Argos, while you were to return to Phthia, bring back my son with you in your own ship, and show him all my property, my bondsmen, and the greatness of my house—for Peleus must surely be either dead, or what little life remains to him is oppressed alike with the infirmities of age and ever present fear lest he should hear the sad tidings of my death.”
He wept as he spoke, and the elders sighed in concert as each thought on what he had left at home behind him. The son of Saturn looked down with pity upon them, and said presently to Minerva, “My child, you have quite de- serted your hero; is he then gone so clean out of your recollection? There he sits by the ships all desolate for the loss of his dear comrade, and though the others are gone to their dinner he will neither eat nor drink. Go then and drop nectar and ambrosia into his breast, that he may know no hunger.”
With these words he urged Minerva, who was already of the same mind. She darted down from heaven into the air like some falcon sailing on his broad wings and screaming. Meanwhile the Achaeans were arming throughout the host, and when Minerva had dropped nectar and ambrosia into Achilles so that no cruel hunger should cause his limbs to fail him, she went back to the house of her mighty father. Thick as the chill snow-flakes shed from the hand of Jove and borne on the keen blasts of the north wind, even so thick did the gleaming helmets, the bossed shields, the strongly plated breastplates, and the ashen spears stream from the ships. The sheen pierced the sky, the whole land was radiant with their flashing armour, and the sound of the tramp of their treading rose from under their feet. In the midst of them all Achilles put on his armour; he gnashed his teeth, his eyes gleamed like fire, for his grief was greater than he could bear. Thus, then, full of fury against the Trojans, did he don the gift of the god,
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the armour that Vulcan had made him. First he put on the goodly greaves fitted with ancle-clasps, and next he did on the breastplate about his chest.
He slung the silver-studded sword of bronze about his shoulders, and then took up the shield so great and strong that shone afar with a splendour as of the moon. As the light seen by sailors from out at sea, when men have lit a fire in their homestead high up among the mountains, but the sailors are carried out to sea by wind and storm far from the haven where they would be—even so did the gleam of Achilles’ wondrous shield strike up into the heav- ens. He lifted the redoubtable helmet, and set it upon his head, from whence it shone like a star, and the golden plumes which Vulcan had set thick about the ridge of the helmet, waved all around it. Then Achilles made trial of himself in his armour to see whether it fitted him, so that his limbs could play freely under it, and it seemed to buoy him up as though it had been wings.
He also drew his father’s spear out of the spear-stand, a spear so great and heavy and strong that none of the Achaeans save only Achilles had strength to wield it; this was the spear of Pelian ash from the topmost ridges of Mt. Pelion, which Chiron had once given to Peleus, fraught with the death of heroes. Automedon and Alcimus busied themselves with the harnessing of his horses; they made the bands fast about them, and put the bit in their mouths, drawing the reins back towards the chariot. Automedon, whip in hand, sprang up behind the horses, and after him Achilles mounted in full armour, resplendent as the sun-god Hyperion. Then with a loud voice he chided with his father’s horses saying, “Xanthus and Balius, famed offspring of Podarge—this time when we have done fighting be sure and bring your driver safely back to the host of the Achaeans, and do not leave him dead on the plain as you did Patroclus.”
Then fleet Xanthus answered under the yoke — for white-armed Juno had endowed him with human speech— and he bowed his head till his mane touched the ground as it hung down from under the yoke-band. “Dread Achil- les,” said he, “we will indeed save you now, but the day of your death is near, and the blame will not be ours, for it will be heaven and stern fate that will destroy you. Neither was it through any sloth or slackness on our part that the Trojans stripped Patroclus of his armour; it was the mighty god whom lovely Leto bore that slew him as he fought among the foremost, and vouchsafed a triumph to Hector. We two can fly as swiftly as Zephyrus who they say is fleetest of all winds; nevertheless it is your doom to fall by the hand of a man and of a god.”
When he had thus said the Erinyes stayed his speech, and Achilles answered him in great sadness, saying, “Why, O Xanthus, do you thus foretell my death? You need not do so, for I well know that I am to fall here, far from my dear father and mother; none the more, however, shall I stay my hand till I have given the Trojans their fill of fighting.”
So saying, with a loud cry he drove his horses to the front.
Book XX THUS, then, did the Achaeans arm by their ships round you, O son of Peleus, who were hungering for battle;
while the Trojans over against them armed upon the rise of the plain. Meanwhile Jove from the top of many-delled Olympus, bade Themis gather the gods in council, whereon she
went about and called them to the house of Jove. There was not a river absent except Oceanus, nor a single one of the nymphs that haunt fair groves, or springs of rivers and meadows of green grass. When they reached the house of cloud-compelling Jove, they took their seats in the arcades of polished marble which Vulcan with his consum- mate skill had made for father Jove.
In such wise, therefore, did they gather in the house of Jove. Neptune also, lord of the earthquake, obeyed the call of the goddess, and came up out of the sea to join them. There, sitting in the midst of them, he asked what Jove’s purpose might be. “Why,” said he, “wielder of the lightning, have you called the gods in council? Are you consid- ering some matter that concerns the Trojans and Achaeans—for the blaze of battle is on the point of being kindled between them?”
And Jove answered, “You know my purpose, shaker of earth, and wherefore I have called you hither. I take thought for them even in their destruction. For my own part I shall stay here seated on Mt. Olympus and look on in peace, but do you others go about among Trojans and Achaeans, and help either side as you may be severally disposed. If Achilles fights the Trojans without hindrance they will make no stand against him; they have ever trem- bled at the sight of him, and now that he is roused to such fury about his comrade, he will override fate itself and storm their city.”
Thus spoke Jove and gave the word for war, whereon the gods took their several sides and went into battle. Juno, Pallas Minerva, earth-encircling Neptune, Mercury bringer of good luck and excellent in all cunning—all these joined the host that came from the ships; with them also came Vulcan in all his glory, limping, but yet with his thin legs plying lustily under him. Mars of gleaming helmet joined the Trojans, and with him Apollo of locks unshorn, and the archer goddess Diana, Leto, Xanthus, and laughter-loving Venus.
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So long as the gods held themselves aloof from mortal warriors the Achaeans were triumphant, for Achilles who had long refused to fight was now with them. There was not a Trojan but his limbs failed him for fear as he beheld the fleet son of Peleus all glorious in his armour, and looking like Mars himself. When, however, the Olym- pians came to take their part among men, forthwith uprose strong Strife, rouser of hosts, and Minerva raised her loud voice, now standing by the deep trench that ran outside the wall, and now shouting with all her might upon the shore of the sounding sea. Mars also bellowed out upon the other side, dark as some black thunder-cloud, and called on the Trojans at the top of his voice, now from the acropolis, and now speeding up the side of the river Simois till he came to the hill Callicolone.
Thus did the gods spur on both hosts to fight, and rouse fierce contention also among themselves. The sire of gods and men thundered from heaven above, while from beneath Neptune shook the vast earth, and bade the high hills tremble. The spurs and crests of many-fountained Ida quaked, as also the city of the Trojans and the ships of the Achaeans. Hades, king of the realms below, was struck with fear; he sprang panic-stricken from his throne and cried aloud in terror lest Neptune, lord of the earthquake, should crack the ground over his head, and lay bare his mouldy mansions to the sight of mortals and immortals—mansions so ghastly grim that even the gods shudder to think of them. Such was the uproar as the gods came together in battle. Apollo with his arrows took his stand to face King Neptune, while Minerva took hers against the god of war; the archer-goddess Diana with her golden arrows, sister of far-darting Apollo, stood to face Juno; Mercury the lusty bringer of good luck faced Leto, while the mighty eddying river whom men can Scamander, but gods Xanthus, matched himself against Vulcan.
The gods, then, were thus ranged against one another. But the heart of Achilles was set on meeting Hector son of Priam, for it was with his blood that he longed above all things else to glut the stubborn lord of battle. Meanwhile Apollo set Aeneas on to attack the son of Peleus, and put courage into his heart, speaking with the voice of Lycaon son of Priam. In his likeness therefore, he said to Aeneas, “Aeneas, counsellor of the Trojans, where are now the brave words with which you vaunted over your wine before the Trojan princes, saying that you would fight Achilles son of Peleus in single combat?”
And Aeneas answered, “Why do you thus bid me fight the proud son of Peleus, when I am in no mind to do so? Were I to face him now, it would not be for the first time. His spear has already put me to Right from Ida, when he attacked our cattle and sacked Lyrnessus and Pedasus; Jove indeed saved me in that he vouchsafed me strength to fly, else had the fallen by the hands of Achilles and Minerva, who went before him to protect him and urged him to fall upon the Lelegae and Trojans. No man may fight Achilles, for one of the gods is always with him as his guardian angel, and even were it not so, his weapon flies ever straight, and fails not to pierce the flesh of him who is against him; if heaven would let me fight him on even terms he should not soon overcome me, though he boasts that he is made of bronze.”
Then said King Apollo, son to Jove, “Nay, hero, pray to the ever-living gods, for men say that you were born of Jove’s daughter Venus, whereas Achilles is son to a goddess of inferior rank. Venus is child to Jove, while Thetis is but daughter to the old man of the sea. Bring, therefore, your spear to bear upon him, and let him not scare you with his taunts and menaces.”
As he spoke he put courage into the heart of the shepherd of his people, and he strode in full armour among the ranks of the foremost fighters. Nor did the son of Anchises escape the notice of white-armed Juno, as he went forth into the throng to meet Achilles. She called the gods about her, and said, “Look to it, you two, Neptune and Miner- va, and consider how this shall be; Phoebus Apollo has been sending Aeneas clad in full armour to fight Achilles. Shall we turn him back at once, or shall one of us stand by Achilles and endow him with strength so that his heart fail not, and he may learn that the chiefs of the immortals are on his side, while the others who have all along been defending the Trojans are but vain helpers? Let us all come down from Olympus and join in the fight, that this day he may take no hurt at the hands of the Trojans. Hereafter let him suffer whatever fate may have spun out for him when he was begotten and his mother bore him. If Achilles be not thus assured by the voice of a god, he may come to fear presently when one of us meets him in battle, for the gods are terrible if they are seen face to face.”
Neptune lord of the earthquake answered her saying, “Juno, restrain your fury; it is not well; I am not in favour of forcing the other gods to fight us, for the advantage is too greatly on our own side; let us take our places on some hill out of the beaten track, and let mortals fight it out among themselves. If Mars or Phoebus Apollo begin fighting, or keep Achilles in check so that he cannot fight, we too, will at once raise the cry of battle, and in that case they will soon leave the field and go back vanquished to Olympus among the other gods.”
With these words the dark-haired god led the way to the high earth-barrow of Hercules, built round solid masonry, and made by the Trojans and Pallas Minerva for him fly to when the sea-monster was chasing him from the shore on to the plain. Here Neptune and those that were with him took their seats, wrapped in a thick cloud of darkness; but the other gods seated themselves on the brow of Callicolone round you, O Phoebus, and Mars the waster of cities.
Thus did the gods sit apart and form their plans, but neither side was willing to begin battle with the other, and
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Jove from his seat on high was in command over them all. Meanwhile the whole plain was alive with men and hors- es, and blazing with the gleam of armour. The earth rang again under the tramp of their feet as they rushed towards each other, and two champions, by far the foremost of them all, met between the hosts to fight—to wit, Aeneas son of Anchises, and noble Achilles.
Aeneas was first to stride forward in attack, his doughty helmet tossing defiance as he came on. He held his strong shield before his breast, and brandished his bronze spear. The son of Peleus from the other side sprang forth to meet him, fike some fierce lion that the whole country-side has met to hunt and kill—at first he bodes no ill, but when some daring youth has struck him with a spear, he crouches openmouthed, his jaws foam, he roars with fury, he lashes his tail from side to side about his ribs and loins, and glares as he springs straight before him, to find out whether he is to slay, or be slain among the foremost of his foes—even with such fury did Achilles burn to spring upon Aeneas.
When they were now close up with one another Achilles was first to speak. “Aeneas,” said he, “why do you stand thus out before the host to fight me? Is it that you hope to reign over the Trojans in the seat of Priam? Nay, though you kill me Priam will not hand his kingdom over to you. He is a man of sound judgement, and he has sons of his own. Or have the Trojans been allotting you a demesne of passing richness, fair with orchard lawns and corn lands, if you should slay me? This you shall hardly do. I have discomfited you once already. Have you forgotten how when you were alone I chased you from your herds helter-skelter down the slopes of Ida? You did not turn round to look behind you; you took refuge in Lyrnessus, but I attacked the city, and with the help of Minerva and father Jove I sacked it and carried its women into captivity, though Jove and the other gods rescued you. You think they will protect you now, but they will not do so; therefore I say go back into the host, and do not face me, or you will rue it. Even a fool may be wise after the event.”
Then Aeneas answered, “Son of Peleus, think not that your words can scare me as though I were a child. I too, if I will, can brag and talk unseemly. We know one another’s race and parentage as matters of common fame, though neither have you ever seen my parents nor I yours. Men say that you are son to noble Peleus, and that your mother is Thetis, fair-haired daughter of the sea. I have noble Anchises for my father, and Venus for my mother; the parents of one or other of us shall this day mourn a son, for it will be more than silly talk that shall part us when the fight is over. Learn, then, my lineage if you will—and it is known to many.
“In the beginning Dardanus was the son of Jove, and founded Dardania, for Ilius was not yet stablished on the plain for men to dwell in, and her people still abode on the spurs of many-fountained Ida. Dardanus had a son, king Erichthonius, who was wealthiest of all men living; he had three thousand mares that fed by the water-mead- ows, they and their foals with them. Boreas was enamoured of them as they were feeding, and covered them in the semblance of a dark-maned stallion. Twelve filly foals did they conceive and bear him, and these, as they sped over the rich plain, would go bounding on over the ripe ears of corn and not break them; or again when they would disport themselves on the broad back of Ocean they could gallop on the crest of a breaker. Erichthonius begat Tros, king of the Trojans, and Tros had three noble sons, Ilus, Assaracus, and Ganymede who was comeliest of mortal men; wherefore the gods carried him off to be Jove’s cupbearer, for his beauty’s sake, that he might dwell among the immortals. Ilus begat Laomedon, and Laomedon begat Tithonus, Priam, Lampus, Clytius, and Hiketaon of the stock of Mars. But Assaracus was father to Capys, and Capys to Anchises, who was my father, while Hector is son to Priam.
“Such do I declare my blood and lineage, but as for valour, Jove gives it or takes it as he will, for he is lord of all. And now let there be no more of this prating in mid-battle as though we were children. We could fling taunts with- out end at one another; a hundred-oared galley would not hold them. The tongue can run all whithers and talk all wise; it can go here and there, and as a man says, so shall he be gainsaid. What is the use of our bandying hard like women who when they fall foul of one another go out and wrangle in the streets, one half true and the other lies, as rage inspires them? No words of yours shall turn me now that I am fain to fight—therefore let us make trial of one another with our spears.”
As he spoke he drove his spear at the great and terrible shield of Achilles, which rang out as the point struck it. The son of Peleus held the shield before him with his strong hand, and he was afraid, for he deemed that Aeneas’s spear would go through it quite easily, not reflecting that the god’s glorious gifts were little likely to yield before the blows of mortal men; and indeed Aeneas’s spear did not pierce the shield, for the layer of gold, gift of the god, stayed the point. It went through two layers, but the god had made the shield in five, two of bronze, the two inner- most ones of tin, and one of gold; it was in this that the spear was stayed.
Achilles in his turn threw, and struck the round shield of Aeneas at the very edge, where the bronze was thinnest; the spear of Pelian ash went clean through, and the shield rang under the blow; Aeneas was afraid, and crouched backwards, holding the shield away from him; the spear, however, flew over his back, and stuck quivering in the ground, after having gone through both circles of the sheltering shield. Aeneas though he had avoided the spear, stood still, blinded with fear and grief because the weapon had gone so near him; then Achilles sprang furi-
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ously upon him, with a cry as of death and with his keen blade drawn, and Aeneas seized a great stone, so huge that two men, as men now are, would be unable to lift it, but Aeneas wielded it quite easily.
Aeneas would then have struck Achilles as he was springing towards him, either on the helmet, or on the shield that covered him, and Achilles would have closed with him and despatched him with his sword, had not Neptune lord of the earthquake been quick to mark, and said forthwith to the immortals, “Alas, I am sorry for great Aeneas, who will now go down to the house of Hades, vanquished by the son of Peleus. Fool that he was to give ear to the counsel of Apollo. Apollo will never save him from destruction. Why should this man suffer when he is guiltless, to no purpose, and in another’s quarrel? Has he not at all times offered acceptable sacrifice to the gods that dwell in heaven? Let us then snatch him from death’s jaws, lest the son of Saturn be angry should Achilles slay him. It is fat- ed, moreover, that he should escape, and that the race of Dardanus, whom Jove loved above all the sons born to him of mortal women, shall not perish utterly without seed or sign. For now indeed has Jove hated the blood of Priam, while Aeneas shall reign over the Trojans, he and his children’s children that shall be born hereafter.”
Then answered Juno, “Earth-shaker, look to this matter yourself, and consider concerning Aeneas, whether you will save him, or suffer him, brave though he be, to fall by the hand of Achilles son of Peleus. For of a truth we two, I and Pallas Minerva, have sworn full many a time before all the immortals, that never would we shield Trojans from destruction, not even when all Troy is burning in the flames that the Achaeans shall kindle.”
When earth-encircling Neptune heard this he went into the battle amid the clash of spears, and came to the place where Achilles and Aeneas were. Forthwith he shed a darkness before the eyes of the son of Peleus, drew the bronze-headed ashen spear from the shield of Aeneas, and laid it at the feet of Achilles. Then he lifted Aeneas on high from off the earth and hurried him away. Over the heads of many a band of warriors both horse and foot did he soar as the god’s hand sped him, till he came to the very fringe of the battle where the Cauconians were arming themselves for fight. Neptune, shaker of the earth, then came near to him and said, Aeneas, what god has egged you on to this folly in fighting the son of Peleus, who is both a mightier man of valour and more beloved of heaven than you are? Give way before him whensoever you meet him, lest you go down to the house of Hades even though fate would have it otherwise. When Achilles is dead you may then fight among the foremost undaunted, for none other of the Achaeans shall slay you.”
The god left him when he had given him these instructions, and at once removed the darkness from before the eyes of Achilles, who opened them wide indeed and said in great anger, “Alas! what marvel am I now beholding? Here is my spear upon the ground, but I see not him whom I meant to kill when I hurled it. Of a truth Aeneas also must be under heaven’s protection, although I had thought his boasting was idle. Let him go hang; he will be in no mood to fight me further, seeing how narrowly he has missed being killed. I will now give my orders to the Danaans and attack some other of the Trojans.”
He sprang forward along the line and cheered his men on as he did so. “Let not the Trojans,” he cried, “keep you at arm’s length, Achaeans, but go for them and fight them man for man. However valiant I may be, I cannot give chase to so many and fight all of them. Even Mars, who is an immortal, or Minerva, would shrink from flinging himself into the jaws of such a fight and laying about him; nevertheless, so far as in me lies I will show no slackness of hand or foot nor want of endurance, not even for a moment; I will utterly break their ranks, and woe to the Tro- jan who shall venture within reach of my spear.”
Thus did he exhort them. Meanwhile Hector called upon the Trojans and declared that he would fight Achilles. “Be not afraid, proud Trojans,” said he, “to face the son of Peleus; I could fight gods myself if the battle were one of words only, but they would be more than a match for me, if we had to use our spears. Even so the deed of Achilles will fall somewhat short of his word; he will do in part, and the other part he will clip short. I will go up against him though his hands be as fire—though his hands be fire and his strength iron.”
Thus urged the Trojans lifted up their spears against the Achaeans, and raised the cry of battle as they flung themselves into the midst of their ranks. But Phoebus Apollo came up to Hector and said, “Hector, on no account must you challenge Achilles to single combat; keep a lookout for him while you are under cover of the others and away from the thick of the fight, otherwise he will either hit you with a spear or cut you down at close quarters.”
Thus he spoke, and Hector drew back within the crowd, for he was afraid when he heard what the god had said to him. Achilles then sprang upon the Trojans with a terrible cry, clothed in valour as with a garment. First he killed Iphition son of Otrynteus, a leader of much people whom a naiad nymph had borne to Otrynteus waster of cities, in the land of Hyde under the snowy heights of Mt. Tmolus. Achilles struck him full on the head as he was coming on towards him, and split it clean in two; whereon he fell heavily to the ground and Achilles vaunted over him say- ing, “You he low, son of Otrynteus, mighty hero; your death is here, but your lineage is on the Gygaean lake where your father’s estate lies, by Hyllus, rich in fish, and the eddying waters of Hermus.”
Thus did he vaunt, but darkness closed the eyes of the other. The chariots of the Achaeans cut him up as their wheels passed over him in the front of the battle, and after him Achilles killed Demoleon, a valiant man of war and son to Antenor. He struck him on the temple through his bronze-cheeked helmet. The helmet did not stay
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the spear, but it went right on, crushing the bone so that the brain inside was shed in all directions, and his lust of fighting was ended. Then he struck Hippodamas in the midriff as he was springing down from his chariot in front of him, and trying to escape. He breathed his last, bellowing like a bull bellows when young men are dragging him to offer him in sacrifice to the King of Helice, and the heart of the earth-shaker is glad; even so did he bellow as he lay dying. Achilles then went in pursuit of Polydorus son of Priam, whom his father had always forbidden to fight because he was the youngest of his sons, the one he loved best, and the fastest runner. He, in his folly and showing off the fleetness of his feet, was rushing about among front ranks until he lost his life, for Achilles struck him in the middle of the back as he was darting past him: he struck him just at the golden fastenings of his belt and where the two pieces of the double breastplate overlapped. The point of the spear pierced him through and came out by the navel, whereon he fell groaning on to his knees and a cloud of darkness overshadowed him as he sank holding his entrails in his hands.
When Hector saw his brother Polydorus with his entrails in his hands and sinking down upon the ground, a mist came over his eyes, and he could not bear to keep longer at a distance; he therefore poised his spear and darted towards Achilles like a flame of fire. When Achilles saw him he bounded forward and vaunted saying, “This is he that has wounded my heart most deeply and has slain my beloved comrade. Not for long shall we two quail before one another on the highways of war.”
He looked fiercely on Hector and said, “Draw near, that you may meet your doom the sooner.” Hector feared him not and answered, “Son of Peleus, think not that your words can scare me as though I were a child; I too if I will can brag and talk unseemly; I know that you are a mighty warrior, mightier by far than I, nevertheless the issue lies in the the lap of heaven whether I, worse man though I be, may not slay you with my spear, for this too has been found keen ere now.”
He hurled his spear as he spoke, but Minerva breathed upon it, and though she breathed but very lightly she turned it back from going towards Achilles, so that it returned to Hector and lay at his feet in front of him. Achilles then sprang furiously on him with a loud cry, bent on killing him, but Apollo caught him up easily as a god can, and hid him in a thick darkness. Thrice did Achilles spring towards him spear in hand, and thrice did he waste his blow upon the air. When he rushed forward for the fourth time as though he were a god, he shouted aloud saying, “Hound, this time too you have escaped death — but of a truth it came exceedingly near you. Phoebus Apollo, to whom it seems you pray before you go into battle, has again saved you; but if I too have any friend among the gods I will surely make an end of you when I come across you at some other time. Now, however, I will pursue and over- take other Trojans.”
On this he struck Dryops with his spear, about the middle of his neck, and he fell headlong at his feet. There he let him lie and stayed Demouchus son of Philetor, a man both brave and of great stature, by hitting him on the knee with a spear; then he smote him with his sword and killed him. After this he sprang on Laogonus and Dardanus, sons of Bias, and threw them from their chariot, the one with a blow from a thrown spear, while the other he cut down in hand-to-hand fight. There was also Tros the son of Alastor—he came up to Achilles and clasped his knees in the hope that he would spare him and not kill him but let him go, because they were both of the same age. Fool, he might have known that he should not prevail with him, for the man was in no mood for pity or forbearance but was in grim earnest. Therefore when Tros laid hold of his knees and sought a hearing for his prayers, Achilles drove his sword into his liver, and the liver came rolling out, while his bosom was all covered with the black blood that welled from the wound. Thus did death close his eyes as he lay lifeless.
Achilles then went up to Mulius and struck him on the ear with a spear, and the bronze spear-head came right out at the other ear. He also struck Echeclus son of Agenor on the head with his sword, which became warm with the blood, while death and stern fate closed the eyes of Echeclus. Next in order the bronze point of his spear wounded Deucalion in the fore-arm where the sinews of the elbow are united, whereon he waited Achilles’ onset with his arm hanging down and death staring him in the face. Achilles cut his head off with a blow from his sword and flung it helmet and all away from him, and the marrow came oozing out of his backbone as he lay. He then went in pursuit of Rhigmus, noble son of Peires, who had come from fertile Thrace, and struck him through the middle with a spear which fixed itself in his belly, so that he fell headlong from his chariot. He also speared Areit- hous squire to Rhigmus in the back as he was turning his horses in flight, and thrust him from his chariot, while the horses were struck with panic.
As a fire raging in some mountain glen after long drought—and the dense forest is in a blaze, while the wind carries great tongues of fire in every direction—even so furiously did Achilles rage, wielding his spear as though he were a god, and giving chase to those whom he would slay, till the dark earth ran with blood. Or as one who yokes broad-browed oxen that they may tread barley in a threshing-floor—and it is soon bruised small under the feet of the lowing cattle—even so did the horses of Achilles trample on the shields and bodies of the slain. The axle under- neath and the railing that ran round the car were bespattered with clots of blood thrown up by the horses’ hoofs, and from the tyres of the wheels; but the son of Peleus pressed on to win still further glory, and his hands were
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bedrabbled with gore.
Book XXI NOW when they came to the ford of the full-flowing river Xanthus, begotten of immortal Jove, Achilles cut
their forces in two: one half he chased over the plain towards the city by the same way that the Achaeans had taken when flying panic-stricken on the preceding day with Hector in full triumph; this way did they fly pell-mell, and Juno sent down a thick mist in front of them to stay them. The other half were hemmed in by the deep silver-eddy- ing stream, and fell into it with a great uproar. The waters resounded, and the banks rang again, as they swam hither and thither with loud cries amid the whirling eddies. As locusts flying to a river before the blast of a grass fire—the flame comes on and on till at last it overtakes them and they huddle into the water—even so was the eddying stream of Xanthus filled with the uproar of men and horses, all struggling in confusion before Achilles.
Forthwith the hero left his spear upon the bank, leaning it against a tamarisk bush, and plunged into the river like a god, armed with his sword only. Fell was his purpose as he hewed the Trojans down on every side. Their dy- ing groans rose hideous as the sword smote them, and the river ran red with blood. As when fish fly scared before a huge dolphin, and fill every nook and corner of some fair haven—for he is sure to eat all he can catch—even so did the Trojans cower under the banks of the mighty river, and when Achilles’ arms grew weary with killing them, he drew twelve youths alive out of the water, to sacrifice in revenge for Patroclus son of Menoetius. He drew them out like dazed fawns, bound their hands behind them with the girdles of their own shirts, and gave them over to his men to take back to the ships. Then he sprang into the river, thirsting for still further blood.
There he found Lycaon, son of Priam seed of Dardanus, as he was escaping out of the water; he it was whom he had once taken prisoner when he was in his father’s vineyard, having set upon him by night, as he was cutting young shoots from a wild fig-tree to make the wicker sides of a chariot. Achilles then caught him to his sorrow unawares, and sent him by sea to Lemnos, where the son of Jason bought him. But a guest-friend, Eetion of Imbros, freed him with a great sum, and sent him to Arisbe, whence he had escaped and returned to his father’s house. He had spent eleven days happily with his friends after he had come from Lemnos, but on the twelfth heaven again delivered him into the hands of Achilles, who was to send him to the house of Hades sorely against his will. He was unarmed when Achilles caught sight of him, and had neither helmet nor shield; nor yet had he any spear, for he had thrown all his armour from him on to the bank, and was sweating with his struggles to get out of the river, so that his strength was now failing him.
Then Achilles said to himself in his surprise, “What marvel do I see here? If this man can come back alive after having been sold over into Lemnos, I shall have the Trojans also whom I have slain rising from the world below. Could not even the waters of the grey sea imprison him, as they do many another whether he will or no? This time let him taste my spear, that I may know for certain whether mother earth who can keep even a strong man down, will be able to hold him, or whether thence too he will return.”
Thus did he pause and ponder. But Lycaon came up to him dazed and trying hard to embrace his knees, for he would fain live, not die. Achilles thrust at him with his spear, meaning to kill him, but Lycaon ran crouching up to him and caught his knees, whereby the spear passed over his back, and stuck in the ground, hungering though it was for blood. With one hand he caught Achilles’ knees as he besought him, and with the other he clutched the spear and would not let it go. Then he said, “Achilles, have mercy upon me and spare me, for I am your suppliant. It was in your tents that I first broke bread on the day when you took me prisoner in the vineyard; after which you sold away to Lemnos far from my father and my friends, and I brought you the price of a hundred oxen. I have paid three times as much to gain my freedom; it is but twelve days that I have come to Ilius after much suffering, and now cruel fate has again thrown me into your hands. Surely father Jove must hate me, that he has given me over to you a second time. Short of life indeed did my mother Laothoe bear me, daughter of aged Altes—of Altes who reigns over the warlike Lelegae and holds steep Pedasus on the river Satnioeis. Priam married his daughter along with many other women and two sons were born of her, both of whom you will have slain. Your spear slew noble Polydorus as he was fighting in the front ranks, and now evil will here befall me, for I fear that I shall not escape you since heaven has delivered me over to you. Furthermore I say, and lay my saying to your heart, spare me, for I am not of the same womb as Hector who slew your brave and noble comrade.”
With such words did the princely son of Priam beseech Achilles; but Achilles answered him sternly. “Idiot,” said he, “talk not to me of ransom. Until Patroclus fell I preferred to give the Trojans quarter, and sold beyond the sea many of those whom I had taken alive; but now not a man shall live of those whom heaven delivers into my hands before the city of Ilius—and of all Trojans it shall fare hardest with the sons of Priam. Therefore, my friend, you too shall die. Why should you whine in this way? Patroclus fell, and he was a better man than you are. I too—see you not how I am great and goodly? I am son to a noble father, and have a goddess for my mother, but the hands of doom and death overshadow me all as surely. The day will come, either at dawn or dark, or at the noontide, when
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one shall take my life also in battle, either with his spear, or with an arrow sped from his bow.” Thus did he speak, and Lycaon’s heart sank within him. He loosed his hold of the spear, and held out both
hands before him; but Achilles drew his keen blade, and struck him by the collar-bone on his neck; he plunged his two-edged sword into him to the very hilt, whereon he lay at full length on the ground, with the dark blood welling from him till the earth was soaked. Then Achilles caught him by the foot and flung him into the river to go down stream, vaunting over him the while, and saying, “Lie there among the fishes, who will lick the blood from your wound and gloat over it; your mother shall not lay you on any bier to mourn you, but the eddies of Scamander shall bear you into the broad bosom of the sea. There shall the fishes feed on the fat of Lycaon as they dart under the dark ripple of the waters—so perish all of you till we reach the citadel of strong Ilius—you in flight, and I following after to destroy you. The river with its broad silver stream shall serve you in no stead, for all the bulls you offered him and all the horses that you flung living into his waters. None the less miserably shall you perish till there is not a man of you but has paid in full for the death of Patroclus and the havoc you wrought among the Achaeans whom you have slain while I held aloof from battle.”
So spoke Achilles, but the river grew more and more angry, and pondered within himself how he should stay the hand of Achilles and save the Trojans from disaster. Meanwhile the son of Peleus, spear in hand, sprang upon Asteropaeus son of Pelegon to kill him. He was son to the broad river Axius and Periboea eldest daughter of Aces- samenus; for the river had lain with her. Asteropaeus stood up out of the water to face him with a spear in either hand, and Xanthus filled him with courage, being angry for the death of the youths whom Achilles was slaying ruthlessly within his waters. When they were close up with one another Achilles was first to speak. “Who and whence are you,” said he, “who dare to face me? Woe to the parents whose son stands up against me.” And the son of Pelegon answered, “Great son of Peleus, why should you ask my lineage. I am from the fertile land of far Paeonia, captain of the Paeonians, and it is now eleven days that I am at Ilius. I am of the blood of the river Axius—of Axius that is the fairest of all rivers that run. He begot the famed warrior Pelegon, whose son men call me. Let us now fight, Achilles.”
Thus did he defy him, and Achilles raised his spear of Pelian ash. Asteropaeus failed with both his spears, for he could use both hands alike; with the one spear he struck Achilles’ shield, but did not pierce it, for the layer of gold, gift of the god, stayed the point; with the other spear he grazed the elbow of Achilles! right arm drawing dark blood, but the spear itself went by him and fixed itself in the ground, foiled of its bloody banquet. Then Achilles, fain to kill him, hurled his spear at Asteropaeus, but failed to hit him and struck the steep bank of the river, driving the spear half its length into the earth. The son of Peleus then drew his sword and sprang furiously upon him. Asteropaeus vainly tried to draw Achilles’ spear out of the bank by main force; thrice did he tug at it, trying with all his might to draw it out, and thrice he had to leave off trying; the fourth time he tried to bend and break it, but ere he could do so Achilles smote him with his sword and killed him. He struck him in the belly near the navel, so that all his bow- els came gushing out on to the ground, and the darkness of death came over him as he lay gasping. Then Achilles set his foot on his chest and spoiled him of his armour, vaunting over him and saying, “Lie there—begotten of a riv- er though you be, it is hard for you to strive with the offspring of Saturn’s son. You declare yourself sprung from the blood of a broad river, but I am of the seed of mighty Jove. My father is Peleus, son of Aeacus ruler over the many Myrmidons, and Aeacus was the son of Jove. Therefore as Jove is mightier than any river that flows into the sea, so are his children stronger than those of any river whatsoever. Moreover you have a great river hard by if he can be of any use to you, but there is no fighting against Jove the son of Saturn, with whom not even King Achelous can compare, nor the mighty stream of deep-flowing Oceanus, from whom all rivers and seas with all springs and deep wells proceed; even Oceanus fears the lightnings of great Jove, and his thunder that comes crashing out of heaven.”
With this he drew his bronze spear out of the bank, and now that he had killed Asteropaeus, he let him lie where he was on the sand, with the dark water flowing over him and the eels and fishes busy nibbling and gnaw- ing the fat that was about his kidneys. Then he went in chase of the Paeonians, who were flying along the bank of the river in panic when they saw their leader slain by the hands of the son of Peleus. Therein he slew Thersilochus, Mydon, Astypylus, Mnesus, Thrasius, Oeneus, and Ophelestes, and he would have slain yet others, had not the river in anger taken human form, and spoken to him from out the deep waters saying, “Achilles, if you excel all in strength, so do you also in wickedness, for the gods are ever with you to protect you: if, then, the son of Saturn has vouchsafed it to you to destroy all the Trojans, at any rate drive them out of my stream, and do your grim work on land. My fair waters are now filled with corpses, nor can I find any channel by which I may pour myself into the sea for I am choked with dead, and yet you go on mercilessly slaying. I am in despair, therefore, O captain of your host, trouble me no further.”
Achilles answered, “So be it, Scamander, Jove-descended; but I will never cease dealing out death among the Trojans, till I have pent them up in their city, and made trial of Hector face to face, that I may learn whether he is to vanquish me, or I him.”
As he spoke he set upon the Trojans with a fury like that of the gods. But the river said to Apollo, “Surely, son
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of Jove, lord of the silver bow, you are not obeying the commands of Jove who charged you straitly that you should stand by the Trojans and defend them, till twilight fades, and darkness is over an the earth.”
Meanwhile Achilles sprang from the bank into mid-stream, whereon the river raised a high wave and attacked him. He swelled his stream into a torrent, and swept away the many dead whom Achilles had slain and left with- in his waters. These he cast out on to the land, bellowing like a bull the while, but the living he saved alive, hiding them in his mighty eddies. The great and terrible wave gathered about Achilles, falling upon him and beating on his shield, so that he could not keep his feet; he caught hold of a great elm-tree, but it came up by the roots, and tore away the bank, damming the stream with its thick branches and bridging it all across; whereby Achilles struggled out of the stream, and fled full speed over the plain, for he was afraid.
But the mighty god ceased not in his pursuit, and sprang upon him with a dark-crested wave, to stay his hands and save the Trojans from destruction. The son of Peleus darted away a spear’s throw from him; swift as the swoop of a black hunter-eagle which is the strongest and fleetest of all birds, even so did he spring forward, and the armour rang loudly about his breast. He fled on in front, but the river with a loud roar came tearing after. As one who would water his garden leads a stream from some fountain over his plants, and all his ground-spade in hand he clears away the dams to free the channels, and the little stones run rolling round and round with the water as it goes merrily down the bank faster than the man can follow—even so did the river keep catching up with Achilles albeit he was a fleet runner, for the gods are stronger than men. As often as he would strive to stand his ground, and see whether or no all the gods in heaven were in league against him, so often would the mighty wave come beating down upon his shoulders, and be would have to keep flying on and on in great dismay; for the angry flood was tiring him out as it flowed past him and ate the ground from under his feet.
Then the son of Peleus lifted up his voice to heaven saying, “Father Jove, is there none of the gods who will take pity upon me, and save me from the river? I do not care what may happen to me afterwards. I blame none of the other dwellers on Olympus so severely as I do my dear mother, who has beguiled and tricked me. She told me I was to fall under the walls of Troy by the flying arrows of Apollo; would that Hector, the best man among the Trojans, might there slay me; then should I fall a hero by the hand of a hero; whereas now it seems that I shall come to a most pitiable end, trapped in this river as though I were some swineherd’s boy, who gets carried down a torrent while trying to cross it during a storm.”
As soon as he had spoken thus, Neptune and Minerva came up to him in the likeness of two men, and took him by the hand to reassure him. Neptune spoke first. “Son of Peleus,” said he, “be not so exceeding fearful; we are two gods, come with Jove’s sanction to assist you, I, and Pallas Minerva. It is not your fate to perish in this river; he will abate presently as you will see; moreover we strongly advise you, if you will be guided by us, not to stay your hand from fighting till you have pent the Trojan host within the famed walls of Ilius—as many of them as may escape. Then kill Hector and go back to the ships, for we will vouchsafe you a triumph over him.”
When they had so said they went back to the other immortals, but Achilles strove onward over the plain, en- couraged by the charge the gods had laid upon him. All was now covered with the flood of waters, and much good- ly armour of the youths that had been slain was rifting about, as also many corpses, but he forced his way against the stream, speeding right onwards, nor could the broad waters stay him, for Minerva had endowed him with great strength. Nevertheless Scamander did not slacken in his pursuit, but was still more furious with the son of Peleus. He lifted his waters into a high crest and cried aloud to Simois saying, “Dear brother, let the two of us unite to save this man, or he will sack the mighty city of King Priam, and the Trojans will not hold out against him. Help me at once; fill your streams with water from their sources, rouse all your torrents to a fury; raise your wave on high, and let snags and stones come thundering down you that we may make an end of this savage creature who is now lord- ing it as though he were a god. Nothing shall serve him longer, not strength nor comeliness, nor his fine armour, which forsooth shall soon be lying low in the deep waters covered over with mud. I will wrap him in sand, and pour tons of shingle round him, so that the Achaeans shall not know how to gather his bones for the silt in which I shall have hidden him, and when they celebrate his funeral they need build no barrow.”
On this he upraised his tumultuous flood high against Achilles, seething as it was with foam and blood and the bo&ies of the dead. The dark waters of the river stood upright and would have overwhelmed the son of Peleus, but Juno, trembling lest Achilles should be swept away in the mighty torrent, lifted her voice on high and called out to Vulcan her son. “Crook-foot,” she cried, “my child, be up and doing, for I deem it is with you that Xanthus is fain to fight; help us at once, kindle a fierce fire; I will then bring up the west and the white south wind in a mighty hurri- cane from the sea, that shall bear the flames against the heads and armour of the Trojans and consume them, while you go along the banks of Xanthus burning his trees and wrapping him round with fire. Let him not turn you back neither by fair words nor foul, and slacken not till I shout and tell you. Then you may stay your flames.”
On this Vulcan kindled a fierce fire, which broke out first upon the plain and burned the many dead whom Achilles had killed and whose bodies were lying about in great numbers; by this means the plain was dried and the flood stayed. As the north wind, blowing on an orchard that has been sodden with autumn rain, soon dries it,
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and the heart of the owner is glad—even so the whole plan was dried and the dead bodies were consumed. Then he turned tongues of fire on to the river. He burned the elms the willows and the tamarisks, the lotus also, with the rushes and marshy herbage that grew abundantly by the banks of the river. The eels and fishes that go darting about everywhere in the water, these, too, were sorely harassed by the flames that cunning Vulcan had kindled, and the river himself was scalded, so that he spoke saying, “Vulcan, there is no god can hold his own against you. I cannot fight you when you flare out your flames in this way; strive with me no longer. Let Achilles drive the Trojans out of city immediately. What have I to do with quarrelling and helping people?”
He was boiling as he spoke, and all his waters were seething. As a cauldron upon ‘a large fire boils when it is melting the lard of some fatted hog, and the lard keeps bubbling up all over when the dry faggots blaze under it— even so were the goodly waters of Xanthus heated with the fire till they were boiling. He could flow no longer but stayed his stream, so afflicted was he by the blasts of fire which cunning Vulcan had raised. Then he prayed to Juno and besought her saying, “Juno, why should your son vex my stream with such especial fury? I am not so much to blame as all the others are who have been helping the Trojans. I will leave off, since you so desire it, and let son leave off also. Furthermore I swear never again will I do anything to save the Trojans from destruction, not even when all Troy is burning in the flames which the Achaeans will kindle.”
As soon as Juno heard this she said to her son Vulcan, “Son Vulcan, hold now your flames; we ought not to use such violence against a god for the sake of mortals.”
When she had thus spoken Vulcan quenched his flames, and the river went back once more into his own fair bed.
Xanthus was now beaten, so these two left off fighting, for Juno stayed them though she was still angry; but a furious quarrel broke out among the other gods, for they were of divided counsels. They fell on one another with a mighty uproar—earth groaned, and the spacious firmament rang out as with a blare of trumpets. Jove heard as he was sitting on Olympus, and laughed for joy when he saw the gods coming to blows among themselves. They were not long about beginning, and Mars piercer of shields opened the battle. Sword in hand he sprang at once upon Minerva and reviled her. “Why, vixen,” said he, “have you again set the gods by the ears in the pride and haugh- tiness of your heart? Have you forgotten how you set Diomed son of Tydeus on to wound me, and yourself took visible spear and drove it into me to the hurt of my fair body? You shall now suffer for what you then did to me.”
As he spoke he struck her on the terrible tasselled aegis—so terrible that not even can Jove’s lightning pierce it. Here did murderous Mars strike her with his great spear. She drew back and with her strong hand seized a stone that was lying on the plain—great and rugged and black — which men of old had set for the boundary of a field. With this she struck Mars on the neck, and brought him down. Nine roods did he cover in his fall, and his hair was all soiled in the dust, while his armour rang rattling round him. But Minerva laughed and vaunted over him saying, “Idiot, have you not learned how far stronger I am than you, but you must still match yourself against me? Thus do your mother’s curses now roost upon you, for she is angry and would do you mischief because you have deserted the Achaeans and are helping the Trojans.”
She then turned her two piercing eyes elsewhere, whereon Jove’s daughter Venus took Mars by the hand and led him away groaning all the time, for it was only with great difficulty that he had come to himself again. When Queen Juno saw her, she said to Minerva, “Look, daughter of aegis-bearing Jove, unweariable, that vixen Venus is again taking Mars through the crowd out of the battle; go after her at once.”
Thus she spoke. Minerva sped after Venus with a will, and made at her, striking her on the bosom with her strong hand so that she fell fainting to the ground, and there they both lay stretched at full length. Then Minerva vaunted over her saying, “May all who help the Trojans against the Argives prove just as redoubtable and stalwart as Venus did when she came across me while she was helping Mars. Had this been so, we should long since have ended the war by sacking the strong city of Ilius.”
Juno smiled as she listened. Meanwhile King Neptune turned to Apollo saying, “Phoebus, why should we keep each other at arm’s length? it is not well, now that the others have begun fighting; it will be disgraceful to us if we return to Jove’s bronze-floored mansion on Olympus without having fought each other; therefore come on, you are the younger of the two, and I ought not to attack you, for I am older and have had more experience. Idiot, you have no sense, and forget how we two alone of all the gods fared hardly round about Ilius when we came from Jove’s house and worked for Laomedon a whole year at a stated wage and he gave us his orders. I built the Trojans the wall about their city, so wide and fair that it might be impregnable, while you, Phoebus, herded cattle for him in the dales of many valleyed Ida. When, however, the glad hours brought round the time of payment, mighty Laomedon robbed us of all our hire and sent us off with nothing but abuse. He threatened to bind us hand and foot and sell us over into some distant island. He tried, moreover, to cut off the ears of both of us, so we went away in a rage, furious about the payment he had promised us, and yet withheld; in spite of all this, you are now showing favour to his people, and will not join us in compassing the utter ruin of the proud Trojans with their wives and children.”
And King Apollo answered, “Lord of the earthquake, you would have no respect for me if I were to fight you
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about a pack of miserable mortals, who come out like leaves in summer and eat the fruit of the field, and presently fall lifeless to the ground. Let us stay this fighting at once and let them settle it among themselves.”
He turned away as he spoke, for he would lay no hand on the brother of his own father. But his sister the hunt- ress Diana, patroness of wild beasts, was very angry with him and said, “So you would fly, Far-Darter, and hand victory over to Neptune with a cheap vaunt to boot. Baby, why keep your bow thus idle? Never let me again hear you bragging in my father’s house, as you have often done in the presence of the immortals, that you would stand up and fight with Neptune.”
Apollo made her no answer, but Jove’s august queen was angry and upbraided her bitterly. “Bold vixen,” she cried, “how dare you cross me thus? For all your bow you will find it hard to hold your own against me. Jove made you as a lion among women, and lets you kill them whenever you choose. You will And it better to chase wild beasts and deer upon the mountains than to fight those who are stronger than you are. If you would try war, do so, and find out by pitting yourself against me, how far stronger I am than you are.”
She caught both Diana’s wrists with her left hand as she spoke, and with her right she took the bow from her shoulders, and laughed as she beat her with it about the ears while Diana wriggled and writhed under her blows. Her swift arrows were shed upon the ground, and she fled weeping from under Juno’s hand as a dove that flies before a falcon to the cleft of some hollow rock, when it is her good fortune to escape. Even so did she fly weeping away, leaving her bow and arrows behind her.
Then the slayer of Argus, guide and guardian, said to Leto, “Leto, I shall not fight you; it is ill to come to blows with any of Jove’s wives. Therefore boast as you will among the immortals that you worsted me in fair fight.”
Leto then gathered up Diana’s bow and arrows that had fallen about amid the whirling dust, and when she had got them she made all haste after her daughter. Diana had now reached Jove’s bronze-floored mansion on Olym- pus, and sat herself down with many tears on the knees of her father, while her ambrosial raiment was quivering all about her. The son of Saturn drew her towards him, and laughing pleasantly the while began to question her saying, “Which of the heavenly beings, my dear child, has been treating you in this cruel manner, as though you had been misconducting yourself in the face of everybody?” and the fair-crowned goddess of the chase answered, “It was your wife Juno, father, who has been beating me; it is always her doing when there is any quarrelling among the immortals.”
Thus did they converse, and meanwhile Phoebus Apollo entered the strong city of Ilius, for he was uneasy lest the wall should not hold out and the Danaans should take the city then and there, before its hour had come; but the rest of the ever-living gods went back, some angry and some triumphant to Olympus, where they took their seats beside Jove lord of the storm cloud, while Achilles still kept on dealing out death alike on the Trojans and on their As when the smoke from some burning city ascends to heaven when the anger of the gods has kindled it—there is then toil for all, and sorrow for not a few—even so did Achilles bring toil and sorrow on the Trojans.
Old King Priam stood on a high tower of the wall looking down on huge Achilles as the Trojans fled pan- ic-stricken before him, and there was none to help them. Presently he came down from off the tower and with many a groan went along the wall to give orders to the brave warders of the gate. “Keep the gates,” said he, “wide open till the people come flying into the city, for Achilles is hard by and is driving them in rout before him. I see we are in great peril. As soon as our people are inside and in safety, close the strong gates for I fear lest that terrible man should come bounding inside along with the others.”
As he spoke they drew back the bolts and opened the gates, and when these were opened there was a haven of refuge for the Trojans. Apollo then came full speed out of the city to meet them and protect them. Right for the city and the high wall, parched with thirst and grimy with dust, still they fied on, with Achilles wielding his spear furiously behind them. For he was as one possessed, and was thirsting after glory.
Then had the sons of the Achaeans taken the lofty gates of Troy if Apollo had not spurred on Agenor, valiant and noble son to Antenor. He put courage into his heart, and stood by his side to guard him, leaning against a beech tree and shrouded in thick darkness. When Agenor saw Achilles he stood still and his heart was clouded with care. “Alas,” said he to himself in his dismay, “if I fly before mighty Achilles, and go where all the others are being driven in rout, he will none the less catch me and kill me for a coward. How would it be were I to let Achilles drive the oth- ers before him, and then fly from the wall to the plain that is behind Ilius till I reach the spurs of Ida and can hide in the underwood that is thereon? I could then wash the sweat from off me in the river and in the evening return to Ilius. But why commune with myself in this way? Like enough he would see me as I am hurrying from the city over the plain, and would speed after me till he had caught me—I should stand no chance against him, for he is mighti- est of all mankind. What, then, if I go out and meet him in front of the city? His flesh too, I take it, can be pierced by pointed bronze. Life is the same in one and all, and men say that he is but mortal despite the triumph that Jove son of Saturn vouchsafes him.”
So saying he stood on his guard and awaited Achilles, for he was now fain to fight him. As a leopardess that bounds from out a thick covert to attack a hunter—she knows no fear and is not dismayed by the baying of the
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hounds; even though the man be too quick for her and wound her either with thrust or spear, still, though the spear has pierced her she will not give in till she has either caught him in her grip or been killed outright—even so did noble Agenor son of Antenor refuse to fly till he had made trial of Achilles, and took aim at him with his spear, holding his round shield before him and crying with a loud voice. “Of a truth,” said he, “noble Achilles, you deem that you shall this day sack the city of the proud Trojans. Fool, there will be trouble enough yet before it, for there is many a brave man of us still inside who will stand in front of our dear parents with our wives and children, to defend Ilius. Here therefore, huge and mighty warrior though you be, here shall you cue.
As he spoke his strong hand hurled his javelin from him, and the spear struck Achilles on the leg beneath the knee; the greave of newly wrought tin rang loudly, but the spear recoiled from the body of him whom it had struck, and did not pierce it, for the gods gift stayed it. Achilles in his turn attacked noble Agenor, but Apollo would not vouchsafe him glory, for he snatched Agenor away and hid him in a thick mist, sending him out of the battle unmo- lested Then he craftily drew the son of Peleus away from going after the host, for he put on the semblance of Agenor and stood in front of Achilles, who ran towards him to give him chase and pursued him over the corn lands of the plain, turning him towards the deep waters of the river Scamander. Apollo ran but a little way before him and be- guiled Achilles by making him think all the time that he was on the point of overtaking him. Meanwhile the rabble of routed Trojans was thankful to crowd within the city till their numbers thronged it; no longer did they dare wait for one another outside the city walls, to learn who had escaped and who were fallen in fight, but all whose feet and knees could still carry them poured pell-mell into the town.
Book XXII THUS the Trojans in the city, scared like fawns, wiped the sweat from off them and drank to quench their
thirst, leaning against the goodly battlements, while the Achaeans with their shields laid upon their shoulders drew close up to the walls. But stern fate bade Hector stay where he was before Ilius and the Scaean gates. Then Phoe- bus Apollo spoke to the son of Peleus saying, “Why, son of Peleus, do you, who are but man, give chase to me who am immortal? Have you not yet found out that it is a god whom you pursue so furiously? You did not harass the Trojans whom you had routed, and now they are within their walls, while you have been decoyed hither away from them. Me you cannot kill, for death can take no hold upon me.”
Achilles was greatly angered and said, “You have baulked me, Far-Darter, most malicious of all gods, and have drawn me away from the wall, where many another man would have bitten the dust ere he got within Ilius; you have robbed me of great glory and have saved the Trojans at no risk to yourself, for you have nothing to fear, but I would indeed have my revenge if it were in my power to do so.”
On this, with fell intent he made towards the city, and as the winning horse in a chariot race strains every nerve when he is flying over the plain, even so fast and furiously did the limbs of Achilles bear him onwards. King Pri- am was first to note him as he scoured the plain, all radiant as the star which men call Orion’s Hound, and whose beams blaze forth in time of harvest more brilliantly than those of any other that shines by night; brightest of them all though he be, he yet bodes ill for mortals, for he brings fire and fever in his train—even so did Achilles’ armour gleam on his breast as he sped onwards. Priam raised a cry and beat his head with his hands as he lifted them up and shouted out to his dear son, imploring him to return; but Hector still stayed before the gates, for his heart was set upon doing battle with Achilles. The old man reached out his arms towards him and bade him for pity’s sake come within the walls. “Hector,” he cried, “my son, stay not to face this man alone and unsupported, or you will meet death at the hands of the son of Peleus, for he is mightier than you. Monster that he is; would indeed that the gods loved him no better than I do, for so, dogs and vultures would soon devour him as he lay stretched on earth, and a load of grief would be lifted from my heart, for many a brave son has he reft from me, either by killing them or selling them away in the islands that are beyond the sea: even now I miss two sons from among the Trojans who have thronged within the city, Lycaon and Polydorus, whom Laothoe peeress among women bore me. Should they be still alive and in the hands of the Achaeans, we will ransom them with gold and bronze, of which we have store, for the old man Altes endowed his daughter richly; but if they are already dead and in the house of Hades, sorrow will it be to us two who were their parents; albeit the grief of others will be more short-lived unless you too perish at the hands of Achilles. Come, then, my son, within the city, to be the guardian of Trojan men and Trojan women, or you will both lose your own life and afford a mighty triumph to the son of Peleus. Have pity also on your un- happy father while life yet remains to him—on me, whom the son of Saturn will destroy by a terrible doom on the threshold of old age, after I have seen my sons slain and my daughters haled away as captives, my bridal chambers pillaged, little children dashed to earth amid the rage of battle, and my sons’ wives dragged away by the cruel hands of the Achaeans; in the end fierce hounds will tear me in pieces at my own gates after some one has beaten the life out of my body with sword or spear-hounds that I myself reared and fed at my own table to guard my gates, but who will yet lap my blood and then lie all distraught at my doors. When a young man falls by the sword in battle, he
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may lie where he is and there is nothing unseemly; let what will be seen, all is honourable in death, but when an old man is slain there is nothing in this world more pitiable than that dogs should defile his grey hair and beard and all that men hide for shame.”
The old man tore his grey hair as he spoke, but he moved not the heart of Hector. His mother hard by wept and moaned aloud as she bared her bosom and pointed to the breast which had suckled him. “Hector,” she cried, weeping bitterly the while, “Hector, my son, spurn not this breast, but have pity upon me too: if I have ever given you comfort from my own bosom, think on it now, dear son, and come within the wall to protect us from this man; stand not without to meet him. Should the wretch kill you, neither I nor your richly dowered wife shall ever weep, dear offshoot of myself, over the bed on which you lie, for dogs will devour you at the ships of the Achaeans.”
Thus did the two with many tears implore their son, but they moved not the heart of Hector, and he stood his ground awaiting huge Achilles as he drew nearer towards him. As serpent in its den upon the mountains, full fed with deadly poisons, waits for the approach of man—he is filled with fury and his eyes glare terribly as he goes writhing round his den—even so Hector leaned his shield against a tower that jutted out from the wall and stood where he was, undaunted.
“Alas,” said he to himself in the heaviness of his heart, “if I go within the gates, Polydamas will be the first to heap reproach upon me, for it was he that urged me to lead the Trojans back to the city on that awful night when Achilles again came forth against us. I would not listen, but it would have been indeed better if I had done so. Now that my folly has destroyed the host, I dare not look Trojan men and Trojan women in the face, lest a worse man should say, ‘Hector has ruined us by his self-confidence.’ Surely it would be better for me to return after having fought Achilles and slain him, or to die gloriously here before the city. What, again, if were to lay down my shield and helmet, lean my spear against the wall and go straight up to noble Achilles? What if I were to promise to give up Helen, who was the fountainhead of all this war, and all the treasure that Alexandrus brought with him in his ships to Troy, aye, and to let the Achaeans divide the half of everything that the city contains among themselves? I might make the Trojans, by the mouths of their princes, take a solemn oath that they would hide nothing, but would divide into two shares all that is within the city—but why argue with myself in this way? Were I to go up to him he would show me no kind of mercy; he would kill me then and there as easily as though I were a woman, when I had off my armour. There is no parleying with him from some rock or oak tree as young men and maidens prattle with one another. Better fight him at once, and learn to which of us Jove will vouchsafe victory.”
Thus did he stand and ponder, but Achilles came up to him as it were Mars himself, plumed lord of battle. From his right shoulder he brandished his terrible spear of Pelian ash, and the bronze gleamed around him like flashing fire or the rays of the rising sun. Fear fell upon Hector as he beheld him, and he dared not stay longer where he was but fled in dismay from before the gates, while Achilles darted after him at his utmost speed. As a mountain falcon, swiftest of all birds, swoops down upon some cowering dove—the dove flies before him but the falcon with a shrill scream follows close after, resolved to have her—even so did Achilles make straight for Hector with all his might, while Hector fled under the Trojan wall as fast as his limbs could take him.
On they flew along the waggon-road that ran hard by under the wall, past the lookout station, and past the weather-beaten wild fig-tree, till they came to two fair springs which feed the river Scamander. One of these two springs is warm, and steam rises from it as smoke from a burning fire, but the other even in summer is as cold as hail or snow, or the ice that forms on water. Here, hard by the springs, are the goodly washing-troughs of stone, where in the time of peace before the coming of the Achaeans the wives and fair daughters of the Trojans used to wash their clothes. Past these did they fly, the one in front and the other giving ha. behind him: good was the man that fled, but better far was he that followed after, and swiftly indeed did they run, for the prize was no mere beast for sacrifice or bullock’s hide, as it might be for a common foot-race, but they ran for the life of Hector. As horses in a chariot race speed round the turning-posts when they are running for some great prize—a tripod or woman—at the games in honour of some dead hero, so did these two run full speed three times round the city of Priam. All the gods watched them, and the sire of gods and men was the first to speak.
“Alas,” said he, “my eyes behold a man who is dear to me being pursued round the walls of Troy; my heart is full of pity for Hector, who has burned the thigh-bones of many a heifer in my honour, at one while on the of many-valleyed Ida, and again on the citadel of Troy; and now I see noble Achilles in full pursuit of him round the city of Priam. What say you? Consider among yourselves and decide whether we shall now save him or let him fall, valiant though he be, before Achilles, son of Peleus.”
Then Minerva said, “Father, wielder of the lightning, lord of cloud and storm, what mean you? Would you pluck this mortal whose doom has long been decreed out of the jaws of death? Do as you will, but we others shall not be of a mind with you.”
And Jove answered, “My child, Trito-born, take heart. I did not speak in full earnest, and I will let you have your way. Do without let or hindrance as you are minded.”
Thus did he urge Minerva who was already eager, and down she darted from the topmost summits of Olympus.
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Achilles was still in full pursuit of Hector, as a hound chasing a fawn which he has started from its covert on the mountains, and hunts through glade and thicket. The fawn may try to elude him by crouching under cover of a bush, but he will scent her out and follow her up until he gets her—even so there was no escape for Hector from the fleet son of Peleus. Whenever he made a set to get near the Dardanian gates and under the walls, that his people might help him by showering down weapons from above, Achilles would gain on him and head him back towards the plain, keeping himself always on the city side. As a man in a dream who fails to lay hands upon anoth- er whom he is pursuing—the one cannot escape nor the other overtake—even so neither could Achilles come up with Hector, nor Hector break away from Achilles; nevertheless he might even yet have escaped death had not the time come when Apollo, who thus far had sustained his strength and nerved his running, was now no longer to stay by him. Achilles made signs to the Achaean host, and shook his head to show that no man was to aim a dart at Hector, lest another might win the glory of having hit him and he might himself come in second. Then, at last, as they were nearing the fountains for the fourth time, the father of all balanced his golden scales and placed a doom in each of them, one for Achilles and the other for Hector. As he held the scales by the middle, the doom of Hector fell down deep into the house of Hades—and then Phoebus Apollo left him. Thereon Minerva went close up to the son of Peleus and said, “Noble Achilles, favoured of heaven, we two shall surely take back to the ships a triumph for the Achaeans by slaying Hector, for all his lust of battle. Do what Apollo may as he lies grovelling before his father, aegis-bearing Jove, Hector cannot escape us longer. Stay here and take breath, while I go up to him and persuade him to make a stand and fight you.”
Thus spoke Minerva. Achilles obeyed her gladly, and stood still, leaning on his bronze-pointed ashen spear, while Minerva left him and went after Hector in the form and with the voice of Deiphobus. She came close up to him and said, “Dear brother, I see you are hard pressed by Achilles who is chasing you at full speed round the city of Priam, let us await his onset and stand on our defence.”
And Hector answered, “Deiphobus, you have always been dearest to me of all my brothers, children of Hecuba and Priam, but henceforth I shall rate you yet more highly, inasmuch as you have ventured outside the wall for my sake when all the others remain inside.”
Then Minerva said, “Dear brother, my father and mother went down on their knees and implored me, as did all my comrades, to remain inside, so great a fear has fallen upon them all; but I was in an agony of grief when I beheld you; now, therefore, let us two make a stand and fight, and let there be no keeping our spears in reserve, that we may learn whether Achilles shall kill us and bear off our spoils to the ships, or whether he shall fall before you.”
Thus did Minerva inveigle him by her cunning, and when the two were now close to one another great Hector was first to speak. “I will-no longer fly you, son of Peleus,” said he, “as I have been doing hitherto. Three times have I fled round the mighty city of Priam, without daring to withstand you, but now, let me either slay or be slain, for I am in the mind to face you. Let us, then, give pledges to one another by our gods, who are the fittest witnesses and guardians of all covenants; let it be agreed between us that if Jove vouchsafes me the longer stay and I take your life, I am not to treat your dead body in any unseemly fashion, but when I have stripped you of your armour, I am to give up your body to the Achaeans. And do you likewise.”
Achilles glared at him and answered, “Fool, prate not to me about covenants. There can be no covenants between men and lions, wolves and lambs can never be of one mind, but hate each other out and out an through. Therefore there can be no understanding between you and me, nor may there be any covenants between us, till one or other shall fall and glut grim Mars with his life’s blood. Put forth all your strength; you have need now to prove yourself indeed a bold soldier and man of war. You have no more chance, and Pallas Minerva will forthwith van- quish you by my spear: you shall now pay me in full for the grief you have caused me on account of my comrades whom you have killed in battle.”
He poised his spear as he spoke and hurled it. Hector saw it coming and avoided it; he watched it and crouched down so that it flew over his head and stuck in the ground beyond; Minerva then snatched it up and gave it back to Achilles without Hector’s seeing her; Hector thereon said to the son of Peleus, “You have missed your aim, Achil- les, peer of the gods, and Jove has not yet revealed to you the hour of my doom, though you made sure that he had done so. You were a false-tongued liar when you deemed that I should forget my valour and quail before you. You shall not drive spear into the back of a runaway—drive it, should heaven so grant you power, drive it into me as I make straight towards you; and now for your own part avoid my spear if you can—would that you might receive the whole of it into your body; if you were once dead the Trojans would find the war an easier matter, for it is you who have harmed them most.”
He poised his spear as he spoke and hurled it. His aim was true for he hit the middle of Achilles’ shield, but the spear rebounded from it, and did not pierce it. Hector was angry when he saw that the weapon had sped from his hand in vain, and stood there in dismay for he had no second spear. With a loud cry he called Diphobus and asked him for one, but there was no man; then he saw the truth and said to himself, “Alas! the gods have lured me on to my destruction. I deemed that the hero Deiphobus was by my side, but he is within the wall, and Minerva has
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inveigled me; death is now indeed exceedingly near at hand and there is no way out of it—for so Jove and his son Apollo the far-darter have willed it, though heretofore they have been ever ready to protect me. My doom has come upon me; let me not then die ingloriously and without a struggle, but let me first do some great thing that shall be told among men hereafter.”
As he spoke he drew the keen blade that hung so great and strong by his side, and gathering himself together be sprang on Achilles like a soaring eagle which swoops down from the clouds on to some lamb or timid hare—even so did Hector brandish his sword and spring upon Achilles. Achilles mad with rage darted towards him, with his wondrous shield before his breast, and his gleaming helmet, made with four layers of metal, nodding fiercely for- ward. The thick tresses of gold wi which Vulcan had crested the helmet floated round it, and as the evening star that shines brighter than all others through the stillness of night, even such was the gleam of the spear which Achilles poised in his right hand, fraught with the death of noble Hector. He eyed his fair flesh over and over to see where he could best wound it, but all was protected by the goodly armour of which Hector had spoiled Patroclus after he had slain him, save only the throat where the collar-bones divide the neck from the shoulders, and this is a most deadly place: here then did Achilles strike him as he was coming on towards him, and the point of his spear went right through the fleshy part of the neck, but it did not sever his windpipe so that he could still speak. Hector fell headlong, and Achilles vaunted over him saying, “Hector, you deemed that you should come off scatheless when you were spoiling Patroclus, and recked not of myself who was not with him. Fool that you were: for I, his comrade, mightier far than he, was still left behind him at the ships, and now I have laid you low. The Achaeans shall give him all due funeral rites, while dogs and vultures shall work their will upon yourself.”
Then Hector said, as the life ebbed out of him, “I pray you by your life and knees, and by your parents, let not dogs devour me at the ships of the Achaeans, but accept the rich treasure of gold and bronze which my father and mother will offer you, and send my body home, that the Trojans and their wives may give me my dues of fire when I am dead.”
Achilles glared at him and answered, “Dog, talk not to me neither of knees nor parents; would that I could be as sure of being able to cut your flesh into pieces and eat it raw, for the ill have done me, as I am that nothing shall save you from the dogs—it shall not be, though they bring ten or twenty-fold ransom and weigh it out for me on the spot, with promise of yet more hereafter. Though Priam son of Dardanus should bid them offer me your weight in gold, even so your mother shall never lay you out and make lament over the son she bore, but dogs and vultures shall eat you utterly up.”
Hector with his dying breath then said, “I know you what you are, and was sure that I should not move you, for your heart is hard as iron; look to it that I bring not heaven’s anger upon you on the day when Paris and Phoebus Apollo, valiant though you be, shall slay you at the Scaean gates.”
When he had thus said the shrouds of death enfolded him, whereon his soul went out of him and flew down to the house of Hades, lamenting its sad fate that it should en’ youth and strength no longer. But Achilles said, speak- ing to the dead body, “Die; for my part I will accept my fate whensoever Jove and the other gods see fit to send it.”
As he spoke he drew his spear from the body and set it on one side; then he stripped the blood-stained armour from Hector’s shoulders while the other Achaeans came running up to view his wondrous strength and beauty; and no one came near him without giving him a fresh wound. Then would one turn to his neighbour and say, “It is eas- ier to handle Hector now than when he was flinging fire on to our ships” and as he spoke he would thrust his spear into him anew.
When Achilles had done spoiling Hector of his armour, he stood among the Argives and said, “My friends, princes and counsellors of the Argives, now that heaven has vouchsafed us to overcome this man, who has done us more hurt than all the others together, consider whether we should not attack the city in force, and discover in what mind the Trojans may be. We should thus learn whether they will desert their city now that Hector has fallen, or will still hold out even though he is no longer living. But why argue with myself in this way, while Patroclus is still lying at the ships unburied, and unmourned—he Whom I can never forget so long as I am alive and my strength fails not? Though men forget their dead when once they are within the house of Hades, yet not even there will I forget the comrade whom I have lost. Now, therefore, Achaean youths, let us raise the song of victory and go back to the ships taking this man along with us; for we have achieved a mighty triumph and have slain noble Hector to whom the Trojans prayed throughout their city as though he were a god.”
On this he treated the body of Hector with contumely: he pierced the sinews at the back of both his feet from heel to ancle and passed thongs of ox-hide through the slits he had made: thus he made the body fast to his chariot, letting the head trail upon the ground. Then when he had put the goodly armour on the chariot and had himself mounted, he lashed his horses on and they flew forward nothing loth. The dust rose from Hector as he was being dragged along, his dark hair flew all abroad, and his head once so comely was laid low on earth, for Jove had now delivered him into the hands of his foes to do him outrage in his own land.
Thus was the head of Hector being dishonoured in the dust. His mother tore her hair, and flung her veil from
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her with a loud cry as she looked upon her son. His father made piteous moan, and throughout the city the peo- ple fell to weeping and wailing. It was as though the whole of frowning Ilius was being smirched with fire. Hardly could the people hold Priam back in his hot haste to rush without the gates of the city. He grovelled in the mire and besought them, calling each one of them by his name. “Let be, my friends,” he cried, “and for all your sorrow, suffer me to go single-handed to the ships of the Achaeans. Let me beseech this cruel and terrible man, if maybe he will respect the feeling of his fellow-men, and have compassion on my old age. His own father is even such another as myself—Peleus, who bred him and reared him to—be the bane of us Trojans, and of myself more than of all others. Many a son of mine has he slain in the flower of his youth, and yet, grieve for these as I may, I do so for one—Hec- tor—more than for them all, and the bitterness of my sorrow will bring me down to the house of Hades. Would that he had died in my arms, for so both his ill-starred mother who bore him, and myself, should have had the comfort of weeping and mourning over him.”
Thus did he speak with many tears, and all the people of the city joined in his lament. Hecuba then raised the cry of wailing among the Trojans. “Alas, my son,” she cried, “what have I left to live for now that you are no more? Night and day did I glory in. you throughout the city, for you were a tower of strength to all in Troy, and both men and women alike hailed you as a god. So long as you lived you were their pride, but now death and destruction have fallen upon you.”
Hector’s wife had as yet heard nothing, for no one had come to tell her that her husband had remained without the gates. She was at her loom in an inner part of the house, weaving a double purple web, and embroidering it with many flowers. She told her maids to set a large tripod on the fire, so as to have a warm bath ready for Hector when he came out of battle; poor woman, she knew not that he was now beyond the reach of baths, and that Minerva had laid him low by the hands of Achilles. She heard the cry coming as from the wall, and trembled in every limb; the shuttle fell from her hands, and again she spoke to her waiting-women. “Two of you,” she said, “come with me that I may learn what it is that has befallen; I heard the voice of my husband’s honoured mother; my own heart beats as though it would come into my mouth and my limbs refuse to carry me; some great misfortune for Priam’s children must be at hand. May I never live to hear it, but I greatly fear that Achilles has cut off the retreat of brave Hector and has chased him on to the plain where he was singlehanded; I fear he may have put an end to the reckless daring which possessed my husband, who would never remain with the body of his men, but would dash on far in front, foremost of them all in valour.”
Her heart beat fast, and as she spoke she flew from the house like a maniac, with her waiting-women follow- ing after. When she reached the battlements and the crowd of people, she stood looking out upon the wall, and saw Hector being borne away in front of the city—the horses dragging him without heed or care over the ground towards the ships of the Achaeans. Her eyes were then shrouded as with the darkness of night and she fell fainting backwards. She tore the tiring from her head and flung it from her, the frontlet and net with its plaited band, and the veil which golden Venus had given her on the day when Hector took her with him from the house of Eetion, after having given countless gifts of wooing for her sake. Her husband’s sisters and the wives of his brothers crowd- ed round her and supported her, for she was fain to die in her distraction; when she again presently breathed and came to herself, she sobbed and made lament among the Trojans saying, ‘Woe is me, O Hector; woe, indeed, that to share a common lot we were born, you at Troy in the house of Priam, and I at Thebes under the wooded mountain of Placus in the house of Eetion who brought me up when I was a child—ill-starred sire of an ill-starred daughter— would that he had never begotten me. You are now going into the house of Hades under the secret places of the earth, and you leave me a sorrowing widow in your house. The child, of whom you and I are the unhappy parents, is as yet a mere infant. Now that you are gone, O Hector, you can do nothing for him nor he for you. Even though he escape the horrors of this woful war with the Achaeans, yet shall his life henceforth be one of labour and sorrow, for others will seize his lands. The day that robs a child of his parents severs him from his own kind; his head is bowed, his cheeks are wet with tears, and he will go about destitute among the friends of his father, plucking one by the cloak and another by the shirt. Some one or other of these may so far pity him as to hold the cup for a moment to- wards him and let him moisten his lips, but he must not drink enough to wet the roof of his mouth; then one whose parents are alive will drive him from the table with blows and angry words. ‘Out with you,’ he will say, ‘you have no father here,’ and the child will go crying back to his widowed mother—he, Astyanax, who erewhile would sit upon his father’s knees, and have none but the daintiest and choicest morsels set before him. When he had played till he was tired and went to sleep, he would lie in a bed, in the arms of his nurse, on a soft couch, knowing neither want nor care, whereas now that he has lost his father his lot will be full of hardship—he, whom the Trojans name Astya- nax, because you, O Hector, were the only defence of their gates and battlements. The wriggling writhing worms will now eat you at the ships, far from your parents, when the dogs have glutted themselves upon you. You will lie naked, although in your house you have fine and goodly raiment made by hands of women. This will I now burn; it is of no use to you, for you can never again wear it, and thus you will have respect shown you by the Trojans both men and women.”
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In such wise did she cry aloud amid her tears, and the women joined in her lament.
Book XXIII THUS did they make their moan throughout the city, while the Achaeans when they reached the Hellespont
went back every man to his own ship. But Achilles would not let the Myrmidons go, and spoke to his brave com- rades saying, “Myrmidons, famed horsemen and my own trusted friends, not yet, forsooth, let us unyoke, but with horse and chariot draw near to the body and mourn Patroclus, in due honour to the dead. When we have had full comfort of lamentation we will unyoke our horses and take supper all of us here.”
On this they all joined in a cry of wailing and Achilles led them in their lament. Thrice did they drive their chariots all sorrowing round the body, and Thetis stirred within them a still deeper yearning. The sands of the seashore and the men’s armour were wet with their weeping, so great a minister of fear was he whom they had lost. Chief in all their mourning was the son of Peleus: he laid his bloodstained hand on the breast of his friend. “Fare well,” he cried, “Patroclus, even in the house of Hades. I will now do all that I erewhile promised you; I will drag Hector hither and let dogs devour him raw; twelve noble sons of Trojans will I also slay before your pyre to avenge you.”
As he spoke he treated the body of noble Hector with contumely, laying it at full length in the dust beside the bier of Patroclus. The others then put off every man his armour, took the horses from their chariots, and seated themselves in great multitude by the ship of the fleet descendant of Aeacus, who thereon feasted them with an abundant funeral banquet. Many a goodly ox, with many a sheep and bleating goat did they butcher and cut up; many a tusked boar moreover, fat and well-fed, did they singe and set to roast in the flames of Vulcan; and rivulets of blood flowed all round the place where the body was lying.
Then the princes of the Achaeans took the son of Peleus to Agamemnon, but hardly could they persuade him to come with them, so wroth was he for the death of his comrade. As soon as they reached Agamemnon’s tent they told the serving-men to set a large tripod over the fire in case they might persuade the son of Peleus ‘to wash the clotted gore from this body, but he denied them sternly, and swore it with a solemn oath, saying, “Nay, by King Jove, first and mightiest of all gods, it is not meet that water should touch my body, till I have laid Patroclus on the flames, have built him a barrow, and shaved my head—for so long as I live no such second sorrow shall ever draw nigh me. Now, therefore, let us do all that this sad festival demands, but at break of day, King Agamemnon, bid your men bring wood, and provide all else that the dead may duly take into the realm of darkness; the fire shall thus burn him out of our sight the sooner, and the people shall turn again to their own labours.”
Thus did he speak, and they did even as he had said. They made haste to prepare the meal, they ate, and every man had his full share so that all were satisfied. As soon as they had had had enough to eat and drink, the others went to their rest each in his own tent, but the son of Peleus lay grieving among his Myrmidons by the shore of the sounding sea, in an open place where the waves came surging in one after another. Here a very deep slumber took hold upon him and eased the burden of his sorrows, for his limbs were weary with chasing Hector round windy Ilius. Presently the sad spirit of Patroclus drew near him, like what he had been in stature, voice, and the light of his beaming eyes, clad, too, as he had been clad in life. The spirit hovered over his head and said—
“You sleep, Achilles, and have forgotten me; you loved me living, but now that I am dead you think for me no further. Bury me with all speed that I may pass the gates of Hades; the ghosts, vain shadows of men that can labour no more, drive me away from them; they will not yet suffer me to join those that are beyond the river, and I wander all desolate by the wide gates of the house of Hades. Give me now your hand I pray you, for when you have once given me my dues of fire, never shall I again come forth out of the house of Hades. Nevermore shall we sit apart and take sweet counsel among the living; the cruel fate which was my birth-right has yawned its wide jaws around me— nay, you too Achilles, peer of gods, are doomed to die beneath the wall of the noble Trojans.
“One prayer more will I make you, if you will grant it; let not my bones be laid apart from yours, Achilles, but with them; even as we were brought up together in your own home, what time Menoetius brought me to you as a child from Opoeis because by a sad spite I had killed the son of Amphidamas—not of set purpose, but in childish quarrel over the dice. The knight Peleus took me into his house, entreated me kindly, and named me to be your squire; therefore let our bones lie in but a single urn, the two-handled golden vase given to you by your mother.”
And Achilles answered, “Why, true heart, are you come hither to lay these charges upon me? will of my own self do all as you have bidden me. Draw closer to me, let us once more throw our arms around one another, and find sad comfort in the sharing of our sorrows.”
He opened his arms towards him as he spoke and would have clasped him in them, but there was nothing, and the spirit vanished as a vapour, gibbering and whining into the earth. Achilles sprang to his feet, smote his two hands, and made lamentation saying, “Of a truth even in the house of Hades there are ghosts and phantoms that have no life in them; all night long the sad spirit of Patroclus has hovered over head making piteous moan, telling
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me what I am to do for him, and looking wondrously like himself.” Thus did he speak and his words set them all weeping and mourning about the poor dumb dead, till rosy-fin-
gered morn appeared. Then King Agamemnon sent men and mules from all parts of the camp, to bring wood, and Meriones, squire to Idomeneus, was in charge over them. They went out with woodmen’s axes and strong ropes in their hands, and before them went the mules. Up hill and down dale did they go, by straight ways and crooked, and when they reached the heights of many-fountained Ida, they laid their axes to the roots of many a tall branching oak that came thundering down as they felled it. They split the trees and bound them behind the mules, which then wended their way as they best could through the thick brushwood on to the plain. All who had been cutting wood bore logs, for so Meriones squire to Idomeneus had bidden them, and they threw them down in a line upon the seashore at the place where Achilles would make a mighty monument for Patroclus and for himself.
When they had thrown down their great logs of wood over the whole ground, they stayed all of them where they were, but Achilles ordered his brave Myrmidons to gird on their armour, and to yoke each man his horses; they therefore rose, girded on their armour and mounted each his chariot—they and their charioteers with them. The chariots went before, and they that were on foot followed as a cloud in their tens of thousands after. In the midst of them his comrades bore Patroclus and covered him with the locks of their hair which they cut off and threw upon his body. Last came Achilles with his head bowed for sorrow, so noble a comrade was he taking to the house of Hades.
When they came to the place of which Achilles had told them they laid the body down and built up the wood. Achilles then bethought him of another matter. He went a space away from the pyre, and cut off the yellow lock which he had let grow for the river Spercheius. He looked all sorrowfully out upon the dark sea, and said, “Sper- cheius, in vain did my father Peleus vow to you that when I returned home to my loved native land I should cut off this lock and offer you a holy hecatomb; fifty she-goats was I to sacrifice to you there at your springs, where is your grove and your altar fragrant with burnt-offerings. Thus did my father vow, but you have not fulfilled his prayer; now, therefore, that I shall see my home no more, I give this lock as a keepsake to the hero Patroclus.”
As he spoke he placed the lock in the hands of his dear comrade, and all who stood by were filled with yearning and lamentation. The sun would have gone down upon their mourning had not Achilles presently said to Agamem- non, “Son of Atreus, for it is to you that the people will give ear, there is a time to mourn and a time to cease from mourning; bid the people now leave the pyre and set about getting their dinners: we, to whom the dead is dearest, will see to what is wanted here, and let the other princes also stay by me.”
When King Agamemnon heard this he dismissed the people to their ships, but those who were about the dead heaped up wood and built a pyre a hundred feet this way and that; then they laid the dead all sorrowfully upon the top of it. They flayed and dressed many fat sheep and oxen before the pyre, and Achilles took fat from all of them and wrapped the body therein from head to foot, heaping the flayed carcases all round it. Against the bier he leaned two-handled jars of honey and unguents; four proud horses did he then cast upon the pyre, groaning the while he did so. The dead hero had had house-dogs; two of them did Achilles slay and threw upon the pyre; he also put twelve brave sons of noble Trojans to the sword and laid them with the rest, for he was full of bitterness and fury. Then he committed all to the resistless and devouring might of the fire; he groaned aloud and callid on his dead comrade by name. “Fare well,” he cried, “Patroclus, even in the house of Hades; I am now doing all that I have promised you. Twelve brave sons of noble Trojans shall the flames consume along with yourself, but dogs, not fire, shall devour the flesh of Hector son of Priam.”
Thus did he vaunt, but the dogs came not about the body of Hector, for Jove’s daughter Venus kept them off him night and day, and anointed him with ambrosial oil of roses that his flesh might not be torn when Achilles was dragging him about. Phoebus Apollo moreover sent a dark cloud from heaven to earth, which gave shade to the whole place where Hector lay, that the heat of the sun might not parch his body.
Now the pyre about dead Patroclus would not kindle. Achilles therefore bethought him of another matter; he went apart and prayed to the two winds Boreas and Zephyrus vowing them goodly offerings. He made them many drink-offerings from the golden cup and besought them to come and help him that the wood might make haste to kindle and the dead bodies be consumed. Fleet Iris heard him praying and started off to fetch the winds. They were holding high feast in the house of boisterous Zephyrus when Iris came running up to the stone threshold of the house and stood there, but as soon as they set eyes on her they all came towards her and each of them called her to him, but Iris would not sit down. “I cannot stay,” she said, “I must go back to the streams of Oceanus and the land of the Ethiopians who are offering hecatombs to the immortals, and I would have my share; but Achilles prays that Boreas and shrill Zephyrus will come to him, and he vows them goodly offerings; he would have you blow upon the pyre of Patroclus for whom all the Achaeans are lamenting.”
With this she left them, and the two winds rose with a cry that rent the air and swept the clouds before them. They blew on and on until they came to the sea, and the waves rose high beneath them, but when they reached Troy they fell upon the pyre till the mighty flames roared under the blast that they blew. All night long did they blow
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hard and beat upon the fire, and all night long did Achilles grasp his double cup, drawing wine from a mixing-bowl of gold, and calling upon the spirit of dead Patroclus as he poured it upon the ground until the earth was drenched. As a father mourns when he is burning the bones of his bridegroom son whose death has wrung the hearts of his parents, even so did Achilles mourn while burning the body of his comrade, pacing round the bier with piteous groaning and lamentation.
At length as the Morning Star was beginning to herald the light which saffron-mantled Dawn was soon to suffuse over the sea, the flames fell and the fire began to die. The winds then went home beyond the Thracian sea, which roared and boiled as they swept over it. The son of Peleus now turned away from the pyre and lay down, overcome with toil, till he fell into a sweet slumber. Presently they who were about the son of Atreus drew near in a body, and roused him with the noise and tramp of their coming. He sat upright and said, “Son of Atreus, and all other princes of the Achaeans, first pour red wine everywhere upon the fire and quench it; let us then gather the bones of Patroclus son of Menoetius, singling them out with care; they are easily found, for they lie in the middle of the pyre, while all else, both men and horses, has been thrown in a heap and burned at the outer edge. We will lay the bones in a golden urn, in two layers of fat, against the time when I shall myself go down into the house of Ha- des. As for the barrow, labour not to raise a great one now, but such as is reasonable. Afterwards, let those Achaeans who may be left at the ships when I am gone, build it both broad and high.”
Thus he spoke and they obeyed the word of the son of Peleus. First they poured red wine upon the thick layer of ashes and quenched the fire. With many tears they singled out the whitened bones of their loved comrade and laid them within a golden urn in two layers of fat: they then covered the urn with a linen cloth and took it inside the tent. They marked off the circle where the barrow should be, made a foundation for it about the pyre, and forthwith heaped up the earth. When they had thus raised a mound they were going away, but Achilles stayed the people and made them sit in assembly. He brought prizes from the ships-cauldrons, tripods, horses and mules, noble oxen, women with fair girdles, and swart iron.
The first prize he offered was for the chariot races—a woman skilled in all useful arts, and a three-legged caul- dron that had ears for handles, and would hold twenty-two measures. This was for the man who came in first. For the second there was a six-year old mare, unbroken, and in foal to a he-ass; the third was to have a goodly cauldron that had never yet been on the fire; it was still bright as when it left the maker, and would hold four measures. The fourth prize was two talents of gold, and the fifth a two-handled urn as yet unsoiled by smoke. Then he stood up and spoke among the Argives saying—
“Son of Atreus, and all other Achaeans, these are the prizes that lie waiting the winners of the chariot races. At any other time I should carry off the first prize and take it to my own tent; you know how far my steeds excel all others—for they are immortal; Neptune gave them to my father Peleus, who in his turn gave them to myself; but I shall hold aloof, I and my steeds that have lost their brave and kind driver, who many a time has washed them in clear water and anointed their manes with oil. See how they stand weeping here, with their manes trailing on the ground in the extremity of their sorrow. But do you others set yourselves in order throughout the host, whosoever has confidence in his horses and in the strength of his chariot.”
Thus spoke the son of Peleus and the drivers of chariots bestirred themselves. First among them all uprose Eumelus, king of men, son of Admetus, a man excellent in horsemanship. Next to him rose mighty Diomed son of Tydeus; he yoked the Trojan horses which he had taken from Aeneas, when Apollo bore him out of the fight. Next to him, yellow-haired Menelaus son of Atreus rose and yoked his fleet horses, Agamemnon’s mare Aethe, and his own horse Podargus. The mare had been given to Agamemnon by echepolus son of Anchises, that he might not have to follow him to Ilius, but might stay at home and take his ease; for Jove had endowed him with great wealth and he lived in spacious Sicyon. This mare, all eager for the race, did Menelaus put under the yoke.
Fourth in order Antilochus, son to noble Nestor son of Neleus, made ready his horses. These were bred in Pylos, and his father came up to him to give him good advice of which, however, he stood in but little need. “An- tilochus,” said Nestor, “you are young, but Jove and Neptune have loved you well, and have made you an excellent horseman. I need not therefore say much by way of instruction. You are skilful at wheeling your horses round the post, but the horses themselves are very slow, and it is this that will, I fear, mar your chances. The other drivers know less than you do, but their horses are fleeter; therefore, my dear son, see if you cannot hit upon some artifice whereby you may insure that the prize shall not slip through your fingers. The woodman does more by skill than by brute force; by skill the pilot guides his storm-tossed barque over the sea, and so by skill one driver can beat anoth- er. If a man go wide in rounding this way and that, whereas a man who knows what he is doing may have worse horses, but he will keep them well in hand when he sees the doubling-post; he knows the precise moment at which to pull the rein, and keeps his eye well on the man in front of him. I will give you this certain token which cannot escape your notice. There is a stump of a dead tree-oak or pine as it may be—some six feet above the ground, and not yet rotted away by rain; it stands at the fork of the road; it has two white stones set one on each side, and there is a clear course all round it. It may have been a monument to some one long since dead, or it may have been used as a
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doubling-post in days gone by; now, however, it has been fixed on by Achilles as the mark round which the chari- ots shall turn; hug it as close as you can, but as you stand in your chariot lean over a little to the left; urge on your right-hand horse with voice and lash, and give him a loose rein, but let the left-hand horse keep so close in, that the nave of your wheel shall almost graze the post; but mind the stone, or you will wound your horses and break your chariot in pieces, which would be sport for others but confusion for yourself. Therefore, my dear son, mind well what you are about, for if you can be first to round the post there is no chance of any one giving you the goby later, not even though you had Adrestus’s horse Arion behind you horse which is of divine race—or those of Laomedon, which are the noblest in this country.”
When Nestor had made an end of counselling his son he sat down in his place, and fifth in order Meriones got ready his horses. They then all mounted their chariots and cast lots.—Achilles shook the helmet, and the lot of An- tilochus son of Nestor fell out first; next came that of King Eumelus, and after his, those of Menelaus son of Atreus and of Meriones. The last place fell to the lot of Diomed son of Tydeus, who was the best man of them all. They took their places in line; Achilles showed them the doubling-post round which they were to turn, some way off upon the plain; here he stationed his father’s follower Phoenix as umpire, to note the running, and report truly.
At the same instant they all of them lashed their horses, struck them with the reins, and shouted at them with all their might. They flew full speed over the plain away from the ships, the dust rose from under them as it were a cloud or whirlwind, and their manes were all flying in the wind. At one moment the chariots seemed to touch the ground, and then again they bounded into the air; the drivers stood erect, and their hearts beat fast and furious in their lust of victory. Each kept calling on his horses, and the horses scoured the plain amid the clouds of dust that they raised.
It was when they were doing the last part of the course on their way back towards the sea that their pace was strained to the utmost and it was seen what each could do. The horses of the descendant of Pheres now took the lead, and close behind them came the Trojan stallions of Diomed. They seemed as if about to mount Eumelus’s chariot, and he could feel their warm breath on his back and on his broad shoulders, for their heads were close to him as they flew over the course. Diomed would have now passed him, or there would have been a dead heat, but Phoebus Apollo to spite him made him drop his whip. Tears of anger fell from his eyes as he saw the mares going on faster than ever, while his own horses lost ground through his having no whip. Minerva saw the trick which Apollo had played the son of Tydeus, so she brought him his whip and put spirit into his horses; moreover she went after the son of Admetus in a rage and broke his yoke for him; the mares went one to one side the course, and the other to the other, and the pole was broken against the ground. Eumelus was thrown from his chariot close to the wheel; his elbows, mouth, and nostrils were all torn, and his forehead was bruised above his eyebrows; his eyes filled with tears and he could find no utterance. But the son of Tydeus turned his horses aside and shot far ahead, for Minerva put fresh strength into them and covered Diomed himself with glory.
Menelaus son of Atreus came next behind him, but Antilochus called to his father’s horses. “On with you both,” he cried, “and do your very utmost. I do not bid you try to beat the steeds of the son of Tydeus, for Minerva has put running into them, and has covered Diomed with glory; but you must overtake the horses of the son of Atreus and not be left behind, or Aethe who is so fleet will taunt you. Why, my good fellows, are you lagging? I tell you, and it shall surely be—Nestor will keep neither of you, but will put both of you to the sword, if we win any the worse a prize through your carelessness, fly after them at your utmost speed; I will hit on a plan for passing them in a nar- row part of the way, and it shall not fail me.”
They feared the rebuke of their master, and for a short space went quicker. Presently Antilochus saw a narrow place where the road had sunk. The ground was broken, for the winter’s rain had gathered and had worn the road so that the whole place was deepened. Menelaus was making towards it so as to get there first, for fear of a foul, but Antilochus turned his horses out of the way, and followed him a little on one side. The son of Atreus was afraid and shouted out, “Antilochus, you are driving recklessly; rein in your horses; the road is too narrow here, it will be wider soon, and you can pass me then; if you foul my chariot you may bring both of us to a mischief.”
But Antilochus plied his whip, and drove faster, as though he had not heard him. They went side by side for about as far as a young man can hurl a disc from his shoulder when he is trying his strength, and then Menelaus’s mares drew behind, for he left off driving for fear the horses should foul one another and upset the chariots; thus, while pressing on in quest of victory, they might both come headlong to the ground. Menelaus then upbraided An- tilochus and said, “There is no greater trickster living than you are; go, and bad luck go with you; the Achaeans say not well that you have understanding, and come what may you shall not bear away the prize without sworn protest on my part.”
Then he called on his horses and said to them, “Keep your pace, and slacken not; the limbs of the other horses will weary sooner than yours, for they are neither of them young.”
The horses feared the rebuke of their master, and went faster, so that they were soon nearly up with the others. Meanwhile the Achaeans from their seats were watching how the horses went, as they scoured the plain amid
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clouds of their own dust. Idomeneus captain of the Cretans was first to make out the running, for he was not in the thick of the crowd, but stood on the most commanding part of the ground. The driver was a long way off, but Idomeneus could hear him shouting, and could see the foremost horse quite plainly—a chestnut with a round white star, like the moon, on its forehead. He stood up and said among the Argives, “My friends, princes and counsellors of the Argives, can you see the running as well as I can? There seems to be another pair in front now, and another driver; those that led off at the start must have been disabled out on the plain. I saw them at first making their way round the doubling-post, but now, though I search the plain of Troy, I cannot find them. Perhaps the reins fell from the driver’s hand so that he lost command of his horses at the doubling-post, and could not turn it. I suppose he must have been thrown out there, and broken his chariot, while his mares have left the course and gone off wildly in a panic. Come up and see for yourselves, I cannot make out for certain, but the driver seems an Aetolian by descent, ruler over the Argives, brave Diomed the son of Tydeus.”
Ajax the son of Oileus took him up rudely and said, “Idomeneus, why should you be in such a hurry to tell us all about it, when the mares are still so far out upon the plain? You are none of the youngest, nor your eyes none of the sharpest, but you are always laying down the law. You have no right to do so, for there are better men here than you are. Eumelus’s horses are in front now, as they always have been, and he is on the chariot holding the reins.”
The captain of the Cretans was angry, and answered, “Ajax you are an excellent railer, but you have no judge- ment, and are wanting in much else as well, for you have a vile temper. I will wager you a tripod or cauldron, and Agamemnon son of Atreus shall decide whose horses are first. You will then know to your cost.”
Ajax son of Oileus was for making him an angry answer, and there would have been yet further brawling between them, had not Achilles risen in his place and said, “Cease your railing Ajax and Idomeneus; it is not you would be scandalised if you saw any one else do the like: sit down and keep your eyes on the horses; they are speed- ing towards the winning-post and will be bere directly. You will then both of you know whose horses are first, and whose come after.”
As he was speaking, the son of Tydeus came driving in, plying his whip lustily from his shoulder, and his horses stepping high as they flew over the course. The sand and grit rained thick on the driver, and the chariot inlaid with gold and tin ran close behind his fleet horses. There was little trace of wheel-marks in the fine dust, and the horses came flying in at their utmost speed. Diomed stayed them in the middle of the crowd, and the sweat from their manes and chests fell in streams on to the ground. Forthwith he sprang from his goodly chariot, and leaned his whip against his horses’ yoke; brave Sthenelus now lost no time, but at once brought on the prize, and gave the woman and the ear-handled cauldron to his comrades to take away. Then he unyoked the horses.
Next after him came in Antilochus of the race of Neleus, who had passed Menelaus by a trick and not by the fleetness of his horses; but even so Menelaus came in as close behind him as the wheel is to the horse that draws both the chariot and its master. The end hairs of a horse’s tail touch the tyre of the wheel, and there is never much space between wheel and horse when the chariot is going; Menelaus was no further than this behind Antilochus, though at first he had been a full disc’s throw behind him. He had soon caught him up again, for Agamemnon’s mare Aethe kept pulling stronger and stronger, so that if the course had been longer he would have passed him, and there would not even have been a dead heat. Idomeneus’s brave squire Meriones was about a spear’s cast behind Menelaus. His horses were slowest of all, and he was the worst driver. Last of them all came the son of Admetus, dragging his chariot and driving his horses on in front. When Achilles saw him he was sorry, and stood up among the Argives saying, “The best man is coming in last. Let us give him a prize for it is reasonable. He shall have the second, but the first must go to the son of Tydeus.”
Thus did he speak and the others all of them applauded his saying, and were for doing as he had said, but Nestor’s son Antilochus stood up and claimed his rights from the son of Peleus. “Achilles,” said he, “I shall take it much amiss if you do this thing; you would rob me of my prize, because you think Eumelus’s chariot and horses were thrown out, and himself too, good man that he is. He should have prayed duly to the immortals; he would not have come in fast if he had done so. If you are sorry for him and so choose, you have much gold in your tents, with bronze, sheep, cattle and horses. Take something from this store if you would have the Achaeans speak well of you, and give him a better prize even than that which you have now offered; but I will not give up the mare, and he that will fight me for her, let him come on.”
Achilles smiled as he heard this, and was pleased with Antilochus, who was one of his dearest comrades. So he said—
“Antilochus, if you would have me find Eumelus another prize, I will give him the bronze breastplate with a rim of tin running all round it which I took from Asteropaeus. It will be worth much money to him.”
He bade his comrade Automedon bring the breastplate from his tent, and he did so. Achilles then gave it over to Eumelus, who received it gladly.
But Menelaus got up in a rage, furiously angry with Antilochus. An attendant placed his staff in his hands and bade the Argives keep silence: the hero then addressed them. “Antilochus,” said he, “what is this from you who have
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been so far blameless? You have made me cut a poor figure and baulked my horses by flinging your own in front of them, though yours are much worse than mine are; therefore, O princes and counsellors of the Argives, judge between us and show no favour, lest one of the Achaeans say, ‘Menelaus has got the mare through lying and corrup- tion; his horses were far inferior to Antilochus’s, but he has greater weight and influence.’ Nay, I will determine the matter myself, and no man will blame me, for I shall do what is just. Come here, Antilochus, and stand, as our cus- tom is, whip in hand before your chariot and horses; lay your hand on your steeds, and swear by earth-encircling Neptune that you did not purposely and guilefully get in the way of my horses.”
And Antilochus answered, “Forgive me; I am much younger, King Menelaus, than you are; you stand higher than I do and are the better man of the two; you know how easily young men are betrayed into indiscretion; their tempers are more hasty and they have less judgement; make due allowances therefore, and bear with me; I will of my own accord give up the mare that I have won, and if you claim any further chattel from my own possessions, I would rather yield it to you, at once, than fall from your good graces henceforth, and do wrong in the sight of heaven.”
The son of Nestor then took the mare and gave her over to Menelaus, whose anger was thus appeased; as when dew falls upon a field of ripening corn, and the lands are bristling with the harvest—even so, O Menelaus, was your heart made glad within you. He turned to Antilochus and said, “Now, Antilochus, angry though I have been, I can give way to you of my own free will; you have never been headstrong nor ill-disposed hitherto, but this time your youth has got the better of your judgement; be careful how you outwit your betters in future; no one else could have brought me round so easily, but your good father, your brother, and yourself have all of you had infinite trouble on my behalf; I therefore yield to your entreaty, and will give up the mare to you, mine though it indeed be; the people will thus see that I am neither harsh nor vindictive.”
With this he gave the mare over to Antilochus’s comrade Noemon, and then took the cauldron. Meriones, who had come in fourth, carried off the two talents of gold, and the fifth prize, the two-handled urn, being unawarded, Achilles gave it to Nestor, going up to him among the assembled Argives and saying, “Take this, my good old friend, as an heirloom and memorial of the funeral of Patroclus—for you shall see him no more among the Argives. I give you this prize though you cannot win one; you can now neither wrestle nor fight, and cannot enter for the jave- lin-match nor foot-races, for the hand of age has been laid heavily upon you.”
So saying he gave the urn over to Nestor, who received it gladly and answered, “My son, all that you have said is true; there is no strength now in my legs and feet, nor can I hit out with my hands from either shoulder. Would that I were still young and strong as when the Epeans were burying King Amarynceus in Buprasium, and his sons of- fered prizes in his honour. There was then none that could vie with me neither of the Epeans nor the Pylians them- selves nor the Aetolians. In boxing I overcame Clytomedes son of Enops, and in wrestling, Ancaeus of Pleuron who had come forward against me. Iphiclus was a good runner, but I beat him, and threw farther with my spear than either Phyleus or Polydorus. In chariot-racing alone did the two sons of Actor surpass me by crowding their horses in front of me, for they were angry at the way victory had gone, and at the greater part of the prizes remaining in the place in which they had been offered. They were twins, and the one kept on holding the reins, and holding the reins, while the other plied the whip. Such was I then, but now I must leave these matters to younger men; I must bow before the weight of years, but in those days I was eminent among heroes. And now, sir, go on with the funeral contests in honour of your comrade: gladly do I accept this urn, and my heart rejoices that you do not forget me but are ever mindful of my goodwill towards you, and of the respect due to me from the Achaeans. For all which may the grace of heaven be vouchsafed you in great abundance.”
Thereon the son of Peleus, when he had listened to all the thanks of Nestor, went about among the concourse of the Achaeans, and presently offered prizes for skill in the painful art of boxing. He brought out a strong mule, and made it fast in the middle of the crowd—a she-mule never yet broken, but six years old—when it is hardest of all to break them: this was for the victor, and for the vanquished he offered a double cup. Then he stood up and said among the Argives, “Son of Atreus, and all other Achaeans, I invite our two champion boxers to lay about them lustily and compete for these prizes. He to whom Apollo vouchsafes the greater endurance, and whom the Achae- ans acknowledge as victor, shall take the mule back with him to his own tent, while he that is vanquished shall have the double cup.”
As he spoke there stood up a champion both brave and great stature, a skilful boxer, Epeus, son of Panopeus. He laid his hand on the mule and said, “Let the man who is to have the cup come hither, for none but myself will take the mule. I am the best boxer of all here present, and none can beat me. Is it not enough that I should fall short of you in actual fighting? Still, no man can be good at everything. I tell you plainly, and it shall come true; if any man will box with me I will bruise his body and break his bones; therefore let his friends stay here in a body and be at hand to take him away when I have done with him.”
They all held their peace, and no man rose save Euryalus son of Mecisteus, who was son of Talaus. Mecisteus went once to Thebes after the fall of Oedipus, to attend his funeral, and he beat all the people of Cadmus. The son
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of Tydeus was Euryalus’s second, cheering him on and hoping heartily that he would win. First he put a waist- band round him and then he gave him some well-cut thongs of ox-hide; the two men being now girt went into the middle of the ring, and immediately fell to; heavily indeed did they punish one another and lay about them with their brawny fists. One could hear the horrid crashing of their jaws, and they sweated from every pore of their skin. Presently Epeus came on and gave Euryalus a blow on the jaw as he was looking round; Euryalus could not keep his legs; they gave way under him in a moment and he sprang up with a bound, as a fish leaps into the air near some shore that is all bestrewn with sea-wrack, when Boreas furs the top of the waves, and then falls back into deep water. But noble Epeus caught hold of him and raised him up; his comrades also came round him and led him from the ring, unsteady in his gait, his head hanging on one side, and spitting great clots of gore. They set him down in a swoon and then went to fetch the double cup.
The son of Peleus now brought out the prizes for the third contest and showed them to the Argives. These were for the painful art of wrestling. For the winner there was a great tripod ready for setting upon the fire, and the Achaeans valued it among themselves at twelve oxen. For the loser he brought out a woman skilled in all manner of arts, and they valued her at four oxen. He rose and said among the Argives, “Stand forward, you who will essay this contest.”
Forthwith uprose great Ajax the son of Telamon, and crafty Ulysses, full of wiles rose also. The two girded themselves and went into the middle of the ring. They gripped each other in their strong hands like the rafters which some master-builder frames for the roof of a high house to keep the wind out. Their backbones cracked as they tugged at one another with their mighty arms—and sweat rained from them in torrents. Many a bloody weal sprang up on their sides and shoulders, but they kept on striving with might and main for victory and to win the tripod. Ulysses could not throw Ajax, nor Ajax him; Ulysses was too strong for him; but when the Achaeans began to tire of watching them, Ajax said to ulysses, “Ulysses, noble son of Laertes, you shall either lift me, or I you, and let Jove settle it between us.”
He lifted him from the ground as he spoke, but Ulysses did not forget his cunning. He hit Ajax in the hollow at back of his knee, so that he could not keep his feet, but fell on his back with Ulysses lying upon his chest, and all who saw it marvelled. Then Ulysses in turn lifted Ajax and stirred him a little from the ground but could not lift him right off it, his knee sank under him, and the two fell side by side on the ground and were all begrimed with dust. They now sprang towards one another and were for wrestling yet a third time, but Achilles rose and stayed them. “Put not each other further,” said he, “to such cruel suffering; the victory is with both alike, take each of you an equal prize, and let the other Achaeans now compete.”
Thus did he speak and they did even as he had said, and put on their shirts again after wiping the dust from off their bodies.
The son of Peleus then offered prizes for speed in running—a mixing-bowl beautifully wrought, of pure silver. It would hold six measures, and far exceeded all others in the whole world for beauty; it was the work of cunning artificers in Sidon, and had been brought into port by Phoenicians from beyond the sea, who had made a present of it to Thoas. Eueneus son of jason had given it to Patroclus in ransom of Priam’s son Lycaon, and Achilles now offered it as a prize in honour of his comrade to him who should be the swiftest runner. For the second prize he offered a large ox, well fattened, while for the last there was to be half a talent of gold. He then rose and said among the Argives, “Stand forward, you who will essay this contest.”
Forthwith uprose fleet Ajax son of Oileus, with cunning Ulysses, and Nestor’s son Antilochus, the fastest runner among all the youth of his time. They stood side by side and Achilles showed them the goal. The course was set out for them from the starting-post, and the son of Oileus took the lead at once, with Ulysses as close behind him as the shuttle is to a woman’s bosom when she throws the woof across the warp and holds it close up to her; even so close behind him was Ulysses—treading in his footprints before the dust could settle there, and Ajax could feel his breath on the back of his head as he ran swiftly on. The Achaeans all shouted applause as they saw him straining his utmost, and cheered him as he shot past them; but when they were now nearing the end of the course Ulysses prayed inwardly to Minerva. “Hear me,” he cried, “and help my feet, O goddess.” Thus did he pray, and Pallas Min- erva heard his prayer; she made his hands and his feet feel light, and when the runners were at the point of pounc- ing upon the prize, Ajax, through Minerva’s spite slipped upon some offal that was lying there from the cattle which Achilles had slaughtered in honour of Patroclus, and his mouth and nostrils were all filled with cow dung. Ulysses therefore carried off the mixing-bowl, for he got before Ajax and came in first. But Ajax took the ox and stood with his hand on one of its horns, spitting the dung out of his mouth. Then he said to the Argives, “Alas, the goddess has spoiled my running; she watches over Ulysses and stands by him as though she were his own mother.” Thus did he speak and they all of them laughed heartily.
Antilochus carried off the last prize and smiled as he said to the bystanders, “You all see, my friends, that now too the gods have shown their respect for seniority. Ajax is somewhat older than I am, and as for Ulysses, he be- longs to an earlier generation, but he is hale in spite of his years, and no man of the Achaeans can run against him
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save only Achilles.” He said this to pay a compliment to the son of Peleus, and Achilles answered, “Antilochus, you shall not have
praised me to no purpose; I shall give you an additional half talent of gold.” He then gave the half talent to Antilo- chus, who received it gladly.
Then the son of Peleus brought out the spear, helmet and shield that had been borne by Sarpedon, and were taken from him by Patroclus. He stood up and said among the Argives, “We bid two champions put on their ar- mour, take their keen blades, and make trial of one another in the presence of the multitude; whichever of them can first wound the flesh of the other, cut through his armour, and draw blood, to him will I give this goodly Thracian sword inlaid with silver, which I took from Asteropaeus, but the armour let both hold in partnership, and I will give each of them a hearty meal in my own tent.”
Forthwith uprose great Ajax the son of Telamon, as also mighty Diomed son of Tydeus. When they had put on their armour each on his own side of the ring, they both went into the middle eager to engage, and with fire flash- ing from their eyes. The Achaeans marvelled as they beheld them, and when the two were now close up with one another, thrice did they spring forward and thrice try to strike each other in close combat. Ajax pierced Diomed’s round shield, but did not draw blood, for the cuirass beneath the shield protected him; thereon the son of Tydeus from over his huge shield kept aiming continually at Ajax’s neck with the point of his spear, and the Achaeans alarmed for his safety bade them leave off fighting and divide the prize between them. Achilles then gave the great sword to the son of Tydeus, with its scabbard, and the leathern belt with which to hang it.
Achilles next offered the massive iron quoit which mighty Eetion had erewhile been used to hurl, until Achilles had slain him and carried it off in his ships along with other spoils. He stood up and said among the Argives, “Stand forward, you who would essay this contest. He who wins it will have a store of iron that will last him five years as they go rolling round, and if his fair fields lie far from a town his shepherd or ploughman will not have to make a journey to buy iron, for he will have a stock of it on his own premises.”
Then uprose the two mighty men Polypoetes and Leonteus, with Ajax son of Telamon and noble Epeus. They stood up one after the other and Epeus took the quoit, whirled it, and flung it from him, which set all the Achae- ans laughing. After him threw Leonteus of the race of Mars. Ajax son of Telamon threw third, and sent the quoit beyond any mark that had been made yet, but when mighty Polypoetes took the quoit he hurled it as though it had been a stockman’s stick which he sends flying about among his cattle when he is driving them, so far did his throw out-distance those of the others. All who saw it roared applause, and his comrades carried the prize for him and set it on board his ship.
Achilles next offered a prize of iron for archery—ten double-edged axes and ten with single eddies: he set up a ship’s mast, some way off upon the sands, and with a fine string tied a pigeon to it by the foot; this was what they were to aim at. “Whoever,” he said, “can hit the pigeon shall have all the axes and take them away with him; he who hits the string without hitting the bird will have taken a worse aim and shall have the single-edged axes.”
Then uprose King Teucer, and Meriones the stalwart squire of Idomeneus rose also, They cast lots in a bronze helmet and the lot of Teucer fell first. He let fly with his arrow forthwith, but he did not promise hecatombs of firstling lambs to King Apollo, and missed his bird, for Apollo foiled his aim; but he hit the string with which the bird was tied, near its foot; the arrow cut the string clean through so that it hung down towards the ground, while the bird flew up into the sky, and the Achaeans shouted applause. Meriones, who had his arrow ready while Teucer was aiming, snatched the bow out of his hand, and at once promised that he would sacrifice a hecatomb of firstling lambs to Apollo lord of the bow; then espying the pigeon high up under the clouds, he hit her in the middle of the wing as she was circling upwards; the arrow went clean through the wing and fixed itself in the ground at Meriones’ feet, but the bird perched on the ship’s mast hanging her head and with all her feathers drooping; the life went out of her, and she fell heavily from the mast. Meriones, therefore, took all ten double-edged axes, while Teucer bore off the single-edged ones to his ships.
Then the son of Peleus brought in a spear and a cauldron that had never been on the fire; it was worth an ox, and was chased with a pattern of flowers; and those that throw the javelin stood up—to wit the son of Atreus, king of men Agamemnon, and Meriones, stalwart squire of Idomeneus. But Achilles spoke saying, “Son of Atreus, we know how far you excel all others both in power and in throwing the javelin; take the cauldron back with you to your ships, but if it so please you, let us give the spear to Meriones; this at least is what I should myself wish.”
King Agamemnon assented. So he gave the bronze spear to Meriones, and handed the goodly cauldron to Talthybius his esquire.
Book XXIV THE assembly now broke up and the people went their ways each to his own ship. There they made ready
their supper, and then bethought them of the blessed boon of sleep; but Achilles still wept for thinking of his dear
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comrade, and sleep, before whom all things bow, could take no hold upon him. This way and that did he turn as he yearned after the might and manfulness of Patroclus; he thought of all they had done together, and all they had gone through both on the field of battle and on the waves of the weary sea. As he dwelt on these things he wept bitterly and lay now on his side, now on his back, and now face downwards, till at last he rose and went out as one distraught to wander upon the seashore. Then, when he saw dawn breaking over beach and sea, he yoked his horses to his chariot, and bound the body of Hector behind it that he might drag it about. Thrice did he drag it round the tomb of the son of Menoetius, and then went back into his tent, leaving the body on the ground full length and with its face downwards. But Apollo would not suffer it to be disfigured, for he pitied the man, dead though he now was; therefore he shielded him with his golden aegis continually, that he might take no hurt while Achilles was dragging him.
Thus shamefully did Achilles in his fury dishonour Hector; but the blessed gods looked down in pity from heaven, and urged Mercury, slayer of Argus, to steal the body. All were of this mind save only Juno, Neptune, and Jove’s grey-eyed daughter, who persisted in the hate which they had ever borne towards Ilius with Priam and his people; for they forgave not the wrong done them by Alexandrus in disdaining the goddesses who came to him when he was in his sheepyards, and preferring her who had offered him a wanton to his ruin.
When, therefore, the morning of the twelfth day had now come, Phoebus Apollo spoke among the immortals saying, “You gods ought to be ashamed of yourselves; you are cruel and hard-hearted. Did not Hector burn you thigh-bones of heifers and of unblemished goats? And now dare you not rescue even his dead body, for his wife to look upon, with his mother and child, his father Priam, and his people, who would forthwith commit him to the flames, and give him his due funeral rites? So, then, you would all be on the side of mad Achilles, who knows nei- ther right nor ruth? He is like some savage lion that in the pride of his great strength and daring springs upon men’s flocks and gorges on them. Even so has Achilles flung aside all pity, and all that conscience which at once so greatly banes yet greatly boons him that will heed it. man may lose one far dearer than Achilles has lost—a son, it may be, or a brother born from his own mother’s womb; yet when he has mourned him and wept over him he will let him bide, for it takes much sorrow to kill a man; whereas Achilles, now that he has slain noble Hector, drags him behind his chariot round the tomb of his comrade. It were better of him, and for him, that he should not do so, for brave though he be we gods may take it ill that he should vent his fury upon dead clay.”
Juno spoke up in a rage. “This were well,” she cried, “O lord of the silver bow, if you would give like honour to Hector and to Achilles; but Hector was mortal and suckled at a woman’s breast, whereas Achilles is the offspring of a goddess whom I myself reared and brought up. I married her to Peleus, who is above measure dear to the immor- tals; you gods came all of you to her wedding; you feasted along with them yourself and brought your lyre—false, and fond of low company, that you have ever been.”
Then said Jove, “Juno, be not so bitter. Their honour shall not be equal, but of all that dwell in Ilius, Hector was dearest to the gods, as also to myself, for his offerings never failed me. Never was my altar stinted of its dues, nor of the drink-offerings and savour of sacrifice which we claim of right. I shall therefore permit the body of mighty Hector to be stolen; and yet this may hardly be without Achilles coming to know it, for his mother keeps night and day beside him. Let some one of you, therefore, send Thetis to me, and I will impart my counsel to her, namely that Achilles is to accept a ransom from Priam, and give up the body.”
On this Iris fleet as the wind went forth to carry his message. Down she plunged into the dark sea midway between Samos and rocky Imbrus; the waters hissed as they closed over her, and she sank into the bottom as the lead at the end of an ox-horn, that is sped to carry death to fishes. She found Thetis sitting in a great cave with the other sea-goddesses gathered round her; there she sat in the midst of them weeping for her noble son who was to fall far from his own land, on the rich plains of Troy. Iris went up to her and said, “Rise Thetis; Jove, whose counsels fail not, bids you come to him.” And Thetis answered, “Why does the mighty god so bid me? I am in great grief, and shrink from going in and out among the immortals. Still, I will go, and the word that he may speak shall not be spoken in vain.”
The goddess took her dark veil, than which there can be no robe more sombre, and went forth with fleet Iris leading the way before her. The waves of the sea opened them a path, and when they reached the shore they flew up into the heavens, where they found the all-seeing son of Saturn with the blessed gods that live for ever assembled near him. Minerva gave up her seat to her, and she sat down by the side of father Jove. Juno then placed a fair gold- en cup in her hand, and spoke to her in words of comfort, whereon Thetis drank and gave her back the cup; and the sire of gods and men was the first to speak.
“So, goddess,” said he, “for all your sorrow, and the grief that I well know reigns ever in your heart, you have come hither to Olympus, and I will tell you why I have sent for you. This nine days past the immortals have been quarrelling about Achilles waster of cities and the body of Hector. The gods would have Mercury slayer of Argus steal the body, but in furtherance of our peace and amity henceforward, I will concede such honour to your son as I will now tell you. Go, then, to the host and lay these commands upon him; say that the gods are angry with him,
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and that I am myself more angry than them all, in that he keeps Hector at the ships and will not give him up. He may thus fear me and let the body go. At the same time I will send Iris to great Priam to bid him go to the ships of the Achaeans, and ransom his son, taking with him such gifts for Achilles as may give him satisfaction.
Silver-footed Thetis did as the god had told her, and forthwith down she darted from the topmost summits of Olympus. She went to her son’s tents where she found him grieving bitterly, while his trusty comrades round him were busy preparing their morning meal, for which they had killed a great woolly sheep. His mother sat down beside him and caressed him with her hand saying, “My son, how long will you keep on thus grieving and making moan? You are gnawing at your own heart, and think neither of food nor of woman’s embraces; and yet these too were well, for you have no long time to live, and death with the strong hand of fate are already close beside you. Now, therefore, heed what I say, for I come as a messenger from Jove; he says that the gods are angry with you, and himself more angry than them all, in that you keep Hector at the ships and will not give him up. Therefore let him go, and accept a ransom for his body.”
And Achilles answered, “So be it. If Olympian Jove of his own motion thus commands me, let him that brings the ransom bear the body away.”
Thus did mother and son talk together at the ships in long discourse with one another. Meanwhile the son of Saturn sent Iris to the strong city of Ilius. “Go,” said he, “fleet Iris, from the mansions of Olympus, and tell King Priam in Ilius, that he is to go to the ships of the Achaeans and free the body of his dear son. He is to take such gifts with him as shall give satisfaction to Achilles, and he is to go alone, with no other Trojan, save only some honoured servant who may drive his mules and waggon, and bring back the body of him whom noble Achilles has slain. Let him have no thought nor fear of death in his heart, for we will send the slayer of Argus to escort him, and bring him within the tent of Achilles. Achilles will not kill him nor let another do so, for he will take heed to his ways and sin not, and he will entreat a suppliant with all honourable courtesy.”
On this Iris, fleet as the wind, sped forth to deliver her message. She went to Priam’s house, and found weeping and lamentation therein. His sons were seated round their father in the outer courtyard, and their raiment was wet with tears: the old man sat in the midst of them with his mantle wrapped close about his body, and his head and neck all covered with the filth which he had clutched as he lay grovelling in the mire. His daughters and his sons’ wives went wailing about the house, as they thought of the many and brave men who lay dead, slain by the Argives. The messenger of Jove stood by Priam and spoke softly to him, but fear fell upon him as she did so. “Take heart,” she said, “Priam offspring of Dardanus, take heart and fear not. I bring no evil tidings, but am minded well towards you. I come as a messenger from Jove, who though he be not near, takes thought for you and pities you. The lord of Olympus bids you go and ransom noble Hector, and take with you such gifts as shall give satisfaction to Achilles. You are to go alone, with no Trojan, save only some honoured servant who may drive your mules and waggon, and bring back to the city the body of him whom noble Achilles has slain. You are to have no thought, nor fear of death, for Jove will send the slayer of Argus to escort you. When he has brought you within Achilles’ tent, Achilles will not kill you nor let another do so, for he will take heed to his ways and sin not, and he will entreat a suppliant with all honourable courtesy.”
Iris went her way when she had thus spoken, and Priam told his sons to get a mule-waggon ready, and to make the body of the waggon fast upon the top of its bed. Then he went down into his fragrant store-room, high-vaulted, and made of cedar-wood, where his many treasures were kept, and he called Hecuba his wife. “Wife,” said he, “a messenger has come to me from Olympus, and has told me to go to the ships of the Achaeans to ransom my dear son, taking with me such gifts as shall give satisfaction to Achilles. What think you of this matter? for my own part I am greatly moved to pass through the of the Achaeans and go to their ships.”
His wife cried aloud as she heard him, and said, “Alas, what has become of that judgement for which you have been ever famous both among strangers and your own people? How can you venture alone to the ships of the Achaeans, and look into the face of him who has slain so many of your brave sons? You must have iron courage, for if the cruel savage sees you and lays hold on you, he will know neither respect nor pity. Let us then weep Hector from afar here in our own house, for when I gave him birth the threads of overruling fate were spun for him that dogs should eat his flesh far from his parents, in the house of that terrible man on whose liver I would fain fasten and devour it. Thus would I avenge my son, who showed no cowardice when Achilles slew him, and thought nei- ther of Right nor of avoiding battle as he stood in defence of Trojan men and Trojan women.”
Then Priam said, “I would go, do not therefore stay me nor be as a bird of ill omen in my house, for you will not move me. Had it been some mortal man who had sent me some prophet or priest who divines from sacrifice—I should have deemed him false and have given him no heed; but now I have heard the goddess and seen her face to face, therefore I will go and her saying shall not be in vain. If it be my fate to die at the ships of the Achaeans even so would I have it; let Achilles slay me, if I may but first have taken my son in my arms and mourned him to my heart’s comforting.”
So saying he lifted the lids of his chests, and took out twelve goodly vestments. He took also twelve cloaks of
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single fold, twelve rugs, twelve fair mantles, and an equal number of shirts. He weighed out ten talents of gold, and brought moreover two burnished tripods, four cauldrons, and a very beautiful cup which the Thracians had given him when he had gone to them on an embassy; it was very precious, but he grudged not even this, so eager was he to ransom the body of his son. Then he chased all the Trojans from the court and rebuked them with words of anger. “Out,” he cried, “shame and disgrace to me that you are. Have you no grief in your own homes that you are come to plague me here? Is it a small thing, think you, that the son of Saturn has sent this sorrow upon me, to lose the bravest of my sons? Nay, you shall prove it in person, for now he is gone the Achaeans will have easier work in killing you. As for me, let me go down within the house of Hades, ere mine eyes behold the sacking and wasting of the city.”
He drove the men away with his staff, and they went forth as the old man sped them. Then he called to his sons, upbraiding Helenus, Paris, noble Agathon, Pammon, Antiphonus, Polites of the loud battle-cry, Deiphobus, Hip- pothous, and Dius. These nine did the old man call near him. “Come to me at once,” he cried, “worthless sons who do me shame; would that you had all been killed at the ships rather than Hector. Miserable man that I am, I have had the bravest sons in all Troy—noble Nestor, Troilus the dauntless charioteer, and Hector who was a god among men, so that one would have thought he was son to an immortal—yet there is not one of them left. Mars has slain them and those of whom I am ashamed are alone left me. Liars, and light of foot, heroes of the dance, robbers of lambs and kids from your own people, why do you not get a waggon ready for me at once, and put all these things upon it that I may set out on my way?”
Thus did he speak, and they feared the rebuke of their father. They brought out a strong mule-waggon, newly made, and set the body of the waggon fast on its bed. They took the mule-yoke from the peg on which it hung, a yoke of boxwood with a knob on the top of it and rings for the reins to go through. Then they brought a yoke-band eleven cubits long, to bind the yoke to the pole; they bound it on at the far end of the pole, and put the ring over the upright pin making it fast with three turns of the band on either side the knob, and bending the thong of the yoke beneath it. This done, they brought from the store-chamber the rich ransom that was to purchase the body of Hector, and they set it all orderly on the waggon; then they yoked the strong harness-mules which the Mysians had on a time given as a goodly present to Priam; but for Priam himself they yoked horses which the old king had bred, and kept for own use.
Thus heedfully did Priam and his servant see to the yolking of their cars at the palace. Then Hecuba came to them all sorrowful, with a golden goblet of wine in her right hand, that they might make a drink-offering before they set out. She stood in front of the horses and said, “Take this, make a drink-offering to father Jove, and since you are minded to go to the ships in spite of me, pray that you may come safely back from the hands of your en- emies. Pray to the son of Saturn lord of the whirlwind, who sits on Ida and looks down over all Troy, pray him to send his swift messenger on your right hand, the bird of omen which is strongest and most dear to him of all birds, that you may see it with your own eyes and trust it as you go forth to the ships of the Danaans. If all-seeing Jove will not send you this messenger, however set upon it you may be, I would not have you go to the ships of the Argives.”
And Priam answered, “Wife, I will do as you desire me; it is well to lift hands in prayer to Jove, if so be he may have mercy upon me.”
With this the old man bade the serving-woman pour pure water over his hands, and the woman came, bear- ing the water in a bowl. He washed his hands and took the cup from his wife; then he made the drink-offering and prayed, standing in the middle of the courtyard and turning his eyes to heaven. “Father Jove,” he said, “that rulest from Ida, most glorious and most great, grant that I may be received kindly and compassionately in the tents of Achilles; and send your swift messenger upon my right hand, the bird of omen which is strongest and most dear to you of all birds, that I may see it with my own eyes and trust it as I go forth to the ships of the Danaans.”
So did he pray, and Jove the lord of counsel heard his prayer. Forthwith he sent an eagle, the most unerring por- tent of all birds that fly, the dusky hunter that men also call the Black Eagle. His wings were spread abroad on either side as wide as the well-made and well-bolted door of a rich man’s chamber. He came to them flying over the city upon their right hands, and when they saw him they were glad and their hearts took comfort within them. The old man made haste to mount his chariot, and drove out through the inner gateway and under the echoing gatehouse of the outer court. Before him went the mules drawing the four-wheeled waggon, and driven by wise Idaeus; behind these were the horses, which the old man lashed with his whip and drove swiftly through the city, while his friends followed after, wailing and lamenting for him as though he were on his road to death. As soon as they had come down from the city and had reached the plain, his sons and sons-in-law who had followed him went back to Ilius.
But Priam and Idaeus as they showed out upon the plain did not escape the ken of all-seeing Jove, who looked down upon the old man and pitied him; then he spoke to his son Mercury and said, “Mercury, for it is you who are the most disposed to escort men on their way, and to hear those whom you will hear, go, and so conduct Priam to the ships of the Achaeans that no other of the Danaans shall see him nor take note of him until he reach the son of Peleus.”
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Thus he spoke and Mercury, guide and guardian, slayer of Argus, did as he was told. Forthwith he bound on his glittering golden sandals with which he could fly like the wind over land and sea; he took the wand with which he seals men’s eyes in sleep, or wakes them just as he pleases, and flew holding it in his hand till he came to Troy and to the Hellespont. To look at, he was like a young man of noble birth in the hey-day of his youth and beauty with the down just coming upon his face.
Now when Priam and Idaeus had driven past the great tomb of Ilius, they stayed their mules and horses that they might drink in the river, for the shades of night were falling, when, therefore, Idaeus saw Mercury standing near them he said to Priam, “Take heed, descendant of Dardanus; here is matter which demands consideration. I see a man who I think will presently fall upon us; let us fly with our horses, or at least embrace his knees and im- plore him to take compassion upon us?
When he heard this the old man’s heart failed him, and he was in great fear; he stayed where he was as one dazed, and the hair stood on end over his whole body; but the bringer of good luck came up to him and took him by the hand, saying, “Whither, father, are you thus driving your mules and horses in the dead of night when other men are asleep? Are you not afraid of the fierce Achaeans who are hard by you, so cruel and relentless? Should some one of them see you bearing so much treasure through the darkness of the flying night, what would not your state then be? You are no longer young, and he who is with you is too old to protect you from those who would attack you. For myself, I will do you no harm, and I will defend you from any one else, for you remind me of my own father.”
And Priam answered, “It is indeed as you say, my dear son; nevertheless some god has held his hand over me, in that he has sent such a wayfarer as yourself to meet me so Opportunely; you are so comely in mien and figure, and your judgement is so excellent that you must come of blessed parents.”
Then said the slayer of Argus, guide and guardian, “Sir, all that you have said is right; but tell me and tell me true, are you taking this rich treasure to send it to a foreign people where it may be safe, or are you all leaving strong Ilius in dismay now that your son has fallen who was the bravest man among you and was never lacking in battle with the Achaeans?”
And Priam said, “Wo are you, my friend, and who are your parents, that you speak so truly about the fate of my unhappy son?”
The slayer of Argus, guide and guardian, answered him, “Sir, you would prove me, that you question me about noble Hector. Many a time have I set eyes upon him in battle when he was driving the Argives to their ships and putting them to the sword. We stood still and marvelled, for Achilles in his anger with the son of Atreus suffered us not to fight. I am his squire, and came with him in the same ship. I am a Myrmidon, and my father’s name is Polyc- tor: he is a rich man and about as old as you are; he has six sons besides myself, and I am the seventh. We cast lots, and it fell upon me to sail hither with Achilles. I am now come from the ships on to the plain, for with daybreak the Achaeans will set battle in array about the city. They chafe at doing nothing, and are so eager that their princes cannot hold them back.”
Then answered Priam, “If you are indeed the squire of Achilles son of Peleus, tell me now the Whole truth. Is my son still at the ships, or has Achilles hewn him limb from limb, and given him to his hounds?”
“Sir,” replied the slayer of Argus, guide and guardian, “neither hounds nor vultures have yet devoured him; he is still just lying at the tents by the ship of Achilles, and though it is now twelve days that he has lain there, his flesh is not wasted nor have the worms eaten him although they feed on warriors. At daybreak Achilles drags him cruelly round the sepulchre of his dear comrade, but it does him no hurt. You should come yourself and see how he lies fresh as dew, with the blood all washed away, and his wounds every one of them closed though many pierced him with their spears. Such care have the blessed gods taken of your brave son, for he was dear to them beyond all measure.”
The old man was comforted as he heard him and said, “My son, see what a good thing it is to have made due of- ferings to the immortals; for as sure as that he was born my son never forgot the gods that hold Olympus, and now they requite it to him even in death. Accept therefore at my hands this goodly chalice; guard me and with heaven’s help guide me till I come to the tent of the son of Peleus.”
Then answered the slayer of Argus, guide and guardian, “Sir, you are tempting me and playing upon my youth, but you shall not move me, for you are offering me presents without the knowledge of Achilles whom I fear and hold it great guiltless to defraud, lest some evil presently befall me; but as your guide I would go with you even to Argos itself, and would guard you so carefully whether by sea or land, that no one should attack you through mak- ing light of him who was with you.”
The bringer of good luck then sprang on to the chariot, and seizing the whip and reins he breathed fresh spirit into the mules and horses. When they reached the trench and the wall that was before the ships, those who were on guard had just been getting their suppers, and the slayer of Argus threw them all into a deep sleep. Then he drew back the bolts to open the gates, and took Priam inside with the treasure he had upon his waggon. Ere long they
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came to the lofty dwelling of the son of Peleus for which the Myrmidons had cut pine and which they had built for their king; when they had built it they thatched it with coarse tussock-grass which they had mown out on the plain, and all round it they made a large courtyard, which was fenced with stakes set close together. The gate was barred with a single bolt of pine which it took three men to force into its place, and three to draw back so as to open the gate, but Achilles could draw it by himself. Mercury opened the gate for the old man, and brought in the treasure that he was taking with him for the son of Peleus. Then he sprang from the chariot on to the ground and said, “Sir, it is I, immortal Mercury, that am come with you, for my father sent me to escort you. I will now leave you, and will not enter into the presence of Achilles, for it might anger him that a god should befriend mortal men thus openly. Go you within, and embrace the knees of the son of Peleus: beseech him by his father, his lovely mother, and his son; thus you may move him.”
With these words Mercury went back to high Olympus. Priam sprang from his chariot to the ground, leaving Idaeus where he was, in charge of the mules and horses. The old man went straight into the house where Achilles, loved of the gods, was sitting. There he found him with his men seated at a distance from him: only two, the hero Automedon, and Alcimus of the race of Mars, were busy in attendance about his person, for he had but just done eating and drinking, and the table was still there. King Priam entered without their seeing him, and going right up to Achilles he clasped his knees and kissed the dread murderous hands that had slain so many of his sons.
As when some cruel spite has befallen a man that he should have killed some one in his own country, and must fly to a great man’s protection in a land of strangers, and all marvel who see him, even so did Achilles marvel as he beheld Priam. The others looked one to another and marvelled also, but Priam besought Achilles saying, “Think of your father, O Achilles like unto the gods, who is such even as I am, on the sad threshold of old age. It may be that those who dwell near him harass him, and there is none to keep war and ruin from him. Yet when he hears of you being still alive, he is glad, and his days are full of hope that he shall see his dear son come home to him from Troy; but I, wretched man that I am, had the bravest in all Troy for my sons, and there is not one of them left. I had fifty sons when the Achaeans came here; nineteen of them were from a single womb, and the others were borne to me by the women of my household. The greater part of them has fierce Mars laid low, and Hector, him who was alone left, him who was the guardian of the city and ourselves, him have you lately slain; therefore I am now come to the ships of the Achaeans to ransom his body from you with a great ransom. Fear, O Achilles, the wrath of heaven; think on your own father and have compassion upon me, who am the more pitiable, for I have steeled myself as no man yet has ever steeled himself before me, and have raised to my lips the hand of him who slew my son.”
Thus spoke Priam, and the heart of Achilles yearned as he bethought him of his father. He took the old man’s hand and moved him gently away. The two wept bitterly—Priam, as he lay at Achilles’ feet, weeping for Hector, and Achilles now for his father and now for Patroclous, till the house was filled with their lamentation. But when Achilles was now sated with grief and had unburthened the bitterness of his sorrow, he left his seat and raised the old man by the hand, in pity for his white hair and beard; then he said, “Unhappy man, you have indeed been greatly daring; how could you venture to come alone to the ships of the Achaeans, and enter the presence of him who has slain so many of your brave sons? You must have iron courage: sit now upon this seat, and for all our grief we will hide our sorrows in our hearts, for weeping will not avail us. The immortals know no care, yet the lot they spin for man is full of sorrow; on the floor of Jove’s palace there stand two urns, the one filled with evil gifts, and the other with good ones. He for whom Jove the lord of thunder mixes the gifts he sends, will meet now with good and now with evil fortune; but he to whom Jove sends none but evil gifts will be pointed at by the finger of scorn, the hand of famine will pursue him to the ends of the world, and he will go up and down the face of the earth, respected neither by gods nor men. Even so did it befall Pele- us; the gods endowed him with all good things from his birth upwards, for he reigned over the Myrmidons excelling all men in prosperity and wealth, and mortal though he was they gave him a goddess for his bride. But even on him too did heaven send misfortune, for there is no race of royal children born to him in his house, save one son who is doomed to die all untimely; nor may I take care of him now that he is growing old, for I must stay here at Troy to be the bane of you and your children. And you too, O Priam, I have heard that you were aforetime happy. They say that in wealth and plenitude of offspring you surpassed all that is in Lesbos, the realm of Makar to the northward, Phrygia that is more inland, and those that dwell upon the great Hellespont; but from the day when the dwellers in heaven sent this evil upon you, war and slaughter have been about your city continually. Bear up against it, and let there be some intervals in your sorrow. Mourn as you may for your brave son, you will take nothing by it. You cannot raise him from the dead, ere you do so yet another sorrow shall befall you.”
And Priam answered, “O king, bid me not be seated, while Hector is still lying uncared for in your tents, but accept the great ransom which I have brought you, and give him to me at once that I may look upon him. May you prosper with the ransom and reach your own land in safety, seeing that you have suffered me to live and to look upon the light of the sun.”
Achilles looked at him sternly and said, “Vex me, sir, no longer; I am of myself minded to give up the body of Hector. My mother, daughter of the old man of the sea, came to me from Jove to bid me deliver it to you. Moreover
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I know well, O Priam, and you cannot hide it, that some god has brought you to the ships of the Achaeans, for else, no man however strong and in his prime would dare to come to our host; he could neither pass our guard unseen, nor draw the bolt of my gates thus easily; therefore, provoke me no further, lest I sin against the word of Jove, and suffer you not, suppliant though you are, within my tents.”
The old man feared him and obeyed. Then the son of Peleus sprang like a lion through the door of his house, not alone, but with him went his two squires Automedon and Alcimus who were closer to him than any others of his comrades now that Patroclus was no more. These unyoked the horses and mules, and bade Priam’s herald and attendant be seated within the house. They lifted the ransom for Hector’s body from the waggon. but they left two mantles and a goodly shirt, that Achilles might wrap the body in them when he gave it to be taken home. Then he called to his servants and ordered them to wash the body and anoint it, but he first took it to a place where Priam should not see it, lest if he did so, he should break out in the bitterness of his grief, and enrage Achilles, who might then kill him and sin against the word of Jove. When the servants had washed the body and anointed it, and had wrapped it in a fair shirt and mantle, Achilles himself lifted it on to a bier, and he and his men then laid it on the waggon. He cried aloud as he did so and called on the name of his dear comrade, “Be not angry with me, Patroclus,” he said, “if you hear even in the house of Hades that I have given Hector to his father for a ransom. It has been no unworthy one, and I will share it equitably with you.”
Achilles then went back into the tent and took his place on the richly inlaid seat from which he had risen, by the wall that was at right angles to the one against which Priam was sitting. “Sir,” he said, “your son is now laid upon his bier and is ransomed according to desire; you shall look upon him when you him away at daybreak; for the present let us prepare our supper. Even lovely Niobe had to think about eating, though her twelve children—six daughters and six lusty sons—had been all slain in her house. Apollo killed the sons with arrows from his silver bow, to punish Niobe, and Diana slew the daughters, because Niobe had vaunted herself against Leto; she said Leto had borne two children only, whereas she had herself borne many—whereon the two killed the many. Nine days did they lie weltering, and there was none to bury them, for the son of Saturn turned the people into stone; but on the tenth day the gods in heaven themselves buried them, and Niobe then took food, being worn out with weeping. They say that somewhere among the rocks on the mountain pastures of Sipylus, where the nymphs live that haunt the river Achelous, there, they say, she lives in stone and still nurses the sorrows sent upon her by the hand of heav- en. Therefore, noble sir, let us two now take food; you can weep for your dear son hereafter as you are bearing him back to Ilius—and many a tear will he cost you.”
With this Achilles sprang from his seat and killed a sheep of silvery whiteness, which his followers skinned and made ready all in due order. They cut the meat carefully up into smaller pieces, spitted them, and drew them off again when they were well roasted. Automedon brought bread in fair baskets and served it round the table, while Achilles dealt out the meat, and they laid their hands on the good things that were before them. As soon as they had had enough to eat and drink, Priam, descendant of Dardanus, marvelled at the strength and beauty of Achilles for he was as a god to see, and Achilles marvelled at Priam as he listened to him and looked upon his noble presence. When they had gazed their fill Priam spoke first. “And now, O king,” he said, “take me to my couch that we may lie down and enjoy the blessed boon of sleep. Never once have my eyes been closed from the day your hands took the life of my son; I have grovelled without ceasing in the mire of my stable-yard, making moan and brooding over my countless sorrows. Now, moreover, I have eaten bread and drunk wine; hitherto I have tasted nothing.”
As he spoke Achilles told his men and the women-servants to set beds in the room that was in the gatehouse, and make them with good red rugs, and spread coverlets on the top of them with woollen cloaks for Priam and Idaeus to wear. So the maids went out carrying a torch and got the two beds ready in all haste. Then Achilles said laughingly to Priam, “Dear sir, you shall lie outside, lest some counsellor of those who in due course keep coming to advise with me should see you here in the darkness of the flying night, and tell it to Agamemnon. This might cause delay in the delivery of the body. And now tell me and tell me true, for how many days would you celebrate the funeral rites of noble Hector? Tell me, that I may hold aloof from war and restrain the host.”
And Priam answered, “Since, then, you suffer me to bury my noble son with all due rites, do thus, Achilles, and I shall be grateful. You know how we are pent up within our city; it is far for us to fetch wood from the mountain, and the people live in fear. Nine days, therefore, will we mourn Hector in my house; on the tenth day we will bury him and there shall be a public feast in his honour; on the eleventh we will build a mound over his ashes, and on the twelfth, if there be need, we will fight.”
And Achilles answered, “All, King Priam, shall be as you have said. I will stay our fighting for as long a time as you have named.”
As he spoke he laid his hand on the old man’s right wrist, in token that he should have no fear; thus then did Priam and his attendant sleep there in the forecourt, full of thought, while Achilles lay in an inner room of the house, with fair Briseis by his side.
And now both gods and mortals were fast asleep through the livelong night, but upon Mercury alone, the
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bringer of good luck, sleep could take no hold for he was thinking all the time how to get King Priam away from the ships without his being seen by the strong force of sentinels. He hovered therefore over Priam’s head and said, “Sir, now that Achilles has spared your life, you seem to have no fear about sleeping in the thick of your foes. You have paid a great ransom, and have received the body of your son; were you still alive and a prisoner the sons whom you have left at home would have to give three times as much to free you; and so it would be if Agamemnon and the other Achaeans were to know of your being here.”
When he heard this the old man was afraid and roused his servant. Mercury then yoked their horses and mules, and drove them quickly through the host so that no man perceived them. When they came to the ford of eddy- ing Xanthus, begotten of immortal Jove, Mercury went back to high Olympus, and dawn in robe of saffron began to break over all the land. Priam and Idaeus then drove on toward the city lamenting and making moan, and the mules drew the body of Hector. No one neither man nor woman saw them, till Cassandra, fair as golden Venus standing on Pergamus, caught sight of her dear father in his chariot, and his servant that was the city’s herald with him. Then she saw him that was lying upon the bier, drawn by the mules, and with a loud cry she went about the city saying, “Come hither Trojans, men and women, and look on Hector; if ever you rejoiced to see him coming from battle when he was alive, look now on him that was the glory of our city and all our people.”
At this there was not man nor woman left in the city, so great a sorrow had possessed them. Hard by the gates they met Priam as he was bringing in the body. Hector’s wife and his mother were the first to mourn him: they flew towards the waggon and laid their hands upon his head, while the crowd stood weeping round them. They would have stayed before the gates, weeping and lamenting the livelong day to the going down of the sun, had not Priam spoken to them from the chariot and said, “Make way for the mules to pass you. Afterwards when I have taken the body home you shall have your fill of weeping.”
On this the people stood asunder, and made a way for the waggon. When they had borne the body within the house they laid it upon a bed and seated minstrels round it to lead the dirge, whereon the women joined in the sad music of their lament. Foremost among them all Andromache led their wailing as she clasped the head of mighty Hector in her embrace. “Husband,” she cried, “you have died young, and leave me in your house a widow; he of whom we are the ill-starred parents is still a mere child, and I fear he may not reach manhood. Ere he can do so our city will be razed and overthrown, for you who watched over it are no more — you who were its saviour, the guardian of our wives and children. Our women will be carried away captives to the ships, and I among them; while you, my child, who will be with me will be put to some unseemly tasks, working for a cruel master. Or, may be, some Achaean will hurl you (O miserable death) from our walls, to avenge some brother, son, or father whom Hec- tor slew; many of them have indeed bitten the dust at his hands, for your father’s hand in battle was no light one. Therefore do the people mourn him. You have left, O Hector, sorrow unutterable to your parents, and my own grief is greatest of all, for you did not stretch forth your arms and embrace me as you lay dying, nor say to me any words that might have lived with me in my tears night and day for evermore.”
Bitterly did she weep the while, and the women joined in her lament. Hecuba in her turn took up the strains of woe. “Hector,” she cried, “dearest to me of all my children. So long as you were alive the gods loved you well, and even in death they have not been utterly unmindful of you; for when Achilles took any other of my sons, he would sell him beyond the seas, to Samos Imbrus or rugged Lemnos; and when he had slain you too with his sword, many a time did he drag you round the sepulchre of his comrade— though this could not give him life—yet here you lie all fresh as dew, and comely as one whom Apollo has slain with his painless shafts.”
Thus did she too speak through her tears with bitter moan, and then Helen for a third time took up the strain of lamentation. “Hector,” said she, “dearest of all my brothers-in-law-for I am wife to Alexandrus who brought me hither to Troy—would that I had died ere he did so—twenty years are come and gone since I left my home and came from over the sea, but I have never heard one word of insult or unkindness from you. When another would chide with me, as it might be one of your brothers or sisters or of your brothers’ wives, or my mother-in-law—for Priam was as kind to me as though he were my own father—you would rebuke and check them with words of gen- tleness and goodwill. Therefore my tears flow both for you and for my unhappy self, for there is no one else in Troy who is kind to me, but all shrink and shudder as they go by me.”
She wept as she spoke and the vast crowd that was gathered round her joined in her lament. Then King Priam spoke to them saying, “Bring wood, O Trojans, to the city, and fear no cunning ambush of the Argives, for Achilles when he dismissed me from the ships gave me his word that they should not attack us until the morning of the twelfth day.”
Forthwith they yoked their oxen and mules and gathered together before the city. Nine days long did they bring in great heaps wood, and on the morning of the tenth day with many tears they took trave Hector forth, laid his dead body upon the summit of the pile, and set the fire thereto. Then when the child of morning rosy-fingered dawn appeared on the eleventh day, the people again assembled, round the pyre of mighty Hector. When they were got together, they first quenched the fire with wine wherever it was burning, and then his brothers and comrades with many a bitter tear gathered his white bones, wrapped them in soft robes of purple, and laid them in a golden
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urn, which they placed in a grave and covered over with large stones set close together. Then they built a barrow hurriedly over it keeping guard on every side lest the Achaeans should attack them before they had finished. When they had heaped up the barrow they went back again into the city, and being well assembled they held high feast in the house of Priam their king.
Thus, then, did they celebrate the funeral of Hector tamer of horses.
The odyssey
Homer, translated by Samuel Butler
Book I TELL ME, O MUSE, of that ingenious hero who travelled far and wide after he had sacked the famous town
of Troy. Many cities did he visit, and many were the nations with whose manners and customs he was acquainted; moreover he suffered much by sea while trying to save his own life and bring his men safely home; but do what he might he could not save his men, for they perished through their own sheer folly in eating the cattle of the Sun-god Hyperion; so the god prevented them from ever reaching home. Tell me, too, about all these things, O daughter of Jove, from whatsoever source you may know them.
So now all who escaped death in battle or by shipwreck had got safely home except Ulysses, and he, though he was longing to return to his wife and country, was detained by the goddess Calypso, who had got him into a large cave and wanted to marry him. But as years went by, there came a time when the gods settled that he should go back to Ithaca; even then, however, when he was among his own people, his troubles were not yet over; nevertheless all the gods had now begun to pity him except Neptune, who still persecuted him without ceasing and would not let him get home.
Now Neptune had gone off to the Ethiopians, who are at the world’s end, and lie in two halves, the one looking West and the other East. He had gone there to accept a hecatomb of sheep and oxen, and was enjoying himself at his festival; but the other gods met in the house of Olympian Jove, and the sire of gods and men spoke first. At that moment he was thinking of Aegisthus, who had been killed by Agamemnon’s son Orestes; so he said to the other gods:
“See now, how men lay blame upon us gods for what is after all nothing but their own folly. Look at Aegisthus; he must needs make love to Agamemnon’s wife unrighteously and then kill Agamemnon, though he knew it would be the death of him; for I sent Mercury to warn him not to do either of these things, inasmuch as Orestes would be sure to take his revenge when he grew up and wanted to return home. Mercury told him this in all good will but he would not listen, and now he has paid for everything in full.”
Then Minerva said, “Father, son of Saturn, King of kings, it served Aegisthus right, and so it would any one else who does as he did; but Aegisthus is neither here nor there; it is for Ulysses that my heart bleeds, when I think of his sufferings in that lonely sea-girt island, far away, poor man, from all his friends. It is an island covered with forest, in the very middle of the sea, and a goddess lives there, daughter of the magician Atlas, who looks after the bottom of the ocean, and carries the great columns that keep heaven and earth asunder. This daughter of Atlas has got hold of poor unhappy Ulysses, and keeps trying by every kind of blandishment to make him forget his home, so that he is tired of life, and thinks of nothing but how he may once more see the smoke of his own chimneys. You, sir, take no heed of this, and yet when Ulysses was before Troy did he not propitiate you with many a burnt sacrifice? Why then should you keep on being so angry with him?”
And Jove said, “My child, what are you talking about? How can I forget Ulysses than whom there is no more capable man on earth, nor more liberal in his offerings to the immortal gods that live in heaven? Bear in mind, however, that Neptune is still furious with Ulysses for having blinded an eye of Polyphemus king of the Cyclopes. Polyphemus is son to Neptune by the nymph Thoosa, daughter to the sea-king Phorcys; therefore though he will not kill Ulysses outright, he torments him by preventing him from getting home. Still, let us lay our heads together and see how we can help him to return; Neptune will then be pacified, for if we are all of a mind he can hardly stand out against us.”
And Minerva said, “Father, son of Saturn, King of kings, if, then, the gods now mean that Ulysses should get home, we should first send Mercury to the Ogygian island to tell Calypso that we have made up our minds and that he is to return. In the meantime I will go to Ithaca, to put heart into Ulysses’ son Telemachus; I will embolden him to call the Achaeans in assembly, and speak out to the suitors of his mother Penelope, who persist in eating up any number of his sheep and oxen; I will also conduct him to Sparta and to Pylos, to see if he can hear anything about the return of his dear father—for this will make people speak well of him.”
So saying she bound on her glittering golden sandals, imperishable, with which she can fly like the wind over land or sea; she grasped the redoubtable bronze-shod spear, so stout and sturdy and strong, wherewith she quells
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the ranks of heroes who have displeased her, and down she darted from the topmost summits of Olympus, whereon forthwith she was in Ithaca, at the gateway of Ulysses’ house, disguised as a visitor, Mentes, chief of the Taphians, and she held a bronze spear in her hand. There she found the lordly suitors seated on hides of the oxen which they had killed and eaten, and playing draughts in front of the house. Men-servants and pages were bustling about to wait upon them, some mixing wine with water in the mixing-bowls, some cleaning down the tables with wet spong- es and laying them out again, and some cutting up great quantities of meat.
Telemachus saw her long before any one else did. He was sitting moodily among the suitors thinking about his brave father, and how he would send them flying out of the house, if he were to come to his own again and be honoured as in days gone by. Thus brooding as he sat among them, he caught sight of Minerva and went straight to the gate, for he was vexed that a stranger should be kept waiting for admittance. He took her right hand in his own, and bade her give him her spear. “Welcome,” said he, “to our house, and when you have partaken of food you shall tell us what you have come for.”
He led the way as he spoke, and Minerva followed him. When they were within he took her spear and set it in the spear—stand against a strong bearing-post along with the many other spears of his unhappy father, and he conducted her to a richly decorated seat under which he threw a cloth of damask. There was a footstool also for her feet, and he set another seat near her for himself, away from the suitors, that she might not be annoyed while eating by their noise and insolence, and that he might ask her more freely about his father.
A maid servant then brought them water in a beautiful golden ewer and poured it into a silver basin for them to wash their hands, and she drew a clean table beside them. An upper servant brought them bread, and offered them many good things of what there was in the house, the carver fetched them plates of all manner of meats and set cups of gold by their side, and a man-servant brought them wine and poured it out for them.
Then the suitors came in and took their places on the benches and seats. Forthwith men servants poured water over their hands, maids went round with the bread-baskets, pages filled the mixing-bowls with wine and water, and they laid their hands upon the good things that were before them. As soon as they had had enough to eat and drink they wanted music and dancing, which are the crowning embellishments of a banquet, so a servant brought a lyre to Phemius, whom they compelled perforce to sing to them. As soon as he touched his lyre and began to sing Telemachus spoke low to Minerva, with his head close to hers that no man might hear.
“I hope, sir,” said he, “that you will not be offended with what I am going to say. Singing comes cheap to those who do not pay for it, and all this is done at the cost of one whose bones lie rotting in some wilderness or grinding to powder in the surf. If these men were to see my father come back to Ithaca they would pray for longer legs rather than a longer purse, for money would not serve them; but he, alas, has fallen on an ill fate, and even when people do sometimes say that he is coming, we no longer heed them; we shall never see him again. And now, sir, tell me and tell me true, who you are and where you come from. Tell me of your town and parents, what manner of ship you came in, how your crew brought you to Ithaca, and of what nation they declared themselves to be—for you cannot have come by land. Tell me also truly, for I want to know, are you a stranger to this house, or have you been here in my father’s time? In the old days we had many visitors for my father went about much himself.”
And Minerva answered, “I will tell you truly and particularly all about it. I am Mentes, son of Anchialus, and I am King of the Taphians. I have come here with my ship and crew, on a voyage to men of a foreign tongue being bound for Temesa with a cargo of iron, and I shall bring back copper. As for my ship, it lies over yonder off the open country away from the town, in the harbour Rheithron under the wooded mountain Neritum. Our fathers were friends before us, as old Laertes will tell you, if you will go and ask him. They say, however, that he never comes to town now, and lives by himself in the country, faring hardly, with an old woman to look after him and get his dinner for him, when he comes in tired from pottering about his vineyard. They told me your father was at home again, and that was why I came, but it seems the gods are still keeping him back, for he is not dead yet not on the main- land. It is more likely he is on some sea-girt island in mid ocean, or a prisoner among savages who are detaining him against his will I am no prophet, and know very little about omens, but I speak as it is borne in upon me from heaven, and assure you that he will not be away much longer; for he is a man of such resource that even though he were in chains of iron he would find some means of getting home again. But tell me, and tell me true, can Ulysses really have such a fine looking fellow for a son? You are indeed wonderfully like him about the head and eyes, for we were close friends before he set sail for Troy where the flower of all the Argives went also. Since that time we have never either of us seen the other.”
“My mother,” answered Telemachus, tells me I am son to Ulysses, but it is a wise child that knows his own fa- ther. Would that I were son to one who had grown old upon his own estates, for, since you ask me, there is no more ill-starred man under heaven than he who they tell me is my father.”
And Minerva said, “There is no fear of your race dying out yet, while Penelope has such a fine son as you are. But tell me, and tell me true, what is the meaning of all this feasting, and who are these people? What is it all about? Have you some banquet, or is there a wedding in the family—for no one seems to be bringing any provisions of his
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own? And the guests—how atrociously they are behaving; what riot they make over the whole house; it is enough to disgust any respectable person who comes near them.”
“Sir,” said Telemachus, “as regards your question, so long as my father was here it was well with us and with the house, but the gods in their displeasure have willed it otherwise, and have hidden him away more closely than mor- tal man was ever yet hidden. I could have borne it better even though he were dead, if he had fallen with his men before Troy, or had died with friends around him when the days of his fighting were done; for then the Achaeans would have built a mound over his ashes, and I should myself have been heir to his renown; but now the storm- winds have spirited him away we know not wither; he is gone without leaving so much as a trace behind him, and I inherit nothing but dismay. Nor does the matter end simply with grief for the loss of my father; heaven has laid sorrows upon me of yet another kind; for the chiefs from all our islands, Dulichium, Same, and the woodland island of Zacynthus, as also all the principal men of Ithaca itself, are eating up my house under the pretext of paying their court to my mother, who will neither point blank say that she will not marry, nor yet bring matters to an end; so they are making havoc of my estate, and before long will do so also with myself.”
“Is that so?” exclaimed Minerva, “then you do indeed want Ulysses home again. Give him his helmet, shield, and a couple lances, and if he is the man he was when I first knew him in our house, drinking and making merry, he would soon lay his hands about these rascally suitors, were he to stand once more upon his own threshold. He was then coming from Ephyra, where he had been to beg poison for his arrows from Ilus, son of Mermerus. Ilus feared the ever-living gods and would not give him any, but my father let him have some, for he was very fond of him. If Ulysses is the man he then was these suitors will have a short shrift and a sorry wedding.
“But there! It rests with heaven to determine whether he is to return, and take his revenge in his own house or no; I would, however, urge you to set about trying to get rid of these suitors at once. Take my advice, call the Achaean heroes in assembly to-morrow—lay your case before them, and call heaven to bear you witness. Bid the suitors take themselves off, each to his own place, and if your mother’s mind is set on marrying again, let her go back to her father, who will find her a husband and provide her with all the marriage gifts that so dear a daughter may expect. As for yourself, let me prevail upon you to take the best ship you can get, with a crew of twenty men, and go in quest of your father who has so long been missing. Some one may tell you something, or (and people often hear things in this way) some heaven-sent message may direct you. First go to Pylos and ask Nestor; thence go on to Sparta and visit Menelaus, for he got home last of all the Achaeans; if you hear that your father is alive and on his way home, you can put up with the waste these suitors will make for yet another twelve months. If on the other hand you hear of his death, come home at once, celebrate his funeral rites with all due pomp, build a barrow to his memory, and make your mother marry again. Then, having done all this, think it well over in your mind how, by fair means or foul, you may kill these suitors in your own house. You are too old to plead infancy any longer; have you not heard how people are singing Orestes’ praises for having killed his father’s murderer Aegisthus? You are a fine, smart looking fellow; show your mettle, then, and make yourself a name in story. Now, however, I must go back to my ship and to my crew, who will be impatient if I keep them waiting longer; think the matter over for yourself, and remember what I have said to you.”
“Sir,” answered Telemachus, “it has been very kind of you to talk to me in this way, as though I were your own son, and I will do all you tell me; I know you want to be getting on with your voyage, but stay a little longer till you have taken a bath and refreshed yourself. I will then give you a present, and you shall go on your way rejoicing; I will give you one of great beauty and value—a keepsake such as only dear friends give to one another.”
Minerva answered, “Do not try to keep me, for I would be on my way at once. As for any present you may be disposed to make me, keep it till I come again, and I will take it home with me. You shall give me a very good one, and I will give you one of no less value in return.”
With these words she flew away like a bird into the air, but she had given Telemachus courage, and had made him think more than ever about his father. He felt the change, wondered at it, and knew that the stranger had been a god, so he went straight to where the suitors were sitting.
Phemius was still singing, and his hearers sat rapt in silence as he told the sad tale of the return from Troy, and the ills Minerva had laid upon the Achaeans. Penelope, daughter of Icarius, heard his song from her room upstairs, and came down by the great staircase, not alone, but attended by two of her handmaids. When she reached the suit- ors she stood by one of the bearing posts that supported the roof of the cloisters with a staid maiden on either side of her. She held a veil, moreover, before her face, and was weeping bitterly.
“Phemius,” she cried, “you know many another feat of gods and heroes, such as poets love to celebrate. Sing the suitors some one of these, and let them drink their wine in silence, but cease this sad tale, for it breaks my sorrowful heart, and reminds me of my lost husband whom I mourn ever without ceasing, and whose name was great over all Hellas and middle Argos.”
“Mother,” answered Telemachus, “let the bard sing what he has a mind to; bards do not make the ills they sing of; it is Jove, not they, who makes them, and who sends weal or woe upon mankind according to his own good
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pleasure. This fellow means no harm by singing the ill-fated return of the Danaans, for people always applaud the latest songs most warmly. Make up your mind to it and bear it; Ulysses is not the only man who never came back from Troy, but many another went down as well as he. Go, then, within the house and busy yourself with your daily duties, your loom, your distaff, and the ordering of your servants; for speech is man’s matter, and mine above all others—for it is I who am master here.”
She went wondering back into the house, and laid her son’s saying in her heart. Then, going upstairs with her handmaids into her room, she mourned her dear husband till Minerva shed sweet sleep over her eyes. But the suit- ors were clamorous throughout the covered cloisters, and prayed each one that he might be her bed fellow.
Then Telemachus spoke, “Shameless,” he cried, “and insolent suitors, let us feast at our pleasure now, and let there be no brawling, for it is a rare thing to hear a man with such a divine voice as Phemius has; but in the morn- ing meet me in full assembly that I may give you formal notice to depart, and feast at one another’s houses, turn and turn about, at your own cost. If on the other hand you choose to persist in spunging upon one man, heaven help me, but Jove shall reckon with you in full, and when you fall in my father’s house there shall be no man to avenge you.”
The suitors bit their lips as they heard him, and marvelled at the boldness of his speech. Then, Antinous, son of Eupeithes, said, “The gods seem to have given you lessons in bluster and tall talking; may Jove never grant you to be chief in Ithaca as your father was before you.”
Telemachus answered, “Antinous, do not chide with me, but, god willing, I will be chief too if I can. Is this the worst fate you can think of for me? It is no bad thing to be a chief, for it brings both riches and honour. Still, now that Ulysses is dead there are many great men in Ithaca both old and young, and some other may take the lead among them; nevertheless I will be chief in my own house, and will rule those whom Ulysses has won for me.”
Then Eurymachus, son of Polybus, answered, “It rests with heaven to decide who shall be chief among us, but you shall be master in your own house and over your own possessions; no one while there is a man in Ithaca shall do you violence nor rob you. And now, my good fellow, I want to know about this stranger. What country does he come from? Of what family is he, and where is his estate? Has he brought you news about the return of your father, or was he on business of his own? He seemed a well-to-do man, but he hurried off so suddenly that he was gone in a moment before we could get to know him.”
“My father is dead and gone,” answered Telemachus, “and even if some rumour reaches me I put no more faith in it now. My mother does indeed sometimes send for a soothsayer and question him, but I give his prophecyings no heed. As for the stranger, he was Mentes, son of Anchialus, chief of the Taphians, an old friend of my father’s.” But in his heart he knew that it had been the goddess.
The suitors then returned to their singing and dancing until the evening; but when night fell upon their plea- suring they went home to bed each in his own abode. Telemachus’s room was high up in a tower that looked on to the outer court; hither, then, he hied, brooding and full of thought. A good old woman, Euryclea, daughter of Ops, the son of Pisenor, went before him with a couple of blazing torches. Laertes had bought her with his own mon- ey when she was quite young; he gave the worth of twenty oxen for her, and shewed as much respect to her in his household as he did to his own wedded wife, but he did not take her to his bed for he feared his wife’s resentment. She it was who now lighted Telemachus to his room, and she loved him better than any of the other women in the house did, for she had nursed him when he was a baby. He opened the door of his bed room and sat down upon the bed; as he took off his shirt he gave it to the good old woman, who folded it tidily up, and hung it for him over a peg by his bed side, after which she went out, pulled the door to by a silver catch, and drew the bolt home by means of the strap. But Telemachus as he lay covered with a woollen fleece kept thinking all night through of his intended voyage of the counsel that Minerva had given him.
Book II NOW when the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared, Telemachus rose and dressed himself. He
bound his sandals on to his comely feet, girded his sword about his shoulder, and left his room looking like an immortal god. He at once sent the criers round to call the people in assembly, so they called them and the people gathered thereon; then, when they were got together, he went to the place of assembly spear in hand—not alone, for his two hounds went with him. Minerva endowed him with a presence of such divine comeliness that all marvelled at him as he went by, and when he took his place’ in his father’s seat even the oldest councillors made way for him.
Aegyptius, a man bent double with age, and of infinite experience, the first to speak His son Antiphus had gone with Ulysses to Ilius, land of noble steeds, but the savage Cyclops had killed him when they were all shut up in the cave, and had cooked his last dinner for him, He had three sons left, of whom two still worked on their father’s land, while the third, Eurynomus, was one of the suitors; nevertheless their father could not get over the loss of Antiphus, and was still weeping for him when he began his speech.
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“Men of Ithaca,” he said, “hear my words. From the day Ulysses left us there has been no meeting of our coun- cillors until now; who then can it be, whether old or young, that finds it so necessary to convene us? Has he got wind of some host approaching, and does he wish to warn us, or would he speak upon some other matter of public moment? I am sure he is an excellent person, and I hope Jove will grant him his heart’s desire.”
Telemachus took this speech as of good omen and rose at once, for he was bursting with what he had to say. He stood in the middle of the assembly and the good herald Pisenor brought him his staff. Then, turning to Aegyptius, “Sir,” said he, “it is I, as you will shortly learn, who have convened you, for it is I who am the most aggrieved. I have not got wind of any host approaching about which I would warn you, nor is there any matter of public moment on which I would speak. My grieveance is purely personal, and turns on two great misfortunes which have fallen upon my house. The first of these is the loss of my excellent father, who was chief among all you here present, and was like a father to every one of you; the second is much more serious, and ere long will be the utter ruin of my estate. The sons of all the chief men among you are pestering my mother to marry them against her will. They are afraid to go to her father Icarius, asking him to choose the one he likes best, and to provide marriage gifts for his daughter, but day by day they keep hanging about my father’s house, sacrificing our oxen, sheep, and fat goats for their banquets, and never giving so much as a thought to the quantity of wine they drink. No estate can stand such recklessness; we have now no Ulysses to ward off harm from our doors, and I cannot hold my own against them. I shall never all my days be as good a man as he was, still I would indeed defend myself if I had power to do so, for I cannot stand such treatment any longer; my house is being disgraced and ruined. Have respect, therefore, to your own consciences and to public opinion. Fear, too, the wrath of heaven, lest the gods should be displeased and turn upon you. I pray you by Jove and Themis, who is the beginning and the end of councils, [do not] hold back, my friends, and leave me singlehanded — unless it be that my brave father Ulysses did some wrong to the Achaeans which you would now avenge on me, by aiding and abetting these suitors. Moreover, if I am to be eaten out of house and home at all, I had rather you did the eating yourselves, for I could then take action against you to some purpose, and serve you with notices from house to house till I got paid in full, whereas now I have no remedy.”
With this Telemachus dashed his staff to the ground and burst into tears. Every one was very sorry for him, but they all sat still and no one ventured to make him an angry answer, save only Antinous, who spoke thus:
“Telemachus, insolent braggart that you are, how dare you try to throw the blame upon us suitors? It is your mother’s fault not ours, for she is a very artful woman. This three years past, and close on four, she has been driv- ing us out of our minds, by encouraging each one of us, and sending him messages without meaning one word of what she says. And then there was that other trick she played us. She set up a great tambour frame in her room, and began to work on an enormous piece of fine needlework. ‘Sweet hearts,’ said she, ‘Ulysses is indeed dead, still do not press me to marry again immediately, wait—for I would not have skill in needlework perish unrecorded—till I have completed a pall for the hero Laertes, to be in readiness against the time when death shall take him. He is very rich, and the women of the place will talk if he is laid out without a pall.’
“This was what she said, and we assented; whereon we could see her working on her great web all day long, but at night she would unpick the stitches again by torchlight. She fooled us in this way for three years and we never found her out, but as time wore on and she was now in her fourth year, one of her maids who knew what she was doing told us, and we caught her in the act of undoing her work, so she had to finish it whether she would or no. The suitors, therefore, make you this answer, that both you and the Achaeans may understand-’Send your mother away, and bid her marry the man of her own and of her father’s choice’; for I do not know what will happen if she goes on plaguing us much longer with the airs she gives herself on the score of the accomplishments Minerva has taught her, and because she is so clever. We never yet heard of such a woman; we know all about Tyro, Alcmena, Mycene, and the famous women of old, but they were nothing to your mother, any one of them. It was not fair of her to treat us in that way, and as long as she continues in the mind with which heaven has now endowed her, so long shall we go on eating up your estate; and I do not see why she should change, for she gets all the honour and glory, and it is you who pay for it, not she. Understand, then, that we will not go back to our lands, neither here nor elsewhere, till she has made her choice and married some one or other of us.”
Telemachus answered, “Antinous, how can I drive the mother who bore me from my father’s house? My father is abroad and we do not know whether he is alive or dead. It will be hard on me if I have to pay Icarius the large sum which I must give him if I insist on sending his daughter back to him. Not only will he deal rigorously with me, but heaven will also punish me; for my mother when she leaves the house will calf on the Erinyes to avenge her; besides, it would not be a creditable thing to do, and I will have nothing to say to it. If you choose to take offence at this, leave the house and feast elsewhere at one another’s houses at your own cost turn and turn about. If, on the other hand, you elect to persist in spunging upon one man, heaven help me, but Jove shall reckon with you in full, and when you fall in my father’s house there shall be no man to avenge you.”
As he spoke Jove sent two eagles from the top of the mountain, and they flew on and on with the wind, sailing side by side in their own lordly flight. When they were right over the middle of the assembly they wheeled and cir-
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cled about, beating the air with their wings and glaring death into the eyes of them that were below; then, fighting fiercely and tearing at one another, they flew off towards the right over the town. The people wondered as they saw them, and asked each other what an this might be; whereon Halitherses, who was the best prophet and reader of omens among them, spoke to them plainly and in all honesty, saying:
“Hear me, men of Ithaca, and I speak more particularly to the suitors, for I see mischief brewing for them. Ul- ysses is not going to be away much longer; indeed he is close at hand to deal out death and destruction, not on them alone, but on many another of us who live in Ithaca. Let us then be wise in time, and put a stop to this wickedness before he comes. Let the suitors do so of their own accord; it will be better for them, for I am not prophesying without due knowledge; everything has happened to Ulysses as I foretold when the Argives set out for Troy, and he with them. I said that after going through much hardship and losing all his men he should come home again in the twentieth year and that no one would know him; and now all this is coming true.”
Eurymachus son of Polybus then said, “Go home, old man, and prophesy to your own children, or it may be worse for them. I can read these omens myself much better than you can; birds are always flying about in the sun- shine somewhere or other, but they seldom mean anything. Ulysses has died in a far country, and it is a pity you are not dead along with him, instead of prating here about omens and adding fuel to the anger of Telemachus which is fierce enough as it is. I suppose you think he will give you something for your family, but I tell you—and it shall surely be—when an old man like you, who should know better, talks a young one over till he becomes troublesome, in the first place his young friend will only fare so much the worse—he will take nothing by it, for the suitors will prevent this—and in the next, we will lay a heavier fine, sir, upon yourself than you will at all like paying, for it will bear hardly upon you. As for Telemachus, I warn him in the presence of you all to send his mother back to her father, who will find her a husband and provide her with all the marriage gifts so dear a daughter may expect. Till we shall go on harassing him with our suit; for we fear no man, and care neither for him, with all his fine speeches, nor for any fortune-telling of yours. You may preach as much as you please, but we shall only hate you the more. We shall go back and continue to eat up Telemachus’s estate without paying him, till such time as his mother leaves off tormenting us by keeping us day after day on the tiptoe of expectation, each vying with the other in his suit for a prize of such rare perfection. Besides we cannot go after the other women whom we should marry in due course, but for the way in which she treats us.”
Then Telemachus said, “Eurymachus, and you other suitors, I shall say no more, and entreat you no further, for the gods and the people of Ithaca now know my story. Give me, then, a ship and a crew of twenty men to take me hither and thither, and I will go to Sparta and to Pylos in quest of my father who has so long been missing. Some one may tell me something, or (and people often hear things in this way) some heaven-sent message may direct me. If I can hear of him as alive and on his way home I will put up with the waste you suitors will make for yet another twelve months. If on the other hand I hear of his death, I will return at once, celebrate his funeral rites with all due pomp, build a barrow to his memory, and make my mother marry again.”
With these words he sat down, and Mentor who had been a friend of Ulysses, and had been left in charge of everything with full authority over the servants, rose to speak. He, then, plainly and in all honesty addressed them thus:
“Hear me, men of Ithaca, I hope that you may never have a kind and well-disposed ruler any more, nor one who will govern you equitably; I hope that all your chiefs henceforward may be cruel and unjust, for there is not one of you but has forgotten Ulysses, who ruled you as though he were your father. I am not half so angry with the suitors, for if they choose to do violence in the naughtiness of their hearts, and wager their heads that Ulysses will not return, they can take the high hand and eat up his estate, but as for you others I am shocked at the way in which you all sit still without even trying to stop such scandalous goings on-which you could do if you chose, for you are many and they are few.”
Leiocritus, son of Evenor, answered him saying, “Mentor, what folly is all this, that you should set the people to stay us? It is a hard thing for one man to fight with many about his victuals. Even though Ulysses himself were to set upon us while we are feasting in his house, and do his best to oust us, his wife, who wants him back so very badly, would have small cause for rejoicing, and his blood would be upon his own head if he fought against such great odds. There is no sense in what you have been saying. Now, therefore, do you people go about your business, and let his father’s old friends, Mentor and Halitherses, speed this boy on his journey, if he goes at all—which I do not think he will, for he is more likely to stay where he is till some one comes and tells him something.”
On this he broke up the assembly, and every man went back to his own abode, while the suitors returned to the house of Ulysses.
Then Telemachus went all alone by the sea side, washed his hands in the grey waves, and prayed to Minerva. “Hear me,” he cried, “you god who visited me yesterday, and bade me sail the seas in search of my father who
has so long been missing. I would obey you, but the Achaeans, and more particularly the wicked suitors, are hinder- ing me that I cannot do so.”
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As he thus prayed, Minerva came close up to him in the likeness and with the voice of Mentor. “Telemachus,” said she, “if you are made of the same stuff as your father you will be neither fool nor coward henceforward, for Ul- ysses never broke his word nor left his work half done. If, then, you take after him, your voyage will not be fruitless, but unless you have the blood of Ulysses and of Penelope in your veins I see no likelihood of your succeeding. Sons are seldom as good men as their fathers; they are generally worse, not better; still, as you are not going to be either fool or coward henceforward, and are not entirely without some share of your father’s wise discernment, I look with hope upon your undertaking. But mind you never make common cause with any of those foolish suitors, for they have neither sense nor virtue, and give no thought to death and to the doom that will shortly fall on one and all of them, so that they shall perish on the same day. As for your voyage, it shall not be long delayed; your father was such an old friend of mine that I will find you a ship, and will come with you myself. Now, however, return home, and go about among the suitors; begin getting provisions ready for your voyage; see everything well stowed, the wine in jars, and the barley meal, which is the staff of life, in leathern bags, while I go round the town and beat up volunteers at once. There are many ships in Ithaca both old and new; I will run my eye over them for you and will choose the best; we will get her ready and will put out to sea without delay.”
Thus spoke Minerva daughter of Jove, and Telemachus lost no time in doing as the goddess told him. He went moodily and found the suitors flaying goats and singeing pigs in the outer court. Antinous came up to him at once and laughed as he took his hand in his own, saying, “Telemachus, my fine fire-eater, bear no more ill blood neither in word nor deed, but eat and drink with us as you used to do. The Achaeans will find you in everything—a ship and a picked crew to boot—so that you can set sail for Pylos at once and get news of your noble father.”
“Antinous,” answered Telemachus, “I cannot eat in peace, nor take pleasure of any kind with such men as you are. Was it not enough that you should waste so much good property of mine while I was yet a boy? Now that I am older and know more about it, I am also stronger, and whether here among this people, or by going to Pylos, I will do you all the harm I can. I shall go, and my going will not be in vain though, thanks to you suitors, I have neither ship nor crew of my own, and must be passenger not captain.”
As he spoke he snatched his hand from that of Antinous. Meanwhile the others went on getting dinner ready about the buildings, jeering at him tauntingly as they did so.
“Telemachus,” said one youngster, “means to be the death of us; I suppose he thinks he can bring friends to help him from Pylos, or again from Sparta, where he seems bent on going. Or will he go to Ephyra as well, for poison to put in our wine and kill us?”
Another said, “Perhaps if Telemachus goes on board ship, he will be like his father and perish far from his friends. In this case we should have plenty to do, for we could then divide up his property amongst us: as for the house we can let his mother and the man who marries her have that.”
This was how they talked. But Telemachus went down into the lofty and spacious store-room where his father’s treasure of gold and bronze lay heaped up upon the floor, and where the linen and spare clothes were kept in open chests. Here, too, there was a store of fragrant olive oil, while casks of old, well-ripened wine, unblended and fit for a god to drink, were ranged against the wall in case Ulysses should come home again after all. The room was closed with well-made doors opening in the middle; moreover the faithful old house-keeper Euryclea, daughter of Ops the son of Pisenor, was in charge of everything both night and day. Telemachus called her to the store-room and said:
“Nurse, draw me off some of the best wine you have, after what you are keeping for my father’s own drinking, in case, poor man, he should escape death, and find his way home again after all. Let me have twelve jars, and see that they all have lids; also fill me some well-sewn leathern bags with barley meal—about twenty measures in all. Get these things put together at once, and say nothing about it. I will take everything away this evening as soon as my mother has gone upstairs for the night. I am going to Sparta and to Pylos to see if I can hear anything about the return of my dear father.
When Euryclea heard this she began to cry, and spoke fondly to him, saying, “My dear child, what ever can have put such notion as that into your head? Where in the world do you want to go to—you, who are the one hope of the house? Your poor father is dead and gone in some foreign country nobody knows where, and as soon as your back is turned these wicked ones here will be scheming to get you put out of the way, and will share all your posses- sions among themselves; stay where you are among your own people, and do not go wandering and worrying your life out on the barren ocean.”
“Fear not, nurse,” answered Telemachus, “my scheme is not without heaven’s sanction; but swear that you will say nothing about all this to my mother, till I have been away some ten or twelve days, unless she hears of my hav- ing gone, and asks you; for I do not want her to spoil her beauty by crying.”
The old woman swore most solemnly that she would not, and when she had completed her oath, she began drawing off the wine into jars, and getting the barley meal into the bags, while Telemachus went back to the suitors.
Then Minerva bethought her of another matter. She took his shape, and went round the town to each one of the crew, telling them to meet at the ship by sundown. She went also to Noemon son of Phronius, and asked him to let
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her have a ship—which he was very ready to do. When the sun had set and darkness was over all the land, she got the ship into the water, put all the tackle on board her that ships generally carry, and stationed her at the end of the harbour. Presently the crew came up, and the goddess spoke encouragingly to each of them.
Furthermore she went to the house of Ulysses, and threw the suitors into a deep slumber. She caused their drink to fuddle them, and made them drop their cups from their hands, so that instead of sitting over their wine, they went back into the town to sleep, with their eyes heavy and full of drowsiness. Then she took the form and voice of Mentor, and called Telemachus to come outside.
“Telemachus,” said she, “the men are on board and at their oars, waiting for you to give your orders, so make haste and let us be off.”
On this she led the way, while Telemachus followed in her steps. When they got to the ship they found the crew waiting by the water side, and Telemachus said, “Now my men, help me to get the stores on board; they are all put together in the cloister, and my mother does not know anything about it, nor any of the maid servants except one.”
With these words he led the way and the others followed after. When they had brought the things as he told them, Telemachus went on board, Minerva going before him and taking her seat in the stern of the vessel, while Telemachus sat beside her. Then the men loosed the hawsers and took their places on the benches. Minerva sent them a fair wind from the West, that whistled over the deep blue waves whereon Telemachus told them to catch hold of the ropes and hoist sail, and they did as he told them. They set the mast in its socket in the cross plank, raised it, and made it fast with the forestays; then they hoisted their white sails aloft with ropes of twisted ox hide. As the sail bellied out with the wind, the ship flew through the deep blue water, and the foam hissed against her bows as she sped onward. Then they made all fast throughout the ship, filled the mixing-bowls to the brim, and made drink offerings to the immortal gods that are from everlasting, but more particularly to the grey-eyed daugh- ter of Jove.
Thus, then, the ship sped on her way through the watches of the night from dark till dawn.
Book III BUT as the sun was rising from the fair sea into the firmament of heaven to shed Blight on mortals and immor-
tals, they reached Pylos the city of Neleus. Now the people of Pylos were gathered on the sea shore to offer sacrifice of black bulls to Neptune lord of the Earthquake. There were nine guilds with five hundred men in each, and there were nine bulls to each guild. As they were eating the inward meats and burning the thigh bones [on the embers] in the name of Neptune, Telemachus and his crew arrived, furled their sails, brought their ship to anchor, and went ashore.
Minerva led the way and Telemachus followed her. Presently she said, “Telemachus, you must not be in the least shy or nervous; you have taken this voyage to try and find out where your father is buried and how he came by his end; so go straight up to Nestor that we may see what he has got to tell us. Beg of him to speak the truth, and he will tell no lies, for he is an excellent person.”
“But how, Mentor,” replied Telemachus, “dare I go up to Nestor, and how am I to address him? I have never yet been used to holding long conversations with people, and am ashamed to begin questioning one who is so much older than myself.”
“Some things, Telemachus,” answered Minerva, “will be suggested to you by your own instinct, and heaven will prompt you further; for I am assured that the gods have been with you from the time of your birth until now.”
She then went quickly on, and Telemachus followed in her steps till they reached the place where the guilds of the Pylian people were assembled. There they found Nestor sitting with his sons, while his company round him were busy getting dinner ready, and putting pieces of meat on to the spits while other pieces were cooking. When they saw the strangers they crowded round them, took them by the hand and bade them take their places. Nestor’s son Pisistratus at once offered his hand to each of them, and seated them on some soft sheepskins that were lying on the sands near his father and his brother Thrasymedes. Then he gave them their portions of the inward meats and poured wine for them into a golden cup, handing it to Minerva first, and saluting her at the same time.
“Offer a prayer, sir,” said he, “to King Neptune, for it is his feast that you are joining; when you have duly prayed and made your drink-offering, pass the cup to your friend that he may do so also. I doubt not that he too lifts his hands in prayer, for man cannot live without God in the world. Still he is younger than you are, and is much of an age with myself, so I he handed I will give you the precedence.”
As he spoke he handed her the cup. Minerva thought it very right and proper of him to have given it to herself first; she accordingly began praying heartily to Neptune. “O thou,” she cried, “that encirclest the earth, vouchsafe to grant the prayers of thy servants that call upon thee. More especially we pray thee send down thy grace on Nestor and on his sons; thereafter also make the rest of the Pylian people some handsome return for the goodly hecatomb they are offering you. Lastly, grant Telemachus and myself a happy issue, in respect of the matter that has brought
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us in our to Pylos.” When she had thus made an end of praying, she handed the cup to Telemachus and he prayed likewise. By and
by, when the outer meats were roasted and had been taken off the spits, the carvers gave every man his portion and they all made an excellent dinner. As soon as they had had enough to eat and drink, Nestor, knight of Gerene, began to speak.
“Now,” said he, “that our guests have done their dinner, it will be best to ask them who they are. Who, then, sir strangers, are you, and from what port have you sailed? Are you traders? or do you sail the seas as rovers with your hand against every man, and every man’s hand against you?”
Telemachus answered boldly, for Minerva had given him courage to ask about his father and get himself a good name.
“Nestor,” said he, “son of Neleus, honour to the Achaean name, you ask whence we come, and I will tell you. We come from Ithaca under Neritum, and the matter about which I would speak is of private not public import. I seek news of my unhappy father Ulysses, who is said to have sacked the town of Troy in company with yourself. We know what fate befell each one of the other heroes who fought at Troy, but as regards Ulysses heaven has hid- den from us the knowledge even that he is dead at all, for no one can certify us in what place he perished, nor say whether he fell in battle on the mainland, or was lost at sea amid the waves of Amphitrite. Therefore I am suppliant at your knees, if haply you may be pleased to tell me of his melancholy end, whether you saw it with your own eyes, or heard it from some other traveller, for he was a man born to trouble. Do not soften things out of any pity for me, but tell me in all plainness exactly what you saw. If my brave father Ulysses ever did you loyal service, either by word or deed, when you Achaeans were harassed among the Trojans, bear it in mind now as in my favour and tell me truly all.”
“My friend,” answered Nestor, “you recall a time of much sorrow to my mind, for the brave Achaeans suffered much both at sea, while privateering under Achilles, and when fighting before the great city of king Priam. Our best men all of them fell there—Ajax, Achilles, Patroclus peer of gods in counsel, and my own dear son Antilochus, a man singularly fleet of foot and in fight valiant. But we suffered much more than this; what mortal tongue indeed could tell the whole story? Though you were to stay here and question me for five years, or even six, I could not tell you all that the Achaeans suffered, and you would turn homeward weary of my tale before it ended. Nine long years did we try every kind of stratagem, but the hand of heaven was against us; during all this time there was no one who could compare with your father in subtlety—if indeed you are his son—I can hardly believe my eyes—and you talk just like him too—no one would say that people of such different ages could speak so much alike. He and I nev- er had any kind of difference from first to last neither in camp nor council, but in singleness of heart and purpose we advised the Argives how all might be ordered for the best.
“When however, we had sacked the city of Priam, and were setting sail in our ships as heaven had dispersed us, then Jove saw fit to vex the Argives on their homeward voyage; for they had Not all been either wise or understand- ing, and hence many came to a bad end through the displeasure of Jove’s daughter Minerva, who brought about a quarrel between the two sons of Atreus.
“The sons of Atreus called a meeting which was not as it should be, for it was sunset and the Achaeans were heavy with wine. When they explained why they had called—the people together, it seemed that Menelaus was for sailing homeward at once, and this displeased Agamemnon, who thought that we should wait till we had offered hecatombs to appease the anger of Minerva. Fool that he was, he might have known that he would not prevail with her, for when the gods have made up their minds they do not change them lightly. So the two stood bandying hard words, whereon the Achaeans sprang to their feet with a cry that rent the air, and were of two minds as to what they should do.
“That night we rested and nursed our anger, for Jove was hatching mischief against us. But in the morning some of us drew our ships into the water and put our goods with our women on board, while the rest, about half in number, stayed behind with Agamemnon. We—the other half—embarked and sailed; and the ships went well, for heaven had smoothed the sea. When we reached Tenedos we offered sacrifices to the gods, for we were longing to get home; cruel Jove, however, did not yet mean that we should do so, and raised a second quarrel in the course of which some among us turned their ships back again, and sailed away under Ulysses to make their peace with Agamemnon; but I, and all the ships that were with me pressed forward, for I saw that mischief was brewing. The son of Tydeus went on also with me, and his crews with him. Later on Menelaus joined us at Lesbos, and found us making up our minds about our course—for we did not know whether to go outside Chios by the island of Psyra, keeping this to our left, or inside Chios, over against the stormy headland of Mimas. So we asked heaven for a sign, and were shown one to the effect that we should be soonest out of danger if we headed our ships across the open sea to Euboea. This we therefore did, and a fair wind sprang up which gave us a quick passage during the night to Ger- aestus, where we offered many sacrifices to Neptune for having helped us so far on our way. Four days later Diomed and his men stationed their ships in Argos, but I held on for Pylos, and the wind never fell light from the day when
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heaven first made it fair for me. “Therefore, my dear young friend, I returned without hearing anything about the others. I know neither who
got home safely nor who were lost but, as in duty bound, I will give you without reserve the reports that have reached me since I have been here in my own house. They say the Myrmidons returned home safely under Achilles’ son Neoptolemus; so also did the valiant son of Poias, Philoctetes. Idomeneus, again, lost no men at sea, and all his followers who escaped death in the field got safe home with him to Crete. No matter how far out of the world you live, you will have heard of Agamemnon and the bad end he came to at the hands of Aegisthus—and a fearful reck- oning did Aegisthus presently pay. See what a good thing it is for a man to leave a son behind him to do as Orestes did, who killed false Aegisthus the murderer of his noble father. You too, then—for you are a tall, smart-looking fellow—show your mettle and make yourself a name in story.”
“Nestor son of Neleus,” answered Telemachus, “honour to the Achaean name, the Achaeans applaud Orestes and his name will live through all time for he has avenged his father nobly. Would that heaven might grant me to do like vengeance on the insolence of the wicked suitors, who are ill treating me and plotting my ruin; but the gods have no such happiness in store for me and for my father, so we must bear it as best we may.”
“My friend,” said Nestor, “now that you remind me, I remember to have heard that your mother has many suitors, who are ill disposed towards you and are making havoc of your estate. Do you submit to this tamely, or are public feeling and the voice of heaven against you? Who knows but what Ulysses may come back after all, and pay these scoundrels in full, either single-handed or with a force of Achaeans behind him? If Minerva were to take as great a liking to you as she did to Ulysses when we were fighting before Troy (for I never yet saw the gods so openly fond of any one as Minerva then was of your father), if she would take as good care of you as she did of him, these wooers would soon some of them him, forget their wooing.”
Telemachus answered, “I can expect nothing of the kind; it would be far too much to hope for. I dare not let myself think of it. Even though the gods themselves willed it no such good fortune could befall me.”
On this Minerva said, “Telemachus, what are you talking about? Heaven has a long arm if it is minded to save a man; and if it were me, I should not care how much I suffered before getting home, provided I could be safe when I was once there. I would rather this, than get home quickly, and then be killed in my own house as Agamemnon was by the treachery of Aegisthus and his wife. Still, death is certain, and when a man’s hour is come, not even the gods can save him, no matter how fond they are of him.”
“Mentor,” answered Telemachus, “do not let us talk about it any more. There is no chance of my father’s ever coming back; the gods have long since counselled his destruction. There is something else, however, about which I should like to ask Nestor, for he knows much more than any one else does. They say he has reigned for three generations so that it is like talking to an immortal. Tell me, therefore, Nestor, and tell me true; how did Agamem- non come to die in that way? What was Menelaus doing? And how came false Aegisthus to kill so far better a man than himself ? Was Menelaus away from Achaean Argos, voyaging elsewhither among mankind, that Aegisthus took heart and killed Agamemnon?”
“I will tell you truly,” answered Nestor, “and indeed you have yourself divined how it all happened. If Menelaus when he got back from Troy had found Aegisthus still alive in his house, there would have been no barrow heaped up for him, not even when he was dead, but he would have been thrown outside the city to dogs and vultures, and not a woman would have mourned him, for he had done a deed of great wickedness; but we were over there, fight- ing hard at Troy, and Aegisthus who was taking his ease quietly in the heart of Argos, cajoled Agamemnon’s wife Clytemnestra with incessant flattery.
“At first she would have nothing to do with his wicked scheme, for she was of a good natural disposition; more- over there was a bard with her, to whom Agamemnon had given strict orders on setting out for Troy, that he was to keep guard over his wife; but when heaven had counselled her destruction, Aegisthus thus this bard off to a desert island and left him there for crows and seagulls to batten upon—after which she went willingly enough to the house of Aegisthus. Then he offered many burnt sacrifices to the gods, and decorated many temples with tapestries and gilding, for he had succeeded far beyond his expectations.
“Meanwhile Menelaus and I were on our way home from Troy, on good terms with one another. When we got to Sunium, which is the point of Athens, Apollo with his painless shafts killed Phrontis the steersman of Menelaus’ ship (and never man knew better how to handle a vessel in rough weather) so that he died then and there with the helm in his hand, and Menelaus, though very anxious to press forward, had to wait in order to bury his comrade and give him his due funeral rites. Presently, when he too could put to sea again, and had sailed on as far as the Malean heads, Jove counselled evil against him and made it it blow hard till the waves ran mountains high. Here he divided his fleet and took the one half towards Crete where the Cydonians dwell round about the waters of the river Iardanus. There is a high headland hereabouts stretching out into the sea from a place called Gortyn, and all along this part of the coast as far as Phaestus the sea runs high when there is a south wind blowing, but arter Phaestus the coast is more protected, for a small headland can make a great shelter. Here this part of the fleet was driven on to
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the rocks and wrecked; but the crews just managed to save themselves. As for the other five ships, they were taken by winds and seas to Egypt, where Menelaus gathered much gold and substance among people of an alien speech. Meanwhile Aegisthus here at home plotted his evil deed. For seven years after he had killed Agamemnon he ruled in Mycene, and the people were obedient under him, but in the eighth year Orestes came back from Athens to be his bane, and killed the murderer of his father. Then he celebrated the funeral rites of his mother and of false Aeg- isthus by a banquet to the people of Argos, and on that very day Menelaus came home, with as much treasure as his ships could carry.
“Take my advice then, and do not go travelling about for long so far from home, nor leave your property with such dangerous people in your house; they will eat up everything you have among them, and you will have been on a fool’s errand. Still, I should advise you by all means to go and visit Menelaus, who has lately come off a voyage among such distant peoples as no man could ever hope to get back from, when the winds had once carried him so far out of his reckoning; even birds cannot fly the distance in a twelvemonth, so vast and terrible are the seas that they must cross. Go to him, therefore, by sea, and take your own men with you; or if you would rather travel by land you can have a chariot, you can have horses, and here are my sons who can escort you to Lacedaemon where Menelaus lives. Beg of him to speak the truth, and he will tell you no lies, for he is an excellent person.”
As he spoke the sun set and it came on dark, whereon Minerva said, “Sir, all that you have said is well; now, however, order the tongues of the victims to be cut, and mix wine that we may make drink-offerings to Neptune, and the other immortals, and then go to bed, for it is bed time. People should go away early and not keep late hours at a religious festival.”
Thus spoke the daughter of Jove, and they obeyed her saying. Men servants poured water over the hands of the guests, while pages filled the mixing-bowls with wine and water, and handed it round after giving every man his drink-offering; then they threw the tongues of the victims into the fire, and stood up to make their drink-offerings. When they had made their offerings and had drunk each as much as he was minded, Minerva and Telemachus were forgoing on board their ship, but Nestor caught them up at once and stayed them.
“Heaven and the immortal gods,” he exclaimed, “forbid that you should leave my house to go on board of a ship. Do you think I am so poor and short of clothes, or that I have so few cloaks and as to be unable to find com- fortable beds both for myself and for my guests? Let me tell you I have store both of rugs and cloaks, and shall not permit the son of my old friend Ulysses to camp down on the deck of a ship—not while I live—nor yet will my sons after me, but they will keep open house as have done.”
Then Minerva answered, “Sir, you have spoken well, and it will be much better that Telemachus should do as you have said; he, therefore, shall return with you and sleep at your house, but I must go back to give orders to my crew, and keep them in good heart. I am the only older person among them; the rest are all young men of Telema- chus’ own age, who have taken this voyage out of friendship; so I must return to the ship and sleep there. Moreover to-morrow I must go to the Cauconians where I have a large sum of money long owing to me. As for Telemachus, now that he is your guest, send him to Lacedaemon in a chariot, and let one of your sons go with him. Be pleased also to provide him with your best and fleetest horses.”
When she had thus spoken, she flew away in the form of an eagle, and all marvelled as they beheld it. Nestor was astonished, and took Telemachus by the hand. “My friend,” said he, “I see that you are going to be a great hero some day, since the gods wait upon you thus while you are still so young. This can have been none other of those who dwell in heaven than Jove’s redoubtable daughter, the Trito-born, who showed such favour towards your brave father among the Argives.” “Holy queen,” he continued, “vouchsafe to send down thy grace upon myself, my good wife, and my children. In return, I will offer you in sacrifice a broad-browed heifer of a year old, unbroken, and never yet brought by man under the yoke. I will gild her horns, and will offer her up to you in sacrifice.”
Thus did he pray, and Minerva heard his prayer. He then led the way to his own house, followed by his sons and sons-in-law. When they had got there and had taken their places on the benches and seats, he mixed them a bowl of sweet wine that was eleven years old when the housekeeper took the lid off the jar that held it. As he mixed the wine, he prayed much and made drink-offerings to Minerva, daughter of Aegis-bearing Jove. Then, when they had made their drink-offerings and had drunk each as much as he was minded, the others went home to bed each in his own abode; but Nestor put Telemachus to sleep in the room that was over the gateway along with Pisistratus, who was the only unmarried son now left him. As for himself, he slept in an inner room of the house, with the queen his wife by his side.
Now when the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared, Nestor left his couch and took his seat on the benches of white and polished marble that stood in front of his house. Here aforetime sat Neleus, peer of gods in counsel, but he was now dead, and had gone to the house of Hades; so Nestor sat in his seat, sceptre in hand, as guardian of the public weal. His sons as they left their rooms gathered round him, Echephron, Stratius, Perseus, Aretus, and Thrasymedes; the sixth son was Pisistratus, and when Telemachus joined them they made him sit with them. Nestor then addressed them.
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“My sons,” said he, “make haste to do as I shall bid you. I wish first and foremost to propitiate the great goddess Minerva, who manifested herself visibly to me during yesterday’s festivities. Go, then, one or other of you to the plain, tell the stockman to look me out a heifer, and come on here with it at once. Another must go to Telemachus’s ship, and invite all the crew, leaving two men only in charge of the vessel. Some one else will run and fetch Laerceus the goldsmith to gild the horns of the heifer. The rest, stay all of you where you are; tell the maids in the house to prepare an excellent dinner, and to fetch seats, and logs of wood for a burnt offering. Tell them also—to bring me some clear spring water.”
On this they hurried off on their several errands. The heifer was brought in from the plain, and Telemachus’s crew came from the ship; the goldsmith brought the anvil, hammer, and tongs, with which he worked his gold, and Minerva herself came to the sacrifice. Nestor gave out the gold, and the smith gilded the horns of the heifer that the goddess might have pleasure in their beauty. Then Stratius and Echephron brought her in by the horns; Aretus fetched water from the house in a ewer that had a flower pattern on it, and in his other hand he held a basket of barley meal; sturdy Thrasymedes stood by with a sharp axe, ready to strike the heifer, while Perseus held a bucket. Then Nestor began with washing his hands and sprinkling the barley meal, and he offered many a prayer to Miner- va as he threw a lock from the heifer’s head upon the fire.
When they had done praying and sprinkling the barley meal Thrasymedes dealt his blow, and brought the heifer down with a stroke that cut through the tendons at the base of her neck, whereon the daughters and daugh- ters-in-law of Nestor, and his venerable wife Eurydice (she was eldest daughter to Clymenus) screamed with delight. Then they lifted the heifer’s head from off the ground, and Pisistratus cut her throat. When she had done bleeding and was quite dead, they cut her up. They cut out the thigh bones all in due course, wrapped them round in two layers of fat, and set some pieces of raw meat on the top of them; then Nestor laid them upon the wood fire and poured wine over them, while the young men stood near him with five-pronged spits in their hands. When the thighs were burned and they had tasted the inward meats, they cut the rest of the meat up small, put the pieces on the spits and toasted them over the fire.
Meanwhile lovely Polycaste, Nestor’s youngest daughter, washed Telemachus. When she had washed him and anointed him with oil, she brought him a fair mantle and shirt, and he looked like a god as he came from the bath and took his seat by the side of Nestor. When the outer meats were done they drew them off the spits and sat down to dinner where they were waited upon by some worthy henchmen, who kept pouring them out their wine in cups of gold. As soon as they had had had enough to eat and drink Nestor said, “Sons, put Telemachus’s horses to the chariot that he may start at once.”
Thus did he speak, and they did even as he had said, and yoked the fleet horses to the chariot. The housekeeper packed them up a provision of bread, wine, and sweetmeats fit for the sons of princes. Then Telemachus got into the chariot, while Pisistratus gathered up the reins and took his seat beside him. He lashed the horses on and they flew forward nothing loth into the open country, leaving the high citadel of Pylos behind them. All that day did they travel, swaying the yoke upon their necks till the sun went down and darkness was over all the land. Then they reached Pherae where Diocles lived, who was son to Ortilochus and grandson to Alpheus. Here they passed the night and Diocles entertained them hospitably. When the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn; appeared, they again yoked their horses and drove out through the gateway under the echoing gatehouse. Pisistratus lashed the horses on and they flew forward nothing loth; presently they came to the corn lands Of the open country, and in the course of time completed their journey, so well did their steeds take them.
Now when the sun had set and darkness was over the land,
Book IV THEY reached the low lying city of Lacedaemon them where they drove straight to the of abode Menelaus [and
found him in his own house, feasting with his many clansmen in honour of the wedding of his son, and also of his daughter, whom he was marrying to the son of that valiant warrior Achilles. He had given his consent and prom- ised her to him while he was still at Troy, and now the gods were bringing the marriage about; so he was sending her with chariots and horses to the city of the Myrmidons over whom Achilles’ son was reigning. For his only son he had found a bride from Sparta, daughter of Alector. This son, Megapenthes, was born to him of a bondwoman, for heaven vouchsafed Helen no more children after she had borne Hermione, who was fair as golden Venus her- self.
So the neighbours and kinsmen of Menelaus were feasting and making merry in his house. There was a bard also to sing to them and play his lyre, while two tumblers went about performing in the midst of them when the man struck up with his tune.]
Telemachus and the son of Nestor stayed their horses at the gate, whereon Eteoneus servant to Menelaus came out, and as soon as he saw them ran hurrying back into the house to tell his Master. He went close up to him and
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said, “Menelaus, there are some strangers come here, two men, who look like sons of Jove. What are we to do? Shall we take their horses out, or tell them to find friends elsewhere as they best can?”
Menelaus was very angry and said, “Eteoneus, son of Boethous, you never used to be a fool, but now you talk like a simpleton. Take their horses out, of course, and show the strangers in that they may have supper; you and I have stayed often enough at other people’s houses before we got back here, where heaven grant that we may rest in peace henceforward.”
So Eteoneus bustled back and bade other servants come with him. They took their sweating hands from under the yoke, made them fast to the mangers, and gave them a feed of oats and barley mixed. Then they leaned the char- iot against the end wall of the courtyard, and led the way into the house. Telemachus and Pisistratus were aston- ished when they saw it, for its splendour was as that of the sun and moon; then, when they had admired everything to their heart’s content, they went into the bath room and washed themselves.
When the servants had washed them and anointed them with oil, they brought them woollen cloaks and shirts, and the two took their seats by the side of Menelaus. A maidservant brought them water in a beautiful golden ewer, and poured it into a silver basin for them to wash their hands; and she drew a clean table beside them. An upper servant brought them bread, and offered them many good things of what there was in the house, while the carver fetched them plates of all manner of meats and set cups of gold by their side.
Menelaus then greeted them saying, “Fall to, and welcome; when you have done supper I shall ask who you are, for the lineage of such men as you cannot have been lost. You must be descended from a line of sceptre-bearing kings, for poor people do not have such sons as you are.”
On this he handed them a piece of fat roast loin, which had been set near him as being a prime part, and they laid their hands on the good things that were before them; as soon as they had had enough to eat and drink, Telemachus said to the son of Nestor, with his head so close that no one might hear, “Look, Pisistratus, man after my own heart, see the gleam of bronze and gold—of amber, ivory, and silver. Everything is so splendid that it is like seeing the palace of Olympian Jove. I am lost in admiration.”
Menelaus overheard him and said, “No one, my sons, can hold his own with Jove, for his house and everything about him is immortal; but among mortal men—well, there may be another who has as much wealth as I have, or there may not; but at all events I have travelled much and have undergone much hardship, for it was nearly eight years before I could get home with my fleet. I went to Cyprus, Phoenicia and the Egyptians; I went also to the Ethi- opians, the Sidonians, and the Erembians, and to Libya where the lambs have horns as soon as they are born, and the sheep lamb down three times a year. Every one in that country, whether master or man, has plenty of cheese, meat, and good milk, for the ewes yield all the year round. But while I was travelling and getting great riches among these people, my brother was secretly and shockingly murdered through the perfidy of his wicked wife, so that I have no pleasure in being lord of all this wealth. Whoever your parents may be they must have told you about all this, and of my heavy loss in the ruin of a stately mansion fully and magnificently furnished. Would that I had only a third of what I now have so that I had stayed at home, and all those were living who perished on the plain of Troy, far from Argos. I of grieve, as I sit here in my house, for one and all of them. At times I cry aloud for sorrow, but presently I leave off again, for crying is cold comfort and one soon tires of it. Yet grieve for these as I may, I do so for one man more than for them all. I cannot even think of him without loathing both food and sleep, so miserable does he make me, for no one of all the Achaeans worked so hard or risked so much as he did. He took nothing by it, and has left a legacy of sorrow to myself, for he has been gone a long time, and we know not whether he is alive or dead. His old father, his long-suffering wife Penelope, and his son Telemachus, whom he left behind him an infant in arms, are plunged in grief on his account.”
Thus spoke Menelaus, and the heart of Telemachus yearned as he bethought him of his father. Tears fell from his eyes as he heard him thus mentioned, so that he held his cloak before his face with both hands. When Menelaus saw this he doubted whether to let him choose his own time for speaking, or to ask him at once and find what it was all about.
While he was thus in two minds Helen came down from her high vaulted and perfumed room, looking as lovely as Diana herself. Adraste brought her a seat, Alcippe a soft woollen rug while Phylo fetched her the silver work-box which Alcandra wife of Polybus had given her. Polybus lived in Egyptian Thebes, which is the richest city in the whole world; he gave Menelaus two baths, both of pure silver, two tripods, and ten talents of gold; besides all this, his wife gave Helen some beautiful presents, to wit, a golden distaff, and a silver work-box that ran on wheels, with a gold band round the top of it. Phylo now placed this by her side, full of fine spun yarn, and a distaff charged with violet coloured wool was laid upon the top of it. Then Helen took her seat, put her feet upon the footstool, and began to question her husband.
“Do we know, Menelaus,” said she, “the names of these strangers who have come to visit us? Shall I guess right or wrong?—but I cannot help saying what I think. Never yet have I seen either man or woman so like somebody else (indeed when I look at him I hardly know what to think) as this young man is like Telemachus, whom Ulyss-
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es left as a baby behind him, when you Achaeans went to Troy with battle in your hearts, on account of my most shameless self.”
“My dear wife,” replied Menelaus, “I see the likeness just as you do. His hands and feet are just like Ulysses’; so is his hair, with the shape of his head and the expression of his eyes. Moreover, when I was talking about Ulysses, and saying how much he had suffered on my account, tears fell from his eyes, and he hid his face in his mantle.”
Then Pisistratus said, “Menelaus, son of Atreus, you are right in thinking that this young man is Telemachus, but he is very modest, and is ashamed to come here and begin opening up discourse with one whose conversation is so divinely interesting as your own. My father, Nestor, sent me to escort him hither, for he wanted to know wheth- er you could give him any counsel or suggestion. A son has always trouble at home when his father has gone away leaving him without supporters; and this is how Telemachus is now placed, for his father is absent, and there is no one among his own people to stand by him.”
“Bless my heart,” replied Menelaus, “then I am receiving a visit from the son of a very dear friend, who suf- fered much hardship for my sake. I had always hoped to entertain him with most marked distinction when heaven had granted us a safe return from beyond the seas. I should have founded a city for him in Argos, and built him a house. I should have made him leave Ithaca with his goods, his son, and all his people, and should have sacked for them some one of the neighbouring cities that are subject to me. We should thus have seen one another continually, and nothing but death could have interrupted so close and happy an intercourse. I suppose, however, that heaven grudged us such great good fortune, for it has prevented the poor fellow from ever getting home at all.”
Thus did he speak, and his words set them all a weeping. Helen wept, Telemachus wept, and so did Menelaus, nor could Pisistratus keep his eyes from filling, when he remembered his dear brother Antilochus whom the son of bright Dawn had killed. Thereon he said to Menelaus,
“Sir, my father Nestor, when we used to talk about you at home, told me you were a person of rare and excel- lent understanding. If, then, it be possible, do as I would urge you. I am not fond of crying while I am getting my supper. Morning will come in due course, and in the forenoon I care not how much I cry for those that are dead and gone. This is all we can do for the poor things. We can only shave our heads for them and wring the tears from our cheeks. I had a brother who died at Troy; he was by no means the worst man there; you are sure to have known him—his name was Antilochus; I never set eyes upon him myself, but they say that he was singularly fleet of foot and in fight valiant.”
“Your discretion, my friend,” answered Menelaus, “is beyond your years. It is plain you take after your father. One can soon see when a man is son to one whom heaven has blessed both as regards wife and offspring—and it has blessed Nestor from first to last all his days, giving him a green old age in his own house, with sons about him who are both we disposed and valiant. We will put an end therefore to all this weeping, and attend to our supper again. Let water be poured over our hands. Telemachus and I can talk with one another fully in the morning.”
On this Asphalion, one of the servants, poured water over their hands and they laid their hands on the good things that were before them.
Then Jove’s daughter Helen bethought her of another matter. She drugged the wine with an herb that banishes all care, sorrow, and ill humour. Whoever drinks wine thus drugged cannot shed a single tear all the rest of the day, not even though his father and mother both of them drop down dead, or he sees a brother or a son hewn in pieces before his very eyes. This drug, of such sovereign power and virtue, had been given to Helen by Polydamna wife of Thon, a woman of Egypt, where there grow all sorts of herbs, some good to put into the mixing-bowl and others poisonous. Moreover, every one in the whole country is a skilled physician, for they are of the race of Paeeon. When Helen had put this drug in the bowl, and had told the servants to serve the wine round, she said:
“Menelaus, son of Atreus, and you my good friends, sons of honourable men (which is as Jove wills, for he is the giver both of good and evil, and can do what he chooses), feast here as you will, and listen while I tell you a tale in season. I cannot indeed name every single one of the exploits of Ulysses, but I can say what he did when he was before Troy, and you Achaeans were in all sorts of difficulties. He covered himself with wounds and bruises, dressed himself all in rags, and entered the enemy’s city looking like a menial or a beggar. and quite different from what he did when he was among his own people. In this disguise he entered the city of Troy, and no one said anything to him. I alone recognized him and began to question him, but he was too cunning for me. When, however, I had washed and anointed him and had given him clothes, and after I had sworn a solemn oath not to betray him to the Trojans till he had got safely back to his own camp and to the ships, he told me all that the Achaeans meant to do. He killed many Trojans and got much information before he reached the Argive camp, for all which things the Tro- jan women made lamentation, but for my own part I was glad, for my heart was beginning to oam after my home, and I was unhappy about wrong that Venus had done me in taking me over there, away from my country, my girl, and my lawful wedded husband, who is indeed by no means deficient either in person or understanding.”
Then Menelaus said, “All that you have been saying, my dear wife, is true. I have travelled much, and have had much to do with heroes, but I have never seen such another man as Ulysses. What endurance too, and what courage
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he displayed within the wooden horse, wherein all the bravest of the Argives were lying in wait to bring death and destruction upon the Trojans. At that moment you came up to us; some god who wished well to the Trojans must have set you on to it and you had Deiphobus with you. Three times did you go all round our hiding place and pat it; you called our chiefs each by his own name, and mimicked all our wives—Diomed, Ulysses, and I from our seats inside heard what a noise you made. Diomed and I could not make up our minds whether to spring out then and there, or to answer you from inside, but Ulysses held us all in check, so we sat quite still, all except Anticlus, who was beginning to answer you, when Ulysses clapped his two brawny hands over his mouth, and kept them there. It was this that saved us all, for he muzzled Anticlus till Minerva took you away again.”
“How sad,” exclaimed Telemachus, “that all this was of no avail to save him, nor yet his own iron courage. But now, sir, be pleased to send us all to bed, that we may lie down and enjoy the blessed boon of sleep.”
On this Helen told the maid servants to set beds in the room that was in the gatehouse, and to make them with good red rugs, and spread coverlets on the top of them with woollen cloaks for the guests to wear. So the maids went out, carrying a torch, and made the beds, to which a man-servant presently conducted the strangers. Thus, then, did Telemachus and Pisistratus sleep there in the forecourt, while the son of Atreus lay in an inner room with lovely Helen by his side.
When the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared, Menelaus rose and dressed himself. He bound his sandals on to his comely feet, girded his sword about his shoulders, and left his room looking like an immortal god. Then, taking a seat near Telemachus he said:
“And what, Telemachus, has led you to take this long sea voyage to Lacedaemon? Are you on public or private business? Tell me all about it.”
“I have come, sir replied Telemachus, “to see if you can tell me anything about my father. I am being eaten out of house and home; my fair estate is being wasted, and my house is full of miscreants who keep killing great num- bers of my sheep and oxen, on the pretence of paying their addresses to my mother. Therefore, I am suppliant at your knees if haply you may tell me about my father’s melancholy end, whether you saw it with your own eyes, or heard it from some other traveller; for he was a man born to trouble. Do not soften things out of any pity for myself, but tell me in all plainness exactly what you saw. If my brave father Ulysses ever did you loyal service either by word or deed, when you Achaeans were harassed by the Trojans, bear it in mind now as in my favour and tell me truly all.”
Menelaus on hearing this was very much shocked. “So,” he exclaimed, “these cowards would usurp a brave man’s bed? A hind might as well lay her new born young in the lair of a lion, and then go off to feed in the forest or in some grassy dell: the lion when he comes back to his lair will make short work with the pair of them—and so will Ulysses with these suitors. By father Jove, Minerva, and Apollo, if Ulysses is still the man that he was when he wres- tled with Philomeleides in Lesbos, and threw him so heavily that all the Achaeans cheered him — if he is still such and were to come near these suitors, they would have a short shrift and a sorry wedding. As regards your questions, however, I will not prevaricate nor deceive you, but will tell you without concealment all that the old man of the sea told me.
“I was trying to come on here, but the gods detained me in Egypt, for my hecatombs had not given them full satisfaction, and the gods are very strict about having their dues. Now off Egypt, about as far as a ship can sail in a day with a good stiff breeze behind her, there is an island called Pharos—it has a good harbour from which vessels can get out into open sea when they have taken in water—and the gods becalmed me twenty days without so much as a breath of fair wind to help me forward. We should have run clean out of provisions and my men would have starved, if a goddess had not taken pity upon me and saved me in the person of Idothea, daughter to Proteus, the old man of the sea, for she had taken a great fancy to me.
“She came to me one day when I was by myself, as I often was, for the men used to go with their barbed hooks, all over the island in the hope of catching a fish or two to save them from the pangs of hunger. ‘Stranger,’ said she, ‘it seems to me that you like starving in this way—at any rate it does not greatly trouble you, for you stick here day after day, without even trying to get away though your men are dying by inches.’
“’Let me tell you,’ said I, ‘whichever of the goddesses you may happen to be, that I am not staying here of my own accord, but must have offended the gods that live in heaven. Tell me, therefore, for the gods know everything. which of the immortals it is that is hindering me in this way, and tell me also how I may sail the sea so as to reach my home.’
“’Stranger,’ replied she, ‘I will make it all quite clear to you. There is an old immortal who lives under the sea hereabouts and whose name is Proteus. He is an Egyptian, and people say he is my father; he is Neptune’s head man and knows every inch of ground all over the bottom of the sea. If you can snare him and hold him tight, he will tell you about your voyage, what courses you are to take, and how you are to sail the sea so as to reach your home. He will also tell you, if you so will, all that has been going on at your house both good and bad, while you have been away on your long and dangerous journey.’
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“’Can you show me,’ said I, ‘some stratagem by means of which I may catch this old god without his suspecting it and finding me out? For a god is not easily caught—not by a mortal man.’
“’Stranger,’ said she, ‘I will make it all quite clear to you. About the time when the sun shall have reached mid heaven, the old man of the sea comes up from under the waves, heralded by the West wind that furs the water over his head. As soon as he has come up he lies down, and goes to sleep in a great sea cave, where the seals—Halo- sydne’s chickens as they call them—come up also from the grey sea, and go to sleep in shoals all round him; and a very strong and fish-like smell do they bring with them. Early to-morrow morning I will take you to this place and will lay you in ambush. Pick out, therefore, the three best men you have in your fleet, and I will tell you all the tricks that the old man will play you.
“’First he will look over all his seals, and count them; then, when he has seen them and tallied them on his five fingers, he will go to sleep among them, as a shepherd among his sheep. The moment you see that he is asleep seize him; put forth all your strength and hold him fast, for he will do his very utmost to get away from you. He will turn himself into every kind of creature that goes upon the earth, and will become also both fire and water; but you must hold him fast and grip him tighter and tighter, till he begins to talk to you and comes back to what he was when you saw him go to sleep; then you may slacken your hold and let him go; and you can ask him which of the gods it is that is angry with you, and what you must do to reach your home over the seas.’
“Having so said she dived under the waves, whereon I turned back to the place where my ships were ranged upon the shore; and my heart was clouded with care as I went along. When I reached my ship we got supper ready, for night was falling, and camped down upon the beach.
“When the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared, I took the three men on whose prowess of all kinds I could most rely, and went along by the sea-side, praying heartily to heaven. Meanwhile the goddess fetched me up four seal skins from the bottom of the sea, all of them just skinned, for she meant playing a trick upon her father. Then she dug four pits for us to lie in, and sat down to wait till we should come up. When we were close to her, she made us lie down in the pits one after the other, and threw a seal skin over each of us. Our ambuscade would have been intolerable, for the stench of the fishy seals was most distressing—who would go to bed with a sea monster if he could help it?-but here, too, the goddess helped us, and thought of something that gave us great relief, for she put some ambrosia under each man’s nostrils, which was so fragrant that it killed the smell of the seals.
“We waited the whole morning and made the best of it, watching the seals come up in hundreds to bask upon the sea shore, till at noon the old man of the sea came up too, and when he had found his fat seals he went over them and counted them. We were among the first he counted, and he never suspected any guile, but laid himself down to sleep as soon as he had done counting. Then we rushed upon him with a shout and seized him; on which he began at once with his old tricks, and changed himself first into a lion with a great mane; then all of a sudden he became a dragon, a leopard, a wild boar; the next moment he was running water, and then again directly he was a tree, but we stuck to him and never lost hold, till at last the cunning old creature became distressed, and said, Which of the gods was it, Son of Atreus, that hatched this plot with you for snaring me and seizing me against my will? What do you want?’
“’You know that yourself, old man,’ I answered, ‘you will gain nothing by trying to put me off. It is because I have been kept so long in this island, and see no sign of my being able to get away. I am losing all heart; tell me, then, for you gods know everything, which of the immortals it is that is hindering me, and tell me also how I may sail the sea so as to reach my home?’
“Then,’ he said, ‘if you would finish your voyage and get home quickly, you must offer sacrifices to Jove and to the rest of the gods before embarking; for it is decreed that you shall not get back to your friends, and to your own house, till you have returned to the heaven fed stream of Egypt, and offered holy hecatombs to the immortal gods that reign in heaven. When you have done this they will let you finish your voyage.’
“I was broken hearted when I heard that I must go back all that long and terrible voyage to Egypt; nevertheless, I answered, ‘I will do all, old man, that you have laid upon me; but now tell me, and tell me true, whether all the Achaeans whom Nestor and I left behind us when we set sail from Troy have got home safely, or whether any one of them came to a bad end either on board his own ship or among his friends when the days of his fighting were done.’
“’Son of Atreus,’ he answered, ‘why ask me? You had better not know what I can tell you, for your eyes will sure- ly fill when you have heard my story. Many of those about whom you ask are dead and gone, but many still remain, and only two of the chief men among the Achaeans perished during their return home. As for what happened on the field of battle—you were there yourself. A third Achaean leader is still at sea, alive, but hindered from returning. Ajax was wrecked, for Neptune drove him on to the great rocks of Gyrae; nevertheless, he let him get safe out of the water, and in spite of all Minerva’s hatred he would have escaped death, if he had not ruined himself by boasting. He said the gods could not drown him even though they had tried to do so, and when Neptune heard this large talk, he seized his trident in his two brawny hands, and split the rock of Gyrae in two pieces. The base remained where it was, but the part on which Ajax was sitting fell headlong into the sea and carried Ajax with it; so he drank salt water
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and was drowned. “’Your brother and his ships escaped, for Juno protected him, but when he was just about to reach the high
promontory of Malea, he was caught by a heavy gale which carried him out to sea again sorely against his will, and drove him to the foreland where Thyestes used to dwell, but where Aegisthus was then living. By and by, howev- er, it seemed as though he was to return safely after all, for the gods backed the wind into its old quarter and they reached home; whereon Agamemnon kissed his native soil, and shed tears of joy at finding himself in his own country.
“’Now there was a watchman whom Aegisthus kept always on the watch, and to whom he had promised two talents of gold. This man had been looking out for a whole year to make sure that Agamemnon did not give him the slip and prepare war; when, therefore, this man saw Agamemnon go by, he went and told Aegisthus who at once began to lay a plot for him. He picked twenty of his bravest warriors and placed them in ambuscade on one side the cloister, while on the opposite side he prepared a banquet. Then he sent his chariots and horsemen to Agamemnon, and invited him to the feast, but he meant foul play. He got him there, all unsuspicious of the doom that was await- ing him, and killed him when the banquet was over as though he were butchering an ox in the shambles; not one of Agamemnon’s followers was left alive, nor yet one of Aegisthus’, but they were all killed there in the cloisters.’
“Thus spoke Proteus, and I was broken hearted as I heard him. I sat down upon the sands and wept; I felt as though I could no longer bear to live nor look upon the light of the sun. Presently, when I had had my fill of weep- ing and writhing upon the ground, the old man of the sea said, ‘Son of Atreus, do not waste any more time in crying so bitterly; it can do no manner of good; find your way home as fast as ever you can, for Aegisthus be still alive, and even though Orestes has beforehand with you in kilting him, you may yet come in for his funeral.’
“On this I took comfort in spite of all my sorrow, and said, ‘I know, then, about these two; tell me, therefore, about the third man of whom you spoke; is he still alive, but at sea, and unable to get home? or is he dead? Tell me, no matter how much it may grieve me.’
“’The third man,’ he answered, ‘is Ulysses who dwells in Ithaca. I can see him in an island sorrowing bitter- ly in the house of the nymph Calypso, who is keeping him prisoner, and he cannot reach his home for he has no ships nor sailors to take him over the sea. As for your own end, Menelaus, you shall not die in Argos, but the gods will take you to the Elysian plain, which is at the ends of the world. There fair-haired Rhadamanthus reigns, and men lead an easier life than any where else in the world, for in Elysium there falls not rain, nor hail, nor snow, but Oceanus breathes ever with a West wind that sings softly from the sea, and gives fresh life to all men. This will hap- pen to you because you have married Helen, and are Jove’s son-in-law.’
“As he spoke he dived under the waves, whereon I turned back to the ships with my companions, and my heart was clouded with care as I went along. When we reached the ships we got supper ready, for night was falling, and camped down upon the beach. When the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn appeared, we drew our ships into the water, and put our masts and sails within them; then we went on board ourselves, took our seats on the bench- es, and smote the grey sea with our oars. I again stationed my ships in the heaven-fed stream of Egypt, and offered hecatombs that were full and sufficient. When I had thus appeased heaven’s anger, I raised a barrow to the memory of Agamemnon that his name might live for ever, after which I had a quick passage home, for the gods sent me a fair wind.
“And now for yourself—stay here some ten or twelve days longer, and I will then speed you on your way. I will make you a noble present of a chariot and three horses. I will also give you a beautiful chalice that so long as you live you may think of me whenever you make a drink-offering to the immortal gods.”
“Son of Atreus,” replied Telemachus, “do not press me to stay longer; I should be contented to remain with you for another twelve months; I find your conversation so delightful that I should never once wish myself at home with my parents; but my crew whom I have left at Pylos are already impatient, and you are detaining me from them. As for any present you may be disposed to make me, I had rather that it should he a piece of plate. I will take no horses back with me to Ithaca, but will leave them to adorn your own stables, for you have much flat ground in your king- dom where lotus thrives, as also meadowsweet and wheat and barley, and oats with their white and spreading ears; whereas in Ithaca we have neither open fields nor racecourses, and the country is more fit for goats than horses, and I like it the better for that. None of our islands have much level ground, suitable for horses, and Ithaca least of all.”
Menelaus smiled and took Telemachus’s hand within his own. “What you say,” said he, “shows that you come of good family. I both can, and will, make this exchange for you, by giving you the finest and most precious piece of plate in all my house. It is a mixing-bowl by Vulcan’s own hand, of pure silver, except the rim, which is inlaid with gold. Phaedimus, king of the Sidonians, gave it me in the course of a visit which I paid him when I returned thither on my homeward journey. I will make you a present of it.”
Thus did they converse [and guests kept coming to the king’s house. They brought sheep and wine, while their wives had put up bread for them to take with them; so they were busy cooking their dinners in the courts].
Meanwhile the suitors were throwing discs or aiming with spears at a mark on the levelled ground in front of
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Ulysses’ house, and were behaving with all their old insolence. Antinous and Eurymachus, who were their ringlead- ers and much the foremost among them all, were sitting together when Noemon son of Phronius came up and said to Antinous,
“Have we any idea, Antinous, on what day Telemachus returns from Pylos? He has a ship of mine, and I want it, to cross over to Elis: I have twelve brood mares there with yearling mule foals by their side not yet broken in, and I want to bring one of them over here and break him.”
They were astounded when they heard this, for they had made sure that Telemachus had not gone to the city of Neleus. They thought he was only away somewhere on the farms, and was with the sheep, or with the swineherd; so Antinous said, “When did he go? Tell me truly, and what young men did he take with him? Were they freemen or his own bondsmen—for he might manage that too? Tell me also, did you let him have the ship of your own free will because he asked you, or did he take it without yourleave?”
“I lent it him,” answered Noemon, “what else could I do when a man of his position said he was in a difficulty, and asked me to oblige him? I could not possibly refuse. As for those who went with him they were the best young men we have, and I saw Mentor go on board as captain—or some god who was exactly like him. I cannot under- stand it, for I saw Mentor here myself yesterday morning, and yet he was then setting out for Pylos.”
Noemon then went back to his father’s house, but Antinous and Eurymachus were very angry. They told the others to leave off playing, and to come and sit down along with themselves. When they came, Antinous son of Eupeithes spoke in anger. His heart was black with rage, and his eyes flashed fire as he said:
“Good heavens, this voyage of Telemachus is a very serious matter; we had made sure that it would come to nothing, but the young fellow has got away in spite of us, and with a picked crew too. He will be giving us trouble presently; may Jove take him before he is full grown. Find me a ship, therefore, with a crew of twenty men, and I will lie in wait for him in the straits between Ithaca and Samos; he will then rue the day that he set out to try and get news of his father.”
Thus did he speak, and the others applauded his saying; they then all of them went inside the buildings. It was not long ere Penelope came to know what the suitors were plotting; for a man servant, Medon, overheard
them from outside the outer court as they were laying their schemes within, and went to tell his mistress. As he crossed the threshold of her room Penelope said: “Medon, what have the suitors sent you here for? Is it to tell the maids to leave their master’s business and cook dinner for them? I wish they may neither woo nor dine hencefor- ward, neither here nor anywhere else, but let this be the very last time, for the waste you all make of my son’s estate. Did not your fathers tell you when you were children how good Ulysses had been to them—never doing anything high-handed, nor speaking harshly to anybody? Kings may say things sometimes, and they may take a fancy to one man and dislike another, but Ulysses never did an unjust thing by anybody—which shows what bad hearts you have, and that there is no such thing as gratitude left in this world.”
Then Medon said, “I wish, Madam, that this were all; but they are plotting something much more dreadful now—may heaven frustrate their design. They are going to try and murder Telemachus as he is coming home from Pylos and Lacedaemon, where he has been to get news of his father.”
Then Penelope’s heart sank within her, and for a long time she was speechless; her eyes filled with tears, and she could find no utterance. At last, however, she said, “Why did my son leave me? What business had he to go sailing off in ships that make long voyages over the ocean like sea-horses? Does he want to die without leaving any one behind him to keep up his name?”
“I do not know,” answered Medon, “whether some god set him on to it, or whether he went on his own impulse to see if he could find out if his father was dead, or alive and on his way home.”
Then he went downstairs again, leaving Penelope in an agony of grief. There were plenty of seats in the house, but she. had no heart for sitting on any one of them; she could only fling herself on the floor of her own room and cry; whereon all the maids in the house, both old and young, gathered round her and began to cry too, till at last in a transport of sorrow she exclaimed,
“My dears, heaven has been pleased to try me with more affliction than any other woman of my age and coun- try. First I lost my brave and lion-hearted husband, who had every good quality under heaven, and whose name was great over all Hellas and middle Argos, and now my darling son is at the mercy of the winds and waves, without my having heard one word about his leaving home. You hussies, there was not one of you would so much as think of giving me a call out of my bed, though you all of you very well knew when he was starting. If I had known he meant taking this voyage, he would have had to give it up, no matter how much he was bent upon it, or leave me a corpse behind him—one or other. Now, however, go some of you and call old Dolius, who was given me by my father on my marriage, and who is my gardener. Bid him go at once and tell everything to Laertes, who may be able to hit on some plan for enlisting public sympathy on our side, as against those who are trying to exterminate his own race and that of Ulysses.”
Then the dear old nurse Euryclea said, “You may kill me, Madam, or let me live on in your house, whichever
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you please, but I will tell you the real truth. I knew all about it, and gave him everything he wanted in the way of bread and wine, but he made me take my solemn oath that I would not tell you anything for some ten or twelve days, unless you asked or happened to hear of his having gone, for he did not want you to spoil your beauty by crying. And now, Madam, wash your face, change your dress, and go upstairs with your maids to offer prayers to Minerva, daughter of Aegis-bearing Jove, for she can save him even though he be in the jaws of death. Do not trou- ble Laertes: he has trouble enough already. Besides, I cannot think that the gods hate die race of the race of the son of Arceisius so much, but there will be a son left to come up after him, and inherit both the house and the fair fields that lie far all round it.”
With these words she made her mistress leave off crying, and dried the tears from her eyes. Penelope washed her face, changed her dress, and went upstairs with her maids. She then put some bruised barley into a basket and began praying to Minerva.
“Hear me,” she cried, “Daughter of Aegis-bearing Jove, unweariable. If ever Ulysses while he was here burned you fat thigh bones of sheep or heifer, bear it in mind now as in my favour, and save my darling son from the vil- lainy of the suitors.”
She cried aloud as she spoke, and the goddess heard her prayer; meanwhile the suitors were clamorous throughout the covered cloister, and one of them said:
“The queen is preparing for her marriage with one or other of us. Little does she dream that her son has now been doomed to die.”
This was what they said, but they did not know what was going to happen. Then Antinous said, “Comrades, let there be no loud talking, lest some of it get carried inside. Let us be up and do that in silence, about which we are all of a mind.”
He then chose twenty men, and they went down to their. ship and to the sea side; they drew the vessel into the water and got her mast and sails inside her; they bound the oars to the thole-pins with twisted thongs of leather, all in due course, and spread the white sails aloft, while their fine servants brought them their armour. Then they made the ship fast a little way out, came on shore again, got their suppers, and waited till night should fall.
But Penelope lay in her own room upstairs unable to eat or drink, and wondering whether her brave son would escape, or be overpowered by the wicked suitors. Like a lioness caught in the toils with huntsmen hemming her in on every side she thought and thought till she sank into a slumber, and lay on her bed bereft of thought and motion.
Then Minerva bethought her of another matter, and made a vision in the likeness of Penelope’s sister Iphthime daughter of Icarius who had married Eumelus and lived in Pherae. She told the vision to go to the house of Ulyss- es, and to make Penelope leave off crying, so it came into her room by the hole through which the thong went for pulling the door to, and hovered over her head, saying,
“You are asleep, Penelope: the gods who live at ease will not suffer you to weep and be so sad. Your son has done them no wrong, so he will yet come back to you.”
Penelope, who was sleeping sweetly at the gates of dreamland, answered, “Sister, why have you come here? You do not come very often, but I suppose that is because you live such a long way off. Am I, then, to leave off crying and refrain from all the sad thoughts that torture me? I, who have lost my brave and lion-hearted husband, who had every good quality under heaven, and whose name was great over all Hellas and middle Argos; and now my darling son has gone off on board of a ship—a foolish fellow who has never been used to roughing it, nor to going about among gatherings of men. I am even more anxious about him than about my husband; I am all in a tremble when I think of him, lest something should happen to him, either from the people among whom he has gone, or by sea, for he has many enemies who are plotting against him, and are bent on killing him before he can return home.”
Then the vision said, “Take heart, and be not so much dismayed. There is one gone with him whom many a man would be glad enough to have stand by his side, I mean Minerva; it is she who has compassion upon you, and who has sent me to bear you this message.”
“Then,” said Penelope, “if you are a god or have been sent here by divine commission, tell me also about that other unhappy one—is he still alive, or is he already dead and in the house of Hades?”
And the vision said, “I shall not tell you for certain whether he is alive or dead, and there is no use in idle con- versation.”
Then it vanished through the thong-hole of the door and was dissipated into thin air; but Penelope rose from her sleep refreshed and comforted, so vivid had been her dream.
Meantime the suitors went on board and sailed their ways over the sea, intent on murdering Telemachus. Now there is a rocky islet called Asteris, of no great size, in mid channel between Ithaca and Samos, and there is a har- bour on either side of it where a ship can lie. Here then the Achaeans placed themselves in ambush.
Book V
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AND NOW, as Dawn rose from her couch beside Tithonus—harbinger of light alike to mortals and immor- tals—the gods met in council and with them, Jove the lord of thunder, who is their king. Thereon Minerva began to tell them of the many sufferings of Ulysses, for she pitied him away there in the house of the nymph Calypso.
“Father Jove,” said she, “and all you other gods that live in everlasting bliss, I hope there may never be such a thing as a kind and well-disposed ruler any more, nor one who will govern equitably. I hope they will be all hence- forth cruel and unjust, for there is not one of his subjects but has forgotten Ulysses, who ruled them as though he were their father. There he is, lying in great pain in an island where dwells the nymph Calypso, who will not let him go; and he cannot get back to his own country, for he can find neither ships nor sailors to take him over the sea. Furthermore, wicked people are now trying to murder his only son Telemachus, who is coming home from Pylos and Lacedaemon, where he has been to see if he can get news of his father.”
“What, my dear, are you talking about?” replied her father, “did you not send him there yourself, because you thought it would help Ulysses to get home and punish the suitors? Besides, you are perfectly able to protect Telema- chus, and to see him safely home again, while the suitors have to come hurry-skurrying back without having killed him.”
When he had thus spoken, he said to his son Mercury, “Mercury, you are our messenger, go therefore and tell Calypso we have decreed that poor Ulysses is to return home. He is to be convoyed neither by gods nor men, but after a perilous voyage of twenty days upon a raft he is to reach fertile Scheria, the land of the Phaeacians, who are near of kin to the gods, and will honour him as though he were one of ourselves. They will send him in a ship to his own country, and will give him more bronze and gold and raiment than he would have brought back from Troy, if he had had had all his prize money and had got home without disaster. This is how we have settled that he shall return to his country and his friends.”
Thus he spoke, and Mercury, guide and guardian, slayer of Argus, did as he was told. Forthwith he bound on his glittering golden sandals with which he could fly like the wind over land and sea. He took the wand with which he seals men’s eyes in sleep or wakes them just as he pleases, and flew holding it in his hand over Pieria; then he swooped down through the firmament till he reached the level of the sea, whose waves he skimmed like a cormo- rant that flies fishing every hole and corner of the ocean, and drenching its thick plumage in the spray. He flew and flew over many a weary wave, but when at last he got to the island which was his journey’s end, he left the sea and went on by land till he came to the cave where the nymph Calypso lived.
He found her at home. There was a large fire burning on the hearth, and one could smell from far the fra- grant reek of burning cedar and sandal wood. As for herself, she was busy at her loom, shooting her golden shuttle through the warp and singing beautifully. Round her cave there was a thick wood of alder, poplar, and sweet smell- ing cypress trees, wherein all kinds of great birds had built their nests—owls, hawks, and chattering sea-crows that occupy their business in the waters. A vine loaded with grapes was trained and grew luxuriantly about the mouth of the cave; there were also four running rills of water in channels cut pretty close together, and turned hither and thither so as to irrigate the beds of violets and luscious herbage over which they flowed. Even a god could not help being charmed with such a lovely spot, so Mercury stood still and looked at it; but when he had admired it suffi- ciently he went inside the cave.
Calypso knew him at once—for the gods all know each other, no matter how far they live from one another— but Ulysses was not within; he was on the sea-shore as usual, looking out upon the barren ocean with tears in his eyes, groaning and breaking his heart for sorrow. Calypso gave Mercury a seat and said: “Why have you come to see me, Mercury—honoured, and ever welcome—for you do not visit me often? Say what you want; I will do it for be you at once if I can, and if it can be done at all; but come inside, and let me set refreshment before you.
As she spoke she drew a table loaded with ambrosia beside him and mixed him some red nectar, so Mercury ate and drank till he had had enough, and then said:
“We are speaking god and goddess to one another, one another, and you ask me why I have come here, and I will tell you truly as you would have me do. Jove sent me; it was no doing of mine; who could possibly want to come all this way over the sea where there are no cities full of people to offer me sacrifices or choice hecatombs? Nev- ertheless I had to come, for none of us other gods can cross Jove, nor transgress his orders. He says that you have here the most ill-starred of alf those who fought nine years before the city of King Priam and sailed home in the tenth year after having sacked it. On their way home they sinned against Minerva, who raised both wind and waves against them, so that all his brave companions perished, and he alone was carried hither by wind and tide. Jove says that you are to let this by man go at once, for it is decreed that he shall not perish here, far from his own people, but shall return to his house and country and see his friends again.”
Calypso trembled with rage when she heard this, “You gods,” she exclaimed, to be ashamed of yourselves. You are always jealous and hate seeing a goddess take a fancy to a mortal man, and live with him in open matrimony. So when rosy-fingered Dawn made love to Orion, you precious gods were all of you furious till Diana went and killed him in Ortygia. So again when Ceres fell in love with Iasion, and yielded to him in a thrice ploughed fallow field,
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Jove came to hear of it before so long and killed Iasion with his thunder-bolts. And now you are angry with me too because I have a man here. I found the poor creature sitting all alone astride of a keel, for Jove had struck his ship with lightning and sunk it in mid ocean, so that all his crew were drowned, while he himself was driven by wind and waves on to my island. I got fond of him and cherished him, and had set my heart on making him immortal, so that he should never grow old all his days; still I cannot cross Jove, nor bring his counsels to nothing; therefore, if he insists upon it, let the man go beyond the seas again; but I cannot send him anywhere myself for I have neither ships nor men who can take him. Nevertheless I will readily give him such advice, in all good faith, as will be likely to bring him safely to his own country.”
“Then send him away,” said Mercury, “or Jove will be angry with you and punish you”’ On this he took his leave, and Calypso went out to look for Ulysses, for she had heard Jove’s message. She found
him sitting upon the beach with his eyes ever filled with tears, and dying of sheer home-sickness; for he had got tired of Calypso, and though he was forced to sleep with her in the cave by night, it was she, not he, that would have it so. As for the day time, he spent it on the rocks and on the sea-shore, weeping, crying aloud for his despair, and always looking out upon the sea. Calypso then went close up to him said:
“My poor fellow, you shall not stay here grieving and fretting your life out any longer. I am going to send you away of my own free will; so go, cut some beams of wood, and make yourself a large raft with an upper deck that it may carry you safely over the sea. I will put bread, wine, and water on board to save you from starving. I will also give you clothes, and will send you a fair wind to take you home, if the gods in heaven so will it—or they know more about these things, and can settle them better than I can.”
Ulysses shuddered as he heard her. “Now goddess,” he answered, “there is something behind all this; you cannot be really meaning to help me home when you bid me do such a dreadful thing as put to sea on a raft. Not even a well-found ship with a fair wind could venture on such a distant voyage: nothing that you can say or do shall mage me go on board a raft unless you first solemnly swear that you mean me no mischief.”
Calypso smiled at this and caressed him with her hand: “You know a great deal,” said she, “but you are quite wrong here. May heaven above and earth below be my witnesses, with the waters of the river Styx—and this is the most solemn oath which a blessed god can take—that I mean you no sort of harm, and am only advising you to do exactly what I should do myself in your place. I am dealing with you quite straightforwardly; my heart is not made of iron, and I am very sorry for you.”
When she had thus spoken she led the way rapidly before him, and Ulysses followed in her steps; so the pair, goddess and man, went on and on till they came to Calypso’s cave, where Ulysses took the seat that Mercury had just left. Calypso set meat and drink before him of the food that mortals eat; but her maids brought ambrosia and nectar for herself, and they laid their hands on the good things that were before them. When they had satisfied themselves with meat and drink, Calypso spoke, saying:
“Ulysses, noble son of Laertes, so you would start home to your own land at once? Good luck go with you, but if you could only know how much suffering is in store for you before you get back to your own country, you would stay where you are, keep house along with me, and let me make you immortal, no matter how anxious you may be to see this wife of yours, of whom you are thinking all the time day after day; yet I flatter myself that at am no whit less tall or well-looking than she is, for it is not to be expected that a mortal woman should compare in beauty with an immortal.”
“Goddess,” replied Ulysses, “do not be angry with me about this. I am quite aware that my wife Penelope is nothing like so tall or so beautiful as yourself. She is only a woman, whereas you are an immortal. Nevertheless, I want to get home, and can think of nothing else. If some god wrecks me when I am on the sea, I will bear it and make the best of it. I have had infinite trouble both by land and sea already, so let this go with the rest.”
Presently the sun set and it became dark, whereon the pair retired into the inner part of the cave and went to bed.
When the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared, Ulysses put on his shirt and cloak, while the god- dess wore a dress of a light gossamer fabric, very fine and graceful, with a beautiful golden girdle about her waist and a veil to cover her head. She at once set herself to think how she could speed Ulysses on his way. So she gave him a great bronze axe that suited his hands; it was sharpened on both sides, and had a beautiful olive-wood handle fitted firmly on to it. She also gave him a sharp adze, and then led the way to the far end of the island where the largest trees grew—alder, poplar and pine, that reached the sky—very dry and well seasoned, so as to sail light for him in the water. Then, when she had shown him where the best trees grew, Calypso went home, leaving him to cut them, which he soon finished doing. He cut down twenty trees in all and adzed them smooth, squaring them by rule in good workmanlike fashion. Meanwhile Calypso came back with some augers, so he bored holes with them and fitted the timbers together with bolts and rivets. He made the raft as broad as a skilled shipwright makes the beam of a large vessel, and he filed a deck on top of the ribs, and ran a gunwale all round it. He also made a mast with a yard arm, and a rudder to steer with. He fenced the raft all round with wicker hurdles as a protection against
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the waves, and then he threw on a quantity of wood. By and by Calypso brought him some linen to make the sails, and he made these too, excellently, making them fast with braces and sheets. Last of all, with the help of levers, he drew the raft down into the water.
In four days he had completed the whole work, and on the fifth Calypso sent him from the island after washing him and giving him some clean clothes. She gave him a goat skin full of black wine, and another larger one of water; she also gave him a wallet full of provisions, and found him in much good meat. Moreover, she made the wind fair and warm for him, and gladly did Ulysses spread his sail before it, while he sat and guided the raft skilfully by means of the rudder. He never closed his eyes, but kept them fixed on the Pleiads, on late-setting Bootes, and on the Bear—which men also call the wain, and which turns round and round where it is, facing Orion, and alone never dipping into the stream of Oceanus—for Calypso had told him to keep this to his left. Days seven and ten did he sail over the sea, and on the eighteenth the dim outlines of the mountains on the nearest part of the Phaeacian coast appeared, rising like a shield on the horizon.
But King Neptune, who was returning from the Ethiopians, caught sight of Ulysses a long way off, from the mountains of the Solymi. He could see him sailing upon the sea, and it made him very angry, so he wagged his head and muttered to himself, saying, heavens, so the gods have been changing their minds about Ulysses while I was away in Ethiopia, and now he is close to the land of the Phaeacians, where it is decreed that he shall escape from the calamities that have befallen him. Still, he shall have plenty of hardship yet before he has done with it.”
Thereon he gathered his clouds together, grasped his trident, stirred it round in the sea, and roused the rage of every wind that blows till earth, sea, and sky were hidden in cloud, and night sprang forth out of the heavens. Winds from East, South, North, and West fell upon him all at the same time, and a tremendous sea got up, so that Ulysses’ heart began to fail him. “Alas,” he said to himself in his dismay, “what ever will become of me? I am afraid Calypso was right when she said I should have trouble by sea before I got back home. It is all coming true. How black is Jove making heaven with his clouds, and what a sea the winds are raising from every quarter at once. I am now safe to perish. Blest and thrice blest were those Danaans who fell before Troy in the cause of the sons of Atreus. Would that had been killed on the day when the Trojans were pressing me so sorely about the dead body of Achil- les, for then I should have had due burial and the Achaeans would have honoured my name; but now it seems that I shall come to a most pitiable end.”
As he spoke a sea broke over him with such terrific fury that the raft reeled again, and he was carried overboard a long way off. He let go the helm, and the force of the hurricane was so great that it broke the mast half way up, and both sail and yard went over into the sea. For a long time Ulysses was under water, and it was all he could do to rise to the surface again, for the clothes Calypso had given him weighed him down; but at last he got his head above water and spat out the bitter brine that was running down his face in streams. In spite of all this, however, he did not lose sight of his raft, but swam as fast as he could towards it, got hold of it, and climbed on board again so as to escape drowning. The sea took the raft and tossed it about as Autumn winds whirl thistledown round and round upon a road. It was as though the South, North, East, and West winds were all playing battledore and shuttlecock with it at once.
When he was in this plight, Ino daughter of Cadmus, also called Leucothea, saw him. She had formerly been a mere mortal, but had been since raised to the rank of a marine goddess. Seeing in what great distress Ulysses now was, she had compassion upon him, and, rising like a sea-gull from the waves, took her seat upon the raft.
“My poor good man,” said she, “why is Neptune so furiously angry with you? He is giving you a great deal of trouble, but for all his bluster he will not kill you. You seem to be a sensible person, do then as I bid you; strip, leave your raft to drive before the wind, and swim to the Phaecian coast where better luck awaits you. And here, take my veil and put it round your chest; it is enchanted, and you can come to no harm so long as you wear it. As soon as you touch land take it off, throw it back as far as you can into the sea, and then go away again.” With these words she took off her veil and gave it him. Then she dived down again like a sea-gull and vanished beneath the dark blue waters.
But Ulysses did not know what to think. “Alas,” he said to himself in his dismay, “this is only some one or other of the gods who is luring me to ruin by advising me to will quit my raft. At any rate I will not do so at present, for the land where she said I should be quit of all troubles seemed to be still a good way off. I know what I will do—I am sure it will be best—no matter what happens I will stick to the raft as long as her timbers hold together, but when the sea breaks her up I will swim for it; I do not see how I can do any better than this.”
While he was thus in two minds, Neptune sent a terrible great wave that seemed to rear itself above his head till it broke right over the raft, which then went to pieces as though it were a heap of dry chaff tossed about by a whirlwind. Ulysses got astride of one plank and rode upon it as if he were on horseback; he then took off the clothes Calypso had given him, bound Ino’s veil under his arms, and plunged into the sea—meaning to swim on shore. King Neptune watched him as he did so, and wagged his head, muttering to himself and saying, “’There now, swim up and down as you best can till you fall in with well-to-do people. I do not think you will be able to say that I have
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let you off too lightly.” On this he lashed his horses and drove to Aegae where his palace is. But Minerva resolved to help Ulysses, so she bound the ways of all the winds except one, and made them lie
quite still; but she roused a good stiff breeze from the North that should lay the waters till Ulysses reached the land of the Phaeacians where he would be safe.
Thereon he floated about for two nights and two days in the water, with a heavy swell on the sea and death staring him in the face; but when the third day broke, the wind fell and there was a dead calm without so much as a breath of air stirring. As he rose on the swell he looked eagerly ahead, and could see land quite near. Then, as children rejoice when their dear father begins to get better after having for a long time borne sore affliction sent him by some angry spirit, but the gods deliver him from evil, so was Ulysses thankful when he again saw land and trees, and swam on with all his strength that he might once more set foot upon dry ground. When, however, he got within earshot, he began to hear the surf thundering up against the rocks, for the swell still broke against them with a terrific roar. Everything was enveloped in spray; there were no harbours where a ship might ride, nor shelter of any kind, but only headlands, low-lying rocks, and mountain tops.
Ulysses’ heart now began to fail him, and he said despairingly to himself, “Alas, Jove has let me see land after swimming so far that I had given up all hope, but I can find no landing place, for the coast is rocky and surf-beaten, the rocks are smooth and rise sheer from the sea, with deep water close under them so that I cannot climb out for want of foothold. I am afraid some great wave will lift me off my legs and dash me against the rocks as I leave the water—which would give me a sorry landing. If, on the other hand, I swim further in search of some shelving beach or harbour, a hurricane may carry me out to sea again sorely against my will, or heaven may send some great mon- ster of the deep to attack me; for Amphitrite breeds many such, and I know that Neptune is very angry with me.”
While he was thus in two minds a wave caught him and took him with such force against the rocks that he would have been smashed and torn to pieces if Minerva had not shown him what to do. He caught hold of the rock with both hands and clung to it groaning with pain till the wave retired, so he was saved that time; but presently the wave came on again and carried him back with it far into the sea-tearing his hands as the suckers of a polypus are torn when some one plucks it from its bed, and the stones come up along with it even so did the rocks tear the skin from his strong hands, and then the wave drew him deep down under the water.
Here poor Ulysses would have certainly perished even in spite of his own destiny, if Minerva had not helped him to keep his wits about him. He swam seaward again, beyond reach of the surf that was beating against the land, and at the same time he kept looking towards the shore to see if he could find some haven, or a spit that should take the waves aslant. By and by, as he swam on, he came to the mouth of a river, and here he thought would be the best place, for there were no rocks, and it afforded shelter from the wind. He felt that there was a current, so he prayed inwardly and said:
“Hear me, O King, whoever you may be, and save me from the anger of the sea-god Neptune, for I approach you prayerfully. Any one who has lost his way has at all times a claim even upon the gods, wherefore in my distress I draw near to your stream, and cling to the knees of your riverhood. Have mercy upon me, O king, for I declare myself your suppliant.”
Then the god stayed his stream and stilled the waves, making all calm before him, and bringing him safely into the mouth of the river. Here at last Ulysses’ knees and strong hands failed him, for the sea had completely broken him. His body was all swollen, and his mouth and nostrils ran down like a river with sea-water, so that he could neither breathe nor speak, and lay swooning from sheer exhaustion; presently, when he had got his breath and came to himself again, he took off the scarf that Ino had given him and threw it back into the salt stream of the river, whereon Ino received it into her hands from the wave that bore it towards her. Then he left the river, laid himself down among the rushes, and kissed the bounteous earth.
“Alas,” he cried to himself in his dismay, “what ever will become of me, and how is it all to end? If I stay here upon the river bed through the long watches of the night, I am so exhausted that the bitter cold and damp may make an end of me—for towards sunrise there will be a keen wind blowing from off the river. If, on the other hand, I climb the hill side, find shelter in the woods, and sleep in some thicket, I may escape the cold and have a good night’s rest, but some savage beast may take advantage of me and devour me.”
In the end he deemed it best to take to the woods, and he found one upon some high ground not far from the water. There he crept beneath two shoots of olive that grew from a single stock—the one an ungrafted sucker, while the other had been grafted. No wind, however squally, could break through the cover they afforded, nor could the sun’s rays pierce them, nor the rain get through them, so closely did they grow into one another. Ulysses crept un- der these and began to make himself a bed to lie on, for there was a great litter of dead leaves lying about—enough to make a covering for two or three men even in hard winter weather. He was glad enough to see this, so he laid himself down and heaped the leaves all round him. Then, as one who lives alone in the country, far from any neigh- bor, hides a brand as fire-seed in the ashes to save himself from having to get a light elsewhere, even so did Ulysses cover himself up with leaves; and Minerva shed a sweet sleep upon his eyes, closed his eyelids, and made him lose
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all memories of his sorrows.
Book VI SO HERE Ulysses slept, overcome by sleep and toil; but Minerva went off to the country and city of the Phae-
cians—a people who used to live in the fair town of Hypereia, near the lawless Cyclopes. Now the Cyclopes were stronger than they and plundered them, so their king Nausithous moved them thence and settled them in Sche- ria, far from all other people. He surrounded the city with a wall, built houses and temples, and divided the lands among his people; but he was dead and gone to the house of Hades, and King Alcinous, whose counsels were inspired of heaven, was now reigning. To his house, then, did Minerva hie in furtherance of the return of Ulysses.
She went straight to the beautifully decorated bedroom in which there slept a girl who was as lovely as a goddess, Nausicaa, daughter to King Alcinous. Two maid servants were sleeping near her, both very pretty, one on either side of the doorway, which was closed with well-made folding doors. Minerva took the form of the famous sea captain Dymas’s daughter, who was a bosom friend of Nausicaa and just her own age; then, coming up to the girl’s bedside like a breath of wind, she hovered over her head and said:
“Nausicaa, what can your mother have been about, to have such a lazy daughter? Here are your clothes all lying in disorder, yet you are going to be married almost immediately, and should not only be well dressed yourself, but should find good clothes for those who attend you. This is the way to get yourself a good name, and to make your father and mother proud of you. Suppose, then, that we make tomorrow a washing day, and start at daybreak. I will come and help you so that you may have everything ready as soon as possible, for all the best young men among your own people are courting you, and you are not going to remain a maid much longer. Ask your father, therefore, to have a waggon and mules ready for us at daybreak, to take the rugs, robes, and girdles; and you can ride, too, which will be much pleasanter for you than walking, for the washing-cisterns are some way from the town.”
When she had said this Minerva went away to Olympus, which they say is the everlasting home of the gods. Here no wind beats roughly, and neither rain nor snow can fall; but it abides in everlasting sunshine and in a great peacefulness of light, wherein the blessed gods are illumined for ever and ever. This was the place to which the god- dess went when she had given instructions to the girl.
By and by morning came and woke Nausicaa, who began wondering about her dream; she therefore went to the other end of the house to tell her father and mother all about it, and found them in their own room. Her mother was sitting by the fireside spinning her purple yarn with her maids around her, and she happened to catch her fa- ther just as he was going out to attend a meeting of the town council, which the Phaeacian aldermen had convened. She stopped him and said:
“Papa dear, could you manage to let me have a good big waggon? I want to take all our dirty clothes to the river and wash them. You are the chief man here, so it is only right that you should have a clean shirt when you attend meetings of the council. Moreover, you have five sons at home, two of them married, while the other three are good-looking bachelors; you know they always like to have clean linen when they go to a dance, and I have been thinking about all this.”
She did not say a word about her own wedding, for she did not like to, but her father knew and said, “You shall have the mules, my love, and whatever else you have a mind for. Be off with you, and the men shall get you a good strong waggon with a body to it that will hold all your clothes.”
On this he gave his orders to the servants, who got the waggon out, harnessed the mules, and put them to, while the girl brought the clothes down from the linen room and placed them on the waggon. Her mother prepared her a basket of provisions with all sorts of good things, and a goat skin full of wine; the girl now got into the waggon, and her mother gave her also a golden cruse of oil, that she and her women might anoint themselves. Then she took the whip and reins and lashed the mules on, whereon they set off, and their hoofs clattered on the road. They pulled without flagging, and carried not only Nausicaa and her wash of clothes, but the maids also who were with her.
When they reached the water side they went to the washing-cisterns, through which there ran at all times enough pure water to wash any quantity of linen, no matter how dirty. Here they unharnessed the mules and turned them out to feed on the sweet juicy herbage that grew by the water side. They took the clothes out of the waggon, put them in the water, and vied with one another in treading them in the pits to get the dirt out. After they had washed them and got them quite clean, they laid them out by the sea side, where the waves had raised a high beach of shingle, and set about washing themselves and anointing themselves with olive oil. Then they got their dinner by the side of the stream, and waited for the sun to finish drying the clothes. When they had done dinner they threw off the veils that covered their heads and began to play at ball, while Nausicaa sang for them. As the huntress Diana goes forth upon the mountains of Taygetus or Erymanthus to hunt wild boars or deer, and the wood-nymphs, daughters of Aegis-bearing Jove, take their sport along with her (then is Leto proud at seeing her daughter stand a full head taller than the others, and eclipse the loveliest amid a whole bevy of beauties), even so did the girl out-
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shine her handmaids. When it was time for them to start home, and they were folding the clothes and putting them into the waggon,
Minerva began to consider how Ulysses should wake up and see the handsome girl who was to conduct him to the city of the Phaeacians. The girl, therefore, threw a ball at one of the maids, which missed her and fell into deep water. On this they all shouted, and the noise they made woke Ulysses, who sat up in his bed of leaves and began to wonder what it might all be.
“Alas,” said he to himself, “what kind of people have I come amongst? Are they cruel, savage, and uncivilized, or hospitable and humane? I seem to hear the voices of young women, and they sound like those of the nymphs that haunt mountain tops, or springs of rivers and meadows of green grass. At any rate I am among a race of men and women. Let me try if I cannot manage to get a look at them.”
As he said this he crept from under his bush, and broke off a bough covered with thick leaves to hide his naked- ness. He looked like some lion of the wilderness that stalks about exulting in his strength and defying both wind and rain; his eyes glare as he prowls in quest of oxen, sheep, or deer, for he is famished, and will dare break even into a well-fenced homestead, trying to get at the sheep—even such did Ulysses seem to the young women, as he drew near to them all naked as he was, for he was in great want. On seeing one so unkempt and so begrimed with salt water, the others scampered off along the spits that jutted out into the sea, but the daughter of Alcinous stood firm, for Minerva put courage into her heart and took away all fear from her. She stood right in front of Ulysses, and he doubted whether he should go up to her, throw himself at her feet, and embrace her knees as a suppliant, or stay where he was and entreat her to give him some clothes and show him the way to the town. In the end he deemed it best to entreat her from a distance in case the girl should take offence at his coming near enough to clasp her knees, so he addressed her in honeyed and persuasive language.
“O queen,” he said, “I implore your aid—but tell me, are you a goddess or are you a mortal woman? If you are a goddess and dwell in heaven, I can only conjecture that you are Jove’s daughter Diana, for your face and figure resemble none but hers; if on the other hand you are a mortal and live on earth, thrice happy are your father and mother—thrice happy, too, are your brothers and sisters; how proud and delighted they must feel when they see so fair a scion as yourself going out to a dance; most happy, however, of all will he be whose wedding gifts have been the richest, and who takes you to his own home. I never yet saw any one so beautiful, neither man nor woman, and am lost in admiration as I behold you. I can only compare you to a young palm tree which I saw when I was at Delos growing near the altar of Apollo—for I was there, too, with much people after me, when I was on that jour- ney which has been the source of all my troubles. Never yet did such a young plant shoot out of the ground as that was, and I admired and wondered at it exactly as I now admire and wonder at yourself. I dare not clasp your knees, but I am in great distress; yesterday made the twentieth day that I had been tossing about upon the sea. The winds and waves have taken me all the way from the Ogygian island, and now fate has flung me upon this coast that I may endure still further suffering; for I do not think that I have yet come to the end of it, but rather that heaven has still much evil in store for me.
“And now, O queen, have pity upon me, for you are the first person I have met, and I know no one else in this country. Show me the way to your town, and let me have anything that you may have brought hither to wrap your clothes in. May heaven grant you in all things your heart’s desire—husband, house, and a happy, peaceful home; for there is nothing better in this world than that man and wife should be of one mind in a house. It discomfits their enemies, makes the hearts of their friends glad, and they themselves know more about it than any one.”
To this Nausicaa answered, “Stranger, you appear to be a sensible, well-disposed person. There is no account- ing for luck; Jove gives prosperity to rich and poor just as he chooses, so you must take what he has seen fit to send you, and make the best of it. Now, however, that you have come to this our country, you shall not want for clothes nor for anything else that a foreigner in distress may reasonably look for. I will show you the way to the town, and will tell you the name of our people; we are called Phaeacians, and I am daughter to Alcinous, in whom the whole power of the state is vested.”
Then she called her maids and said, “Stay where you are, you girls. Can you not see a man without running away from him? Do you take him for a robber or a murderer? Neither he nor any one else can come here to do us Phaeacians any harm, for we are dear to the gods, and live apart on a land’s end that juts into the sounding sea, and have nothing to do with any other people. This is only some poor man who has lost his way, and we must be kind to him, for strangers and foreigners in distress are under Jove’s protection, and will take what they can get and be thankful; so, girls, give the poor fellow something to eat and drink, and wash him in the stream at some place that is sheltered from the wind.”
On this the maids left off running away and began calling one another back. They made Ulysses sit down in the shelter as Nausicaa had told them, and brought him a shirt and cloak. They also brought him the little golden cruse of oil, and told him to go wash in the stream. But Ulysses said, “Young women, please to stand a little on one side that I may wash the brine from my shoulders and anoint myself with oil, for it is long enough since my skin has had
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a drop of oil upon it. I cannot wash as long as you all keep standing there. I am ashamed to strip before a number of good-looking young women.”
Then they stood on one side and went to tell the girl, while Ulysses washed himself in the stream and scrubbed the brine from his back and from his broad shoulders. When he had thoroughly washed himself, and had got the brine out of his hair, he anointed himself with oil, and put on the clothes which the girl had given him; Minerva then made him look taller and stronger than before, she also made the hair grow thick on the top of his head, and flow down in curls like hyacinth blossoms; she glorified him about the head and shoulders as a skilful workman who has studied art of all kinds under Vulcan and Minerva enriches a piece of silver plate by gilding it—and his work is full of beauty. Then he went and sat down a little way off upon the beach, looking quite young and hand- some, and the girl gazed on him with admiration; then she said to her maids:
“Hush, my dears, for I want to say something. I believe the gods who live in heaven have sent this man to the Phaeacians. When I first saw him I thought him plain, but now his appearance is like that of the gods who dwell in heaven. I should like my future husband to be just such another as he is, if he would only stay here and not want to go away. However, give him something to eat and drink.”
They did as they were told, and set food before Ulysses, who ate and drank ravenously, for it was long since he had had food of any kind. Meanwhile, Nausicaa bethought her of another matter. She got the linen folded and placed in the waggon, she then yoked the mules, and, as she took her seat, she called Ulysses:
“Stranger,” said she, “rise and let us be going back to the town; I will introduce you at the house of my excellent father, where I can tell you that you will meet all the best people among the Phaecians. But be sure and do as I bid you, for you seem to be a sensible person. As long as we are going past the fields—and farm lands, follow briskly behind the waggon along with the maids and I will lead the way myself. Presently, however, we shall come to the town, where you will find a high wall running all round it, and a good harbour on either side with a narrow en- trance into the city, and the ships will be drawn up by the road side, for every one has a place where his own ship can lie. You will see the market place with a temple of Neptune in the middle of it, and paved with large stones bedded in the earth. Here people deal in ship’s gear of all kinds, such as cables and sails, and here, too, are the places where oars are made, for the Phaeacians are not a nation of archers; they know nothing about bows and arrows, but are a sea-faring folk, and pride themselves on their masts, oars, and ships, with which they travel far over the sea.
“I am afraid of the gossip and scandal that may be set on foot against me later on; for the people here are very ill-natured, and some low fellow, if he met us, might say, ‘Who is this fine-looking stranger that is going about with Nausicaa? Where did she End him? I suppose she is going to marry him. Perhaps he is a vagabond sailor whom she has taken from some foreign vessel, for we have no neighbours; or some god has at last come down from heaven in answer to her prayers, and she is going to live with him all the rest of her life. It would be a good thing if she would take herself of I for she and find a husband somewhere else, for she will not look at one of the many excellent young Phaeacians who are in with her.’ This is the kind of disparaging remark that would be made about me, and I could not complain, for I should myself be scandalized at seeing any other girl do the like, and go about with men in spite of everybody, while her father and mother were still alive, and without having been married in the face of all the world.
“If, therefore, you want my father to give you an escort and to help you home, do as I bid you; you will see a beautiful grove of poplars by the road side dedicated to Minerva; it has a well in it and a meadow all round it. Here my father has a field of rich garden ground, about as far from the town as a man’ voice will carry. Sit down there and wait for a while till the rest of us can get into the town and reach my father’s house. Then, when you think we must have done this, come into the town and ask the way to the house of my father Alcinous. You will have no difficulty in finding it; any child will point it out to you, for no one else in the whole town has anything like such a fine house as he has. When you have got past the gates and through the outer court, go right across the inner court till you come to my mother. You will find her sitting by the fire and spinning her purple wool by firelight. It is a fine sight to see her as she leans back against one of the bearing-posts with her maids all ranged behind her. Close to her seat stands that of my father, on which he sits and topes like an immortal god. Never mind him, but go up to my moth- er, and lay your hands upon her knees if you would get home quickly. If you can gain her over, you may hope to see your own country again, no matter how distant it may be.”
So saying she lashed the mules with her whip and they left the river. The mules drew well and their hoofs went up and down upon the road. She was careful not to go too fast for Ulysses and the maids who were following on foot along with the waggon, so she plied her whip with judgement. As the sun was going down they came to the sacred grove of Minerva, and there Ulysses sat down and prayed to the mighty daughter of Jove.
“Hear me,” he cried, “daughter of Aegis-bearing Jove, unweariable, hear me now, for you gave no heed to my prayers when Neptune was wrecking me. Now, therefore, have pity upon me and grant that I may find friends and be hospitably received by the Phaecians.”
Thus did he pray, and Minerva heard his prayer, but she would not show herself to him openly, for she was
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afraid of her uncle Neptune, who was still furious in his endeavors to prevent Ulysses from getting home.
Book VII THUS, then, did Ulysses wait and pray; but the girl drove on to the town. When she reached her father’s house
she drew up at the gateway, and her brothers—comely as the gods—gathered round her, took the mules out of the waggon, and carried the clothes into the house, while she went to her own room, where an old servant, Eurymedusa of Apeira, lit the fire for her. This old woman had been brought by sea from Apeira, and had been chosen as a prize for Alcinous because he was king over the Phaecians, and the people obeyed him as though he were a god. She had been nurse to Nausicaa, and had now lit the fire for her, and brought her supper for her into her own room.
Presently Ulysses got up to go towards the town; and Minerva shed a thick mist all round him to hide him in case any of the proud Phaecians who met him should be rude to him, or ask him who he was. Then, as he was just entering the town, she came towards him in the likeness of a little girl carrying a pitcher. She stood right in front of him, and Ulysses said:
“My dear, will you be so kind as to show me the house of king Alcinous? I am an unfortunate foreigner in dis- tress, and do not know one in your town and country.”
Then Minerva said, “Yes, father stranger, I will show you the house you want, for Alcinous lives quite close to my own father. I will go before you and show the way, but say not a word as you go, and do not look at any man, nor ask him questions; for the people here cannot abide strangers, and do not like men who come from some other place. They are a sea-faring folk, and sail the seas by the grace of Neptune in ships that glide along like thought, or as a bird in the air.”
On this she led the way, and Ulysses followed in her steps; but not one of the Phaecians could see him as he passed through the city in the midst of them; for the great goddess Minerva in her good will towards him had hid- den him in a thick cloud of darkness. He admired their harbours, ships, places of assembly, and the lofty walls of the city, which, with the palisade on top of them, were very striking, and when they reached the king’s house Minerva said:
“This is the house, father stranger, which you would have me show you. You will find a number of great people sitting at table, but do not be afraid; go straight in, for the bolder a man is the more likely he is to carry his point, even though he is a stranger. First find the queen. Her name is Arete, and she comes of the same family as her hus- band Alcinous. They both descend originally from Neptune, who was father to Nausithous by Periboea, a woman of great beauty. Periboea was the youngest daughter of Eurymedon, who at one time reigned over the giants, but he ruined his ill-fated people and lost his own life to boot.
“Neptune, however, lay with his daughter, and she had a son by him, the great Nausithous, who reigned over the Phaecians. Nausithous had two sons Rhexenor and Alcinous; Apollo killed the first of them while he was still a bridegroom and without male issue; but he left a daughter Arete, whom Alcinous married, and honours as no other woman is honoured of all those that keep house along with their husbands.
“Thus she both was, and still is, respected beyond measure by her children, by Alcinous himself, and by the whole people, who look upon her as a goddess, and greet her whenever she goes about the city, for she is a thor- oughly good woman both in head and heart, and when any women are friends of hers, she will help their husbands also to settle their disputes. If you can gain her good will, you may have every hope of seeing your friends again, and getting safely back to your home and country.”
Then Minerva left Scheria and went away over the sea. She went to Marathon and to the spacious streets of Athens, where she entered the abode of Erechtheus; but Ulysses went on to the house of Alcinous, and he pondered much as he paused a while before reaching the threshold of bronze, for the splendour of the palace was like that of the sun or moon. The walls on either side were of bronze from end to end, and the cornice was of blue enamel. The doors were gold, and hung on pillars of silver that rose from a floor of bronze, while the lintel was silver and the hook of the door was of gold.
On either side there stood gold and silver mastiffs which Vulcan, with his consummate skill, had fashioned ex- pressly to keep watch over the palace of king Alcinous; so they were immortal and could never grow old. Seats were ranged all along the wall, here and there from one end to the other, with coverings of fine woven work which the women of the house had made. Here the chief persons of the Phaecians used to sit and eat and drink, for there was abundance at all seasons; and there were golden figures of young men with lighted torches in their hands, raised on pedestals, to give light by night to those who were at table. There are fifty maid servants in the house, some of whom are always grinding rich yellow grain at the mill, while others work at the loom, or sit and spin, and their shuttles go, backwards and forwards like the fluttering of aspen leaves, while the linen is so closely woven that it will turn oil. As the Phaecians are the best sailors in the world, so their women excel all others in weaving, for Minerva has taught them all manner of useful arts, and they are very intelligent.
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Outside the gate of the outer court there is a large garden of about four acres with a wall all round it. It is full of beautiful trees—pears, pomegranates, and the most delicious apples. There are luscious figs also, and olives in full growth. The fruits never rot nor fail all the year round, neither winter nor summer, for the air is so soft that a new crop ripens before the old has dropped. Pear grows on pear, apple on apple, and fig on fig, and so also with the grapes, for there is an excellent vineyard: on the level ground of a part of this, the grapes are being made into raisins; in another part they are being gathered; some are being trodden in the wine tubs, others further on have shed their blossom and are beginning to show fruit, others again are just changing colour. In the furthest part of the ground there are beautifully arranged beds of flowers that are in bloom all the year round. Two streams go through it, the one turned in ducts throughout the whole garden, while the other is carried under the ground of the outer court to the house itself, and the town’s people draw water from it. Such, then, were the splendours with which the gods had endowed the house of king Alcinous.
So here Ulysses stood for a while and looked about him, but when he had looked long enough he crossed the threshold and went within the precincts of the house. There he found all the chief people among the Phaecians making their drink-offerings to Mercury, which they always did the last thing before going away for the night. He went straight through the court, still hidden by the cloak of darkness in which Minerva had enveloped him, till he reached Arete and King Alcinous; then he laid his hands upon the knees of the queen, and at that moment the miraculous darkness fell away from him and he became visible. Every one was speechless with surprise at seeing a man there, but Ulysses began at once with his petition.
“Queen Arete,” he exclaimed, “daughter of great Rhexenor, in my distress I humbly pray you, as also your husband and these your guests (whom may heaven prosper with long life and happiness, and may they leave their possessions to their children, and all the honours conferred upon them by the state) to help me home to my own country as soon as possible; for I have been long in trouble and away from my friends.”
Then he sat down on the hearth among the ashes and they all held their peace, till presently the old hero Eche- neus, who was an excellent speaker and an elder among the Phaeacians, plainly and in all honesty addressed them thus:
“Alcinous,” said he, “it is not creditable to you that a stranger should be seen sitting among the ashes of your hearth; every one is waiting to hear what you are about to say; tell him, then, to rise and take a seat on a stool inlaid with silver, and bid your servants mix some wine and water that we may make a drink-offering to Jove the lord of thunder, who takes all well-disposed suppliants under his protection; and let the housekeeper give him some sup- per, of whatever there may be in the house.”
When Alcinous heard this he took Ulysses by the hand, raised him from the hearth, and bade him take the seat of Laodamas, who had been sitting beside him, and was his favourite son. A maid servant then brought him water in a beautiful golden ewer and poured it into a silver basin for him to wash his hands, and she drew a clean table beside him; an upper servant brought him bread and offered him many good things of what there was in the house, and Ulysses ate and drank. Then Alcinous said to one of the servants, “Pontonous, mix a cup of wine and hand it round that we may make drink-offerings to Jove the lord of thunder, who is the protector of all well-disposed sup- pliants.”
Pontonous then mixed wine and water, and handed it round after giving every man his drink-offering. When they had made their offerings, and had drunk each as much as he was minded, Alcinous said:
“Aldermen and town councillors of the Phaeacians, hear my words. You have had your supper, so now go home to bed. To-morrow morning I shall invite a still larger number of aldermen, and will give a sacrificial banquet in honour of our guest; we can then discuss the question of his escort, and consider how we may at once send him back rejoicing to his own country without trouble or inconvenience to himself, no matter how distant it may be. We must see that he comes to no harm while on his homeward journey, but when he is once at home he will have to take the luck he was born with for better or worse like other people. It is possible, however, that the stranger is one of the immortals who has come down from heaven to visit us; but in this case the gods are departing from their usual practice, for hitherto they have made themselves perfectly clear to us when we have been offering them hec- atombs. They come and sit at our feasts just like one of our selves, and if any solitary wayfarer happens to stumble upon some one or other of them, they affect no concealment, for we are as near of kin to the gods as the Cyclopes and the savage giants are.”
Then Ulysses said: “Pray, Alcinous, do not take any such notion into your head. I have nothing of the immortal about me, neither in body nor mind, and most resemble those among you who are the most afflicted. Indeed, were I to tell you all that heaven has seen fit to lay upon me, you would say that I was still worse off than they are. Never- theless, let me sup in spite of sorrow, for an empty stomach is a very importunate thing, and thrusts itself on a man’s notice no matter how dire is his distress. I am in great trouble, yet it insists that I shall eat and drink, bids me lay aside all memory of my sorrows and dwell only on the due replenishing of itself. As for yourselves, do as you pro- pose, and at break of day set about helping me to get home. I shall be content to die if I may first once more behold
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my property, my bondsmen, and all the greatness of my house.” Thus did he speak. Every one approved his saying, and agreed that he should have his escort inasmuch as he
had spoken reasonably. Then when they had made their drink-offerings, and had drunk each as much as he was minded they went home to bed every man in his own abode, leaving Ulysses in the cloister with Arete and Alci- nous while the servants were taking the things away after supper. Arete was the first to speak, for she recognized the shirt, cloak, and good clothes that Ulysses was wearing, as the work of herself and of her maids; so she said, “Stranger, before we go any further, there is a question I should like to ask you. Who, and whence are you, and who gave you those clothes? Did you not say you had come here from beyond the sea?”
And Ulysses answered, “It would be a long story Madam, were I to relate in full the tale of my misfortunes, for the hand of heaven has been laid heavy upon me; but as regards your question, there is an island far away in the sea which is called ‘the Ogygian.’ Here dwells the cunning and powerful goddess Calypso, daughter of Atlas. She lives by herself far from all neighbours human or divine. Fortune, however, me to her hearth all desolate and alone, for Jove struck my ship with his thunderbolts, and broke it up in mid-ocean. My brave comrades were drowned every man of them, but I stuck to the keel and was carried hither and thither for the space of nine days, till at last during the darkness of the tenth night the gods brought me to the Ogygian island where the great goddess Calypso lives. She took me in and treated me with the utmost kindness; indeed she wanted to make me immortal that I might never grow old, but she could not persuade me to let her do so.
“I stayed with Calypso seven years straight on end, and watered the good clothes she gave me with my tears during the whole time; but at last when the eighth year came round she bade me depart of her own free will, either because Jove had told her she must, or because she had changed her mind. She sent me from her island on a raft, which she provisioned with abundance of bread and wine. Moreover she gave me good stout clothing, and sent me a wind that blew both warm and fair. Days seven and ten did I sail over the sea, and on the eighteenth I caught sight of the first outlines of the mountains upon your coast—and glad indeed was I to set eyes upon them. Nevertheless there was still much trouble in store for me, for at this point Neptune would let me go no further, and raised a great storm against me; the sea was so terribly high that I could no longer keep to my raft, which went to pieces under the fury of the gale, and I had to swim for it, till wind and current brought me to your shores.
“There I tried to land, but could not, for it was a bad place and the waves dashed me against the rocks, so I again took to the sea and swam on till I came to a river that seemed the most likely landing place, for there were no rocks and it was sheltered from the wind. Here, then, I got out of the water and gathered my senses together again. Night was coming on, so I left the river, and went into a thicket, where I covered myself all over with leaves, and presently heaven sent me off into a very deep sleep. Sick and sorry as I was I slept among the leaves all night, and through the next day till afternoon, when I woke as the sun was westering, and saw your daughter’s maid servants playing upon the beach, and your daughter among them looking like a goddess. I besought her aid, and she proved to be of an excellent disposition, much more so than could be expected from so young a person—for young people are apt to be thoughtless. She gave me plenty of bread and wine, and when she had had me washed in the river she also gave me the clothes in which you see me. Now, therefore, though it has pained me to do so, I have told you the whole truth.”
Then Alcinous said, “Stranger, it was very wrong of my daughter not to bring you on at once to my house along with the maids, seeing that she was the first person whose aid you asked.”
“Pray do not scold her,” replied Ulysses; “she is not to blame. She did tell me to follow along with the maids, but I was ashamed and afraid, for I thought you might perhaps be displeased if you saw me. Every human being is sometimes a little suspicious and irritable.”
“Stranger,” replied Alcinous, “I am not the kind of man to get angry about nothing; it is always better to be rea- sonable; but by Father Jove, Minerva, and Apollo, now that I see what kind of person you are, and how much you think as I do, I wish you would stay here, marry my daughter, and become my son-in-law. If you will stay I will give you a house and an estate, but no one (heaven forbid) shall keep you here against your own wish, and that you may be sure of this I will attend to-morrow to the matter of your escort. You can sleep during the whole voyage if you like, and the men shall sail you over smooth waters either to your own home, or wherever you please, even though it be a long way further off than Euboea, which those of my people who saw it when they took yellow-haired Rha- damanthus to see Tityus the son of Gaia, tell me is the furthest of any place—and yet they did the whole voyage in a single day without distressing themselves, and came back again afterwards. You will thus see how much my ships excel all others, and what magnificent oarsmen my sailors are.”
Then was Ulysses glad and prayed aloud saying, “Father Jove, grant that Alcinous may do all as he has said, for so he will win an imperishable name among mankind, and at the same time I shall return to my country.”
Thus did they converse. Then Arete told her maids to set a bed in the room that was in the gatehouse, and make it with good red rugs, and to spread coverlets on the top of them with woollen cloaks for Ulysses to wear. The maids thereon went out with torches in their hands, and when they had made the bed they came up to Ulysses and said,
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“Rise, sir stranger, and come with us for your bed is ready,” and glad indeed was he to go to his rest. So Ulysses slept in a bed placed in a room over the echoing gateway; but Alcinous lay in the inner part of the
house, with the queen his wife by his side.
Book VIII NOW when the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared, Alcinous and Ulysses both rose, and Alci-
nous led the way to the Phaecian place of assembly, which was near the ships. When they got there they sat down side by side on a seat of polished stone, while Minerva took the form of one of Alcinous’ servants, and went round the town in order to help Ulysses to get home. She went up to the citizens, man by man, and said, “Aldermen and town councillors of the Phaeacians, come to the assembly all of you and listen to the stranger who has just come off a long voyage to the house of King Alcinous; he looks like an immortal god.”
With these words she made them all want to come, and they flocked to the assembly till seats and standing room were alike crowded. Every one was struck with the appearance of Ulysses, for Minerva had beautified him about the head and shoulders, making him look taller and stouter than he really was, that he might impress the Phaecians favourably as being a very remarkable man, and might come off well in the many trials of skill to which they would challenge him. Then, when they were got together, Alcinous spoke:
“Hear me,” said he, “aldermen and town councillors of the Phaeacians, that I may speak even as I am minded. This stranger, whoever he may be, has found his way to my house from somewhere or other either East or West. He wants an escort and wishes to have the matter settled. Let us then get one ready for him, as we have done for others before him; indeed, no one who ever yet came to my house has been able to complain of me for not speeding on his way soon enough. Let us draw a ship into the sea—one that has never yet made a voyage—and man her with two and fifty of our smartest young sailors. Then when you have made fast your oars each by his own seat, leave the ship and come to my house to prepare a feast. I will find you in everything. I am giving will these instructions to the young men who will form the crew, for as regards you aldermen and town councillors, you will join me in enter- taining our guest in the cloisters. I can take no excuses, and we will have Demodocus to sing to us; for there is no bard like him whatever he may choose to sing about.”
Alcinous then led the way, and the others followed after, while a servant went to fetch Demodocus. The fif- ty-two picked oarsmen went to the sea shore as they had been told, and when they got there they drew the ship into the water, got her mast and sails inside her, bound the oars to the thole-pins with twisted thongs of leather, all in due course, and spread the white sails aloft. They moored the vessel a little way out from land, and then came on shore and went to the house of King Alcinous. The outhouses, yards, and all the precincts were filled with crowds of men in great multitudes both old and young; and Alcinous killed them a dozen sheep, eight full grown pigs, and two oxen. These they skinned and dressed so as to provide a magnificent banquet.
A servant presently led in the famous bard Demodocus, whom the muse had dearly loved, but to whom she had given both good and evil, for though she had endowed him with a divine gift of song, she had robbed him of his eyesight. Pontonous set a seat for him among the guests, leaning it up against a bearing-post. He hung the lyre for him on a peg over his head, and showed him where he was to feel for it with his hands. He also set a fair table with a basket of victuals by his side, and a cup of wine from which he might drink whenever he was so disposed.
The company then laid their hands upon the good things that were before them, but as soon as they had had enough to eat and drink, the muse inspired Demodocus to sing the feats of heroes, and more especially a matter that was then in the mouths of all men, to wit, the quarrel between Ulysses and Achilles, and the fierce words that they heaped on one another as they gat together at a banquet. But Agamemnon was glad when he heard his chief- tains quarrelling with one another, for Apollo had foretold him this at Pytho when he crossed the stone floor to consult the oracle. Here was the beginning of the evil that by the will of Jove fell both Danaans and Trojans.
Thus sang the bard, but Ulysses drew his purple mantle over his head and covered his face, for he was ashamed to let the Phaeacians see that he was weeping. When the bard left off singing he wiped the tears from his eyes, uncovered his face, and, taking his cup, made a drink-offering to the gods; but when the Phaeacians pressed De- modocus to sing further, for they delighted in his lays, then Ulysses again drew his mantle over his head and wept bitterly. No one noticed his distress except Alcinous, who was sitting near him, and heard the heavy sighs that he was heaving. So he at once said, “Aldermen and town councillors of the Phaeacians, we have had enough now, both of the feast, and of the minstrelsy that is its due accompaniment; let us proceed therefore to the athletic sports, so that our guest on his return home may be able to tell his friends how much we surpass all other nations as boxers, wrestlers, jumpers, and runners.”
With these words he led the way, and the others followed after. A servant hung Demodocus’s lyre on its peg for him, led him out of the cloister, and set him on the same way as that along which all the chief men of the Phaea- cians were going to see the sports; a crowd of several thousands of people followed them, and there were many
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excellent competitors for all the prizes. Acroneos, Ocyalus, Elatreus, Nauteus, Prymneus, Anchialus, Eretmeus, Ponteus, Proreus, Thoon, Anabesineus, and Amphialus son of Polyneus son of Tecton. There was also Euryalus son of Naubolus, who was like Mars himself, and was the best looking man among the Phaecians except Laodamas. Three sons of Alcinous, Laodamas, Halios, and Clytoneus, competed also.
The foot races came first. The course was set out for them from the starting post, and they raised a dust upon the plain as they all flew forward at the same moment. Clytoneus came in first by a long way; he left every one else behind him by the length of the furrow that a couple of mules can plough in a fallow field. They then turned to the painful art of wrestling, and here Euryalus proved to be the best man. Amphialus excelled all the others in jumping, while at throwing the disc there was no one who could approach Elatreus. Alcinous’s son Laodamas was the best boxer, and he it was who presently said, when they had all been diverted with the games, “Let us ask the stranger whether he excels in any of these sports; he seems very powerfully built; his thighs, claves, hands, and neck are of prodigious strength, nor is he at all old, but he has suffered much lately, and there is nothing like the sea for making havoc with a man, no matter how strong he is.”
“You are quite right, Laodamas,” replied Euryalus, “go up to your guest and speak to him about it yourself.” When Laodamas heard this he made his way into the middle of the crowd and said to Ulysses, “I hope, Sir, that
you will enter yourself for some one or other of our competitions if you are skilled in any of them—and you must have gone in for many a one before now. There is nothing that does any one so much credit all his life long as the showing himself a proper man with his hands and feet. Have a try therefore at something, and banish all sorrow from your mind. Your return home will not be long delayed, for the ship is already drawn into the water, and the crew is found.”
Ulysses answered, “Laodamas, why do you taunt me in this way? my mind is set rather on cares than contests; I have been through infinite trouble, and am come among you now as a suppliant, praying your king and people to further me on my return home.”
Then Euryalus reviled him outright and said, “I gather, then, that you are unskilled in any of the many sports that men generally delight in. I suppose you are one of those grasping traders that go about in ships as captains or merchants, and who think of nothing but of their outward freights and homeward cargoes. There does not seem to be much of the athlete about you.”
“For shame, Sir,” answered Ulysses, fiercely, “you are an insolent fellow—so true is it that the gods do not grace all men alike in speech, person, and understanding. One man may be of weak presence, but heaven has adorned this with such a good conversation that he charms every one who sees him; his honeyed moderation carries his hearers with him so that he is leader in all assemblies of his fellows, and wherever he goes he is looked up to. An- other may be as handsome as a god, but his good looks are not crowned with discretion. This is your case. No god could make a finer looking fellow than you are, but you are a fool. Your ill-judged remarks have made me exceed- ingly angry, and you are quite mistaken, for I excel in a great many athletic exercises; indeed, so long as I had youth and strength, I was among the first athletes of the age. Now, however, I am worn out by labour and sorrow, for I have gone through much both on the field of battle and by the waves of the weary sea; still, in spite of all this I will compete, for your taunts have stung me to the quick.”
So he hurried up without even taking his cloak off, and seized a disc, larger, more massive and much heavier than those used by the Phaeacians when disc-throwing among themselves. Then, swinging it back, he threw it from his brawny hand, and it made a humming sound in the air as he did so. The Phaeacians quailed beneath the rushing of its flight as it sped gracefully from his hand, and flew beyond any mark that had been made yet. Minerva, in the form of a man, came and marked the place where it had fallen. “A blind man, Sir,” said she, “could easily tell your mark by groping for it—it is so far ahead of any other. You may make your mind easy about this contest, for no Phaeacian can come near to such a throw as yours.”
Ulysses was glad when he found he had a friend among the lookers-on, so he began to speak more pleasantly. “Young men,” said he, “come up to that throw if you can, and I will throw another disc as heavy or even heavier. If anyone wants to have a bout with me let him come on, for I am exceedingly angry; I will box, wrestle, or run, I do not care what it is, with any man of you all except Laodamas, but not with him because I am his guest, and one cannot compete with one’s own personal friend. At least I do not think it a prudent or a sensible thing for a guest to challenge his host’s family at any game, especially when he is in a foreign country. He will cut the ground from under his own feet if he does; but I make no exception as regards any one else, for I want to have the matter out and know which is the best man. I am a good hand at every kind of athletic sport known among mankind. I am an excellent archer. In battle I am always the first to bring a man down with my arrow, no matter how many more are taking aim at him alongside of me. Philoctetes was the only man who could shoot better than I could when we Achaeans were before Troy and in practice. I far excel every one else in the whole world, of those who still eat bread upon the face of the earth, but I should not like to shoot against the mighty dead, such as Hercules, or Eurytus the Cechalian-men who could shoot against the gods themselves. This in fact was how Eurytus came prematurely by
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his end, for Apollo was angry with him and killed him because he challenged him as an archer. I can throw a dart farther than any one else can shoot an arrow. Running is the only point in respect of which I am afraid some of the Phaecians might beat me, for I have been brought down very low at sea; my provisions ran short, and therefore I am still weak.”
They all held their peace except King Alcinous, who began, “Sir, we have had much pleasure in hearing all that you have told us, from which I understand that you are willing to show your prowess, as having been displeased with some insolent remarks that have been made to you by one of our athletes, and which could never have been uttered by any one who knows how to talk with propriety. I hope you will apprehend my meaning, and will explain to any be one of your chief men who may be dining with yourself and your family when you get home, that we have an hereditary aptitude for accomplishments of all kinds. We are not particularly remarkable for our boxing, nor yet as wrestlers, but we are singularly fleet of foot and are excellent sailors. We are extremely fond of good dinners, music, and dancing; we also like frequent changes of linen, warm baths, and good beds, so now, please, some of you who are the best dancers set about dancing, that our guest on his return home may be able to tell his friends how much we surpass all other nations as sailors, runners, dancers, minstrels. Demodocus has left his lyre at my house, so run some one or other of you and fetch it for him.”
On this a servant hurried off to bring the lyre from the king’s house, and the nine men who had been chosen as stewards stood forward. It was their business to manage everything connected with the sports, so they made the ground smooth and marked a wide space for the dancers. Presently the servant came back with Demodocus’s lyre, and he took his place in the midst of them, whereon the best young dancers in the town began to foot and trip it so nimbly that Ulysses was delighted with the merry twinkling of their feet.
Meanwhile the bard began to sing the loves of Mars and Venus, and how they first began their intrigue in the house of Vulcan. Mars made Venus many presents, and defiled King Vulcan’s marriage bed, so the sun, who saw what they were about, told Vulcan. Vulcan was very angry when he heard such dreadful news, so he went to his smithy brooding mischief, got his great anvil into its place, and began to forge some chains which none could either unloose or break, so that they might stay there in that place. When he had finished his snare he went into his bedroom and festooned the bed-posts all over with chains like cobwebs; he also let many hang down from the great beam of the ceiling. Not even a god could see them, so fine and subtle were they. As soon as he had spread the chains all over the bed, he made as though he were setting out for the fair state of Lemnos, which of all places in the world was the one he was most fond of. But Mars kept no blind look out, and as soon as he saw him start, hurried off to his house, burning with love for Venus.
Now Venus was just come in from a visit to her father Jove, and was about sitting down when Mars came inside the house, an said as he took her hand in his own, “Let us go to the couch of Vulcan: he is not at home, but is gone off to Lemnos among the Sintians, whose speech is barbarous.”
She was nothing loth, so they went to the couch to take their rest, whereon they were caught in the toils which cunning Vulcan had spread for them, and could neither get up nor stir hand or foot, but found too late that they were in a trap. Then Vulcan came up to them, for he had turned back before reaching Lemnos, when his scout the sun told him what was going on. He was in a furious passion, and stood in the vestibule making a dreadful noise as he shouted to all the gods.
“Father Jove,” he cried, “and all you other blessed gods who live for ever, come here and see the ridiculous and disgraceful sight that I will show you. Jove’s daughter Venus is always dishonouring me because I am lame. She is in love with Mars, who is handsome and clean built, whereas I am a cripple—but my parents are to blame for that, not I; they ought never to have begotten me. Come and see the pair together asleep on my bed. It makes me furious to look at them. They are very fond of one another, but I do not think they will lie there longer than they can help, nor do I think that they will sleep much; there, however, they shall stay till her father has repaid me the sum I gave him for his baggage of a daughter, who is fair but not honest.”
On this the gods gathered to the house of Vulcan. Earth-encircling Neptune came, and Mercury the bringer of luck, and King Apollo, but the goddesses stayed at home all of them for shame. Then the givers of all good things stood in the doorway, and the blessed gods roared with inextinguishable laughter, as they saw how cunning Vulcan had been, whereon one would turn towards his neighbour saying:
“Ill deeds do not prosper, and the weak confound the strong. See how limping Vulcan, lame as he is, has caught Mars who is the fleetest god in heaven; and now Mars will be cast in heavy damages.”
Thus did they converse, but King Apollo said to Mercury, “Messenger Mercury, giver of good things, you would not care how strong the chains were, would you, if you could sleep with Venus?”
“King Apollo,” answered Mercury, “I only wish I might get the chance, though there were three times as many chains—and you might look on, all of you, gods and goddesses, but would sleep with her if I could.”
The immortal gods burst out laughing as they heard him, but Neptune took it all seriously, and kept on implor- ing Vulcan to set Mars free again. “Let him go,” he cried, “and I will undertake, as you require, that he shall pay you
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all the damages that are held reasonable among the immortal gods.” “Do not,” replied Vulcan, “ask me to do this; a bad man’s bond is bad security; what remedy could I enforce
against you if Mars should go away and leave his debts behind him along with his chains?” “Vulcan,” said Neptune, “if Mars goes away without paying his damages, I will pay you myself.” So Vulcan an-
swered, “In this case I cannot and must not refuse you.” Thereon he loosed the bonds that bound them, and as soon as they were free they scampered off, Mars to Thra-
ce and laughter-loving Venus to Cyprus and to Paphos, where is her grove and her altar fragrant with burnt offer- ings. Here the Graces hathed her, and anointed her with oil of ambrosia such as the immortal gods make use of, and they clothed her in raiment of the most enchanting beauty.
Thus sang the bard, and both Ulysses and the seafaring Phaeacians were charmed as they heard him. Then Alcinous told Laodamas and Halius to dance alone, for there was no one to compete with them. So they
took a red ball which Polybus had made for them, and one of them bent himself backwards and threw it up towards the clouds, while the other jumped from off the ground and caught it with ease before it came down again. When they had done throwing the ball straight up into the air they began to dance, and at the same time kept on throwing it backwards and forwards to one another, while all the young men in the ring applauded and made a great stamp- ing with their feet. Then Ulysses said:
“King Alcinous, you said your people were the nimblest dancers in the world, and indeed they have proved themselves to be so. I was astonished as I saw them.”
The king was delighted at this, and exclaimed to the Phaecians “Aldermen and town councillors, our guest seems to be a person of singular judgement; let us give him such proof of our hospitality as he may reasonably expect. There are twelve chief men among you, and counting myself there are thirteen; contribute, each of you, a clean cloak, a shirt, and a talent of fine gold; let us give him all this in a lump down at once, so that when he gets his supper he may do so with a light heart. As for Euryalus he will have to make a formal apology and a present too, for he has been rude.”
Thus did he speak. The others all of them applauded his saying, and sent their servants to fetch the presents. Then Euryalus said, “King Alcinous, I will give the stranger all the satisfaction you require. He shall have sword, which is of bronze, all but the hilt, which is of silver. I will also give him the scabbard of newly sawn ivory into which it fits. It will be worth a great deal to him.”
As he spoke he placed the sword in the hands of Ulysses and said, “Good luck to you, father stranger; if any- thing has been said amiss may the winds blow it away with them, and may heaven grant you a safe return, for I understand you have been long away from home, and have gone through much hardship.”
To which Ulysses answered, “Good luck to you too my friend, and may the gods grant you every happiness. I hope you will not miss the sword you have given me along with your apology.”
With these words he girded the sword about his shoulders and towards sundown the presents began to make their appearance, as the servants of the donors kept bringing them to the house of King Alcinous; here his sons received them, and placed them under their mother’s charge. Then Alcinous led the way to the house and bade his guests take their seats.
“Wife,” said he, turning to Queen Arete, “Go, fetch the best chest we have, and put a clean cloak and shirt in it. Also, set a copper on the fire and heat some water; our guest will take a warm bath; see also to the careful packing of the presents that the noble Phaeacians have made him; he will thus better enjoy both his supper and the singing that will follow. I shall myself give him this golden goblet—which is of exquisite workmanship—that he may be reminded of me for the rest of his life whenever he makes a drink-offering to Jove, or to any of the gods.”
Then Arete told her maids to set a large tripod upon the fire as fast as they could, whereon they set a tripod full of bath water on to a clear fire; they threw on sticks to make it blaze, and the water became hot as the flame played about the belly of the tripod. Meanwhile Arete brought a magnificent chest her own room, and inside it she packed all the beautiful presents of gold and raiment which the Phaeacians had brought. Lastly she added a cloak and a good shirt from Alcinous, and said to Ulysses:
“See to the lid yourself, and have the whole bound round at once, for fear any one should rob you by the way when you are asleep in your ship.”
When Ulysses heard this he put the lid on the chest and made it fast with a bond that Circe had taught him. He had done so before an upper servant told him to come to the bath and wash himself. He was very glad of a warm bath, for he had had no one to wait upon him ever since he left the house of Calypso, who as long as he remained with her had taken as good care of him as though he had been a god. When the servants had done washing and anointing him with oil, and had given him a clean cloak and shirt, he left the bath room and joined the guests who were sitting over their wine. Lovely Nausicaa stood by one of the bearing-posts supporting the roof if the cloister, and admired him as she saw him pass. “Farewell stranger,” said she, “do not forget me when you are safe at home again, for it is to me first that you owe a ransom for having saved your life.”
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And Ulysses said, “Nausicaa, daughter of great Alcinous, may Jove the mighty husband of Juno, grant that I may reach my home; so shall I bless you as my guardian angel all my days, for it was you who saved me.”
When he had said this, he seated himself beside Alcinous. Supper was then served, and the wine was mixed for drinking. A servant led in the favourite bard Demodocus, and set him in the midst of the company, near one of the bearing-posts supporting the cloister, that he might lean against it. Then Ulysses cut off a piece of roast pork with plenty of fat (for there was abundance left on the joint) and said to a servant, “Take this piece of pork over to Demodocus and tell him to eat it; for all the pain his lays may cause me I will salute him none the less; bards are honoured and respected throughout the world, for the muse teaches them their songs and loves them.”
The servant carried the pork in his fingers over to Demodocus, who took it and was very much pleased. They then laid their hands on the good things that were before them, and as soon as they had had to eat and drink, Ulysses said to Demodocus, “Demodocus, there is no one in the world whom I admire more than I do you. You must have studied under the Muse, Jove’s daughter, and under Apollo, so accurately do you sing the return of the Achaeans with all their sufferings and adventures. If you were not there yourself, you must have heard it all from some one who was. Now, however, change your song and tell us of the wooden horse which Epeus made with the assistance of Minerva, and which Ulysses got by stratagem into the fort of Troy after freighting it with the men who afterwards sacked the city. If you will sing this tale aright I will tell all the world how magnificently heaven has endowed you.”
The bard inspired of heaven took up the story at the point where some of the Argives set fire to their tents and sailed away while others, hidden within the horse, were waiting with Ulysses in the Trojan place of assembly. For the Trojans themselves had drawn the horse into their fortress, and it stood there while they sat in council round it, and were in three minds as to what they should do. Some were for breaking it up then and there; others would have it dragged to the top of the rock on which the fortress stood, and then thrown down the precipice; while yet others were for letting it remain as an offering and propitiation for the gods. And this was how they settled it in the end, for the city was doomed when it took in that horse, within which were all the bravest of the Argives waiting to bring death and destruction on the Trojans. Anon he sang how the sons of the Achaeans issued from the horse, and sacked the town, breaking out from their ambuscade. He sang how they over ran the city hither and thither and ravaged it, and how Ulysses went raging like Mars along with Menelaus to the house of Deiphobus. It was there that the fight raged most furiously, nevertheless by Minerva’s help he was victorious.
All this he told, but Ulysses was overcome as he heard him, and his cheeks were wet with tears. He wept as a woman weeps when she throws herself on the body of her husband who has fallen before his own city and people, fighting bravely in defence of his home and children. She screams aloud and flings her arms about him as he lies gasping for breath and dying, but her enemies beat her from behind about the back and shoulders, and carry her off into slavery, to a life of labour and sorrow, and the beauty fades from her cheeks—even so piteously did Ulysses weep, but none of those present perceived his tears except Alcinous, who was sitting near him, and could hear the sobs and sighs that he was heaving. The king, therefore, at once rose and said:
“Aldermen and town councillors of the Phaeacians, let Demodocus cease his song, for there are those present who do not seem to like it. From the moment that we had done supper and Demodocus began to sing, our guest has been all the time groaning and lamenting. He is evidently in great trouble, so let the bard leave off, that we may all enjoy ourselves, hosts and guest alike. This will be much more as it should be, for all these festivities, with the escort and the presents that we are making with so much good will, are wholly in his honour, and any one with even a moderate amount of right feeling knows that he ought to treat a guest and a suppliant as though he were his own brother.
“Therefore, Sir, do you on your part affect no more concealment nor reserve in the matter about which I shall ask you; it will be more polite in you to give me a plain answer; tell me the name by which your father and mother over yonder used to call you, and by which you were known among your neighbours and fellow-citizens. There is no one, neither rich nor poor, who is absolutely without any name whatever, for people’s fathers and mothers give them names as soon as they are born. Tell me also your country, nation, and city, that our ships may shape their purpose accordingly and take you there. For the Phaeacians have no pilots; their vessels have no rudders as those of other nations have, but the ships themselves understand what it is that we are thinking about and want; they know all the cities and countries in the whole world, and can traverse the sea just as well even when it is covered with mist and cloud, so that there is no danger of being wrecked or coming to any harm. Still I do remember hearing my father say that Neptune was angry with us for being too easy-going in the matter of giving people escorts. He said that one of these days he should wreck a ship of ours as it was returning from having escorted some one, and bury our city under a high mountain. This is what my used to say, but whether the god will carry out his threat or no is a matter which he will decide for himself.
“And now, tell me and tell me true. Where have you been wandering, and in what countries have you travelled? Tell us of the peoples themselves, and of their cities—who were hostile, savage and uncivilized, and who, on the
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other hand, hospitable and humane. Tell us also why you are made unhappy on hearing about the return of the Argive Danaans from Troy. The gods arranged all this, and sent them their misfortunes in order that future gener- ations might have something to sing about. Did you lose some brave kinsman of your wife’s when you were before Troy? a son-in-law or father-in-law—which are the nearest relations a man has outside his own flesh and blood? or was it some brave and kindly-natured comrade—for a good friend is as dear to a man as his own brother?”
Book IX AND ULYSSES answered, “King Alcinous, it is a good thing to hear a bard with such a divine voice as this man
has. There is nothing better or more delightful than when a whole people make merry together, with the guests sitting orderly to listen, while the table is loaded with bread and meats, and the cup-bearer draws wine and fills his cup for every man. This is indeed as fair a sight as a man can see. Now, however, since you are inclined to ask the story of my sorrows, and rekindle my own sad memories in respect of them, I do not know how to begin, nor yet how to continue and conclude my tale, for the hand of heaven has been laid heavily upon me.
“Firstly, then, I will tell you my name that you too may know it, and one day, if I outlive this time of sorrow, may become my there guests though I live so far away from all of you. I am Ulysses son of Laertes, reknowned among mankind for all manner of subtlety, so that my fame ascends to heaven. I live in Ithaca, where there is a high mountain called Neritum, covered with forests; and not far from it there is a group of islands very near to one an- other—Dulichium, Same, and the wooded island of Zacynthus. It lies squat on the horizon, all highest up in the sea towards the sunset, while the others lie away from it towards dawn. It is a rugged island, but it breeds brave men, and my eyes know none that they better love to look upon. The goddess Calypso kept me with her in her cave, and wanted me to marry her, as did also the cunning Aeaean goddess Circe; but they could neither of them persuade me, for there is nothing dearer to a man than his own country and his parents, and however splendid a home he may have in a foreign country, if it be far from father or mother, he does not care about it. Now, however, I will tell you of the many hazardous adventures which by Jove’s will I met with on my return from Troy.
“When I had set sail thence the wind took me first to Ismarus, which is the city of the Cicons. There I sacked the town and put the people to the sword. We took their wives and also much booty, which we divided equitably amongst us, so that none might have reason to complain. I then said that we had better make off at once, but my men very foolishly would not obey me, so they stayed there drinking much wine and killing great numbers of sheep and oxen on the sea shore. Meanwhile the Cicons cried out for help to other Cicons who lived inland. These were more in number, and stronger, and they were more skilled in the art of war, for they could fight, either from chari- ots or on foot as the occasion served; in the morning, therefore, they came as thick as leaves and bloom in summer, and the hand of heaven was against us, so that we were hard pressed. They set the battle in array near the ships, and the hosts aimed their bronze-shod spears at one another. So long as the day waxed and it was still morning, we held our own against them, though they were more in number than we; but as the sun went down, towards the time when men loose their oxen, the Cicons got the better of us, and we lost half a dozen men from every ship we had; so we got away with those that were left.
“Thence we sailed onward with sorrow in our hearts, but glad to have escaped death though we had lost our comrades, nor did we leave till we had thrice invoked each one of the poor fellows who had perished by the hands of the Cicons. Then Jove raised the North wind against us till it blew a hurricane, so that land and sky were hidden in thick clouds, and night sprang forth out of the heavens. We let the ships run before the gale, but the force of the wind tore our sails to tatters, so we took them down for fear of shipwreck, and rowed our hardest towards the land. There we lay two days and two nights suffering much alike from toil and distress of mind, but on the morning of the third day we again raised our masts, set sail, and took our places, letting the wind and steersmen direct our ship. I should have got home at that time unharmed had not the North wind and the currents been against me as I was doubling Cape Malea, and set me off my course hard by the island of Cythera.
“I was driven thence by foul winds for a space of nine days upon the sea, but on the tenth day we reached the land of the Lotus-eater, who live on a food that comes from a kind of flower. Here we landed to take in fresh water, and our crews got their mid-day meal on the shore near the ships. When they had eaten and drunk I sent two of my company to see what manner of men the people of the place might be, and they had a third man under them. They started at once, and went about among the Lotus-eaters, who did them no hurt, but gave them to eat of the lotus, which was so delicious that those who ate of it left off caring about home, and did not even want to go back and say what had happened to them, but were for staying and munching lotus with the Lotus-eater without thinking further of their return; nevertheless, though they wept bitterly I forced them back to the ships and made them fast under the benches. Then I told the rest to go on board at once, lest any of them should taste of the lotus and leave off wanting to get home, so they took their places and smote the grey sea with their oars.
“We sailed hence, always in much distress, till we came to the land of the lawless and inhuman Cyclopes. Now
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the Cyclopes neither plant nor plough, but trust in providence, and live on such wheat, barley, and grapes as grow wild without any kind of tillage, and their wild grapes yield them wine as the sun and the rain may grow them. They have no laws nor assemblies of the people, but live in caves on the tops of high mountains; each is lord and master in his family, and they take no account of their neighbours.
“Now off their harbour there lies a wooded and fertile island not quite close to the land of the Cyclopes, but still not far. It is overrun with wild goats, that breed there in great numbers and are never disturbed by foot of man; for sportsmen—who as a rule will suffer so much hardship in forest or among mountain precipices—do not go there, nor yet again is it ever ploughed or fed down, but it lies a wilderness untilled and unsown from year to year, and has no living thing upon it but only goats. For the Cyclopes have no ships, nor yet shipwrights who could make ships for them; they cannot therefore go from city to city, or sail over the sea to one another’s country as people who have ships can do; if they had had these they would have colonized the island, for it is a very good one, and would yield everything in due season. There are meadows that in some places come right down to the sea shore, well watered and full of luscious grass; grapes would do there excellently; there is level land for ploughing, and it would always yield heavily at harvest time, for the soil is deep. There is a good harbour where no cables are wanted, nor yet an- chors, nor need a ship be moored, but all one has to do is to beach one’s vessel and stay there till the wind becomes fair for putting out to sea again. At the head of the harbour there is a spring of clear water coming out of a cave, and there are poplars growing all round it.
“Here we entered, but so dark was the night that some god must have brought us in, for there was nothing whatever to be seen. A thick mist hung all round our ships; the moon was hidden behind a mass of clouds so that no one could have seen the island if he had looked for it, nor were there any breakers to tell us we were close in shore before we found ourselves upon the land itself; when, however, we had beached the ships, we took down the sails, went ashore and camped upon the beach till daybreak.
“When the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared, we admired the island and wandered all over it, while the nymphs Jove’s daughters roused the wild goats that we might get some meat for our dinner. On this we fetched our spears and bows and arrows from the ships, and dividing ourselves into three bands began to shoot the goats. Heaven sent us excellent sport; I had twelve ships with me, and each ship got nine goats, while my own ship had ten; thus through the livelong day to the going down of the sun we ate and drank our fill—and we had plenty of wine left, for each one of us had taken many jars full when we sacked the city of the Cicons, and this had not yet run out. While we were feasting we kept turning our eyes towards the land of the Cyclopes, which was hard by, and saw the smoke of their stubble fires. We could almost fancy we heard their voices and the bleating of their sheep and goats, but when the sun went down and it came on dark, we camped down upon the beach, and next morning I called a council.
“’Stay here, my brave fellows,’ said I, ‘all the rest of you, while I go with my ship and exploit these people myself: I want to see if they are uncivilized savages, or a hospitable and humane race.’
“I went on board, bidding my men to do so also and loose the hawsers; so they took their places and smote the grey sea with their oars. When we got to the land, which was not far, there, on the face of a cliff near the sea, we saw a great cave overhung with laurels. It was a station for a great many sheep and goats, and outside there was a large yard, with a high wall round it made of stones built into the ground and of trees both pine and oak. This was the abode of a huge monster who was then away from home shepherding his flocks. He would have nothing to do with other people, but led the life of an outlaw. He was a horrid creature, not like a human being at all, but resembling rather some crag that stands out boldly against the sky on the top of a high mountain.
“I told my men to draw the ship ashore, and stay where they were, all but the twelve best among them, who were to go along with myself. I also took a goatskin of sweet black wine which had been given me by Maron, Apollo son of Euanthes, who was priest of Apollo the patron god of Ismarus, and lived within the wooded precincts of the temple. When we were sacking the city we respected him, and spared his life, as also his wife and child; so he made me some presents of great value—seven talents of fine gold, and a bowl of silver, with twelve jars of sweet wine, unblended, and of the most exquisite flavour. Not a man nor maid in the house knew about it, but only himself, his wife, and one housekeeper: when he drank it he mixed twenty parts of water to one of wine, and yet the fragrance from the mixing-bowl was so exquisite that it was impossible to refrain from drinking. I filled a large skin with this wine, and took a wallet full of provisions with me, for my mind misgave me that I might have to deal with some savage who would be of great strength, and would respect neither right nor law.
“We soon reached his cave, but he was out shepherding, so we went inside and took stock of all that we could see. His cheese-racks were loaded with cheeses, and he had more lambs and kids than his pens could hold. They were kept in separate flocks; first there were the hoggets, then the oldest of the younger lambs and lastly the very young ones all kept apart from one another; as for his dairy, all the vessels, bowls, and milk pails into which he milked, were swimming with whey. When they saw all this, my men begged me to let them first steal some cheeses, and make off with them to the ship; they would then return, drive down the lambs and kids, put them on board and
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sail away with them. It would have been indeed better if we had done so but I would not listen to them, for I wanted to see the owner himself, in the hope that he might give me a present. When, however, we saw him my poor men found him ill to deal with.
“We lit a fire, offered some of the cheeses in sacrifice, ate others of them, and then sat waiting till the Cyclops should come in with his sheep. When he came, he brought in with him a huge load of dry firewood to light the fire for his supper, and this he flung with such a noise on to the floor of his cave that we hid ourselves for fear at the far end of the cavern. Meanwhile he drove all the ewes inside, as well as the she-goats that he was going to milk, leaving the males, both rams and he-goats, outside in the yards. Then he rolled a huge stone to the mouth of the cave—so huge that two and twenty strong four-wheeled waggons would not be enough to draw it from its place against the doorway. When he had so done he sat down and milked his ewes and goats, all in due course, and then let each of them have her own young. He curdled half the milk and set it aside in wicker strainers, but the other half he poured into bowls that he might drink it for his supper. When he had got through with all his work, he lit the fire, and then caught sight of us, whereon he said:
“’Strangers, who are you? Where do sail from? Are you traders, or do you sail the as rovers, with your hands against every man, and every man’s hand against you?’
“We were frightened out of our senses by his loud voice and monstrous form, but I managed to say, ‘We are Achaeans on our way home from Troy, but by the will of Jove, and stress of weather, we have been driven far out of our course. We are the people of Agamemnon, son of Atreus, who has won infinite renown throughout the whole world, by sacking so great a city and killing so many people. We therefore humbly pray you to show us some hospi- tality, and otherwise make us such presents as visitors may reasonably expect. May your excellency fear the wrath of heaven, for we are your suppliants, and Jove takes all respectable travellers under his protection, for he is the avenger of all suppliants and foreigners in distress.’
“To this he gave me but a pitiless answer, ‘Stranger,’ said he, ‘you are a fool, or else you know nothing of this country. Talk to me, indeed, about fearing the gods or shunning their anger? We Cyclopes do not care about Jove or any of your blessed gods, for we are ever so much stronger than they. I shall not spare either yourself or your com- panions out of any regard for Jove, unless I am in the humour for doing so. And now tell me where you made your ship fast when you came on shore. Was it round the point, or is she lying straight off the land?’
“He said this to draw me out, but I was too cunning to be caught in that way, so I answered with a lie; ‘Neptune,’ said I, ‘sent my ship on to the rocks at the far end of your country, and wrecked it. We were driven on to them from the open sea, but I and those who are with me escaped the jaws of death.’
“The cruel wretch vouchsafed me not one word of answer, but with a sudden clutch he gripped up two of my men at once and dashed them down upon the ground as though they had been puppies. Their brains were shed upon the ground, and the earth was wet with their blood. Then he tore them limb from limb and supped upon them. He gobbled them up like a lion in the wilderness, flesh, bones, marrow, and entrails, without leaving anything uneaten. As for us, we wept and lifted up our hands to heaven on seeing such a horrid sight, for we did not know what else to do; but when the Cyclops had filled his huge paunch, and had washed down his meal of human flesh with a drink of neat milk, he stretched himself full length upon the ground among his sheep, and went to sleep. I was at first inclined to seize my sword, draw it, and drive it into his vitals, but I reflected that if I did we should all certainly be lost, for we should never be able to shift the stone which the monster had put in front of the door. So we stayed sobbing and sighing where we were till morning came.
“When the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared, he again lit his fire, milked his goats and ewes, all quite rightly, and then let each have her own young one; as soon as he had got through with all his work, he clutched up two more of my men, and began eating them for his morning’s meal. Presently, with the utmost ease, he rolled the stone away from the door and drove out his sheep, but he at once put it back again—as easily as though he were merely clapping the lid on to a quiver full of arrows. As soon as he had done so he shouted, and cried ‘Shoo, shoo,’ after his sheep to drive them on to the mountain; so I was left to scheme some way of taking my revenge and covering myself with glory.
“In the end I deemed it would be the best plan to do as follows. The Cyclops had a great club which was lying near one of the sheep pens; it was of green olive wood, and he had cut it intending to use it for a staff as soon as it should be dry. It was so huge that we could only compare it to the mast of a twenty-oared merchant vessel of large burden, and able to venture out into open sea. I went up to this club and cut off about six feet of it; I then gave this piece to the men and told them to fine it evenly off at one end, which they proceeded to do, and lastly I brought it to a point myself, charring the end in the fire to make it harder. When I had done this I hid it under dung, which was lying about all over the cave, and told the men to cast lots which of them should venture along with myself to lift it and bore it into the monster’s eye while he was asleep. The lot fell upon the very four whom I should have chosen, and I myself made five. In the evening the wretch came back from shepherding, and drove his flocks into the cave— this time driving them all inside, and not leaving any in the yards; I suppose some fancy must have taken him, or
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a god must have prompted him to do so. As soon as he had put the stone back to its place against the door, he sat down, milked his ewes and his goats all quite rightly, and then let each have her own young one; when he had got through with all this work, he gripped up two more of my men, and made his supper off them. So I went up to him with an ivy-wood bowl of black wine in my hands:
“’Look here, Cyclops,’ said I, you have been eating a great deal of man’s flesh, so take this and drink some wine, that you may see what kind of liquor we had on board my ship. I was bringing it to you as a drink-offering, in the hope that you would take compassion upon me and further me on my way home, whereas all you do is to go on ramping and raving most intolerably. You ought to be ashamed yourself; how can you expect people to come see you any more if you treat them in this way?’
“He then took the cup and drank. He was so delighted with the taste of the wine that he begged me for another bowl full. ‘Be so kind,’ he said, ‘as to give me some more, and tell me your name at once. I want to make you a pres- ent that you will be glad to have. We have wine even in this country, for our soil grows grapes and the sun ripens them, but this drinks like nectar and ambrosia all in one.’
“I then gave him some more; three times did I fill the bowl for him, and three times did he drain it without thought or heed; then, when I saw that the wine had got into his head, I said to him as plausibly as I could: ‘Cyclops, you ask my name and I will tell it you; give me, therefore, the present you promised me; my name is Noman; this is what my father and mother and my friends have always called me.’
“But the cruel wretch said, ‘Then I will eat all Noman’s comrades before Noman himself, and will keep Noman for the last. This is the present that I will make him.’
As he spoke he reeled, and fell sprawling face upwards on the ground. His great neck hung heavily backwards and a deep sleep took hold upon him. Presently he turned sick, and threw up both wine and the gobbets of human flesh on which he had been gorging, for he was very drunk. Then I thrust the beam of wood far into the embers to heat it, and encouraged my men lest any of them should turn faint-hearted. When the wood, green though it was, was about to blaze, I drew it out of the fire glowing with heat, and my men gathered round me, for heaven had filled their hearts with courage. We drove the sharp end of the beam into the monster’s eye, and bearing upon it with all my weight I kept turning it round and round as though I were boring a hole in a ship’s plank with an auger, which two men with a wheel and strap can keep on turning as long as they choose. Even thus did we bore the red hot beam into his eye, till the boiling blood bubbled all over it as we worked it round and round, so that the steam from the burning eyeball scalded his eyelids and eyebrows, and the roots of the eye sputtered in the fire. As a blacksmith plunges an axe or hatchet into cold water to temper it—for it is this that gives strength to the iron—and it makes a great hiss as he does so, even thus did the Cyclops’ eye hiss round the beam of olive wood, and his hideous yells made the cave ring again. We ran away in a fright, but he plucked the beam all besmirched with gore from his eye, and hurled it from him in a frenzy of rage and pain, shouting as he did so to the other Cyclopes who lived on the bleak headlands near him; so they gathered from all quarters round his cave when they heard him crying, and asked what was the matter with him.
“’What ails you, Polyphemus,’ said they, ‘that you make such a noise, breaking the stillness of the night, and preventing us from being able to sleep? Surely no man is carrying off your sheep? Surely no man is trying to kill you either by fraud or by force?
“But Polyphemus shouted to them from inside the cave, ‘Noman is killing me by fraud! Noman is killing me by force!’
“’Then,’ said they, ‘if no man is attacking you, you must be ill; when Jove makes people ill, there is no help for it, and you had better pray to your father Neptune.’
“Then they went away, and I laughed inwardly at the success of my clever stratagem, but the Cyclops, groaning and in an agony of pain, felt about with his hands till he found the stone and took it from the door; then he sat in the doorway and stretched his hands in front of it to catch anyone going out with the sheep, for he thought I might be foolish enough to attempt this.
“As for myself I kept on puzzling to think how I could best save my own life and those of my companions; I schemed and schemed, as one who knows that his life depends upon it, for the danger was very great. In the end I deemed that this plan would be the best. The male sheep were well grown, and carried a heavy black fleece, so I bound them noiselessly in threes together, with some of the withies on which the wicked monster used to sleep. There was to be a man under the middle sheep, and the two on either side were to cover him, so that there were three sheep to each man. As for myself there was a ram finer than any of the others, so I caught hold of him by the back, esconced myself in the thick wool under his belly, and flung on patiently to his fleece, face upwards, keeping a firm hold on it all the time.
“Thus, then, did we wait in great fear of mind till morning came, but when the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared, the male sheep hurried out to feed, while the ewes remained bleating about the pens waiting to be milked, for their udders were full to bursting; but their master in spite of all his pain felt the backs of all the sheep as
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they stood upright, without being sharp enough to find out that the men were underneath their bellies. As the ram was going out, last of all, heavy with its fleece and with the weight of my crafty self; Polyphemus laid hold of it and said:
“’My good ram, what is it that makes you the last to leave my cave this morning? You are not wont to let the ewes go before you, but lead the mob with a run whether to flowery mead or bubbling fountain, and are the first to come home again at night; but now you lag last of all. Is it because you know your master has lost his eye, and are sorry because that wicked Noman and his horrid crew have got him down in his drink and blinded him? But I will have his life yet. If you could understand and talk, you would tell me where the wretch is hiding, and I would dash his brains upon the ground till they flew all over the cave. I should thus have some satisfaction for the harm a this no-good Noman has done me.’
“As spoke he drove the ram outside, but when we were a little way out from the cave and yards, I first got from under the ram’s belly, and then freed my comrades; as for the sheep, which were very fat, by constantly heading them in the right direction we managed to drive them down to the ship. The crew rejoiced greatly at seeing those of us who had escaped death, but wept for the others whom the Cyclops had killed. However, I made signs to them by nodding and frowning that they were to hush their crying, and told them to get all the sheep on board at once and put out to sea; so they went aboard, took their places, and smote the grey sea with their oars. Then, when I had got as far out as my voice would reach, I began to jeer at the Cyclops.
“’Cyclops,’ said I, ‘you should have taken better measure of your man before eating up his comrades in your cave. You wretch, eat up your visitors in your own house? You might have known that your sin would find you out, and now Jove and the other gods have punished you.’
“He got more and more furious as he heard me, so he tore the top from off a high mountain, and flung it just in front of my ship so that it was within a little of hitting the end of the rudder. The sea quaked as the rock fell into it, and the wash of the wave it raised carried us back towards the mainland, and forced us towards the shore. But I snatched up a long pole and kept the ship off, making signs to my men by nodding my head, that they must row for their lives, whereon they laid out with a will. When we had got twice as far as we were before, I was for jeering at the Cyclops again, but the men begged and prayed of me to hold my tongue.
“’Do not,’ they exclaimed, ‘be mad enough to provoke this savage creature further; he has thrown one rock at us already which drove us back again to the mainland, and we made sure it had been the death of us; if he had then heard any further sound of voices he would have pounded our heads and our ship’s timbers into a jelly with the rugged rocks he would have heaved at us, for he can throw them a long way.’
“But I would not listen to them, and shouted out to him in my rage, ‘Cyclops, if any one asks you who it was that put your eye out and spoiled your beauty, say it was the valiant warrior Ulysses, son of Laertes, who lives in Ithaca.’
“On this he groaned, and cried out, ‘Alas, alas, then the old prophecy about me is coming true. There was a prophet here, at one time, a man both brave and of great stature, Telemus son of Eurymus, who was an excellent seer, and did all the prophesying for the Cyclopes till he grew old; he told me that all this would happen to me some day, and said I should lose my sight by the hand of Ulysses. I have been all along expecting some one of imposing presence and superhuman strength, whereas he turns out to be a little insignificant weakling, who has managed to blind my eye by taking advantage of me in my drink; come here, then, Ulysses, that I may make you presents to show my hospitality, and urge Neptune to help you forward on your journey—for Neptune and I are father and son. He, if he so will, shall heal me, which no one else neither god nor man can do.’
“Then I said, ‘I wish I could be as sure of killing you outright and sending you down to the house of Hades, as I am that it will take more than Neptune to cure that eye of yours.’
“On this he lifted up his hands to the firmament of heaven and prayed, saying, ‘Hear me, great Neptune; if I am indeed your own true-begotten son, grant that Ulysses may never reach his home alive; or if he must get back to his friends at last, let him do so late and in sore plight after losing all his men [let him reach his home in another man’s ship and find trouble in his house.’]
“Thus did he pray, and Neptune heard his prayer. Then he picked up a rock much larger than the first, swung it aloft and hurled it with prodigious force. It fell just short of the ship, but was within a little of hitting the end of the rudder. The sea quaked as the rock fell into it, and the wash of the wave it raised drove us onwards on our way towards the shore of the island.
“When at last we got to the island where we had left the rest of our ships, we found our comrades lamenting us, and anxiously awaiting our return. We ran our vessel upon the sands and got out of her on to the sea shore; we also landed the Cyclops’ sheep, and divided them equitably amongst us so that none might have reason to complain. As for the ram, my companions agreed that I should have it as an extra share; so I sacrificed it on the sea shore, and burned its thigh bones to Jove, who is the lord of all. But he heeded not my sacrifice, and only thought how he might destroy my ships and my comrades.
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“Thus through the livelong day to the going down of the sun we feasted our fill on meat and drink, but when the sun went down and it came on dark, we camped upon the beach. When the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared, I bade my men on board and loose the hawsers. Then they took their places and smote the grey sea with their oars; so we sailed on with sorrow in our hearts, but glad to have escaped death though we had lost our comrades.
Book X THENCE we went on to the Aeoli island where lives Aeolus son of Hippotas, dear to the immortal gods. It is an
island that floats (as it were) upon the sea, iron bound with a wall that girds it. Now, Aeolus has six daughters and six lusty sons, so he made the sons marry the daughters, and they all live with their dear father and mother, feasting and enjoying every conceivable kind of luxury. All day long the atmosphere of the house is loaded with the savour of roasting meats till it groans again, yard and all; but by night they sleep on their well-made bedsteads, each with his own wife between the blankets. These were the people among whom we had now come.
“Aeolus entertained me for a whole month asking me questions all the time about Troy, the Argive fleet, and the return of the Achaeans. I told him exactly how everything had happened, and when I said I must go, and asked him to further me on my way, he made no sort of difficulty, but set about doing so at once. Moreover, he flayed me a prime ox-hide to hold the ways of the roaring winds, which he shut up in the hide as in a sack—for Jove had made him captain over the winds, and he could stir or still each one of them according to his own pleasure. He put the sack in the ship and bound the mouth so tightly with a silver thread that not even a breath of a side-wind could blow from any quarter. The West wind which was fair for us did he alone let blow as it chose; but it all came to nothing, for we were lost through our own folly.
“Nine days and nine nights did we sail, and on the tenth day our native land showed on the horizon. We got so close in that we could see the stubble fires burning, and I, being then dead beat, fell into a light sleep, for I had never let the rudder out of my own hands, that we might get home the faster. On this the men fell to talking among them- selves, and said I was bringing back gold and silver in the sack that Aeolus had given me. ‘Bless my heart,’ would one turn to his neighbour, saying, ‘how this man gets honoured and makes friends to whatever city or country he may go. See what fine prizes he is taking home from Troy, while we, who have travelled just as far as he has, come back with hands as empty as we set out with—and now Aeolus has given him ever so much more. Quick—let us see what it all is, and how much gold and silver there is in the sack he gave him.’
“Thus they talked and evil counsels prevailed. They loosed the sack, whereupon the wind flew howling forth and raised a storm that carried us weeping out to sea and away from our own country. Then I awoke, and knew not whether to throw myself into the sea or to live on and make the best of it; but I bore it, covered myself up, and lay down in the ship, while the men lamented bitterly as the fierce winds bore our fleet back to the Aeolian island.
“When we reached it we went ashore to take in water, and dined hard by the ships. Immediately after dinner I took a herald and one of my men and went straight to the house of Aeolus, where I found him feasting with his wife and family; so we sat down as suppliants on the threshold. They were astounded when they saw us and said, ‘Ulyss- es, what brings you here? What god has been ill-treating you? We took great pains to further you on your way home to Ithaca, or wherever it was that you wanted to go to.’
“Thus did they speak, but I answered sorrowfully, ‘My men have undone me; they, and cruel sleep, have ruined me. My friends, mend me this mischief, for you can if you will.’
“I spoke as movingly as I could, but they said nothing, till their father answered, ‘Vilest of mankind, get you gone at once out of the island; him whom heaven hates will I in no wise help. Be off, for you come here as one ab- horred of heaven. “And with these words he sent me sorrowing from his door.
“Thence we sailed sadly on till the men were worn out with long and fruitless rowing, for there was no longer any wind to help them. Six days, night and day did we toil, and on the seventh day we reached the rocky stronghold of Lamus—Telepylus, the city of the Laestrygonians, where the shepherd who is driving in his sheep and goats [to be milked] salutes him who is driving out his flock [to feed] and this last answers the salute. In that country a man who could do without sleep might earn double wages, one as a herdsman of cattle, and another as a shepherd, for they work much the same by night as they do by day.
“When we reached the harbour we found it land-locked under steep cliffs, with a narrow entrance between two headlands. My captains took all their ships inside, and made them fast close to one another, for there was never so much as a breath of wind inside, but it was always dead calm. I kept my own ship outside, and moored it to a rock at the very end of the point; then I climbed a high rock to reconnoitre, but could see no sign neither of man nor cattle, only some smoke rising from the ground. So I sent two of my company with an attendant to find out what sort of people the inhabitants were.
“The men when they got on shore followed a level road by which the people draw their firewood from the
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mountains into the town, till presently they met a young woman who had come outside to fetch water, and who was daughter to a Laestrygonian named Antiphates. She was going to the fountain Artacia from which the people bring in their water, and when my men had come close up to her, they asked her who the king of that country might be, and over what kind of people he ruled; so she directed them to her father’s house, but when they got there they found his wife to be a giantess as huge as a mountain, and they were horrified at the sight of her.
“She at once called her husband Antiphates from the place of assembly, and forthwith he set about killing my men. He snatched up one of them, and began to make his dinner off him then and there, whereon the other two ran back to the ships as fast as ever they could. But Antiphates raised a hue and cry after them, and thousands of sturdy Laestrygonians sprang up from every quarter—ogres, not men. They threw vast rocks at us from the cliffs as though they had been mere stones, and I heard the horrid sound of the ships crunching up against one another, and the death cries of my men, as the Laestrygonians speared them like fishes and took them home to eat them. While they were thus killing my men within the harbour I drew my sword, cut the cable of my own ship, and told my men to row with alf their might if they too would not fare like the rest; so they laid out for their lives, and we were thankful enough when we got into open water out of reach of the rocks they hurled at us. As for the others there was not one of them left.
“Thence we sailed sadly on, glad to have escaped death, though we had lost our comrades, and came to the Aeaean island, where Circe lives a great and cunning goddess who is own sister to the magician Aeetes—for they are both children of the sun by Perse, who is daughter to Oceanus. We brought our ship into a safe harbour without a word, for some god guided us thither, and having landed we there for two days and two nights, worn out in body and mind. When the morning of the third day came I took my spear and my sword, and went away from the ship to reconnoitre, and see if I could discover signs of human handiwork, or hear the sound of voices. Climbing to the top of a high look-out I espied the smoke of Circe’s house rising upwards amid a dense forest of trees, and when I saw this I doubted whether, having seen the smoke, I would not go on at once and find out more, but in the end I deemed it best to go back to the ship, give the men their dinners, and send some of them instead of going myself.
“When I had nearly got back to the ship some god took pity upon my solitude, and sent a fine antlered stag right into the middle of my path. He was coming down his pasture in the forest to drink of the river, for the heat of the sun drove him, and as he passed I struck him in the middle of the back; the bronze point of the spear went clean through him, and he lay groaning in the dust until the life went out of him. Then I set my foot upon him, drew my spear from the wound, and laid it down; I also gathered rough grass and rushes and twisted them into a fathom or so of good stout rope, with which I bound the four feet of the noble creature together; having so done I hung him round my neck and walked back to the ship leaning upon my spear, for the stag was much too big for me to be able to carry him on my shoulder, steadying him with one hand. As I threw him down in front of the ship, I called the men and spoke cheeringly man by man to each of them. ‘Look here my friends,’ said I, ‘we are not going to die so much before our time after all, and at any rate we will not starve so long as we have got something to eat and drink on board.’ On this they uncovered their heads upon the sea shore and admired the stag, for he was indeed a splen- did fellow. Then, when they had feasted their eyes upon him sufficiently, they washed their hands and began to cook him for dinner.
“Thus through the livelong day to the going down of the sun we stayed there eating and drinking our fill, but when the sun went down and it came on dark, we camped upon the sea shore. When the child of morning, fingered Dawn, appeared, I called a council and said, ‘My friends, we are in very great difficulties; listen therefore to me. We have no idea where the sun either sets or rises, so that we do not even know East from West. I see no way out of it; nevertheless, we must try and find one. We are certainly on an island, for I went as high as I could this morning, and saw the sea reaching all round it to the horizon; it lies low, but towards the middle I saw smoke rising from out of a thick forest of trees.’
“Their hearts sank as they heard me, for they remembered how they had been treated by the Laestrygonian Antiphates, and by the savage ogre Polyphemus. They wept bitterly in their dismay, but there was nothing to be got by crying, so I divided them into two companies and set a captain over each; I gave one company to Eurylochus, while I took command of the other myself. Then we cast lots in a helmet, and the lot fell upon Eurylochus; so he set out with his twenty-two men, and they wept, as also did we who were left behind.
“When they reached Circe’s house they found it built of cut stones, on a site that could be seen from far, in the middle of the forest. There were wild mountain wolves and lions prowling all round it—poor bewitched creatures whom she had tamed by her enchantments and drugged into subjection. They did not attack my men, but wagged their great tails, fawned upon them, and rubbed their noses lovingly against them. As hounds crowd round their master when they see him coming from dinner—for they know he will bring them something—even so did these wolves and lions with their great claws fawn upon my men, but the men were terribly frightened at seeing such strange creatures. Presently they reached the gates of the goddess’s house, and as they stood there they could hear Circe within, singing most beautifully as she worked at her loom, making a web so fine, so soft, and of such daz-
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zling colours as no one but a goddess could weave. On this Polites, whom I valued and trusted more than any other of my men, said, ‘There is some one inside working at a loom and singing most beautifully; the whole place re- sounds with it, let us call her and see whether she is woman or goddess.’
“They called her and she came down, unfastened the door, and bade them enter. They, thinking no evil, fol- lowed her, all except Eurylochus, who suspected mischief and stayed outside. When she had got them into her house, she set them upon benches and seats and mixed them a mess with cheese, honey, meal, and Pramnian but she drugged it with wicked poisons to make them forget their homes, and when they had drunk she turned them into pigs by a stroke of her wand, and shut them up in her pigsties. They were like pigs-head, hair, and all, and they grunted just as pigs do; but their senses were the same as before, and they remembered everything.
“Thus then were they shut up squealing, and Circe threw them some acorns and beech masts such as pigs eat, but Eurylochus hurried back to tell me about the sad fate of our comrades. He was so overcome with dismay that though he tried to speak he could find no words to do so; his eyes filled with tears and he could only sob and sigh, till at last we forced his story out of him, and he told us what had happened to the others.
“’We went,’ said he, as you told us, through the forest, and in the middle of it there was a fine house built with cut stones in a place that could be seen from far. There we found a woman, or else she was a goddess, working at her loom and singing sweetly; so the men shouted to her and called her, whereon she at once came down, opened the door, and invited us in. The others did not suspect any mischief so they followed her into the house, but I stayed where I was, for I thought there might be some treachery. From that moment I saw them no more, for not one of them ever came out, though I sat a long time watching for them.’
“Then I took my sword of bronze and slung it over my shoulders; I also took my bow, and told Eurylochus to come back with me and show me the way. But he laid hold of me with both his hands and spoke piteously, saying, ‘Sir, do not force me to go with you, but let me stay here, for I know you will not bring one of them back with you, nor even return alive yourself; let us rather see if we cannot escape at any rate with the few that are left us, for we may still save our lives.’
“’Stay where you are, then, ‘answered I, ‘eating and drinking at the ship, but I must go, for I am most urgently bound to do so.’
“With this I left the ship and went up inland. When I got through the charmed grove, and was near the great house of the enchantress Circe, I met Mercury with his golden wand, disguised as a young man in the hey-day of his youth and beauty with the down just coming upon his face. He came up to me and took my hand within his own, saying, ‘My poor unhappy man, whither are you going over this mountain top, alone and without knowing the way? Your men are shut up in Circe’s pigsties, like so many wild boars in their lairs. You surely do not fancy that you can set them free? I can tell you that you will never get back and will have to stay there with the rest of them. But never mind, I will protect you and get you out of your difficulty. Take this herb, which is one of great virtue, and keep it about you when you go to Circe’s house, it will be a talisman to you against every kind of mischief.
“’And I will tell you of all the wicked witchcraft that Circe will try to practise upon you. She will mix a mess for you to drink, and she will drug the meal with which she makes it, but she will not be able to charm you, for the virtue of the herb that I shall give you will prevent her spells from working. I will tell you all about it. When Circe strikes you with her wand, draw your sword and spring upon her as though you were goings to kill her. She will then be frightened and will desire you to go to bed with her; on this you must not point blank refuse her, for you want her to set your companions free, and to take good care also of yourself, but you make her swear solemnly by all the blessed that she will plot no further mischief against you, or else when she has got you naked she will unman you and make you fit for nothing.’
“As he spoke he pulled the herb out of the ground an showed me what it was like. The root was black, while the flower was as white as milk; the gods call it Moly, and mortal men cannot uproot it, but the gods can do whatever they like.
“Then Mercury went back to high Olympus passing over the wooded island; but I fared onward to the house of Circe, and my heart was clouded with care as I walked along. When I got to the gates I stood there and called the goddess, and as soon as she heard me she came down, opened the door, and asked me to come in; so I followed her—much troubled in my mind. She set me on a richly decorated seat inlaid with silver, there was a footstool also under my feet, and she mixed a mess in a golden goblet for me to drink; but she drugged it, for she meant me mischief. When she had given it me, and I had drunk it without its charming me, she struck she, struck me with her wand. ‘There now,’ she cried, ‘be off to the pigsty, and make your lair with the rest of them.’
“But I rushed at her with my sword drawn as though I would kill her, whereon she fell with a loud scream, clasped my knees, and spoke piteously, saying, ‘Who and whence are you? from what place and people have you come? How can it be that my drugs have no power to charm you? Never yet was any man able to stand so much as a taste of the herb I gave you; you must be spell-proof; surely you can be none other than the bold hero Ulysses, who Mercury always said would come here some day with his ship while on his way home form Troy; so be it then;
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sheathe your sword and let us go to bed, that we may make friends and learn to trust each other.’ “And I answered, ‘Circe, how can you expect me to be friendly with you when you have just been turning all my
men into pigs? And now that you have got me here myself, you mean me mischief when you ask me to go to bed with you, and will unman me and make me fit for nothing. I shall certainly not consent to go to bed with you unless you will first take your solemn oath to plot no further harm against me.’
“So she swore at once as I had told her, and when she had completed her oath then I went to bed with her. “Meanwhile her four servants, who are her housemaids, set about their work. They are the children of the
groves and fountains, and of the holy waters that run down into the sea. One of them spread a fair purple cloth over a seat, and laid a carpet underneath it. Another brought tables of silver up to the seats, and set them with baskets of gold. A third mixed some sweet wine with water in a silver bowl and put golden cups upon the tables, while the fourth she brought in water and set it to boil in a large cauldron over a good fire which she had lighted. When the water in the cauldron was boiling, she poured cold into it till it was just as I liked it, and then she set me in a bath and began washing me from the cauldron about the head and shoulders, to take the tire and stiffness out of my limbs. As soon as she had done washing me and anointing me with oil, she arrayed me in a good cloak and shirt and led me to a richly decorated seat inlaid with silver; there was a footstool also under my feet. A maid servant then brought me water in a beautiful golden ewer and poured it into a silver basin for me to wash my hands, and she drew a clean table beside me; an upper servant brought me bread and offered me many things of what there was in the house, and then Circe bade me eat, but I would not, and sat without heeding what was before me, still moody and suspicious.
“When Circe saw me sitting there without eating, and in great grief, she came to me and said, ‘Ulysses, why do you sit like that as though you were dumb, gnawing at your own heart, and refusing both meat and drink? Is it that you are still suspicious? You ought not to be, for I have already sworn solemnly that I will not hurt you.’
“And I said, ‘Circe, no man with any sense of what is right can think of either eating or drinking in your house until you have set his friends free and let him see them. If you want me to eat and drink, you must free my men and bring them to me that I may see them with my own eyes.’
“When I had said this she went straight through the court with her wand in her hand and opened the pigsty doors. My men came out like so many prime hogs and stood looking at her, but she went about among them and anointed each with a second drug, whereon the bristles that the bad drug had given them fell off, and they became men again, younger than they were before, and much taller and better looking. They knew me at once, seized me each of them by the hand, and wept for joy till the whole house was filled with the sound of their hullabalooing, and Circe herself was so sorry for them that she came up to me and said, ‘Ulysses, noble son of Laertes, go back at once to the sea where you have left your ship, and first draw it on to the land. Then, hide all your ship’s gear and property in some cave, and come back here with your men.’
“I agreed to this, so I went back to the sea shore, and found the men at the ship weeping and wailing most piteously. When they saw me the silly blubbering fellows began frisking round me as calves break out and gambol round their mothers, when they see them coming home to be milked after they have been feeding all day, and the homestead resounds with their lowing. They seemed as glad to see me as though they had got back to their own rugged Ithaca, where they had been born and bred. ‘Sir,’ said the affectionate creatures, ‘we are as glad to see you back as though we had got safe home to Ithaca; but tell us all about the fate of our comrades.’
“I spoke comfortingly to them and said, ‘We must draw our ship on to the land, and hide the ship’s gear with all our property in some cave; then come with me all of you as fast as you can to Circe’s house, where you will find your comrades eating and drinking in the midst of great abundance.’
“On this the men would have come with me at once, but Eurylochus tried to hold them back and said, ‘Alas, poor wretches that we are, what will become of us? Rush not on your ruin by going to the house of Circe, who will turn us all into pigs or wolves or lions, and we shall have to keep guard over her house. Remember how the Cyclops treated us when our comrades went inside his cave, and Ulysses with them. It was all through his sheer folly that those men lost their lives.’
“When I heard him I was in two minds whether or no to draw the keen blade that hung by my sturdy thigh and cut his head off in spite of his being a near relation of my own; but the men interceded for him and said, ‘Sir, if it may so be, let this fellow stay here and mind the ship, but take the rest of us with you to Circe’s house.’
“On this we all went inland, and Eurylochus was not left behind after all, but came on too, for he was frightened by the severe reprimand that I had given him.
“Meanwhile Circe had been seeing that the men who had been left behind were washed and anointed with olive oil; she had also given them woollen cloaks and shirts, and when we came we found them all comfortably at dinner in her house. As soon as the men saw each other face to face and knew one another, they wept for joy and cried aloud till the whole palace rang again. Thereon Circe came up to me and said, ‘Ulysses, noble son of Laertes, tell your men to leave off crying; I know how much you have all of you suffered at sea, and how ill you have fared
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among cruel savages on the mainland, but that is over now, so stay here, and eat and drink till you are once more as strong and hearty as you were when you left Ithaca; for at present you are weakened both in body and mind; you keep all the time thinking of the hardships—you have suffered during your travels, so that you have no more cheer- fulness left in you.’
“Thus did she speak and we assented. We stayed with Circe for a whole twelvemonth feasting upon an untold quantity both of meat and wine. But when the year had passed in the waning of moons and the long days had come round, my men called me apart and said, ‘Sir, it is time you began to think about going home, if so be you are to be spared to see your house and native country at all.’
“Thus did they speak and I assented. Thereon through the livelong day to the going down of the sun we feasted our fill on meat and wine, but when the sun went down and it came on dark the men laid themselves down to sleep in the covered cloisters. I, however, after I had got into bed with Circe, besought her by her knees, and the goddess listened to what I had got to say. ‘Circe,’ said I, ‘please to keep the promise you made me about furthering me on my homeward voyage. I want to get back and so do my men, they are always pestering me with their complaints as soon as ever your back is turned.’
“And the goddess answered, ‘Ulysses, noble son of Laertes, you shall none of you stay here any longer if you do not want to, but there is another journey which you have got to take before you can sail homewards. You must go to the house of Hades and of dread Proserpine to consult the ghost of the blind Theban prophet Teiresias whose reason is still unshaken. To him alone has Proserpine left his understanding even in death, but the other ghosts flit about aimlessly.’
“I was dismayed when I heard this. I sat up in bed and wept, and would gladly have lived no longer to see the light of the sun, but presently when I was tired of weeping and tossing myself about, I said, ‘And who shall guide me upon this voyage—for the house of Hades is a port that no ship can reach.’
“’You will want no guide,’ she answered; ‘raise you mast, set your white sails, sit quite still, and the North Wind will blow you there of itself. When your ship has traversed the waters of Oceanus, you will reach the fertile shore of Proserpine’s country with its groves of tall poplars and willows that shed their fruit untimely; here beach your ship upon the shore of Oceanus, and go straight on to the dark abode of Hades. You will find it near the place where the rivers Pyriphlegethon and Cocytus (which is a branch of the river Styx) flow into Acheron, and you will see a rock near it, just where the two roaring rivers run into one another.
“’When you have reached this spot, as I now tell you, dig a trench a cubit or so in length, breadth, and depth, and pour into it as a drink-offering to all the dead, first, honey mixed with milk, then wine, and in the third place water-sprinkling white barley meal over the whole. Moreover you must offer many prayers to the poor feeble ghosts, and promise them that when you get back to Ithaca you will sacrifice a barren heifer to them, the best you have, and will load the pyre with good things. More particularly you must promise that Teiresias shall have a black sheep all to himself, the finest in all your flocks.
“’When you shall have thus besought the ghosts with your prayers, offer them a ram and a black ewe, bending their heads towards Erebus; but yourself turn away from them as though you would make towards the river. On this, many dead men’s ghosts will come to you, and you must tell your men to skin the two sheep that you have just killed, and offer them as a burnt sacrifice with prayers to Hades and to Proserpine. Then draw your sword and sit there, so as to prevent any other poor ghost from coming near the split blood before Teiresias shall have answered your questions. The seer will presently come to you, and will tell you about your voyage—what stages you are to make, and how you are to sail the see so as to reach your home.’
“It was day-break by the time she had done speaking, so she dressed me in my shirt and cloak. As for herself she threw a beautiful light gossamer fabric over her shoulders, fastening it with a golden girdle round her waist, and she covered her head with a mantle. Then I went about among the men everywhere all over the house, and spoke kindly to each of them man by man: ‘You must not lie sleeping here any longer,’ said I to them, ‘we must be going, for Circe has told me all about it.’ And this they did as I bade them.
“Even so, however, I did not get them away without misadventure. We had with us a certain youth named El- penor, not very remarkable for sense or courage, who had got drunk and was lying on the house-top away from the rest of the men, to sleep off his liquor in the cool. When he heard the noise of the men bustling about, he jumped up on a sudden and forgot all about coming down by the main staircase, so he tumbled right off the roof and broke his neck, and his soul went down to the house of Hades.
“When I had got the men together I said to them, ‘You think you are about to start home again, but Circe has explained to me that instead of this, we have got to go to the house of Hades and Proserpine to consult the ghost of the Theban prophet Teiresias.’
“The men were broken-hearted as they heard me, and threw themselves on the ground groaning and tearing their hair, but they did not mend matters by crying. When we reached the sea shore, weeping and lamenting our fate, Circe brought the ram and the ewe, and we made them fast hard by the ship. She passed through the midst of
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us without our knowing it, for who can see the comings and goings of a god, if the god does not wish to be seen?
Book XI THEN, when we had got down to the sea shore we drew our ship into the water and got her mast and sails into
her; we also put the sheep on board and took our places, weeping and in great distress of mind. Circe, that great and cunning goddess, sent us a fair wind that blew dead aft and stayed steadily with us keeping our sails all the time well filled; so we did whatever wanted doing to the ship’s gear and let her go as the wind and helmsman headed her. All day long her sails were full as she held her course over the sea, but when the sun went down and darkness was over all the earth, we got into the deep waters of the river Oceanus, where lie the land and city of the Cimmerians who live enshrouded in mist and darkness which the rays of the sun never pierce neither at his rising nor as he goes down again out of the heavens, but the poor wretches live in one long melancholy night. When we got there we beached the ship, took the sheep out of her, and went along by the waters of Oceanus till we came to the place of which Circe had told us.
“Here Perimedes and Eurylochus held the victims, while I drew my sword and dug the trench a cubit each way. I made a drink-offering to all the dead, first with honey and milk, then with wine, and thirdly with water, and I sprinkled white barley meal over the whole, praying earnestly to the poor feckless ghosts, and promising them that when I got back to Ithaca I would sacrifice a barren heifer for them, the best I had, and would load the pyre with good things. I also particularly promised that Teiresias should have a black sheep to himself, the best in all my flocks. When I had prayed sufficiently to the dead, I cut the throats of the two sheep and let the blood run into the trench, whereon the ghosts came trooping up from Erebus—brides, young bachelors, old men worn out with toil, maids who had been crossed in love, and brave men who had been killed in battle, with their armour still smirched with blood; they came from every quarter and flitted round the trench with a strange kind of screaming sound that made me turn pale with fear. When I saw them coming I told the men to be quick and flay the carcasses of the two dead sheep and make burnt offerings of them, and at the same time to repeat prayers to Hades and to Proserpine; but I sat where I was with my sword drawn and would not let the poor feckless ghosts come near the blood till Teiresias should have answered my questions.
“The first ghost ‘that came was that of my comrade Elpenor, for he had not yet been laid beneath the earth. We had left his body unwaked and unburied in Circe’s house, for we had had too much else to do. I was very sorry for him, and cried when I saw him: ‘Elpenor,’ said I, ‘how did you come down here into this gloom and darkness? You have here on foot quicker than I have with my ship.’
“’Sir,’ he answered with a groan, ‘it was all bad luck, and my own unspeakable drunkenness. I was lying asleep on the top of Circe’s house, and never thought of coming down again by the great staircase but fell right off the roof and broke my neck, so my soul down to the house of Hades. And now I beseech you by all those whom you have left behind you, though they are not here, by your wife, by the father who brought you up when you were a child, and by Telemachus who is the one hope of your house, do what I shall now ask you. I know that when you leave this limbo you will again hold your ship for the Aeaean island. Do not go thence leaving me unwaked and unburied behind you, or I may bring heaven’s anger upon you; but burn me with whatever armour I have, build a barrow for me on the sea shore, that may tell people in days to come what a poor unlucky fellow I was, and plant over my grave the oar I used to row with when I was yet alive and with my messmates.’ And I said, ‘My poor fellow, I will do all that you have asked of me.’
“Thus, then, did we sit and hold sad talk with one another, I on the one side of the trench with my sword held over the blood, and the ghost of my comrade saying all this to me from the other side. Then came the ghost of my dead mother Anticlea, daughter to Autolycus. I had left her alive when I set out for Troy and was moved to tears when I saw her, but even so, for all my sorrow I would not let her come near the blood till I had asked my questions of Teiresias.
“Then came also the ghost of Theban Teiresias, with his golden sceptre in his hand. He knew me and said, ‘Ulysses, noble son of Laertes, why, poor man, have you left the light of day and come down to visit the dead in this sad place? Stand back from the trench and withdraw your sword that I may drink of the blood and answer your questions truly.’
“So I drew back, and sheathed my sword, whereon when he had drank of the blood he began with his prophecy. “You want to know,’ said he, ‘about your return home, but heaven will make this hard for you. I do not think
that you will escape the eye of Neptune, who still nurses his bitter grudge against you for having blinded his son. Still, after much suffering you may get home if you can restrain yourself and your companions when your ship reaches the Thrinacian island, where you will find the sheep and cattle belonging to the sun, who sees and gives ear to everything. If you leave these flocks unharmed and think of nothing but of getting home, you may yet after
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much hardship reach Ithaca; but if you harm them, then I forewarn you of the destruction both of your ship and of your men. Even though you may yourself escape, you will return in bad plight after losing all your men, [in another man’s ship, and you will find trouble in your house, which will be overrun by high-handed people, who are devour- ing your substance under the pretext of paying court and making presents to your wife.
“’When you get home you will take your revenge on these suitors; and after you have killed them by force or fraud in your own house, you must take a well-made oar and carry it on and on, till you come to a country where the people have never heard of the sea and do not even mix salt with their food, nor do they know anything about ships, and oars that are as the wings of a ship. I will give you this certain token which cannot escape your notice. A wayfarer will meet you and will say it must be a winnowing shovel that you have got upon your shoulder; on this you must fix the oar in the ground and sacrifice a ram, a bull, and a boar to Neptune. Then go home and offer hecatombs to an the gods in heaven one after the other. As for yourself, death shall come to you from the sea, and your life shall ebb away very gently when you are full of years and peace of mind, and your people shall bless you. All that I have said will come true].’
“’This,’ I answered, ‘must be as it may please heaven, but tell me and tell me and tell me true, I see my poor mother’s ghost close by us; she is sitting by the blood without saying a word, and though I am her own son she does not remember me and speak to me; tell me, Sir, how I can make her know me.’
“’That,’ said he, ‘I can soon do Any ghost that you let taste of the blood will talk with you like a reasonable be- ing, but if you do not let them have any blood they will go away again.’
“On this the ghost of Teiresias went back to the house of Hades, for his prophecyings had now been spoken, but I sat still where I was until my mother came up and tasted the blood. Then she knew me at once and spoke fondly to me, saying, ‘My son, how did you come down to this abode of darkness while you are still alive? It is a hard thing for the living to see these places, for between us and them there are great and terrible waters, and there is Oceanus, which no man can cross on foot, but he must have a good ship to take him. Are you all this time trying to find your way home from Troy, and have you never yet got back to Ithaca nor seen your wife in your own house?’
“’Mother,’ said I, ‘I was forced to come here to consult the ghost of the Theban prophet Teiresias. I have never yet been near the Achaean land nor set foot on my native country, and I have had nothing but one long series of misfortunes from the very first day that I set out with Agamemnon for Ilius, the land of noble steeds, to fight the Trojans. But tell me, and tell me true, in what way did you die? Did you have a long illness, or did heaven vouchsafe you a gentle easy passage to eternity? Tell me also about my father, and the son whom I left behind me; is my prop- erty still in their hands, or has some one else got hold of it, who thinks that I shall not return to claim it? Tell me again what my wife intends doing, and in what mind she is; does she live with my son and guard my estate securely, or has she made the best match she could and married again?’
“My mother answered, ‘Your wife still remains in your house, but she is in great distress of mind and spends her whole time in tears both night and day. No one as yet has got possession of your fine property, and Telemachus still holds your lands undisturbed. He has to entertain largely, as of course he must, considering his position as a mag- istrate, and how every one invites him; your father remains at his old place in the country and never goes near the town. He has no comfortable bed nor bedding; in the winter he sleeps on the floor in front of the fire with the men and goes about all in rags, but in summer, when the warm weather comes on again, he lies out in the vineyard on a bed of vine leaves thrown anyhow upon the ground. He grieves continually about your never having come home, and suffers more and more as he grows older. As for my own end it was in this wise: heaven did not take me swiftly and painlessly in my own house, nor was I attacked by any illness such as those that generally wear people out and kill them, but my longing to know what you were doing and the force of my affection for you—this it was that was the death of me.’
“Then I tried to find some way of embracing my mother’s ghost. Thrice I sprang towards her and tried to clasp her in my arms, but each time she flitted from my embrace as it were a dream or phantom, and being touched to the quick I said to her, ‘Mother, why do you not stay still when I would embrace you? If we could throw our arms around one another we might find sad comfort in the sharing of our sorrows even in the house of Hades; does Pros- erpine want to lay a still further load of grief upon me by mocking me with a phantom only?’
“’My son,’ she answered, ‘most ill-fated of all mankind, it is not Proserpine that is beguiling you, but all peo- ple are like this when they are dead. The sinews no longer hold the flesh and bones together; these perish in the fierceness of consuming fire as soon as life has left the body, and the soul flits away as though it were a dream. Now, however, go back to the light of day as soon as you can, and note all these things that you may tell them to your wife hereafter.’
“Thus did we converse, and anon Proserpine sent up the ghosts of the wives and daughters of all the most famous men. They gathered in crowds about the blood, and I considered how I might question them severally. In the end I deemed that it would be best to draw the keen blade that hung by my sturdy thigh, and keep them from all drinking the blood at once. So they came up one after the other, and each one as I questioned her told me her race
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and lineage. “The first I saw was Tyro. She was daughter of Salmoneus and wife of Cretheus the son of Aeolus. She fell in
love with the river Enipeus who is much the most beautiful river in the whole world. Once when she was taking a walk by his side as usual, Neptune, disguised as her lover, lay with her at the mouth of the river, and a huge blue wave arched itself like a mountain over them to hide both woman and god, whereon he loosed her virgin girdle and laid her in a deep slumber. When the god had accomplished the deed of love, he took her hand in his own and said, ‘Tyro, rejoice in all good will; the embraces of the gods are not fruitless, and you will have fine twins about this time twelve months. Take great care of them. I am Neptune, so now go home, but hold your tongue and do not tell any one.’
“Then he dived under the sea, and she in due course bore Pelias and Neleus, who both of them served Jove with all their might. Pelias was a great breeder of sheep and lived in Iolcus, but the other lived in Pylos. The rest of her children were by Cretheus, namely, Aeson, Pheres, and Amythaon, who was a mighty warrior and charioteer.
“Next to her I saw Antiope, daughter to Asopus, who could boast of having slept in the arms of even Jove him- self, and who bore him two sons Amphion and Zethus. These founded Thebes with its seven gates, and built a wall all round it; for strong though they were they could not hold Thebes till they had walled it.
“Then I saw Alcmena, the wife of Amphitryon, who also bore to Jove indomitable Hercules; and Megara who was daughter to great King Creon, and married the redoubtable son of Amphitryon.
“I also saw fair Epicaste mother of king OEdipodes whose awful lot it was to marry her own son without suspecting it. He married her after having killed his father, but the gods proclaimed the whole story to the world; whereon he remained king of Thebes, in great grief for the spite the gods had borne him; but Epicaste went to the house of the mighty jailor Hades, having hanged herself for grief, and the avenging spirits haunted him as for an outraged mother—to his ruing bitterly thereafter.
“Then I saw Chloris, whom Neleus married for her beauty, having given priceless presents for her. She was youngest daughter to Amphion son of Iasus and king of Minyan Orchomenus, and was Queen in Pylos. She bore Nestor, Chromius, and Periclymenus, and she also bore that marvellously lovely woman Pero, who was wooed by all the country round; but Neleus would only give her to him who should raid the cattle of Iphicles from the graz- ing grounds of Phylace, and this was a hard task. The only man who would undertake to raid them was a certain excellent seer, but the will of heaven was against him, for the rangers of the cattle caught him and put him in prison; nevertheless when a full year had passed and the same season came round again, Iphicles set him at liberty, after he had expounded all the oracles of heaven. Thus, then, was the will of Jove accomplished.
“And I saw Leda the wife of Tyndarus, who bore him two famous sons, Castor breaker of horses, and Pollux the mighty boxer. Both these heroes are lying under the earth, though they are still alive, for by a special dispensation of Jove, they die and come to life again, each one of them every other day throughout all time, and they have the rank of gods.
“After her I saw Iphimedeia wife of Aloeus who boasted the embrace of Neptune. She bore two sons Otus and Ephialtes, but both were short lived. They were the finest children that were ever born in this world, and the best looking, Orion only excepted; for at nine years old they were nine fathoms high, and measured nine cubits round the chest. They threatened to make war with the gods in Olympus, and tried to set Mount Ossa on the top of Mount Olympus, and Mount Pelion on the top of Ossa, that they might scale heaven itself, and they would have done it too if they had been grown up, but Apollo, son of Leto, killed both of them, before they had got so much as a sign of hair upon their cheeks or chin.
“Then I saw Phaedra, and Procris, and fair Ariadne daughter of the magician Minos, whom Theseus was carry- ing off from Crete to Athens, but he did not enjoy her, for before he could do so Diana killed her in the island of Dia on account of what Bacchus had said against her.
“I also saw Maera and Clymene and hateful Eriphyle, who sold her own husband for gold. But it would take me all night if I were to name every single one of the wives and daughters of heroes whom I saw, and it is time for me to go to bed, either on board ship with my crew, or here. As for my escort, heaven and yourselves will see to it.”
Here he ended, and the guests sat all of them enthralled and speechless throughout the covered cloister. Then Arete said to them:
“What do you think of this man, O Phaecians? Is he not tall and good looking, and is he not Clever? True, he is my own guest, but all of you share in the distinction. Do not he a hurry to send him away, nor niggardly in the presents you make to one who is in such great need, for heaven has blessed all of you with great abundance.”
Then spoke the aged hero Echeneus who was one of the oldest men among them, “My friends,” said he, “what our august queen has just said to us is both reasonable and to the purpose, therefore be persuaded by it; but the decision whether in word or deed rests ultimately with King Alcinous.”
“The thing shall be done,” exclaimed Alcinous, “as surely as I still live and reign over the Phaeacians. Our guest is indeed very anxious to get home, still we must persuade him to remain with us until to-morrow, by which time
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I shall be able to get together the whole sum that I mean to give him. As regards—his escort it will be a matter for you all, and mine above all others as the chief person among you.”
And Ulysses answered, “King Alcinous, if you were to bid me to stay here for a whole twelve months, and then speed me on my way, loaded with your noble gifts, I should obey you gladly and it would redound greatly to my advantage, for I should return fuller-handed to my own people, and should thus be more respected and beloved by all who see me when I get back to Ithaca.”
“Ulysses,” replied Alcinous, “not one of us who sees you has any idea that you are a charlatan or a swindler. I know there are many people going about who tell such plausible stories that it is very hard to see through them, but there is a style about your language which assures me of your good disposition. Moreover you have told the story of your own misfortunes, and those of the Argives, as though you were a practised bard; but tell me, and tell me true, whether you saw any of the mighty heroes who went to Troy at the same time with yourself, and perished there. The evenings are still at their longest, and it is not yet bed time—go on, therefore, with your divine story, for I could stay here listening till to-morrow morning, so long as you will continue to tell us of your adventures.”
“Alcinous,” answered Ulysses, “there is a time for making speeches, and a time for going to bed; nevertheless, since you so desire, I will not refrain from telling you the still sadder tale of those of my comrades who did not fall fighting with the Trojans, but perished on their return, through the treachery of a wicked woman.
“When Proserpine had dismissed the female ghosts in all directions, the ghost of Agamemnon son of Atreus came sadly up tome, surrounded by those who had perished with him in the house of Aegisthus. As soon as he had tasted the blood he knew me, and weeping bitterly stretched out his arms towards me to embrace me; but he had no strength nor substance any more, and I too wept and pitied him as I beheld him. ‘How did you come by your death,’ said I, ‘King Agamemnon? Did Neptune raise his winds and waves against you when you were at sea, or did your enemies make an end of you on the mainland when you were cattle-lifting or sheep-stealing, or while they were fighting in defence of their wives and city?’
“’Ulysses,’ he answered, ‘noble son of Laertes, was not lost at sea in any storm of Neptune’s raising, nor did my foes despatch me upon the mainland, but Aegisthus and my wicked wife were the death of me between them. He asked me to his house, feasted me, and then butchered me most miserably as though I were a fat beast in a slaugh- ter house, while all around me my comrades were slain like sheep or pigs for the wedding breakfast, or picnic, or gorgeous banquet of some great nobleman. You must have seen numbers of men killed either in a general engage- ment, or in single combat, but you never saw anything so truly pitiable as the way in which we fell in that cloister, with the mixing-bowl and the loaded tables lying all about, and the ground reeking with our-blood. I heard Priam’s daughter Cassandra scream as Clytemnestra killed her close beside me. I lay dying upon the earth with the sword in my body, and raised my hands to kill the slut of a murderess, but she slipped away from me; she would not even close my lips nor my eyes when I was dying, for there is nothing in this world so cruel and so shameless as a wom- an when she has fallen into such guilt as hers was. Fancy murdering her own husband! I thought I was going to be welcomed home by my children and my servants, but her abominable crime has brought disgrace on herself and all women who shall come after—even on the good ones.’
“And I said, ‘In truth Jove has hated the house of Atreus from first to last in the matter of their women’s coun- sels. See how many of us fell for Helen’s sake, and now it seems that Clytemnestra hatched mischief against too during your absence.’
“’Be sure, therefore,’ continued Agamemnon, ‘and not be too friendly even with your own wife. Do not tell her all that you know perfectly well yourself. Tell her a part only, and keep your own counsel about the rest. Not that your wife, Ulysses, is likely to murder you, for Penelope is a very admirable woman, and has an excellent nature. We left her a young bride with an infant at her breast when we set out for Troy. This child no doubt is now grown up happily to man’s estate, and he and his father will have a joyful meeting and embrace one another as it is right they should do, whereas my wicked wife did not even allow me the happiness of looking upon my son, but killed me ere I could do so. Furthermore I say—and lay my saying to your heart—do not tell people when you are bringing your ship to Ithaca, but steal a march upon them, for after all this there is no trusting women. But now tell me, and tell me true, can you give me any news of my son Orestes? Is he in Orchomenus, or at Pylos, or is he at Sparta with Menelaus—for I presume that he is still living.’
“And I said, ‘Agamemnon, why do you ask me? I do not know whether your son is alive or dead, and it is not right to talk when one does not know.’
“As we two sat weeping and talking thus sadly with one another the ghost of Achilles came up to us with Patro- clus, Antilochus, and Ajax who was the finest and goodliest man of all the Danaans after the son of Peleus. The fleet descendant of Aeacus knew me and spoke piteously, saying, ‘Ulysses, noble son of Laertes, what deed of daring will you undertake next, that you venture down to the house of Hades among us silly dead, who are but the ghosts of them that can labour no more?’
“And I said, ‘Achilles, son of Peleus, foremost champion of the Achaeans, I came to consult Teiresias, and see
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if he could advise me about my return home to Ithaca, for I have never yet been able to get near the Achaean land, nor to set foot in my own country, but have been in trouble all the time. As for you, Achilles, no one was ever yet so fortunate as you have been, nor ever will be, for you were adored by all us Argives as long as you were alive, and now that you are here you are a great prince among the dead. Do not, therefore, take it so much to heart even if you are dead.’
“’Say not a word,’ he answered, ‘in death’s favour; I would rather be a paid servant in a poor man’s house and be above ground than king of kings among the dead. But give me news about son; is he gone to the wars and will he be a great soldier, or is this not so? Tell me also if you have heard anything about my father Peleus—does he still rule among the Myrmidons, or do they show him no respect throughout Hellas and Phthia now that he is old and his limbs fail him? Could I but stand by his side, in the light of day, with the same strength that I had when I killed the bravest of our foes upon the plain of Troy—could I but be as I then was and go even for a short time to my father’s house, any one who tried to do him violence or supersede him would soon me it.’
“’I have heard nothing,’ I answered, ‘of Peleus, but I can tell you all about your son Neoptolemus, for I took him in my own ship from Scyros with the Achaeans. In our councils of war before Troy he was always first to speak, and his judgement was unerring. Nestor and I were the only two who could surpass him; and when it came to fighting on the plain of Troy, he would never remain with the body of his men, but would dash on far in front, foremost of them all in valour. Many a man did he kill in battle—I cannot name every single one of those whom he slew while fighting on the side of the Argives, but will only say how he killed that valiant hero Eurypylus son of Telephus, who was the handsomest man I ever saw except Memnon; many others also of the Ceteians fell around him by reason of a woman’s bribes. Moreover, when all the bravest of the Argives went inside the horse that Epeus had made, and it was left to me to settle when we should either open the door of our ambuscade, or close it, though all the other leaders and chief men among the Danaans were drying their eyes and quaking in every limb, I never once saw him turn pale nor wipe a tear from his cheek; he was all the time urging me to break out from the horse—grasping the handle of his sword and his bronze-shod spear, and breathing fury against the foe. Yet when we had sacked the city of Priam he got his handsome share of the prize money and went on board (such is the fortune of war) without a wound upon him, neither from a thrown spear nor in close combat, for the rage of Mars is a matter of great chance.’
“When I had told him this, the ghost of Achilles strode off across a meadow full of asphodel, exulting over what I had said concerning the prowess of his son.
“The ghosts of other dead men stood near me and told me each his own melancholy tale; but that of Ajax son of Telamon alone held aloof—still angry with me for having won the cause in our dispute about the armour of Achil- les. Thetis had offered it as a prize, but the Trojan prisoners and Minerva were the judges. Would that I had never gained the day in such a contest, for it cost the life of Ajax, who was foremost of all the Danaans after the son of Peleus, alike in stature and prowess.
“When I saw him I tried to pacify him and said, ‘Ajax, will you not forget and forgive even in death, but must the judgement about that hateful armour still rankle with you? It cost us Argives dear enough to lose such a tower of strength as you were to us. We mourned you as much as we mourned Achilles son of Peleus himself, nor can the blame be laid on anything but on the spite which Jove bore against the Danaans, for it was this that made him coun- sel your destruction—come hither, therefore, bring your proud spirit into subjection, and hear what I can tell you.’
“He would not answer, but turned away to Erebus and to the other ghosts; nevertheless, I should have made him talk to me in spite of his being so angry, or I should have gone talking to him, only that there were still others among the dead whom I desired to see.
“Then I saw Minos son of Jove with his golden sceptre in his hand sitting in judgement on the dead, and the ghosts were gathered sitting and standing round him in the spacious house of Hades, to learn his sentences upon them.
“After him I saw huge Orion in a meadow full of asphodel driving the ghosts of the wild beasts that he had killed upon the mountains, and he had a great bronze club in his hand, unbreakable for ever and ever.
“And I saw Tityus son of Gaia stretched upon the plain and covering some nine acres of ground. Two vultures on either side of him were digging their beaks into his liver, and he kept on trying to beat them off with his hands, but could not; for he had violated Jove’s mistress Leto as she was going through Panopeus on her way to Pytho.
“I saw also the dreadful fate of Tantalus, who stood in a lake that reached his chin; he was dying to quench his thirst, but could never reach the water, for whenever the poor creature stooped to drink, it dried up and vanished, so that there was nothing but dry ground—parched by the spite of heaven. There were tall trees, moreover, that shed their fruit over his head—pears, pomegranates, apples, sweet figs and juicy olives, but whenever the poor crea- ture stretched out his hand to take some, the wind tossed the branches back again to the clouds.
“And I saw Sisyphus at his endless task raising his prodigious stone with both his hands. With hands and feet he’ tried to roll it up to the top of the hill, but always, just before he could roll it over on to the other side, its weight would be too much for him, and the pitiless stone would come thundering down again on to the plain. Then he
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would begin trying to push it up hill again, and the sweat ran off him and the steam rose after him. “After him I saw mighty Hercules, but it was his phantom only, for he is feasting ever with the immortal gods,
and has lovely Hebe to wife, who is daughter of Jove and Juno. The ghosts were screaming round him like scared birds flying all whithers. He looked black as night with his bare bow in his hands and his arrow on the string, glar- ing around as though ever on the point of taking aim. About his breast there was a wondrous golden belt adorned in the most marvellous fashion with bears, wild boars, and lions with gleaming eyes; there was also war, battle, and death. The man who made that belt, do what he might, would never be able to make another like it. Hercules knew me at once when he saw me, and spoke piteously, saying, my poor Ulysses, noble son of Laertes, are you too leading the same sorry kind of life that I did when I was above ground? I was son of Jove, but I went through an infinity of suffering, for I became bondsman to one who was far beneath me—a low fellow who set me all manner of labours. He once sent me here to fetch the hell-hound—for he did not think he could find anything harder for me than this, but I got the hound out of Hades and brought him to him, for Mercury and Minerva helped me.’
“On this Hercules went down again into the house of Hades, but I stayed where I was in case some other of the mighty dead should come to me. And I should have seen still other of them that are gone before, whom I would fain have seen—Theseus and Pirithous glorious children of the gods, but so many thousands of ghosts came round me and uttered such appalling cries, that I was panic stricken lest Proserpine should send up from the house of Ha- des the head of that awful monster Gorgon. On this I hastened back to my ship and ordered my men to go on board at once and loose the hawsers; so they embarked and took their places, whereon the ship went down the stream of the river Oceanus. We had to row at first, but presently a fair wind sprang up.
Book XII “AFTER we were clear of the river Oceanus, and had got out into the open sea, we went on till we reached the
Aeaean island where there is dawn and sunrise as in other places. We then drew our ship on to the sands and got out of her on to the shore, where we went to sleep and waited till day should break.
“Then, when the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared, I sent some men to Circe’s house to fetch the body of Elpenor. We cut firewood from a wood where the headland jutted out into the sea, and after we had wept over him and lamented him we performed his funeral rites. When his body and armour had been burned to ashes, we raised a cairn, set a stone over it, and at the top of the cairn we fixed the oar that he had been used to row with.
“While we were doing all this, Circe, who knew that we had got back from the house of Hades, dressed herself and came to us as fast as she could; and her maid servants came with her bringing us bread, meat, and wine. Then she stood in the midst of us and said, ‘You have done a bold thing in going down alive to the house of Hades, and you will have died twice, to other people’s once; now, then, stay here for the rest of the day, feast your fill, and go on with your voyage at daybreak tomorrow morning. In the meantime I will tell Ulysses about your course, and will explain everything to him so as to prevent your suffering from misadventure either by land or sea.’
“We agreed to do as she had said, and feasted through the livelong day to the going down of the sun, but when the sun had set and it came on dark, the men laid themselves down to sleep by the stern cables of the ship. Then Circe took me by the hand and bade me be seated away from the others, while she reclined by my side and asked me all about our adventures.
“’So far so good,’ said she, when I had ended my story, ‘and now pay attention to what I am about to tell you— heaven itself, indeed, will recall it to your recollection. First you will come to the Sirens who enchant all who come near them. If any one unwarily draws in too close and hears the singing of the Sirens, his wife and children will nev- er welcome him home again, for they sit in a green field and warble him to death with the sweetness of their song. There is a great heap of dead men’s bones lying all around, with the flesh still rotting off them. Therefore pass these Sirens by, and stop your men’s ears with wax that none of them may hear; but if you like you can listen yourself, for you may get the men to bind you as you stand upright on a cross-piece half way up the mast, and they must lash the rope’s ends to the mast itself, that you may have the pleasure of listening. If you beg and pray the men to unloose you, then they must bind you faster.
“’When your crew have taken you past these Sirens, I cannot give you coherent directions as to which of two courses you are to take; I will lay the two alternatives before you, and you must consider them for yourself. On the one hand there are some overhanging rocks against which the deep blue waves of Amphitrite beat with terrific fury; the blessed gods call these rocks the Wanderers. Here not even a bird may pass, no, not even the timid doves that bring ambrosia to Father Jove, but the sheer rock always carries off one of them, and Father Jove has to send another to make up their number; no ship that ever yet came to these rocks has got away again, but the waves and whirlwinds of fire are freighted with wreckage and with the bodies of dead men. The only vessel that ever sailed and got through, was the famous Argo on her way from the house of Aetes, and she too would have gone against these great rocks, only that Juno piloted her past them for the love she bore to Jason.
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“’Of these two rocks the one reaches heaven and its peak is lost in a dark cloud. This never leaves it, so that the top is never clear not even in summer and early autumn. No man though he had twenty hands and twenty feet could get a foothold on it and climb it, for it runs sheer up, as smooth as though it had been polished. In the middle of it there is a large cavern, looking West and turned towards Erebus; you must take your ship this way, but the cave is so high up that not even the stoutest archer could send an arrow into it. Inside it Scylla sits and yelps with a voice that you might take to be that of a young hound, but in truth she is a dreadful monster and no one—not even a god—could face her without being terror-struck. She has twelve mis-shapen feet, and six necks of the most prodi- gious length; and at the end of each neck she has a frightful head with three rows of teeth in each, all set very close together, so that they would crunch any one to death in a moment, and she sits deep within her shady cell thrusting out her heads and peering all round the rock, fishing for dolphins or dogfish or any larger monster that she can catch, of the thousands with which Amphitrite teems. No ship ever yet got past her without losing some men, for she shoots out all her heads at once, and carries off a man in each mouth.
“’You will find the other rocks lie lower, but they are so close together that there is not more than a bowshot between them. [A large fig tree in full leaf grows upon it], and under it lies the sucking whirlpool of Charybdis. Three times in the day does she vomit forth her waters, and three times she sucks them down again; see that you be not there when she is sucking, for if you are, Neptune himself could not save you; you must hug the Scylla side and drive ship by as fast as you can, for you had better lose six men than your whole crew.’
“’Is there no way,’ said I, ‘of escaping Charybdis, and at the same time keeping Scylla off when she is trying to harm my men?’
“’You dare-devil,’ replied the goddess, you are always wanting to fight somebody or something; you will not let yourself be beaten even by the immortals. For Scylla is not mortal; moreover she is savage, extreme, rude, cruel and invincible. There is no help for it; your best chance will be to get by her as fast as ever you can, for if you dawdle about her rock while you are putting on your armour, she may catch you with a second cast of her six heads, and snap up another half dozen of your men; so drive your ship past her at full speed, and roar out lustily to Crataiis who is Scylla’s dam, bad luck to her; she will then stop her from making a second raid upon you.
“’You will now come to the Thrinacian island, and here you will see many herds of cattle and flocks of sheep belonging to the sun-god—seven herds of cattle and seven flocks of sheep, with fifty head in each flock. They do not breed, nor do they become fewer in number, and they are tended by the goddesses Phaethusa and Lampetie, who are children of the sun-god Hyperion by Neaera. Their mother when she had borne them and had done suckling them sent them to the Thrinacian island, which was a long way off, to live there and look after their father’s flocks and herds. If you leave these flocks unharmed, and think of nothing but getting home, you may yet after much hardship reach Ithaca; but if you harm them, then I forewarn you of the destruction both of your ship and of your comrades; and even though you may yourself escape, you will return late, in bad plight, after losing all your men.’
“Here she ended, and dawn enthroned in gold began to show in heaven, whereon she returned inland. I then went on board and told my men to loose the ship from her moorings; so they at once got into her, took their places, and began to smite the grey sea with their oars. Presently the great and cunning goddess Circe befriended us with a fair wind that blew dead aft, and stayed steadily with us, keeping our sails well filled, so we did whatever wanted doing to the ship’s gear, and let her go as wind and helmsman headed her.
“Then, being much troubled in mind, I said to my men, ‘My friends, it is not right that one or two of us alone should know the prophecies that Circe has made me, I will therefore tell you about them, so that whether we live or die we may do so with our eyes open. First she said we were to keep clear of the Sirens, who sit and sing most beautifully in a field of flowers; but she said I might hear them myself so long as no one else did. Therefore, take me and bind me to the crosspiece half way up the mast; bind me as I stand upright, with a bond so fast that I cannot possibly break away, and lash the rope’s ends to the mast itself. If I beg and pray you to set me free, then bind me more tightly still.’
“I had hardly finished telling everything to the men before we reached the island of the two Sirens, for the wind had been very favourable. Then all of a sudden it fell dead calm; there was not a breath of wind nor a ripple upon the water, so the men furled the sails and stowed them; then taking to their oars they whitened the water with the foam they raised in rowing. Meanwhile I look a large wheel of wax and cut it up small with my sword. Then I kneaded the wax in my strong hands till it became soft, which it soon did between the kneading and the rays of the sun-god son of Hyperion. Then I stopped the ears of all my men, and they bound me hands and feet to the mast as I stood upright on the crosspiece; but they went on rowing themselves. When we had got within earshot of the land, and the ship was going at a good rate, the Sirens saw that we were getting in shore and began with their singing.
“’Come here,’ they sang, ‘renowned Ulysses, honour to the Achaean name, and listen to our two voices. No one ever sailed past us without staying to hear the enchanting sweetness of our song—and he who listens will go on his way not only charmed, but wiser, for we know all the ills that the gods laid upon the Argives and Trojans before Troy, and can tell you everything that is going to happen over the whole world.’
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“They sang these words most musically, and as I longed to hear them further I made by frowning to my men that they should set me free; but they quickened their stroke, and Eurylochus and Perimedes bound me with still stronger bonds till we had got out of hearing of the Sirens’ voices. Then my men took the wax from their ears and unbound me.
“Immediately after we had got past the island I saw a great wave from which spray was rising, and I heard a loud roaring sound. The men were so frightened that they loosed hold of their oars, for the whole sea resound- ed with the rushing of the waters, but the ship stayed where it was, for the men had left off rowing. I went round, therefore, and exhorted them man by man not to lose heart.
“’My friends,’ said I, ‘this is not the first time that we have been in danger, and we are in nothing like so bad a case as when the Cyclops shut us up in his cave; nevertheless, my courage and wise counsel saved us then, and we shall live to look back on all this as well. Now, therefore, let us all do as I say, trust in Jove and row on with might and main. As for you, coxswain, these are your orders; attend to them, for the ship is in your hands; turn her head away from these steaming rapids and hug the rock, or she will give you the slip and be over yonder before you know where you are, and you will be the death of us.’
“So they did as I told them; but I said nothing about the awful monster Scylla, for I knew the men would not on rowing if I did, but would huddle together in the hold. In one thing only did I disobey Circe’s strict instruc- tions—I put on my armour. Then seizing two strong spears I took my stand on the ship Is bows, for it was there that I expected first to see the monster of the rock, who was to do my men so much harm; but I could not make her out anywhere, though I strained my eyes with looking the gloomy rock all over and over
“Then we entered the Straits in great fear of mind, for on the one hand was Scylla, and on the other dread Cha- rybdis kept sucking up the salt water. As she vomited it up, it was like the water in a cauldron when it is boiling over upon a great fire, and the spray reached the top of the rocks on either side. When she began to suck again, we could see the water all inside whirling round and round, and it made a deafening sound as it broke against the rocks. We could see the bottom of the whirlpool all black with sand and mud, and the men were at their wit’s ends for fear. While we were taken up with this, and were expecting each moment to be our last, Scylla pounced down suddenly upon us and snatched up my six best men. I was looking at once after both ship and men, and in a moment I saw their hands and feet ever so high above me, struggling in the air as Scylla was carrying them off, and I heard them call out my name in one last despairing cry. As a fisherman, seated, spear in hand, upon some jutting rock throws bait into the water to deceive the poor little fishes, and spears them with the ox’s horn with which his spear is shod, throwing them gasping on to the land as he catches them one by one—even so did Scylla land these panting crea- tures on her rock and munch them up at the mouth of her den, while they screamed and stretched out their hands to me in their mortal agony. This was the most sickening sight that I saw throughout all my voyages.
“When we had passed the [Wandering] rocks, with Scylla and terrible Charybdis, we reached the noble island of the sun-god, where were the goodly cattle and sheep belonging to the sun Hyperion. While still at sea in my ship I could bear the cattle lowing as they came home to the yards, and the sheep bleating. Then I remembered what the blind Theban prophet Teiresias had told me, and how carefully Aeaean Circe had warned me to shun the island of the blessed sun-god. So being much troubled I said to the men, ‘My men, I know you are hard pressed, but listen while I tell you the prophecy that Teiresias made me, and how carefully Aeaean Circe warned me to shun the island of the blessed sun-god, for it was here, she said, that our worst danger would lie. Head the ship, therefore, away from the island.’
“The men were in despair at this, and Eurylochus at once gave me an insolent answer. ‘Ulysses,’ said he, ‘you are cruel; you are very strong yourself and never get worn out; you seem to be made of iron, and now, though your men are exhausted with toil and want of sleep, you will not let them land and cook themselves a good supper upon this island, but bid them put out to sea and go faring fruitlessly on through the watches of the flying night. It is by night that the winds blow hardest and do so much damage; how can we escape should one of those sudden squalls spring up from South West or West, which so often wreck a vessel when our lords the gods are unpropitious? Now, there- fore, let us obey the of night and prepare our supper here hard by the ship; to-morrow morning we will go on board again and put out to sea.’
“Thus spoke Eurylochus, and the men approved his words. I saw that heaven meant us a mischief and said, ‘You force me to yield, for you are many against one, but at any rate each one of you must take his solemn oath that if he meet with a herd of cattle or a large flock of sheep, he will not be so mad as to kill a single head of either, but will be satisfied with the food that Circe has given us.’
“They all swore as I bade them, and when they had completed their oath we made the ship fast in a harbour that was near a stream of fresh water, and the men went ashore and cooked their suppers. As soon as they had had enough to eat and drink, they began talking about their poor comrades whom Scylla had snatched up and eaten; this set them weeping and they went on crying till they fell off into a sound sleep.
“In the third watch of the night when the stars had shifted their places, Jove raised a great gale of wind that flew
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a hurricane so that land and sea were covered with thick clouds, and night sprang forth out of the heavens. When the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared, we brought the ship to land and drew her into a cave wherein the sea-nymphs hold their courts and dances, and I called the men together in council.
“’My friends,’ said I, ‘we have meat and drink in the ship, let us mind, therefore, and not touch the cattle, or we shall suffer for it; for these cattle and sheep belong to the mighty sun, who sees and gives ear to everything. And again they promised that they would obey.
“For a whole month the wind blew steadily from the South, and there was no other wind, but only South and East. As long as corn and wine held out the men did not touch the cattle when they were hungry; when, however, they had eaten all there was in the ship, they were forced to go further afield, with hook and line, catching birds, and taking whatever they could lay their hands on; for they were starving. One day, therefore, I went up inland that I might pray heaven to show me some means of getting away. When I had gone far enough to be clear of all my men, and had found a place that was well sheltered from the wind, I washed my hands and prayed to all the gods in Olympus till by and by they sent me off into a sweet sleep.
“Meanwhile Eurylochus had been giving evil counsel to the men, ‘Listen to me,’ said he, ‘my poor comrades. All deaths are bad enough but there is none so bad as famine. Why should not we drive in the best of these cows and offer them in sacrifice to the immortal Rods? If we ever get back to Ithaca, we can build a fine temple to the sun-god and enrich it with every kind of ornament; if, however, he is determined to sink our ship out of revenge for these homed cattle, and the other gods are of the same mind, I for one would rather drink salt water once for all and have done with it, than be starved to death by inches in such a desert island as this is.’
“Thus spoke Eurylochus, and the men approved his words. Now the cattle, so fair and goodly, were feeding not far from the ship; the men, therefore drove in the best of them, and they all stood round them saying their prayers, and using young oak-shoots instead of barley-meal, for there was no barley left. When they had done praying they killed the cows and dressed their carcasses; they cut out the thigh bones, wrapped them round in two layers of fat, and set some pieces of raw meat on top of them. They had no wine with which to make drink-offerings over the sacrifice while it was cooking, so they kept pouring on a little water from time to time while the inward meats were being grilled; then, when the thigh bones were burned and they had tasted the inward meats, they cut the rest up small and put the pieces upon the spits.
“By this time my deep sleep had left me, and I turned back to the ship and to the sea shore. As I drew near I began to smell hot roast meat, so I groaned out a prayer to the immortal gods. ‘Father Jove,’ I exclaimed, ‘and all you other gods who live in everlasting bliss, you have done me a cruel mischief by the sleep into which you have sent me; see what fine work these men of mine have been making in my absence.’
“Meanwhile Lampetie went straight off to the sun and told him we had been killing his cows, whereon he flew into a great rage, and said to the immortals, ‘Father Jove, and all you other gods who live in everlasting bliss, I must have vengeance on the crew of Ulysses’ ship: they have had the insolence to kill my cows, which were the one thing I loved to look upon, whether I was going up heaven or down again. If they do not square accounts with me about my cows, I will go down to Hades and shine there among the dead.’
“’Sun,’ said Jove, ‘go on shining upon us gods and upon mankind over the fruitful earth. I will shiver their ship into little pieces with a bolt of white lightning as soon as they get out to sea.’
“I was told all this by Calypso, who said she had heard it from the mouth of Mercury. “As soon as I got down to my ship and to the sea shore I rebuked each one of the men separately, but we could
see no way out of it, for the cows were dead already. And indeed the gods began at once to show signs and wonders among us, for the hides of the cattle crawled about, and the joints upon the spits began to low like cows, and the meat, whether cooked or raw, kept on making a noise just as cows do.
“For six days my men kept driving in the best cows and feasting upon them, but when Jove the son of Saturn had added a seventh day, the fury of the gale abated; we therefore went on board, raised our masts, spread sail, and put out to sea. As soon as we were well away from the island, and could see nothing but sky and sea, the son of Sat- urn raised a black cloud over our ship, and the sea grew dark beneath it. We not get on much further, for in another moment we were caught by a terrific squall from the West that snapped the forestays of the mast so that it fell aft, while all the ship’s gear tumbled about at the bottom of the vessel. The mast fell upon the head of the helmsman in the ship’s stern, so that the bones of his head were crushed to pieces, and he fell overboard as though he were div- ing, with no more life left in him.
“Then Jove let fly with his thunderbolts, and the ship went round and round, and was filled with fire and brim- stone as the lightning struck it. The men all fell into the sea; they were carried about in the water round the ship, looking like so many sea-gulls, but the god presently deprived them of all chance of getting home again.
“I stuck to the ship till the sea knocked her sides from her keel (which drifted about by itself ) and struck the mast out of her in the direction of the keel; but there was a backstay of stout ox-thong still hanging about it, and with this I lashed the mast and keel together, and getting astride of them was carried wherever the winds chose to
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take me. “[The gale from the West had now spent its force, and the wind got into the South again, which frightened me
lest I should be taken back to the terrible whirlpool of Charybdis. This indeed was what actually happened, for I was borne along by the waves all night, and by sunrise had reacfied the rock of Scylla, and the whirlpool. She was then sucking down the salt sea water, but I was carried aloft toward the fig tree, which I caught hold of and clung on to like a bat. I could not plant my feet anywhere so as to stand securely, for the roots were a long way off and the boughs that overshadowed the whole pool were too high, too vast, and too far apart for me to reach them; so I hung patiently on, waiting till the pool should discharge my mast and raft again—and a very long while it seemed. A ju- ryman is not more glad to get home to supper, after having been long detained in court by troublesome cases, than I was to see my raft beginning to work its way out of the whirlpool again. At last I let go with my hands and feet, and fell heavily into the sea, bard by my raft on to which I then got, and began to row with my hands. As for Scylla, the father of gods and men would not let her get further sight of me—otherwise I should have certainly been lost.]
“Hence I was carried along for nine days till on the tenth night the gods stranded me on the Ogygian island, where dwells the great and powerful goddess Calypso. She took me in and was kind to me, but I need say no more about this, for I told you and your noble wife all about it yesterday, and I hate saying the same thing over and over again.”
Book XIII THUS did he speak, and they all held their peace throughout the covered cloister, enthralled by the charm of
his story, till presently Alcinous began to speak. “Ulysses,” said he, “now that you have reached my house I doubt not you will get home without further misad-
venture no matter how much you have suffered in the past. To you others, however, who come here night after night to drink my choicest wine and listen to my bard, I would insist as follows. Our guest has already packed up the clothes, wrought gold, and other valuables which you have brought for his acceptance; let us now, therefore, present him further, each one of us, with a large tripod and a cauldron. We will recoup ourselves by the levy of a general rate; for private individuals cannot be expected to bear the burden of such a handsome present.”
Every one approved of this, and then they went home to bed each in his own abode. When the child of morn- ing, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared, they hurried down to the ship and brought their cauldrons with them. Alcinous went on board and saw everything so securely stowed under the ship’s benches that nothing could break adrift and injure the rowers. Then they went to the house of Alcinous to get dinner, and he sacrificed a bull for them in hon- our of Jove who is the lord of all. They set the steaks to grill and made an excellent dinner, after which the inspired bard, Demodocus, who was a favourite with every one, sang to them; but Ulysses kept on turning his eyes towards the sun, as though to hasten his setting, for he was longing to be on his way. As one who has been all day ploughing a fallow field with a couple of oxen keeps thinking about his supper and is glad when night comes that he may go and get it, for it is all his legs can do to carry him, even so did Ulysses rejoice when the sun went down, and he at once said to the Phaecians, addressing himself more particularly to King Alcinous:
“Sir, and all of you, farewell. Make your drink-offerings and send me on my way rejoicing, for you have fulfilled my heart’s desire by giving me an escort, and making me presents, which heaven grant that I may turn to good account; may I find my admirable wife living in peace among friends, and may you whom I leave behind me give satisfaction to your wives and children; may heaven vouchsafe you every good grace, and may no evil thing come among your people.”
Thus did he speak. His hearers all of them approved his saying and agreed that he should have his escort inas- much as he had spoken reasonably. Alcinous therefore said to his servant, “Pontonous, mix some wine and hand it round to everybody, that we may offer a prayer to father Jove, and speed our guest upon his way.”
Pontonous mixed the wine and handed it to every one in turn; the others each from his own seat made a drink-offering to the blessed gods that live in heaven, but Ulysses rose and placed the double cup in the hands of queen Arete.
“Farewell, queen,” said he, “henceforward and for ever, till age and death, the common lot of mankind, lay their hands upon you. I now take my leave; be happy in this house with your children, your people, and with king Alci- nous.”
As he spoke he crossed the threshold, and Alcinous sent a man to conduct him to his ship and to the sea shore. Arete also sent some maid servants with him—one with a clean shirt and cloak, another to carry his strong-box, and a third with corn and wine. When they got to the water side the crew took these things and put them on board, with all the meat and drink; but for Ulysses they spread a rug and a linen sheet on deck that he might sleep soundly in the stern of the ship. Then he too went on board and lay down without a word, but the crew took every man his place and loosed the hawser from the pierced stone to which it had been bound. Thereon, when they began rowing
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out to sea, Ulysses fell into a deep, sweet, and almost deathlike slumber. The ship bounded forward on her way as a four in hand chariot flies over the course when the horses feel the
whip. Her prow curveted as it were the neck of a stallion, and a great wave of dark blue water seethed in her wake. She held steadily on her course, and even a falcon, swiftest of all birds, could not have kept pace with her. Thus, then, she cut her way through the water. carrying one who was as cunning as the gods, but who was now sleeping peacefully, forgetful of all that he had suffered both on the field of battle and by the waves of the weary sea.
When the bright star that heralds the approach of dawn began to show. the ship drew near to land. Now there is in Ithaca a haven of the old merman Phorcys, which lies between two points that break the line of the sea and shut the harbour in. These shelter it from the storms of wind and sea that rage outside, so that, when once within it, a ship may lie without being even moored. At the head of this harbour there is a large olive tree, and at no distance a fine overarching cavern sacred to the nymphs who are called Naiads. There are mixing-bowls within it and wine- jars of stone, and the bees hive there. Moreover, there are great looms of stone on which the nymphs weave their robes of sea purple—very curious to see—and at all times there is water within it. It has two entrances, one facing North by which mortals can go down into the cave, while the other comes from the South and is more mysterious; mortals cannot possibly get in by it, it is the way taken by the gods.
Into this harbour, then, they took their ship, for they knew the place, She had so much way upon her that she ran half her own length on to the shore; when, however, they had landed, the first thing they did was to lift Ulysses with his rug and linen sheet out of the ship, and lay him down upon the sand still fast asleep. Then they took out the presents which Minerva had persuaded the Phaeacians to give him when he was setting out on his voyage home- wards. They put these all together by the root of the olive tree, away from the road, for fear some passer by might come and steal them before Ulysses awoke; and then they made the best of their way home again.
But Neptune did not forget the threats with which he had already threatened Ulysses, so he took counsel with Jove. “Father Jove,” said he, “I shall no longer be held in any sort of respect among you gods, if mortals like the Phaeacians, who are my own flesh and blood, show such small regard for me. I said I would Ulysses get home when he had suffered sufficiently. I did not say that he should never get home at all, for I knew you had already nodded your head about it, and promised that he should do so; but now they have brought him in a ship fast asleep and have landed him in Ithaca after loading him with more magnificent presents of bronze, gold, and raiment than he would ever have brought back from Troy, if he had had his share of the spoil and got home without misadventure.”
And Jove answered, “What, O Lord of the Earthquake, are you talking about? The gods are by no means want- ing in respect for you. It would be monstrous were they to insult one so old and honoured as you are. As regards mortals, however, if any of them is indulging in insolence and treating you disrespectfully, it will always rest with yourself to deal with him as you may think proper, so do just as you please.”
“I should have done so at once,” replied Neptune, “if I were not anxious to avoid anything that might displease you; now, therefore, I should like to wreck the Phaecian ship as it is returning from its escort. This will stop them from escorting people in future; and I should also like to bury their city under a huge mountain.”
“My good friend,” answered Jove, “I should recommend you at the very moment when the people from the city are watching the ship on her way, to turn it into a rock near the land and looking like a ship. This will astonish everybody, and you can then bury their city under the mountain.”
When earth-encircling Neptune heard this he went to Scheria where the Phaecians live, and stayed there till the ship, which was making rapid way, had got close-in. Then he went up to it, turned it into stone, and drove it down with the flat of his hand so as to root it in the ground. After this he went away.
The Phaeacians then began talking among themselves, and one would turn towards his neighbour, saying, “Bless my heart, who is it that can have rooted the ship in the sea just as she was getting into port? We could see the whole of her only moment ago.”
This was how they talked, but they knew nothing about it; and Alcinous said, “I remember now the old prophe- cy of my father. He said that Neptune would be angry with us for taking every one so safely over the sea, and would one day wreck a Phaeacian ship as it was returning from an escort, and bury our city under a high mountain. This was what my old father used to say, and now it is all coming true. Now therefore let us all do as I say; in the first place we must leave off giving people escorts when they come here, and in the next let us sacrifice twelve picked bulls to Neptune that he may have mercy upon us, and not bury our city under the high mountain.” When the peo- ple heard this they were afraid and got ready the bulls.
Thus did the chiefs and rulers of the Phaecians to king Neptune, standing round his altar; and at the same time Ulysses woke up once more upon his own soil. He had been so long away that he did not know it again; moreover, Jove’s daughter Minerva had made it a foggy day, so that people might not know of his having come, and that she might tell him everything without either his wife or his fellow citizens and friends recognizing him until he had taken his revenge upon the wicked suitors. Everything, therefore, seemed quite different to him—the long straight tracks, the harbours, the precipices, and the goodly trees, appeared all changed as he started up and looked upon his
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native land. So he smote his thighs with the flat of his hands and cried aloud despairingly. “Alas,” he exclaimed, “among what manner of people am I fallen? Are they savage and uncivilized or hospita-
ble and humane? Where shall I put all this treasure, and which way shall I go? I wish I had stayed over there with the Phaeacians; or I could have gone to some other great chief who would have been good to me and given me an escort. As it is I do not know where to put my treasure, and I cannot leave it here for fear somebody else should get hold of it. In good truth the chiefs and rulers of the Phaeacians have not been dealing fairly by me, and have left me in the wrong country; they said they would take me back to Ithaca and they have not done so: may Jove the protec- tor of suppliants chastise them, for he watches over everybody and punishes those who do wrong. Still, I suppose I must count my goods and see if the crew have gone off with any of them.”
He counted his goodly coppers and cauldrons, his gold and all his clothes, but there was nothing missing; still he kept grieving about not being in his own country, and wandered up and down by the shore of the sounding sea bewailing his hard fate. Then Minerva came up to him disguised as a young shepherd of delicate and princely mien, with a good cloak folded double about her shoulders; she had sandals on her comely feet and held a javelin in her hand. Ulysses was glad when he saw her, and went straight up to her.
“My friend,” said he, “you are the first person whom I have met with in this country; I salute you, therefore, and beg you to be will disposed towards me. Protect these my goods, and myself too, for I embrace your knees and pray to you as though you were a god. Tell me, then, and tell me truly, what land and country is this? Who are its inhabi- tants? Am I on an island, or is this the sea board of some continent?”
Minerva answered, “Stranger, you must be very simple, or must have come from somewhere a long way off, not to know what country this is. It is a very celebrated place, and everybody knows it East and West. It is rugged and not a good driving country, but it is by no means a bid island for what there is of it. It grows any quantity of corn and also wine, for it is watered both by rain and dew; it breeds cattle also and goats; all kinds of timber grow here, and there are watering places where the water never runs dry; so, sir, the name of Ithaca is known even as far as Troy, which I understand to be a long way off from this Achaean country.”
Ulysses was glad at finding himself, as Minerva told him, in his own country, and he began to answer, but he did not speak the truth, and made up a lying story in the instinctive wiliness of his heart.
“I heard of Ithaca,” said he, “when I was in Crete beyond the seas, and now it seems I have reached it with all these treasures. I have left as much more behind me for my children, but am flying because I killed Orsilochus son of Idomeneus, the fleetest runner in Crete. I killed him because he wanted to rob me of the spoils I had got from Troy with so much trouble and danger both on the field of battle and by the waves of the weary sea; he said I had not served his father loyally at Troy as vassal, but had set myself up as an independent ruler, so I lay in wait for him and with one of my followers by the road side, and speared him as he was coming into town from the country. my It was a very dark night and nobody saw us; it was not known, therefore, that I had killed him, but as soon as I had done so I went to a ship and besought the owners, who were Phoenicians, to take me on board and set me in Pylos or in Elis where the Epeans rule, giving them as much spoil as satisfied them. They meant no guile, but the wind drove them off their course, and we sailed on till we came hither by night. It was all we could do to get inside the harbour, and none of us said a word about supper though we wanted it badly, but we all went on shore and lay down just as we were. I was very tired and fell asleep directly, so they took my goods out of the ship, and placed them beside me where I was lying upon the sand. Then they sailed away to Sidonia, and I was left here in great distress of mind.”
Such was his story, but Minerva smiled and caressed him with her hand. Then she took the form of a woman, fair, stately, and wise, “He must be indeed a shifty lying fellow,” said she, “who could surpass you in all manner of craft even though you had a god for your antagonist. Dare-devil that you are, full of guile, unwearying in deceit, can you not drop your tricks and your instinctive falsehood, even now that you are in your own country again? We will say no more, however, about this, for we can both of us deceive upon occasion—you are the most accomplished counsellor and orator among all mankind, while I for diplomacy and subtlety have no equal among the gods. Did you not know Jove’s daughter Minerva — me, who have been ever with you, who kept watch over you in all your troubles, and who made the Phaeacians take so great a liking to you? And now, again, I am come here to talk things over with you, and help you to hide the treasure I made the Phaeacians give you; I want to tell you about the trou- bles that await you in your own house; you have got to face them, but tell no one, neither man nor woman, that you have come home again. Bear everything, and put up with every man’s insolence, without a word.”
And Ulysses answered, “A man, goddess, may know a great deal, but you are so constantly changing your ap- pearance that when he meets you it is a hard matter for him to know whether it is you or not. This much, however, I know exceedingly well; you were very kind to me as long as we Achaeans were fighting before Troy, but from the day on which we went on board ship after having sacked the city of Priam, and heaven dispersed us—from that day, Minerva, I saw no more of you, and cannot ever remember your coming to my ship to help me in a difficulty; I had to wander on sick and sorry till the gods delivered me from evil and I reached the city of the Phaeacians, where you
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encouraged me and took me into the town. And now, I beseech you in your father’s name, tell me the truth, for I do not believe I am really back in Ithaca. I am in some other country and you are mocking me and deceiving me in all you have been saying. Tell me then truly, have I really got back to my own country?”
“You are always taking something of that sort into your head,” replied Minerva, “and that is why I cannot desert you in your afflictions; you are so plausible, shrewd and shifty. Any one but yourself on returning from so long a voyage would at once have gone home to see his wife and children, but you do not seem to care about asking after them or hearing any news about them till you have exploited your wife, who remains at home vainly grieving for you, and having no peace night or day for the tears she sheds on your behalf. As for my not coming near you, I was never uneasy about you, for I was certain you would get back safely though you would lose all your men, and I did not wish to quarrel with my uncle Neptune, who never forgave you for having blinded his son. I will now, howev- er, point out to you the lie of the land, and you will then perhaps believe me. This is the haven of the old merman Phorcys, and here is the olive tree that grows at the head of it; [near it is the cave sacred to the Naiads;] here too is the overarching cavern in which you have offered many an acceptable hecatomb to the nymphs, and this is the wooded mountain Neritum.”
As she spoke the goddess dispersed the mist and the land appeared. Then Ulysses rejoiced at finding himself again in his own land, and kissed the bounteous soil; he lifted up his hands and prayed to the nymphs, saying, “Naiad nymphs, daughters of Jove, I made sure that I was never again to see you, now therefore I greet you with all loving salutations, and I will bring you offerings as in the old days, if Jove’s redoubtable daughter will grant me life, and bring my son to manhood.”
“Take heart, and do not trouble yourself about that,” rejoined Minerva, “let us rather set about stowing your things at once in the cave, where they will be quite safe. Let us see how we can best manage it all.”
Therewith she went down into the cave to look for the safest hiding places, while Ulysses brought up all the treasure of gold, bronze, and good clothing which the Phaecians had given him. They stowed everything carefully away, and Minerva set a stone against the door of the cave. Then the two sat down by the root of the great olive, and consulted how to compass the destruction of the wicked suitors.
“Ulysses,” said Minerva, “noble son of Laertes, think how you can lay hands on these disreputable people who have been lording it in your house these three years, courting your wife and making wedding presents to her, while she does nothing but lament your absence, giving hope and sending your encouraging messages to every one of them, but meaning the very opposite of all she says’
And Ulysses answered, “In good truth, goddess, it seems I should have come to much the same bad end in my own house as Agamemnon did, if you had not given me such timely information. Advise me how I shall best avenge myself. Stand by my side and put your courage into my heart as on the day when we loosed Troy’s fair diadem from her brow. Help me now as you did then, and I will fight three hundred men, if you, goddess, will be with me.”
“Trust me for that,” said she, “I will not lose sight of you when once we set about it, and I would imagine that some of those who are devouring your substance will then bespatter the pavement with their blood and brains. I will begin by disguising you so that no human being shall know you; I will cover your body with wrinkles; you shall lose all your yellow hair; I will clothe you in a garment that shall fill all who see it with loathing; I will blear your fine eyes for you, and make you an unseemly object in the sight of the suitors, of your wife, and of the son whom you left behind you. Then go at once to the swineherd who is in charge of your pigs; he has been always well affect- ed towards you, and is devoted to Penelope and your son; you will find him feeding his pigs near the rock that is called Raven by the fountain Arethusa, where they are fattening on beechmast and spring water after their manner. Stay with him and find out how things are going, while I proceed to Sparta and see your son, who is with Menelaus at Lacedaemon, where he has gone to try and find out whether you are still alive.”
“But why,” said Ulysses, “did you not tell him, for you knew all about it? Did you want him too to go sailing about amid all kinds of hardship while others are eating up his estate?”
Minerva answered, “Never mind about him, I sent him that he might be well spoken of for having gone. He is in no sort of difficulty, but is staying quite comfortably with Menelaus, and is surrounded with abundance of every kind. The suitors have put out to sea and are lying in wait for him, for they mean to kill him before he can get home. I do not much think they will succeed, but rather that some of those who are now eating up your estate will first find a grave themselves.”
As she spoke Minerva touched him with her wand and covered him with wrinkles, took away all his yellow hair, and withered the flesh over his whole body; she bleared his eyes, which were naturally very fine ones; she changed his clothes and threw an old rag of a wrap about him, and a tunic, tattered, filthy, and begrimed with smoke; she also gave him an undressed deer skin as an outer garment, and furnished him with a staff and a wallet all in holes, with a twisted thong for him to sling it over his shoulder.
When the pair had thus laid their plans they parted, and the goddess went straight to Lacedaemon to fetch Telemachus.
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Book XIV ULYSSES now left the haven, and took the rough track up through the wooded country and over the crest of
the mountain till he reached the place where Minerva had said that he would find the swineherd, who was the most thrifty servant he had. He found him sitting in front of his hut, which was by the yards that he had built on a site which could be seen from far. He had made them spacious and fair to see, with a free ran for the pigs all round them; he had built them during his master’s absence, of stones which he had gathered out of the ground, without saying anything to Penelope or Laertes, and he had fenced them on top with thorn bushes. Outside the yard he had run a strong fence of oaken posts, split, and set pretty close together, while inside lie had built twelve sties near one another for the sows to lie in. There were fifty pigs wallowing in each sty, all of them breeding sows; but the boars slept outside and were much fewer in number, for the suitors kept on eating them, and die swineherd had to send them the best he had continually. There were three hundred and sixty boar pigs, and the herdsman’s four hounds, which were as fierce as wolves, slept always with them. The swineherd was at that moment cutting out a pair of sandals from a good stout ox hide. Three of his men were out herding the pigs in one place or another, and he had sent the fourth to town with a boar that he had been forced to send the suitors that they might sacrifice it and have their fill of meat.
When the hounds saw Ulysses they set up a furious barking and flew at him, but Ulysses was cunning enough to sit down and loose his hold of the stick that he had in his hand: still, he would have been torn by them in his own homestead had not the swineherd dropped his ox hide, rushed full speed through the gate of the yard and driven the dogs off by shouting and throwing stones at them. Then he said to Ulysses, “Old man, the dogs were likely to have made short work of you, and then you would have got me into trouble. The gods have given me quite enough worries without that, for I have lost the best of masters, and am in continual grief on his account. I have to attend swine for other people to eat, while he, if he yet lives to see the light of day, is starving in some distant land. But come inside, and when you have had your fill of bread and wine, tell me where you come from, and all about your misfortunes.”
On this the swineherd led the way into the hut and bade him sit down. He strewed a good thick bed of rushes upon the floor, and on the top of this he threw the shaggy chamois skin—a great thick one—on which he used to sleep by night. Ulysses was pleased at being made thus welcome, and said “May Jove, sir, and the rest of the gods grant you your heart’s desire in return for the kind way in which you have received me.”
To this you answered, O swineherd Eumaeus, “Stranger, though a still poorer man should come here, it would not be right for me to insult him, for all strangers and beggars are from Jove. You must take what you can get and be thankful, for servants live in fear when they have young lords for their masters; and this is my misfortune now, for heaven has hindered the return of him who would have been always good to me and given me something of my own—a house, a piece of land, a good looking wife, and all else that a liberal master allows a servant who has worked hard for him, and whose labour the gods have prospered as they have mine in the situation which I hold. If my master had grown old here he would have done great things by me, but he is gone, and I wish that Helen’s whole race were utterly destroyed, for she has been the death of many a good man. It was this matter that took my master to Ilius, the land of noble steeds, to fight the Trojans in the cause of kin Agamemnon.”
As he spoke he bound his girdle round him and went to the sties where the young sucking pigs were penned. He picked out two which he brought back with him and sacrificed. He singed them, cut them up, and spitted on them; when the meat was cooked he brought it all in and set it before Ulysses, hot and still on the spit, whereon Ulysses sprinkled it over with white barley meal. The swineherd then mixed wine in a bowl of ivy-wood, and taking a seat opposite Ulysses told him to begin.
“Fall to, stranger,” said he, “on a dish of servant’s pork. The fat pigs have to go to the suitors, who eat them up without shame or scruple; but the blessed gods love not such shameful doings, and respect those who do what is lawful and right. Even the fierce free-booters who go raiding on other people’s land, and Jove gives them their spoil—even they, when they have filled their ships and got home again live conscience-stricken, and look fearfully for judgement; but some god seems to have told these people that Ulysses is dead and gone; they will not, there- fore, go back to their own homes and make their offers of marriage in the usual way, but waste his estate by force, without fear or stint. Not a day or night comes out of heaven, but they sacrifice not one victim nor two only, and they take the run of his wine, for he was exceedingly rich. No other great man either in Ithaca or on the mainland is as rich as he was; he had as much as twenty men put together. I will tell you what he had. There are twelve herds of cattle upon the mainland, and as many flocks of sheep, there are also twelve droves of pigs, while his own men and hired strangers feed him twelve widely spreading herds of goats. Here in Ithaca he runs even large flocks of goats on the far end of the island, and they are in the charge of excellent goatherds. Each one of these sends the suitors the best goat in the flock every day. As for myself, I am in charge of the pigs that you see here, and I have to keep
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picking out the best I have and sending it to them.” This was his story, but Ulysses went on eating and drinking ravenously without a word, brooding his revenge.
When he had eaten enough and was satisfied, the swineherd took the bowl from which he usually drank, filled it with wine, and gave it to Ulysses, who was pleased, and said as he took it in his hands, “My friend, who was this master of yours that bought you and paid for you, so rich and so powerful as you tell me? You say he perished in the cause of King Agamemnon; tell me who he was, in case I may have met with such a person. Jove and the other gods know, but I may be able to give you news of him, for I have travelled much.”
Eumaeus answered, “Old man, no traveller who comes here with news will get Ulysses’ wife and son to believe his story. Nevertheless, tramps in want of a lodging keep coming with their mouths full of lies, and not a word of truth; every one who finds his way to Ithaca goes to my mistress and tells her falsehoods, whereon she takes them in, makes much of them, and asks them all manner of questions, crying all the time as women will when they have lost their husbands. And you too, old man, for a shirt and a cloak would doubtless make up a very pretty story. But the wolves and birds of prey have long since torn Ulysses to pieces, or the fishes of the sea have eaten him, and his bones are lying buried deep in sand upon some foreign shore; he is dead and gone, and a bad business it is for all his friends—for me especially; go where I may I shall never find so good a master, not even if I were to go home to my mother and father where I was bred and born. I do not so much care, however, about my parents now, though I should dearly like to see them again in my own country; it is the loss of Ulysses that grieves me most; I cannot speak of him without reverence though he is here no longer, for he was very fond of me, and took such care of me that whereever he may be I shall always honour his memory.”
“My friend,” replied Ulysses, “you are very positive, and very hard of belief about your master’s coming home again, nevertheless I will not merely say, but will swear, that he is coming. Do not give me anything for my news till he has actually come, you may then give me a shirt and cloak of good wear if you will. I am in great want, but I will not take anything at all till then, for I hate a man, even as I hate hell fire, who lets his poverty tempt him into lying. I swear by king Jove, by the rites of hospitality, and by that hearth of Ulysses to which I have now come, that all will surely happen as I have said it will. Ulysses will return in this self same year; with the end of this moon and the beginning of the next he will be here to do vengeance on all those who are ill treating his wife and son.”
To this you answered, O swineherd Eumaeus, “Old man, you will neither get paid for bringing good news, nor will Ulysses ever come home; drink you wine in peace, and let us talk about something else. Do not keep on re- minding me of all this; it always pains me when any one speaks about my honoured master. As for your oath we will let it alone, but I only wish he may come, as do Penelope, his old father Laertes, and his son Telemachus. I am ter- ribly unhappy too about this same boy of his; he was running up fast into manhood, and bade fare to be no worse man, face and figure, than his father, but some one, either god or man, has been unsettling his mind, so he has gone off to Pylos to try and get news of his father, and the suitors are lying in wait for him as he is coming home, in the hope of leaving the house of Arceisius without a name in Ithaca. But let us say no more about him, and leave him to be taken, or else to escape if the son of Saturn holds his hand over him to protect him. And now, old man, tell me your own story; tell me also, for I want to know, who you are and where you come from. Tell me of your town and parents, what manner of ship you came in, how crew brought you to Ithaca, and from what country they professed to come—for you cannot have come by land.”
And Ulysses answered, “I will tell you all about it. If there were meat and wine enough, and we could stay here in the hut with nothing to do but to eat and drink while the others go to their work, I could easily talk on for a whole twelve months without ever finishing the story of the sorrows with which it has pleased heaven to visit me.
“I am by birth a Cretan; my father was a well-to-do man, who had many sons born in marriage, whereas I was the son of a slave whom he had purchased for a concubine; nevertheless, my father Castor son of Hylax (whose lin- eage I claim, and who was held in the highest honour among the Cretans for his wealth, prosperity, and the valour of his sons) put me on the same level with my brothers who had been born in wedlock. When, however, death took him to the house of Hades, his sons divided his estate and cast lots for their shares, but to me they gave a holding and little else; nevertheless, my valour enabled me to marry into a rich family, for I was not given to bragging, or shirking on the field of battle. It is all over now; still, if you look at the straw you can see what the ear was, for I have had trouble enough and to spare. Mars and Minerva made me doughty in war; when I had picked my men to surprise the enemy with an ambuscade I never gave death so much as a thought, but was the first to leap forward and spear all whom I could overtake. Such was I in battle, but I did not care about farm work, nor the frugal home life of those who would bring up children. My delight was in ships, fighting, javelins, and arrows—things that most men shudder to think of; but one man likes one thing and another another, and this was what I was most naturally inclined to. Before the Achaeans went to Troy, nine times was I in command of men and ships on foreign service, and I amassed much wealth. I had my pick of the spoil in the first instance, and much more was allotted to me later on.
“My house grew apace and I became a great man among the Cretans, but when Jove counselled that terrible
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expedition, in which so many perished, the people required me and Idomeneus to lead their ships to Troy, and there was no way out of it, for they insisted on our doing so. There we fought for nine whole years, but in the tenth we sacked the city of Priam and sailed home again as heaven dispersed us. Then it was that Jove devised evil against me. I spent but one month happily with my children, wife, and property, and then I conceived the idea of making a descent on Egypt, so I fitted out a fine fleet and manned it. I had nine ships, and the people flocked to fill them. For six days I and my men made feast, and I found them many victims both for sacrifice to the gods and for themselves, but on the seventh day we went on board and set sail from Crete with a fair North wind behind us though we were going down a river. Nothing went ill with any of our ships, and we had no sickness on board, but sat where we were and let the ships go as the wind and steersmen took them. On the fifth day we reached the river Aegyptus; there I stationed my ships in the river, bidding my men stay by them and keep guard over them while I sent out scouts to reconnoitre from every point of vantage.
“But the men disobeyed my orders, took to their own devices, and ravaged the land of the Egyptians, killing the men, and taking their wives and children captive. The alarm was soon carried to the city, and when they heard the war cry, the people came out at daybreak till the plain was filled with horsemen and foot soldiers and with the gleam of armour. Then Jove spread panic among my men, and they would no longer face the enemy, for they found themselves surrounded. The Egyptians killed many of us, and took the rest alive to do forced labour for them. Jove, however, put it in my mind to do thus—and I wish I had died then and there in Egypt instead, for there was much sorrow in store for me—I took off my helmet and shield and dropped my spear from my hand; then I went straight up to the king’s chariot, clasped his knees and kissed them, whereon he spared my life, bade me get into his chariot, and took me weeping to his own home. Many made at me with their ashen spears and tried to kil me in their fury, but the king protected me, for he feared the wrath of Jove the protector of strangers, who punishes those who do evil.
“I stayed there for seven years and got together much money among the Egyptians, for they all gave me some- thing; but when it was now going on for eight years there came a certain Phoenician, a cunning rascal, who had already committed all sorts of villainy, and this man talked me over into going with him to Phoenicia, where his house and his possessions lay. I stayed there for a whole twelve months, but at the end of that time when months and days had gone by till the same season had come round again, he set me on board a ship bound for Libya, on a pretence that I was to take a cargo along with him to that place, but really that he might sell me as a slave and take the money I fetched. I suspected his intention, but went on board with him, for I could not help it.
“The ship ran before a fresh North wind till we had reached the sea that lies between Crete and Libya; there, however, Jove counselled their destruction, for as soon as we were well out from Crete and could see nothing but sea and sky, he raised a black cloud over our ship and the sea grew dark beneath it. Then Jove let fly with his thun- derbolts and the ship went round and round and was filled with fire and brimstone as the lightning struck it. The men fell all into the sea; they were carried about in the water round the ship looking like so many sea-gulls, but the god presently deprived them of all chance of getting home again. I was all dismayed; Jove, however, sent the ship’s mast within my reach, which saved my life, for I clung to it, and drifted before the fury of the gale. Nine days did I drift but in the darkness of the tenth night a great wave bore me on to the Thesprotian coast. There Pheidon king of the Thesprotians entertained me hospitably without charging me anything at all for his son found me when I was nearly dead with cold and fatigue, whereon he raised me by the hand, took me to his father’s house and gave me clothes to wear.
“There it was that I heard news of Ulysses, for the king told me he had entertained him, and shown him much hospitality while he was on his homeward journey. He showed me also the treasure of gold, and wrought iron that Ulysses had got together. There was enough to keep his family for ten generations, so much had he left in the house of king Pheidon. But the king said Ulysses had gone to Dodona that he might learn Jove’s mind from the god’s high oak tree, and know whether after so long an absence he should return to Ithaca openly, or in secret. Moreover the king swore in my presence, making drink-offerings in his own house as he did so, that the ship was by the water side, and the crew found, that should take him to his own country. He sent me off however before Ulysses returned, for there happened to be a Thesprotian ship sailing for the wheat-growing island of Dulichium, and he told those in charge of her to be sure and take me safely to King Acastus.
“These men hatched a plot against me that would have reduced me to the very extreme of misery, for when the ship had got some way out from land they resolved on selling me as a slave. They stripped me of the shirt and cloak that I was wearing, and gave me instead the tattered old clouts in which you now see me; then, towards nightfall, they reached the tilled lands of Ithaca, and there they bound me with a strong rope fast in the ship, while they went on shore to get supper by the sea side. But the gods soon undid my bonds for me, and having drawn my rags over my head I slid down the rudder into the sea, where I struck out and swam till I was well clear of them, and came ashore near a thick wood in which I lay concealed. They were very angry at my having escaped and went searching about for me, till at last they thought it was no further use and went back to their ship. The gods, having hidden me
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thus easily, then took me to a good man’s door—for it seems that I am not to die yet awhile.” To this you answered, O swineherd Eumaeus, “Poor unhappy stranger, I have found the story of your misfor-
tunes extremely interesting, but that part about Ulysses is not right; and you will never get me to believe it. Why should a man like you go about telling lies in this way? I know all about the return of my master. The gods one and all of them detest him, or they would have taken him before Troy, or let him die with friends around him when the days of his fighting were done; for then the Achaeans would have built a mound over his ashes and his son would have been heir to his renown, but now the storm winds have spirited him away we know not whither.
“As for me I live out of the way here with the pigs, and never go to the town unless when Penelope sends for me on the arrival of some news about Ulysses. Then they all sit round and ask questions, both those who grieve over the king’s absence, and those who rejoice at it because they can eat up his property without paying for it. For my own part I have never cared about asking anyone else since the time when I was taken in by an Aetolian, who had killed a man and come a long way till at last he reached my station, and I was very kind to him. He said he had seen Ulysses with Idomeneus among the Cretans, refitting his ships which had been damaged in a gale. He said Ulysses would return in the following summer or autumn with his men, and that he would bring back much wealth. And now you, you unfortunate old man, since fate has brought you to my door, do not try to flatter me in this way with vain hopes. It is not for any such reason that I shall treat you kindly, but only out of respect for Jove the god of hos- pitality, as fearing him and pitying you.”
Ulysses answered, “I see that you are of an unbelieving mind; I have given you my oath, and yet you will not credit me; let us then make a bargain, and call all the gods in heaven to witness it. If your master comes home, give me a cloak and shirt of good wear, and send me to Dulichium where I want to go; but if he does not come as I say he will, set your men on to me, and tell them to throw me from yonder precepice, as a warning to tramps not to go about the country telling lies.”
“And a pretty figure I should cut then,” replied Eumaeus, both now and hereafter, if I were to kill you after re- ceiving you into my hut and showing you hospitality. I should have to say my prayers in good earnest if I did; but it is just supper time and I hope my men will come in directly, that we may cook something savoury for supper.”
Thus did they converse, and presently the swineherds came up with the pigs, which were then shut up for the night in their sties, and a tremendous squealing they made as they were being driven into them. But Eumaeus called to his men and said, “Bring in the best pig you have, that I may sacrifice for this stranger, and we will take toll of him ourselves. We have had trouble enough this long time feeding pigs, while others reap the fruit of our labour.”
On this he began chopping firewood, while the others brought in a fine fat five year old boar pig, and set it at the altar. Eumaeus did not forget the gods, for he was a man of good principles, so the first thing he did was to cut bristles from the pig’s face and throw them into the fire, praying to all the gods as he did so that Ulysses might return home again. Then he clubbed the pig with a billet of oak which he had kept back when he was chopping the firewood, and stunned it, while the others slaughtered and singed it. Then they cut it up, and Eumaeus began by putting raw pieces from each joint on to some of the fat; these he sprinkled with barley meal, and laid upon the em- bers; they cut the rest of the meat up small, put the pieces upon the spits and roasted them till they were done; when they had taken them off the spits they threw them on to the dresser in a heap. The swineherd, who was a most equi- table man, then stood up to give every one his share. He made seven portions; one of these he set apart for Mercury the son of Maia and the nymphs, praying to them as he did so; the others he dealt out to the men man by man. He gave Ulysses some slices cut lengthways down the loin as a mark of especial honour, and Ulysses was much pleased. “I hope, Eumaeus,” said he, “that Jove will be as well disposed towards you as I am, for the respect you are showing to an outcast like myself.”
To this you answered, O swineherd Eumaeus, “Eat, my good fellow, and enjoy your supper, such as it is. God grants this, and withholds that, just as he thinks right, for he can do whatever he chooses.”
As he spoke he cut off the first piece and offered it as a burnt sacrifice to the immortal gods; then he made them a drink-offering, put the cup in the hands of Ulysses, and sat down to his own portion. Mesaulius brought them their bread; the swineherd had bought this man on his own account from among the Taphians during his master’s absence, and had paid for him with his own money without saying anything either to his mistress or Laertes. They then laid their hands upon the good things that were before them, and when they had had enough to eat and drink, Mesaulius took away what was left of the bread, and they all went to bed after having made a hearty supper.
Now the night came on stormy and very dark, for there was no moon. It poured without ceasing, and the wind blew strong from the West, which is a wet quarter, so Ulysses thought he would see whether Eumaeus, in the excellent care he took of him, would take off his own cloak and give it him, or make one of his men give him one. “Listen to me,” said he, “Eumaeus and the rest of you; when I have said a prayer I will tell you something. It is the wine that makes me talk in this way; wine will make even a wise man fall to singing; it will make him chuckle and dance and say many a word that he had better leave unspoken; still, as I have begun, I will go on. Would that I were still young and strong as when we got up an ambuscade before Troy. Menelaus and Ulysses were the leaders, but I
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was in command also, for the other two would have it so. When we had come up to the wall of the city we crouched down beneath our armour and lay there under cover of the reeds and thick brush-wood that grew about the swamp. It came on to freeze with a North wind blowing; the snow fell small and fine like hoar frost, and our shields were coated thick with rime. The others had all got cloaks and shirts, and slept comfortably enough with their shields about their shoulders, but I had carelessly left my cloak behind me, not thinking that I should be too cold, and had gone off in nothing but my shirt and shield. When the night was two-thirds through and the stars had shifted their their places, I nudged Ulysses who was close to me with my elbow, and he at once gave me his ear.
“’Ulysses,’ said I, ‘this cold will be the death of me, for I have no cloak; some god fooled me into setting off with nothing on but my shirt, and I do not know what to do.’
“Ulysses, who was as crafty as he was valiant, hit upon the following plan: “’Keep still,’ said he in a low voice, ‘or the others will hear you.’ Then he raised his head on his elbow. “’My friends,’ said he, ‘I have had a dream from heaven in my sleep. We are a long way from the ships; I wish
some one would go down and tell Agamemnon to send us up more men at once.’ “On this Thoas son of Andraemon threw off his cloak and set out running to the ships, whereon I took the
cloak and lay in it comfortably enough till morning. Would that I were still young and strong as I was in those days, for then some one of you swineherds would give me a cloak both out of good will and for the respect due to a brave soldier; but now people look down upon me because my clothes are shabby.”
And Eumaeus answered, “Old man, you have told us an excellent story, and have said nothing so far but what is quite satisfactory; for the present, therefore, you shall want neither clothing nor anything else that a stranger in dis- tress may reasonably expect, but to-morrow morning you have to shake your own old rags about your body again, for we have not many spare cloaks nor shirts up here, but every man has only one. When Ulysses’ son comes home again he will give you both cloak and shirt, and send you wherever you may want to go.”
With this he got up and made a bed for Ulysses by throwing some goatskins and sheepskins on the ground in front of the fire. Here Ulysses lay down, and Eumaeus covered him over with a great heavy cloak that he kept for a change in case of extraordinarily bad weather.
Thus did Ulysses sleep, and the young men slept beside him. But the swineherd did not like sleeping away from his pigs, so he got ready to go and Ulysses was glad to see that he looked after his property during his master’s absence. First he slung his sword over his brawny shoulders and put on a thick cloak to keep out the wind. He also took the skin of a large and well fed goat, and a javelin in case of attack from men or dogs. Thus equipped he went to his rest where the pigs were camping under an overhanging rock that gave them shelter from the North wind.
Book XV BUT Minerva went to the fair city of Lacedaemon to tell Ulysses’ son that he was to return at once. She found
him and Pisistratus sleeping in the forecourt of Menelaus’s house; Pisistratus was fast asleep, but Telemachus could get no rest all night for thinking of his unhappy father, so Minerva went close up to him and said:
“Telemachus, you should not remain so far away from home any longer, nor leave your property with such dangerous people in your house; they will eat up everything you have among them, and you will have been on a fool’s errand. Ask Menelaus to send you home at once if you wish to find your excellent mother still there when you get back. Her father and brothers are already urging her to marry Eurymachus, who has given her more than any of the others, and has been greatly increasing his wedding presents. I hope nothing valuable may have been taken from the house in spite of you, but you know what women are—they always want to do the best they can for the man who marries them, and never give another thought to the children of their first husband, nor to their father either when he is dead and done with. Go home, therefore, and put everything in charge of the most respectable woman servant that you have, until it shall please heaven to send you a wife of your own. Let me tell you also of an- other matter which you had better attend to. The chief men among the suitors are lying in wait for you in the Strait between Ithaca and Samos, and they mean to kill you before you can reach home. I do not much think they will succeed; it is more likely that some of those who are now eating up your property will find a grave themselves. Sail night and day, and keep your ship well away from the islands; the god who watches over you and protects you will send you a fair wind. As soon as you get to Ithaca send your ship and men on to the town, but yourself go straight to the swineherd who has charge your pigs; he is well disposed towards you, stay with him, therefore, for the night, and then send him to Penelope to tell her that you have got back safe from Pylos.”
Then she went back to Olympus; but Telemachus stirred Pisistratus with his heel to rouse him, and said, “Wake up Pisistratus, and yoke the horses to the chariot, for we must set off home.”
But Pisistratus said, “No matter what hurry we are in we cannot drive in the dark. It will be morning soon; wait till Menelaus has brought his presents and put them in the chariot for us; and let him say good-bye to us in the usu- al way. So long as he lives a guest should never forget a host who has shown him kindness.”
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As he spoke day began to break, and Menelaus, who had already risen, leaving Helen in bed, came towards them. When Telemachus saw him he put on his shirt as fast as he could, threw a great cloak over his shoulders, and went out to meet him. “Menelaus,” said he, “let me go back now to my own country, for I want to get home.”
And Menelaus answered, “Telemachus, if you insist on going I will not detain you. not like to see a host either too fond of his guest or too rude to him. Moderation is best in all things, and not letting a man go when he wants to do so is as bad as telling him to go if he would like to stay. One should treat a guest well as long as he is in the house and speed him when he wants to leave it. Wait, then, till I can get your beautiful presents into your chariot, and till you have yourself seen them. I will tell the women to prepare a sufficient dinner for you of what there may be in the house; it will be at once more proper and cheaper for you to get your dinner before setting out on such a long journey. If, moreover, you have a fancy for making a tour in Hellas or in the Peloponnese, I will yoke my horses, and will conduct you myself through all our principal cities. No one will send us away empty handed; every one will give us something—a bronze tripod, a couple of mules, or a gold cup.”
“Menelaus,” replied Telemachus, “I want to go home at once, for when I came away I left my property without protection, and fear that while looking for my father I shall come to ruin myself, or find that something valuable has been stolen during my absence.”
When Menelaus heard this he immediately told his wife and servants to prepare a sufficient dinner from what there might be in the house. At this moment Eteoneus joined him, for he lived close by and had just got up; so Menelaus told him to light the fire and cook some meat, which he at once did. Then Menelaus went down into his fragrant store room, not alone, but Helen went too, with Megapenthes. When he reached the place where the treasures of his house were kept, he selected a double cup, and told his son Megapenthes to bring also a silver mix- ing-bowl. Meanwhile Helen went to the chest where she kept the lovely dresses which she had made with her own hands, and took out one that was largest and most beautifully enriched with embroidery; it glittered like a star, and lay at the very bottom of the chest. Then they all came back through the house again till they got to Telemachus, and Menelaus said, “Telemachus, may Jove, the mighty husband of Juno, bring you safely home according to your desire. I will now present you with the finest and most precious piece of plate in all my house. It is a mixing-bowl of pure silver, except the rim, which is inlaid with gold, and it is the work of Vulcan. Phaedimus king of the Sidonians made me a present of it in the course of a visit that I paid him while I was on my return home. I should like to give it to you.”
With these words he placed the double cup in the hands of Telemachus, while Megapenthes brought the beauti- ful mixing-bowl and set it before him. Hard by stood lovely Helen with the robe ready in her hand.
“I too, my son,” said she, “have something for you as a keepsake from the hand of Helen; it is for your bride to wear upon her wedding day. Till then, get your dear mother to keep it for you; thus may you go back rejoicing to your own country and to your home.”
So saying she gave the robe over to him and he received it gladly. Then Pisistratus put the presents into the chariot, and admired them all as he did so. Presently Menelaus took Telemachus and Pisistratus into the house, and they both of them sat down to table. A maid servant brought them water in a beautiful golden ewer, and poured it into a silver basin for them to wash their hands, and she drew a clean table beside them; an upper servant brought them bread and offered them many good things of what there was in the house. Eteoneus carved the meat and gave them each their portions, while Megapenthes poured out the wine. Then they laid their hands upon the good things that were before them, but as soon as they had had had enough to eat and drink Telemachus and Pisistratus yoked the horses, and took their places in the chariot. They drove out through the inner gateway and under the echoing gatehouse of the outer court, and Menelaus came after them with a golden goblet of wine in his right hand that they might make a drink-offering before they set out. He stood in front of the horses and pledged them, saying, “Fare- well to both of you; see that you tell Nestor how I have treated you, for he was as kind to me as any father could be while we Achaeans were fighting before Troy.”
“We will be sure, sir,” answered Telemachus, “to tell him everything as soon as we see him. I wish I were as cer- tain of finding Ulysses returned when I get back to Ithaca, that I might tell him of the very great kindness you have shown me and of the many beautiful presents I am taking with me.”
As he was thus speaking a bird flew on his right hand—an eagle with a great white goose in its talons which it had carried off from the farm yard—and all the men and women were running after it and shouting. It came quite close up to them and flew away on their right hands in front of the horses. When they saw it they were glad, and their hearts took comfort within them, whereon Pisistratus said, “Tell me, Menelaus, has heaven sent this omen for us or for you?”
Menelaus was thinking what would be the most proper answer for him to make, but Helen was too quick for him and said, “I will read this matter as heaven has put it in my heart, and as I doubt not that it will come to pass. The eagle came from the mountain where it was bred and has its nest, and in like manner Ulysses, after having trav- elled far and suffered much, will return to take his revenge—if indeed he is not back already and hatching mischief
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for the suitors.” “May Jove so grant it,” replied Telemachus; “if it should prove to be so, I will make vows to you as though you
were a god, even when I am at home.” As he spoke he lashed his horses and they started off at full speed through the town towards the open country.
They swayed the yoke upon their necks and travelled the whole day long till the sun set and darkness was over all the land. Then they reached Pherae, where Diocles lived who was son of Ortilochus, the son of Alpheus. There they passed the night and were treated hospitably. When the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared, they again yoked their horses and their places in the chariot. They drove out through the inner gateway and under the echoing gatehouse of the outer court. Then Pisistratus lashed his horses on and they flew forward nothing loath; ere long they came to Pylos, and then Telemachus said:
“Pisistratus, I hope you will promise to do what I am going to ask you. You know our fathers were old friends before us; moreover, we are both of an age, and this journey has brought us together still more closely; do not, therefore, take me past my ship, but leave me there, for if I go to your father’s house he will try to keep me in the warmth of his good will towards me, and I must go home at once.”
Pisistratus thought how he should do as he was asked, and in the end he deemed it best to turn his horses towards the ship, and put Menelaus’s beautiful presents of gold and raiment in the stern of the vessel. Then he said, “Go on board at once and tell your men to do so also before I can reach home to tell my father. I know how obsti- nate he is, and am sure he will not let you go; he will come down here to fetch you, and he will not go back without you. But he will be very angry.”
With this he drove his goodly steeds back to the city of the Pylians and soon reached his home, but Telemachus called the men together and gave his orders. “Now, my men,” said he, “get everything in order on board the ship, and let us set out home.”
Thus did he speak, and they went on board even as he had said. But as Telemachus was thus busied, praying also and sacrificing to Minerva in the ship’s stern, there came to him a man from a distant country, a seer, who was flying from Argos because he had killed a man. He was descended from Melampus, who used to live in Pylos, the land of sheep; he was rich and owned a great house, but he was driven into exile by the great and powerful king Neleus. Neleus seized his goods and held them for a whole year, during which he was a close prisoner in the house of king Phylacus, and in much distress of mind both on account of the daughter of Neleus and because he was haunted by a great sorrow that dread Erinyes had laid upon him. In the end, however, he escaped with his life, drove the cattle from Phylace to Pylos, avenged the wrong that had been done him, and gave the daughter of Neleus to his brother. Then he left the country and went to Argos, where it was ordained that he should reign over much people. There he married, established himself, and had two famous sons Antiphates and Mantius. Antiphates became father of Oicleus, and Oicleus of Amphiaraus, who was dearly loved both by Jove and by Apollo, but he did not live to old age, for he was killed in Thebes by reason of a woman’s gifts. His sons were Alcmaeon and Amphilochus. Mantius, the other son of Melampus, was father to Polypheides and Cleitus. Aurora, throned in gold, carried off Cleitus for his beauty’s sake, that he might dwell among the immortals, but Apollo made Polypheides the greatest seer in the whole world now that Amphiaraus was dead. He quarrelled with his father and went to live in Hyperesia, where he remained and prophesied for all men.
His son, Theoclymenus, it was who now came up to Telemachus as he was making drink-offerings and praying in his ship. “Friend’” said he, “now that I find you sacrificing in this place, I beseech you by your sacrifices them- selves, and by the god to whom you make them, I pray you also by your own head and by those of your followers, tell me the truth and nothing but the truth. Who and whence are you? Tell me also of your town and parents.”
Telemachus said, “I will answer you quite truly. I am from Ithaca, and my father is ‘Ulysses, as surely as that he ever lived. But he has come to some miserable end. Therefore I have taken this ship and got my crew together to see if I can hear any news of him, for he has been away a long time.”
“I too,” answered Theoclymenus, am an exile, for I have killed a man of my own race. He has many brothers and kinsmen in Argos, and they have great power among the Argives. I am flying to escape death at their hands, and am thus doomed to be a wanderer on the face of the earth. I am your suppliant; take me, therefore, on board your ship that they may not kill me, for I know they are in pursuit.”
“I will not refuse you,” replied Telemachus, “if you wish to join us. Come, therefore, and in Ithaca we will treat you hospitably according to what we have.”
On this he received Theoclymenus’ spear and laid it down on the deck of the ship. He went on board and sat in the stern, bidding Theoclymenus sit beside him; then the men let go the hawsers. Telemachus told them to catch hold of the ropes, and they made all haste to do so. They set the mast in its socket in the cross plank, raised it and made it fast with the forestays, and they hoisted their white sails with sheets of twisted ox hide. Minerva sent them a fair wind that blew fresh and strong to take the ship on her course as fast as possible. Thus then they passed by Crouni and Chalcis.
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Presently the sun set and darkness was over all the land. The vessel made a quick pass sage to Pheae and thence on to Elis, where the Epeans rule. Telemachus then headed her for the flying islands, wondering within himself whether he should escape death or should be taken prisoner.
Meanwhile Ulysses and the swineherd were eating their supper in the hut, and the men supped with them. As soon as they had had to eat and drink, Ulysses began trying to prove the swineherd and see whether he would con- tinue to treat him kindly, and ask him to stay on at the station or pack him off to the city; so he said:
“Eumaeus, and all of you, to-morrow I want to go away and begin begging about the town, so as to be no more trouble to you or to your men. Give me your advice therefore, and let me have a good guide to go with me and show me the way. I will go the round of the city begging as I needs must, to see if any one will give me a drink and a piece of bread. I should like also to go to the house of Ulysses and bring news of her husband to queen Penelope. I could then go about among the suitors and see if out of all their abundance they will give me a dinner. I should soon make them an excellent servant in all sorts of ways. Listen and believe when I tell you that by the blessing of Mercury who gives grace and good name to the works of all men, there is no one living who would make a more handy servant than I should—to put fresh wood on the fire, chop fuel, carve, cook, pour out wine, and do all those services that poor men have to do for their betters.”
The swineherd was very much disturbed when he heard this. “Heaven help me,” he exclaimed, “what ever can have put such a notion as that into your head? If you go near the suitors you will be undone to a certainty, for their pride and insolence reach the very heavens. They would never think of taking a man like you for a servant. Their servants are all young men, well dressed, wearing good cloaks and shirts, with well looking faces and their hair always tidy, the tables are kept quite clean and are loaded with bread, meat, and wine. Stay where you are, then; you are not in anybody’s way; I do not mind your being here, no more do any of the others, and when Telemachus comes home he will give you a shirt and cloak and will send you wherever you want to go.”
Ulysses answered, “I hope you may be as dear to the gods as you are to me, for having saved me from going about and getting into trouble; there is nothing worse than being always ways on the tramp; still, when men have once got low down in the world they will go through a great deal on behalf of their miserable bellies. Since howev- er you press me to stay here and await the return of Telemachus, tell about Ulysses’ mother, and his father whom he left on the threshold of old age when he set out for Troy. Are they still living or are they already dead and in the house of Hades?”
“I will tell you all about them,” replied Eumaeus, “Laertes is still living and prays heaven to let him depart peacefully his own house, for he is terribly distressed about the absence of his son, and also about the death of his wife, which grieved him greatly and aged him more than anything else did. She came to an unhappy end through sorrow for her son: may no friend or neighbour who has dealt kindly by me come to such an end as she did. As long as she was still living, though she was always grieving, I used to like seeing her and asking her how she did, for she brought me up along with her daughter Ctimene, the youngest of her children; we were boy and girl together, and she made little difference between us. When, however, we both grew up, they sent Ctimene to Same and received a splendid dowry for her. As for me, my mistress gave me a good shirt and cloak with a pair of sandals for my feet, and sent me off into the country, but she was just as fond of me as ever. This is all over now. Still it has pleased heav- en to prosper my work in the situation which I now hold. I have enough to eat and drink, and can find something for any respectable stranger who comes here; but there is no getting a kind word or deed out of my mistress, for the house has fallen into the hands of wicked people. Servants want sometimes to see their mistress and have a talk with her; they like to have something to eat and drink at the house, and something too to take back with them into the country. This is what will keep servants in a good humour.”
Ulysses answered, “Then you must have been a very little fellow, Eumaeus, when you were taken so far away from your home and parents. Tell me, and tell me true, was the city in which your father and mother lived sacked and pillaged, or did some enemies carry you off when you were alone tending sheep or cattle, ship you off here, and sell you for whatever your master gave them?”
“Stranger,” replied Eumaeus, “as regards your question: sit still, make yourself comfortable, drink your wine, and listen to me. The nights are now at their longest; there is plenty of time both for sleeping and sitting up talking together; you ought not to go to bed till bed time, too much sleep is as bad as too little; if any one of the others wishes to go to bed let him leave us and do so; he can then take my master’s pigs out when he has done breakfast in the morning. We two will sit here eating and drinking in the hut, and telling one another stories about our misfor- tunes; for when a man has suffered much, and been buffeted about in the world, he takes pleasure in recalling the memory of sorrows that have long gone by. As regards your question, then, my tale is as follows:
“You may have heard of an island called Syra that lies over above Ortygia, where the land begins to turn round and look in another direction. It is not very thickly peopled, but the soil is good, with much pasture fit for cattle and sheep, and it abounds with wine and wheat. Dearth never comes there, nor are the people plagued by any sickness, but when they grow old Apollo comes with Diana and kills them with his painless shafts. It contains two communi-
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ties, and the whole country is divided between these two. My father Ctesius son of Ormenus, a man comparable to the gods, reigned over both.
“Now to this place there came some cunning traders from Phoenicia (for the Phoenicians are great mariners) in a ship which they had freighted with gewgaws of all kinds. There happened to be a Phoenician woman in my father’s house, very tall and comely, and an excellent servant; these scoundrels got hold of her one day when she was washing near their ship, seduced her, and cajoled her in ways that no woman can resist, no matter how good she may be by nature. The man who had seduced her asked her who she was and where she came from, and on this she told him her father’s name. ‘I come from Sidon,’ said she, ‘and am daughter to Arybas, a man rolling in wealth. One day as I was coming into the town from the country some Taphian pirates seized me and took me here over the sea, where they sold me to the man who owns this house, and he gave them their price for me.’
“The man who had seduced her then said, ‘Would you like to come along with us to see the house of your par- ents and your parents themselves? They are both alive and are said to be well off.’
“’I will do so gladly,’ answered she, ‘if you men will first swear me a solemn oath that you will do me no harm by the way.’
“They all swore as she told them, and when they had completed their oath the woman said, ‘Hush; and if any of your men meets me in the street or at the well, do not let him speak to me, for fear some one should go and tell my master, in which case he would suspect something. He would put me in prison, and would have all of you murdered; keep your own counsel therefore; buy your merchandise as fast as you can, and send me word when you have done loading. I will bring as much gold as I can lay my hands on, and there is something else also that I can do towards paying my fare. I am nurse to the son of the good man of the house, a funny little fellow just able to run about. I will carry him off in your ship, and you will get a great deal of money for him if you take him and sell him in foreign parts.’
“On this she went back to the house. The Phoenicians stayed a whole year till they had loaded their ship with much precious merchandise, and then, when they had got freight enough, they sent to tell the woman. Their messenger, a very cunning fellow, came to my father’s house bringing a necklace of gold with amber beads strung among it; and while my mother and the servants had it in their hands admiring it and bargaining about it, he made a sign quietly to the woman and then went back to the ship, whereon she took me by the hand and led me out of the house. In the fore part of the house she saw the tables set with the cups of guests who had been feasting with my father, as being in attendance on him; these were now all gone to a meeting of the public assembly, so she snatched up three cups and carried them off in the bosom of her dress, while I followed her, for I knew no better. The sun was now set, and darkness was over all the land, so we hurried on as fast as we could till we reached the harbour, where the Phoenician ship was lying. When they had got on board they sailed their ways over the sea, taking us with them, and Jove sent then a fair wind; six days did we sail both night and day, but on the seventh day Diana struck the woman and she fell heavily down into the ship’s hold as though she were a sea gull alighting on the water; so they threw her overboard to the seals and fishes, and I was left all sorrowful and alone. Presently the winds and waves took the ship to Ithaca, where Laertes gave sundry of his chattels for me, and thus it was that ever I came to set eyes upon this country.”
Ulysses answered, “Eumaeus, I have heard the story of your misfortunes with the most lively interest and pity, but Jove has given you good as well as evil, for in spite of everything you have a good master, who sees that you always have enough to eat and drink; and you lead a good life, whereas I am still going about begging my way from city to city.”
Thus did they converse, and they had only a very little time left for sleep, for it was soon daybreak. In the meantime Telemachus and his crew were nearing land, so they loosed the sails, took down the mast, and rowed the ship into the harbour. They cast out their mooring stones and made fast the hawsers; they then got out upon the sea shore, mixed their wine, and got dinner ready. As soon as they had had enough to eat and drink Telemachus said, “Take the ship on to the town, but leave me here, for I want to look after the herdsmen on one of my farms. In the evening, when I have seen all I want, I will come down to the city, and to-morrow morning in return for your trouble I will give you all a good dinner with meat and wine.”
Then Theoclymenus said, ‘And what, my dear young friend, is to become of me? To whose house, among all your chief men, am I to repair? or shall I go straight to your own house and to your mother?”
“At any other time,” replied Telemachus, “I should have bidden you go to my own house, for you would find no want of hospitality; at the present moment, however, you would not be comfortable there, for I shall be away, and my mother will not see you; she does not often show herself even to the suitors, but sits at her loom weaving in an upper chamber, out of their way; but I can tell you a man whose house you can go to—I mean Eurymachus the son of Polybus, who is held in the highest estimation by every one in Ithaca. He is much the best man and the most persistent wooer, of all those who are paying court to my mother and trying to take Ulysses’ place. Jove, however, in heaven alone knows whether or no they will come to a bad end before the marriage takes place.”
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As he was speaking a bird flew by upon his right hand — a hawk, Apollo’s messenger. It held a dove in its talons, and the feathers, as it tore them off, fell to the ground midway between Telemachus and the ship. On this Theo- clymenus called him apart and caught him by the hand. “Telemachus,” said he, “that bird did not fly on your right hand without having been sent there by some god. As soon as I saw it I knew it was an omen; it means that you will remain powerful and that there will be no house in Ithaca more royal than your own.”
“I wish it may prove so,” answered Telemachus. “If it does, I will show you so much good will and give you so many presents that all who meet you will congratulate you.”
Then he said to his friend Piraeus, “Piraeus, son of Clytius, you have throughout shown yourself the most willing to serve me of all those who have accompanied me to Pylos; I wish you would take this stranger to your own house and entertain him hospitably till I can come for him.”
And Piraeus answered, “Telemachus, you may stay away as long as you please, but I will look after him for you, and he shall find no lack of hospitality.”
As he spoke he went on board, and bade the others do so also and loose the hawsers, so they took their places in the ship. But Telemachus bound on his sandals, and took a long and doughty spear with a head of sharpened bronze from the deck of the ship. Then they loosed the hawsers, thrust the ship off from land, and made on towards the city as they had been told to do, while Telemachus strode on as fast as he could, till he reached the homestead where his countless herds of swine were feeding, and where dwelt the excellent swineherd, who was so devoted a servant to his master.
Book XVI MEANWHILE Ulysses and the swineherd had lit a fire in the hut and were were getting breakfast ready at day-
break for they had sent the men out with the pigs. When Telemachus came up, the dogs did not bark, but fawned upon him, so Ulysses, hearing the sound of feet and noticing that the dogs did not bark, said to Eumaeus:
“Eumaeus, I hear footsteps; I suppose one of your men or some one of your acquaintance is coming here, for the dogs are fawning urn him and not barking.”
The words were hardly out of his mouth before his son stood at the door. Eumaeus sprang to his feet, and the bowls in which he was mixing wine fell from his hands, as he made towards his master. He kissed his head and both his beautiful eyes, and wept for joy. A father could not be more delighted at the return of an only son, the child of his old age, after ten years’ absence in a foreign country and after having gone through much hardship. He em- braced him, kissed him all over as though he had come back from the dead, and spoke fondly to him saying:
“So you are come, Telemachus, light of my eyes that you are. When I heard you had gone to Pylos I made sure I was never going to see you any more. Come in, my dear child, and sit down, that I may have a good look at you now you are home again; it is not very often you come into the country to see us herdsmen; you stick pretty close to the town generally. I suppose you think it better to keep an eye on what the suitors are doing.”
“So be it, old friend,” answered Telemachus, “but I am come now because I want to see you, and to learn wheth- er my mother is still at her old home or whether some one else has married her, so that the bed of Ulysses is without bedding and covered with cobwebs.”
“She is still at the house,” replied Eumaeus, “grieving and breaking her heart, and doing nothing but weep, both night and day continually.”
As spoke he took Telemachus’ spear, whereon he crossed the stone threshold and came inside. Ulysses rose from his seat to give him place as he entered, but Telemachus checked him; “Sit down, stranger.” said he, “I can easi- ly find another seat, and there is one here who will lay it for me.”
Ulysses went back to his own place, and Eumaeus strewed some green brushwood on the floor and threw a sheepskin on top of it for Telemachus to sit upon. Then the swineherd brought them platters of cold meat, the remains from what they had eaten the day before, and he filled the bread baskets with bread as fast as he could. He mixed wine also in bowls of ivy-wood, and took his seat facing Ulysses. Then they laid their hands on the good things that were before them, and as soon as they had had enough to eat and drink Telemachus said to Eumaeus, “Old friend, where does this stranger come from? How did his crew bring him to Ithaca, and who were they?-for assuredly he did not come here by land”’
To this you answered, O swineherd Eumaeus, “My son, I will tell you the real truth. He says he is a Cretan, and that he has been a great traveller. At this moment he is running away from a Thesprotian ship, and has refuge at my station, so I will put him into your hands. Do whatever you like with him, only remember that he is your suppliant.”
“I am very much distressed,” said Telemachus, “by what you have just told me. How can I take this stranger into my house? I am as yet young, and am not strong enough to hold my own if any man attacks me. My mother cannot make up her mind whether to stay where she is and look after the house out of respect for public opinion and the memory of her husband, or whether the time is now come for her to take the best man of those who are wooing
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her, and the one who will make her the most advantageous offer; still, as the stranger has come to your station I will find him a cloak and shirt of good wear, with a sword and sandals, and will send him wherever he wants to go. Or if you like you can keep him here at the station, and I will send him clothes and food that he may be no burden on you and on your men; but I will not have him go near the suitors, for they are very insolent, and are sure to ill-treat him in a way that would greatly grieve me; no matter how valiant a man may be he can do nothing against num- bers, for they will be too strong for him.”
Then Ulysses said, “Sir, it is right that I should say something myself. I am much shocked about what you have said about the insolent way in which the suitors are behaving in despite of such a man as you are. Tell me, do you submit to such treatment tamely, or has some god set your people against you? May you not complain of your brothers—for it is to these that a man may look for support, however great his quarrel may be? I wish I were as young as you are and in my present mind; if I were son to Ulysses, or, indeed, Ulysses himself, I would rather some one came and cut my head off, but I would go to the house and be the bane of every one of these men. If they were too many for me—I being single-handed—I would rather die fighting in my own house than see such disgraceful sights day after day, strangers grossly maltreated, and men dragging the women servants about the house in an un- seemly way, wine drawn recklessly, and bread wasted all to no purpose for an end that shall never be accomplished.”
And Telemachus answered, “I will tell you truly everything. There is no emnity between me and my people, nor can I complain of brothers, to whom a man may look for support however great his quarrel may be. Jove has made us a race of only sons. Laertes was the only son of Arceisius, and Ulysses only son of Laertes. I am myself the only son of Ulysses who left me behind him when he went away, so that I have never been of any use to him. Hence it comes that my house is in the hands of numberless marauders; for the chiefs from all the neighbouring islands, Dulichium, Same, Zacynthus, as also all the principal men of Ithaca itself, are eating up my house under the pretext of paying court to my mother, who will neither say point blank that she will not marry, nor yet bring matters to an end, so they are making havoc of my estate, and before long will do so with myself into the bargain. The issue, however, rests with heaven. But do you, old friend Eumaeus, go at once and tell Penelope that I am safe and have returned from Pylos. Tell it to herself alone, and then come back here without letting any one else know, for there are many who are plotting mischief against me.”
“I understand and heed you,” replied Eumaeus; “you need instruct me no further, only I am going that way say whether I had not better let poor Laertes know that you are returned. He used to superintend the work on his farm in spite of his bitter sorrow about Ulysses, and he would eat and drink at will along with his servants; but they tell me that from the day on which you set out for Pylos he has neither eaten nor drunk as he ought to do, nor does he look after his farm, but sits weeping and wasting the flesh from off his bones.”
“More’s the pity,” answered Telemachus, “I am sorry for him, but we must leave him to himself just now. If peo- ple could have everything their own way, the first thing I should choose would be the return of my father; but go, and give your message; then make haste back again, and do not turn out of your way to tell Laertes. Tell my mother to send one of her women secretly with the news at once, and let him hear it from her.”
Thus did he urge the swineherd; Eumaeus, therefore, took his sandals, bound them to his feet, and started for the town. Minerva watched him well off the station, and then came up to it in the form of a woman—fair, stately, and wise. She stood against the side of the entry, and revealed herself to Ulysses, but Telemachus could not see her, and knew not that she was there, for the gods do not let themselves be seen by everybody. Ulysses saw her, and so did the dogs, for they did not bark, but went scared and whining off to the other side of the yards. She nodded her head and motioned to Ulysses with her eyebrows; whereon he left the hut and stood before her outside the main wall of the yards. Then she said to him:
“Ulysses, noble son of Laertes, it is now time for you to tell your son: do not keep him in the dark any longer, but lay your plans for the destruction of the suitors, and then make for the town. I will not be long in joining you, for I too am eager for the fray.”
As she spoke she touched him with her golden wand. First she threw a fair clean shirt and cloak about his shoulders; then she made him younger and of more imposing presence; she gave him back his colour, filled out his cheeks, and let his beard become dark again. Then she went away and Ulysses came back inside the hut. His son was astounded when he saw him, and turned his eyes away for fear he might be looking upon a god.
“Stranger,” said he, “how suddenly you have changed from what you were a moment or two ago. You are dressed differently and your colour is not the same. Are you some one or other of the gods that live in heaven? If so, be propitious to me till I can make you due sacrifice and offerings of wrought gold. Have mercy upon me.”
And Ulysses said, “I am no god, why should you take me for one? I am your father, on whose account you grieve and suffer so much at the hands of lawless men.”
As he spoke he kissed his son, and a tear fell from his cheek on to the ground, for he had restrained all tears till now. but Telemachus could not yet believe that it was his father, and said:
“You are not my father, but some god is flattering me with vain hopes that I may grieve the more hereafter; no
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mortal man could of himself contrive to do as you have been doing, and make yourself old and young at a moment’s notice, unless a god were with him. A second ago you were old and all in rags, and now you are like some god come down from heaven.”
Ulysses answered, “Telemachus, you ought not to be so immeasurably astonished at my being really here. There is no other Ulysses who will come hereafter. Such as I am, it is I, who after long wandering and much hardship have got home in the twentieth year to my own country. What you wonder at is the work of the redoubtable goddess Minerva, who does with me whatever she will, for she can do what she pleases. At one moment she makes me like a beggar, and the next I am a young man with good clothes on my back; it is an easy matter for the gods who live in heaven to make any man look either rich or poor.”
As he spoke he sat down, and Telemachus threw his arms about his father and wept. They were both so much moved that they cried aloud like eagles or vultures with crooked talons that have been robbed of their half fledged young by peasants. Thus piteously did they weep, and the sun would have gone down upon their mourning if Telemachus had not suddenly said, “In what ship, my dear father, did your crew bring you to Ithaca? Of what nation did they declare themselves to be—for you cannot have come by land?”
“I will tell you the truth, my son,” replied Ulysses. “It was the Phaeacians who brought me here. They are great sailors, and are in the habit of giving escorts to any one who reaches their coasts. They took me over the sea while I was fast asleep, and landed me in Ithaca, after giving me many presents in bronze, gold, and raiment. These things by heaven’s mercy are lying concealed in a cave, and I am now come here on the suggestion of Minerva that we may consult about killing our enemies. First, therefore, give me a list of the suitors, with their number, that I may learn who, and how many, they are. I can then turn the matter over in my mind, and see whether we two can fight the whole body of them ourselves, or whether we must find others to help us.”
To this Telemachus answered, “Father, I have always heard of your renown both in the field and in council, but the task you talk of is a very great one: I am awed at the mere thought of it; two men cannot stand against many and brave ones. There are not ten suitors only, nor twice ten, but ten many times over; you shall learn their number at once. There are fifty-two chosen youths from Dulichium, and they have six servants; from Same there are twen- ty-four; twenty young Achaeans from Zacynthus, and twelve from Ithaca itself, all of them well born. They have with them a servant Medon, a bard, and two men who can carve at table. If we face such numbers as this, you may have bitter cause to rue your coming, and your revenge. See whether you cannot think of some one who would be willing to come and help us.”
“Listen to me,” replied Ulysses, “and think whether Minerva and her father Jove may seem sufficient, or wheth- er I am to try and find some one else as well.”
“Those whom you have named,” answered Telemachus, “are a couple of good allies, for though they dwell high up among the clouds they have power over both gods and men.”
“These two,” continued Ulysses, “will not keep long out of the fray, when the suitors and we join fight in my house. Now, therefore, return home early to-morrow morning, and go about among the suitors as before. Later on the swineherd will bring me to the city disguised as a miserable old beggar. If you see them ill-treating me, steel your heart against my sufferings; even though they drag me feet foremost out of the house, or throw things at me, look on and do nothing beyond gently trying to make them behave more reasonably; but they will not listen to you, for the day of their reckoning is at hand. Furthermore I say, and lay my saying to your heart, when Minerva shall put it in my mind, I will nod my head to you, and on seeing me do this you must collect all the armour that is in the house and hide it in the strong store room. Make some excuse when the suitors ask you why you are removing it; say that you have taken it to be out of the way of the smoke, inasmuch as it is no longer what it was when Ulysses went away, but has become soiled and begrimed with soot. Add to this more particularly that you are afraid Jove may set them on to quarrel over their wine, and that they may do each other some harm which may disgrace both banquet and wooing, for the sight of arms sometimes tempts people to use them. But leave a sword and a spear apiece for yourself and me, and a couple oxhide shields so that we can snatch them up at any moment; Jove and Minerva will then soon quiet these people. There is also another matter; if you are indeed my son and my blood runs in your veins, let no one know that Ulysses is within the house—neither Laertes, nor yet the swineherd, nor any of the servants, nor even Penelope herself. Let you and me exploit the women alone, and let us also make trial of some other of the men servants, to see who is on our side and whose hand is against us.”
“Father,” replied Telemachus, “you will come to know me by and by, and when you do you will find that I can keep your counsel. I do not think, however, the plan you propose will turn out well for either of us. Think it over. It will take us a long time to go the round of the farms and exploit the men, and all the time the suitors will be wasting your estate with impunity and without compunction. Prove the women by all means, to see who are disloyal and who guiltless, but I am not in favour of going round and trying the men. We can attend to that later on, if you really have some sign from Jove that he will support you.”
Thus did they converse, and meanwhile the ship which had brought Telemachus and his crew from Pylos had
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reached the town of Ithaca. When they had come inside the harbour they drew the ship on to the land; their ser- vants came and took their armour from them, and they left all the presents at the house of Clytius. Then they sent a servant to tell Penelope that Telemachus had gone into the country, but had sent the ship to the town to prevent her from being alarmed and made unhappy. This servant and Eumaeus happened to meet when they were both on the same errand of going to tell Penelope. When they reached the House, the servant stood up and said to the queen in the presence of the waiting women, “Your son, Madam, is now returned from Pylos”; but Eumaeus went close up to Penelope, and said privately that her son had given bidden him tell her. When he had given his message he left the house with its outbuildings and went back to his pigs again.
The suitors were surprised and angry at what had happened, so they went outside the great wall that ran round the outer court, and held a council near the main entrance. Eurymachus, son of Polybus, was the first to speak.
“My friends,” said he, “this voyage of Telemachus’s is a very serious matter; we had made sure that it would come to nothing. Now, however, let us draw a ship into the water, and get a crew together to send after the others and tell them to come back as fast as they can.”
He had hardly done speaking when Amphinomus turned in his place and saw the ship inside the harbour, with the crew lowering her sails, and putting by their oars; so he laughed, and said to the others, “We need not send them any message, for they are here. Some god must have told them, or else they saw the ship go by, and could not overtake her.
On this they rose and went to the water side. The crew then drew the ship on shore; their servants took their ar- mour from them, and they went up in a body to the place of assembly, but they would not let any one old or young sit along with them, and Antinous, son of Eupeithes, spoke first.
“Good heavens,” said he, “see how the gods have saved this man from destruction. We kept a succession of scouts upon the headlands all day long, and when the sun was down we never went on shore to sleep, but waited in the ship all night till morning in the hope of capturing and killing him; but some god has conveyed him home in spite of us. Let us consider how we can make an end of him. He must not escape us; our affair is never likely to come off while is alive, for he is very shrewd, and public feeling is by no means all on our side. We must make haste before he can call the Achaeans in assembly; he will lose no time in doing so, for he will be furious with us, and will tell all the world how we plotted to kill him, but failed to take him. The people will not like this when they come to know of it; we must see that they do us no hurt, nor drive us from our own country into exile. Let us try and lay hold of him either on his farm away from the town, or on the road hither. Then we can divide up his property amongst us, and let his mother and the man who marries her have the house. If this does not please you, and you wish Telemachus to live on and hold his father’s property, then we must not gather here and eat up his goods in this way, but must make our offers to Penelope each from his own house, and she can marry the man who will give the most for her, and whose lot it is to win her.”
They all held their peace until Amphinomus rose to speak. He was the son of Nisus, who was son to king Aretias, and he was foremost among all the suitors from the wheat-growing and well grassed island of Dulichium; his conversation, moreover, was more agreeable to Penelope than that of any of the other for he was a man of good natural disposition. “My friends,” said he, speaking to them plainly and in all honestly, “I am not in favour of killing Telemachus. It is a heinous thing to kill one who is of noble blood. Let us first take counsel of the gods, and if the oracles of Jove advise it, I will both help to kill him myself, and will urge everyone else to do so; but if they dissuade us, I would have you hold your hands.”
Thus did he speak, and his words pleased them well, so they rose forthwith and went to the house of Ulysses where they took their accustomed seats.
Then Penelope resolved that she would show herself to the suitors. She knew of the plot against Telemachus, for the servant Medon had overheard their counsels and had told her; she went down therefore to the court attended by her maidens, and when she reached the suitors she stood by one of the bearing-posts supporting the roof of the cloister holding a veil before her face, and rebuked Antinous saying:
“Antinous, insolent and wicked schemer, they say you are the best speaker and counsellor of any man your own age in Ithaca, but you are nothing of the kind. Madman, why should you try to compass the death of Telemachus, and take no heed of suppliants, whose witness is Jove himself ? It is not right for you to plot thus against one anoth- er. Do you not remember how your father fled to this house in fear of the people, who were enraged against him for having gone with some Taphian pirates and plundered the Thesprotians who were at peace with us? They wanted to tear him in pieces and eat up everything he had, but Ulysses stayed their hands although they were infuriated, and now you devour his property without paying for it, and break my heart by his wooing his wife and trying to kill his son. Leave off doing so, and stop the others also.”
To this Eurymachus son of Polybus answered, “Take heart, Queen Penelope daughter of Icarius, and do not trouble yourself about these matters. The man is not yet born, nor never will be, who shall lay hands upon your son Telemachus, while I yet live to look upon the face of the earth. I say—and it shall surely be—that my spear shall be
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reddened with his blood; for many a time has Ulysses taken me on his knees, held wine up to my lips to drink, and put pieces of meat into my hands. Therefore Telemachus is much the dearest friend I have, and has nothing to fear from the hands of us suitors. Of course, if death comes to him from the gods, he cannot escape it.” He said this to quiet her, but in reality he was plotting against Telemachus.
Then Penelope went upstairs again and mourned her husband till Minerva shed sleep over her eyes. In the evening Eumaeus got back to Ulysses and his son, who had just sacrificed a young pig of a year old and were ready; helping one another to get supper ready; Minerva therefore came up to Ulysses, turned him into an old man with a stroke of her wand, and clad him in his old clothes again, for fear that the swineherd might recognize him and not keep the secret, but go and tell Penelope.
Telemachus was the first to speak. “So you have got back, Eumaeus,” said he. “What is the news of the town? Have the suitors returned, or are they still waiting over yonder, to take me on my way home?”
“I did not think of asking about that,” replied Eumaeus, “when I was in the town. I thought I would give my message and come back as soon as I could. I met a man sent by those who had gone with you to Pylos, and he was the first to tell the new your mother, but I can say what I saw with my own eyes; I had just got on to the crest of the hill of Mercury above the town when I saw a ship coming into harbour with a number of men in her. They had many shields and spears, and I thought it was the suitors, but I cannot be sure.”
On hearing this Telemachus smiled to his father, but so that Eumaeus could not see him. Then, when they had finished their work and the meal was ready, they ate it, and every man had his full share
so that all were satisfied. As soon as they had had enough to eat and drink, they laid down to rest and enjoyed the boon of sleep.
Book XVII
WHEN the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared, Telemachus bound on his sandals and took a strong spear that suited his hands, for he wanted to go into the city. “Old friend,” said he to the swineherd, “I will now go to the town and show myself to my mother, for she will never leave off grieving till she has seen me. As for this unfortunate stranger, take him to the town and let him beg there of any one who will give him a drink and a piece of bread. I have trouble enough of my own, and cannot be burdened with other people. If this makes him angry so much the worse for him, but I like to say what I mean.”
Then Ulysses said, “Sir, I do not want to stay here; a beggar can always do better in town than country, for any one who likes can give him something. I am too old to care about remaining here at the beck and call of a master. Therefore let this man do as you have just told him, and take me to the town as soon as I have had a warm by the fire, and the day has got a little heat in it. My clothes are wretchedly thin, and this frosty morning I shall be perished with cold, for you say the city is some way off.”
On this Telemachus strode off through the yards, brooding his revenge upon the When he reached home he stood his spear against a bearing-post of the cloister, crossed the stone floor of the cloister itself, and went inside.
Nurse Euryclea saw him long before any one else did. She was putting the fleeces on to the seats, and she burst out crying as she ran up to him; all the other maids came up too, and covered his head and shoulders with their kisses. Penelope came out of her room looking like Diana or Venus, and wept as she flung her arms about her son. She kissed his forehead and both his beautiful eyes, “Light of my eyes,” she cried as she spoke fondly to him, “so you are come home again; I made sure I was never going to see you any more. To think of your having gone off to Pylos without saying anything about it or obtaining my consent. But come, tell me what you saw.”
“Do not scold me, mother,’ answered Telemachus, “nor vex me, seeing what a narrow escape I have had, but wash your face, change your dress, go upstairs with your maids, and promise full and sufficient hecatombs to all the gods if Jove will only grant us our revenge upon the suitors. I must now go to the place of assembly to invite a stranger who has come back with me from Pylos. I sent him on with my crew, and told Piraeus to take him home and look after him till I could come for him myself.”
She heeded her son’s words, washed her face, changed her dress, and vowed full and sufficient hecatombs to all the gods if they would only vouchsafe her revenge upon the suitors.
Telemachus went through, and out of, the cloisters spear in hand—not alone, for his two fleet dogs went with him. Minerva endowed him with a presence of such divine comeliness that all marvelled at him as he went by, and the suitors gathered round him with fair words in their mouths and malice in their hearts; but he avoided them, and went to sit with Mentor, Antiphus, and Halitherses, old friends of his father’s house, and they made him tell them all that had happened to him. Then Piraeus came up with Theoclymenus, whom he had escorted through the town to the place of assembly, whereon Telemachus at once joined them. Piraeus was first to speak: “Telemachus,” said he, “I wish you would send some of your women to my house to take awa the presents Menelaus gave you.”
“We do not know, Piraeus,” answered Telemachus, “what may happen. If the suitors kill me in my own house
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and divide my property among them, I would rather you had the presents than that any of those people should get hold of them. If on the other hand I manage to kill them, I shall be much obliged if you will kindly bring me my presents.”
With these words he took Theoclymenus to his own house. When they got there they laid their cloaks on the benches and seats, went into the baths, and washed themselves. When the maids had washed and anointed them, and had given them cloaks and shirts, they took their seats at table. A maid servant then brought them water in a beautiful golden ewer, and poured it into a silver basin for them to wash their hands; and she drew a clean table beside them. An upper servant brought them bread and offered them many good things of what there was in the house. Opposite them sat Penelope, reclining on a couch by one of the bearing-posts of the cloister, and spinning. Then they laid their hands on the good things that were before them, and as soon as they had had enough to eat and drink Penelope said:
“Telemachus, I shall go upstairs and lie down on that sad couch, which I have not ceased to water with my tears, from the day Ulysses set out for Troy with the sons of Atreus. You failed, however, to make it clear to me before the suitors came back to the house, whether or no you had been able to hear anything about the return of your father.”
“I will tell you then truth,” replied her son. “We went to Pylos and saw Nestor, who took me to his house and treated me as hospitably as though I were a son of his own who had just returned after a long absence; so also did his sons; but he said he had not heard a word from any human being about Ulysses, whether he was alive or dead. He sent me, therefore, with a chariot and horses to Menelaus. There I saw Helen, for whose sake so many, both Argives and Trojans, were in heaven’s wisdom doomed to suffer. Menelaus asked me what it was that had brought me to Lacedaemon, and I told him the whole truth, whereon he said, ‘So, then, these cowards would usurp a brave man’s bed? A hind might as well lay her new-born young in the lair of a lion, and then go off to feed in the forest or in some grassy dell. The lion, when he comes back to his lair, will make short work with the pair of them, and so will Ulysses with these suitors. By father Jove, Minerva, and Apollo, if Ulysses is still the man that he was when he wrestled with Philomeleides in Lesbos, and threw him so heavily that all the Greeks cheered him—if he is still such, and were to come near these suitors, they would have a short shrift and a sorry wedding. As regards your question, however, I will not prevaricate nor deceive you, but what the old man of the sea told me, so much will I tell you in full. He said he could see Ulysses on an island sorrowing bitterly in the house of the nymph Calypso, who was keep- ing him prisoner, and he could not reach his home, for he had no ships nor sailors to take him over the sea.’ This was what Menelaus told me, and when I had heard his story I came away; the gods then gave me a fair wind and soon brought me safe home again.”
With these words he moved the heart of Penelope. Then Theoclymenus said to her: “Madam, wife of Ulysses, Telemachus does not understand these things; listen therefore to me, for I can divine
them surely, and will hide nothing from you. May Jove the king of heaven be my witness, and the rites of hospitality, with that hearth of Ulysses to which I now come, that Ulysses himself is even now in Ithaca, and, either going about the country or staying in one place, is enquiring into all these evil deeds and preparing a day of reckoning for the suitors. I saw an omen when I was on the ship which meant this, and I told Telemachus about it.”
“May it be even so,” answered Penelope; “if your words come true, you shall have such gifts and such good will from me that all who see you shall congratulate you.”
Thus did they converse. Meanwhile the suitors were throwing discs, or aiming with spears at a mark on the lev- elled ground in front of the house, and behaving with all their old insolence. But when it was now time for dinner, and the flock of sheep and goats had come into the town from all the country round, with their shepherds as usual, then Medon, who was their favourite servant, and who waited upon them at table, said, “Now then, my young mas- ters, you have had enough sport, so come inside that we may get dinner ready. Dinner is not a bad thing, at dinner time.”
They left their sports as he told them, and when they were within the house, they laid their cloaks on the bench- es and seats inside, and then sacrificed some sheep, goats, pigs, and a heifer, all of them fat and well grown. Thus they made ready for their meal. In the meantime Ulysses and the swineherd were about starting for the town, and the swineherd said, “Stranger, I suppose you still want to go to town to-day, as my master said you were to do; for my own part I should have liked you to stay here as a station hand, but I must do as my master tells me, or he will scold me later on, and a scolding from one’s master is a very serious thing. Let us then be off, for it is now broad day; it will be night again directly and then you will find it colder.”
“I know, and understand you,” replied Ulysses; “you need say no more. Let us be going, but if you have a stick ready cut, let me have it to walk with, for you say the road is a very rough one.”
As he spoke he threw his shabby old tattered wallet over his shoulders, by the cord from which it hung, and Eumaeus gave him a stick to his liking. The two then started, leaving the station in charge of the dogs and herdsmen who remained behind; the swineherd led the way and his master followed after, looking like some broken-down old tramp as he leaned upon his staff, and his clothes were all in rags. When they had got over the rough steep ground
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and were nearing the city, they reached the fountain from which the citizens drew their water. This had been made by Ithacus, Neritus, and Polyctor. There was a grove of water-loving poplars planted in a circle all round it, and the clear cold water came down to it from a rock high up, while above the fountain there was an altar to the nymphs, at which all wayfarers used to sacrifice. Here Melanthius son of Dolius overtook them as he was driving down some goats, the best in his flock, for the suitors’ dinner, and there were two shepherds with him. When he saw Eumaeus and Ulysses he reviled them with outrageous and unseemly language, which made Ulysses very angry.
“There you go,” cried he, “and a precious pair you are. See how heaven brings birds of the same feather to one another. Where, pray, master swineherd, are you taking this poor miserable object? It would make any one sick to see such a creature at table. A fellow like this never won a prize for anything in his life, but will go about rubbing his shoulders against every man’s door post, and begging, not for swords and cauldrons like a man, but only for a few scraps not worth begging for. If you would give him to me for a hand on my station, he might do to clean out the folds, or bring a bit of sweet feed to the kids, and he could fatten his thighs as much as he pleased on whey; but he has taken to bad ways and will not go about any kind of work; he will do nothing but beg victuals all the town over, to feed his insatiable belly. I say, therefore and it shall surely be—if he goes near Ulysses’ house he will get his head broken by the stools they will fling at him, till they turn him out.”
On this, as he passed, he gave Ulysses a kick on the hip out of pure wantonness, but Ulysses stood firm, and did not budge from the path. For a moment he doubted whether or no to fly at Melanthius and kill him with his staff, or fling him to the ground and beat his brains out; he resolved, however, to endure it and keep himself in check, but the swineherd looked straight at Melanthius and rebuked him, lifting up his hands and praying to heaven as he did so.
“Fountain nymphs,” he cried, “children of Jove, if ever Ulysses burned you thigh bones covered with fat whether of lambs or kids, grant my prayer that heaven may send him home. He would soon put an end to the swaggering threats with which such men as you go about insulting people-gadding all over the town while your flocks are going to ruin through bad shepherding.”
Then Melanthius the goatherd answered, “You ill-conditioned cur, what are you talking about? Some day or other I will put you on board ship and take you to a foreign country, where I can sell you and pocket the money you will fetch. I wish I were as sure that Apollo would strike Telemachus dead this very day, or that the suitors would kill him, as I am that Ulysses will never come home again.”
With this he left them to come on at their leisure, while he went quickly forward and soon reached the house of his master. When he got there he went in and took his seat among the suitors opposite Eurymachus, who liked him better than any of the others. The servants brought him a portion of meat, and an upper woman servant set bread before him that he might eat. Presently Ulysses and the swineherd came up to the house and stood by it, amid a sound of music, for Phemius was just beginning to sing to the suitors. Then Ulysses took hold of the swineherd’s hand, and said:
“Eumaeus, this house of Ulysses is a very fine place. No matter how far you go you will find few like it. One building keeps following on after another. The outer court has a wall with battlements all round it; the doors are double folding, and of good workmanship; it would be a hard matter to take it by force of arms. I perceive, too, that there are many people banqueting within it, for there is a smell of roast meat, and I hear a sound of music, which the gods have made to go along with feasting.”
Then Eumaeus said, “You have perceived aright, as indeed you generally do; but let us think what will be our best course. Will you go inside first and join the suitors, leaving me here behind you, or will you wait here and let me go in first? But do not wait long, or some one may you loitering about outside, and throw something at you. Consider this matter I pray you.”
And Ulysses answered, “I understand and heed. Go in first and leave me here where I am. I am quite used to being beaten and having things thrown at me. I have been so much buffeted about in war and by sea that I am case-hardened, and this too may go with the rest. But a man cannot hide away the cravings of a hungry belly; this is an enemy which gives much trouble to all men; it is because of this that ships are fitted out to sail the seas, and to make war upon other people.”
As they were thus talking, a dog that had been lying asleep raised his head and pricked up his ears. This was Ar- gos, whom Ulysses had bred before setting out for Troy, but he had never had any work out of him. In the old days he used to be taken out by the young men when they went hunting wild goats, or deer, or hares, but now that his master was gone he was lying neglected on the heaps of mule and cow dung that lay in front of the stable doors till the men should come and draw it away to manure the great close; and he was full of fleas. As soon as he saw Ulysses standing there, he dropped his ears and wagged his tail, but he could not get close up to his master. When Ulysses saw the dog on the other side of the yard, dashed a tear from his eyes without Eumaeus seeing it, and said:
“Eumaeus, what a noble hound that is over yonder on the manure heap: his build is splendid; is he as fine a fellow as he looks, or is he only one of those dogs that come begging about a table, and are kept merely for show?”
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“This hound,” answered Eumaeus, “belonged to him who has died in a far country. If he were what he was when Ulysses left for Troy, he would soon show you what he could do. There was not a wild beast in the forest that could get away from him when he was once on its tracks. But now he has fallen on evil times, for his master is dead and gone, and the women take no care of him. Servants never do their work when their master’s hand is no longer over them, for Jove takes half the goodness out of a man when he makes a slave of him.”
As he spoke he went inside the buildings to the cloister where the suitors were, but Argos died as soon as he had recognized his master.
Telemachus saw Eumaeus long before any one else did, and beckoned him to come and sit beside him; so he looked about and saw a seat lying near where the carver sat serving out their portions to the suitors; he picked it up, brought it to Telemachus’s table, and sat down opposite him. Then the servant brought him his portion, and gave him bread from the bread-basket.
Immediately afterwards Ulysses came inside, looking like a poor miserable old beggar, leaning on his staff and with his clothes all in rags. He sat down upon the threshold of ash-wood just inside the doors leading from the outer to the inner court, and against a bearing-post of cypress-wood which the carpenter had skillfully planed, and had made to join truly with rule and line. Telemachus took a whole loaf from the bread-basket, with as much meat as he could hold in his two hands, and said to Eumaeus, “Take this to the stranger, and tell him to go the round of the suitors, and beg from them; a beggar must not be shamefaced.”
So Eumaeus went up to him and said, “Stranger, Telemachus sends you this, and says you are to go the round of the suitors begging, for beggars must not be shamefaced.”
Ulysses answered, “May King Jove grant all happiness to Telemachus, and fulfil the desire of his heart.” Then with both hands he took what Telemachus had sent him, and laid it on the dirty old wallet at his feet. He
went on eating it while the bard was singing, and had just finished his dinner as he left off. The suitors applauded the bard, whereon Minerva went up to Ulysses and prompted him to beg pieces of bread from each one of the suit- ors, that he might see what kind of people they were, and tell the good from the bad; but come what might she was not going to save a single one of them. Ulysses, therefore, went on his round, going from left to right, and stretched out his hands to beg as though he were a real beggar. Some of them pitied him, and were curious about him, asking one another who he was and where he came from; whereon the goatherd Melanthius said, “Suitors of my noble mis- tress, I can tell you something about him, for I have seen him before. The swineherd brought him here, but I know nothing about the man himself, nor where he comes from.”
On this Antinous began to abuse the swineherd. “You precious idiot,” he cried, “what have you brought this man to town for? Have we not tramps and beggars enough already to pester us as we sit at meat? Do you think it a small thing that such people gather here to waste your master’s property and must you needs bring this man as well?”
And Eumaeus answered, “Antinous, your birth is good but your words evil. It was no doing of mine that he came here. Who is likely to invite a stranger from a foreign country, unless it be one of those who can do public service as a seer, a healer of hurts, a carpenter, or a bard who can charm us with his Such men are welcome all the world over, but no one is likely to ask a beggar who will only worry him. You are always harder on Ulysses’ servants than any of the other suitors are, and above all on me, but I do not care so long as Telemachus and Penelope are alive and here.”
But Telemachus said, “Hush, do not answer him; Antinous has the bitterest tongue of all the suitors, and he makes the others worse.”
Then turning to Antinous he said, “Antinous, you take as much care of my interests as though I were your son. Why should you want to see this stranger turned out of the house? Heaven forbid; take’ something and give it him yourself; I do not grudge it; I bid you take it. Never mind my mother, nor any of the other servants in the house; but I know you will not do what I say, for you are more fond of eating things yourself than of giving them to other people.”
“What do you mean, Telemachus,” replied Antinous, “by this swaggering talk? If all the suitors were to give him as much as I will, he would not come here again for another three months.”
As he spoke he drew the stool on which he rested his dainty feet from under the table, and made as though he would throw it at Ulysses, but the other suitors all gave him something, and filled his wallet with bread and meat; he was about, therefore, to go back to the threshold and eat what the suitors had given him, but he first went up to Antinous and said:
“Sir, give me something; you are not, surely, the poorest man here; you seem to be a chief, foremost among them all; therefore you should be the better giver, and I will tell far and wide of your bounty. I too was a rich man once, and had a fine house of my own; in those days I gave to many a tramp such as I now am, no matter who he might be nor what he wanted. I had any number of servants, and all the other things which people have who live well and are accounted wealthy, but it pleased Jove to take all away from me. He sent me with a band of roving
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robbers to Egypt; it was a long voyage and I was undone by it. I stationed my bade ships in the river Aegyptus, and bade my men stay by them and keep guard over them, while sent out scouts to reconnoitre from every point of vantage.
“But the men disobeyed my orders, took to their own devices, and ravaged the land of the Egyptians, killing the men, and taking their wives and children captives. The alarm was soon carried to the city, and when they heard the war-cry, the people came out at daybreak till the plain was filled with soldiers horse and foot, and with the gleam of armour. Then Jove spread panic among my men, and they would no longer face the enemy, for they found themselves surrounded. The Egyptians killed many of us, and took the rest alive to do forced labour for them; as for myself, they gave me to a friend who met them, to take to Cyprus, Dmetor by name, son of Iasus, who was a great man in Cyprus. Thence I am come hither in a state of great misery.”
Then Antinous said, “What god can have sent such a pestilence to plague us during our dinner? Get out, into the open part of the court, or I will give you Egypt and Cyprus over again for your insolence and importunity; you have begged of all the others, and they have given you lavishly, for they have abundance round them, and it is easy to be free with other people’s property when there is plenty of it.”
On this Ulysses began to move off, and said, “Your looks, my fine sir, are better than your breeding; if you were in your own house you would not spare a poor man so much as a pinch of salt, for though you are in another man’s, and surrounded with abundance, you cannot find it in you to give him even a piece of bread.”
This made Antinous very angry, and he scowled at him saying, “You shall pay for this before you get clear of the court.” With these words he threw a footstool at him, and hit him on the right shoulder-blade near the top of his back. Ulysses stood firm as a rock and the blow did not even stagger him, but he shook his head in silence as he brooded on his revenge. Then he went back to the threshold and sat down there, laying his well-filled wallet at his feet.
“Listen to me,” he cried, “you suitors of Queen Penelope, that I may speak even as I am minded. A man knows neither ache nor pain if he gets hit while fighting for his money, or for his sheep or his cattle; and even so Antinous has hit me while in the service of my miserable belly, which is always getting people into trouble. Still, if the poor have gods and avenging deities at all, I pray them that Antinous may come to a bad end before his marriage.”
“Sit where you are, and eat your victuals in silence, or be off elsewhere,” shouted Antinous. “If you say more I will have you dragged hand and foot through the courts, and the servants shall flay you alive.”
The other suitors were much displeased at this, and one of the young men said, “Antinous, you did ill in striking that poor wretch of a tramp: it will be worse for you if he should turn out to be some god — and we know the gods go about disguised in all sorts of ways as people from foreign countries, and travel about the world to see who do amiss and who righteously.”
Thus said the suitors, but Antinous paid them no heed. Meanwhile Telemachus was furious about the blow that had been given to his father, and though no tear fell from him, he shook his head in silence and brooded on his revenge.
Now when Penelope heard that the beggar had been struck in the banqueting-cloister, she said before her maids, “Would that Apollo would so strike you, Antinous,” and her waiting woman Eurynome answered, “If our prayers were answered not one of the suitors would ever again see the sun rise.” Then Penelope said, “Nurse, I hate every single one of them, for they mean nothing but mischief, but I hate Antinous like the darkness of death itself. A poor unfortunate tramp has come begging about the house for sheer want. Every one else has given him some- thing to put in his wallet, but Antinous has hit him on the right shoulder-blade with a footstool.”
Thus did she talk with her maids as she sat in her own room, and in the meantime Ulysses was getting his din- ner. Then she called for the swineherd and said, “Eumaeus, go and tell the stranger to come here, I want to see him and ask him some questions. He seems to have travelled much, and he may have seen or heard something of my unhappy husband.”
To this you answered, O swineherd Eumaeus, “If these Achaeans, Madam, would only keep quiet, you would be charmed with the history of his adventures. I had him three days and three nights with me in my hut, which was the first place he reached after running away from his ship, and he has not yet completed the story of his misfortunes. If he had been the most heaven-taught minstrel in the whole world, on whose lips all hearers hang entranced, I could not have been more charmed as I sat in my hut and listened to him. He says there is an old friendship between his house and that of Ulysses, and that he comes from Crete where the descendants of Minos live, after having been driven hither and thither by every kind of misfortune; he also declares that he has heard of Ulysses as being alive and near at hand among the Thesprotians, and that he is bringing great wealth home with him.”
“Call him here, then,” said Penelope, “that I too may hear his story. As for the suitors, let them take their plea- sure indoors or out as they will, for they have nothing to fret about. Their corn and wine remain unwasted in their houses with none but servants to consume them, while they keep hanging about our house day after day sacrificing our oxen, sheep, and fat goats for their banquets, and never giving so much as a thought to the quantity of wine
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they drink. No estate can stand such recklessness, for we have now no Ulysses to protect us. If he were to come again, he and his son would soon have their revenge.”
As she spoke Telemachus sneezed so loudly that the whole house resounded with it. Penelope laughed when she heard this, and said to Eumaeus, “Go and call the stranger; did you not hear how my son sneezed just as I was speaking? This can only mean that all the suitors are going to be killed, and that not one of them shall escape. Fur- thermore I say, and lay my saying to your heart: if I am satisfied that the stranger is speaking the truth I shall give him a shirt and cloak of good wear.”
When Eumaeus heard this he went straight to Ulysses and said, “Father stranger, my mistress Penelope, mother of Telemachus, has sent for you; she is in great grief, but she wishes to hear anything you can tell her about her hus- band, and if she is satisfied that you are speaking the truth, she will give you a shirt and cloak, which are the very things that you are most in want of. As for bread, you can get enough of that to fill your belly, by begging about the town, and letting those give that will.”
“I will tell Penelope,” answered Ulysses, “nothing but what is strictly true. I know all about her husband, and have been partner with him in affliction, but I am afraid of passing. through this crowd of cruel suitors, for their pride and insolence reach heaven. Just now, moreover, as I was going about the house without doing any harm, a man gave me a blow that hurt me very much, but neither Telemachus nor any one else defended me. Tell Penelope, therefore, to be patient and wait till sundown. Let her give me a seat close up to the fire, for my clothes are worn very thin — you know they are, for you have seen them ever since I first asked you to help me — she can then ask me about the return of her husband.”
The swineherd went back when he heard this, and Penelope said as she saw him cross the threshold, “Why do you not bring him here, Eumaeus? Is he afraid that some one will ill-treat him, or is he shy of coming inside the house at all? Beggars should not be shamefaced.”
To this you answered, O swineherd Eumaeus, “The stranger is quite reasonable. He is avoiding the suitors, and is only doing what any one else would do. He asks you to wait till sundown, and it will be much better, madam, that you should have him all to yourself, when you can hear him and talk to him as you will.”
“The man is no fool,” answered Penelope, “it would very likely be as he says, for there are no such abominable people in the whole world as these men are.”
When she had done speaking Eumaeus went back to the suitors, for he had explained everything. Then he went up to Telemachus and said in his ear so that none could overhear him, “My dear sir, I will now go back to the pigs, to see after your property and my own business. You will look to what is going on here, but above all be careful to keep out of danger, for there are many who bear you ill will. May Jove bring them to a bad end before they do us a mischief.”
“Very well,” replied Telemachus, “go home when you have had your dinner, and in the morning come here with the victims we are to sacrifice for the day. Leave the rest to heaven and me.”
On this Eumaeus took his seat again, and when he had finished his dinner he left the courts and the cloister with the men at table, and went back to his pigs. As for the suitors, they presently began to amuse themselves with singing and dancing, for it was now getting on towards evening.
Book XVIII NOW there came a certain common tramp who used to go begging all over the city of Ithaca, and was notori-
ous as an incorrigible glutton and drunkard. This man had no strength nor stay in him, but he was a great hulking fellow to look at; his real name, the one his mother gave him, was Arnaeus, but the young men of the place called him Irus, because he used to run errands for any one who would send him. As soon as he came he began to insult Ulysses, and to try and drive him out of his own house.
“Be off, old man,” he cried, “from the doorway, or you shall be dragged out neck and heels. Do you not see that they are all giving me the wink, and wanting me to turn you out by force, only I do not like to do so? Get up then, and go of yourself, or we shall come to blows.”
Ulysses frowned on him and said, “My friend, I do you no manner of harm; people give you a great deal, but I am not jealous. There is room enough in this doorway for the pair of us, and you need not grudge me things that are not yours to give. You seem to be just such another tramp as myself, but perhaps the gods will give us better luck by and by. Do not, however, talk too much about fighting or you will incense me, and old though I am, I shall cover your mouth and chest with blood. I shall have more peace to-morrow if I do, for you will not come to the house of Ulysses any more.”
Irus was very angry and answered, “You filthy glutton, you run on trippingly like an old fish-fag. I have a good mind to lay both hands about you, and knock your teeth out of your head like so many boar’s tusks. Get ready, therefore, and let these people here stand by and look on. You will never be able to fight one who is so much young-
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er than yourself.” Thus roundly did they rate one another on the smooth pavement in front of the doorway, and when Antinous
saw what was going on he laughed heartily and said to the others, “This is the finest sport that you ever saw; heaven never yet sent anything like it into this house. The stranger and Irus have quarreled and are going to fight, let us set them on to do so at once.”
The suitors all came up laughing, and gathered round the two ragged tramps. “Listen to me,” said Antinous, “there are some goats’ paunches down at the fire, which we have filled with blood and fat, and set aside for supper; he who is victorious and proves himself to be the better man shall have his pick of the lot; he shall be free of our table and we will not allow any other beggar about the house at all.”
The others all agreed, but Ulysses, to throw them off the scent, said, “Sirs, an old man like myself, worn out with suffering, cannot hold his own against a young one; but my irrepressible belly urges me on, though I know it can only end in my getting a drubbing. You must swear, however that none of you will give me a foul blow to favour Irus and secure him the victory.”
They swore as he told them, and when they had completed their oath Telemachus put in a word and said, “Stranger, if you have a mind to settle with this fellow, you need not be afraid of any one here. Whoever strikes you will have to fight more than one. I am host, and the other chiefs, Antinous and Eurymachus, both of them men of understanding, are of the same mind as I am.”
Every one assented, and Ulysses girded his old rags about his loins, thus baring his stalwart thighs, his broad chest and shoulders, and his mighty arms; but Minerva came up to him and made his limbs even stronger still. The suitors were beyond measure astonished, and one would turn towards his neighbour saying, “The stranger has brought such a thigh out of his old rags that there will soon be nothing left of Irus.”
Irus began to be very uneasy as he heard them, but the servants girded him by force, and brought him [into the open part of the court] in such a fright that his limbs were all of a tremble. Antinous scolded him and said, “You swaggering bully, you ought never to have been born at all if you are afraid of such an old broken-down creature as this tramp is. I say, therefore—and it shall surely be—if he beats you and proves himself the better man, I shall pack you off on board ship to the mainland and send you to king Echetus, who kills every one that comes near him. He will cut off your nose and ears, and draw out your entrails for the dogs to eat.”
This frightened Irus still more, but they brought him into the middle of the court, and the two men raised their hands to fight. Then Ulysses considered whether he should let drive so hard at him as to make an end of him then and there, or whether he should give him a lighter blow that should only knock him down; in the end he deemed it best to give the lighter blow for fear the Achaeans should begin to suspect who he was. Then they began to fight, and Irus hit Ulysses on the right shoulder; but Ulysses gave Irus a blow on the neck under the ear that broke in the bones of his skull, and the blood came gushing out of his mouth; he fell groaning in the dust, gnashing his teeth and kicking on the ground, but the suitors threw up their hands and nearly died of laughter, as Ulysses caught hold of him by the foot and dragged him into the outer court as far as the gate-house. There he propped him up against the wall and put his staff in his hands. “Sit here,” said he, “and keep the dogs and pigs off; you are a pitiful creature, and if you try to make yourself king of the beggars any more you shall fare still worse.”
Then he threw his dirty old wallet, all tattered and torn, over his shoulder with the cord by which it hung, and went back to sit down upon the threshold; but the suitors went within the cloisters, laughing and saluting him, “May Jove, and all the other gods,” said they, ‘grant you whatever you want for having put an end to the importunity of this insatiable tramp. We will take him over to the mainland presently, to king Echetus, who kills every one that comes near him.”
Ulysses hailed this as of good omen, and Antinous set a great goat’s paunch before him filled with blood and fat. Amphinomus took two loaves out of the bread-basket and brought them to him, pledging him as he did so in a golden goblet of wine. “Good luck to you,” he said, “father stranger, you are very badly off at present, but I hope you will have better times by and by.”
To this Ulysses answered, “Amphinomus, you seem to be a man of good understanding, as indeed you may well be, seeing whose son you are. I have heard your father well spoken of; he is Nisus of Dulichium, a man both brave and wealthy. They tell me you are his son, and you appear to be a considerable person; listen, therefore, and take heed to what I am saying. Man is the vainest of all creatures that have their being upon earth. As long as heaven vouchsafes him health and strength, he thinks that he shall come to no harm hereafter, and even when the blessed gods bring sorrow upon him, he bears it as he needs must, and makes the best of it; for God Almighty gives men their daily minds day by day. I know all about it, for I was a rich man once, and did much wrong in the stubborn- ness of my pride, and in the confidence that my father and my brothers would support me; therefore let a man fear God in all things always, and take the good that heaven may see fit to send him without vainglory. Consider the infamy of what these suitors are doing; see how they are wasting the estate, and doing dishonour to the wife, of one who is certain to return some day, and that, too, not long hence. Nay, he will be here soon; may heaven send you
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home quietly first that you may not meet with him in the day of his coming, for once he is here the suitors and he will not part bloodlessly.”
With these words he made a drink-offering, and when he had drunk he put the gold cup again into the hands of Amphinomus, who walked away serious and bowing his head, for he foreboded evil. But even so he did not escape destruction, for Minerva had doomed him fall by the hand of Telemachus. So he took his seat again at the place from which he had come.
Then Minerva put it into the mind of Penelope to show herself to the suitors, that she might make them still more enamoured of her, and win still further honour from her son and husband. So she feigned a mocking laugh and said, “Eurynome, I have changed my and have a fancy to show myself to the suitors although I detest them. I should like also to give my son a hint that he had better not have anything more to do with them. They speak fairly enough but they mean mischief.”
“My dear child,” answered Eurynome, “all that you have said is true, go and tell your son about it, but first wash yourself and anoint your face. Do not go about with your cheeks all covered with tears; it is not right that you should grieve so incessantly; for Telemachus, whom you always prayed that you might live to see with a beard, is already grown up.”
“I know, Eurynome,” replied Penelope, “that you mean well, but do not try and persuade me to wash and to anoint myself, for heaven robbed me of all my beauty on the day my husband sailed; nevertheless, tell Autonoe and Hippodamia that I want them. They must be with me when I am in the cloister; I am not going among the men alone; it would not be proper for me to do so.”
On this the old woman went out of the room to bid the maids go to their mistress. In the meantime Minerva bethought her of another matter, and sent Penelope off into a sweet slumber; so she lay down on her couch and her limbs became heavy with sleep. Then the goddess shed grace and beauty over her that all the Achaeans might admire her. She washed her face with the ambrosial loveliness that Venus wears when she goes dancing with the Graces; she made her taller and of a more commanding figure, while as for her complexion it was whiter than sawn ivory. When Minerva had done all this she went away, whereon the maids came in from the women’s room and woke Penelope with the sound of their talking.
“What an exquisitely delicious sleep I have been having,” said she, as she passed her hands over her face, “in spite of all my misery. I wish Diana would let me die so sweetly now at this very moment, that I might no longer waste in despair for the loss of my dear husband, who possessed every kind of good quality and was the most dis- tinguished man among the Achaeans.”
With these words she came down from her upper room, not alone but attended by two of her maidens, and when she reached the suitors she stood by one of the bearing-posts supporting the roof of the cloister, holding a veil before her face, and with a staid maid servant on either side of her. As they beheld her the suitors were so overpow- ered and became so desperately enamoured of her, that each one prayed he might win her for his own bed fellow.
“Telemachus,” said she, addressing her son, “I fear you are no longer so discreet and well conducted as you used to be. When you were younger you had a greater sense of propriety; now, however, that you are grown up, though a stranger to look at you would take you for the son of a well-to-do father as far as size and good looks go, your conduct is by no means what it should be. What is all this disturbance that has been going on, and how came you to allow a stranger to be so disgracefully ill-treated? What would have happened if he had suffered serious injury while a suppliant in our house? Surely this would have been very discreditable to you.”
“I am not surprised, my dear mother, at your displeasure,” replied Telemachus, “I understand all about it and know when things are not as they should be, which I could not do when I was younger; I cannot, however, behave with perfect propriety at all times. First one and then another of these wicked people here keeps driving me out of my mind, and I have no one to stand by me. After all, however, this fight between Irus and the stranger did not turn out as the suitors meant it to do, for the stranger got the best of it. I wish Father Jove, Minerva, and Apollo would break the neck of every one of these wooers of yours, some inside the house and some out; and I wish they might all be as limp as Irus is over yonder in the gate of the outer court. See how he nods his head like a drunken man; he has had such a thrashing that he cannot stand on his feet nor get back to his home, wherever that may be, for has no strength left in him.”
Thus did they converse. Eurymachus then came up and said, “Queen Penelope, daughter of Icarius, if all the Achaeans in Iasian Argos could see you at this moment, you would have still more suitors in your house by to- morrow morning, for you are the most admirable woman in the whole world both as regards personal beauty and strength of understanding.”
To this Penelope replied, “Eurymachus, heaven robbed me of all my beauty whether of face or figure when the Argives set sail for Troy and my dear husband with them. If he were to return and look after my affairs, I should both be more respected and show a better presence to the world. As it is, I am oppressed with care, and with the afflictions which heaven has seen fit to heap upon me. My husband foresaw it all, and when he was leaving home he
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took my right wrist in his hand—‘Wife, ‘he said, ‘we shall not all of us come safe home from Troy, for the Trojans fight well both with bow and spear. They are excellent also at fighting from chariots, and nothing decides the issue of a fight sooner than this. I know not, therefore, whether heaven will send me back to you, or whether I may not fall over there at Troy. In the meantime do you look after things here. Take care of my father and mother as at pres- ent, and even more so during my absence, but when you see our son growing a beard, then marry whom you will, and leave this your present home. This is what he said and now it is all coming true. A night will come when I shall have to yield myself to a marriage which I detest, for Jove has taken from me all hope of happiness. This further grief, moreover, cuts me to the very heart. You suitors are not wooing me after the custom of my country. When men are courting a woman who they think will be a good wife to them and who is of noble birth, and when they are each trying to win her for himself, they usually bring oxen and sheep to feast the friends of the lady, and they make her magnificent presents, instead of eating up other people’s property without paying for it.”
This was what she said, and Ulysses was glad when he heard her trying to get presents out of the suitors, and flattering them with fair words which he knew she did not mean.
Then Antinous said, “Queen Penelope, daughter of Icarius, take as many presents as you please from any one who will give them to you; it is not well to refuse a present; but we will not go about our business nor stir from where we are, till you have married the best man among us whoever he may be.”
The others applauded what Antinous had said, and each one sent his servant to bring his present. Antinous’s man returned with a large and lovely dress most exquisitely embroidered. It had twelve beautifully made brooch pins of pure gold with which to fasten it. Eurymachus immediately brought her a magnificent chain of gold and amber beads that gleamed like sunlight. Eurydamas’s two men returned with some earrings fashioned into three brilliant pendants which glistened most beautifully; while king Pisander son of Polyctor gave her a necklace of the rarest workmanship, and every one else brought her a beautiful present of some kind.
Then the queen went back to her room upstairs, and her maids brought the presents after her. Meanwhile the suitors took to singing and dancing, and stayed till evening came. They danced and sang till it grew dark; they then brought in three braziers to give light, and piled them up with chopped firewood very and dry, and they lit torches from them, which the maids held up turn and turn about. Then Ulysses said:
“Maids, servants of Ulysses who has so long been absent, go to the queen inside the house; sit with her and amuse her, or spin, and pick wool. I will hold the light for all these people. They may stay till morning, but shall not beat me, for I can stand a great deal.”
The maids looked at one another and laughed, while pretty Melantho began to gibe at him contemptuously. She was daughter to Dolius, but had been brought up by Penelope, who used to give her toys to play with, and looked after her when she was a child; but in spite of all this she showed no consideration for the sorrows of her mistress, and used to misconduct herself with Eurymachus, with whom she was in love.
“Poor wretch,” said she, “are you gone clean out of your mind? Go and sleep in some smithy, or place of public gossips, instead of chattering here. Are you not ashamed of opening your mouth before your betters—so many of them too? Has the wine been getting into your head, or do you always babble in this way? You seem to have lost your wits because you beat the tramp Irus; take care that a better man than he does not come and cudgel you about the head till he pack you bleeding out of the house.”
“Vixen,” replied Ulysses, scowling at her, “I will go and tell Telemachus what you have been saying, and he will have you torn limb from limb.”
With these words he scared the women, and they went off into the body of the house. They trembled all aver, for they thought he would do as he said. But Ulysses took his stand near the burning braziers, holding up torches and looking at the people—brooding the while on things that should surely come to pass.
But Minerva would not let the suitors for one moment cease their insolence, for she wanted Ulysses to become even more bitter against them; she therefore set Eurymachus son of Polybus on to gibe at him, which made the others laugh. “Listen to me,” said he, “you suitors of Queen Penelope, that I may speak even as I am minded. It is not for nothing that this man has come to the house of Ulysses; I believe the light has not been coming from the torches, but from his own head—for his hair is all gone, every bit of it.”
Then turning to Ulysses he said, “Stranger, will you work as a servant, if I send you to the wolds and see that you are well paid? Can you build a stone fence, or plant trees? I will have you fed all the year round, and will find you in shoes and clothing. Will you go, then? Not you; for you have got into bad ways, and do not want to work; you had rather fill your belly by going round the country begging.”
“Eurymachus,” answered Ulysses, “if you and I were to work one against the other in early summer when the days are at their longest—give me a good scythe, and take another yourself, and let us see which will fast the longer or mow the stronger, from dawn till dark when the mowing grass is about. Or if you will plough against me, let us each take a yoke of tawny oxen, well-mated and of great strength and endurance: turn me into a four acre field, and see whether you or I can drive the straighter furrow. If, again, war were to break out this day, give me a shield,
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a couple of spears and a helmet fitting well upon my temples—you would find me foremost in the fray, and would cease your gibes about my belly. You are insolent and cruel, and think yourself a great man because you live in a little world, ind that a bad one. If Ulysses comes to his own again, the doors of his house are wide, but you will find them narrow when you try to fly through them.”
Eurymachus was furious at all this. He scowled at him and cried, “You wretch, I will soon pay you out for dar- ing to say such things to me, and in public too. Has the wine been getting into your head or do you always babble in this way? You seem to have lost your wits because you beat the tramp Irus. With this he caught hold of a foot- stool, but Ulysses sought protection at the knees of Amphinomus of Dulichium, for he was afraid. The stool hit the cupbearer on his right hand and knocked him down: the man fell with a cry flat on his back, and his wine-jug fell ringing to the ground. The suitors in the covered cloister were now in an uproar, and one would turn towards his neighbour, saying, “I wish the stranger had gone somewhere else, bad luck to hide, for all the trouble he gives us. We cannot permit such disturbance about a beggar; if such ill counsels are to prevail we shall have no more pleasure at our banquet.”
On this Telemachus came forward and said, “Sirs, are you mad? Can you not carry your meat and your liquor decently? Some evil spirit has possessed you. I do not wish to drive any of you away, but you have had your suppers, and the sooner you all go home to bed the better.”
The suitors bit their lips and marvelled at the boldness of his speech; but Amphinomus the son of Nisus, who was son to Aretias, said, “Do not let us take offence; it is reasonable, so let us make no answer. Neither let us do violence to the stranger nor to any of Ulysses’ servants. Let the cupbearer go round with the drink-offerings, that we may make them and go home to our rest. As for the stranger, let us leave Telemachus to deal with him, for it is to his house that he has come.”
Thus did he speak, and his saying pleased them well, so Mulius of Dulichium, servant to Amphinomus, mixed them a bowl of wine and water and handed it round to each of them man by man, whereon they made their drink-offerings to the blessed gods: Then, when they had made their drink-offerings and had drunk each one as he was minded, they took their several ways each of them to his own abode.
Book XIX ULYSSES was left in the cloister, pondering on the means whereby with Minerva’s help he might be able to kill
the suitors. Presently he said to Telemachus, “Telemachus, we must get the armour together and take it down inside. Make some excuse when the suitors ask you why you have removed it. Say that you have taken it to be out of the way of the smoke, inasmuch as it is no longer what it was when Ulysses went away, but has become soiled and be- grimed with soot. Add to this more particularly that you are afraid Jove may set them on to quarrel over their wine, and that they may do each other some harm which may disgrace both banquet and wooing, for the sight of arms sometimes tempts people to use them.”
Telemachus approved of what his father had said, so he called nurse Euryclea and said, “Nurse, shut the women up in their room, while I take the armour that my father left behind him down into the store room. No one looks after it now my father is gone, and it has got all smirched with soot during my own boyhood. I want to take it down where the smoke cannot reach it.”
“I wish, child,” answered Euryclea, “that you would take the management of the house into your own hands altogether, and look after all the property yourself. But who is to go with you and light you to the store room? The maids would have so, but you would not let them.
“The stranger,” said Telemachus, “shall show me a light; when people eat my bread they must earn it, no matter where they come from.”
Euryclea did as she was told, and bolted the women inside their room. Then Ulysses and his son made all haste to take the helmets, shields, and spears inside; and Minerva went before them with a gold lamp in her hand that shed a soft and brilliant radiance, whereon Telemachus said, “Father, my eyes behold a great marvel: the walls, with the rafters, crossbeams, and the supports on which they rest are all aglow as with a flaming fire. Surely there is some god here who has come down from heaven.”
“Hush,” answered Ulysses, “hold your peace and ask no questions, for this is the manner of the gods. Get you to your bed, and leave me here to talk with your mother and the maids. Your mother in her grief will ask me all sorts of questions.”
On this Telemachus went by torch-light to the other side of the inner court, to the room in which he always slept. There he lay in his bed till morning, while Ulysses was left in the cloister pondering on the means whereby with Minerva’s help he might be able to kill the suitors.
Then Penelope came down from her room looking like Venus or Diana, and they set her a seat inlaid with scrolls of silver and ivory near the fire in her accustomed place. It had been made by Icmalius and had a footstool all
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in one piece with the seat itself; and it was covered with a thick fleece: on this she now sat, and the maids came from the women’s room to join her. They set about removing the tables at which the wicked suitors had been dining, and took away the bread that was left, with the cups from which they had drunk. They emptied the embers out of the braziers, and heaped much wood upon them to give both light and heat; but Melantho began to rail at Ulysses a second time and said, “Stranger, do you mean to plague us by hanging about the house all night and spying upon the women? Be off, you wretch, outside, and eat your supper there, or you shall be driven out with a firebrand.”
Ulysses scowled at her and answered, “My good woman, why should you be so angry with me? Is it because I am not clean, and my clothes are all in rags, and because I am obliged to go begging about after the manner of tramps and beggars generall? I too was a rich man once, and had a fine house of my own; in those days I gave to many a tramp such as I now am, no matter who he might be nor what he wanted. I had any number of servants, and all the other things which people have who live well and are accounted wealthy, but it pleased Jove to take all away from me; therefore, woman, beware lest you too come to lose that pride and place in which you now wanton above your fellows; have a care lest you get out of favour with your mistress, and lest Ulysses should come home, for there is still a chance that he may do so. Moreover, though he be dead as you think he is, yet by Apollo’s will he has left a son behind him, Telemachus, who will note anything done amiss by the maids in the house, for he is now no longer in his boyhood.”
Penelope heard what he was saying and scolded the maid, “Impudent baggage, said she, “I see how abominably you are behaving, and you shall smart for it. You knew perfectly well, for I told you myself, that I was going to see the stranger and ask him about my husband, for whose sake I am in such continual sorrow.”
Then she said to her head waiting woman Eurynome, “Bring a seat with a fleece upon it, for the stranger to sit upon while he tells his story, and listens to what I have to say. I wish to ask him some questions.”
Eurynome brought the seat at once and set a fleece upon it, and as soon as Ulysses had sat down Penelope be- gan by saying, “Stranger, I shall first ask you who and whence are you? Tell me of your town and parents.”
“Madam;” answered Ulysses, “who on the face of the whole earth can dare to chide with you? Your fame reach- es the firmament of heaven itself; you are like some blameless king, who upholds righteousness, as the monarch over a great and valiant nation: the earth yields its wheat and barley, the trees are loaded with fruit, the ewes bring forth lambs, and the sea abounds with fish by reason of his virtues, and his people do good deeds under him. Nev- ertheless, as I sit here in your house, ask me some other question and do not seek to know my race and family, or you will recall memories that will yet more increase my sorrow. I am full of heaviness, but I ought not to sit weeping and wailing in another person’s house, nor is it well to be thus grieving continually. I shall have one of the servants or even yourself complaining of me, and saying that my eyes swim with tears because I am heavy with wine.”
Then Penelope answered, “Stranger, heaven robbed me of all beauty, whether of face or figure, when the Ar- gives set sail for Troy and my dear husband with them. If he were to return and look after my affairs I should be both more respected and should show a better presence to the world. As it is, I am oppressed with care, and with the afflictions which heaven has seen fit to heap upon me. The chiefs from all our islands — Dulichium, Same, and Zacynthus, as also from Ithaca itself, are wooing me against my will and are wasting my estate. I can therefore show no attention to strangers, nor suppliants, nor to people who say that they are skilled artisans, but am all the time brokenhearted about Ulysses. They want me to marry again at once, and I have to invent stratagems in order to deceive them. In the first place heaven put it in my mind to set up a great tambour-frame in my room, and to begin working upon an enormous piece of fine needlework. Then I said to them, ‘Sweethearts, Ulysses is indeed dead, still, do not press me to marry again immediately; wait — for I would not have my skill in needlework perish un- recorded—till I have finished making a pall for the hero Laertes, to be ready against the time when death shall take him. He is very rich, and the women of the place will talk if he is laid out without a pall.’ This was what I said, and they assented; whereon I used to keep working at my great web all day long, but at night I would unpick the stitches again by torch light. I fooled them in this way for three years without their finding it out, but as time wore on and I was now in my fourth year, in the waning of moons, and many days had been accomplished, those good-for-noth- ing hussies my maids betrayed me to the suitors, who broke in upon me and caught me; they were very angry with me, so I was forced to finish my work whether I would or no. And now I do not see how I can find any further shift for getting out of this marriage. My parents are putting great pressure upon me, and my son chafes at the ravages the suitors are making upon his estate, for he is now old enough to understand all about it and is perfectly able to look after his own affairs, for heaven has blessed him with an excellent disposition. Still, notwithstanding all this, tell me who you are and where you come from—for you must have had father and mother of some sort; you cannot be the son of an oak or of a rock.”
Then Ulysses answered, “madam, wife of Ulysses, since you persist in asking me about my family, I will an- swer, no matter what it costs me: people must expect to be pained when they have been exiles as long as I have, and suffered as much among as many peoples. Nevertheless, as regards your question I will tell you all you ask. There is a fair and fruitful island in mid-ocean called Crete; it is thickly peopled and there are nine cities in it: the people
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speak many different languages which overlap one another, for there are Achaeans, brave Eteocretans, Dorians of three-fold race, and noble Pelasgi. There is a great town there, Cnossus, where Minos reigned who every nine years had a conference with Jove himself. Minos was father to Deucalion, whose son I am, for Deucalion had two sons Idomeneus and myself. Idomeneus sailed for Troy, and I, who am the younger, am called Aethon; my brother, how- ever, was at once the older and the more valiant of the two; hence it was in Crete that I saw Ulysses and showed him hospitality, for the winds took him there as he was on his way to Troy, carrying him out of his course from cape Ma- lea and leaving him in Amnisus off the cave of Ilithuia, where the harbours are difficult to enter and he could hardly find shelter from the winds that were then xaging. As soon as he got there he went into the town and asked for Idomeneus, claiming to be his old and valued friend, but Idomeneus had already set sail for Troy some ten or twelve days earlier, so I took him to my own house and showed him every kind of hospitality, for I had abundance of ev- erything. Moreover, I fed the men who were with him with barley meal from the public store, and got subscriptions of wine and oxen for them to sacrifice to their heart’s content. They stayed with me twelve days, for there was a gale blowing from the North so strong that one could hardly keep one’s feet on land. I suppose some unfriendly god had raised it for them, but on the thirteenth day the wind dropped, and they got away.”
Many a plausible tale did Ulysses further tell her, and Penelope wept as she listened, for her heart was melt- ed. As the snow wastes upon the mountain tops when the winds from South East and West have breathed upon it and thawed it till the rivers run bank full with water, even so did her cheeks overflow with tears for the husband who was all the time sitting by her side. Ulysses felt for her and was for her, but he kept his eyes as hard as or iron without letting them so much as quiver, so cunningly did he restrain his tears. Then, when she had relieved herself by weeping, she turned to him again and said: “Now, stranger, I shall put you to the test and see whether or no you really did entertain my husband and his men, as you say you did. Tell me, then, how he was dressed, what kind of a man he was to look at, and so also with his companions.”
“Madam,” answered Ulysses, “it is such a long time ago that I can hardly say. Twenty years are come and gone since he left my home, and went elsewhither; but I will tell you as well as I can recollect. Ulysses wore a mantle of purple wool, double lined, and it was fastened by a gold brooch with two catches for the pin. On the face of this there was a device that showed a dog holding a spotted fawn between his fore paws, and watching it as it lay panting upon the ground. Every one marvelled at the way in which these things had been done in gold, the dog looking at the fawn, and strangling it, while the fawn was struggling convulsively to escape. As for the shirt that he wore next his skin, it was so soft that it fitted him like the skin of an onion, and glistened in the sunlight to the admiration of all the women who beheld it. Furthermore I say, and lay my saying to your heart, that I do not know whether Ulyss- es wore these clothes when he left home, or whether one of his companions had given them to him while he was on his voyage; or possibly some one at whose house he was staying made him a present of them, for he was a man of many friends and had few equals among the Achaeans. I myself gave him a sword of bronze and a beautiful purple mantle, double lined, with a shirt that went down to his feet, and I sent him on board his ship with every mark of honour. He had a servant with him, a little older than himself, and I can tell you what he was like; his shoulders were hunched, he was dark, and he had thick curly hair. His name was Eurybates, and Ulysses treated him with greater familiarity than he did any of the others, as being the most like-minded with himself.”
Penelope was moved still more deeply as she heard the indisputable proofs that Ulysses laid before her; and when she had again found relief in tears she said to him, “Stranger, I was already disposed to pity you, but hence- forth you shall be honoured and made welcome in my house. It was I who gave Ulysses the clothes you speak of. I took them out of the store room and folded them up myself, and I gave him also the gold brooch to wear as an ornament. Alas! I shall never welcome him home again. It was by an ill fate that he ever set out for that detested city whose very name I cannot bring myself even to mention.”
Then Ulysses answered, “Madam, wife of Ulysses, do not disfigure yourself further by grieving thus bitterly for your loss, though I can hardly blame you for doing so. A woman who has loved her husband and borne him chil- dren, would naturally be grieved at losing him, even though he were a worse man than Ulysses, who they say was like a god. Still, cease your tears and listen to what I can tell I will hide nothing from you, and can say with perfect truth that I have lately heard of Ulysses as being alive and on his way home; he is among the Thesprotians, and is bringing back much valuable treasure that he has begged from one and another of them; but his ship and all his crew were lost as they were leaving the Thrinacian island, for Jove and the sun-god were angry with him because his men had slaughtered the sun-god’s cattle, and they were all drowned to a man. But Ulysses stuck to the keel of the ship and was drifted on to the land of the Phaecians, who are near of kin to the immortals, and who treated him as though he had been a god, giving him many presents, and wishing to escort him home safe and sound. In fact Ul- ysses would have been here long ago, had he not thought better to go from land to land gathering wealth; for there is no man living who is so wily as he is; there is no one can compare with him. Pheidon king of the Thesprotians told me all this, and he swore to me—making drink-offerings in his house as he did so—that the ship was by the water side and the crew found who would take Ulysses to his own country. He sent me off first, for there happened
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to be a Thesprotian ship sailing for the wheat-growing island of Dulichium, but he showed me all treasure Ulysses had got together, and he had enough lying in the house of king Pheidon to keep his family for ten generations; but the king said Ulysses had gone to Dodona that he might learn Jove’s mind from the high oak tree, and know wheth- er after so long an absence he should return to Ithaca openly or in secret. So you may know he is safe and will be here shortly; he is close at hand and cannot remain away from home much longer; nevertheless I will confirm my words with an oath, and call Jove who is the first and mightiest of all gods to witness, as also that hearth of Ulysses to which I have now come, that all I have spoken shall surely come to pass. Ulysses will return in this self same year; with the end of this moon and the beginning of the next he will be here.”
“May it be even so,” answered Penelope; “if your words come true you shall have such gifts and such good will from me that all who see you shall congratulate you; but I know very well how it will be. Ulysses will not return, neither will you get your escort hence, for so surely as that Ulysses ever was, there are now no longer any such masters in the house as he was, to receive honourable strangers or to further them on their way home. And now, you maids, wash his feet for him, and make him a bed on a couch with rugs and blankets, that he may be warm and quiet till morning. Then, at day break wash him and anoint him again, that he may sit in the cloister and take his meals with Telemachus. It shall be the worse for any one of these hateful people who is uncivil to him; like it or not, he shall have no more to do in this house. For how, sir, shall you be able to learn whether or no I am superior to others of my sex both in goodness of heart and understanding, if I let you dine in my cloisters squalid and ill clad? Men live but for a little season; if they are hard, and deal hardly, people wish them ill so long as they are alive, and speak contemptuously of them when they are dead, but he that is righteous and deals righteously, the people tell of his praise among all lands, and many shall call him blessed.”
Ulysses answered, “Madam, I have foresworn rugs and blankets from the day that I left the snowy ranges of Crete to go on shipboard. I will lie as I have lain on many a sleepless night hitherto. Night after night have I passed in any rough sleeping place, and waited for morning. Nor, again, do I like having my feet washed; I shall not let any of the young hussies about your house touch my feet; but, if you have any old and respectable woman who has gone through as much trouble as I have, I will allow her to wash them.”
To this Penelope said, “My dear sir, of all the guests who ever yet came to my house there never was one who spoke in all things with such admirable propriety as you do. There happens to be in the house a most respectable old woman—the same who received my poor dear husband in her arms the night he was born, and nursed him in infancy. She is very feeble now, but she shall wash your feet.” “Come here,” said she, “Euryclea, and wash your master’s age-mate; I suppose Ulysses’ hands and feet are very much the same now as his are, for trouble ages all of us dreadfully fast.”
On these words the old woman covered her face with her hands; she began to weep and made lamentation saying, “My dear child, I cannot think whatever I am to do with you. I am certain no one was ever more god-fearing than yourself, and yet Jove hates you. No one in the whole world ever burned him more thigh bones, nor gave him finer hecatombs when you prayed you might come to a green old age yourself and see your son grow up to take after you; yet see how he has prevented you alone from ever getting back to your own home. I have no doubt the women in some foreign palace which Ulysses has got to are gibing at him as all these sluts here have been gibing you. I do not wonder at your not choosing to let them wash you after the manner in which they have insulted you; I will wash your feet myself gladly enough, as Penelope has said that I am to do so; I will wash them both for Penelo- pe’s sake and for your own, for you have raised the most lively feelings of compassion in my mind; and let me say this moreover, which pray attend to; we have had all kinds of strangers in distress come here before now, but I make bold to say that no one ever yet came who was so like Ulysses in figure, voice, and feet as you are.”
“Those who have seen us both,” answered Ulysses, “have always said we were wonderfully like each other, and now you have noticed it too.
Then the old woman took the cauldron in which she was going to wash his feet, and poured plenty of cold water into it, adding hot till the bath was warm enough. Ulysses sat by the fire, but ere long he turned away from the light, for it occurred to him that when the old woman had hold of his leg she would recognize a certain scar which it bore, whereon the whole truth would come out. And indeed as soon as she began washing her master, she at once knew the scar as one that had been given him by a wild boar when he was hunting on Mount Parnassus with his excellent grandfather Autolycus—who was the most accomplished thief and perjurer in the whole world—and with the sons of Autolycus. Mercury himself had endowed him with this gift, for he used to burn the thigh bones of goats and kids to him, so he took pleasure in his companionship. It happened once that Autolycus had gone to Itha- ca and had found the child of his daughter just born. As soon as he had done supper Euryclea set the infant upon his knees and said, you must find a name for your grandson; you greatly wished that you might have one.”
‘Son-in-law and daughter,” replied Autolycus, “call the child thus: I am highly displeased with a large number of people in one place and another, both men and women; so name the child ‘Ulysses,’ or the child of anger. When he grows up and comes to visit his mother’s family on Mount Parnassus, where my possessions lie, I will make him a
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present and will send him on his way rejoicing.” Ulysses, therefore, went to Parnassus to get the presents from Autolycus, who with his sons shook hands with
him and gave him welcome. His grandmother Amphithea threw her arms about him, and kissed his head, and both his beautiful eyes, while Autolycus desired his sons to get dinner ready, and they did as he told them. They brought in a five year old bull, flayed it, made it ready and divided it into joints; these they then cut carefully up into smaller pieces and spitted them; they roasted them sufficiently and served the portions round. Thus through the livelong day to the going down of the sun they feasted, and every man had his full share so that all were satisfied; but when the sun set and it came on dark, they went to bed and enjoyed the boon of sleep.
When the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared, the sons of Autolycus went out with their hounds hunting, and Ulysses went too. They climbed the wooded slopes of Parnassus and soon reached its breezy upland valleys; but as the sun was beginning to beat upon the fields, fresh-risen from the slow still currents of Oceanus, they came to a mountain dell. The dogs were in front searching for the tracks of the beast they were chasing, and after them came the sons of Autolycus, among whom was Ulysses, close behind the dogs, and he had a long spear in his hand. Here was the lair of a huge boar among some thick brushwood, so dense that the wind and rain could not get through it, nor could the sun’s rays pierce it, and the ground underneath lay thick with fallen leaves. The boar heard the noise of the men’s feet, and the hounds baying on every side as the huntsmen came up to him, so rushed from his lair, raised the bristles on his neck, and stood at bay with fire flashing from his eyes. Ulysses was the first to raise his spear and try to drive it into the brute, but the boar was too quick for him, and charged him sideways, ripping him above the knee with a gash that tore deep though it did not reach the bone. As for the boar, Ulysses hit him on the right shoulder, and the point of the spear went right through him, so that he fell groaning in the dust until the life went out of him. The sons of Autolycus busied themselves with the carcass of the boar, and bound Ulysses’ wound; then, after saying a spell to stop the bleeding, they went home as fast as they could. But when Au- tolycus and his sons had thoroughly healed Ulysses, they made him some splendid presents, and sent him back to Ithaca with much mutual good will. When he got back, his father and mother were rejoiced to see him, and asked him all about it, and how he had hurt himself to get the scar; so he told them how the boar had ripped him when he was out hunting with Autolycus and his sons on Mount Parnassus.
As soon as Euryclea had got the scarred limb in her hands and had well hold of it, she recognized it and dropped the foot at once. The leg fell into the bath, which rang out and was overturned, so that all the water was spilt on the ground; Euryclea’s eyes between her joy and her grief filled with tears, and she could not speak, but she caught Ulysses by the beard and said, “My dear child, I am sure you must be Ulysses himself, only I did not know you till I had actually touched and handled you.”
As she spoke she looked towards Penelope, as though wanting to tell her that her dear husband was in the house, but Penelope was unable to look in that direction and observe what was going on, for Minerva had diverted her attention; so Ulysses caught Euryclea by the throat with his right hand and with his left drew her close to him, and said, “Nurse, do you wish to be the ruin of me, you who nursed me at your own breast, now that after twenty years of wandering I am at last come to my own home again? Since it has been borne in upon you by heaven to rec- ognize me, hold your tongue, and do not say a word about it any one else in the house, for if you do I tell you—and it shall surely be—that if heaven grants me to take the lives of these suitors, I will not spare you, though you are my own nurse, when I am killing the other women.”
“My child,” answered Euryclea, “what are you talking about? You know very well that nothing can either bend or break me. I will hold my tongue like a stone or a piece of iron; furthermore let me say, and lay my saying to your heart, when heaven has delivered the suitors into your hand, I will give you a list of the women in the house who have been ill-behaved, and of those who are guiltless.”
And Ulysses answered, “Nurse, you ought not to speak in that way; I am well able to form my own opinion about one and all of them; hold your tongue and leave everything to heaven.”
As he said this Euryclea left the cloister to fetch some more water, for the first had been all spilt; and when she had washed him and anointed him with oil, Ulysses drew his seat nearer to the fire to warm himself, and hid the scar under his rags. Then Penelope began talking to him and said:
“Stranger, I should like to speak with you briefly about another matter. It is indeed nearly bed time—for those, at least, who can sleep in spite of sorrow. As for myself, heaven has given me a life of such unmeasurable woe, that even by day when I am attending to my duties and looking after the servants, I am still weeping and lamenting during the whole time; then, when night comes, and we all of us go to bed, I lie awake thinking, and my heart comes a prey to the most incessant and cruel tortures. As the dun nightingale, daughter of Pandareus, sings in the early spring from her seat in shadiest covert hid, and with many a plaintive trill pours out the tale how by mishap she killed her own child Itylus, son of king Zethus, even so does my mind toss and turn in its uncertainty whether I ought to stay with my son here, and safeguard my substance, my bondsmen, and the greatness of my house, out of regard to public opinion and the memory of my late husband, or whether it is not now time for me to go with
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the best of these suitors who are wooing me and making me such magnificent presents. As long as my son was still young, and unable to understand, he would not hear of my leaving my husband’s house, but now that he is full grown he begs and prays me to do so, being incensed at the way in which the suitors are eating up his property. Listen, then, to a dream that I have had and interpret it for me if you can. I have twenty geese about the house that eat mash out of a trough, and of which I am exceedingly fond. I dreamed that a great eagle came swooping down from a mountain, and dug his curved beak into the neck of each of them till he had killed them all. Presently he soared off into the sky, and left them lying dead about the yard; whereon I wept in my room till all my maids gath- ered round me, so piteously was I grieving because the eagle had killed my geese. Then he came back again, and perching on a projecting rafter spoke to me with human voice, and told me to leave off crying. ‘Be of good courage,’ he said, ‘daughter of Icarius; this is no dream, but a vision of good omen that shall surely come to pass. The geese are the suitors, and I am no longer an eagle, but your own husband, who am come back to you, and who will bring these suitors to a disgraceful end.’ On this I woke, and when I looked out I saw my geese at the trough eating their mash as usual.”
“This dream, Madam,” replied Ulysses, “can admit but of one interpretation, for had not Ulysses himself told you how it shall be fulfilled? The death of the suitors is portended, and not one single one of them will escape.”
And Penelope answered, “Stranger, dreams are very curious and unaccountable things, and they do not by any means invariably come true. There are two gates through which these unsubstantial fancies proceed; the one is of horn, and the other ivory. Those that come through the gate of ivory are fatuous, but those from the gate of horn mean something to those that see them. I do not think, however, that my own dream came through the gate of horn, though I and my son should be most thankful if it proves to have done so. Furthermore I say—and lay my saying to your heart—the coming dawn will usher in the ill-omened day that is to sever me from the house of Ul- ysses, for I am about to hold a tournament of axes. My husband used to set up twelve axes in the court, one in front of the other, like the stays upon which a ship is built; he would then go back from them and shoot an arrow through the whole twelve. I shall make the suitors try to do the same thing, and whichever of them can string the bow most easily, and send his arrow through all the twelve axes, him will I follow, and quit this house of my lawful husband, so goodly and so abounding in wealth. But even so, I doubt not that I shall remember it in my dreams.”
Then Ulysses answered, “Madam wife of Ulysses, you need not defer your tournament, for Ulysses will return ere ever they can string the bow, handle it how they will, and send their arrows through the iron.”
To this Penelope said, “As long, sir, as you will sit here and talk to me, I can have no desire to go to bed. Still, people cannot do permanently without sleep, and heaven has appointed us dwellers on earth a time for all things. I will therefore go upstairs and recline upon that couch which I have never ceased to flood with my tears from the day Ulysses set out for the city with a hateful name.”
She then went upstairs to her own room, not alone, but attended by her maidens, and when there, she lamented her dear husband till Minerva shed sweet sleep over her eyelids.
Book XX ULYSSES slept in the cloister upon an undressed bullock’s hide, on the top of which he threw several skins
of the sheep the suitors had eaten, and Eurynome threw a cloak over him after he had laid himself down. There, then, Ulysses lay wakefully brooding upon the way in which he should kill the suitors; and by and by, the women who had been in the habit of misconducting themselves with them, left the house giggling and laughing with one another. This made Ulysses very angry, and he doubted whether to get up and kill every single one of them then and there, or to let them sleep one more and last time with the suitors. His heart growled within him, and as a bitch with puppies growls and shows her teeth when she sees a stranger, so did his heart growl with anger at the evil deeds that were being done: but he beat his breast and said, “Heart, be still, you had worse than this to bear on the day when the terrible Cyclops ate your brave companions; yet you bore it in silence till your cunning got you safe out of the cave, though you made sure of being killed.”
Thus he chided with his heart, and checked it into endurance, but he tossed about as one who turns a paunch full of blood and fat in front of a hot fire, doing it first on one side and then on the other, that he may get it cooked as soon as possible, even so did he turn himself about from side to side, thinking all the time how, single handed as he was, he should contrive to kill so large a body of men as the wicked suitors. But by and by Minerva came down from heaven in the likeness of a woman, and hovered over his head saying, “My poor unhappy man, why do you lie awake in this way? This is your house: your wife is safe inside it, and so is your son who is just such a young man as any father may be proud of.”
“Goddess,” answered Ulysses, “all that you have said is true, but I am in some doubt as to how I shall be able to kill these wicked suitors single handed, seeing what a number of them there always are. And there is this further difficulty, which is still more considerable. Supposing that with Jove’s and your assistance I succeed in killing them,
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I must ask you to consider where I am to escape to from their avengers when it is all over.” “For shame,” replied Minerva, “why, any one else would trust a worse ally than myself, even though that ally
were only a mortal and less wise than I am. Am I not a goddess, and have I not protected you throughout in all your troubles? I tell you plainly that even though there were fifty bands of men surrounding us and eager to kill us, you should take all their sheep and cattle, and drive them away with you. But go to sleep; it is a very bad thing to lie awake all night, and you shall be out of your troubles before long.”
As she spoke she shed sleep over his eyes, and then went back to Olympus. While Ulysses was thus yielding himself to a very deep slumber that eased the burden of his sorrows, his admi-
rable wife awoke, and sitting up in her bed began to cry. When she had relieved herself by weeping she prayed to Diana saying, “Great Goddess Diana, daughter of Jove, drive an arrow into my heart and slay me; or let some whirl- wind snatch me up and bear me through paths of darkness till it drop me into the mouths of overflowing Oceanus, as it did the daughters of Pandareus. The daughters of Pandareus lost their father and mother, for the gods killed them, so they were left orphans. But Venus took care of them, and fed them on cheese, honey, and sweet wine. Juno taught them to excel all women in beauty of form and understanding; Diana gave them an imposing presence, and Minerva endowed them with every kind of accomplishment; but one day when Venus had gone up to Olympus to see Jove about getting them married (for well does he know both what shall happen and what not happen to every one) the storm winds came and spirited them away to become handmaids to the dread Erinyes. Even so I wish that the gods who live in heaven would hide me from mortal sight, or that fair Diana might strike me, for I would fain go even beneath the sad earth if I might do so still looking towards Ulysses only, and without having to yield myself to a worse man than he was. Besides, no matter how much people may grieve by day, they can put up with it so long as they can sleep at night, for when the eyes are closed in slumber people forget good and ill alike; whereas my misery haunts me even in my dreams. This very night methought there was one lying by my side who was like Ulysses as he was when he went away with his host, and I rejoiced, for I believed that it was no dream, but the very truth itself.”
On this the day broke, but Ulysses heard the sound of her weeping, and it puzzled him, for it seemed as though she already knew him and was by his side. Then he gathered up the cloak and the fleeces on which he had lain, and set them on a seat in the cloister, but he took the bullock’s hide out into the open. He lifted up his hands to heaven, and prayed, saying “Father Jove, since you have seen fit to bring me over land and sea to my own home after all the afflictions you have laid upon me, give me a sign out of the mouth of some one or other of those who are now wak- ing within the house, and let me have another sign of some kind from outside.”
Thus did he pray. Jove heard his prayer and forthwith thundered high up among the from the splendour of Olympus, and Ulysses was glad when he heard it. At the same time within the house, a miller-woman from hard by in the mill room lifted up her voice and gave him another sign. There were twelve miller-women whose business it was to grind wheat and barley which are the staff of life. The others had ground their task and had gone to take their rest, but this one had not yet finished, for she was not so strong as they were, and when she heard the thunder she stopped grinding and gave the sign to her master. “Father Jove,” said she, “you who rule over heaven and earth, you have thundered from a clear sky without so much as a cloud in it, and this means something for somebody; grant the prayer, then, of me your poor servant who calls upon you, and let this be the very last day that the suitors dine in the house of Ulysses. They have worn me out with the labour of grinding meal for them, and I hope they may never have another dinner anywhere at all.”
Ulysses was glad when he heard the omens conveyed to him by the woman’s speech, and by the thunder, for he knew they meant that he should avenge himself on the suitors.
Then the other maids in the house rose and lit the fire on the hearth; Telemachus also rose and put on his clothes. He girded his sword about his shoulder, bound his sandals on his comely feet, and took a doughty spear with a point of sharpened bronze; then he went to the threshold of the cloister and said to Euryclea, “Nurse, did you make the stranger comfortable both as regards bed and board, or did you let him shift for himself ?—for my mother, good woman though she is, has a way of paying great attention to second-rate people, and of neglecting others who are in reality much better men.”
“Do not find fault child,” said Euryclea, “when there is no one to find fault with. The stranger sat and drank his wine as long as he liked: your mother did ask him if he would take any more bread and he said he would not. When he wanted to go to bed she told the servants to make one for him, but he said he was re such wretched outcast that he would not sleep on a bed and under blankets; he insisted on having an undressed bullock’s hide and some sheep- skins put for him in the cloister and I threw a cloak over him myself.”
Then Telemachus went out of the court to the place where the Achaeans were meeting in assembly; he had his spear in his hand, and he was not alone, for his two dogs went with him. But Euryclea called the maids and said, “Come, wake up; set about sweeping the cloisters and sprinkling them with water to lay the dust; put the covers on the seats; wipe down the tables, some of you, with a wet sponge; clean out the mixing-jugs and the cups, and for
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water from the fountain at once; the suitors will be here directly; they will be here early, for it is a feast day.” Thus did she speak, and they did even as she had said: twenty of them went to the fountain for water, and the
others set themselves busily to work about the house. The men who were in attendance on the suitors also came up and began chopping firewood. By and by the women returned from the fountain, and the swineherd came after them with the three best pigs he could pick out. These he let feed about the premises, and then he said good-hu- mouredly to Ulysses, “Stranger, are the suitors treating you any better now, or are they as insolent as ever?”
“May heaven,” answered Ulysses, “requite to them the wickedness with which they deal high-handedly in an- other man’s house without any sense of shame.”
Thus did they converse; meanwhile Melanthius the goatherd came up, for he too was bringing in his best goats for the suitors’ dinner; and he had two shepherds with him. They tied the goats up under the gatehouse, and then Melanthius began gibing at Ulysses. “Are you still here, stranger,” said he, “to pester people by begging about the house? Why can you not go elsewhere? You and I shall not come to an understanding before we have given each other a taste of our fists. You beg without any sense of decency: are there not feasts elsewhere among the Achaeans, as well as here?”
Ulysses made no answer, but bowed his head and brooded. Then a third man, Philoetius, joined them, who was bringing in a barren heifer and some goats. These were brought over by the boatmen who are there to take people over when any one comes to them. So Philoetius made his heifer and his goats secure under the gatehouse, and then went up to the swineherd. “Who, Swineherd,” said he, “is this stranger that is lately come here? Is he one of your men? What is his family? Where does he come from? Poor fellow, he looks as if he had been some great man, but the gods give sorrow to whom they will—even to kings if it so pleases them
As he spoke he went up to Ulysses and saluted him with his right hand; “Good day to you, father stranger,” said he, “you seem to be very poorly off now, but I hope you will have better times by and by. Father Jove, of all gods you are the most malicious. We are your own children, yet you show us no mercy in all our misery and afflictions. A sweat came over me when I saw this man, and my eyes filled with tears, for he reminds me of Ulysses, who I fear is going about in just such rags as this man’s are, if indeed he is still among the living. If he is already dead and in the house of Hades, then, alas! for my good master, who made me his stockman when I was quite young among the Cephallenians, and now his cattle are countless; no one could have done better with them than I have, for they have bred like ears of corn; nevertheless I have to keep bringing them in for others to eat, who take no heed of his son though he is in the house, and fear not the wrath of heaven, but are already eager to divide Ulysses’ property among them because he has been away so long. I have often thought—only it would not be right while his son is living—of going off with the cattle to some foreign country; bad as this would be, it is still harder to stay here and be ill-treated about other people’s herds. My position is intolerable, and I should long since have run away and put myself under the protection of some other chief, only that I believe my poor master will yet return, and send all these suitors flying out of the house.”
“Stockman,” answered Ulysses, “you seem to be a very well-disposed person, and I can see that you are a man of sense. Therefore I will tell you, and will confirm my words with an oath: by Jove, the chief of all gods, and by that hearth of Ulysses to which I am now come, Ulysses shall return before you leave this place, and if you are so mind- ed you shall see him killing the suitors who are now masters here.”
“If Jove were to bring this to pass,” replied the stockman, “you should see how I would do my very utmost to help him.”
And in like manner Eumaeus prayed that Ulysses might return home. Thus did they converse. Meanwhile the suitors were hatching a plot to murder Telemachus: but a bird flew near
them on their left hand—an eagle with a dove in its talons. On this Amphinomus said, “My friends, this plot of ours to murder Telemachus will not succeed; let us go to dinner instead.”
The others assented, so they went inside and laid their cloaks on the benches and seats. They sacrificed the sheep, goats, pigs, and the heifer, and when the inward meats were cooked they served them round. They mixed the wine in the mixing-bowls, and the swineherd gave every man his cup, while Philoetius handed round the bread in the breadbaskets, and Melanthius poured them out their wine. Then they laid their hands upon the good things that were before them.
Telemachus purposely made Ulysses sit in the part of the cloister that was paved with stone; he gave him a shabby-looking seat at a little table to himself, and had his portion of the inward meats brought to him, with his wine in a gold cup. “Sit there,” said he, “and drink your wine among the great people. I will put a stop to the gibes and blows of the suitors, for this is no public house, but belongs to Ulysses, and has passed from him to me. There- fore, suitors, keep your hands and your tongues to yourselves, or there will be mischief.”
The suitors bit their lips, and marvelled at the boldness of his speech; then Antinous said, “We do not like such language but we will put up with it, for Telemachus is threatening us in good earnest. If Jove had let us we should have put a stop to his brave talk ere now.”
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Thus spoke Antinous, but Telemachus heeded him not. Meanwhile the heralds were bringing the holy heca- tomb through the city, and the Achaeans gathered under the shady grove of Apollo.
Then they roasted the outer meat, drew it off the spits, gave every man his portion, and feasted to their hearts’ content; those who waited at table gave Ulysses exactly the same portion as the others had, for Telemachus had told them to do so.
But Minerva would not let the suitors for one moment drop their insolence, for she wanted Ulysses to become still more bitter against them. Now there happened to be among them a ribald fellow, whose name was Ctesippus, and who came from Same. This man, confident in his great wealth, was paying court to the wife of Ulysses, and said to the suitors, “Hear what I have to say. The stranger has already had as large a portion as any one else; this is well, for it is not right nor reasonable to ill-treat any guest of Telemachus who comes here. I will, however, make him a present on my own account, that he may have something to give to the bath-woman, or to some other of Ulysses’ servants.”
As he spoke he picked up a heifer’s foot from the meat-basket in which it lay, and threw it at Ulysses, but Ulyss- es turned his head a little aside, and avoided it, smiling grimly Sardinian fashion as he did so, and it hit the wall, not him. On this Telemachus spoke fiercely to Ctesippus, “It is a good thing for you,” said he, “that the stranger turned his head so that you missed him. If you had hit him I should have run you through with my spear, and your father would have had to see about getting you buried rather than married in this house. So let me have no more unseem- ly behaviour from any of you, for I am grown up now to the knowledge of good and evil and understand what is go- ing on, instead of being the child that I have been heretofore. I have long seen you killing my sheep and making free with my corn and wine: I have put up with this, for one man is no match for many, but do me no further violence. Still, if you wish to kill me, kill me; I would far rather die than see such disgraceful scenes day after day—guests insulted, and men dragging the women servants about the house in an unseemly way.”
They all held their peace till at last Agelaus son of Damastor said, “No one should take offence at what has just been said, nor gainsay it, for it is quite reasonable. Leave off, therefore, ill-treating the stranger, or any one else of the servants who are about the house; I would say, however, a friendly word to Telemachus and his mother, which I trust may commend itself to both. ‘As long,’ I would say, ‘as you had ground for hoping that Ulysses would one day come home, no one could complain of your waiting and suffering the suitors to be in your house. It would have been better that he should have returned, but it is now sufficiently clear that he will never do so; therefore talk all this quietly over with your mother, and tell her to marry the best man, and the one who makes her the most advan- tageous offer. Thus you will yourself be able to manage your own inheritance, and to eat and drink in peace, while your mother will look after some other man’s house, not yours.”’
To this Telemachus answered, “By Jove, Agelaus, and by the sorrows of my unhappy father, who has either perished far from Ithaca, or is wandering in some distant land, I throw no obstacles in the way of my mother’s marriage; on the contrary I urge her to choose whomsoever she will, and I will give her numberless gifts into the bargain, but I dare not insist point blank that she shall leave the house against her own wishes. Heaven forbid that I should do this.”
Minerva now made the suitors fall to laughing immoderately, and set their wits wandering; but they were laughing with a forced laughter. Their meat became smeared with blood; their eyes filled with tears, and their hearts were heavy with forebodings. Theoclymenus saw this and said, “Unhappy men, what is it that ails you? There is a shroud of darkness drawn over you from head to foot, your cheeks are wet with tears; the air is alive with wailing voices; the walls and roof-beams drip blood; the gate of the cloisters and the court beyond them are full of ghosts trooping down into the night of hell; the sun is blotted out of heaven, and a blighting gloom is over all the land.”
Thus did he speak, and they all of them laughed heartily. Eurymachus then said, “This stranger who has lately come here has lost his senses. Servants, turn him out into the streets, since he finds it so dark here.”
But Theoclymenus said, “Eurymachus, you need not send any one with me. I have eyes, ears, and a pair of feet of my own, to say nothing of an understanding mind. I will take these out of the house with me, for I see mischief overhanging you, from which not one of you men who are insulting people and plotting ill deeds in the house of Ulysses will be able to escape.”
He left the house as he spoke, and went back to Piraeus who gave him welcome, but the suitors kept looking at one another and provoking Telemachus fly laughing at the strangers. One insolent fellow said to him, “Telemachus, you are not happy in your guests; first you have this importunate tramp, who comes begging bread and wine and has no skill for work or for hard fighting, but is perfectly useless, and now here is another fellow who is setting him- self up as a prophet. Let me persuade you, for it will be much better, to put them on board ship and send them off to the Sicels to sell for what they will bring.”
Telemachus gave him no heed, but sat silently watching his father, expecting every moment that he would begin his attack upon the suitors.
Meanwhile the daughter of Icarius, wise Penelope, had had had a rich seat placed for her facing the court and
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cloisters, so that she could hear what every one was saying. The dinner indeed had been prepared amid merriment; it had been both good and abundant, for they had sacrificed many victims; but the supper was yet to come, and nothing can be conceived more gruesome than the meal which a goddess and a brave man were soon to lay before them—for they had brought their doom upon themselves.
Book XXI MINERVA now put it in Penelope’s mind to make the suitors try their skill with the bow and with the iron
axes, in contest among themselves, as a means of bringing about their destruction. She went upstairs and got the store room key, which was made of bronze and had a handle of ivory; she then went with her maidens into the store room at the end of the house, where her husband’s treasures of gold, bronze, and wrought iron were kept, and where was also his bow, and the quiver full of deadly arrows that had been given him by a friend whom he had met in Lacedaemon—Iphitus the son of Eurytus. The two fell in with one another in Messene at the house of Ortilochus, where Ulysses was staying in order to recover a debt that was owing from the whole people; for the Messenians had carried off three hundred sheep from Ithaca, and had sailed away with them and with their shepherds. In quest of these Ulysses took a long journey while still quite young, for his father and the other chieftains sent him on a mission to recover them. Iphitus had gone there also to try and get back twelve brood mares that he had lost, and the mule foals that were running with them. These mares were the death of him in the end, for when he went to the house of Jove’s son, mighty Hercules, who performed such prodigies of valour, Hercules to his shame killed him, though he was his guest, for he feared not heaven’s vengeance, nor yet respected his own table which he had set before Iphitus, but killed him in spite of everything, and kept the mares himself. It was when claiming these that Iphitus met Ulysses, and gave him the bow which mighty Eurytus had been used to carry, and which on his death had been left by him to his son. Ulysses gave him in return a sword and a spear, and this was the beginning of a fast friendship, although they never visited at one another’s houses, for Jove’s son Hercules killed Iphitus ere they could do so. This bow, then, given him by Iphitus, had not been taken with him by Ulysses when he sailed for Troy; he had used it so long as he had been at home, but had left it behind as having been a keepsake from a valued friend.
Penelope presently reached the oak threshold of the store room; the carpenter had planed this duly, and had drawn a line on it so as to get it quite straight; he had then set the door posts into it and hung the doors. She loosed the strap from the handle of the door, put in the key, and drove it straight home to shoot back the bolts that held the doors; these flew open with a noise like a bull bellowing in a meadow, and Penelope stepped upon the raised platform, where the chests stood in which the fair linen and clothes were laid by along with fragrant herbs: reaching thence, she took down the bow with its bow case from the peg on which it hung. She sat down with it on her knees, weeping bitterly as she took the bow out of its case, and when her tears had relieved her, she went to the cloister where the suitors were, carrying the bow and the quiver, with the many deadly arrows that were inside it. Along with her came her maidens, bearing a chest that contained much iron and bronze which her husband had won as prizes. When she reached the suitors, she stood by one of the bearing-posts supporting the roof of the cloister, hold- ing a veil before her face, and with a maid on either side of her. Then she said:
“Listen to me you suitors, who persist in abusing the hospitality of this house because its owner has been long absent, and without other pretext than that you want to marry me; this, then, being the prize that you are contend- ing for, I will bring out the mighty bow of Ulysses, and whomsoever of you shall string it most easily and send his arrow through each one of twelve axes, him will I follow and quit this house of my lawful husband, so goodly, and so abounding in wealth. But even so I doubt not that I shall remember it in my dreams.”
As she spoke, she told Eumaeus to set the bow and the pieces of iron before the suitors, and Eumaeus wept as he took them to do as she had bidden him. Hard by, the stockman wept also when he saw his master’s bow, but An- tinous scolded them. “You country louts,” said he, “silly simpletons; why should you add to the sorrows of your mis- tress by crying in this way? She has enough to grieve her in the loss of her husband; sit still, therefore, and eat your dinners in silence, or go outside if you want to cry, and leave the bow behind you. We suitors shall have to contend for it with might and main, for we shall find it no light matter to string such a bow as this is. There is not a man of us all who is such another as Ulysses; for I have seen him and remember him, though I was then only a child.”
This was what he said, but all the time he was expecting to be able to string the bow and shoot through the iron, whereas in fact he was to be the first that should taste of the arrows from the hands of Ulysses, whom he was dishonouring in his own house—egging the others on to do so also.
Then Telemachus spoke. “Great heavens!” he exclaimed, “Jove must have robbed me of my senses. Here is my dear and excellent mother saying she will quit this house and marry again, yet I am laughing and enjoying myself as though there were nothing happening. But, suitors, as the contest has been agreed upon, let it go forward. It is for a woman whose peer is not to be found in Pylos, Argos, or Mycene, nor yet in Ithaca nor on the mainland. You know this as well as I do; what need have I to speak in praise of my mother? Come on, then, make no excuses for delay,
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but let us see whether you can string the bow or no. I too will make trial of it, for if I can string it and shoot through the iron, I shall not suffer my mother to quit this house with a stranger, not if I can win the prizes which my father won before me.”
As he spoke he sprang from his seat, threw his crimson cloak from him, and took his sword from his shoulder. First he set the axes in a row, in a long groove which he had dug for them, and had Wade straight by line. Then he stamped the earth tight round them, and everyone was surprised when they saw him set up so orderly, though he had never seen anything of the kind before. This done, he went on to the pavement to make trial of the bow; thrice did he tug at it, trying with all his might to draw the string, and thrice he had to leave off, though he had hoped to string the bow and shoot through the iron. He was trying for the fourth time, and would have strung it had not Ulysses made a sign to check him in spite of all his eagerness. So he said:
“Alas! I shall either be always feeble and of no prowess, or I am too young, and have not yet reached my full strength so as to be able to hold my own if any one attacks me. You others, therefore, who are stronger than I, make trial of the bow and get this contest settled.”
On this he put the bow down, letting it lean against the door [that led into the house] with the arrow standing against the top of the bow. Then he sat down on the seat from which he had risen, and Antinous said:
“Come on each of you in his turn, going towards the right from the place at which the. cupbearer begins when he is handing round the wine.”
The rest agreed, and Leiodes son of OEnops was the first to rise. He was sacrificial priest to the suitors, and sat in the corner near the mixing-bowl. He was the only man who hated their evil deeds and was indignant with the others. He was now the first to take the bow and arrow, so he went on to the pavement to make his trial, but he could not string the bow, for his hands were weak and unused to hard work, they therefore soon grew tired, and he said to the suitors, “My friends, I cannot string it; let another have it; this bow shall take the life and soul out of many a chief among us, for it is better to die than to live after having missed the prize that we have so long striven for, and which has brought us so long together. Some one of us is even now hoping and praying that he may marry Penelope, but when he has seen this bow and tried it, let him woo and make bridal offerings to some other woman, and let Penelope marry whoever makes her the best offer and whose lot it is to win her.”
On this he put the bow down, letting it lean against the door, with the arrow standing against the tip of the bow. Then he took his seat again on the seat from which he had risen; and Antinous rebuked him saying:
“Leiodes, what are you talking about? Your words are monstrous and intolerable; it makes me angry to listen to you. Shall, then, this bow take the life of many a chief among us, merely because you cannot bend it yourself ? True, you were not born to be an archer, but there are others who will soon string it.”
Then he said to Melanthius the goatherd, “Look sharp, light a fire in the court, and set a seat hard by with a sheep skin on it; bring us also a large ball of lard, from what they have in the house. Let us warm the bow and grease it we will then make trial of it again, and bring the contest to an end.”
Melanthius lit the fire, and set a seat covered with sheep skins beside it. He also brought a great ball of lard from what they had in the house, and the suitors warmed the bow and again made trial of it, but they were none of them nearly strong enough to string it. Nevertheless there still remained Antinous and Eurymachus, who were the ring- leaders among the suitors and much the foremost among them all.
Then the swineherd and the stockman left the cloisters together, and Ulysses followed them. When they had got outside the gates and the outer yard, Ulysses said to them quietly:
“Stockman, and you swineherd, I have something in my mind which I am in doubt whether to say or no; but I think I will say it. What manner of men would you be to stand by Ulysses, if some god should bring him back here all of a sudden? Say which you are disposed to do—to side with the suitors, or with Ulysses?”
“Father Jove,” answered the stockman, “would indeed that you might so ordain it. If some god were but to bring Ulysses back, you should see with what might and main I would fight for him.”
In like words Eumaeus prayed to all the gods that Ulysses might return; when, therefore, he saw for certain what mind they were of, Ulysses said, “It is I, Ulysses, who am here. I have suffered much, but at last, in the twenti- eth year, I am come back to my own country. I find that you two alone of all my servants are glad that I should do so, for I have not heard any of the others praying for my return. To you two, therefore, will I unfold the truth as it shall be. If heaven shall deliver the suitors into my hands, I will find wives for both of you, will give you house and holding close to my own, and you shall be to me as though you were brothers and friends of Telemachus. I will now give you convincing proofs that you may know me and be assured. See, here is the scar from the boar’s tooth that ripped me when I was out hunting on Mount Parnassus with the sons of Autolycus.”
As he spoke he drew his rags aside from the great scar, and when they had examined it thoroughly, they both of them wept about Ulysses, threw their arms round him and kissed his head and shoulders, while Ulysses kissed their hands and faces in return. The sun would have gone down upon their mourning if Ulysses had not checked them and said:
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“Cease your weeping, lest some one should come outside and see us, and tell those who a are within. When you go in, do so separately, not both together; I will go first, and do you follow afterwards; Let this moreover be the token between us; the suitors will all of them try to prevent me from getting hold of the bow and quiver; do you, therefore, Eumaeus, place it in my hands when you are carrying it about, and tell the women to close the doors of their apartment. If they hear any groaning or uproar as of men fighting about the house, they must not come out; they must keep quiet, and stay where they are at their work. And I charge you, Philoetius, to make fast the doors of the outer court, and to bind them securely at once.”
When he had thus spoken, he went back to the house and took the seat that he had left. Presently, his two ser- vants followed him inside.
At this moment the bow was in the hands of Eurymachus, who was warming it by the fire, but even so he could not string it, and he was greatly grieved. He heaved a deep sigh and said, “I grieve for myself and for us all; I grieve that I shall have to forgo the marriage, but I do not care nearly so much about this, for there are plenty of other women in Ithaca and elsewhere; what I feel most is the fact of our being so inferior to Ulysses in strength that we cannot string his bow. This will disgrace us in the eyes of those who are yet unborn.”
“It shall not be so, Eurymachus,” said Antinous, “and you know it yourself. To-day is the feast of Apollo throughout all the land; who can string a bow on such a day as this? Put it on one side—as for the axes they can stay where they are, for no one is likely to come to the house and take them away: let the cupbearer go round with his cups, that we may make our drink-offerings and drop this matter of the bow; we will tell Melanthius to bring us in some goats to-morrow—the best he has; we can then offer thigh bones to Apollo the mighty archer, and again make trial of the bow, so as to bring the contest to an end.”
The rest approved his words, and thereon men servants poured water over the hands of the guests, while pages filled the mixing-bowls with wine and water and handed it round after giving every man his drink-offering. Then, when they had made their offerings and had drunk each as much as he desired, Ulysses craftily said:
“Suitors of the illustrious queen, listen that I may speak even as I am minded. I appeal more especially to Eury- machus, and to Antinous who has just spoken with so much reason. Cease shooting for the present and leave the matter to the gods, but in the morning let heaven give victory to whom it will. For the moment, however, give me the bow that I may prove the power of my hands among you all, and see whether I still have as much strength as I used to have, or whether travel and neglect have made an end of it.”
This made them all very angry, for they feared he might string the bow; Antinous therefore rebuked him fiercely saying, “Wretched creature, you have not so much as a grain of sense in your whole body; you ought to think yourself lucky in being allowed to dine unharmed among your betters, without having any smaller portion served you than we others have had, and in being allowed to hear our conversation. No other beggar or stranger has been allowed to hear what we say among ourselves; the wine must have been doing you a mischief, as it does with all those drink immoderately. It was wine that inflamed the Centaur Eurytion when he was staying with Peirithous among the Lapithae. When the wine had got into his head he went mad and did ill deeds about the house of Pei- rithous; this angered the heroes who were there assembled, so they rushed at him and cut off his ears and nostrils; then they dragged him through the doorway out of the house, so he went away crazed, and bore the burden of his crime, bereft of understanding. Henceforth, therefore, there was war between mankind and the centaurs, but he brought it upon himself through his own drunkenness. In like manner I can tell you that it will go hardly with you if you string the bow: you will find no mercy from any one here, for we shall at once ship you off to king Echetus, who kills every one that comes near him: you will never get away alive, so drink and keep quiet without getting into a quarrel with men younger than yourself.”
Penelope then spoke to him. “Antinous,” said she, “it is not right that you should ill-treat any guest of Telema- chus who comes to this house. If the stranger should prove strong enough to string the mighty bow of Ulysses, can you suppose that he would take me home with him and make me his wife? Even the man himself can have no such idea in his mind: none of you need let that disturb his feasting; it would be out of all reason.”
“Queen Penelope,” answered Eurymachus, “we do not suppose that this man will take you away with him; it is impossible; but we are afraid lest some of the baser sort, men or women among the Achaeans, should go gossiping about and say, ‘These suitors are a feeble folk; they are paying court to the wife of a brave man whose bow not one of them was able to string, and yet a beggarly tramp who came to the house strung it at once and sent an arrow through the iron.’ This is what will be said, and it will be a scandal against us.”
“Eurymachus,” Penelope answered, “people who persist in eating up the estate of a great chieftain and dishon- ouring his house must not expect others to think well of them. Why then should you mind if men talk as you think they will? This stranger is strong and well-built, he says moreover that he is of noble birth. Give him the bow, and let us see whether he can string it or no. I say—and it shall surely be—that if Apollo vouchsafes him the glory of stringing it, I will give him a cloak and shirt of good wear, with a javelin to keep off dogs and robbers, and a sharp sword. I will also give him sandals, and will see him sent safely whereever he wants to go.”
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Then Telemachus said, “Mother, I am the only man either in Ithaca or in the islands that are over against Elis who has the right to let any one have the bow or to refuse it. No one shall force me one way or the other, not even though I choose to make the stranger a present of the bow outright, and let him take it away with him. Go, then, within the house and busy yourself with your daily duties, your loom, your distaff, and the ordering of your ser- vants. This bow is a man’s matter, and mine above all others, for it is I who am master here.”
She went wondering back into the house, and laid her son’s saying in her heart. Then going upstairs with her handmaids into her room, she mourned her dear husband till Minerva sent sweet sleep over her eyelids.
The swineherd now took up the bow and was for taking it to Ulysses, but the suitors clamoured at him from all parts of the cloisters, and one of them said, “You idiot, where are you taking the bow to? Are you out of your wits? If Apollo and the other gods will grant our prayer, your own boarhounds shall get you into some quiet little place, and worry you to death.”
Eumaeus was frightened at the outcry they all raised, so he put the bow down then and there, but Telemachus shouted out at him from the other side of the cloisters, and threatened him saying, “Father Eumaeus, bring the bow on in spite of them, or young as I am I will pelt you with stones back to the country, for I am the better man of the two. I wish I was as much stronger than all the other suitors in the house as I am than you, I would soon send some of them off sick and sorry, for they mean mischief.”
Thus did he speak, and they all of them laughed heartily, which put them in a better humour with Telemachus; so Eumaeus brought the bow on and placed it in the hands of Ulysses. When he had done this, he called Euryclea apart and said to her, “Euryclea, Telemachus says you are to close the doors of the women’s apartments. If they hear any groaning or uproar as of men fighting about the house, they are not to come out, but are to keep quiet and stay where they are at their work.”
Euryclea did as she was told and closed the doors of the women’s apartments. Meanwhile Philoetius slipped quietly out and made fast the gates of the outer court. There was a ship’s cable of
byblus fibre lying in the gatehouse, so he made the gates fast with it and then came in again, resuming the seat that he had left, and keeping an eye on Ulysses, who had now got the bow in his hands, and was turning it every way about, and proving it all over to see whether the worms had been eating into its two horns during his absence. Then would one turn towards his neighbour saying, “This is some tricky old bow-fancier; either he has got one like it at home, or he wants to make one, in such workmanlike style does the old vagabond handle it.”
Another said, “I hope he may be no more successful in other things than he is likely to be in stringing this bow.” But Ulysses, when he had taken it up and examined it all over, strung it as easily as a skilled bard strings a new
peg of his lyre and makes the twisted gut fast at both ends. Then he took it in his right hand to prove the string, and it sang sweetly under his touch like the twittering of a swallow. The suitors were dismayed, and turned colour as they heard it; at that moment, moreover, Jove thundered loudly as a sign, and the heart of Ulysses rejoiced as he heard the omen that the son of scheming Saturn had sent him.
He took an arrow that was lying upon the table—for those which the Achaeans were so shortly about to taste were all inside the quiver—he laid it on the centre-piece of the bow, and drew the notch of the arrow and the string toward him, still seated on his seat. When he had taken aim he let fly, and his arrow pierced every one of the han- dle-holes of the axes from the first onwards till it had gone right through them, and into the outer courtyard. Then he said to Telemachus:
“Your guest has not disgraced you, Telemachus. I did not miss what I aimed at, and I was not long in stringing my bow. I am still strong, and not as the suitors twit me with being. Now, however, it is time for the Achaeans to prepare supper while there is still daylight, and then otherwise to disport themselves with song and dance which are the crowning ornaments of a banquet.”
As he spoke he made a sign with his eyebrows, and Telemachus girded on his sword, grasped his spear, and stood armed beside his father’s seat.
Book XXII THEN Ulysses tore off his rags, and sprang on to the broad pavement with his bow and his quiver full of
arrows. He shed the arrows on to the ground at his feet and said, “The mighty contest is at an end. I will now see whether Apollo will vouchsafe it to me to hit another mark which no man has yet hit.”
On this he aimed a deadly arrow at Antinous, who was about to take up a two-handled gold cup to drink his wine and already had it in his hands. He had no thought of death—who amongst all the revellers would think that one man, however brave, would stand alone among so many and kill him? The arrow struck Antinous in the throat, and the point went clean through his neck, so that he fell over and the cup dropped from his hand, while a thick stream of blood gushed from his nostrils. He kicked the table from him and upset the things on it, so that the bread and roasted meats were all soiled as they fell over on to the ground. The suitors were in an uproar when they saw
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that a man had been hit; they sprang in dismay one and all of them from their seats and looked everywhere towards the walls, but there was neither shield nor spear, and they rebuked Ulysses very angrily. “Stranger,” said they, “you shall pay for shooting people in this way: om yi you shall see no other contest; you are a doomed man; he whom you have slain was the foremost youth in Ithaca, and the vultures shall devour you for having killed him.”
Thus they spoke, for they thought that he had killed Antinous by mistake, and did not perceive that death was hanging over the head of every one of them. But Ulysses glared at them and said:
“Dogs, did you think that I should not come back from Troy? You have wasted my substance, have forced my women servants to lie with you, and have wooed my wife while I was still living. You have feared neither Cod nor man, and now you shall die.”
They turned pale with fear as he spoke, and every man looked round about to see whither he might fly for safe- ty, but Eurymachus alone spoke.
“If you are Ulysses,” said he, “then what you have said is just. We have done much wrong on your lands and in your house. But Antinous who was the head and front of the offending lies low already. It was all his doing. It was not that he wanted to marry Penelope; he did not so much care about that; what he wanted was something quite different, and Jove has not vouchsafed it to him; he wanted to kill your son and to be chief man in Ithaca. Now, therefore, that he has met the death which was his due, spare the lives of your people. We will make everything good among ourselves, and pay you in full for all that we have eaten and drunk. Each one of us shall pay you a fine worth twenty oxen, and we will keep on giving you gold and bronze till your heart is softened. Until we have done this no one can complain of your being enraged against us.”
Ulysses again glared at him and said, “Though you should give me all that you have in the world both now and all that you ever shall have, I will not stay my hand till I have paid all of you in full. You must fight, or fly for your lives; and fly, not a man of you shall.”
Their hearts sank as they heard him, but Eurymachus again spoke saying: “My friends, this man will give us no quarter. He will stand where he is and shoot us down till he has killed ev-
ery man among us. Let us then show fight; draw your swords, and hold up the tables to shield you from his arrows. Let us have at him with a rush, to drive him from the pavement and doorway: we can then get through into the town, and raise such an alarm as shall soon stay his shooting.”
As he spoke he drew his keen blade of bronze, sharpened on both sides, and with a loud cry sprang towards Ulysses, but Ulysses instantly shot an arrow into his breast that caught him by the nipple and fixed itself in his liver. He dropped his sword and fell doubled up over his table. The cup and all the meats went over on to the ground as he smote the earth with his forehead in the agonies of death, and he kicked the stool with his feet until his eyes were closed in darkness.
Then Amphinomus drew his sword and made straight at Ulysses to try and get him away from the door; but Telemachus was too quick for him, and struck him from behind; the spear caught him between the shoulders and went right through his chest, so that he fell heavily to the ground and struck the earth with his forehead. Then Telemachus sprang away from him, leaving his spear still in the body, for he feared that if he stayed to draw it out, some one of the Achaeans might come up and hack at him with his sword, or knock him down, so he set off at a run, and immediately was at his father’s side. Then he said:
“Father, let me bring you a shield, two spears, and a brass helmet for your temples. I will arm myself as well, and will bring other armour for the swineherd and the stockman, for we had better be armed.”
“Run and fetch them,” answered Ulysses, “while my arrows hold out, or when I am alone they may get me away from the door.”
Telemachus did as his father said, and went off to the store room where the armour was kept. He chose four shields, eight spears, and four brass helmets with horse-hair plumes. He brought them with all speed to his father, and armed himself first, while the stockman and the swineherd also put on their armour, and took their places near Ulysses. Meanwhile Ulysses, as long as his arrows lasted, had been shooting the suitors one by one, and they fell thick on one another: when his arrows gave out, he set the bow to stand against the end wall of the house by the door post, and hung a shield four hides thick about his shoulders; on his comely head he set his helmet, well wrought with a crest of horse-hair that nodded menacingly above it, and he grasped two redoubtable bronze-shod spears.
Now there was a trap door on the wall, while at one end of the pavement there was an exit leading to a narrow passage, and this exit was closed by a well-made door. Ulysses told Philoetius to stand by this door and guard it, for only one person could attack it at a time. But Agelaus shouted out, “Cannot some one go up to the trap door and tell the people what is going on? Help would come at once, and we should soon make an end of this man and his shooting.”
“This may not be, Agelaus,” answered Melanthius, “the mouth of the narrow passage is dangerously near the entrance to the outer court. One brave man could prevent any number from getting in. But I know what I will do, I
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will bring you arms from the store room, for I am sure it is there that Ulysses and his son have put them.” On this the goatherd Melanthius went by back passages to the store room of Ulysses, house. There he chose
twelve shields, with as many helmets and spears, and brought them back as fast as he could to give them to the suit- ors. Ulysses’ heart began to fail him when he saw the suitors putting on their armour and brandishing their spears. He saw the greatness of the danger, and said to Telemachus, “Some one of the women inside is helping the suitors against us, or it may be Melanthius.”
Telemachus answered, “The fault, father, is mine, and mine only; I left the store room door open, and they have kept a sharper look out than I have. Go, Eumaeus, put the door to, and see whether it is one of the women who is doing this, or whether, as I suspect, it is Melanthius the son of Dolius.”
Thus did they converse. Meanwhile Melanthius was again going to the store room to fetch more armour, but the swineherd saw him and said to Ulysses who was beside him, “Ulysses, noble son of Laertes, it is that scoundrel Melanthius, just as we suspected, who is going to the store room. Say, shall I kill him, if I can get the better of him, or shall I bring him here that you may take your own revenge for all the many wrongs that he has done in your house?”
Ulysses answered, “Telemachus and I will hold these suitors in check, no matter what they do; go back both of you and bind Melanthius’ hands and feet behind him. Throw him into the store room and make the door fast behind you; then fasten a noose about his body, and string him close up to the rafters from a high bearing-post, that he may linger on in an agony.”
Thus did he speak, and they did even as he had said; they went to the store room, which they entered before Melanthius saw them, for he was busy searching for arms in the innermost part of the room, so the two took their stand on either side of the door and waited. By and by Melanthius came out with a helmet in one hand, and an old dry-rotted shield in the other, which had been borne by Laertes when he was young, but which had been long since thrown aside, and the straps had become unsewn; on this the two seized him, dragged him back by the hair, and threw him struggling to the ground. They bent his hands and feet well behind his back, and bound them tight with a painful bond as Ulysses had told them; then they fastened a noose about his body and strung him up from a high pillar till he was close up to the rafters, and over him did you then vaunt, O swineherd Eumaeus, saying, “Melan- thius, you will pass the night on a soft bed as you deserve. You will know very well when morning comes from the streams of Oceanus, and it is time for you to be driving in your goats for the suitors to feast on.”
There, then, they left him in very cruel bondage, and having put on their armour they closed the door behind them and went back to take their places by the side of Ulysses; whereon the four men stood in the cloister, fierce and full of fury; nevertheless, those who were in the body of the court were still both brave and many. Then Jove’s daughter Minerva came up to them, having assumed the voice and form of Mentor. Ulysses was glad when he saw her and said, “Mentor, lend me your help, and forget not your old comrade, nor the many good turns he has done you. Besides, you are my age-mate.”
But all the time he felt sure it was Minerva, and the suitors from the other side raised an uproar when they saw her. Agelaus was the first to reproach her. “Mentor,” he cried, “do not let Ulysses beguile you into siding with him and fighting the suitors. This is what we will do: when we have killed these people, father and son, we will kill you too. You shall pay for it with your head, and when we have killed you, we will take all you have, in doors or out, and bring it into hotch-pot with Ulysses’ property; we will not let your sons live in your house, nor your daughters, nor shall your widow continue to live in the city of Ithaca.”
This made Minerva still more furious, so she scolded Ulysses very angrily. “Ulysses,” said she, “your strength and prowess are no longer what they were when you fought for nine long years among the Trojans about the noble lady Helen. You killed many a man in those days, and it was through your stratagem that Priam’s city was taken. How comes it that you are so lamentably less valiant now that you are on your own ground, face to face with the suitors in your own house? Come on, my good fellow, stand by my side and see how Mentor, son of Alcinous shall fight your foes and requite your kindnesses conferred upon him.”
But she would not give him full victory as yet, for she wished still further to prove his own prowess and that of his brave son, so she flew up to one of the rafters in the roof of the cloister and sat upon it in the form of a swallow.
Meanwhile Agelaus son of Damastor, Eurynomus, Amphimedon, Demoptolemus, Pisander, and Polybus son of Polyctor bore the brunt of the fight upon the suitors’ side; of all those who were still fighting for their lives they were by far the most valiant, for the others had already fallen under the arrows of Ulysses. Agelaus shouted to them and said, “My friends, he will soon have to leave off, for Mentor has gone away after having done nothing for him but brag. They are standing at the doors unsupported. Do not aim at him all at once, but six of you throw your spears first, and see if you cannot cover yourselves with glory by killing him. When he has fallen we need not be uneasy about the others.”
They threw their spears as he bade them, but Minerva made them all of no effect. One hit the door post; anoth- er went against the door; the pointed shaft of another struck the wall; and as soon as they had avoided all the spears
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of the suitors Ulysses said to his own men, “My friends, I should say we too had better let drive into the middle of them, or they will crown all the harm they have done us by us outright.”
They therefore aimed straight in front of them and threw their spears. Ulysses killed Demoptolemus, Telema- chus Euryades, Eumaeus Elatus, while the stockman killed Pisander. These all bit the dust, and as the others drew back into a corner Ulysses and his men rushed forward and regained their spears by drawing them from the bodies of the dead.
The suitors now aimed a second time, but again Minerva made their weapons for the most part without effect. One hit a bearing-post of the cloister; another went against the door; while the pointed shaft of another struck the wall. Still, Amphimedon just took a piece of the top skin from off Telemachus’s wrist, and Ctesippus managed to graze Eumaeus’s shoulder above his shield; but the spear went on and fell to the ground. Then Ulysses and his men let drive into the crowd of suitors. Ulysses hit Eurydamas, Telemachus Amphimedon, and Eumaeus Polybus. After this the stockman hit Ctesippus in the breast, and taunted him saying, “Foul-mouthed son of Polytherses, do not be so foolish as to talk wickedly another time, but let heaven direct your speech, for the gods are far stronger than men. I make you a present of this advice to repay you for the foot which you gave Ulysses when he was begging about in his own house.”
Thus spoke the stockman, and Ulysses struck the son of Damastor with a spear in close fight, while Telemachus hit Leocritus son of Evenor in the belly, and the dart went clean through him, so that he fell forward full on his face upon the ground. Then Minerva from her seat on the rafter held up her deadly aegis, and the hearts of the suitors quailed. They fled to the other end of the court like a herd of cattle maddened by the gadfly in early summer when the days are at their longest. As eagle-beaked, crook-taloned vultures from the mountains swoop down on the smaller birds that cower in flocks upon the ground, and kill them, for they cannot either fight or fly, and lookers on enjoy the sport — even so did Ulysses and his men fall upon the suitors and smite them on every side. They made a horrible groaning as their brains were being battered in, and the ground seethed with their blood.
Leiodes then caught the knees of Ulysses and said, “Ulysses I beseech you have mercy upon me and spare me. I never wronged any of the women in your house either in word or deed, and I tried to stop the others. I saw them, but they would not listen, and now they are paying for their folly. I was their sacrificing priest; if you kill me, I shall die without having done anything to deserve it, and shall have got no thanks for all the good that I did.”
Ulysses looked sternly at him and answered, “If you were their sacrificing priest, you must have prayed many a time that it might be long before I got home again, and that you might marry my wife and have children by her. Therefore you shall die.”
With these words he picked up the sword that Agelaus had dropped when he was being killed, and which was lying upon the ground. Then he struck Leiodes on the back of his neck, so that his head fell rolling in the dust while he was yet speaking.
The minstrel Phemius son of Terpes—he who had been forced by the suitors to sing to them—now tried to save his life. He was standing near towards the trap door, and held his lyre in his hand. He did not know whether to fly out of the cloister and sit down by the altar of Jove that was in the outer court, and on which both Laertes and Ul- ysses had offered up the thigh bones of many an ox, or whether to go straight up to Ulysses and embrace his knees, but in the end he deemed it best to embrace Ulysses’ knees. So he laid his lyre on the ground the ground between the mixing-bowl and the silver-studded seat; then going up to Ulysses he caught hold of his knees and said, “Ul- ysses, I beseech you have mercy on me and spare me. You will be sorry for it afterwards if you kill a bard who can sing both for gods and men as I can. I make all my lays myself, and heaven visits me with every kind of inspiration. I would sing to you as though you were a god, do not therefore be in such a hurry to cut my head off. Your own son Telemachus will tell you that I did not want to frequent your house and sing to the suitors after their meals, but they were too many and too strong for me, so they made me.”
Telemachus heard him, and at once went up to his father. “Hold!” he cried, “the man is guiltless, do him no hurt; and we will Medon too, who was always good to me when I was a boy, unless Philoetius or Eumaeus has al- ready killed him, or he has fallen in your way when you were raging about the court.”
Medon caught these words of Telemachus, for he was crouching under a seat beneath which he had hidden by covering himself up with a freshly flayed heifer’s hide, so he threw off the hide, went up to Telemachus, and laid hold of his knees.
“Here I am, my dear sir,” said he, “stay your hand therefore, and tell your father, or he will kill me in his rage against the suitors for having wasted his substance and been so foolishly disrespectful to yourself.”
Ulysses smiled at him and answered, “Fear not; Telemachus has saved your life, that you may know in future, and tell other people, how greatly better good deeds prosper than evil ones. Go, therefore, outside the cloisters into the outer court, and be out of the way of the slaughter—you and the bard—while I finish my work here inside.”
The pair went into the outer court as fast as they could, and sat down by Jove’s great altar, looking fearfully round, and still expecting that they would be killed. Then Ulysses searched the whole court carefully over, to see
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if anyone had managed to hide himself and was still living, but he found them all lying in the dust and weltering in their blood. They were like fishes which fishermen have netted out of the sea, and thrown upon the beach to lie gasping for water till the heat of the sun makes an end of them. Even so were the suitors lying all huddled up one against the other.
Then Ulysses said to Telemachus, “Call nurse Euryclea; I have something to say to her.” Telemachus went and knocked at the door of the women’s room. “Make haste,” said he, “you old woman who
have been set over all the other women in the house. Come outside; my father wishes to speak to you.” When Euryclea heard this she unfastened the door of the women’s room and came out, following Telemachus.
She found Ulysses among the corpses bespattered with blood and filth like a lion that has just been devouring an ox, and his breast and both his cheeks are all bloody, so that he is a fearful sight; even so was Ulysses besmirched from head to foot with gore. When she saw all the corpses and such a quantity of blood, she was beginning to cry out for joy, for she saw that a great deed had been done; but Ulysses checked her, “Old woman,” said he, “rejoice in silence; restrain yourself, and do not make any noise about it; it is an unholy thing to vaunt over dead men. Heav- en’s doom and their own evil deeds have brought these men to destruction, for they respected no man in the whole world, neither rich nor poor, who came near them, and they have come to a bad end as a punishment for their wickedness and folly. Now, however, tell me which of the women in the house have misconducted themselves, and who are innocent.”
“I will tell you the truth, my son,” answered Euryclea. “There are fifty women in the house whom we teach to do things, such as carding wool, and all kinds of household work. Of these, twelve in all have misbehaved, and have been wanting in respect to me, and also to Penelope. They showed no disrespect to Telemachus, for he has only lately grown and his mother never permitted him to give orders to the female servants; but let me go upstairs and tell your wife all that has happened, for some god has been sending her to sleep.”
“Do not wake her yet,” answered Ulysses, “but tell the women who have misconducted themselves to come to me.”
Euryclea left the cloister to tell the women, and make them come to Ulysses; in the meantime he called Telema- chus, the stockman, and the swineherd. “Begin,” said he, “to remove the dead, and make the women help you. Then, get sponges and clean water to swill down the tables and seats. When you have thoroughly cleansed the whole cloisters, take the women into the space between the domed room and the wall of the outer court, and run them through with your swords till they are quite dead, and have forgotten all about love and the way in which they used to lie in secret with the suitors.”
On this the women came down in a body, weeping and wailing bitterly. First they carried the dead bodies out, and propped them up against one another in the gatehouse. Ulysses ordered them about and made them do their work quickly, so they had to carry the bodies out. When they had done this, they cleaned all the tables and seats with sponges and water, while Telemachus and the two others shovelled up the blood and dirt from the ground, and the women carried it all away and put it out of doors. Then when they had made the whole place quite clean and orderly, they took the women out and hemmed them in the narrow space between the wall of the domed room and that of the yard, so that they could not get away: and Telemachus said to the other two, “I shall not let these women die a clean death, for they were insolent to me and my mother, and used to sleep with the suitors.”
So saying he made a ship’s cable fast to one of the bearing-posts that supported the roof of the domed room, and secured it all around the building, at a good height, lest any of the women’s feet should touch the ground; and as thrushes or doves beat against a net that has been set for them in a thicket just as they were getting to their nest, and a terrible fate awaits them, even so did the women have to put their heads in nooses one after the other and die most miserably. Their feet moved convulsively for a while, but not for very long.
As for Melanthius, they took him through the cloister into the inner court. There they cut off his nose and his ears; they drew out his vitals and gave them to the dogs raw, and then in their fury they cut off his hands and his feet.
When they had done this they washed their hands and feet and went back into the house, for all was now over; and Ulysses said to the dear old nurse Euryclea, “Bring me sulphur, which cleanses all pollution, and fetch fire also that I may burn it, and purify the cloisters. Go, moreover, and tell Penelope to come here with her attendants, and also all the maid servants that are in the house.”
“All that you have said is true,” answered Euryclea, “but let me bring you some clean clothes—a shirt and cloak. Do not keep these rags on your back any longer. It is not right.”
“First light me a fire,” replied Ulysses. She brought the fire and sulphur, as he had bidden her, and Ulysses thoroughly purified the cloisters and both
the inner and outer courts. Then she went inside to call the women and tell them what had happened; whereon they came from their apartment with torches in their hands, and pressed round Ulysses to embrace him, kissing his head and shoulders and taking hold of his hands. It made him feel as if he should like to weep, for he remembered every
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one of them.
Book XXIII EURYCLEA now went upstairs laughing to tell her mistress that her dear husband had come home. Her aged
knees became young again and her feet were nimble for joy as she went up to her mistress and bent over her head to speak to her. “Wake up Penelope, my dear child,” she exclaimed, “and see with your own eyes something that you have been wanting this long time past. Ulysses has at last indeed come home again, and has killed the suitors who were giving so much trouble in his house, eating up his estate and ill-treating his son.”
“My good nurse,” answered Penelope, “you must be mad. The gods sometimes send some very sensible people out of their minds, and make foolish people become sensible. This is what they must have been doing to you; for you always used to be a reasonable person. Why should you thus mock me when I have trouble enough already— talking such nonsense, and waking me up out of a sweet sleep that had taken possession of my eyes and closed them? I have never slept so soundly from the day my poor husband went to that city with the ill-omened name. Go back again into the women’s room; if it had been any one else, who had woke me up to bring me such absurd news I should have sent her away with a severe scolding. As it is, your age shall protect you.”
“My dear child,” answered Euryclea, “I am not mocking you. It is quite true as I tell you that Ulysses is come home again. He was the stranger whom they all kept on treating so badly in the cloister. Telemachus knew all the time that he was come back, but kept his father’s secret that he might have his revenge on all these wicked people.
Then Penelope sprang up from her couch, threw her arms round Euryclea, and wept for joy. “But my dear nurse,” said she, “explain this to me; if he has really come home as you say, how did he manage to overcome the wicked suitors single handed, seeing what a number of them there always were?”
“I was not there,” answered Euryclea, “and do not know; I only heard them groaning while they were being killed. We sat crouching and huddled up in a corner of the women’s room with the doors closed, till your son came to fetch me because his father sent him. Then I found Ulysses standing over the corpses that were lying on the ground all round him, one on top of the other. You would have enjoyed it if you could have seen him standing there all bespattered with blood and filth, and looking just like a lion. But the corpses are now all piled up in the gate- house that is in the outer court, and Ulysses has lit a great fire to purify the house with sulphur. He has sent me to call you, so come with me that you may both be happy together after all; for now at last the desire of your heart has been fulfilled; your husband is come home to find both wife and son alive and well, and to take his revenge in his own house on the suitors who behaved so badly to him.”
“’My dear nurse,” said Penelope, “do not exult too confidently over all this. You know how delighted every one would be to see Ulysses come home—more particularly myself, and the son who has been born to both of us; but what you tell me cannot be really true. It is some god who is angry with the suitors for their great wickedness, and has made an end of them; for they respected no man in the whole world, neither rich nor poor, who came near them, who came near them, and they have come to a bad end in consequence of their iniquity. Ulysses is dead far away from the Achaean land; he will never return home again.”
Then nurse Euryclea said, “My child, what are you talking about? but you were all hard of belief and have made up your mind that your husband is never coming, although he is in the house and by his own fire side at this very moment. Besides I can give you another proof; when I was washing him I perceived the scar which the wild boar gave him, and I wanted to tell you about it, but in his wisdom he would not let me, and clapped his hands over my mouth; so come with me and I will make this bargain with you—if I am deceiving you, you may have me killed by the most cruel death you can think of.”
“My dear nurse,” said Penelope, “however wise you may be you can hardly fathom the counsels of the gods. Nevertheless, we will go in search of my son, that I may see the corpses of the suitors, and the man who has killed them.”
On this she came down from her upper room, and while doing so she considered whether she should keep at a distance from her husband and question him, or whether she should at once go up to him and embrace him. When, however, she had crossed the stone floor of the cloister, she sat down opposite Ulysses by the fire, against the wall at right angles [to that by which she had entered], while Ulysses sat near one of the bearing-posts, looking upon the ground, and waiting to see what his wife would say to him when she saw him. For a long time she sat silent and as one lost in amazement. At one moment she looked him full in the face, but then again directly, she was misled by his shabby clothes and failed to recognize him, till Telemachus began to reproach her and said:
“Mother—but you are so hard that I cannot call you by such a name—why do you keep away from my father in this way? Why do you not sit by his side and begin talking to him and asking him questions? No other woman could bear to keep away from her husband when he had come back to her after twenty years of absence, and after having gone through so much; but your heart always was as hard as a stone.”
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Penelope answered, “My son, I am so lost in astonishment that I can find no words in which either to ask ques- tions or to answer them. I cannot even look him straight in the face. Still, if he really is Ulysses come back to his own home again, we shall get to understand one another better by and by, for there are tokens with which we two are alone acquainted, and which are hidden from all others.”
Ulysses smiled at this, and said to Telemachus, “Let your mother put me to any proof she likes; she will make up her mind about it presently. She rejects me for the moment and believes me to be somebody else, because I am covered with dirt and have such bad clothes on; let us, however, consider what we had better do next. When one man has killed another, even though he was not one who would leave many friends to take up his quarrel, the man who has killed him must still say good bye to his friends and fly the country; whereas we have been killing the stay of a whole town, and all the picked youth of Ithaca. I would have you consider this matter.”
“Look to it yourself, father,” answered Telemachus, “for they say you are the wisest counsellor in the world, and that there is no other mortal man who can compare with you. We will follow you with right good will, nor shall you find us fail you in so far as our strength holds out.”
“I will say what I think will be best,” answered Ulysses. “First wash and put your shirts on; tell the maids also to go to their own room and dress; Phemius shall then strike up a dance tune on his lyre, so that if people outside hear, or any of the neighbours, or some one going along the street happens to notice it, they may think there is a wedding in the house, and no rumours about the death of the suitors will get about in the town, before we can escape to the woods upon my own land. Once there, we will settle which of the courses heaven vouchsafes us shall seem wisest.”
Thus did he speak, and they did even as he had said. First they washed and put their shirts on, while the women got ready. Then Phemius took his lyre and set them all longing for sweet song and stately dance. The house re- echoed with the sound of men and women dancing, and the people outside said, “I suppose the queen has been getting married at last. She ought to be ashamed of herself for not continuing to protect her husband’s property until he comes home.”
This was what they said, but they did not know what it was that had been happening. The upper servant Eu- rynome washed and anointed Ulysses in his own house and gave him a shirt and cloak, while Minerva made him look taller and stronger than before; she also made the hair grow thick on the top of his head, and flow down in curls like hyacinth blossoms; she glorified him about the head and shoulders just as a skilful workman who has studied art of all kinds under Vulcan or Minerva—and his work is full of beauty—enriches a piece of silver plate by gilding it. He came from the bath looking like one of the immortals, and sat down opposite his wife on the seat he had left. “My dear,” said he, “heaven has endowed you with a heart more unyielding than woman ever yet had. No other woman could bear to keep away from her husband when he had come back to her after twenty years of absence, and after having gone through so much. But come, nurse, get a bed ready for me; I will sleep alone, for this woman has a heart as hard as iron.”
“My dear,” answered Penelope, “I have no wish to set myself up, nor to depreciate you; but I am not struck by your appearance, for I very well remember what kind of a man you were when you set sail from Ithaca. Neverthe- less, Euryclea, take his bed outside the bed chamber that he himself built. Bring the bed outside this room, and put bedding upon it with fleeces, good coverlets, and blankets.”
She said this to try him, but Ulysses was very angry and said, “Wife, I am much displeased at what you have just been saying. Who has been taking my bed from the place in which I left it? He must have found it a hard task, no matter how skilled a workman he was, unless some god came and helped him to shift it. There is no man living, however strong and in his prime, who could move it from its place, for it is a marvellous curiosity which I made with my very own hands. There was a young olive growing within the precincts of the house, in full vigour, and about as thick as a bearing-post. I built my room round this with strong walls of stone and a roof to cover them, and I made the doors strong and well-fitting. Then I cut off the top boughs of the olive tree and left the stump standing. This I dressed roughly from the root upwards and then worked with carpenter’s tools well and skilfully, straighten- ing my work by drawing a line on the wood, and making it into a bed-prop. I then bored a hole down the middle, and made it the centre-post of my bed, at which I worked till I had finished it, inlaying it with gold and silver; after this I stretched a hide of crimson leather from one side of it to the other. So you see I know all about it, and I desire to learn whether it is still there, or whether any one has been removing it by cutting down the olive tree at its roots.”
When she heard the sure proofs Ulysses now gave her, she fairly broke down. She flew weeping to his side, flung her arms about his neck, and kissed him. “Do not be angry with me Ulysses,” she cried, “you, who are the wisest of mankind. We have suffered, both of us. Heaven has denied us the happiness of spending our youth, and of growing old, together; do not then be aggrieved or take it amiss that I did not embrace you thus as soon as I saw you. I have been shuddering all the time through fear that someone might come here and deceive me with a lying story; for there are many very wicked people going about. Jove’s daughter Helen would never have yielded herself to a man from a foreign country, if she had known that the sons of Achaeans would come after her and bring her back. Heav- en put it in her heart to do wrong, and she gave no thought to that sin, which has been the source of all our sorrows.
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Now, however, that you have convinced me by showing that you know all about our bed (which no human being has ever seen but you and I and a single maid servant, the daughter of Actor, who was given me by my father on my marriage, and who keeps the doors of our room) hard of belief though I have been I can mistrust no longer.”
Then Ulysses in his turn melted, and wept as he clasped his dear and faithful wife to his bosom. As the sight of land is welcome to men who are swimming towards the shore, when Neptune has wrecked their ship with the fury of his winds and waves—a few alone reach the land, and these, covered with brine, are thankful when they find themselves on firm ground and out of danger—even so was her husband welcome to her as she looked upon him, and she could not tear her two fair arms from about his neck. Indeed they would have gone on indulging their sor- row till rosy-fingered morn appeared, had not Minerva determined otherwise, and held night back in the far west, while she would not suffer Dawn to leave Oceanus, nor to yoke the two steeds Lampus and Phaethon that bear her onward to break the day upon mankind.
At last, however, Ulysses said, “Wife, we have not yet reached the end of our troubles. I have an unknown amount of toil still to undergo. It is long and difficult, but I must go through with it, for thus the shade of Teiresias prophesied concerning me, on the day when I went down into Hades to ask about my return and that of my com- panions. But now let us go to bed, that we may lie down and enjoy the blessed boon of sleep.”
“You shall go to bed as soon as you please,” replied Penelope, “now that the gods have sent you home to your own good house and to your country. But as heaven has put it in your mind to speak of it, tell me about the task that lies before you. I shall have to hear about it later, so it is better that I should be told at once.”
“My dear,” answered Ulysses, “why should you press me to tell you? Still, I will not conceal it from you, though you will not like it. I do not like it myself, for Teiresias bade me travel far and wide, carrying an oar, till I came to a country where the people have never heard of the sea, and do not even mix salt with their food. They know nothing about ships, nor oars that are as the wings of a ship. He gave me this certain token which I will not hide from you. He said that a wayfarer should meet me and ask me whether it was a winnowing shovel that I had on my shoulder. On this, I was to fix my oar in the ground and sacrifice a ram, a bull, and a boar to Neptune; after which I was to go home and offer hecatombs to all the gods in heaven, one after the other. As for myself, he said that death should come to me from the sea, and that my life should ebb away very gently when I was full of years and peace of mind, and my people should bless me. All this, he said, should surely come to pass.”
And Penelope said, “If the gods are going to vouchsafe you a happier time in your old age, you may hope then to have some respite from misfortune.”
Thus did they converse. Meanwhile Eurynome and the nurse took torches and made the bed ready with soft coverlets; as soon as they had laid them, the nurse went back into the house to go to her rest, leaving the bed cham- ber woman Eurynome to show Ulysses and Penelope to bed by torch light. When she had conducted them to their room she went back, and they then came joyfully to the rites of their own old bed. Telemachus, Philoetius, and the swineherd now left off dancing, and made the women leave off also. They then laid themselves down to sleep in the cloisters.
When Ulysses and Penelope had had their fill of love they fell talking with one another. She told him how much she had had to bear in seeing the house filled with a crowd of wicked suitors who had killed so many sheep and oxen on her account, and had drunk so many casks of wine. Ulysses in his turn told her what he had suffered, and how much trouble he had himself given to other people. He told her everything, and she was so delighted to listen that she never went to sleep till he had ended his whole story.
He began with his victory over the Cicons, and how he thence reached the fertile land of the Lotus-eaters. He told her all about the Cyclops and how he had punished him for having so ruthlessly eaten his brave comrades; how he then went on to Aeolus, who received him hospitably and furthered him on his way, but even so he was not to reach home, for to his great grief a hurricane carried him out to sea again; how he went on to the Laestrygonian city Telepylos, where the people destroyed all his ships with their crews, save himself and his own ship only. Then he told of cunning Circe and her craft, and how he sailed to the chill house of Hades, to consult the ghost of the Theban prophet Teiresias, and how he saw his old comrades in arms, and his mother who bore him and brought him up when he was a child; how he then heard the wondrous singing of the Sirens, and went on to the wandering rocks and terrible Charybdis and to Scylla, whom no man had ever yet passed in safety; how his men then ate the cattle of the sun-god, and how Jove therefore struck the ship with his thunderbolts, so that all his men perished together, himself alone being left alive; how at last he reached the Ogygian island and the nymph Calypso, who kept him there in a cave, and fed him, and wanted him to marry her, in which case she intended making him immortal so that he should never grow old, but she could not persuade him to let her do so; and how after much suffering he had found his way to the Phaeacians, who had treated him as though he had been a god, and sent him back in a ship to his own country after having given him gold, bronze, and raiment in great abundance. This was the last thing about which he told her, for here a deep sleep took hold upon him and eased the burden of his sorrows.
Then Minerva bethought her of another matter. When she deemed that Ulysses had had both of his wife and of
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repose, she bade gold-enthroned Dawn rise out of Oceanus that she might shed light upon mankind. On this, Ul- ysses rose from his comfortable bed and said to Penelope, “Wife, we have both of us had our full share of troubles, you, here, in lamenting my absence, and I in being prevented from getting home though I was longing all the time to do so. Now, however, that we have at last come together, take care of the property that is in the house. As for the sheep and goats which the wicked suitors have eaten, I will take many myself by force from other people, and will compel the Achaeans to make good the rest till they shall have filled all my yards. I am now going to the wooded lands out in the country to see my father who has so long been grieved on my account, and to yourself I will give these instructions, though you have little need of them. At sunrise it will at once get abroad that I have been killing the suitors; go upstairs, therefore, and stay there with your women. See nobody and ask no questions.”
As he spoke he girded on his armour. Then he roused Telemachus, Philoetius, and Eumaeus, and told them all to put on their armour also. This they did, and armed themselves. When they had done so, they opened the gates and sallied forth, Ulysses leading the way. It was now daylight, but Minerva nevertheless concealed them in dark- ness and led them quickly out of the town.
Book XXIV THEN Mercury of Cyllene summoned the ghosts of the suitors, and in his hand he held the fair golden wand
with which he seals men’s eyes in sleep or wakes them just as he pleases; with this he roused the ghosts and led them, while they followed whining and gibbering behind him. As bats fly squealing in the hollow of some great cave, when one of them has fallen out of the cluster in which they hang, even so did the ghosts whine and squeal as Mercury the healer of sorrow led them down into the dark abode of death. When they had passed the waters of Oceanus and the rock Leucas, they came to the gates of the sun and the land of dreams, whereon they reached the meadow of asphodel where dwell the souls and shadows of them that can labour no more.
Here they found the ghost of Achilles son of Peleus, with those of Patroclus, Antilochus, and Ajax, who was the finest and handsomest man of all the Danaans after the son of Peleus himself.
They gathered round the ghost of the son of Peleus, and the ghost of Agamemnon joined them, sorrowing bitterly. Round him were gathered also the ghosts of those who had perished with him in the house of Aeisthus; and the ghost of Achilles spoke first.
“Son of Atreus,” it said, “we used to say that Jove had loved you better from first to last than any other hero, for you were captain over many and brave men, when we were all fighting together before Troy; yet the hand of death, which no mortal can escape, was laid upon you all too early. Better for you had you fallen at Troy in the hey-day of your renown, for the Achaeans would have built a mound over your ashes, and your son would have been heir to your good name, whereas it has now been your lot to come to a most miserable end.”
“Happy son of Peleus,” answered the ghost of Agamemnon, “for having died at Troy far from Argos, while the bravest of the Trojans and the Achaeans fell round you fighting for your body. There you lay in the whirling clouds of dust, all huge and hugely, heedless now of your chivalry. We fought the whole of the livelong day, nor should we ever have left off if Jove had not sent a hurricane to stay us. Then, when we had borne you to the ships out of the fray, we laid you on your bed and cleansed your fair skin with warm water and with ointments. The Danaans tore their hair and wept bitterly round about you. Your mother, when she heard, came with her immortal nymphs from out of the sea, and the sound of a great wailing went forth over the waters so that the Achaeans quaked for fear. They would have fled panic-stricken to their ships had not wise old Nestor whose counsel was ever truest checked them saying, ‘Hold, Argives, fly not sons of the Achaeans, this is his mother coming from the sea with her immortal nymphs to view the body of her son.’
“Thus he spoke, and the Achaeans feared no more. The daughters of the old man of the sea stood round you weeping bitterly, and clothed you in immortal raiment. The nine muses also came and lifted up their sweet voices in lament—calling and answering one another; there was not an Argive but wept for pity of the dirge they chaunted. Days and nights seven and ten we mourned you, mortals and immortals, but on the eighteenth day we gave you to the flames, and many a fat sheep with many an ox did we slay in sacrifice around you. You were burnt in raiment of the gods, with rich resins and with honey, while heroes, horse and foot, clashed their armour round the pile as you were burning, with the tramp as of a great multitude. But when the flames of heaven had done their work, we gath- ered your white bones at daybreak and laid them in ointments and in pure wine. Your mother brought us a golden vase to hold them—gift of Bacchus, and work of Vulcan himself; in this we mingled your bleached bones with those of Patroclus who had gone before you, and separate we enclosed also those of Antilochus, who had been closer to you than any other of your comrades now that Patroclus was no more.
“Over these the host of the Argives built a noble tomb, on a point jutting out over the open Hellespont, that it might be seen from far out upon the sea by those now living and by them that shall be born hereafter. Your mother begged prizes from the gods, and offered them to be contended for by the noblest of the Achaeans. You must have been present at the funeral of many a hero, when the young men gird themselves and make ready to contend for
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prizes on the death of some great chieftain, but you never saw such prizes as silver-footed Thetis offered in your honour; for the gods loved you well. Thus even in death your fame, Achilles, has not been lost, and your name lives evermore among all mankind. But as for me, what solace had I when the days of my fighting were done? For Jove willed my destruction on my return, by the hands of Aegisthus and those of my wicked wife.”
Thus did they converse, and presently Mercury came up to them with the ghosts of the suitors who had been killed by Ulysses. The ghosts of Agamemnon and Achilles were astonished at seeing them, and went up to them at once. The ghost of Agamemnon recognized Amphimedon son of Melaneus, who lived in Ithaca and had been his host, so it began to talk to him.
“Amphimedon,” it said, “what has happened to all you fine young men—all of an age too—that you are come down here under the ground? One could pick no finer body of men from any city. Did Neptune raise his winds and waves against you when you were at sea, or did your enemies make an end of you on the mainland when you were cattle-lifting or sheep-stealing, or while fighting in defence of their wives and city? Answer my question, for I have been your guest. Do you not remember how I came to your house with Menelaus, to persuade Ulysses to join us with his ships against Troy? It was a whole month ere we could resume our voyage, for we had hard work to persuade Ulysses to come with us.”
And the ghost of Amphimedon answered, “Agamemnon, son of Atreus, king of men, I remember everything that you have said, and will tell you fully and accurately about the way in which our end was brought about. Ulysses had been long gone, and we were courting his wife, who did not say point blank that she would not marry, nor yet bring matters to an end, for she meant to compass our destruction: this, then, was the trick she played us. She set up a great tambour frame in her room and began to work on an enormous piece of fine needlework. ‘Sweethearts,’ said she, ‘Ulysses is indeed dead, still, do not press me to marry again immediately; wait—for I would not have my skill in needlework perish unrecorded—till I have completed a pall for the hero Laertes, against the time when death shall take him. He is very rich, and the women of the place will talk if he is laid out without a pall.’ This is what she said, and we assented; whereupon we could see her working upon her great web all day long, but at night she would unpick the stitches again by torchlight. She fooled us in this way for three years without our finding it out, but as time wore on and she was now in her fourth year, in the waning of moons and many days had been accomplished, one of her maids who knew what she was doing told us, and we caught her in the act of undoing her work, so she had to finish it whether she would or no; and when she showed us the robe she had made, after she had had it washed, its splendour was as that of the sun or moon.
“Then some malicious god conveyed Ulysses to the upland farm where his swineherd lives. Thither presently came also his son, returning from a voyage to Pylos, and the two came to the town when they had hatched their plot for our destruction. Telemachus came first, and then after him, accompanied by the swineherd, came Ulyss- es, clad in rags and leaning on a staff as though he were some miserable old beggar. He came so unexpectedly that none of us knew him, not even the older ones among us, and we reviled him and threw things at him. He endured both being struck and insulted without a word, though he was in his own house; but when the will of Aegis-bearing Jove inspired him, he and Telemachus took the armour and hid it in an inner chamber, bolting the doors behind them. Then he cunningly made his wife offer his bow and a quantity of iron to be contended for by us ill-fated suitors; and this was the beginning of our end, for not one of us could string the bow—nor nearly do so. When it was about to reach the hands of Ulysses, we all of us shouted out that it should not be given him, no matter what he might say, but Telemachus insisted on his having it. When he had got it in his hands he strung it with ease and sent his arrow through the iron. Then he stood on the floor of the cloister and poured his arrows on the ground, glaring fiercely about him. First he killed Antinous, and then, aiming straight before him, he let fly his deadly darts and they fell thick on one another. It was plain that some one of the gods was helping them, for they fell upon us with might and main throughout the cloisters, and there was a hideous sound of groaning as our brains were being bat- tered in, and the ground seethed with our blood. This, Agamemnon, is how we came by our end, and our bodies are lying still un-cared for in the house of Ulysses, for our friends at home do not yet know what has happened, so that they cannot lay us out and wash the black blood from our wounds, making moan over us according to the offices due to the departed.”
“Happy Ulysses, son of Laertes,” replied the ghost of Agamemnon, “you are indeed blessed in the possession of a wife endowed with such rare excellence of understanding, and so faithful to her wedded lord as Penelope the daughter of Icarius. The fame, therefore, of her virtue shall never die, and the immortals shall compose a song that shall be welcome to all mankind in honour of the constancy of Penelope. How far otherwise was the wickedness of the daughter of Tyndareus who killed her lawful husband; her song shall be hateful among men, for she has brought disgrace on all womankind even on the good ones.”
Thus did they converse in the house of Hades deep down within the bowels of the earth. Meanwhile Ulysses and the others passed out of the town and soon reached the fair and well-tilled farm of Laertes, which he had re- claimed with infinite labour. Here was his house, with a lean-to running all round it, where the slaves who worked for him slept and sat and ate, while inside the house there was an old Sicel woman, who looked after him in this his country-farm. When Ulysses got there, he said to his son and to the other two:
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“Go to the house, and kill the best pig that you can find for dinner. Meanwhile I want to see whether my father will know me, or fail to recognize me after so long an absence.”
He then took off his armour and gave it to Eumaeus and Philoetius, who went straight on to the house, while he turned off into the vineyard to make trial of his father. As he went down into the great orchard, he did not see Dolius, nor any of his sons nor of the other bondsmen, for they were all gathering thorns to make a fence for the vineyard, at the place where the old man had told them; he therefore found his father alone, hoeing a vine. He had on a dirty old shirt, patched and very shabby; his legs were bound round with thongs of oxhide to save him from the brambles, and he also wore sleeves of leather; he had a goat skin cap on his head, and was looking very woe-be- gone. When Ulysses saw him so worn, so old and full of sorrow, he stood still under a tall pear tree and began to weep. He doubted whether to embrace him, kiss him, and tell him all about his having come home, or whether he should first question him and see what he would say. In the end he deemed it best to be crafty with him, so in this mind he went up to his father, who was bending down and digging about a plant.
“I see, sir,” said Ulysses, “that you are an excellent gardener—what pains you take with it, to be sure. There is not a single plant, not a fig tree, vine, olive, pear, nor flower bed, but bears the trace of your attention. I trust, however, that you will not be offended if I say that you take better care of your garden than of yourself. You are old, unsavoury, and very meanly clad. It cannot be because you are idle that your master takes such poor care of you, indeed your face and figure have nothing of the slave about them, and proclaim you of noble birth. I should have said that you were one of those who should wash well, eat well, and lie soft at night as old men have a right to do; but tell me, and tell me true, whose bondman are you, and in whose garden are you working? Tell me also about another matter. Is this place that I have come to really Ithaca? I met a man just now who said so, but he was a dull fellow, and had not the patience to hear my story out when I was asking him about an old friend of mine, whether he was still living, or was already dead and in the house of Hades. Believe me when I tell you that this man came to my house once when I was in my own country and never yet did any stranger come to me whom I liked better. He said that his family came from Ithaca and that his father was Laertes, son of Arceisius. I received him hospitably, making him welcome to all the abundance of my house, and when he went away I gave him all customary presents. I gave him seven talents of fine gold, and a cup of solid silver with flowers chased upon it. I gave him twelve light cloaks, and as many pieces of tapestry; I also gave him twelve cloaks of single fold, twelve rugs, twelve fair mantles, and an equal number of shirts. To all this I added four good look- ing women skilled in all useful arts, and I let him take his choice.”
His father shed tears and answered, “Sir, you have indeed come to the country that you have named, but it is fallen into the hands of wicked people. All this wealth of presents has been given to no purpose. If you could have found your friend here alive in Ithaca, he would have entertained you hospitably and would have required your presents amply when you left him—as would have been only right considering what you have already given him. But tell me, and tell me true, how many years is it since you entertained this guest—my unhappy son, as ever was? Alas! He has perished far from his own country; the fishes of the sea have eaten him, or he has fallen a prey to the birds and wild beasts of some continent. Neither his mother, nor I his father, who were his parents, could throw our arms about him and wrap him in his shroud, nor could his excellent and richly dowered wife Penelope bewail her husband as was natural upon his death bed, and close his eyes according to the offices due to the departed. But now, tell me truly for I want to know. Who and whence are you—tell me of your town and parents? Where is the ship lying that has brought you and your men to Ithaca? Or were you a passenger on some other man’s ship, and those who brought you here have gone on their way and left you?”
“I will tell you everything,” answered Ulysses, “quite truly. I come from Alybas, where I have a fine house. I am son of king Apheidas, who is the son of Polypemon. My own name is Eperitus; heaven drove me off my course as I was leaving Sicania, and I have been carried here against my will. As for my ship it is lying over yonder, off the open country outside the town, and this is the fifth year since Ulysses left my country. Poor fellow, yet the omens were good for him when he left me. The birds all flew on our right hands, and both he and I rejoiced to see them as we parted, for we had every hope that we should have another friendly meeting and exchange presents.”
A dark cloud of sorrow fell upon Laertes as he listened. He filled both hands with the dust from off the ground and poured it over his grey head, groaning heavily as he did so. The heart of Ulysses was touched, and his nostrils quivered as he looked upon his father; then he sprang towards him, flung his arms about him and kissed him, saying, “I am he, father, about whom you are asking—I have returned after having been away for twenty years. But cease your sighing and lamentation—we have no time to lose, for I should tell you that I have been killing the suit- ors in my house, to punish them for their insolence and crimes.”
“If you really are my son Ulysses,” replied Laertes, “and have come back again, you must give me such manifest proof of your identity as shall convince me.”
“First observe this scar,” answered Ulysses, “which I got from a boar’s tusk when I was hunting on Mount Par- nassus. You and my mother had sent me to Autolycus, my mother’s father, to receive the presents which when he was over here he had promised to give me. Furthermore I will point out to you the trees in the vineyard which you
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gave me, and I asked you all about them as I followed you round the garden. We went over them all, and you told me their names and what they all were. You gave me thirteen pear trees, ten apple trees, and forty fig trees; you also said you would give me fifty rows of vines; there was corn planted between each row, and they yield grapes of every kind when the heat of heaven has been laid heavy upon them.”
Laertes’ strength failed him when he heard the convincing proofs which his son had given him. He threw his arms about him, and Ulysses had to support him, or he would have gone off into a swoon; but as soon as he came to, and was beginning to recover his senses, he said, “O father Jove, then you gods are still in Olympus after all, if the suitors have really been punished for their insolence and folly. Nevertheless, I am much afraid that I shall have all the townspeople of Ithaca up here directly, and they will be sending messengers everywhere throughout the cities of the Cephallenians.”
Ulysses answered, “Take heart and do not trouble yourself about that, but let us go into the house hard by your gar- den. I have already told Telemachus, Philoetius, and Eumaeus to go on there and get dinner ready as soon as possible.”
Thus conversing the two made their way towards the house. When they got there they found Telemachus with the stockman and the swineherd cutting up meat and mixing wine with water. Then the old Sicel woman took Laertes inside and washed him and anointed him with oil. She put him on a good cloak, and Minerva came up to him and gave him a more imposing presence, making him taller and stouter than before. When he came back his son was surprised to see him looking so like an immortal, and said to him, “My dear father, some one of the gods has been making you much taller and better-looking.”
Laertes answered, “Would, by Father Jove, Minerva, and Apollo, that I were the man I was when I ruled among the Cephallenians, and took Nericum, that strong fortress on the foreland. If I were still what I then was and had been in our house yesterday with my armour on, I should have been able to stand by you and help you against the suitors. I should have killed a great many of them, and you would have rejoiced to see it.”
Thus did they converse; but the others, when they had finished their work and the feast was ready, left off working, and took each his proper place on the benches and seats. Then they began eating; by and by old Dolius and his sons left their work and came up, for their mother, the Sicel woman who looked after Laertes now that he was growing old, had been to fetch them. When they saw Ulysses and were certain it was he, they stood there lost in astonishment; but Ulysses scolded them good-naturedly and said, “Sit down to your dinner, old man, and never mind about your surprise; we have been wanting to begin for some time and have been waiting for you.”
Then Dolius put out both his hands and went up to Ulysses. “Sir,” said he, seizing his master’s hand and kissing it at the wrist, “we have long been wishing you home: and now heaven has restored you to us after we had given up hoping. All hail, therefore, and may the gods prosper you. But tell me, does Penelope already know of your return, or shall we send some one to tell her?”
“Old man,” answered Ulysses, “she knows already, so you need not trouble about that.” On this he took his seat, and the sons of Dolius gathered round Ulysses to give him greeting and embrace him one after the other; then they took their seats in due order near Dolius their father.
While they were thus busy getting their dinner ready, Rumour went round the town, and noised abroad the terrible fate that had befallen the suitors; as soon, therefore, as the people heard of it they gathered from every quarter, groaning and hooting before the house of Ulysses. They took the dead away, buried every man his own, and put the bodies of those who came from elsewhere on board the fishing vessels, for the fishermen to take each of them to his own place. They then met angrily in the place of assembly, and when they were got together Eupeithes rose to speak. He was overwhelmed with grief for the death of his son Antinous, who had been the first man killed by Ulysses, so he said, weeping bitterly, “My friend, this man has done the Achaeans great wrong. He took many of our best men away with him in his fleet, and he has lost both ships and men; now, moreover, on his return he has been killing all the foremost men among the Cephallenians. Let us be up and doing before he can get away to Pylos or to Elis where the Epeans rule, or we shall be ashamed of ourselves for ever afterwards. It will be an everlasting disgrace to us if we do not avenge the murder of our sons and brothers. For my own part I should have no mote pleasure in life, but had rather die at once. Let us be up, then, and after them, before they can cross over to the mainland.”
He wept as he spoke and every one pitied him. But Medon and the bard Phemius had now woke up, and came to them from the house of Ulysses. Every one was astonished at seeing them, but they stood in the middle of the assem- bly, and Medon said, “Hear me, men of Ithaca. Ulysses did not do these things against the will of heaven. I myself saw an immortal god take the form of Mentor and stand beside him. This god appeared, now in front of him encouraging him, and now going furiously about the court and attacking the suitors whereon they fell thick on one another.”
On this pale fear laid hold of them, and old Halitherses, son of Mastor, rose to speak, for he was the only man among them who knew both past and future; so he spoke to them plainly and in all honesty, saying,
“Men of Ithaca, it is all your own fault that things have turned out as they have; you would not listen to me, nor yet to Mentor, when we bade you check the folly of your sons who were doing much wrong in the wantonness of their hearts—wasting the substance and dishonouring the wife of a chieftain who they thought would not return. Now,
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however, let it be as I say, and do as I tell you. Do not go out against Ulysses, or you may find that you have been draw- ing down evil on your own heads.”
This was what he said, and more than half raised a loud shout, and at once left the assembly. But the rest stayed where they were, for the speech of Halitherses displeased them, and they sided with Eupeithes; they therefore hurried off for their armour, and when they had armed themselves, they met together in front of the city, and Eupeithes led them on in their folly. He thought he was going to avenge the murder of his son, whereas in truth he was never to return, but was himself to perish in his attempt.
Then Minerva said to Jove, “Father, son of Saturn, king of kings, answer me this question—What do you propose to do? Will you set them fighting still further, or will you make peace between them?”
And Jove answered, “My child, why should you ask me? Was it not by your own arrangement that Ulysses came home and took his revenge upon the suitors? Do whatever you like, but I will tell you what I think will be most rea- sonable arrangement. Now that Ulysses is revenged, let them swear to a solemn covenant, in virtue of which he shall continue to rule, while we cause the others to forgive and forget the massacre of their sons and brothers. Let them then all become friends as heretofore, and let peace and plenty reign.”
This was what Minerva was already eager to bring about, so down she darted from off the topmost summits of Olympus.
Now when Laertes and the others had done dinner, Ulysses began by saying, “Some of you go out and see if they are not getting close up to us.” So one of Dolius’s sons went as he was bid. Standing on the threshold he could see them all quite near, and said to Ulysses, “Here they are, let us put on our armour at once.”
They put on their armour as fast as they could—that is to say Ulysses, his three men, and the six sons of Dolius. Laertes also and Dolius did the same—warriors by necessity in spite of their grey hair. When they had all put on their armour, they opened the gate and sallied forth, Ulysses leading the way.
Then Jove’s daughter Minerva came up to them, having assumed the form and voice of Mentor. Ulysses was glad when he saw her, and said to his son Telemachus, “Telemachus, now that are about to fight in an engagement, which will show every man’s mettle, be sure not to disgrace your ancestors, who were eminent for their strength and courage all the world over.”
“You say truly, my dear father,” answered Telemachus, “and you shall see, if you will, that I am in no mind to dis- grace your family.”
Laertes was delighted when he heard this. “Good heavens, he exclaimed, “what a day I am enjoying: I do indeed rejoice at it. My son and grandson are vying with one another in the matter of valour.”
On this Minerva came close up to him and said, “Son of Arceisius—best friend I have in the world—pray to the blue-eyed damsel, and to Jove her father; then poise your spear and hurl it.”
As she spoke she infused fresh vigour into him, and when he had prayed to her he poised his spear and hurled it. He hit Eupeithes’ helmet, and the spear went right through it, for the helmet stayed it not, and his armour rang rattling round him as he fell heavily to the ground. Meantime Ulysses and his son fell the front line of the foe and smote them with their swords and spears; indeed, they would have killed every one of them, and prevented them from ever getting home again, only Minerva raised her voice aloud, and made every one pause. “Men of Ithaca,” she cried, cease this dreadful war, and settle the matter at once without further bloodshed.”
On this pale fear seized every one; they were so frightened that their arms dropped from their hands and fell upon the ground at the sound of the goddess’s voice, and they fled back to the city for their lives. But Ulysses gave a great cry, and gathering himself together swooped down like a soaring eagle. Then the son of Saturn sent a thunder- bolt of fire that fell just in front of Minerva, so she said to Ulysses, “Ulysses, noble son of Laertes, stop this warful strife, or Jove will be angry with you.”
Thus spoke Minerva, and Ulysses obeyed her gladly. Then Minerva assumed the form and voice of Mentor, and presently made a covenant of peace between the two contending parties.
MEDEA
Euripides (ca. 484-ca.407 B.C.E.)
First performed in 431 B.C.E. Greece
Of the three great ancient Greek tragedians (including Aeschylus and Sophocles), Euripides was perhaps the most controversial, and intentionally so. He did not win many of the Dionysian festival competitions among Greek dramatists with his shocking depictions of well-known stories, but nineteen of his over ninety plays have survived.
Image 1.9: Seated Euripides | This incomplete statue shows Euripides sitting down, with some of his works listed on the stone slab behind him.
Author: Jastrow Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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As with most of his plays, Euripides’ version of the story of Medea focuses on the psychological aspects of the character. Medea, the niece of the sorceress Circe, had earlier helped Jason take the Golden Fleece from the land of Colchis, betraying both her family and her country in the process (including killing her own brother). Medea also had used her magic to restore youth to Jason’s father, Aeson. Before meet- ing Medea, Jason had already abandoned his previous “wife,” Hypsipyle, and his twin children with her; the play begins with Medea learning that she and her children with Jason are about to be abandoned for a new wife.
Written by Laura J. Getty
Medea
Euripedes, Translated by E. P. Coleridge
Persons: Nurse of Medea Attendant on her Children Medea Chorus of Corinthian Women Creon, King of Corinth Jason Aegeus, King of Athens Messenger
Scene Before Medea’s house in Corinth, near the palace Of Creon. The Nurse enters from the house.
Nurse Ah! Would to Heaven the good ship Argo ne’er had
sped its course to the Colchian land through the misty blue Symplegades, nor ever in the glens of Pelion the pine been felled to furnish with oars the chieftain’s hands, who went to fetch the golden fleece for Pelias; for then would my own mistress Medea never have sailed to the turrets of Iolcos, her soul with love for Jason smitten, nor would she have beguiled the daughters of Pelias to slay their father and come to live here in the land of Corinth with her husband and children, where her exile found favour with the citizens to whose land she had come, and in all things of her own accord was she at one with Jason, the greatest safeguard this when wife and husband do agree; but now their love is all turned to hate, and tenderest ties are weak. For Jason hath betrayed his own children and my mistress dear for the love of a royal bride, for he hath wedded the daughter of Creon, lord of this land. While Medea, his hapless wife, thus scorned, appeals to the oaths he swore, re- calls the strong pledge his right hand gave, and bids heaven be witness what requital she is finding from Jason. And here she lies fasting, yielding her body to her grief, wasting away in tears ever since she learnt that she was wronged by her husband, never lifting her eye nor raising her face from off the ground; and she lends as deaf an ear to her friend’s warning as if she were a rock or ocean billow, save when she turns her snow-white neck aside and softly to herself bemoans her father dear, her country and her home, which she gave up to come hither with the man who now holds her in dishonour. She, poor lady, hath by sad experience learnt how good a thing it is never to quit one’s native land. And she hates her children now and feels no joy at seeing them; I fear she may contrive some untoward scheme; for her mood is dangerous nor will she brook her cruel treatment; full well I know her, and I much do dread that she will plunge the keen sword through their hearts, stealing without a word into the chamber where their mar- riage couch is spread, or else that she will slay the prince and bridegroom too, and so find some calamity still more grievous than the present; for dreadful is her wrath; verily the man that doth incur her hate will have no easy task to
License: Public Domain
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however, let it be as I say, and do as I tell you. Do not go out against Ulysses, or you may find that you have been draw- ing down evil on your own heads.”
This was what he said, and more than half raised a loud shout, and at once left the assembly. But the rest stayed where they were, for the speech of Halitherses displeased them, and they sided with Eupeithes; they therefore hurried off for their armour, and when they had armed themselves, they met together in front of the city, and Eupeithes led them on in their folly. He thought he was going to avenge the murder of his son, whereas in truth he was never to return, but was himself to perish in his attempt.
Then Minerva said to Jove, “Father, son of Saturn, king of kings, answer me this question—What do you propose to do? Will you set them fighting still further, or will you make peace between them?”
And Jove answered, “My child, why should you ask me? Was it not by your own arrangement that Ulysses came home and took his revenge upon the suitors? Do whatever you like, but I will tell you what I think will be most rea- sonable arrangement. Now that Ulysses is revenged, let them swear to a solemn covenant, in virtue of which he shall continue to rule, while we cause the others to forgive and forget the massacre of their sons and brothers. Let them then all become friends as heretofore, and let peace and plenty reign.”
This was what Minerva was already eager to bring about, so down she darted from off the topmost summits of Olympus.
Now when Laertes and the others had done dinner, Ulysses began by saying, “Some of you go out and see if they are not getting close up to us.” So one of Dolius’s sons went as he was bid. Standing on the threshold he could see them all quite near, and said to Ulysses, “Here they are, let us put on our armour at once.”
They put on their armour as fast as they could—that is to say Ulysses, his three men, and the six sons of Dolius. Laertes also and Dolius did the same—warriors by necessity in spite of their grey hair. When they had all put on their armour, they opened the gate and sallied forth, Ulysses leading the way.
Then Jove’s daughter Minerva came up to them, having assumed the form and voice of Mentor. Ulysses was glad when he saw her, and said to his son Telemachus, “Telemachus, now that are about to fight in an engagement, which will show every man’s mettle, be sure not to disgrace your ancestors, who were eminent for their strength and courage all the world over.”
“You say truly, my dear father,” answered Telemachus, “and you shall see, if you will, that I am in no mind to dis- grace your family.”
Laertes was delighted when he heard this. “Good heavens, he exclaimed, “what a day I am enjoying: I do indeed rejoice at it. My son and grandson are vying with one another in the matter of valour.”
On this Minerva came close up to him and said, “Son of Arceisius—best friend I have in the world—pray to the blue-eyed damsel, and to Jove her father; then poise your spear and hurl it.”
As she spoke she infused fresh vigour into him, and when he had prayed to her he poised his spear and hurled it. He hit Eupeithes’ helmet, and the spear went right through it, for the helmet stayed it not, and his armour rang rattling round him as he fell heavily to the ground. Meantime Ulysses and his son fell the front line of the foe and smote them with their swords and spears; indeed, they would have killed every one of them, and prevented them from ever getting home again, only Minerva raised her voice aloud, and made every one pause. “Men of Ithaca,” she cried, cease this dreadful war, and settle the matter at once without further bloodshed.”
On this pale fear seized every one; they were so frightened that their arms dropped from their hands and fell upon the ground at the sound of the goddess’s voice, and they fled back to the city for their lives. But Ulysses gave a great cry, and gathering himself together swooped down like a soaring eagle. Then the son of Saturn sent a thunder- bolt of fire that fell just in front of Minerva, so she said to Ulysses, “Ulysses, noble son of Laertes, stop this warful strife, or Jove will be angry with you.”
Thus spoke Minerva, and Ulysses obeyed her gladly. Then Minerva assumed the form and voice of Mentor, and presently made a covenant of peace between the two contending parties.
MEDEA
Euripides (ca. 484-ca.407 B.C.E.)
First performed in 431 B.C.E. Greece
Of the three great ancient Greek tragedians (including Aeschylus and Sophocles), Euripides was perhaps the most controversial, and intentionally so. He did not win many of the Dionysian festival competitions among Greek dramatists with his shocking depictions of well-known stories, but nineteen of his over ninety plays have survived.
Image 1.9: Seated Euripides | This incomplete statue shows Euripides sitting down, with some of his works listed on the stone slab behind him.
Author: Jastrow Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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raise o’er her a song of triumph. Lo! where her sons come hither from their childish sports; little they reck of their mother’s woes, for the soul of the young is no friend to sorrow. (The Attendant leads in Medea’s children.)
AtteNdANt Why dost thou, so long my lady’s own handmaid, stand here at the gate alone, loudly lamenting to thyself the
piteous tale? how comes it that Medea will have thee leave her to herself ?
Nurse Old man, attendant on the sons of Jason, our masters’ fortunes when they go awry make good slaves grieve and
touch their hearts. Oh! have come to such a pitch of grief that there stole a yearning wish upon me to come forth hither and proclaim to heaven and earth my mistress’s hard fate.
AtteNdANt What! has not the poor lady ceased yet from her lamentation?
Nurse Would I were as thou art! the mischief is but now beginning; it has not reached its climax yet.
AtteNdANt O foolish one, if I may call my mistress such a name; how little she recks of evils yet more recent!
Nurse What mean’st, old man? grudge not to tell me.
AtteNdANt ‘Tis naught; I do repent me even of the words I have spoken.
Nurse Nay, by thy beard I conjure thee, hide it not from thy fellow-slave; will be silent, if need be, on that text.
AtteNdANt I heard one say, pretending not to listen as I approached the place where our greybeards sit playing draughts
near Pirene’s sacred spring, that Creon, the ruler of this land, is bent on driving these children and their mother from the boundaries of Corinth; but I know not whether the news is to be relied upon, and would fain it were not.
Nurse What! will Jason brook such treatment of his sons, even though he be at variance with their mother?
AtteNdANt Old ties give way to new; he bears no longer any love to this family.
Nurse Undone, it seems, are we, if to old woes fresh ones we add, ere we have drained the former to the dregs.
AtteNdANt Hold thou thy peace, say not a word of this; ‘tis no time for our mistress to learn hereof.
Nurse O children, do ye hear how your father feels towards you? Perdition catch him, but no he is my master still; yet
is he proved a very traitor to his nearest and dearest.
AtteNdANt And who ‘mongst men is not? Art learning only now, that every single man cares for himself more than for his
neighbour, some from honest motives, others for mere gain’s sake? seeing that to indulge his passion their father has
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ceased to love these children.
Nurse Go, children, within the house; all will be well. Do thou keep them as far away as may be, and bring them not
near their mother in her evil hour. For ere this have I seen her eyeing them savagely, as though she were minded to do them some hurt, and well I know she will not cease from her fury till she have pounced on some victim. At least may she turn her hand against her foes, and not against her friends.
MedeA (chanting within) Ah, me! a wretched suffering woman I! O would that I could die!
Nurse (chanting) ‘Tis as I said, my dear children; wild fancies stir your mother’s heart, wild fury goads her on. Into
the house without delay, come not near her eye, approach her not, beware her savage mood, the fell tempest of her reckless heart. In, in with what speed ye may. For ‘tis plain she will soon redouble her fury; that cry is but the herald of the gathering storm-cloud whose lightning soon will flash; what will her proud restless soul, in the anguish of despair, be guilty of ? (The Attendant takes the children into the house. Medea (chanting within) Ah, me! the agony I have suffered, deep enough to call for these laments! Curse you and your father too, ye children damned, sons of a doomed mother! Ruin seize the whole family!
Nurse (chanting) Ah me! ah me! the pity of it! Why, pray, do thy children share their father’s crime? Why hatest thou
them? Woe is you, poor children, how do I grieve for you lest ye suffer some outrage! Strange are the tempers of princes, and maybe because they seldom have to obey, and mostly lord it over others, change they their moods with difficulty. ‘Tis better then to have been trained to live on equal terms. Be it mine to reach old age, not in proud pomp, but in security! Moderation wins the day first as a better word for men to use, and likewise it is far the best course for them to pursue; but greatness that doth o’erreach itself, brings no blessing to mortal men; but pays a pen- alty of greater ruin whenever fortune is wroth with a family. (The Chorus enters. The following lines between the Nurse, Chorus, and Medea are sung.)
Chorus I heard the voice, uplifted loud, of our poor Colchian lady, nor yet is she quiet; speak, aged dame, for as I stood
by the house with double gates I heard a voice of weeping from within, and I do grieve, lady, for the sorrows of this house, for it hath won my love.
Nurse ‘Tis a house no more; all that is passed away long since; a royal bride keeps Jason at her side, while our mistress
pines away in her bower, finding no comfort for her soul in aught her friends can say.
MedeA (within) Oh, oh! Would that Heaven’s levin bolt would cleave this head in twain! What gain is life to me? Woe,
woe is me! O, to die and win release, quitting this loathed existence!
Chorus Didst hear, O Zeus, thou earth, and thou, O light, the piteous note of woe the hapless wife is uttering? How
shall a yearning for that insatiate resting-place ever hasten for thee, poor reckless one, the end that death alone can bring? Never pray for that. And if thy lord prefers a fresh love, be not angered with him for that; Zeus will judge ‘twixt thee and him herein. Then mourn not for thy husband’s loss too much, nor waste thyself away.
MedeA (within) Great Themis, and husband of Themis, behold what I am suffering now, though I did bind that ac-
cursed one, my husband, by strong oaths to me! O, to see him and his bride some day brought to utter destruction, they and their house with them, for that they presume to wrong me thus unprovoked. O my father, my country, that I have left to my shame, after slaying my own brother.
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Nurse Do ye hear her words, how loudly she adjures Themis,
oft invoked, and Zeus, whom men regard as keeper of their oaths? On no mere trifle surely will our mistress spend her rage.
Chorus Would that she would come forth for us to see, and
listen to the words of counsel we might give, if haply she might lay aside the fierce fury of her wrath, and her temper stern. Never be my zeal at any rate denied my friends! But go thou and bring her hither outside the house, and tell her this our friendly thought; haste thee ere she do some mischief to those inside the house, for this sorrow of hers is mounting high.
Nurse This will I do; but I doubt whether I shall persuade
my mistress; still willingly will I undertake this trouble for you; albeit, she glares upon her servants with the look of a lioness with cubs, whenso anyone draws nigh to speak to her. Wert thou to call the men of old time rude uncultured boors thou wouldst not err, seeing that they devised their hymns for festive occasions, for banquets, and to grace the board, a pleasure to catch the ear, shed o’er our life, but no man hath found a way to allay hated grief by music and the minstrel’s varied strain, whence arise slaughters and fell strokes of fate to o’erthrow the homes of men. And yet this were surely a gain, to heal men’s wounds by music’s spell, but why tune they their idle song where rich banquets are spread? For of itself doth the rich banquet, set before them, afford to men delight.
Chorus I heard a bitter cry of lamentation! loudly, bitterly
she calls on the traitor of her marriage bed, her perfidious spouse; by grievous wrongs oppressed she invokes The- mis, bride of Zeus, witness of oaths, who brought her unto Hellas, the land that fronts the strand of Asia, o’er the sea by night through ocean’s boundless gate. (As the Chorus finishes its song, Medea enters from the house.)
MedeA From the house I have come forth, Corinthian ladies, for fear lest you be blaming me; for well I know that
amongst men many by showing pride have gotten them an ill name and a reputation for indifference, both those who shun men’s gaze and those who move amid the stranger crowd, and likewise they who choose a quiet walk in life. For there is no just discernment in the eyes of men, for they, or ever they have surely learnt their neighbour’s heart, loathe him at first sight, though never wronged by him; and so a stranger most of all should adopt a city’s views; nor do I commend that citizen, who, in the stubbornness of his heart, from churlishness resents the city’s will. But on me hath fallen this unforeseen disaster, and sapped my life; ruined I am, and long to resign the boon of existence, kind friends, and die. For he who was all the world to me, as well thou knowest, hath turned out the worst of men, my own husband. Of all things that have life and sense we women are the most hapless creatures; first must we buy a husband at a great price, and o’er ourselves a tyrant set which is an evil worse than the first; and herein lies the most important issue, whether our choice be good or bad. For divorce is not honourable to women, nor can we disown our lords. Next must the wife, coming as she does to ways and customs new, since she hath not learnt the lesson in her home, have a diviner’s eye to see how best to treat the partner of her life. If haply we perform
Image 1.10: Medea | Here, Medea is depicted in a red and white outfit as she walks through a richly-decorated hall.
Author: User “Themadchopper” Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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these tasks with thoroughness and tact, and the husband live with us, without resenting the yoke, our life is a happy one; if not, ‘twere best to die. But when a man is vexed with what he finds indoors, he goeth forth and rids his soul of its disgust, betaking him to some friend or comrade of like age; whilst we must needs regard his single self. And yet they say we live secure at home, while they are at the wars, with their sorry reasoning, for I would gladly take my stand in battle array three times o’er, than once give birth. But enough! this language suits not thee as it does me; thou hast a city here, a father’s house, some joy in life, and friends to share thy thoughts, but I am destitute, without a city, and therefore scorned by my husband, a captive I from a foreign shore, with no mother, brother, or kinsman in whom to find a new haven of refuge from this calamity. Wherefore this one boon and only this I wish to win from thee,-thy silence, if haply I can some way or means devise to avenge me on my husband for this cruel treatment, and on the man who gave to him his daughter, and on her who is his wife. For though woman be timo- rous enough in all else, and as regards courage, a coward at the mere sight of steel, yet in the moment she finds her honour wronged, no heart is filled with deadlier thoughts than hers.
LeAder of the Chorus This will I do; for thou wilt be taking a just vengeance on thy husband, Medea. That thou shouldst mourn thy
lot surprises me not. But lo! I see Creon, king of this land coming hither, to announce some new resolve. (Creon enters, with his retinue.)
CreoN Hark thee, Medea, I bid thee take those sullen looks and angry thoughts against thy husband forth from this
land in exile, and with thee take both thy children and that without delay, for I am judge in this sentence, and I will not return unto my house till I banish thee beyond the borders of the land.
MedeA Ah, me! now is utter destruction come upon me, unhappy that I am! For my enemies are bearing down on me
full sail, nor have I any landing-place to come at in my trouble. Yet for all my wretched plight I will ask thee, Creon, wherefore dost thou drive me from the land?
CreoN I fear thee,-no longer need I veil my dread ‘neath words,-lest thou devise against my child some cureless ill.
Many things contribute to this fear of mine; thou art a witch by nature, expert in countless sorceries, and thou art chafing for the loss of thy husband’s affection. I hear, too, so they tell me, that thou dost threaten the father of the bride, her husband, and herself with some mischief; wherefore I will take precautions ere our troubles come. For ‘tis better for me to incur thy hatred now, lady, than to soften my heart and bitterly repent it hereafter.
MedeA Alas! this is not now the first time, but oft before, O Creon, hath my reputation injured me and caused sore
mischief. Wherefore whoso is wise in his generation ought never to have his children taught to be too clever; for besides the reputation they get for idleness, they purchase bitter odium from the citizens. For if thou shouldst import new learning amongst dullards, thou wilt be thought a useless trifler, void of knowledge; while if thy fame in the city o’ertops that of the pretenders to cunning knowledge, thou wilt win their dislike. I too myself share in this ill-luck. Some think me clever and hate me, others say I am too reserved, and some the very reverse; others find me hard to please and not so very clever after all. Be that as it may, thou dost fear me lest I bring on thee something to mar thy harmony. Fear me not, Creon, my position scarce is such that should seek to quarrel with princes. Why should I, for how hast thou injured me? Thou hast betrothed thy daughter where thy fancy prompted thee. No, ‘tis my husband I hate, though I doubt not thou hast acted wisely herein. And now I grudge not thy prosperity; betroth thy child, good luck to thee, but let me abide in this land, for though I have been wronged I will be still and yield to my superiors.
CreoN Thy words are soft to hear, but much I dread lest thou art devising some mischief in thy heart, and less than
ever do I trust thee now; for cunning woman, and man likewise, is easier to guard against when quick-tempered than when taciturn. Nay, begone at once! speak me no speeches, for this is decreed, nor hast thou any art whereby thou shalt abide amongst us, since thou hatest me.
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MedeA O, say not so! by thy knees and by thy daughter newlywed, I do implore!
CreoN Thou wastest words; thou wilt never persuade me.
MedeA What, wilt thou banish me, and to my prayers no pity yield?
CreoN I will, for I love not thee above my own family.
MedeA O my country! what fond memories I have of thee in this hour!
CreoN Yea, for I myself love my city best of all things save my children.
MedeA Ah me! ah me! to mortal man how dread a scourge is love!
CreoN That, I deem, is according to the turn our fortunes take.
MedeA O Zeus! let not the author of these my troubles escape thee.
CreoN Begone, thou silly woman, and free me from my toil.
MedeA The toil is mine, no lack of it.
CreoN Soon wilt thou be thrust out forcibly by the hand of servants.
MedeA Not that, not that, I do entreat thee, Creon
CreoN Thou wilt cause disturbance yet, it seems.
MedeA I will begone; I ask thee not this boon to grant.
CreoN Why then this violence? why dost thou not depart?
MedeA Suffer me to abide this single day and devise some plan for the manner of my exile, and means of living for my
children, since their father cares not to provide his babes therewith. Then pity them; thou too hast children of thine own; thou needs must have a kindly heart. For my own lot I care naught, though I an exile am, but for those babes I weep, that they should learn what sorrow means.
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CreoN Mine is a nature anything but harsh; full oft by showing pity have suffered shipwreck; and now albeit I clearly see
my error, yet shalt thou gain this request, lady; but I do forewarn thee, if tomorrow’s rising sun shall find thee and thy children within the borders of this land, thou diest; my word is spoken and it will not lie. So now, if abide thou must, stay this one day only, for in it thou canst not do any of the fearful deeds I dread. (Creon and his retinue go out.)
Chorus (chanting) Ah! poor lady, woe is thee! Alas, for thy sorrows! Whither wilt thou turn? What protection, what
home or country to save thee from thy troubles wilt thou find? O Medea, in what a hopeless sea of misery heaven hath plunged thee!
MedeA On all sides sorrow pens me in. Who shall gainsay this? But all is not yet lost! think not so. Still are there trou-
bles in store for the new bride, and for her bridegroom no light toil. Dost think I would ever have fawned on yonder man, unless to gain some end or form some scheme? Nay, would not so much as have spoken to him or touched him with my hand. But he has in folly so far stepped in that, though he might have checked my plot by banishing me from the land, he hath allowed me to abide this day, in which I will lay low in death three of my enemies-a father and his daughter and my husband too. Now, though I have many ways to compass their death, I am not sure, friends, which I am to try first. Shall I set fire to the bridal mansion, or plunge the whetted sword through their hearts, softly stealing into the chamber where their couch is spread? One thing stands in my way. If I am caught making my way into the chamber, intent on my design, I shall be put to death and cause my foes to mock, ‘Twere best to take the shortest way-the way we women are most skilled in-by poison to destroy them. Well, suppose them dead; what city will receive me? What friendly host will give me a shelter in his land, a home secure, and save my soul alive? None. So I will wait yet a little while in case some tower of defence rise up for me; then will I proceed to this bloody deed in crafty silence; but if some unexpected mischance drive me forth, I will with mine own hand seize the sword, e’en though I die for it, and slay them, and go forth on my bold path of daring. By that dread queen whom I revere before all others and have chosen to share my task, by Hecate who dwells within my inmost cham- ber, not one of them shall wound my heart and rue it not. Bitter and sad will I make their marriage for them; bitter shall be the wooing of it, bitter my exile from the land. Up, then, Medea, spare not the secrets of thy art in plotting and devising; on to the danger. Now comes a struggle needing courage. Dost see what thou art suffering? ‘Tis not for thee to be a laughing-stock to the race of Sisyphus by reason of this wedding of Jason, sprung, as thou art, from noble sire, and of the Sun-god’s race. Thou hast cunning; and, more than this, we women, though by nature little apt for virtuous deeds, are most expert to fashion any mischief.
Chorus (singing, strophe 1)
Back to their source the holy rivers turn their tide. Order and the universe are being reversed. ‘Tis men whose counsels are treacherous, whose oath by heaven is no longer sure. Rumour shall bring a change o’er my life, bringing it into good repute. Honour’s dawn is breaking for woman’s sex; no more shall the foul tongue of slander fix upon us.
(antistrophe 1)
The songs of the poets of old shall cease to make our faithlessness their theme. Phoebus, lord of minstrelsy, hath not implanted in our mind the gift of heavenly song, else had I sung an answering strain to the race of males, for time’s long chapter affords many a theme on their sex as well as ours.
(strophe 2)
With mind distraught didst thou thy father’s house desert on thy voyage betwixt ocean’s twin rocks, and on a foreign strand thou dwellest thy bed left husbandless, poor lady, and thou an exile from the land, dishonoured, persecuted.
(antistrophe 2)
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Gone is the grace that oaths once had. Through all the breadth of Hellas honour is found no more; to heaven hath it sped away. For thee no father’s house is open, woe is thee! to be a haven from the troublous storm, while o’er thy home is set another queen, the bride that is preferred to thee. (As the Chorus finishes its song, Jason enters, alone. Medea comes out of the house.)
JAsoN It is not now I first remark, but oft ere this, how unruly a pest is a harsh temper. For instance, thou, hadst thou
but patiently endured the will of thy superiors, mightest have remained here in this land and house, but now for thy idle words wilt thou be banished. Thy words are naught to me. Cease not to call Jason basest of men; but for those words thou hast spoken against our rulers, count it all gain that exile is thy only punishment. I ever tried to check the outbursts of the angry monarch, and would have had thee stay, but thou wouldst not forego thy silly rage, always reviling our rulers, and so thou wilt be banished. Yet even after all this I weary not of my goodwill, but am come with thus much forethought, lady, that thou mayst not be destitute nor want for aught, when, with thy sons, thou art cast out. Many an evil doth exile bring in its train with it; for even though thou hatest me, never will I har- bour hard thoughts of thee.
MedeA Thou craven villain (for that is the only name my tongue can find for thee, a foul reproach on thy unmanliness),
comest thou to me, thou, most hated foe of gods, of me, and of all mankind? ‘Tis no proof of courage or hardihood to confront thy friends after injuring them, but that worst of all human diseases-loss of shame. Yet hast thou done well to come; for I shall ease my soul by reviling thee, and thou wilt be vexed at my recital. I will begin at the very beginning. I saved thy life, as every Hellene knows who sailed with thee aboard the good ship Argo, when thou wert sent to tame and yoke fire-breathing bulls, and to sow the deadly tilth. Yea, and I slew the dragon which guarded the golden fleece, keeping sleepless watch o’er it with many a wreathed coil, and I raised for thee a beacon of de- liverance. Father and home of my free will I left and came with the to Iolcos, ‘neath Pelion’s hills, for my love was stronger than my prudence. Next I caused the death of Pelias by a doom most grievous, even by his own children’s hand, beguiling them of all their fear. All this have I done for thee, thou traitor! and thou hast cast me over, taking to thyself another wife, though children have been born to us. Hadst thou been childless still, I could have pardoned thy desire for this new union. Gone is now the trust I put in oaths. I cannot even understand whether thou thinkest that the gods of old no longer rule, or that fresh decrees are now in vogue amongst mankind, for thy conscience must tell thee thou hast not kept faith with me. Ah! poor right hand, which thou didst often grasp. These knees thou didst embrace! All in vain, I suffered a traitor to touch me! How short of my hopes I am fallen! But come, I will deal with the as though thou wert my friend. Yet what kindness can I expect from one so base as thee? But yet I will do it, for my questioning will show thee yet more base. Whither can I turn me now? to my father’s house, to my own country, which I for thee deserted to come hither? to the hapless daughters of Pelias? A glad welcome, I trow, would they give me in their home, whose father’s death I compassed! My case stands even thus: I am become the bitter foe to those of mine own home, and those whom I need ne’er have wronged I have made mine enemies to pleasure thee. Wherefore to reward me for this thou hast made me doubly blest in the eyes of many wife in Hellas; and in thee I own a peerless, trusty lord. O woe is me, if indeed I am to be cast forth an exile from the land, without one friend; one lone woman with her babes forlorn! Yea, a fine reproach to thee in thy bridal hour, that thy children and the wife who saved thy life are beggars and vagabonds! O Zeus! why hast thou granted unto man clear signs to know the sham in gold, while on man’s brow no brand is stamped whereby to gauge the villain’s heart?
LeAder of the Chorus There is a something terrible and past all cure, when quarrels arise ‘twixt those who are near and dear.
JAsoN Needs must I now, it seems, turn orator, and, like a good helmsman on a ship with close-reefed sails, weather
that wearisome tongue of thine. Now, I believe, since thou wilt exaggerate thy favours, that to Cypri, alone of gods or men I owe the safety of my voyage. Thou hast a subtle wit enough; yet were it a hateful thing for me to say that the Love-god constrained thee by his resistless shaft to save my life. However, I will not reckon this too nicely; ‘twas kindly done, however thou didst serve me. Yet for my safety hast thou received more than ever thou gavest, as I will show. First, thou dwellest in Hellas, instead of thy barbarian land, and hast learnt what justice means and how to live by law, not by the dictates of brute force; and all the Hellenes recognize thy cleverness, and thou hast gained a name; whereas, if thou hadst dwelt upon the confines of the earth, no tongue had mentioned thee. Give me no gold within my halls, nor skill to sing a fairer strain than ever Orpheus sang, unless there-with my fame be spread
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abroad! So much I say to thee about my own toils, for ‘twas thou didst challenge me to this retort. As for the taunts thou urgest against my marriage with the princess, I will prove to thee, first, that I am prudent herein, next chas- tened in my love, and last powerful friend to thee and to thy sons; only hold thy peace. Since I have here withdrawn from Iolcos with many a hopeless trouble at my back, what happier device could I, an exile, frame than marriage with the daughter of the king? ‘Tis not because I loathe thee for my wife-the thought that rankles in thy heart; ‘tis not because I am smitten with desire for a new bride, nor yet that I am eager to vie with others in begetting many children, for those we have are quite enough, and I do not complain. Nay, ‘tis that we-and this is most import- ant-may dwell in comfort, instead of suffering want (for well I know that every whilom friend avoids the poor), and that I might rear my sons as doth befit my house; further, that I might be the father of brothers for the children thou hast borne, and raise these to the same high rank, uniting the family in one,-to my lasting bliss. Thou, indeed, hast no need of more children, but me it profits to help my present family by that which is to be. Have I miscarried here? Not even thou wouldest say so unless a rival’s charms rankled in thy bosom. No, but you women have such strange ideas, that you think all is well so long as your married life runs smooth; but if some mischance occur to ruffle your love, all that was good and lovely erst you reckon as your foes. Yea, men should have begotten children from some other source, no female race existing; thus would no evil ever have fallen on mankind.
LeAder This speech, O Jason, hast thou with specious art arranged; but yet I think-albeit in speaking I am indis-
creet-that thou hast sinned in thy betrayal of thy wife.
MedeA No doubt I differ from the mass of men on many points; for, to my mind, whoso hath skill to fence with words
in an unjust cause, incurs the heaviest penalty; for such an one, confident that he can cast a decent veil of words o’er his injustice, dares to practise it; and yet he is not so very clever after all. So do not thou put forth thy specious pleas and clever words to me now, for one word of mine will lay thee low. Hadst thou not had a villain’s heart, thou shouldst have gained my consent, then made this match, instead of hiding it from those who loved thee.
JAsoN Thou wouldest have lent me ready aid, no doubt, in this proposal, if had told thee of my marriage, seeing that
not even now canst thou restrain thy soul’s hot fury.
MedeA This was not what restrained thee; but thine eye was turned towards old age, and a foreign wife began to appear
a shame to thee.
JAsoN Be well assured of this: ‘twas not for the woman’s sake I wedded the king’s daughter, my present wife; but, as I
have already told thee, I wished to insure thy safety and to be the father of royal sons bound by blood to my own children-a bulwark to our house.
MedeA May that prosperity, whose end is woe, ne’er be mine, nor such wealth as would ever sting my heart!
JAsoN Change that prayer as I will teach thee, and thou wilt show more wisdom. Never let happiness appear in sor-
row’s guise, nor, when thy fortune smiles, pretend she frowns!
MedeA Mock on; thou hast a place of refuge; I am alone, an exile soon to be.
JAsoN Thy own free choice was this; blame no one else.
MedeA What did I do? Marry, then betray thee?
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JAsoN Against the king thou didst invoke an impious curse.
MedeA On thy house too maybe I bring the curse.
JAsoN Know this, I will no further dispute this point with thee. But, if thou wilt of my fortune somewhat take for the
children or thyself to help thy exile, say on; for I am ready to grant it with ungrudging hand, yea and to bend tokens to my friends elsewhere who shall treat thee well. If thou refuse this offer, thou wilt do a foolish deed, but if thou cease from anger the greater will be thy gain.
MedeA I will have naught to do with friends of thine, naught will I receive of thee, offer it not to me; a villain’s gifts can
bring no blessing.
JAsoN At least I call the gods to witness, that I am ready in all things to serve thee and thy children, but thou dost
scorn my favours and thrustest thy friends stubbornly away; wherefore thy lot will be more bitter still.
MedeA Away! By love for thy young bride entrapped, too long thou lingerest outside her chamber; go wed, for, if God
will, thou shalt have such a marriage as thou wouldst fain refuse. (Jason goes out.)
Chorus (singing, strophe 1)
When in excess and past all limits Love doth come, he brings not glory or repute to man; but if the Cyprian queen in moderate might approach, no goddess is so full of charm as she. Never, O never, lady mine, discharge at me from thy golden bow a shaft invincible, in passion’s venom dipped.
(antistrophe 1)
On me may chastity, heaven’s fairest gift, look with a favouring eye; never may Cypris, goddess dread, fasten on me a temper to dispute, or restless jealousy, smiting my soul with mad desire for unlawful love, but may she hallow peaceful married life and shrewdly decide whom each of us shall wed.
(strophe 2)
O my country, O my own dear home! God grant I may never be an outcast from my city, leading that cruel helpless life, whose every day is misery. Ere that may I this life complete and yield to death, ay, death; for there is no misery that doth surpass the loss of fatherland.
(antistrophe 2)
I have seen with mine eyes, nor from the lips of others have I the lesson learnt; no city, not one friend doth pity thee in this thine awful woe. May he perish and find no favour, whoso hath not in him honour for his friends, freely unlocking his heart to them. Never shall he be friend of mine. (Medea has been seated in despair on her door-step during the choral song. Aegeus and his attendants enter.)
Aegeus All hail, Medea! no man knoweth fairer prelude to the greeting of friends than this.
MedeA All hail to thee likewise, Aegeus, son of wise Pandion. Whence comest thou to this land?
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Aegeus From Phoebus’ ancient oracle.
MedeA What took thee on thy travels to the prophetic centre of the earth?
Aegeus The wish to ask how I might raise up seed unto myself.
MedeA Pray tell me, hast thou till now dragged on a childless life?
Aegeus I have no child owing to the visitation of some god.
MedeA Hast thou a wife, or hast thou never known the married state?
Aegeus I have a wife joined to me in wedlock’s bond.
MedeA What said Phoebus to thee as to children?
Aegeus Words too subtle for man to comprehend.
MedeA Surely I may learn the god’s answer?
Aegeus Most assuredly, for it is just thy subtle wit it needs.
MedeA What said the god? speak, if I may hear it.
Aegeus He bade me “not loose the wineskin’s pendent neck.”
MedeA Till when? what must thou do first, what country visit?
Aegeus Till I to my native home return.
MedeA What object hast thou in sailing to this land?
Aegeus O’er Troezen’s realm is Pittheus king.
MedeA Pelops’ son, a man devout they say.
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Aegeus To him I fain would impart the oracle of the god.
MedeA The man is shrewd and versed in such-like lore.
Aegeus Aye, and to me the dearest of all my warrior friends.
MedeA Good luck to thee! success to all thy wishes!
Aegeus But why that downcast eye, that wasted cheek?
MedeA O Aegeus, my husband has proved most evil.
Aegeus What meanest thou? explain to me clearly the cause of thy despondency.
MedeA Jason is wronging me though I have given him no cause.
Aegeus What hath he done? tell me more clearly.
MedeA He is taking another wife to succeed me as mistress of his house.
Aegeus Can he have brought himself to such a dastard deed?
MedeA Be assured thereof; I, whom he loved of yore, am in dishonour now.
Aegeus Hath he found a new love? or does he loathe thy bed?
MedeA Much in love is he! A traitor to his friend is he become.
Aegeus Enough! if he is a villain as thou sayest.
MedeA The alliance he is so much enamoured of is with a princess.
Aegeus Who gives his daughter to him? go on, I pray.
MedeA Creon, who is lord of this land of Corinth.
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Aegeus Lady, I can well pardon thy grief.
MedeA I am undone, and more than that, am banished from the land.
Aegeus By whom? fresh woe this word of thine unfolds.
MedeA Creon drives me forth in exile from Corinth.
Aegeus Doth Jason allow it? This too I blame him for.
MedeA Not in words, but he will not stand out against it. O, I implore thee by this beard and by thy knees, in suppliant
posture, pity, O pity my sorrows; do not see me cast forth forlorn, but receive me in thy country, to a seat within thy halls. So may thy wish by heaven’s grace be crowned with a full harvest of offspring, and may thy life close in hap- piness! Thou knowest not the rare good luck thou findest here, for I will make thy childlessness to cease and cause thee to beget fair issue; so potent are the spells I know.
Aegeus Lady, on many grounds I am most fain to grant thee this thy boon, first for the gods’ sake, next for the children
whom thou dost promise I shall beget; for in respect of this I am completely lost. ‘Tis thus with me; if e’er thou reach my land, I will attempt to champion thee as I am bound to do. Only one warning I do give thee first, lady; I will not from this land bear thee away, yet if of thyself thou reach my halls, there shalt thou bide in safety and I will never yield thee up to any man. But from this land escape without my aid, for I have no wish to incur the blame of my allies as well.
MedeA It shall be even so; but wouldst thou pledge thy word to this, I should in all be well content with thee.
Aegeus Surely thou dost trust me? or is there aught that troubles thee?
MedeA Thee I trust; but Pelias’ house and Creon are my foes. Wherefore, if thou art bound by an oath, thou wilt not
give me up to them when they come to drag me from the land, but, having entered into a compact and sworn by heaven as well, thou wilt become my friend and disregard their overtures. Weak is any aid of mine, whilst they have wealth and a princely house.
Aegeus Lady, thy words show much foresight, so if this is thy will, I do not, refuse. For I shall feel secure and safe if I
have some pretext to offer to thy foes, and thy case too the firmer stands. Now name thy gods.
MedeA Swear by the plain of Earth, by Helios my father’s sire, and, in one comprehensive oath, by all the race of gods.
Aegeus What shall I swear to do, from what refrain? tell me that.
MedeA Swear that thou wilt never of thyself expel me from thy land, nor, whilst life is thine, permit any other, one of
my foes maybe, to hale me thence if so he will.
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Aegeus By Earth I swear, by the Sun-god’s holy beam and by all the host of heaven that I will stand fast to the terms I
hear thee make.
MedeA ‘Tis enough. If thou shouldst break this oath, what curse dost thou invoke upon thyself ?
Aegeus Whate’er betides the impious.
MedeA Go in peace; all is well, and I with what speed I may, will to thy city come, when I have wrought my purpose
and obtained my wish. (Aegeus and his retinue depart.)
Chorus (chanting) May Maia’s princely son go with thee on thy way to bring thee to thy home, and mayest thou attain
that on which thy soul is set so firmly, for to my mind thou seemest a generous man, O Aegeus.
MedeA O Zeus, and Justice, child of Zeus, and Sun-god’s light, now will triumph o’er my foes, kind friends; on victory’s
road have I set forth; good hope have I of wreaking vengeance on those I hate. For where we were in most distress this stranger hath appeared, to be a haven in my counsels; to him will we make fast the cables of our ship when we come to the town and citadel of Pallas. But now will I explain to thee my plans in full; do not expect to hear a pleasant tale. A servant of mine will I to Jason send and crave an interview; then when he comes I will address him with soft words, say, “this pleases me,” and, “that is well,” even the marriage with the princess, which my treacher- ous lord is celebrating, and add “it suits us both, ‘twas well thought out”; then will I entreat that here my children may abide, not that I mean to leave them in a hostile land for foes to flout, but that I may slay the king’s daughter by guile. For I will send them with gifts in their hands, carrying them unto the bride to save them from banishment, a robe of finest woof and a chaplet of gold. And if these ornaments she take and put them on, miserably shall she die, and likewise everyone who touches her; with such fell poisons will I smear my gifts. And here I quit this theme; but I shudder at the deed I must do next; for I will slay the children I have borne; there is none shall take them from my toils; and when I have utterly confounded Jason’s house I will leave the land, escaping punishment for my dear children’s murder, after my most unholy deed. For I cannot endure the taunts of enemies, kind friends; enough! what gain is life to me? I have no country, home, or refuge left. O, I did wrong, that hour I left my father’s home, persuaded by that Hellene’s words, who now shall pay the penalty, so help me God, Never shall he see again alive the children I bore to him, nor from his new bride shall he beget issue, for she must die a hideous death, slain by my drugs. Let no one deem me a poor weak woman who sits with folded hands, but of another mould, dangerous to foes and well-disposed to friends; for they win the fairest fame who live then, life like me.
LeAder of the Chorus Since thou hast imparted this design to me, I bid thee hold thy hand, both from a wish to serve thee and be-
cause I would uphold the laws men make.
MedeA It cannot but be so; thy words I pardon since thou art not in the same sorry plight that I am.
LeAder O lady, wilt thou steel thyself to slay thy children twain?
MedeA I will, for that will stab my husband to the heart.
LeAder It may, but thou wilt be the saddest wife alive.
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MedeA No matter; wasted is every word that comes ‘twixt now and then. Ho! (The Nurse enters in answer to her call.)
Thou, go call me Jason hither, for thee I do employ on every mission of trust. No word divulge of all my purpose, as thou art to thy mistress loyal and likewise of my sex. (The Nurse goes out.)
Chorus (singing, strophe 1)
Sons of Erechtheus, heroes happy from of yore, children of the blessed gods, fed on wisdom’s glorious food in a holy land ne’er pillaged by its foes, ye who move with sprightly step through a climate ever bright and clear, where, as legend tells, the Muses nine, Pieria’s holy maids, were brought to birth by Harmonia with the golden hair.
(antistrophe 1)
And poets sing how Cypris drawing water from the streams of fair-flowing Cephissus breathes o’er the land a gentle breeze of balmy winds, and ever as she crowns her tresses with a garland of sweet rose-buds sends forth the Loves to sit by wisdom’s side, to take part in every excellence.
(strophe 2)
How then shall the city of sacred streams, the land that welcomes those it loves, receive thee, the murderess of thy children, thee whose presence with others is a pollution? ‘Think on the murder of thy children, consider the bloody deed thou takest on thee. Nay, by thy knees we, one and all, implore thee, slay not thy babes.
(antistrophe 2)
Where shall hand or heart find hardihood enough in wreaking such a fearsome deed upon thy sons? How wilt thou look upon thy babes, and still without a tear retain thy bloody purpose? Thou canst not, when they fall at thy feet for mercy, steel thy heart and dip in their blood thy hand. (Jason enters.)
JAsoN I am come at thy bidding, for e’en though thy hate for me is bitter thou shalt not fail in this small boon, but I
will hear what new request thou hast to make of me, lady.
MedeA Jason, I crave thy pardon for the words I spoke, and well thou mayest brook my burst of passion, for ere now we
twain have shared much love. For I have reasoned with my soul and railed upon me thus, “Ah! poor heart! why am I thus distraught, why so angered ‘gainst all good advice, why have I come to hate the rulers of the land, my hus- band too, who does the best for me he can, in wedding with a princess and rearing for my children noble brothers? Shall I not cease to fret? What possesses me, when heaven its best doth offer? Have I not my children to consider? do I forget that we are fugitives, in need of friends?” When I had thought all this I saw how foolish I had been, how senselessly enraged. So now do commend thee and think thee most wise in forming this connection for us; but I was mad, I who should have shared in these designs, helped on thy plans, and lent my aid to bring about the match, only too pleased to wait upon thy bride. But what we are, we are, we women, evil I will not say; wherefore thou shouldst not sink to our sorry level nor with our weapons meet our childishness. I yield and do confess that I was wrong then, but now have I come to a better mind. Come hither, my children, come, leave the house, step forth, and with me greet and bid farewell to your father, be reconciled from all past bitterness unto your friends, as now your mother is; for we have made a truce and anger is no more. (The Attendant comes out of the house with the chil- dren.) Take his right hand; ah me! my sad fate! when I reflect, as now, upon the hidden future. O my children, since there awaits you even thus a long, long life, stretch forth the hand to take a fond farewell. Ah me! how new to tears am I, how full of fear! For now that I have at last released me from my quarrel with your father, I let the tear-drops stream adown my tender cheek.
LeAder of the Chorus From my eyes too bursts forth the copious tear; O, may no greater ill than the present e’er befall!
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JAsoN Lady, I praise this conduct, not that I blame what is past; for it is but natural to the female sex to vent their
spleen against a husband when he trafficks in other marriages besides his own. But thy heart is changed to wiser schemes and thou art determined on the better course, late though it be; this is acting like a woman of sober sense. And for you, my sons, hath your father provided with all good heed a sure refuge, by God’s grace; for ye, I trow, shall with your brothers share hereafter the foremost rank in this Corinthian realm. Only grow up, for all the rest your sire and whoso of the gods is kind to us is bringing to pass. May I see you reach man’s full estate, high o’er the heads of those I hate! But thou, lady, why with fresh tears dost thou thine eyelids wet, turning away thy wan cheek, with no welcome for these my happy tidings?
MedeA ‘Tis naught; upon these children my thoughts were turned.
JAsoN Then take heart; for I will see that it is well with them.
MedeA I will do so; nor will I doubt thy word; woman is a weak creature, ever given to tears.
JAsoN Why prithee, unhappy one, dost moan o’er these children?
MedeA I gave them birth; and when thou didst pray long life for them, pity entered into my soul to think that these
things must be. But the reason of thy coming hither to speak with me is partly told, the rest will I now mention. Since it is the pleasure of the rulers of the land to banish me, and well I know ‘twere best for me to stand not in the way of thee or of the rulers by dwelling here, enemy as I am thought unto their house, forth from this land in exile am I going, but these children,-that they may know thy fostering hand, beg Creon to remit their banishment.
JAsoN I doubt whether I can persuade him, yet must I attempt it.
MedeA At least do thou bid thy wife ask her sire this boon, to remit the exile of the children from this land.
JAsoN Yea, that will I; and her methinks I shall persuade, since she is woman like the rest.
MedeA I too will aid thee in this task, for by the children’s hand I will send to her gifts that far surpass in beauty, I
well know, aught that now is seen ‘mongst men, a robe of finest tissue and a chaplet of chased gold. But one of my attendants must haste and bring the ornaments hither. (A servant goes into the house.) Happy shall she be not once alone but ten thousand-fold, for in thee she wins the noblest soul to share her love, and gets these gifts as well which on a day my father’s sire, the Sun-god, bestowed on his descendants. (The servant returns and hands the gifts to the children.) My children, take in your hands these wedding gifts, and bear them as an offering to the royal maid, the happy bride; for verily the gifts she shall receive are not to be scorned.
JAsoN But why so rashly rob thyself of these gifts? Dost think a royal palace wants for robes or gold? Keep them, nor
give them to another. For well I know that if my lady hold me in esteem, she will set my price above all wealth.
MedeA Say not so; ‘tis said that gifts tempt even gods; and o’er men’s minds gold holds more potent sway than countless
words. Fortune smiles upon thy bride, and heaven now doth swell her triumph; youth is hers and princely power; yet to save my children from exile I would barter life, not dross alone. Children, when we are come to the rich palace, pray
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your father’s new bride, my mistress, with suppliant voice to save you from exile, offering her these ornaments the while; for it is most needful that she receive the gifts in her own hand. Now go and linger not; may ye succeed and to your mother bring back the glad tidings she fain would hear (Jason, the Attendant, and the children go out together.)
Chorus (singing, strophe 1)
Gone, gone is every hope I had that the children yet might live; forth to their doom they now proceed. The hap- less bride will take, ay, take the golden crown that is to be her ruin; with her own hand will she lift and place upon her golden locks the garniture of death.
(antistrophe 1)
Its grace and sheen divine will tempt her to put on the robe and crown of gold, and in that act will she deck herself to be a bride amid the dead. Such is the snare whereinto she will fall, such is the deadly doom that waits the hapless maid, nor shall she from the curse escape.
(strophe 2)
And thou, poor wretch, who to thy sorrow art wedding a king’s daughter, little thinkest of the doom thou art bringing on thy children’s life, or of the cruel death that waits thy bride. Woe is thee! how art thou fallen from thy high estate!
(antistrophe 2)
Next do I bewail thy sorrows, O mother hapless in thy children, thou who wilt slay thy babes because thou hast a rival, the babes thy husband hath deserted impiously to join him to another bride. (The Attendant enters with the children.)
AtteNdANt Thy children, lady, are from exile freed, and gladly did the royal bride accept thy gifts in her own hands, and so
thy children made their peace with her.
MedeA Ah!
AtteNdANt Why art so disquieted in thy prosperous hour? Why turnest thou thy cheek away, and hast no welcome for my
glad news?
MedeA Ah me!
AtteNdANt These groans but ill accord with the news I bring.
MedeA Ah me! once more I say.
AtteNdANt Have I unwittingly announced some evil tidings? Have I erred in thinking my news was good?
MedeA Thy news is as it is; I blame thee not.
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AtteNdANt Then why this downcast eye, these floods of tears?
MedeA Old friend, needs must I weep; for the gods and I with fell intent devised these schemes.
AtteNdANt Be of good cheer; thou too of a surety shalt by thy sons yet be brought home again.
MedeA Ere that shall I bring others to their home, ah! woe is me
AtteNdANt Thou art not the only mother from thy children reft. Bear patiently thy troubles as a mortal must.
MedeA I will obey; go thou within the house and make the day’s provision for the children. (The Attendant enters the
house. Medea turns to the children.) O my babes, my babes, ye have still a city and a home, where far from me and my sad lot you will live your lives, reft of your mother for ever; while I must to another land in banishment, or ever I have had my joy of you, or lived to see you happy, or ever I have graced your marriage couch, your bride, your bridal bower, or lifted high the wedding torch. Ah me! a victim of my own self-will. So it was all in vain I reared you, O my sons; in vain did suffer, racked with anguish, enduring the cruel pangs of childbirth. ‘Fore Heaven I once had hope, poor me! high hope of ye that you would nurse me in my age and deck my corpse with loving hands, a boon we mortals covet; but now is my sweet fancy dead and gone; for I must lose you both and in bitterness and sorrow drag through life. And ye shall never with fond eyes see your mother more for o’er your life there comes a change. Ah me! ah me! why do ye look at me so, my children? why smile that last sweet smile? Ah me! what am I to do? My heart gives way when I behold my children’s laughing eyes. O, I cannot; farewell to all my former schemes; I will take the children from the land, the babes I bore. Why should I wound their sire by wounding them, and get me a twofold measure of sorrow? No, no, I will not do it. Farewell my scheming! And yet what possesses me? Can I consent to let those foes of mine escape from punishment, and incur their mockery? I must face this deed. Out upon my craven heart! to think that I should even have let the soft words escape my soul. Into the house, children! (The children go into the house.) And whoso feels he must not be present at my sacrifice, must see to it himself; I will not spoil my handiwork. Ah! ah! do not, my heart, O do not do this deed! Let the children go, unhappy one, spare the babes! For if they live, they will cheer thee in our exile there. Nay, by the fiends of hell’s abyss, never, never will I hand my children over to their foes to mock and flout. Die they must in any case, and since ‘tis so, why I, the mother who bore them, will give the fatal blow. In any case their doom is fixed and there is no escape. Already the crown is on her head, the robe is round her, and she is dying, the royal bride; that do I know full well. But now since I have a piteous path to tread, and yet more piteous still the path I send my children on, fain would I say farewell to them. (The children come out at her call. She takes them in her arms.) O my babes, my babes, let your mother kiss your hands. Ah! hands I love so well, O lips most dear to me! O noble form and features of my children, I wish ye joy, but in that other land, for here your father robs you of your home. O the sweet embrace, the soft young cheek, the fragrant breath! my children! Go, leave me; I cannot bear to longer look upon ye; my sorrow wins the day. At last I understand the awful deed I am to do; but passion, that cause of direst woes to mortal man, hath triumphed o’er my sober thoughts. (She goes into the house with the children.)
Chorus (chanting) Oft ere now have I pursued subtler themes and have faced graver issues than woman’s sex should
seek to probe; but then e’en we aspire to culture, which dwells with us to teach us wisdom; I say not all; for small is the class amongst women-(one maybe shalt thou find ‘mid many)-that is not incapable of wisdom. And amongst mortals I do assert that they who are wholly without experience and have never had children far surpass in happi- ness those who are parents. The childless, because they have never proved whether children grow up to be a bless- ing or curse to men are removed from all share in many troubles; whilst those who have a sweet race of children growing up in their houses do wear away, as I perceive, their whole life through; first with the thought how they may train them up in virtue, next how they shall leave their sons the means to live; and after all this ‘tis far from clear whether on good or bad children they bestow their toil. But one last crowning woe for every mortal man now will name; suppose that they have found sufficient means to live, and seen their children grow to man’s estate and
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walk in virtue’s path, still if fortune so befall, comes Death and bears the children’s bodies off to Hades. Can it be any profit to the gods to heap upon us mortal men beside our other woes this further grief for children lost, a grief surpassing all? (Medea comes out of the house.)
MedeA Kind friends, long have I waited expectantly to know how things would at the palace chance. And lo! I see one
of Jason’s servants coming hither, whose hurried gasps for breath proclaim him the bearer of some fresh tidings. (A Messenger rushes in.)
MesseNger Fly, fly, Medea! who hast wrought an awful deed, transgressing every law: nor leave behind or sea-borne bark or
car that scours the plain.
MedeA Why, what hath chanced that calls for such a flight of mine?
MesseNger The princess is dead, a moment gone, and Creon too, her sire, slain by those drugs of thine.
MedeA Tidings most fair are thine! Henceforth shalt thou be ranked amongst my friends and benefactors.
MesseNger Ha! What? Art sane? Art not distraught, lady, who hearest with joy the outrage to our royal house done, and art
not at the horrid tale afraid?
MedeA Somewhat have I, too, to say in answer to thy words. Be not so hasty, friend, but tell the manner of their death,
for thou wouldst give me double joy, if so they perished miserably.
MesseNger When the children twain whom thou didst bear came with their father and entered the palace of the bride,
right glad were we thralls who had shared thy griefs, for instantly from ear to ear a rumour spread that thou and thy lord had made up your former quarrel. One kissed thy children’s hands, another their golden hair, while I for very joy went with them in person to the women’s chambers. Our mistress, whom now we do revere in thy room, cast a longing glance at Jason, ere she saw thy children twain; but then she veiled her eyes and turned her blanching cheek away, disgusted at their coming; but thy husband tried to check his young bride’s angry humour with these words: “O, be not angered ‘gainst thy friends; cease from wrath and turn once more thy face this way, counting as friends whomso thy husband counts, and accept these gifts, and for my sake crave thy sire to remit these children’s exile.” Soon as she saw the ornaments, no longer she held out, but yielded to her lord in all; and ere the father and his sons were far from the palace gone, she took the broidered robe and put it on, and set the golden crown about her tresses, arranging her hair at her bright mirror, with many a happy smile at her breathless counterfeit. Then rising from her seat she passed across the chamber, tripping lightly on her fair white foot, exulting in the gift, with many a glance at her uplifted ankle. When lo! a scene of awful horror did ensue. In a moment she turned pale, reeled back- wards, trembling in every limb, and sinks upon a seat scarce soon enough to save herself from falling to the ground. An aged dame, one of her company, thinking belike it was a fit from Pan or some god sent, raised a cry of prayer, till from her mouth she saw the foam-flakes issue, her eyeballs rolling in their sockets, and all the blood her face desert; then did she raise a loud scream far different from her former cry. Forthwith one handmaid rushed to her father’s house, another to her new bridegroom to tell his bride’s sad fate, and the whole house echoed with their running to and fro. By this time would a quick walker have made the turn in a course of six plethra and reached the goal, when she with one awful shriek awoke, poor sufferer, from her speechless trance and oped her closed eyes, for against her a twofold anguish was warring. The chaplet of gold about her head was sending forth a wondrous stream of ravening flame, while the fine raiment, thy children’s gift, was preying on the hapless maiden’s fair white flesh; and she starts from her seat in a blaze and seeks to fly, shaking her hair and head this way and that, to cast the crown therefrom; but the gold held firm to its fastenings, and the flame, as she shook her locks, blazed forth the more with
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double fury. Then to the earth she sinks, by the cruel blow o’ercome; past all recognition now save to a father’s eye; for her eyes had lost their tranquil gaze, her face no more its natural look preserved, and from the crown of her head blood and fire in mingled stream ran down; and from her bones the flesh kept peeling off beneath the gnaw- ing of those secret drugs, e’en as when the pine-tree weeps its tears of pitch, a fearsome sight to see. And all were afraid to touch the corpse, for we were warned by what had chanced. Anon came her haples father unto the house, all unwitting of her doom, and stumbles o’er the dead, and loud he cried, and folding his arms about her kissed her, with words like these the while, “O my poor, poor child, which of the gods hath destroyed thee thus foully? Who is robbing me of thee, old as I am and ripe for death? O my child, alas! would I could die with thee!” He ceased his sad lament, and would have raised his aged frame, but found himself held fast by the fine-spun robe as ivy that clings to the branches of the bay, and then ensued a fearful struggle. He strove to rise, but she still held him back; and if ever he pulled with all his might, from off his bones his aged flesh he tore. At last he gave it up, and breathed forth his soul in awful suffering; for he could no longer master the pain. So there they lie, daughter and aged sire, dead side by side, a grievous sight that calls for tears. And as for thee, I leave thee out of my consideration, for thyself must discover a means to escape punishment. Not now for the first time I think this human life a shadow; yea, and without shrinking I will say that they amongst men who pretend to wisdom and expend deep thought on words do incur a serious charge of folly; for amongst mortals no man is happy; wealth may pour in and make one luckier than another, but none can happy be. (The Messenger departs.)
LeAder of the Chorus This day the deity, it seems, will mass on Jason, as he well deserves, heavy load of evils. Woe is thee, daughter of
Creon We pity thy sad fate, gone as thou art to Hades’ halls as the price of thy marriage with Jason.
MedeA My friends, I am resolved upon the deed; at once will I slay my children and then leave this land, without de-
laying long enough to hand them over to some more savage hand to butcher. Needs must they die in any case; and since they must, I will slay them-I, the mother that bare them. O heart of mine, steel thyself ! Why do I hesitate to do the awful deed that must be done? Come, take the sword, thou wretched hand of mine! Take it, and advance to the post whence starts thy life of sorrow! Away with cowardice! Give not one thought to thy babes, how dear they are or how thou art their mother. This one brief day forget thy children dear, and after that lament; for though thou wilt slay them yet they were thy darlings still, and I am a lady of sorrows. (Medea enters the house.)
Chorus (chanting) O earth, O sun whose beam illumines all, look, look upon this lost woman, ere she stretch forth her
murderous hand upon her sons for blood; for lo! these are scions of thy own golden seed, and the blood of gods is in danger of being shed by man. O light, from Zeus proceeding, stay her, hold her hand, forth from the house chase this fell bloody fiend by demons led. Vainly wasted were the throes thy children cost thee; vainly hast thou borne, it seems, sweet babes, O thou who hast left behind thee that passage through the blue Symplegades, that strangers justly hate. Ah! hapless one, why doth fierce anger thy soul assail? Why in its place is fell murder growing up? For grievous unto mortal men are pollutions that come of kindred blood poured on the earth, woes to suit each crime hurled from heaven on the murderer’s house.
first soN (within) Ah, me; what can I do? Whither fly to escape my mother’s blows?
seCoNd soN (within) I know not, sweet brother mine; we are lost.
Chorus (chanting) Didst hear, didst hear the children’s cry? O lady, born to sorrow, victim of an evil fate! Shall I enter
the house? For the children’s sake I am resolved to ward off the murder.
first soN (within) Yea, by heaven I adjure you; help, your aid is needed.
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seCoNd soN (within) Even now the toils of the sword are closing round us.
Chorus (chanting) O hapless mother, surely thou hast a heart of stone or steel to slay the offspring of thy womb by such
a murderous doom. Of all the wives of yore I know but one who laid her hand upon her children dear, even Ino, whom the gods did madden in the day that the wife of Zeus drove her wandering from her home. But she, poor suf- ferer, flung herself into the sea because of the foul murder of her children, leaping o’er the wave-beat cliff, and in her death was she united to her children twain. Can there be any deed of horror left to follow this? Woe for the wooing of women fraught with disaster! What sorrows hast thou caused for men ere now! (Jason and his attendants enter.)
JAsoN Ladies, stationed near this house, pray tell me is the author of these hideous deeds, Medea, still within, or hath
she fled from hence? For she must hide beneath the earth or soar on wings towards heaven’s vault, if she would avoid the vengeance of the royal house. Is she so sure she will escape herself unpunished from this house, when she hath slain the rulers of the land? But enough of this! I am forgetting her children. As for her, those whom she hath wronged will do the like by her; but I am come to save the children’s life, lest the victim’s kin visit their wrath on me, in vengeance for the murder foul, wrought by my children’s mother.
LeAder of the Chorus Unhappy man, thou knowest not the full extent of thy misery, else had thou never said those words.
JAsoN How now? Can she want to kill me too?
LeAder Thy sons are dead; slain by their own mother’s hand.
JAsoN O God! what sayest thou? Woman, thou hast sealed my doom.
LeAder Thy children are no more; be sure of this.
JAsoN Where slew she them; within the palace or outside?
LeAder Throw wide the doors and see thy children’s murdered corpses.
JAsoN Haste, ye slaves, loose the bolts, undo the fastenings, that I may see the sight of twofold woe, my murdered sons
and her, whose blood in vengeance I will shed. Medea appears above the house, on a chariot drawn by dragons; the children’s corpses are beside her.)
MedeA Why shake those doors and attempt to loose their bolts, in quest of the dead and me their murderess? From
such toil desist. If thou wouldst aught with me, say on, if so thou wilt; but never shalt thou lay hand on me, so swift the steeds the sun, my father’s sire, to me doth give to save me from the hand of my foes.
JAsoN Accursed woman! by gods, by me and all mankind abhorred as never woman was, who hadst the heart to stab thy
babes, thou their mother, leaving me undone and childless; this hast thou done and still dost gaze upon the sun and
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earth after this deed most impious. Curses on thee! now perceive what then I missed in the day I brought thee, fraught with doom, from thy home in a barbarian land to dwell in Hellas, traitress to thy sire and to the land that nurtured thee. On me the gods have hurled the curse that dogged thy steps, for thou didst slay thy brother at his hearth ere thou cam’st aboard our fair ship, Argo. Such was the outset of thy life of crime; then didst thou wed with me, and having borne me sons to glut thy passion’s lust, thou now hast slain them. Not one amongst the wives of Hellas e’er had dared this deed; yet before them all I chose thee for my wife, wedding a foe to be my doom, no woman, but a lioness fiercer than Tyr- rhene Scylla in nature. But with reproaches heaped thousandfold I cannot wound thee, so brazen is thy nature. Perish, vile sorceress, murderess of thy babes! Whilst I must mourn my luckless fate, for I shall ne’er enjoy my new-found bride, nor shall I have the children, whom I bred and reared, alive to say the last farewell to me; nay, I have lost them.
MedeA To this thy speech I could have made a long reply, but Father Zeus knows well all I have done for thee, and the
treatment thou hast given me. Yet thou wert not ordained to scorn my love and lead a life of joy in mockery of me, nor was thy royal bride nor Creon, who gave thee a second wife, to thrust me from this land and rue it not. Where- fore, if thou wilt, call me e’en a lioness, and Scylla, whose home is in the Tyrrhene land; for I in turn have wrung thy heart, as well I might.
JAsoN Thou, too, art grieved thyself, and sharest in my sorrow.
MedeA Be well assured I am; but it relieves my pain to know thou canst not mock at me.
JAsoN O my children, how vile a mother ye have found!
MedeA My sons, your father’s feeble lust has been your ruin!
JAsoN ‘Twas not my hand, at any rate, that slew them.
MedeA No, but thy foul treatment of me, and thy new marriage.
JAsoN Didst think that marriage cause enough to murder them?
MedeA Dost think a woman counts this a trifling injury?
JAsoN So she be self-restrained; but in thy eyes all is evil.
MedeA Thy sons are dead and gone. That will stab thy heart.
JAsoN They live, methinks, to bring a curse upon thy head.
MedeA The gods know, whoso of them began this troublous coil.
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JAsoN Indeed, they know that hateful heart of thine.
MedeA Thou art as hateful. I am aweary of thy bitter tongue.
JAsoN And I likewise of thine. But parting is easy.
MedeA Say how; what am I to do? for I am fain as thou to go.
JAsoN Give up to me those dead, to bury and lament.
MedeA No, never! I will bury them myself, bearing them to Hera’s sacred field, who watches o’er the Cape, that none
of their foes may insult them by pulling down their tombs; and in this land of Sisyphus I will ordain hereafter a solemn feast and mystic rites to atone for this impious murder. Myself will now to the land of Erechtheus, to dwell with Aegeus, Pandion’s son. But thou, as well thou mayst, shalt die a caitiff ’s death, thy head crushed ‘neath a shat- tered relic of Argo, when thou hast seen the bitter ending of my marriage.
JAsoN The curse of our sons’ avenging spirit and of justice, that calls for blood, be on thee!
MedeA What god or power divine hears thee, breaker of oaths and every law of hospitality?
JAsoN Fie upon thee! cursed witch! child-murderess!
MedeA To thy house! go, bury thy wife.
JAsoN I go, bereft of both my sons.
MedeA Thy grief is yet to come; wait till old age is with thee too.
JAsoN O my dear, dear children!
MedeA Dear to their mother, not to thee.
JAsoN And yet thou didst slay them?
MedeA Yea, to vex thy heart.
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JAsoN One last fond kiss, ah me! I fain would on their lips imprint.
MedeA Embraces now, and fond farewells for them; but then a cold repulse!
JAsoN By heaven I do adjure thee, let me touch their tender skin.
MedeA No, no! in vain this word has sped its flight.
JAsoN O Zeus, dost hear how I am driven hence; dost mark the treatment I receive from this she-lion, fell murderess
of her young? Yet so far as I may and can, I raise for them a dirge, and do adjure the gods to witness how thou hast slain my sons, and wilt not suffer me to embrace or bury their dead bodies. Would I had never begotten them to see thee slay them after all! (The chariot carries Medea away.)
Chorus (chanting) Many a fate doth Zeus dispense, high on his Olympian throne; oft do the gods bring things to pass
beyond man’s expectation; that, which we thought would be, is not fulfilled, while for the unlooked-for god finds out a way; and such hath been the issue of this matter.
The End
oEDIpUS THE KInG
Sophocles (ca. 496-ca. 406 B.C.E.)
Composed ca. 429-420 B.C.E. Greece
Although Sophocles wrote over one hundred plays, only seven survive. In competitions during religious festi- vals for Dionysus, which required three playwrights to present three dramatic plays each (plus a farce), Sophocles won first place at least twenty times; the rest of the time, he came in second (never third). Greek plays previously had a chorus and one actor on stage; Aeschylus (ca. 525-456) introduced the idea of a second actor, while Sophocles was the first to have three actors, plus painted scenery as a backdrop for the action. Masks allowed the (all male) ac- tors to portray men, women, children, and gods without confusion. Since the stories were familiar to the audience, the popularity of Sophocles stems from his clever wordplay and insightful grasp of psychology. The three plays that cover the story of Oedipus and his family are referred to as the Theban cycle, although they were written for differ- ent competitions over 36 years of his career: Antigone, which was written first, but chronologically is the last story; Oedipus Tyrannos (or just Oedipus), which was written second, but chronologically is the first story; and Oedipus at Colonus, which was written last, but chronologically is the second story. Oedipus begins in medias res, with the city of Thebes suffering from a plague; as the king, Oedipus is trying to discover why the gods are punishing the city.
Written by Laura J. Getty
Image 1.11: Sophocles | A bust of Sophocles, currently housed at the Pushkin Museum.
Author: User “Shakko” Source: Wikimedia Commons License: CC BY-SA 3.0
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oedipus Tyrannus
[oedipus the King]
Sophocles, Translated by D. W. Myatt
Characters: Oedipus, King of Thebes Jocasta, his Consort and wife Creon, brother of Jocasta Tiresias, the blind prophet A Priest, of Zeus
License: CC BY-NC-ND 3.0
JAsoN One last fond kiss, ah me! I fain would on their lips imprint.
MedeA Embraces now, and fond farewells for them; but then a cold repulse!
JAsoN By heaven I do adjure thee, let me touch their tender skin.
MedeA No, no! in vain this word has sped its flight.
JAsoN O Zeus, dost hear how I am driven hence; dost mark the treatment I receive from this she-lion, fell murderess
of her young? Yet so far as I may and can, I raise for them a dirge, and do adjure the gods to witness how thou hast slain my sons, and wilt not suffer me to embrace or bury their dead bodies. Would I had never begotten them to see thee slay them after all! (The chariot carries Medea away.)
Chorus (chanting) Many a fate doth Zeus dispense, high on his Olympian throne; oft do the gods bring things to pass
beyond man’s expectation; that, which we thought would be, is not fulfilled, while for the unlooked-for god finds out a way; and such hath been the issue of this matter.
The End
oEDIpUS THE KInG
Sophocles (ca. 496-ca. 406 B.C.E.)
Composed ca. 429-420 B.C.E. Greece
Although Sophocles wrote over one hundred plays, only seven survive. In competitions during religious festi- vals for Dionysus, which required three playwrights to present three dramatic plays each (plus a farce), Sophocles won first place at least twenty times; the rest of the time, he came in second (never third). Greek plays previously had a chorus and one actor on stage; Aeschylus (ca. 525-456) introduced the idea of a second actor, while Sophocles was the first to have three actors, plus painted scenery as a backdrop for the action. Masks allowed the (all male) ac- tors to portray men, women, children, and gods without confusion. Since the stories were familiar to the audience, the popularity of Sophocles stems from his clever wordplay and insightful grasp of psychology. The three plays that cover the story of Oedipus and his family are referred to as the Theban cycle, although they were written for differ- ent competitions over 36 years of his career: Antigone, which was written first, but chronologically is the last story; Oedipus Tyrannos (or just Oedipus), which was written second, but chronologically is the first story; and Oedipus at Colonus, which was written last, but chronologically is the second story. Oedipus begins in medias res, with the city of Thebes suffering from a plague; as the king, Oedipus is trying to discover why the gods are punishing the city.
Written by Laura J. Getty
Image 1.11: Sophocles | A bust of Sophocles, currently housed at the Pushkin Museum.
Author: User “Shakko” Source: Wikimedia Commons License: CC BY-SA 3.0
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First Messenger Second Messenger A Shepherd Chorus, of Theban Elders
Scene: Before the wealthy dwelling of Oedipus at Thebes
OEDIPUS My children—you most recently reared from ancient Cadmus— Why do you hasten to these seats Wreathed in suppliant branches? Since the citadel is filled with incense, Chants and lamentations 5 I did not deem it fitting, my children, to hear The report of some messenger—so I come here myself: I, Oedipus the renowned, who is respected by you all. As you, Elder, are distinguished by nature, You should speak for these others. Is your manner 10 One of fear or affection? My will is to assist you For I would be indifferent to pain Were I not to have pity after such a supplication as this.
PRIEST Oedipus, master of my land: You see how many sit here 15 Before your altars—some not yet robust enough To fly far; some heavy as I, Priest of Zeus, with age; And these, chosen from our unmarried youth. Enwreathed like them, our people sit in the place of markets, By the twin shrines of Pallas 20 And by the embers of the Ismenian oracle. Our clan, as you yourself behold, already heaves Too much—its head bent To the depths bloodily heaving. Decay is in the unfruitful seeds in the soil, 25 Decay is in our herds of cattle—our women Are barren or abort, and that god of fever Swoops down to strike our clan with an odious plague, Emptying the abode of Cadmus and giving dark Hades An abundance of wailing and lamentation. 30 Not as an equal of the gods do I, And these children who sit by your altar, behold you— But as the prime man in our problems of life And in our dealings and agreements with daimons. You arrived at our town of Cadmus to disentangle us 35 From the tax we paid to that harsh Songstress— And that with less than we knew because Without our experience. Rather—and it is the custom To say this—you had the support of a god And so made our lives to prosper. 40 Thus, Oedipus—you, the most noble of all— We all as suppliants beseech you To find us a defence, whether it be from a god’s oracle Or whether it be learnt from some man. For those who are practical are, by events, 45 Seen to give counsels which are the most effective.
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Most noble among mortals—restore our clan! But—be cautious. For now this land of yours Names you their protector for your swiftness before— Do not let it be recorded of your leadership 50 That you raised us up again only to let us thereafter fall: So make us safe, and restore our clan. Favourable—then—the omens, and prosperity You brought us: be of the same kind, again! For, in commanding a land, as you are master of this, 55 It is much better to be master of men than of an emptiness! Of no value are a ship or a defensive tower If they are empty because no men dwell within them.
OEDIPUS You, my children, who lament—I know, for I am not without knowledge, Of the desire which brings you here. For well do I see 60 All your sufferings—and though you suffer, it is I And not one of you that suffers the most. For your pain comes to each of you By itself, with nothing else, while my psyche Mourns for myself, for you and the clan. 65 You have not awakened me from a resting sleep For indeed you should know of my many tears And the many paths of reflection I have wandered upon and tried. And, as I pondered, I found one cure Which I therefore took. The son of Menoeceus, 70 Creon—he who is my kin by marriage—I have sent to that Pythian dwelling Of Phoebus to learn how I By word or deed can give deliverance to the clan. But I have already measured the duration And am concerned: for where is he? He is longer than expected 75 For his absence is, in duration, greater than is necessary. Yet when he does arrive, it would dishonourable For me not to act upon all that the gods makes clear.
PRIEST It is fitting that you spoke thus—for observe that now We are signalled that Creon is approaching. 80
OEDIPUS Lord Apollo! Let our fate be such That we are saved—and as bright as his face now is!
PRIEST I conjecture it is pleasing since he arrives with his head crowned By laurel wreaths bearing many berries.
OEDIPUS Soon we will know, for, in distance, he can hear us now. 85 [Enter Creon]
Lord—son of Menoeceus—my kin by marriage: Give to us the saying you received from the god!
CREON It is propitious, for I call it fortunate when what is difficult to bear Is taken from us, enabling us thus to prosper again.
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OEDIPUS But what is it? I am not given more courage 90 Nor more fear by your words.
CREON Do you insist upon hearing it here, Within reach of these others—or shall we go within?
OEDIPUS Speak it to all. For my concern for their suffering Is more than even that for my own psyche. 95
CREON Then I shall speak to you what I heard from the god. The command of Lord Phoebus was clear— That defilement nourished by our soil Must be driven away, not given nourishment until it cannot be cured.
OEDIPUS When came this misfortune? How to be cleansed? 100
CREON Banishment of a man—or a killing in return for the killing To release us from the blood and thus this tempest upon our clan.
OEDIPUS What man is thus fated to be so denounced?
CREON My Lord, Laius was the Chief Of this land, before you guided us. 105
OEDIPUS That I have heard and know well although I never saw him.
CREON Because he was slaughtered it is clearly ordered that you Must punish the killing hands, whosesoever they are.
OEDIPUS But are they in this land? Can we still find The now faded marks of the ancient tracks of those so accused? 110
CREON Still in our land, he said. What is saught Can be caught, but will escape if not attended to.
OEDIPUS Was Laius in his dwelling, in his fields, Or in another land when he met his death?
CREON He said he was journeying to a shrine: 115 But, having gone, he did not return.
OEDIPUS
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Was there no messenger, no other with him Who saw anything and whom we could consult and thus learn from?
CREON No—killed: all of them. Except one who fled in fear And so saw nothing except the one thing he did speak of seeing. 120
OEDIPUS What? One thing may help us learn many more And such a small beginning may bring us hope.
CREON He announced that robbers came upon them and, there being so many, In their strength slew them with their many hands.
OEDIPUS How could robbers do that? Unless—unless silver 125 Was paid to them, from here! Otherwise, they would not have the courage!
CREON Such was the opinion. But with Laius killed No one arose to be his avenger since we had other troubles.
OEDIPUS What troubles were before you that with your King fallen You were kept from looking? 130
CREON The convoluted utterances of the Sphinx made us consider what was before us And leave unknown what was dark.
OEDIPUS Then, as a start, I shall go back to make it visible. It is fitting for Phoebus, and fitting also for you For the sake of him dead, to return your concern there 135 And fair that I am seen as an ally In avenging this land and the god. Yet not in the name of remote kin But for myself will I banish the abomination Since that person who killed may—and soon— 140 And by his own hand, wish to avenge me. Thus in this way by so giving aid, I also benefit myself. Now and swiftly, my children, stand up from these steps— Raising your suppliant branches— And go to summon here the people of Cadmus 145 For I shall do all that is required. Either good fortune— If the gods wills—will be shown to be ours, or we shall perish. [Exit Oedipus]
PRIEST Stand, children, for that favour For which we came he has announced he will do. May Phoebus—who delivered this oracle— 150 Be our Saviour and cause our suffering to cease. [Exit Priest. Enter Chorus]
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CHORUS Zeus—your pleasing voice has spoken But in what manner from gold-rich Pytho do you come To the splendour that is Thebes? My reason is stretched by dread as fear shakes me— 155 O Delian Paeon I invoke you!— And I am in awe. For is this new Or the continuation of that obligation Which each season brings again? Speak to me with your divine voice, 160 You born from she whom we treasure—our Hope! You I shall name first—you the daughter of Zeus, the divine Athene! And then you, her sister, who defends our lands—Artemis!— Whose illustrious throne is the circle of our market. And you, Phoebus with your far-reaching arrows! 165 You—the triad who guard us from death! Appear to me! When misfortune moved over our clan before You came to completely drive away that injuring fire— So now come to us, again! Beyond count are the injuries I bear 170 And all my comrades are sick; There is no spear of thought to defend us— The offspring of our fertile soil do not grow While at the birth there are no cries of joy For the women stretched by their labour: 175 I behold one after another rushing forth—swifter than feathered birds, Swifter than invincible fire— Toward the land of the twilight god! They are beyond count and make the clan to die: For her descendants lie unpitied, unmourned on the ground 180 Condemning others to death As both the child-less and the mothers gather Around the base of the altars To labour as suppliants with their injurious laments Although clear are the hymns to the Healer 185 Above those accompanying wailing voices! In answer, you whom we hold precious—daughter of Zeus— Send us She of strength with the beautiful eyes! Grant that fiery Ares—he who fights not with shield of bronze But who burns as he encircles with his battle-cry— 190 Turns around to swiftly run back, away from our fatherland With a fair wind following, to that great Chamber of Amphitrite Or to that Thracian harbour where strangers are dashed, Since what he neglects at night He achieves when day arrives. Thus—you who carry fire, 195 Who bestows the power of lighting— All-father Zeus: waste him beneath your thunder! Lord Lyceus! From your gold-bound bowstring I wish you to deal out the hardest of your arrows So they rise before us as a defence! 200 And you—Artemis—who by your gleaming light Rushes through the mountains of Lycia. And you of the golden mitre whose name Is that of our land—I invoke you Ruddied Bacchus with E-U-O-I!— 205
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With your roaming Maenads Come near to us with your blazing pine-torch And gleaming eyes, to be our ally Against that god given no honour by gods! [Enter Oedipus]
OEDIPUS You ask and what you ask will come— 210 For if you in your sickness listen and accept and assist me You shall receive the strength to lift you out of this trouble. I here make the declaration even though I am a stranger to that report And a stranger to that deed. I, myself, would not have delayed Tracking this, even had there been no signs. 215 But since it was after these things I became a tax-paying citizen among you citizens, I proclaim this now to all who are of Cadmus: Whosoever, concerning Laius son of Labdacus, Knows the man who killed him I command him to declare everything to me. 220 But if he is afraid, he can himself remove the accusation Against him since what awaits him Shall not be hostile since he shall pass uninjured to another land. But if you know of another from another region Whose hand did it, do not be silent 225 For I shall reward and confer favours upon you. But if you keep silent because he is your own kin Or because you yourself are afraid and so reject this— Then hear what I of necessity must do. I forbid that man, whoever he is, to be in this land— 230 This land where I have power and authority: No one is to receive him nor speak to him; Neither is he to share in your offering thanks to the gods, Nor in the sacrifices or in the libations before them. Instead, everyone shall push him away—for our defilement 235 Is, in truth, him: as the Pythian god By his oracle just now announced to me. Thus in such a way do I and this god And the man who was killed become allies— And so this pact I make concerning he who did that deed 240 Whether alone or together with others in secret: Being ignoble, may his miserable life ignobly waste away. And I also make this pact—that should he arrive at my dwelling And with my consent stay by my hearth, then may that disease I desired for those ones come to me! 245 So I command you to accomplish this On behalf of me, the god and this land Now barren, lain waste and without gods. For even had no god sent you to deal with this matter It would not have been fitting to leave it uncleaned 250 For the man killed was both brave and your own lord: You should have enquired. However, I now have the authority And hold the command that was his, And now possess his chambers and his woman—seeded by us both— And by whom we might have children shared in common had that family 255 Not had its misfortune and thus there had been a birth: But it was not to be, for fate bore down upon him.
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Thus, I—as if he were my own father— Will fight for him and will go to any place To search for and to seize the one whose hand killed 260 That son of Labdacus—he of Polydorus, Of Cadmus before that and before then of ancient Agenor. As to those who do not do this for me, I ask the god That the seeds they sow in the earth shall not bring forth shoots Nor their women children, and also that it be their destiny 265 To be destroyed by this thing—or one that is much worse. But as for you others, of Cadmus, to whom this is pleasing— May the goddess, Judgement, who is on our side, And all of the gods, be with us forever.
CHORUS Bound by your oath, my Lord, I speak: 270 I am not the killer—nor can I point out he who did the killing. It is he who sent us on this search— Phoebus—who should say who did that work.
OEDIPUS That would be fair. But to compel the gods Against their will is not within the power of any man. 275
CHORUS Shall I speak of what I consider is the second best thing to do?
OEDIPUS Do not neglect to explain to me even what is third!
CHORUS He who sees the most of what Lord Phoebus knows Is Lord Tiresias—and it is from his watching, and clearness, My Lord, that we might learn the most. 280
OEDIPUS I have not been inactive in attending to that: Since Creon spoke of it, I have sent two escorts— And it is a wonder after this long why he is not here.
CHORUS What can still be told of those things is blunt from age.
OEDIPUS What is there? For I am watching for any report. 285
CHORUS It was said that he was killed by travellers.
OEDIPUS That I have heard—but no one sees here he who observed that.
CHORUS But he will have had his share of fear Having heard your pact—and will not have stayed here.
OEDIPUS And he who had no fear of the deed? Would such a one fear such words? 290
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CHORUS But here is he who can identify him. For observe, It is the prophet of the god who is led here: He who of all mortals has the most ability to reveal things. [Enter Tiresias, guided by a boy]
OEDIPUS Tiresias—you who are learned in all things: what can be taught; what is never spoken of; What is in the heavens and what treads on the earth— 295 Although you have no sight, can you see how our clan Has given hospitality to sickness? You are our shield, Our protector—for you, Lord, are the only remedy we have. Phoebus—if you have not heard it from the messengers— Sent us as answer to our sending: release from the sickness 300 Will come only if we are skilled enough to discover who killed Laius And kill them or drive them away from this land as fugitives. Therefore, do not deny to us from envy the speech of birds Or any other way of divination which you have, But pull yourself and this clan—and me— 305 Pull us away from all that is defiled by those who lie slain. Our being depends on you. For if a man assists someone When he has the strength to do so, then it is a noble labour.
TIRESIAS Ah! There is harm in judging when there is no advantage In such a judgement. This I usefully understood 310 But then totally lost. I should not have come here.
OEDIPUS What is this? Are you heartless, entering here so?
TIRESIAS Permit me to return to my dwelling. Easier then will it be For you to carry what is yours, and I what is mine, if you are persuaded in this.
OEDIPUS Such talk is unusual because unfriendly toward this clan 315 Which nourishes you: will you deprive us of oracles?
TIRESIAS Yes—for I know that the words you say Are not suitable. And I will not suffer because of mine.
OEDIPUS Before the gods! Turn aside that judgement! Here, before you, All of us are as humble suppliants! 320
TIRESIAS Since all of you lack judgement, I will not speak either about myself Or you and so tell about defects.
OEDIPUS What? If you are aware of it but will not speak, Do you intend to betray and so totally destroy your clan?
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TIRESIAS I will not cause pain to either you or myself. Therefore, 325 Why these aimless rebukes since I will not answer.
OEDIPUS Not...? Why, you ignoble, worthless...! A rock, By its nature, can cause anger. Speak it!— Or will you show there is no end to your hardness?
TIRESIAS You rebuke me for anger—but it is with you 330 That she dwells, although you do not see this and blame me instead.
OEDIPUS And whose being would not have anger Hearing how you dishonour our clan!
TIRESIAS By themselves, these things will arrive—even though my silence covers them.
OEDIPUS Then since they shall arrive, you must speak to me about them! 335
TIRESIAS Beyond this, I explain nothing. But if it is your will, Become savage with wroth in anger.
OEDIPUS Yes indeed I will yield to the anger possessing me Since I do understand! For I know you appear to me To have worked together with others to produce that deed, 340 Although it was not your hand that did the killing. But—had you sight— I would say that the blow was yours and yours alone!
TIRESIAS Is that so! I declare it is to the proclamation You announced that you must adhere to, so that from this day You should not speak to me or these others 345 Since you are the unhealthy pollution in our soil!
OEDIPUS It is disrespectful to bound forth With such speech! Do you believe you will escape?
TIRESIAS I have escaped. For, by my revelations, I am nourished and made strong.
OEDIPUS Where was your instruction from? Certainly not from your craft! 350
TIRESIAS From you—for against my desire I cast out those words.
OEDIPUS What words? Say them again so I can fully understand.
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TIRESIAS Did you not hear them before? Or are your words a test?
OEDIPUS They expressed no meaning to me. Say them again.
TIRESIAS I said you are the killer and thus the man you seek. 355
OEDIPUS You shall not escape if you injure me so again!
TIRESIAS Shall I then say more to make your anger greater?
OEDIPUS As much as you desire for you are mistaken in what you say.
TIRESIAS I say that with those nearest to you are you concealed In disrespectful intimacy, not seeing the trouble you are in. 360
OEDIPUS Do you believe you can continue to speak so and remain healthy?
TIRESIAS Yes, if revelations have power.
OEDIPUS They do for others, but not for you! They have none for you Because you are blind in your ears, in your purpose as well as in your eyes!
TIRESIAS In faulting me for that you are unfortunate 365 Because soon there will be no one who does not find fault with you.
OEDIPUS You are nourished by night alone! It is not for me, Or anyone here who sees by the light, to injure you.
TIRESIAS It is not my destiny to be defeated by you— Apollo is sufficient for that, since it is his duty to obtain vengeance. 370
OEDIPUS Were those things Creon’s inventions—or yours?
TIRESIAS It is not Creon who harms you—it is yourself.
OEDIPUS Ah! Wealth, Kingship and that art of arts Which surpasses others—these, in life, are envied: And great is the jealousy cherished because of you. 375 It is because of this authority of mine—which this clan Gave into my hands, unasked— That the faithful Creon, a comrade from the beginning,
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Desires to furtively creep about to overthrow me And hires this performing wizard, 380 This cunning mendicant priest who sees only For gain but who is blind in his art! So now tell me: where and when have you given clear divinations? For you did not—when that bitch was here chanting her verses— Speak out and so give deliverance to your clansfolk. 385 Yet her enigma was not really for some passing man To disclose since it required a prophet’s art: But your augury foretold nothing and neither did you learn anything From any god! It was I who came along— I, Oedipus, who sees nothing!—I who put and end to her 390 By happening to use reason rather than a knowledge of augury. Now it is me you are trying to exile since your purpose Is to stand beside the throne among Creon’s supporters. But I intend to make you sorry! Both of you—who worked together To drive me out. And if I did not respect you as an Elder, 395 Pain would teach you a kind of judgement!
CHORUS Yet I suspect that he has spoken In anger, as I believe you did, Oedipus. But this is not what is needed. Instead, it is the god’s oracle That will, if examined, give us the best remedy. 400
TIRESIAS Though you are the King, I have at least an equality of words In return, for I also have authority. I do not live as your servant—but for Loxias— Just as I am not inscribed on the roll as being under Creon’s patronage. Thus, I speak for myself—since you have found fault with me because I am blind. 405 When you look, you do not see the trouble you are in, Nor where you dwell, nor who you are intimate with. Do you know from whom your being arose? Though concealed, you are the enemy Of your own, below and upon this land: On both sides beaten by your mother and your father 410 To be driven out from this land by a swift and angry Fury— And you who now see straight will then be in darkness. What place will not be a haven for your cries? What Cithaeron will not, and soon, resound with them When you understand your wedding-night in that abode 415 Into where you fatefully and easily sailed but which is no haven from your voyage? Nor do you understand the multitude of troubles Which will make you equal with yourself and your children. Thus it is, so therefore at my mouth and at Creon’s Throw your dirt! For there is no other mortal whose being 420 Will be so completely overwhelmed by troubles as yours.
OEDIPUS Am I to endure hearing such things from him? May misfortune come to you! Go from here—without delay! Away from my dwelling! Turn and go!
TIRESIAS I would not have come here, had you not invited me. 425
OEDIPUS
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I did not know you would speak nonsense Or I would have been unwilling to ask you here to my dwelling.
TIRESIAS So you believe I was born lacking sense? Yet I made sense to those who gave you birth.
OEDIPUS What? Wait! Which mortals gave me birth? 430
TIRESIAS It is on this day that you are born and also destroyed.
OEDIPUS All that you have said is enigmatic or lacking in reason.
TIRESIAS But are you not the best among us in working things out?
OEDIPUS Do you find fault with what I have discovered is my strength?
TIRESIAS It is that very fortune which has totally ruined you. 435
OEDIPUS I am not concerned—if I have preserved this clan.
TIRESIAS Then I shall depart. You—boy! Lead me away.
OEDIPUS Let him lead you away. While here, you are under my feet And annoy me. When gone—you will give me no more pain.
TIRESIAS I shall go but speak that for which I was fetched, with no dread 440 Because of your countenance. For you cannot harm me. I say that the man you have long searched for And threatened and made proclamation about for the killing Of Laius—he is present, here. Although called a foreigner among us, he will be exposed as a native 445 Of Thebes but have no delight in that event. Blind, though recently able to see— And a beggar, who before was rich—he shall go to foreign lands With a stick to guide him along the ground on his journey. And he shall be exposed to his children as both their father 450 And their brother; to the woman who gave him birth As both her son and husband; and to his father As his killer who seeded her after him. So go Within to reason this out and if you catch me deceiving you, Then say that in my prophecies there is nothing for me to be proud of. 455 [Exit Tiresias and Oedipus]
CHORUS
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Who is the one that the god-inspired oracle-stone at Delphi saw With bloody hands doing that which it is forbidden to speak of ? For now is the day for him to move his feet swifter Than storm’s horses as he flees Since the son of Zeus—armed with fire and lightning— 460 Is leaping toward him Accompanied by those angry And infallible Furies! It was not that long ago that the omen shone forth From the snows of Parnassus: Search everywhere for that man who is concealed; 465 He who wanders up to the wild-woods, Through caves and among the rocks like some bull— He unlucky in his desolation who by his unlucky feet Seeks to elude that prophecy from the Temple at the centre of the world— That living doom which circles around him. 470 There is a strange wonder—wrought by he who is skilled in augury; I cannot believe, yet cannot disbelieve, nor explain my confusion For fear hovers over me. I cannot see what is here, or what is behind! Yet—if there was between the family of Labdacus, And that son of Polybus, any strife existing 475 Either now or before, I have not learned of it To thus use it as proof to examine by trial and thus attack The public reputation of Oedipus, becoming thus for the family of Labdacus Their ally in respect of that killing which has been concealed. Rather—this is for Zeus and Apollo, who have the skill 480 To understand, although that other man has won more For his discoveries than I. Even so, on some things nothing decisive is discovered: As in learning, where by learning One man may overtake another. 485 Thus not before I see that they who accuse him are speaking straight Will I declare myself for them For she was visible—that winged girl who came down against him— And we then saw proof of his knowledge, which was beneficial to our clan. So therefore my decision is not to condemn him as ignoble. 490 [Enter Creon]
CREON Clansmen! Having learnt of a horrible accusation Made against me by Oedipus the King I hastened here! If, in these our troubles, He deems that he has suffered because of me— Been injured by some word or some deed— 495 Then I would have no desire to live as long as I might Having to bear such talk! For it is not simple— The damage that would be done to me by such words: Rather, it would be great, for I would be dishonoured before my clan— With you and my kinsfolk hearing my name dishonoured. 500
CHORUS That insult perhaps came forth because of anger— Rather than being a conclusion from reason.
CREON And it was declared that it was my reasoning
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Which persuaded the prophet to utter false words?
CHORUS It was voiced—but I do not know for what reason. 505
CREON Were his eyes straight, was he thinking straight When he made that allegation against me?
CHORUS I do not know. For I do not observe what my superiors do. But here, from out of his dwelling, comes the Chief himself. [Enter Oedipus]
OEDIPUS You there! Why are you here? Have you so much face 510 That you dare to come to my home? You—the one exposed as the killer of its man And, vividly, as a robber seeking my Kingship! In the name of the gods, tell me if it was cowardice or stupidity That you saw in me when you resolved to undertake this! 515 Did you reason that I would not observe your cunning treachery— Or, if I did learn of it, I would not defend myself ? Instead, it was senseless of you to set your hand to this— With no crowd or comrades—and go in pursuit of authority: That which is captured by using wealth and the crowd! 520
CREON You know what you must do—in answer to your words Be as long in hearing my reply so that you can, with knowledge, judge for yourself.
OEDIPUS Your words are clever—but I would be mistaken to learn from you, Since I have found how dangerous and hostile you are to me.
CREON That is the first thing you should hear me speak about. 525
OEDIPUS Do not tell me: it is that you are not a traitor!
CREON If you believe that what is valuable is pride, by itself, Without a purpose, then your judgement is not right.
OEDIPUS And if you believe you can betray a kinsman And escape without punishment, then your judgement is no good. 530
CREON I agree that such a thing is correct— So inform me what injury you say I have inflicted.
OEDIPUS Did you convince me or did you not convince me that I should
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Send a man to bring here that respected prophet?
CREON I am the same person now as the one who gave that advice. 535
OEDIPUS How long is the duration since Laius—
CREON Since he did what? I do not understand.
OEDIPUS Since he disappeared: removed by deadly force?
CREON The measurement of that duration is great—far into the past.
OEDIPUS So—was that prophet then at his art? 540
CREON Yes: of equal skill and having the same respect as now.
OEDIPUS At that period did he make mention of me?
CREON Certainly not to me nor when I was standing nearby.
OEDIPUS Was there no inquiry held about the killing?
CREON It was indeed undertaken, although nothing was learned. 545
OEDIPUS So why did that clever person not speak , then?
CREON I do not know. And about things I cannot judge for myself, I prefer to be silent.
OEDIPUS But you do know why and would say it if you had good judgement!
CREON What? If I did know, then I would not deny it.
OEDIPUS It is that if he had not met with you, 550 He would not have spoken about “my” killing of Laius.
CREON You should know if he indeed said that. Now, however, it is fair that I question you just as you have me.
OEDIPUS Question me well—for you will never convict me as the killer!
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CREON Nevertheless. You had my sister—took her as wife? 555
OEDIPUS That is an assertion that cannot be denied.
CREON Does she, in this land, possess an authority the equal of yours?
OEDIPUS Whatsoever is her wish, she obtains from me.
CREON And am I—who completes the triad—not the equal of you both?
OEDIPUS And it because of that, that you are exposed as a traitor to your kin! 560
CREON No! For consider these reasons for yourself, as I have, Examining this first: do you believe anyone Would prefer authority with all its problems To untroubled calm if they retained the same superiority? I myself do not nurture such a desire 565 To be King rather than do the deeds of a King: No one commanding good judgement would, whoever they were. Now, and from you, I receive everything with no problems But if the authority was mine, I would have to do many things against my nature. How then could being a King bring me more pleasure 570 Than the trouble-free authority and power I have? I am not yet so much deceived As to want honours other than those which profit me. Now, I greet everyone, and now, everyone bids me well Just as, now, those who want something from you call upon me 575 Since only in that way can they possibly have success. Why, then, would I let go of these to accept that? A traitor cannot, because of his way of thinking, have good judgement. I am not a lover of those whose nature is to reason so And would not endure them if they did act. 580 As proof of this, first go yourself to Pytho To inquire whether the message I brought from the oracle there was true And if you detect that I and that interpreter of signs Plotted together, then kill me—not because of a single vote, But because of two, for you will receive mine as well as yours. 585 I should not be accused because of unclear reasoning and that alone. It is not fair when the ignoble, rashly, Are esteemed as worthy or the worthy as ignoble. I say that to cast away an honourable friend is to do the same To that which is with life and which you cherish the most. 590 It takes a while for an intuition to be made steady For it is only after a while that a man shows if he is fair Although an ignoble one is known as such in a day.
CHORUS Honourable words from someone cautious of falling, My Lord. Those swift in their judgement are unsteady. 595
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OEDIPUS But when there is a plot against me which is swiftly and furtively Moving forward, then I must be swift in opposing that plot Since if I remain at rest, then indeed What is about to be done, will be—because of my mistake.
CREON Then you still desire to cast me from this land? 600
OEDIPUS Not so! It is your death, not your exile, that I want!
CREON When you explain to me what is the nature of this thing “envy”—
OEDIPUS You speak without yielding and not in good faith!
CREON Is it not your ‘good judgement’ that is keenly being observed?
OEDIPUS But at least it is mine! 605
CREON And for that very reason it is but the equal of mine.
OEDIPUS But you have a treacherous nature!
CREON But if nothing has been proved—
OEDIPUS Even so, there must be authority.
CREON Not when that authority is defective. 610
OEDIPUS My clan! My clan!
CREON A portion of the clan is for me—not wholly for you!
CHORUS My Lords, stop this! It is fortunate perhaps that I observe Jocasta approaching from her dwelling, since it is fitting for her To make right the quarrel which now excites you. 615 [Enter Jocasta]
JOCASTA You wretches! Why this ill-advised strife Produced by your tongues? Are you not dishonoured—when this land
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Is suffering—by becoming moved by personal troubles? You should go within; while you, Creon, should go to your dwelling So as not to let what is only nothing become a great sorrow. 620
CREON My kin by blood! It is horrible what your husband Oedipus, From two unfair things, has decided it is right to do! To push me from this land of my ancestors—or to seize and kill me!
OEDIPUS Yes! For he was, my lady, caught trying to injure My person by a cowardly art. 625
CREON [looking upward] Deny me, this day, your assistance—curse and destroy me If I committed that which I am accused of doing!
JOCASTA Before the god, trust him, Oedipus! Chiefly because of this oath to the god And then because of me and these others here beside you. 630
CHORUS My Lord—be persuaded, having agreed to reflect on this.
OEDIPUS To what do you wish me to yield?
CHORUS Respect he who before has never been weak—he now strengthened by that oath.
OEDIPUS Do you know what it is that you so desire?
CHORUS I do know. 635
OEDIPUS Then explain what you believe it to be.
CHORUS When a comrade is under oath, you should never accuse him Because of unproved rumours and brand him as being without honour.
OEDIPUS Then attend to this well. When you seek this, it is my Destruction that is saught—or exile from this land. 640
CHORUS No! By the god who is Chief of all the gods— Helios! Bereft of gods, bereft of kin—may the extremist death Of all be mine if such a judgement was ever mine! But ill-fated would be my breath of life—which the decay in this soil Already wears down—if to those troubles of old 645 There was joined this trouble between you and him.
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OEDIPUS Then allow him to go—although it requires my certain death Or that I, without honour and by force, am thrown out from this land. And it is because of you, not because of him—the mercy coming from your mouth— That I do this. As for him—wherever he goes—I will detest him! 650
CREON It is clear that you are hostile as you yield—and so dangerous, even though Your anger has gone. For natures such as yours Are deservedly painful to whose who endure them.
OEDIPUS Then go away and leave me.
CREON I shall depart. To you, I remain unknown—but to these, here, I am the same. 655 [Exit Creon]
CHORUS My Lady—why do you delay in returning with him into your dwelling?
JOCASTA Because I wish to learn what has happened.
CHORUS Suspicion arising from unreasonable talk—and a wounding that was unfair.
JOCASTA From both of them?
CHORUS Indeed. 660
JOCASTA What was the talk?
CHORUS Too much for me, too much for this land, wearied before this. Since it appears to have ceased, here—let it remain so.
OEDIPUS Observe where you have come to with your prowess in reason By me giving way and blunting my passion! 665
CHORUS My Lord, I will not say this only this once: My judgement would be defective—and by my purposeless judgements Would be shown to be so—if I deserted you, You who when this land I love was afflicted And despairing, set her straight. 670 Now be for us our lucky escort, again!
JOCASTA My Lord—before the god explain to me What act roused such wroth and made you hold onto it.
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OEDIPUS It will be told. For I respect you, my lady, more than them. It was Creon—the plot he had against me. 675
JOCASTA Then speak about it—if you can clearly affix blame for the quarrel.
OEDIPUS He declared that it was me who had killed Laius.
JOCASTA Did he see it, for him self—or learn of it from someone?
OEDIPUS It was rather that he let that treacherous prophet bring it— So as to make his own mouth entirely exempt. 680
JOCASTA Therefore, and this day, acquit yourself of what was spoken about And listen to me, for you will learn for yourself That no mortal is given the skill to make prophecies. I bring to light evidence for this: An oracle came to Laius once—not I say 685 From Phoebus himself but from a servant— That his own death was destined to come from a child Which he and I would produce. But—as it was reported—one day foreign robbers Slew him where three cart-tracks meet. 690 As to the child—his growth had not extended to the third day When we yoked the joints of its feet And threw it—by another’s hand—upon a desolate mountain. So, in those days, Apollo did not bring about, for him, That he slay the father who begot him—nor, for Laius, 695 That horror which he feared—being killed by his son. Such were the limits set by those words of revelation! Therefore, do not concern yourself with them: for what a god Wants others to find out, he will by himself unmistakably reveal.
OEDIPUS As I heard you just now my lady, 700 My judgement became muddled as the breath of life left me.
JOCASTA What has so divided you that you turn away to speak?
OEDIPUS I believed I heard this from you—that Laius Was killed near where three cart-tracks meet.
JOCASTA It was, indeed, voiced—and is so, still. 705
OEDIPUS Where is the place where came his misfortune?
JOCASTA
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The nearby land of Phocis—where the track splits To come from Delphi and from Daulia.
OEDIPUS How many seasons have passed since that thing was done?
JOCASTA It was just before you held this land’s authority 710 That it was revealed by a herald to the clan.
OEDIPUS O Zeus! What was your purpose in doing this to me?
JOCASTA What is it that burdens your heart, Oedipus?
OEDIPUS Do not enquire yet; rather, explain to me the appearance Laius had: Was he at the height of his vigour? 715
JOCASTA He was big—his head covered in hair but having a recent whiteness. His build was not far removed from your own.
OEDIPUS Wretch that I am! For it seems that over myself I, without looking, threw that terrible curse!
JOCASTA What are you saying? My Lord—I tremble as I look at you. 720
OEDIPUS My courage is replaced by fear—that the prophet possesses sight! More can be explained—if you make known one more thing.
JOCASTA Though I still tremble, if I have knowledge of what you ask, I shall speak it.
OEDIPUS Did he have a slender one—or did he have many men As escort as befits a warrior chieftain? 725
JOCASTA Altogether there were five, one of those being an official— And one carriage, which conveyed Laius.
OEDIPUS Now it becomes visible. But who was he, My lady, who gave you that report?
JOCASTA A servant—the very person who alone returned, having escaped harm. 730
OEDIPUS Then perhaps he is to be found, at this moment, within our dwelling?
JOCASTA
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Definitely not. For as soon as he returned here again and saw you Were the master of what the dead Laius had held, He beseeched me—his hand touching mine— To send him away to the wilds as a shepherd to a herd, 735 Far away where he could not see the town. And so I sent him. For I deemed him worthy, As a slave, to have a greater reward than that favour.
OEDIPUS Then swiftly—and with no delay—can he be returned here?
JOCASTA He is around. But why do you desire it? 740
OEDIPUS I fear, my lady, that far too much has already Been said by me. Yet it is my wish to see him.
JOCASTA Then he shall be here. But it merits me to learn, My Lord, what burden within you is so difficult to bear.
OEDIPUS I shall not deprive you of that—for what I fear 745 Comes closer. Who is more important to me than you To whom I would speak when going through such an event as this? Polybus the Corinthian was my father— And the Dorian, Meropè, my mother. I was, in merit, Greater than the clansfolk there—until I was, by chance, 750 Attacked. This, for me, was worthy of my wonder Although unworthy of my zeal: At a feast a man overfull with wine Mumbled into his chalice what I was falsely said to be my father’s. I was annoyed by this during that day—scarcely able 755 To hold myself back. On the one following that, I saught to question My mother and father, and they were indignant At he who had let loose those words at me. Because of this, I was glad, although I came to itch from them For much did they slither about. 760 So, unobserved by my mother and father, I travelled To Pytho. But for that which I had come, Phoebus there Did not honour me; instead—suffering and strangeness And misery were what his words foresaw: That I must copulate with my mother—and show, 765 For mortals to behold, a family who would not endure— And also be the killer of the father who planted me. I, after hearing this—and regarding Corinth— Thereafter by the stars measured the ground I fled upon so that I would never have to face— 770 Because of that inauspicious prophecy—the disgrace of its fulfilment. And while so travelling I arrived in those regions Where you spoke of the King himself being killed. For you, my lady, I shall declare what has not been spoken of before. While journeying, I came near to that three-fold track, 775 And at that place an official and a carriage With young horse with a man mounted in it—such as you spoke of— Came toward me. And he who was in front as well as the Elder himself
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Were for driving me vigorously from the path. But the one who had pushed me aside—the carriage driver— 780 I hit in anger: and the Elder, observing this From his chariot, watched for me to go past and then on the middle Of my head struck me with his forked goad. He was certainly repaid with more! By a quick blow From the staff in this, my hand, he fell back 785 From the middle of the carriage and rolled straight out! And then I destroyed all the others. Yet if to that stranger And Laius there belongs a common relation Then who exists who is now as unfortunate as this man, here? Who of our race of mortals would have a daimon more hostile— 790 He to whom it is not permitted for a stranger nor a clansman To receive into their homes, nor even speak to— But who, instead, must be pushed aside? And it is such things as these— These curses!—that I have brought upon myself. The wife of he who is dead has been stained by these hands 795 Which killed him. Was I born ignoble? Am I not wholly unclean? For I must be exiled And in my exile never see my family Nor step into my own fatherland—or by marriage I will be yoked to my mother and slay my father 800 Polybus, he who produced and nourished me. And would not someone who decided a savage daimon Did these things to me be speaking correctly? You awesome, powerful, gods— May I never see that day! May I go away 805 From mortals, unobserved, before I see The stain of that misfortune come to me.
CHORUS I also, my Lord, would wish to draw away from such things. But surely until you learn from he who was there, you can have expectations?
OEDIPUS Indeed. There is for me just such an expectation, 810 And one alone—to wait for that herdsman.
JOCASTA And when he does appear, what is your intent?
OEDIPUS I will explain it to you. If his report is found to be The same as yours, then I shall escape that suffering.
JOCASTA Did you then hear something odd in my report? 815
OEDIPUS You said he spoke of men—of robbers—being the ones Who did the killing. If, therefore, he still Speaks of there being many of them, then I am not the killer For one cannot be the same as the many of that kind. But if he says a solitary armed traveller, then it is clear, 820 And points to me as the person who did that work.
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You should know that it was announced in that way. He cannot go back and cast them away For they were heard, here, by the clan—not just by me. Yet even if he turns away from his former report, 825 Never, my Lord, can the death of Laius Be revealed as a straight fit—for it was Loxias Who disclosed he would be killed by the hand of my child. But he—the unlucky one—could not have slain him For he was himself destroyed before that. 830 Since then I have not by divination looked into What is on either side of what is next.
OEDIPUS I find that pleasing. However, that hired hand Should be summoned here by sending someone—it should not be neglected.
JOCASTA I will send someone, and swiftly. But let us go into our dwelling. 835 I would not do anything that would be disagreeable to you. [Exit Oedipus and Jocasta]
CHORUS May the goddess of destiny be with me So that I bear an entirely honourable attitude In what I say and in what I do— As set forth above us in those customs born and 840 Given their being in the brightness of the heavens And fathered only by Olympus. For they were not brought forth by mortals, Whose nature is to die. Not for them the lethargy Of laying down to sleep 845 Since the god within them is strong, and never grows old. Insolence plants the tyrant: There is insolence if by a great foolishness There is a useless over-filling which goes beyond The proper limits— 850 It is an ascending to the steepest and utmost heights And then that hurtling toward that Destiny Where the useful foot has no use. Yet since it is good for a clan to have combat, I ask the god never to deliver us from it: 855 As may I never cease from having the god for my champion. If someone goes forth and by his speaking Or the deeds of his hands looks down upon others With no fear of the goddess Judgement and not in awe Of daimons appearing, 860 Then may he be seized by a destructive Fate Because of his unlucky weakness. If he does not gain what he gains fairly, Does not keep himself from being disrespectful, And in his foolishness holds onto what should not be touched, 865 Then how will such a man thereafter keep away those arrows of anger Which will take revenge on his breath of life? For if such actions are those are esteemed, Is this my respectful choral-dance required?
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No more would I go in awe to that never to be touched sacred-stone, 870 Nor to that Temple at Abae, Nor Olympia—if those prophecies do not fit In such a way that all mortals can point it out. But you whom it is right to call my master— Zeus!—you who rule over everyone: do not forget this, 875 You whose authority is, forever, immortal. For they begin to decay—those prophecies of Laius Given long ago, and are even now set aside And nowhere does Apollo become manifest because esteemed: For the rituals of the gods are being lost. 880 [Enter Jocasta]
JOCASTA Lords of this land—the belief has been given to me That I should go to the Temples of our guardian gods, my hands Holding a garland and an offering of incense. For Oedipus lets his breath of life be too much possessed by his heart Because of all his afflictions—since, unlike a man who reasons 885 And determines the limits of what is strange by the past, He is fearful when someone, in speaking, speaks of such things. Therefore, since none of my counsels have achieved anything, I come here—to you, Lycean Apollo, since you are close to us— To petition you by asking you with these my gifts 890 That we are cleansed of defilement by you bringing us deliverance. For now all of us are afraid as we behold That he who is guiding our vessel is wounded. [Enter Messenger]
MESSENGER Is it from you, stranger, that I might learn where Is the dwelling of King Oedipus: 895 Or, more particularly, if you have knowledge of where he himself is?
CHORUS Here are his chambers, stranger, and he himself is within. But here is his wife and mother of his children.
MESSENGER May she always prosper in her prospering descent Since by them her marriage is complete. 900
JOCASTA And may you, also, stranger, because of your worthy eloquence. But explain to me what you seek in arriving here Or what it is that you wish to make known.
MESSENGER What is profitable, my lady, for both your family and your husband.
JOCASTA What is it? And who sent you here, to us? 905
MESSENGER
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I am from Corinth. And when, presently, I have said my speech, There will be joy—of that I have no doubt—but also an equal sorrowing.
JOCASTA How can that be? What has a double strength that it could cause that?
MESSENGER He, as their King: for they who inhabit the land Of Isthmia would make him so—so they have said. 910
JOCASTA How is that? For is not Polybus, the Elder, their Master?
MESSENGER Not now—because death holds him in a tomb.
JOCASTA What are you saying? That the father of Oedipus—has died?
MESSENGER Is my report is not correct, then I merit death.
JOCASTA Swiftly—my handmaiden—go to your master 915 To tell him this. You prophecies from the gods!— Where is your reality? This was the man whom Oedipus long ago from fear Avoided lest he kill him. And now it is because Of his own destiny that he died rather than through that of another. [Enter Oedipus]
OEDIPUS My Lady, Jocasta: 920 Why did you summon me here from my chamber?
JOCASTA Hear this man and, as you listen, watch to where It is that those solemn prophecies of the gods lead.
OEDIPUS What report has he—wherever he is from—for me?
JOCASTA He is from Corinth with the message that your father 925 Polybus is no more—he is dead.
OEDIPUS Then announce it, stranger—leading it out yourself, old one.
MESSENGER If that is what I must relate first and clearly Then know well that his death has come upon him.
OEDIPUS Was it by treachery—or by dealing with sickness? 930
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MESSENGER A small turn downwards, and the ageing body lies in sleep.
OEDIPUS Am I to assume that he unfortunately perished from a sickness?
MESSENGER Indeed—for he had been allocated a great many seasons.
OEDIPUS Ah! Then why, my lady, look toward The altar of some Pythian prophet, or above to those 935 Screeching birds—whose guidance was that I would Assuredly kill my father? But he is dead And hidden within the earth, while I am here Without having to clean my spear. Unless—it was a longing for me Which destroyed him, and thus he is dead because of me. 940 But then—that divine prophecy has been, by that circumstance, taken away By Polybus lying in Hades, and thus has no importance.
JOCASTA Did I not declare such things to you, just now?
OEDIPUS Such was said—but I turned away because of my fear of them.
JOCASTA Do not anymore wound your heart by such things. 945
OEDIPUS But how can I not distance myself from that intercourse with my mother?
JOCASTA What is there for mortals to fear, for it is chance Which rules over them, and who can clearly foresee what does not exist? It is most excellent to live without a plan—according to one’s ability. You should not fear being married to your mother: 950 For many are the mortals who have—in dreams also— Lain with their mothers, and he to whom such things as these Are as nothing, provides himself with a much easier life.
OEDIPUS All that you expressed is fine, except for this: She who gave me birth is alive, and since she is now still living, 955 It is necessary that I—despite your fine words—distance myself from her.
JOCASTA Yet the death of your father is a great revelation for you.
OEDIPUS Yes—a great one. But I fear she who is living.
MESSENGER Who is this woman that you so fear?
OEDIPUS Meropè, old one: she who belonged with Polybus. 960
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MESSENGER And what, concerning her, could produce fear in you?
OEDIPUS A strange god-inspired prophecy.
MESSENGER Is it forbidden for someone else to know—or can it be told?
OEDIPUS Certainly. Once, Loxias said to me That I must copulate with my own mother 965 And by my own hands take my father’s blood. Therefore, and long ago, I left Corinth And have kept far away from there. And good fortune has been mine, Although it is very pleasing to behold the eye’s of one’s parents.
MESSENGER Was that what distanced you from your clan? 970
OEDIPUS Yes, old one: I did not want to slaughter my father.
MESSENGER Then why, my Lord, have I not released you from that fear— Since I came here as a favour to you?
OEDIPUS Certainly you would merit receiving a reward from me.
MESSENGER And that was chiefly why I came here— 975 That on your arrival home I would obtain something useful.
OEDIPUS But I will not rejoin those who planted me.
MESSENGER My son! It is clearly evident you cannot see what you are doing—
OEDIPUS Why, old one? Before the gods, enlighten me!
MESSENGER —If it was because of that, that you avoided returning to your home. 980
OEDIPUS Yes, out of respect for Phoebus so that what he explained could not be fulfilled.
MESSENGER A defilement brought to you by they who planted you?
OEDIPUS That, Elder, is the thing I have always feared.
MESSENGER
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Then you should know that there is nothing to make you tremble.
OEDIPUS Nothing? Why—if I was the child born to them? 985
MESSENGER Because you and Polybus are not kin by blood.
OEDIPUS Are you saying that Polybus did not sire me?
MESSENGER The same as but no more than this man, here!
OEDIPUS How can he who sired me be the same as he who did not?
MESSENGER Because he did not beget you—as I did not. 990
OEDIPUS But then why did he name me as his son?
MESSENGER Know that you were accepted from my hands as a gift.
OEDIPUS And he strongly loved what came from the hand of another?
MESSENGER He was persuaded because before then he was without children.
OEDIPUS When I was given to him—had you purchased or begotten me? 995
MESSENGER You were found in a forest valley on Cithaeron.
OEDIPUS And why were you travelling in that region?
MESSENGER I was there to oversee the mountain sheep.
OEDIPUS A shepherd—who wandered in search of work?
MESSENGER Yes—and that season the one who, my son, was your saviour. 1000
OEDIPUS What ailment possessed me when you took me into your hands?
MESSENGER The joints of your feet are evidence of it.
OEDIPUS
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What makes you speak of that old defect?
MESSENGER I undid what held and pierced your ankles.
OEDIPUS A strange disgrace—to carry such a token with me. 1005
MESSENGER Such was the fortune that named you who you are.
OEDIPUS Before the gods, tell me whether that thing was done by my father or my mother.
MESSENGER I do not know—he who gave you to me would be the best judge of that.
OEDIPUS What? From someone else? Then it was not by chance you found me?
MESSENGER No—another shepherd gave you to me. 1010
OEDIPUS Who was it? Can you point him out? Tell whom you saw?
MESSENGER He was perhaps named among those of Laius.
OEDIPUS He who once and long ago was King of this land?
MESSENGER Yes—that man was his shepherd.
OEDIPUS Is he then still living? Is it possible for me to see him? 1015
MESSENGER You who are of this region would know that best.
OEDIPUS Is there among you here, anyone Whoever he might be, who knows this shepherd he speaks of Or who has seen him either here or in the wilds? If so, declare it—for here is the opportunity to find out about these things. 1020
CHORUS I believe he is that one in the wilds Whom you saught before to see. But it is Jocasta—for certain—who could tell of him.
OEDIPUS My lady—do you know if it is he who, before, We desired to return to here? Is that the one about whom this person speaks? 1025
JOCASTA
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The one he spoke about? Why? Do not return to it Nor even desire to attend again to this idle talk!
OEDIPUS It could never be that I would fail to grasp These proofs which will shed light upon my origin.
JOCASTA Before the gods! If you value your own life, 1030 Do not seek that. I have enough pain now.
OEDIPUS Have courage—for even if my three mothers past Were shown to be three slaves, you would not be the one exposed as low-born.
JOCASTA I beseech you to be persuaded by me. Do not do this.
OEDIPUS I cannot be persuaded not to learn of this for certain. 1035
JOCASTA Yet my judgement is for your good—it is said for the best.
OEDIPUS This “for the best” pained me before and does so again.
JOCASTA You, the unlucky one—may you never find out who you are.
OEDIPUS Someone go and bring that Shepherd here to me, For she can still rejoice in her distinguished origins. 1040
JOCASTA You are doomed: this and this alone will I Say to you—and nothing hereafter! [Exit Jocasta]
CHORUS Why, Oedipus, has your lady gone, taken away By some wild affliction? I am in awe Of a misfortune bursting forth because of her silence about this. 1045
OEDIPUS It is necessary that it does burst forth. However lowly My seed may be, it is my wish to know about it. Although she is a woman, she has a mature judgement— But even so, perhaps she is ashamed of my low-born origins. But I—who apportion myself a child of the goddess, Fortuna, 1050 She of beneficence—will not become dishonoured, For She was the mother who gave me birth: my kinsfolk The moons which separated my greatness and my lowness. As this is the nature of my being, I cannot ever go away from it To another, and so not learn about my birth. 1055
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CHORUS If indeed I am a prophet or skillful in reason, Then—by Olympus!—you shall not be without the experience, O Cithaeron, on the rising of the full moon, Of me exalting you—the kinsfolk of Oedipus, His mother and provider—by my choral-dance 1060 Since a joy has been brought to my King. Phoebus—I invoke you, that this may also be pleasing to you! Who, my son, of those whose living in years is long, Did the mountain-wanderer Pan come down upon To be your father? Or was it Loxias who slept with a woman? 1065 For agreeable to him are all those who inhabit the wilds! Or perhaps it was he who is the sovereign of Cyllene: Or he the mountain-summit dwelling god of those Bacchinites Who gladly received you who was found by one of those Helicon Nymphs With whom he so often plays! 1070
OEDIPUS If it fitting for me—who has never had dealings with him— To make an estimate, Elders, then I believe I see that Shepherd Whom we saught before. For his great age Would conform and be in accord with that of this man. Also, those who are escorting him are servants 1075 Of my own family. But, about this, your experience Has the advantage over mine since you have seen that Shepherd before.
CHORUS I see him clearly—and, yes, I know him. For if Laius ever had A faithful Shepherd, it was this man. [Enter Shepherd]
OEDIPUS You, the stranger from Corinth, I question you first— 1080 Is this he whom you talked about.
MESSENGER Indeed—you behold him.
OEDIPUS You there, old man! Here, look at me, and answer My questions. Did you once belong to Laius?
SHEPHERD Yes—nourished by him, not purchased as a slave. 1085
OEDIPUS What work did you share in or was your livelihood?
SHEPHERD For the greater part, my living was the way of a shepherd.
OEDIPUS And in what region did you mostly dwell with them?
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SHEPHERD It was Cithaeron—and also neighbouring regions.
OEDIPUS This man here—did you ever observe him there and come to know him? 1090
SHEPHERD Doing what? Which is the man you speak of ?
OEDIPUS This one, standing there. Did you have dealings with him?
SHEPHERD Not as I recall—so as to speak about now.
MESSENGER That is no wonder, your Lordship. But I shall bring light Upon those things which are now unknown. For well do I know 1095 That he will see again that region of Cithaeron when he With a double flock and I with one Were neighbours and comrades for three entire six month Durations from Spring to Arcturus. Then for the Winter I would drive mine to my stables 1100 And he, his, to the pens of Laius. Was this, of which I have spoken, done or not as I have spoken?
SHEPHERD Your words disclose it—although it is from long ago.
MESSENGER Well, now say you know that you offered me a boy, A nursling to rear as my own. 1105
SHEPHERD What do you mean? What do you ask me for?
MESSENGER This, sir, is he who was that youngster!
SHEPHERD May misfortune come to you! Why do you not keep silent?
OEDIPUS You—old man. Do not restrain him for it is your speech Which should be more restrained, not his. 1110
SHEPHERD Most noble Lord—what is my fault?
OEDIPUS In not telling of the child he asked about.
SHEPHERD But he speaks without looking as he toils without an aim.
OEDIPUS If you will not speak as a favour, you will when you cry-out.
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SHEPHERD Before the gods, do not strike someone who is old. 1115
OEDIPUS Swiftly, one of you, twist his hands behind his back.
SHEPHERD You unlucky one! What more do you desire to learn from me?
OEDIPUS Did you give him that child he asked about?
SHEPHERD I did. And it would have been to my advantage to die that day.
OEDIPUS It will come to that if your words are not true. 1120
SHEPHERD Yet much more will be destroyed if I do speak.
OEDIPUS This man, it seems, pushes for a delay.
SHEPHERD I do not. Just now I said I gave him.
OEDIPUS Taken from where? Your abode—or from that of another?
SHEPHERD Not from my own; I received him from someone. 1125
OEDIPUS Who—of these clansmen here? From whose dwelling?
SHEPHERD Your lordship, before the gods do not ask me more.
OEDIPUS You die if I have to put that question to you again.
SHEPHERD Then—it was one of those fathered by Laius.
OEDIPUS From a slave? Or born from one of his own race? 1130
SHEPHERD Ah! Here before me is what I dread. Of speaking it...
OEDIPUS And I, of hearing it, although hear it I must.
SHEPHERD It was said to be his own child. But of these things,
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It is your lady—who is within—who could best speak of them.
OEDIPUS Why? Because she gave it to you? 1135
SHEPHERD Indeed, Lord.
OEDIPUS Why did she want that?
SHEPHERD So it would be destroyed.
OEDIPUS How grievous for she who bore the child!
SHEPHERD Yes—but she dreaded divine prophecies of ill-omen. 1140
OEDIPUS Which were?
SHEPHERD The word was that he would kill his parents.
OEDIPUS Then why did you let this elderly one take him.
MESSENGER Because, your lordship, of mercy—so that to another land He might fittingly convey it: to where he himself came from. 1145 But he saved him for this mighty wound. If then you are The one he declares you to be, know how unlucky was your birth!
OEDIPUS Ah! All that was possible has, with certainty, passed away. You—daylight—I now look my last at what I behold by you: I, exposed as born from those who should not have borne me— 1150 As having been intimate with those I should not, and killed those I should not. [Exit Oedipus, Shepherd and Messenger]
CHORUS You descendants of mortals— I count your zest as being equivalent to nothing, For where is the person Who has won more from a lucky daimon 1155 Than just that appearance of fame Which later is peeled away? Yours—your daimon, Oedipus the unlucky— We hold as an example That nothing mortal is favoured. 1160 For, O Zeus, it was beyond the bounds of others That he shot his arrow to win An all-prospering lucky daimon:
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He who in destroying that virginal chantress of oracles With the curved claws, 1165 Arose in my country as a defence against death. And who since then has been called my Lord And greatly honoured as the chief of Thebes the magnificent! But now—who has heard of a greater misfortune? Who is there so savagely ruined that he dwells with such troubles 1170 With his life so changed? Alas—Oedipus, the renowned! A mature haven Was enough for you As child and father when you fell upon That woman in her inner chamber! 1175 How, how could what your father pushed into Have the vigour for you for so long and in silence? Chronos, the all-seeing, has found you, beyond your own will, For long ago it was determined that from that marriage which was no marriage Those children who have been born were the children that would be born. 1180 But—as being the son of Laius, I wish, I wish that I had never known this. For I lament, and my cry is above all the others As it comes forth from my mouth. To speak straight: you gave me breath again 1185 But I allowed my eyes to sleep. [Enter Second Messenger]
MESSENGER You who in this land have always been esteemed the most! What deeds you are to hear—what behold!—and how much grief Will weigh upon you if, on fidelity to your origins, Your concern is still for the family of Labdacus! 1190 For, alas, neither the Ister nor the Phasis Can wash clean these chambers, so much suffering Do they conceal—soon to be exposed to the light As willed, not done outside the aid of will. Those injuries Which bring the most grieving, are those shown to be of our own choice. 1195
CHORUS What I knew before could not fail to make my grieving Anything but grave; after that—what could you announce?
MESSENGER What is a quick tale to say And to understand: the divinity, Jocasta, is dead.
CHORUS A misfortune! From what cause? 1200
MESSENGER By she herself. But, of those events, What was most painful is not for you—for you did not view them. Yet—as long as my Muse is with me— You can learn of the sufferings of her fate. She—coloured by emotion—passed within the hall 1205 To run straight to that bridal-bed of hers Tearing at her hair with the fingers of both her hands.
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Then, she went within—thrusting the doors closed— To invoke Laius, he who long ago was a corpse, Recalling that seed she received long ago by which 1210 He was killed, to leave her to produce Unlucky children from his own begotten child. She lamented the bed of her double misfortune: From her husband, a husband—and children from that child. How, after that, she perished, I did not see 1215 For with a war-cry Oedipus pushed in—and, because of him, We did not behold the end of her suffering. To him, we looked as he ploughed around For wildly he ranged about, demanding his spear, His lady who was not his lady, and where he might find that maternal 1220 Double-womb which produced he himself and his children. He was frenzied, and a daimon guided him— For it was no man who was standing nearby— And with a fearful shout—as if someone led the way— He was propelled into those double-doors and, from their supports, 1225 Bent those hollow barriers to fall into her chamber. And there we beheld that lady suspended In the swinging braided cords by which she had stricken herself. He, seeing this, with a fearful roar of grief Let down the cords which suspended her. Then when she the unfortunate 1230 Was lain on the ground, there was something dreadful to behold: For he tore from her those gold brooches With which she had adorned herself And raised them to assault his own circular organs, Speaking such as this: that they would not have sight of 1235 Those troubles he had suffered or had caused But would henceforth and in darkness have sight of what They should not and what he himself should not have had knowledge of. Then with a awesome lament not once but frequently He raised them to strike into his eyes. At each, blood 1240 From his eyes dropped to his beard, not releasing blood Drop by drop—but all at once: A dark storm hailing drops of blood. From those two has this burst forth—not on one But on that man and his lady, joined by these troubles. 1245 That old prosperity anciently theirs was indeed once A worthy prosperity—but now, on this day, there is Lamentation, misfortune, death, disgrace, and of all those troubles That exist and which have names, there is not one which is not here.
CHORUS Does he who suffers now rest from injury? 1250
MESSENGER He shouts for the barriers to be opened to expose To all who are of Cadmus, this patricide, This mother...—I will not say the profanity he speaks— So he can cast himself from this land, and not remain For this dwelling to become cursed because of his curse. 1255 But he requires strength and a guide For too great for him to carry is that burden Which he will make known to you. You will behold a spectacle Which even those to whom it is horrible, will make lament for. [Enter the blind Oedipus]
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CHORUS How strange for mortals to see such an accident as this! 1260 It is the strangest thing of all ever To come before me. You—who suffer this— What fury came upon you? What daimon With great leaps from a great height Came upon you bringing such an unfortunate fate? 1265 I lament for your bad-luck. Though I am not able to look at you— There is much I wish to ask, much to understand, Much to know Even though I am here, shivering. 1270
OEDIPUS I am in agony! To where, in my misery, am I carried? To where Is my voice conveyed as it flees from me? You—that daimon! To where have you brought me?
CHORUS Somewhere strange with nothing to be heard and nothing to be seen. 1275
OEDIPUS Nothing announced the arrival of this dark cloud shrouding me! Something unconquerable—brought by an unfavourable wind. As one do the stings of those goads, And the recalling of those troubles, pierce me!
CHORUS It is no surprise that because of such injuries 1280 You endure a double mourning and a double misfortune.
OEDIPUS My friend! You, at least, are my steadfast comrade Because you have the endurance to attend to the blind. For you are not hidden from me—I clearly know, 1285 Even in this darkness, that it is your voice.
CHORUS You of strange deeds—how did you bear To so extinguish your sight? What daimon carried you away?
OEDIPUS It was Apollo—Apollo, my friend, Who brought such troubles to such a troubled end. 1290 But it was my own hand, and no other, which made the assault— I, who suffer this. For why should I have sight When there was nothing pleasing to see?
CHORUS These things are as you have said they are.
OEDIPUS Who could I behold? 1295
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Who could be loved—or whose greeting, My friend, would be delightful to hear? So, and swiftly, send me away from this place. Send away, my friend, this great pest— This bringer of a curse: the mortal whom our gods 1300 Detest the most.
CHORUS You are as helpless in that resolve as you were in your misfortune: Thus I wish you had never come to know of those things!
OEDIPUS May death come to whosoever while roaming those grasslands loosened Those cruel fetters and so safely pulled me away from death! 1305 For it was not a favourable deed. For had I died then no grief such as this Would have been caused to either me or my kin.
CHORUS I also wish that.
OEDIPUS I would not, then, have shed the blood of my father 1310 As I journeyed, and not be named by mortals As the husband of she who gave me my birth. I am without a god—an unconsecrated child— And now of the same kind as he who gave me this miserable existence! If there is a trouble which is even older than these troubles, 1315 Then it will be the lot of Oedipus.
CHORUS I do not know if I could say that your intentions were right, For it is perhaps better to no longer exist than to live, blind.
OEDIPUS But as to this being done for the best— You should not instruct me, nor offer me more advice. 1320 For, if I had eyes, I would not know where to look When I went to Hades and saw my father Or my unfortunate mother, since to both I have done what is so outstanding that a strangling is excluded. Perhaps the sight of children is desirable: 1325 To behold how those buds are mine will grow— But it would certainly not be to these eyes of mine. Nor would that of this town, or its towers, or the sacrifices Offered to daimons. For it was most unfortunate that I— Who as no one else in Thebes prospered most excellently— 1330 Bereaved myself of such things by my own declaration That everyone must push aside the profane one—the one the gods Have exposed as unclean and of the clan of Laius. After I have made known this, my stain, How could I look those here straight in the eye? 1335 Certainly I could not. And if what is heard could be blocked out At that source in my ears, I would not have held myself back From this miserable body and thus would be blind and also hear nothing! For it is pleasing to dwell away from concern about injury. Why, Cithaeron—why did you receive me, and having accepted, 1340
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Not directly kill me so I would never make known To mortals whence I was born? O Polybus and Corinth—and you that others called the ancient clan-home Of my ancestors—I, the beauty that you reared Had bad wounds festering underneath! 1345 For I am found to be defective having been defective from my birth. You three routes and concealed valley, You grove and narrow place of the three-fold paths: You took in from my hands that blood which was my father’s But also mine—so perhaps you can still recall 1350 Those deeds that I did there, and then, when here, What I also achieved? You—those rites of joy Which gave me my birth and which planted me anew By the same seed being shot up to manifest fathers, Brothers, sons—the blood of a kinsman— 1355 Brides, wives, mothers: as much shame As can arise from deeds among mortals. No one should speak about things they do not favour doing. Swiftly then—before the gods and beyond here— Hide me away or kill me or upon the sea cast me 1360 So that you will never look upon me again. Come, and dignify this unhappy man by your touch. Be persuaded—do not fear. For this misfortune is mine alone And no mortal except me can bear it. [Enter Creon]
CHORUS As to this request of yours—it is fitting that here is Creon 1365 To act and give advice, For he alone is left to be guardian of this region in your place.
OEDIPUS But what is there than I can say to him? What trust can with fairness be shown to me? For I am discovered as being false to him, previously, in everything. 1370
CREON I did not come here, Oedipus, to laugh Nor to blame you for your previous error. [Creon turns to speak to the crowd who have gathered]
You—there—even if you do not honour those descended from mortals, Have respect for the all-nourishing flames of the Lord Helios So that this stain is not looked upon when it is uncovered— 1375 This which neither our soil nor the sacred waters Nor daylight will welcome. Swiftly now take him into his chambers: For the most proper conduct is that only kinfolk Look at and hear a kinsman’s faults. 1380
OEDIPUS Before the gods—since you have torn from me a dread By you coming here—you, the most noble—to me, a most ignoble man, Yield me something. I say this not for myself, but for you.
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CREON What favour do you request so earnestly?
OEDIPUS That you throw me from this land as swiftly as you can 1385 To where it is known there will be not one mortal to greet me.
CREON Know that this would certainly have been done—were it not necessary For me first to learn from the god what I should do.
OEDIPUS But his saying was completely clear— That I, the disrespectful one, the patricide, must depart. 1390
CREON Those were the words—but since our needs have changed It is better to learn what must be done.
OEDIPUS But you will enquire of behalf of this unhappy man?
CREON Yes—as you should now pay tribute to the god.
OEDIPUS Certainly—and I rely on you for this supplication: 1395 That you give to she who is within, a tomb such as you might desire To lay yourself in—for it is correct to so perform this on behalf of your own. As for me—never once let it be deemed fitting, while I happen to live, For this my father’s town to have me within it. Instead, let me dwell in the mountains—to where is Cithaeron 1400 Renowned because of me; for my mother and my father While they lived appointed it the tomb I would lay in. Thus, there I will depart, killed as they desired. Yet I do know that neither a sickness Nor anything similar will destroy me, for I would never have been saved 1405 From that death unless it was for some horrible injury. Hence I shall await that destiny which is mine—whatever its nature. As for my sons—do not, Creon, add them To your care. For they are men, and therefore will never Lack the ability—wherever they are—to survive. 1410 But as for those unfortunate ones, my girls For whom my table of food was never separate from Nor who were ever without me, so that whatever I touched Would be shared between us— Attend to them, for me. 1415 Would that you could let my hands touch them And they lament for my injuries. Let these things be, Lord— Let them be so, you of this noble race. For if my hands could reach them 1420 I would believe they were mine just as when I had my sight. [Enter Antigone and Ismene]
What is this? Before the gods!—Do I not hear those whom I love,
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Weeping? Has Creon let them make lament for me, Sending here those who are dearest to me—my daughters? 1425 Is this right?
CREON It is right. For I prepared this for you. I conjectured this—your present delight—since it has possessed you before.
OEDIPUS Then good fortune to you on your path— And may you be guarded by a better daimon than was my fate! 1430 My children—where are you? Come here—here To these my hands of he who is your brother: These of he who planted you and which assisted your father To see in this way with what before were clear eyes. He, my children, who sees nothing, who enquires about nothing— 1435 He who is exposed as fathering you from where he himself was sown. Even though I cannot behold you, I lament for you Because I know of the bitter life left to you Which mortals will cause you to live. For what gathering of townsfolk could you go to? 1440 What festivals—from where you would not return, lamenting, To your dwelling instead of watching the spectacle? And when you become ripe for marriage Who is there who exists, my children, who would chance it— Accepting the rebukes that will as painful for they who begat me 1445 As they will be for you? For what injury is not here? Your father killed his father; He seeded her who had brought him forth And from where he himself was sown You were born—in the same way he himself was acquired. 1450 Such as this will you be rebuked with. Who then will marry you? Such a person does not exist. No, my children, it is without doubt That you must go to waste unsown and unmarried. Son of Menoeceus! You are the only father Who is left to them, for we who planted them are destroyed: 1455 Both of us. Watch that they do not wander As beggars, without a man, since they are of your family— Or that they become the equal of me in misfortune. Rather, favour them because you see them at such an age as this, Deserted by everyone—except for yourself. 1460 Agree to this, noble lord, and touch me with your hand. And you, my children—had you judgement, I would even now Have given you much advice. As it is, let your supplication be To live where it is allowed and to obtain a life more agreeable Than that of the father who planted you. 1465
CREON Let this abundance of lamentation pass away—and go into those chambers.
OEDIPUS I shall obey, although it is not pleasing.
CREON All fine things have their season.
OEDIPUS
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Do you know my conditions for going?
CREON Speak them—and I, having heard them, will know. 1470
OEDIPUS Send me far from this land.
CREON That gift comes from the gods.
OEDIPUS But the gods must detest me!
CREON Then swiftly will your wish be fulfilled.
OEDIPUS But do you grant this? 1475
CREON I have no desire to speak idly about things I cannot judge.
OEDIPUS Then now lead me from here.
CREON Move away from your children—and go.
OEDIPUS But do not take them from me.
CREON Do not desire to be master in all things: 1480 For you are without the strength which assisted you during your life.
CHORUS You who dwell in my fatherland, Thebes, observe—here is Oedipus, He who understood that famous enigma and was a strong man: What clansman did not behold that fortune without envy? But what a tide of problems have come over him! 1485 Therefore, look toward that ending which is for us mortals To observe that particular day—calling no one lucky until, Without the pain of injury, they are conveyed beyond life’s ending.
Image 1.12: oedipus | Oedipus displaying his injuries after the climax of his drama.
Author: Albert Greiner Source: Wikimedia Commons License: CC BY-SA 3.0
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Do you know my conditions for going?
CREON Speak them—and I, having heard them, will know. 1470
OEDIPUS Send me far from this land.
CREON That gift comes from the gods.
OEDIPUS But the gods must detest me!
CREON Then swiftly will your wish be fulfilled.
OEDIPUS But do you grant this? 1475
CREON I have no desire to speak idly about things I cannot judge.
OEDIPUS Then now lead me from here.
CREON Move away from your children—and go.
OEDIPUS But do not take them from me.
CREON Do not desire to be master in all things: 1480 For you are without the strength which assisted you during your life.
CHORUS You who dwell in my fatherland, Thebes, observe—here is Oedipus, He who understood that famous enigma and was a strong man: What clansman did not behold that fortune without envy? But what a tide of problems have come over him! 1485 Therefore, look toward that ending which is for us mortals To observe that particular day—calling no one lucky until, Without the pain of injury, they are conveyed beyond life’s ending.
Image 1.12: oedipus | Oedipus displaying his injuries after the climax of his drama.
Author: Albert Greiner Source: Wikimedia Commons License: CC BY-SA 3.0
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The dates of the selections in this chapter range from approximately the 500s B.C.E. to approximately the 200s B.C.E., which is mostly the Warring States Period in Chinese history (476-221 B.C.E.). During this time period, the different regions of China (each with a separate ruler and tradition) fought to maintain independence and defend their borders. In 221 B.C.E., the Qin/Chin ruler finished the process of unifying China by the sword, becoming the first Emperor. These texts, therefore, predate the unification of China, and some of the advice offered (in particular in the works of Confucius) are meant to be seen in the context of multiple kingdoms; Confucius suggests leaving a kingdom and going elsewhere if the leadership is corrupt, which was no longer possible post-unification.
The works in this chapter are foundational texts to later Chinese literature, politics, and philosophy. The Ana- lects of Confucius, with its focus on ethical and moral issues, provides the reader with a guide to proper behavior (according to Confucius). The Shi king (The Book of Songs/The Book of Odes/The Classic of Poetry) may have been edited by Confucius, according to some sources, and the poems themselves offer a glimpse into the expectations of that society. Daoism, the other influential perspective at that time, is found in the Zhuangzi (both a book and the possible name of the author), which offers a challenge to the Confucian way of thinking. Finally, Sun Tzu’s Art of War remains an influential text to this day, found as it is on the reading lists of military academies everywhere.
Students who are not familiar with Chinese literature and culture often have the same first problem: how to pronounce the names. Chinese is a complex language, so the answer is not straightforward. In Chinese, words must be pronounced using the proper tone. For example, the word “ma” can be pronounced four different ways, and in each case it is a different word.
• First tone: Rising tone (start low and go up the scale, like a rising accent mark) • Second tone: Falling tone (start high and drop lower, like a falling accent mark) • Third tone: Falling and Rising tone (begin high, drop low, and rise again, so that the sound is “U” shaped) • Fourth tone: Steady and High tone (high pitched, steady sound)
Since each syllable of the word has a tone, and most translations do not mark which tone to use, there can be no way for students to know how to pronounce the word (except by taking a class in Chinese). Even then, students would have to choose between a class on Mandarin (spoken in the north) and Cantonese (spoken in the south), since they are too different to be taught as the same language. In addition to several major dialects of Chinese, there are numerous sub-dialects: some unintelligible to each other.
An additional challenge for students looking for research on these texts is that the same word can be spelled differently, depending on the pinyin system used. Pinyin is the way that Chinese characters are converted into let- ters, so that the sound of the character is approximated. For example, the Chinese character for “person” looks like a type of wishbone, but it is converted to “ren” in pinyin.
There are two major systems of pinyin (and some minor), and each one uses a different format to approximate sounds; both systems can be found online and in anthologies. The medieval Chinese poet Li Bo can be spelled Li Po or Li Bai, depending on the system used. In fact, the western name for “China” results from a series of translations, beginning with the pinyin “Chin” (more commonly translated as “Qin” these days) to describe the dynasty that unified the country in 221 B.C.E.; in other words, “China” is the land of the Chin/Qin.
As you read, consider the following questions:
• What do Confucius and Sun Tzu expect from leaders? What is the proper behavior toward subordinates, and how do you know?
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• How do Confucian ideals contrast with Daoist ideals? What seems to be the reason for the difference? • What kind of behavior does society expect from its people, particularly in the Shi king (Book of Songs)?
How do we know, based on the text? • What is the definition of heroism in these works, based on the texts themselves? • How would a Confucian hero be different from other ancient world heroes in other chapters, and why?
Written by Laura J. Getty
THE AnALECTS
Confucius (551-479 B.C.E.)
Compiled ca. 200 B.C.E. China
Confucius (or “Kongzi” in Chinese) was deeply concerned about the problem of social chaos and explored ways to achieve social order. Inspired by the early rulers of the Zhou Dynasty (ca. 1045-256 B.C.E.), whom he considered exemplary, Confucius developed his philosophy about government, morality, ethics, social roles, and the importance of rituals. As a teacher, Confucius had a great number of disciples during his time. The Analects, translated as “Collected Conversations,” were com- plied by later Confucian scholars, reaching their complete form around the second century B.C.E. The Analects are perhaps the most well-known text in Confucianism, belonging to the so-called “Four Books” of this tra- dition. Confucianism, which is known as Ruxue (Doctrine of the Sages) in China, forms a large part of the basis of many East Asian cultures.
Written by Kyounghye Kwon
The Analects
Confucius, Translated James Legge
1 The Master “Is it not pleasant to learn with a constant perseverance and application? “Is it not delightful to have friends coming from distant quarters? “Is he not a man of complete virtue, who feels no discomposure though men may take no note of him?” The philosopher Yu said, “They are few who, being filial and fraternal, are fond of offending against their supe-
riors. There have been none, who, not liking to offend against their superiors, have been fond of stirring up confu- sion.
“The superior man bends his attention to what is radical. That being established, all practical courses naturally grow up. Filial piety and fraternal submission,—are they not the root of all benevolent actions?”
The Master said, “Fine words and an insinuating appearance are seldom associated with true virtue.” The philosopher Tsang said, “I daily examine myself on three points:—whether, in transacting business for
others, I may have been not faithful;—whether, in intercourse with friends, I may have been not sincere;—whether I may have not mastered and practiced the instructions of my teacher.”
The Master said, “To rule a country of a thousand chariots, there must be reverent attention to business, and sincerity; economy in expenditure, and love for men; and the employment of the people at the proper seasons.”
The Master said, “A youth, when at home, should be filial, and, abroad, respectful to his elders. He should be earnest and truthful. He should overflow in love to all, and cultivate the friendship of the good. When he has time and opportunity, after the performance of these things, he should employ them in polite studies.”
Tsze-hsia said, “If a man withdraws his mind from the love of beauty, and applies it as sincerely to the love of
Image 2.1: The Teaching Confucius | Portrait of Confucius, one of the world’s most famous philosophers and the creator of Con- fucianism.
Author: User “Louis le Grand~commonswiki” Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
License: Public Domain
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the virtuous; if, in serving his parents, he can exert his utmost strength; if, in serving his prince, he can devote his life; if, in his intercourse with his friends, his words are sincere:—although men say that he has not learned, I will certainly say that he has.
The Master said, “If the scholar be not grave, he will not call forth any veneration, and his learning will not be solid. “Hold faithfulness and sincerity as first principles. “Have no friends not equal to yourself. “When you have faults, do not fear to abandon them.” The philosopher Tsang said, “Let there be a careful attention to perform the funeral rites to parents, and let
them be followed when long gone with the ceremonies of sacrifice;—then the virtue of the people will resume its proper excellence.”
Tsze-ch’in asked Tsze-kung saying, “When our master comes to any country, he does not fail to learn all about its government. Does he ask his information? or is it given to him?”
Tsze-kung said, “Our master is benign, upright, courteous, temperate, and complaisant and thus he gets his information. The master’s mode of asking information,—is it not different from that of other men?”
The Master said, “While a man’s father is alive, look at the bent of his will; when his father is dead, look at his conduct. If for three years he does not alter from the way of his father, he may be called filial.”
The philosopher Yu said, “In practicing the rules of propriety, a natural ease is to be prized. In the ways pre- scribed by the ancient kings, this is the excellent quality, and in things small and great we follow them.
“Yet it is not to be observed in all cases. If one, knowing how such ease should be prized, manifests it, without regulating it by the rules of propriety, this likewise is not to be done.”
The philosopher Yu said, “When agreements are made according to what is right, what is spoken can be made good. When respect is shown according to what is proper, one keeps far from shame and disgrace. When the parties upon whom a man leans are proper persons to be intimate with, he can make them his guides and masters.”
The Master said, “He who aims to be a man of complete virtue in his food does not seek to gratify his appetite, nor in his dwelling place does he seek the appliances of ease; he is earnest in what he is doing, and careful in his speech; he frequents the company of men of principle that he may be rectified:—such a person may be said indeed to love to learn.”
Tsze-kung said, “What do you pronounce concerning the poor man who yet does not flatter, and the rich man who is not proud?” The Master replied, “They will do; but they are not equal to him, who, though poor, is yet cheer- ful, and to him, who, though rich, loves the rules of propriety.”
Tsze-kung replied, “It is said in the Book of Poetry, ‘As you cut and then file, as you carve and then polish.’—The meaning is the same, I apprehend, as that which you have just expressed.”
The Master said, “With one like Ts’ze, I can begin to talk about the odes. I told him one point, and he knew its proper sequence.”
The Master said, “I will not be afflicted at men’s not knowing me; I will be afflicted that I do not know men.”
2 The Master said, “He who exercises government by means of his virtue may be compared to the north polar
star, which keeps its place and all the stars turn towards it.” The Master said, “In the Book of Poetry are three hundred pieces, but the design of them all may be embraced
in one sentence ‘Having no depraved thoughts.’” The Master said, “If the people be led by laws, and uniformity sought to be given them by punishments, they
will try to avoid the punishment, but have no sense of shame. “If they be led by virtue, and uniformity sought to be given them by the rules of propriety, they will have the
sense of shame, and moreover will become good.” The Master said, “At fifteen, I had my mind bent on learning. “At thirty, I stood firm. “At forty, I had no doubts. “At fifty, I knew the decrees of Heaven. “At sixty, my ear was an obedient organ for the reception of truth. “At seventy, I could follow what my heart desired, without transgressing what was right.” Mang I asked what filial piety was. The Master said, “It is not being disobedient.” Soon after, as Fan Ch’ih was driving him, the Master told him, saying, “Mang-sun asked me what filial piety
was, and I answered him,—‘not being disobedient.’” Fan Ch’ih said, “What did you mean?” The Master replied, “That parents, when alive, be served according to
propriety; that, when dead, they should be buried according to propriety; and that they should be sacrificed to according to propriety.”
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Mang Wu asked what filial piety was. The Master said, “Parents are anxious lest their children should be sick.” Tsze-yu asked what filial piety was. The Master said, “The filial piety nowadays means the support of one’s
parents. But dogs and horses likewise are able to do something in the way of support;—without reverence, what is there to distinguish the one support given from the other?”
Tsze-hsia asked what filial piety was. The Master said, “The difficulty is with the countenance. If, when their el- ders have any troublesome affairs, the young take the toil of them, and if, when the young have wine and food, they set them before their elders, is THIS to be considered filial piety?”
The Master said, “I have talked with Hui for a whole day, and he has not made any objection to anything I said;—as if he were stupid. He has retired, and I have examined his conduct when away from me, and found him able to illustrate my teachings. Hui!—He is not stupid.”
The Master said, “See what a man does. “Mark his motives. “Examine in what things he rests. “How can a man conceal his character? How can a man conceal his character?” The Master said, “If a man keeps cherishing his old knowledge, so as continually to be acquiring new, he may be
a teacher of others.” The Master said, “The accomplished scholar is not a utensil.” Tsze-kung asked what constituted the superior man. The Master said, “He acts before he speaks, and afterwards
speaks according to his actions.” The Master said, “The superior man is catholic and not partisan. The mean man is partisan and not catholic.” The Master said, “Learning without thought is labor lost; thought without learning is perilous.” The Master said, “The study of strange doctrines is injurious indeed!” The Master said, “Yu, shall I teach you what knowledge is? When you know a thing, to hold that you know it;
and when you do not know a thing, to allow that you do not know it;—this is knowledge.” Tsze-chang was learning with a view to official emolument. The Master said, “Hear much and put aside the points of which you stand in doubt, while you speak cautiously
at the same time of the others:—then you will afford few occasions for blame. See much and put aside the things which seem perilous, while you are cautious at the same time in carrying the others into practice: then you will have few occasions for repentance. When one gives few occasions for blame in his words, and few occasions for repentance in his conduct, he is in the way to get emolument.”
The Duke Ai asked, saying, “What should be done in order to secure the submission of the people?” Confucius replied, “Advance the upright and set aside the crooked, then the people will submit. Advance the crooked and set aside the upright, then the people will not submit.”
Chi K’ang asked how to cause the people to reverence their ruler, to be faithful to him, and to go on to nerve themselves to virtue. The Master said, “Let him preside over them with gravity;—then they will reverence him. Let him be final and kind to all;—then they will be faithful to him. Let him advance the good and teach the incompe- tent;—then they will eagerly seek to be virtuous.”
Some one addressed Confucius, saying, “Sir, why are you not engaged in the government?” The Master said, “What does the Shu-ching say of filial piety?—‘You are final, you discharge your brotherly du-
ties. These qualities are displayed in government.’ This then also constitutes the exercise of government. Why must there be THAT—making one be in the government?”
The Master said, “I do not know how a man without truthfulness is to get on. How can a large carriage be made to go without the crossbar for yoking the oxen to, or a small carriage without the arrangement for yoking the hors- es?”
Tsze-chang asked whether the affairs of ten ages after could be known. Confucius said, “The Yin dynasty followed the regulations of the Hsia: wherein it took from or added to them
may be known. The Chau dynasty has followed the regulations of Yin: wherein it took from or added to them may be known. Some other may follow the Chau, but though it should be at the distance of a hundred ages, its affairs may be known.”
The Master said, “For a man to sacrifice to a spirit which does not belong to him is flattery. “To see what is right and not to do it is want of courage.”
3 Confucius said of the head of the Chi family, who had eight rows of pantomimes in his area, “If he can bear to
do this, what may he not bear to do?” The three families used the Yungode, while the vessels were being removed, at the conclusion of the sacrifice.
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The Master said, “‘Assisting are the princes;—the son of heaven looks profound and grave’;—what application can these words have in the hall of the three families?”
The Master said, “If a man be without the virtues proper to humanity, what has he to do with the rites of propri- ety? If a man be without the virtues proper to humanity, what has he to do with music?”
Lin Fang asked what was the first thing to be attended to in ceremonies. The Master said, “A great question indeed! “In festive ceremonies, it is better to be sparing than extravagant. In the ceremonies of mourning, it is better
that there be deep sorrow than in minute attention to observances.” The Master said, “The rude tribes of the east and north have their princes, and are not like the States of our
great land which are without them.” The chief of the Chi family was about to sacrifice to the T’ai mountain. The Master said to Zan Yu, “Can you not
save him from this?” He answered, “I cannot.” Confucius said, “Alas! will you say that the T’ai mountain is not so discerning as Lin Fang?”
The Master said, “The student of virtue has no contentions. If it be said he cannot avoid them, shall this be in archery? But he bows complaisantly to his competitors; thus he ascends the hall, descends, and exacts the forfeit of drinking. In his contention, he is still the Chun-tsze.”
Tsze-hsia asked, saying, “What is the meaning of the passage—‘The pretty dimples of her artful smile! The well—defined black and white of her eye! The plain ground for the colors?’”
The Master said, “The business of laying on the colors follows the preparation of the plain ground.” “Ceremonies then are a subsequent thing?” The Master said, “It is Shang who can bring out my meaning. Now I
can begin to talk about the odes with him.” The Master said, “I could describe the ceremonies of the Hsia dynasty, but Chi cannot sufficiently attest my
words. I could describe the ceremonies of the Yin dynasty, but Sung cannot sufficiently attest my words. They can- not do so because of the insufficiency of their records and wise men. If those were sufficient, I could adduce them in support of my words.”
The Master said, “At the great sacrifice, after the pouring out of the libation, I have no wish to look on.” Some one asked the meaning of the great sacrifice. The Master said, “I do not know. He who knew its meaning
would find it as easy to govern the kingdom as to look on this”—pointing to his palm. He sacrificed to the dead, as if they were present. He sacrificed to the spirits, as if the spirits were present. The Master said, “I consider my not being present at the sacrifice, as if I did not sacrifice.” Wang-sun Chia asked, saying, “What is the meaning of the saying, ‘It is better to pay court to the furnace then
to the southwest corner?’” The Master said, “Not so. He who offends against Heaven has none to whom he can pray.” The Master said, “Chau had the advantage of viewing the two past dynasties. How complete and elegant are its
regulations! I follow Chau.” The Master, when he entered the grand temple, asked about everything. Some one said, “Who say that the son
of the man of Tsau knows the rules of propriety! He has entered the grand temple and asks about everything.” The Master heard the remark, and said, “This is a rule of propriety.”
The Master said, “In archery it is not going through the leather which is the principal thing;—because people’s strength is not equal. This was the old way.”
Tsze-kung wished to do away with the offering of a sheep connected with the inauguration of the first day of each month.
The Master said, “Ts’ze, you love the sheep; I love the ceremony.” The Master said, “The full observance of the rules of propriety in serving one’s prince is accounted by people to
be flattery.” The Duke Ting asked how a prince should employ his ministers, and how ministers should serve their prince.
Confucius replied, “A prince should employ his minister according to according to the rules of propriety; ministers should serve their prince with faithfulness.”
The Master said, “The Kwan Tsu is expressive of enjoyment without being licentious, and of grief without being hurtfully excessive.”
The Duke Ai asked Tsai Wo about the altars of the spirits of the land. Tsai Wo replied, “The Hsia sovereign planted the pine tree about them; the men of the Yin planted the cypress; and the men of the Chau planted the chestnut tree, meaning thereby to cause the people to be in awe.”
When the Master heard it, he said, “Things that are done, it is needless to speak about; things that have had their course, it is needless to remonstrate about; things that are past, it is needless to blame.”
The Master said, “Small indeed was the capacity of Kwan Chung!” Some one said, “Was Kwan Chung parsimonious?” “Kwan,” was the reply, “had the San Kwei, and his officers
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performed no double duties; how can he be considered parsimonious?” “Then, did Kwan Chung know the rules of propriety?” The Master said, “The princes of States have a screen
intercepting the view at their gates. Kwan had likewise a screen at his gate. The princes of States on any friendly meeting between two of them, had a stand on which to place their inverted cups. Kwan had also such a stand. If Kwan knew the rules of propriety, who does not know them?”
The Master instructing the grand music master of Lu said, “How to play music may be known. At the com- mencement of the piece, all the parts should sound together. As it proceeds, they should be in harmony while severally distinct and flowing without break, and thus on to the conclusion.”
The border warden at Yi requested to be introduced to the Master, saying, “When men of superior virtue have come to this, I have never been denied the privilege of seeing them.” The followers of the sage introduced him, and when he came out from the interview, he said, “My friends, why are you distressed by your master’s loss of office? The kingdom has long been without the principles of truth and right; Heaven is going to use your master as a bell with its wooden tongue.”
The Master said of the Shao that it was perfectly beautiful and also perfectly good. He said of the Wu that it was perfectly beautiful but not perfectly good.
The Master said, “High station filled without indulgent generosity; ceremonies performed without reverence; mourning conducted without sorrow;—wherewith should I contemplate such ways?”
4 The Master said, “It is virtuous manners which constitute the excellence of a neighborhood. If a man in select-
ing a residence do not fix on one where such prevail, how can he be wise?” The Master said, “Those who are without virtue cannot abide long either in a condition of poverty and hard-
ship, or in a condition of enjoyment. The virtuous rest in virtue; the wise desire virtue.” The Master said, “It is only the truly virtuous man, who can love, or who can hate, others.” The Master said, “If the will be set on virtue, there will be no practice of wickedness.” The Master said, “Riches and honors are what men desire. If they cannot be obtained in the proper way, they
should not be held. Poverty and meanness are what men dislike. If they cannot be avoided in the proper way, they should not be avoided.
“If a superior man abandon virtue, how can he fulfill the requirements of that name? “The superior man does not, even for the space of a single meal, act contrary to virtue. In moments of haste, he
cleaves to it. In seasons of danger, he cleaves to it.” The Master said, “I have not seen a person who loved virtue, or one who hated what was not virtuous. He who
loved virtue, would esteem nothing above it. He who hated what is not virtuous, would practice virtue in such a way that he would not allow anything that is not virtuous to approach his person.
“Is any one able for one day to apply his strength to virtue? I have not seen the case in which his strength would be insufficient.
“Should there possibly be any such case, I have not seen it.” The Master said, “The faults of men are characteristic of the class to which they belong. By observing a man’s
faults, it may be known that he is virtuous.” The Master said, “If a man in the morning hear the right way, he may die in the evening hear regret.” The Master said, “A scholar, whose mind is set on truth, and who is ashamed of bad clothes and bad food, is not
fit to be discoursed with.” The Master said, “The superior man, in the world, does not set his mind either for anything, or against any-
thing; what is right he will follow.” The Master said, “The superior man thinks of virtue; the small man thinks of comfort. The superior man thinks
of the sanctions of law; the small man thinks of favors which he may receive.” The Master said: “He who acts with a constant view to his own advantage will be much murmured against.” The Master said, “If a prince is able to govern his kingdom with the complaisance proper to the rules of propri-
ety, what difficulty will he have? If he cannot govern it with that complaisance, what has he to do with the rules of propriety?”
The Master said, “A man should say, I am not concerned that I have no place, I am concerned how I may fit myself for one. I am not concerned that I am not known, I seek to be worthy to be known.”
The Master said, “Shan, my doctrine is that of an all-pervading unity.” The disciple Tsang replied, “Yes.” The Master went out, and the other disciples asked, saying, “What do his words mean?” Tsang said, “The doc-
trine of our master is to be true to the principles—of our nature and the benevolent exercise of them to others,— this and nothing more.”
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The Master said, “The mind of the superior man is conversant with righteousness; the mind of the mean man is conversant with gain.”
The Master said, “When we see men of worth, we should think of equaling them; when we see men of a con- trary character, we should turn inwards and examine ourselves.”
The Master said, “In serving his parents, a son may remonstrate with them, but gently; when he sees that they do not incline to follow his advice, he shows an increased degree of reverence, but does not abandon his purpose; and should they punish him, he does not allow himself to murmur.”
The Master said, “While his parents are alive, the son may not go abroad to a distance. If he does go abroad, he must have a fixed place to which he goes.”
The Master said, “If the son for three years does not alter from the way of his father, he may be called filial.” The Master said, “The years of parents may by no means not be kept in the memory, as an occasion at once for
joy and for fear.” The Master said, “The reason why the ancients did not readily give utterance to their words, was that they
feared lest their actions should not come up to them.” The Master said, “The cautious seldom err.” The Master said, “The superior man wishes to be slow in his speech and earnest in his conduct.” The Master said, “Virtue is not left to stand alone. He who practices it will have neighbors.” Tsze-yu said, “In serving a prince, frequent remonstrances lead to disgrace. Between friends, frequent reproofs
make the friendship distant.”
5 The Master said of Kung-ye Ch’ang that he might be wived; although he was put in bonds, he had not been
guilty of any crime. Accordingly, he gave him his own daughter to wife. Of Nan Yung he said that if the country were well governed he would not be out of office, and if it were in gov-
erned, he would escape punishment and disgrace. He gave him the daughter of his own elder brother to wife. The Master said of Tsze-chien, “Of superior virtue indeed is such a man! If there were not virtuous men in Lu,
how could this man have acquired this character?” Tsze-kung asked, “What do you say of me, Ts’ze!” The Master said, “You are a utensil.” “What utensil?” “A
gemmed sacrificial utensil.” Some one said, “Yung is truly virtuous, but he is not ready with his tongue.” The Master said, “What is the good of being ready with the tongue? They who encounter men with smartness
of speech for the most part procure themselves hatred. I know not whether he be truly virtuous, but why should he show readiness of the tongue?”
The Master was wishing Ch’i-tiao K’ai to enter an official employment. He replied, “I am not yet able to rest in the assurance of this.” The Master was pleased.
The Master said, “My doctrines make no way. I will get upon a raft, and float about on the sea. He that will accompany me will be Yu, I dare say.” Tsze-lu hearing this was glad, upon which the Master said, “Yu is fonder of daring than I am. He does not exercise his judgment upon matters.”
Mang Wu asked about Tsze-lu, whether he was perfectly virtuous. The Master said, “I do not know.” He asked again, when the Master replied, “In a kingdom of a thousand chariots, Yu might be employed to man-
age the military levies, but I do not know whether he be perfectly virtuous.” “And what do you say of Ch’iu?” The Master replied, “In a city of a thousand families, or a clan of a hundred
chariots, Ch’iu might be employed as governor, but I do not know whether he is perfectly virtuous.” “What do you say of Ch’ih?” The Master replied, “With his sash girt and standing in a court, Ch’ih might be
employed to converse with the visitors and guests, but I do not know whether he is perfectly virtuous.” The Master said to Tsze-kung, “Which do you consider superior, yourself or Hui?” Tsze-kung replied, “How dare I compare myself with Hui? Hui hears one point and knows all about a subject; I
hear one point, and know a second.” The Master said, “You are not equal to him. I grant you, you are not equal to him.” Tsai Yu being asleep during the daytime, the Master said, “Rotten wood cannot be carved; a wall of dirty earth
will not receive the trowel. This Yu,—what is the use of my reproving him?” The Master said, “At first, my way with men was to hear their words, and give them credit for their conduct.
Now my way is to hear their words, and look at their conduct. It is from Yu that I have learned to make this change.” The Master said, “I have not seen a firm and unbending man.” Some one replied, “There is Shan Ch’ang.”
“Ch’ang,” said the Master, “is under the influence of his passions; how can he be pronounced firm and unbending?” Tsze-kung said, “What I do not wish men to do to me, I also wish not to do to men.” The Master said, “Ts’ze,
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you have not attained to that.” Tsze-kung said, “The Master’s personal displays of his principles and ordinary descriptions of them may be
heard. His discourses about man’s nature, and the way of Heaven, cannot be heard.” When Tsze-lu heard anything, if he had not yet succeeded in carrying it into practice, he was only afraid lest he
should hear something else. Tsze-kung asked, saying, “On what ground did Kung-wan get that title of Wan?” The Master said, “He was of an active nature and yet fond of learning, and he was not ashamed to ask and learn
of his inferiors!—On these grounds he has been styled Wan.” The Master said of Tsze-ch’an that he had four of the characteristics of a superior man—in his conduct of him-
self, he was humble; in serving his superior, he was respectful; in nourishing the people, he was kind; in ordering the people, he was just.”
The Master said, “Yen P’ing knew well how to maintain friendly intercourse. The acquaintance might be long, but he showed the same respect as at first.”
The Master said, “Tsang Wan kept a large tortoise in a house, on the capitals of the pillars of which he had hills made, and with representations of duckweed on the small pillars above the beams supporting the rafters.—Of what sort was his wisdom?”
Tsze-chang asked, saying, “The minister Tsze-wan thrice took office, and manifested no joy in his countenance. Thrice he retired from office, and manifested no displeasure. He made it a point to inform the new minister of the way in which he had conducted the government; what do you say of him?” The Master replied. “He was loyal.” “Was he perfectly virtuous?” “I do not know. How can he be pronounced perfectly virtuous?”
Tsze-chang proceeded, “When the officer Ch’ui killed the prince of Ch’i, Ch’an Wan, though he was the owner of forty horses, abandoned them and left the country. Coming to another state, he said, ‘They are here like our great officer, Ch’ui,’ and left it. He came to a second state, and with the same observation left it also;—what do you say of him?” The Master replied, “He was pure.” “Was he perfectly virtuous?” “I do not know. How can he be pronounced perfectly virtuous?”
Chi Wan thought thrice, and then acted. When the Master was informed of it, he said, “Twice may do.” The Master said, “When good order prevailed in his country, Ning Wu acted the part of a wise man. When his
country was in disorder, he acted the part of a stupid man. Others may equal his wisdom, but they cannot equal his stupidity.”
When the Master was in Ch’an, he said, “Let me return! Let me return! The little children of my school are am- bitious and too hasty. They are accomplished and complete so far, but they do not know how to restrict and shape themselves.”
The Master said, “Po-i and Shu-ch’i did not keep the former wickednesses of men in mind, and hence the re- sentments directed towards them were few.”
The Master said, “Who says of Weishang Kao that he is upright? One begged some vinegar of him, and he begged it of a neighbor and gave it to the man.”
The Master said, “Fine words, an insinuating appearance, and excessive respect;—Tso Ch’iu-ming was ashamed of them. I also am ashamed of them. To conceal resentment against a person, and appear friendly with him;—Tso Ch’iu-ming was ashamed of such conduct. I also am ashamed of it.”
Yen Yuan and Chi Lu being by his side, the Master said to them, “Come, let each of you tell his wishes.” Tsze-lu said, “I should like, having chariots and horses, and light fur clothes, to share them with my friends, and
though they should spoil them, I would not be displeased.” Yen Yuan said, “I should like not to boast of my excellence, nor to make a display of my meritorious deeds.” Tsze-lu then said, “I should like, sir, to hear your wishes.” The Master said, “They are, in regard to the aged, to
give them rest; in regard to friends, to show them sincerity; in regard to the young, to treat them tenderly.” The Master said, “It is all over. I have not yet seen one who could perceive his faults, and inwardly accuse him-
self.” The Master said, “In a hamlet of ten families, there may be found one honorable and sincere as I am, but not so
fond of learning.”
6 The Master said, “There is Yung!—He might occupy the place of a prince.” Chung-kung asked about Tsze-sang Po-tsze. The Master said, “He may pass. He does not mind small matters.” Chung-kung said, “If a man cherish in himself a reverential feeling of the necessity of attention to business,
though he may be easy in small matters in his government of the people, that may be allowed. But if he cherish in himself that easy feeling, and also carry it out in his practice, is not such an easymode of procedure excessive?”
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The Master said, “Yung’s words are right.” The Duke Ai asked which of the disciples loved to learn. Confucius replied to him, “There was Yen Hui; he loved to learn. He did not transfer his anger; he did not re-
peat a fault. Unfortunately, his appointed time was short and he died; and now there is not such another. I have not yet heard of any one who loves to learn as he did.”
Tsze-hwa being employed on a mission to Ch’i, the disciple Zan requested grain for his mother. The Master said, “Give her a fu.” Yen requested more. “Give her a yi,” said the Master. Yen gave her five ping.
The Master said, “When Ch’ih was proceeding to Ch’i, he had fat horses to his carriage, and wore light furs. I have heard that a superior man helps the distressed, but does not add to the wealth of the rich.”
Yuan Sze being made governor of his town by the Master, he gave him nine hundred measures of grain, but Sze declined them.
The Master said, “Do not decline them. May you not give them away in the neighborhoods, hamlets, towns, and villages?”
The Master, speaking of Chung-kung, said, “If the calf of a brindled cow be red and homed, although men may not wish to use it, would the spirits of the mountains and rivers put it aside?”
The Master said, “Such was Hui that for three months there would be nothing in his mind contrary to perfect virtue. The others may attain to this on some days or in some months, but nothing more.”
Chi K’ang asked about Chung-yu, whether he was fit to be employed as an officer of government. The Master said, “Yu is a man of decision; what difficulty would he find in being an officer of government?” K’ang asked, “Is Ts’ze fit to be employed as an officer of government?” and was answered, “Ts’ze is a man of intelligence; what diffi- culty would he find in being an officer of government?” And to the same question about Ch’iu the Master gave the same reply, saying, “Ch’iu is a man of various ability.”
The chief of the Chi family sent to ask Min Tsze-ch’ien to be governor of Pi. Min Tszech’ien said, “Decline the offer for me politely. If any one come again to me with a second invitation, I shall be obliged to go and live on the banks of the Wan.”
Po-niu being ill, the Master went to ask for him. He took hold of his hand through the window, and said, “It is killing him. It is the appointment of Heaven, alas! That such a man should have such a sickness! That such a man should have such a sickness!”
The Master said, “Admirable indeed was the virtue of Hui! With a single bamboo dish of rice, a single gourd dish of drink, and living in his mean narrow lane, while others could not have endured the distress, he did not allow his joy to be affected by it. Admirable indeed was the virtue of Hui!”
Yen Ch’iu said, “It is not that I do not delight in your doctrines, but my strength is insufficient.” The Master said, “Those whose strength is insufficient give over in the middle of the way but now you limit yourself.”
The Master said to Tsze-hsia, “Do you be a scholar after the style of the superior man, and not after that of the mean man.”
Tsze-yu being governor of Wu-ch’ang, the Master said to him, “Have you got good men there?” He answered, “There is Tan-t’ai Miehming, who never in walking takes a short cut, and never comes to my office, excepting on public business.”
The Master said, “Mang Chih-fan does not boast of his merit. Being in the rear on an occasion of flight, when they were about to enter the gate, he whipped up his horse, saying, “It is not that I dare to be last. My horse would not advance.”
The Master said, “Without the specious speech of the litanist T’o and the beauty of the prince Chao of Sung, it is difficult to escape in the present age.”
The Master said, “Who can go out but by the door? How is it that men will not walk according to these ways?” The Master said, “Where the solid qualities are in excess of accomplishments, we have rusticity; where the ac-
complishments are in excess of the solid qualities, we have the manners of a clerk. When the accomplishments and solid qualities are equally blended, we then have the man of virtue.”
The Master said, “Man is born for uprightness. If a man lose his uprightness, and yet live, his escape from death is the effect of mere good fortune.”
The Master said, “They who know the truth are not equal to those who love it, and they who love it are not equal to those who delight in it.”
The Master said, “To those whose talents are above mediocrity, the highest subjects may be announced. To those who are below mediocrity, the highest subjects may not be announced.”
Fan Ch’ih asked what constituted wisdom. The Master said, “To give one’s self earnestly to the duties due to men, and, while respecting spiritual beings, to keep aloof from them, may be called wisdom.” He asked about per- fect virtue. The Master said, “The man of virtue makes the difficulty to be overcome his first business, and success only a subsequent consideration;—this may be called perfect virtue.”
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The Master said, “The wise find pleasure in water; the virtuous find pleasure in hills. The wise are active; the vir- tuous are tranquil. The wise are joyful; the virtuous are long-lived.”
The Master said, “Ch’i, by one change, would come to the State of Lu. Lu, by one change, would come to a State where true principles predominated.”
The Master said, “A cornered vessel without corners—a strange cornered vessel! A strange cornered vessel!” Tsai Wo asked, saying, “A benevolent man, though it be told him,—‘There is a man in the well” will go in after
him, I suppose.” Confucius said, “Why should he do so?” A superior man may be made to go to the well, but he cannot be made to go down into it. He may be imposed upon, but he cannot be fooled.”
The Master said, “The superior man, extensively studying all learning, and keeping himself under the restraint of the rules of propriety, may thus likewise not overstep what is right.”
The Master having visited Nan-tsze, Tsze-lu was displeased, on which the Master swore, saying, “Wherein I have done improperly, may Heaven reject me, may Heaven reject me!”
The Master said, “Perfect is the virtue which is according to the Constant Mean! Rare for a long time has been its practice among the people.”
Tsze-kung said, “Suppose the case of a man extensively conferring benefits on the people, and able to assist all, what would you say of him? Might he be called perfectly virtuous?” The Master said, “Why speak only of virtue in connection with him? Must he not have the qualities of a sage? Even Yao and Shun were still solicitous about this.
“Now the man of perfect virtue, wishing to be established himself, seeks also to establish others; wishing to be enlarged himself, he seeks also to enlarge others.
“To be able to judge of others by what is nigh in ourselves;—this may be called the art of virtue.”
7 The Master said, “A transmitter and not a maker, believing in and loving the ancients, I venture to compare
myself with our old P’ang.” The Master said, “The silent treasuring up of knowledge; learning without satiety; and instructing others with-
out being wearied:—which one of these things belongs to me?” The Master said, “The leaving virtue without proper cultivation; the not thoroughly discussing what is learned;
not being able to move towards righteousness of which a knowledge is gained; and not being able to change what is not good:—these are the things which occasion me solicitude.”
When the Master was unoccupied with business, his manner was easy, and he looked pleased. The Master said, “Extreme is my decay. For a long time, I have not dreamed, as I was wont to do, that I saw the
duke of Chau.” The Master said, “Let the will be set on the path of duty. “Let every attainment in what is good be firmly grasped. “Let perfect virtue be accorded with. “Let relaxation and enjoyment be found in the polite arts.” The Master said, “From the man bringing his bundle of dried flesh for my teaching upwards, I have never re-
fused instruction to any one.” The Master said, “I do not open up the truth to one who is not eager to get knowledge, nor help out any one
who is not anxious to explain himself. When I have presented one corner of a subject to any one, and he cannot from it learn the other three, I do not repeat my lesson.”
When the Master was eating by the side of a mourner, he never ate to the full. He did not sing on the same day in which he had been weeping. The Master said to Yen Yuan, “When called to office, to undertake its duties; when not so called, to he retired;—
it is only I and you who have attained to this.” Tsze-lu said, “If you had the conduct of the armies of a great state, whom would you have to act with you?” The Master said, “I would not have him to act with me, who will unarmed attack a tiger, or cross a river without
a boat, dying without any regret. My associate must be the man who proceeds to action full of solicitude, who is fond of adjusting his plans, and then carries them into execution.”
The Master said, “If the search for riches is sure to be successful, though I should become a groom with whip in hand to get them, I will do so. As the search may not be successful, I will follow after that which I love.”
The things in reference to which the Master exercised the greatest caution were—fasting, war, and sickness. When the Master was in Ch’i, he heard the Shao, and for three months did not know the taste of flesh. “I did
not think’” he said, “that music could have been made so excellent as this.” Yen Yu said, “Is our Master for the ruler of Wei?” Tsze-kung said, “Oh! I will ask him.” He went in accordingly, and said, “What sort of men were Po-i and Shu-ch’i?” “They were ancient worthies,”
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said the Master. “Did they have any repinings because of their course?” The Master again replied, “They sought to act virtuously, and they did so; what was there for them to repine about?” On this, Tsze-kung went out and said, “Our Master is not for him.”
The Master said, “With coarse rice to eat, with water to drink, and my bended arm for a pillow;—I have still joy in the midst of these things. Riches and honors acquired by unrighteousness, are to me as a floating cloud.”
The Master said, “If some years were added to my life, I would give fifty to the study of the Yi, and then I might come to be without great faults.”
The Master’s frequent themes of discourse were—the Odes, the History, and the maintenance of the Rules of Propriety. On all these he frequently discoursed.
The Duke of Sheh asked Tsze-lu about Confucius, and Tsze-lu did not answer him. The Master said, “Why did you not say to him,—He is simply a man, who in his eager pursuit of knowledge for-
gets his food, who in the joy of its attainment forgets his sorrows, and who does not perceive that old age is coming on?”
The Master said, “I am not one who was born in the possession of knowledge; I am one who is fond of antiqui- ty, and earnest in seeking it there.”
The subjects on which the Master did not talk, were—extraordinary things, feats of strength, disorder, and spiritual beings.
The Master said, “When I walk along with two others, they may serve me as my teachers. I will select their good qualities and follow them, their bad qualities and avoid them.”
The Master said, “Heaven produced the virtue that is in me. Hwan T’ui—what can he do to me?” The Master said, “Do you think, my disciples, that I have any concealments? I conceal nothing from you. There
is nothing which I do that is not shown to you, my disciples; that is my way.” There were four things which the Master taught,—letters, ethics, devotion of soul, and truthfulness. The Master said, “A sage it is not mine to see; could I see a man of real talent and virtue, that would satisfy me.” The Master said, “A good man it is not mine to see; could I see a man possessed of constancy, that would satisfy
me. “Having not and yet affecting to have, empty and yet affecting to be full, straitened and yet affecting to be at
ease:—it is difficult with such characteristics to have constancy.” The Master angled,—but did not use a net. He shot,—but not at birds perching. The Master said, “There may be those who act without knowing why. I do not do so. Hearing much and select-
ing what is good and following it; seeing much and keeping it in memory: this is the second style of knowledge.” It was difficult to talk profitably and reputably with the people of Hu-hsiang, and a lad of that place having had
an interview with the Master, the disciples doubted. The Master said, “I admit people’s approach to me without committing myself as to what they may do when
they have retired. Why must one be so severe? If a man purify himself to wait upon me, I receive him so purified, without guaranteeing his past conduct.”
The Master said, “Is virtue a thing remote? I wish to be virtuous, and lo! virtue is at hand.” The minister of crime of Ch’an asked whether the duke Chao knew propriety, and Confucius said, “He knew
propriety.” Confucius having retired, the minister bowed to Wu-ma Ch’i to come forward, and said, “I have heard that
the superior man is not a partisan. May the superior man be a partisan also? The prince married a daughter of the house of WU, of the same surname with himself, and called her,—‘The elder Tsze of Wu.’ If the prince knew propri- ety, who does not know it?”
Wu-ma Ch’i reported these remarks, and the Master said, “I am fortunate! If I have any errors, people are sure to know them.”
When the Master was in company with a person who was singing, if he sang well, he would make him repeat the song, while he accompanied it with his own voice.
The Master said, “In letters I am perhaps equal to other men, but the character of the superior man, carrying out in his conduct what he professes, is what I have not yet attained to.”
The Master said, “The sage and the man of perfect virtue;—how dare I rank myself with them? It may simply be said of me, that I strive to become such without satiety, and teach others without weariness.” Kung-hsi Hwa said, “This is just what we, the disciples, cannot imitate you in.”
The Master being very sick, Tsze-lu asked leave to pray for him. He said, “May such a thing be done?” Tsze- lu replied, “It may. In the Eulogies it is said, ‘Prayer has been made for thee to the spirits of the upper and lower worlds.’” The Master said, “My praying has been for a long time.”
The Master said, “Extravagance leads to insubordination, and parsimony to meanness. It is better to be mean than to be insubordinate.”
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The Master said, “The superior man is satisfied and composed; the mean man is always full of distress.” The Master was mild, and yet dignified; majestic, and yet not fierce; respectful, and yet easy.
8 The Master said, “T’ai-po may be said to have reached the highest point of virtuous action. Thrice he declined
the kingdom, and the people in ignorance of his motives could not express their approbation of his conduct.” The Master said, “Respectfulness, without the rules of propriety, becomes laborious bustle; carefulness, with-
out the rules of propriety, becomes timidity; boldness, without the rules of propriety, becomes insubordination; straightforwardness, without the rules of propriety, becomes rudeness.
“When those who are in high stations perform well all their duties to their relations, the people are aroused to virtue. When old friends are not neglected by them, the people are preserved from meanness.”
The philosopher Tsang being ill, he cared to him the disciples of his school, and said, “Uncover my feet, uncov- er my hands. It is said in the Book of Poetry, ‘We should be apprehensive and cautious, as if on the brink of a deep gulf, as if treading on thin ice, I and so have I been. Now and hereafter, I know my escape from all injury to my person. O ye, my little children.”
The philosopher Tsang being ill, Meng Chang went to ask how he was. Tsang said to him, “When a bird is about to die, its notes are mournful; when a man is about to die, his words
are good. “There are three principles of conduct which the man of high rank should consider specially important:—that
in his deportment and manner he keep from violence and heedlessness; that in regulating his countenance he keep near to sincerity; and that in his words and tones he keep far from lowness and impropriety. As to such matters as attending to the sacrificial vessels, there are the proper officers for them.”
The philosopher Tsang said, “Gifted with ability, and yet putting questions to those who were not so; possessed of much, and yet putting questions to those possessed of little; having, as though he had not; full, and yet counting himself as empty; offended against, and yet entering into no altercation; formerly I had a friend who pursued this style of conduct.”
The philosopher Tsang said, “Suppose that there is an individual who can be entrusted with the charge of a young orphan prince, and can be commissioned with authority over a state of a hundred li, and whom no emergen- cy however great can drive from his principles:—is such a man a superior man? He is a superior man indeed.”
The philosopher Tsang said, “The officer may not be without breadth of mind and vigorous endurance. His burden is heavy and his course is long.
“Perfect virtue is the burden which he considers it is his to sustain;—is it not heavy? Only with death does his course stop;—is it not long?
The Master said, “It is by the Odes that the mind is aroused. “It is by the Rules of Propriety that the character is established. “It is from Music that the finish is received.” The Master said, “The people may be made to follow a path of action, but they may not be made to understand
it.” The Master said, “The man who is fond of daring and is dissatisfied with poverty, will proceed to insubordina-
tion. So will the man who is not virtuous, when you carry your dislike of him to an extreme.” The Master said, “Though a man have abilities as admirable as those of the Duke of Chau, yet if he be proud
and niggardly, those other things are really not worth being looked at.” The Master said, “It is not easy to find a man who has learned for three years without coming to be good.” The Master said, “With sincere faith he unites the love of learning; holding firm to death, he is perfecting the
excellence of his course. “Such an one will not enter a tottering state, nor dwell in a disorganized one. When right principles of govern-
ment prevail in the kingdom, he will show himself; when they are prostrated, he will keep concealed. “When a country is well governed, poverty and a mean condition are things to be ashamed of. When a country
is ill governed, riches and honor are things to be ashamed of.” The Master said, “He who is not in any particular office has nothing to do with plans for the administration of
its duties.” The Master said, “When the music master Chih first entered on his office, the finish of the Kwan Tsu was mag-
nificent;—how it filled the ears!” The Master said, “Ardent and yet not upright, stupid and yet not attentive; simple and yet not sincere:—such
persons I do not understand.” The Master said, “Learn as if you could not reach your object, and were always fearing also lest you should lose
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it.” The Master said, “How majestic was the manner in which Shun and Yu held possession of the empire, as if it
were nothing to them! The Master said, “Great indeed was Yao as a sovereign! How majestic was he! It is only Heaven that is grand,
and only Yao corresponded to it. How vast was his virtue! The people could find no name for it. “How majestic was he in the works which he accomplished! How glorious in the elegant regulations which he
instituted!” Shun had five ministers, and the empire was well governed. King Wu said, “I have ten able ministers.” Confucius said, “Is not the saying that talents are difficult to find, true? Only when the dynasties of T’ang and
Yu met, were they more abundant than in this of Chau, yet there was a woman among them. The able ministers were no more than nine men.
“King Wan possessed two of the three parts of the empire, and with those he served the dynasty of Yin. The virtue of the house of Chau may be said to have reached the highest point indeed.”
The Master said, “I can find no flaw in the character of Yu. He used himself coarse food and drink, but dis- played the utmost filial piety towards the spirits. His ordinary garments were poor, but he displayed the utmost elegance in his sacrificial cap and apron. He lived in a low, mean house, but expended all his strength on the ditches and water channels. I can find nothing like a flaw in Yu.”
9 The subjects of which the Master seldom spoke were—profitableness, and also the appointments of Heaven,
and perfect virtue. A man of the village of Ta-hsiang said, “Great indeed is the philosopher K’ung! His learning is extensive, and
yet he does not render his name famous by any particular thing.” The Master heard the observation, and said to his disciples, “What shall I practice? Shall I practice charioteer-
ing, or shall I practice archery? I will practice charioteering.” The Master said, “The linen cap is that prescribed by the rules of ceremony, but now a silk one is worn. It is
economical, and I follow the common practice. “The rules of ceremony prescribe the bowing below the hall, but now the practice is to bow only after ascending
it. That is arrogant. I continue to bow below the hall, though I oppose the common practice.” There were four things from which the Master was entirely free. He had no foregone conclusions, no arbitrary
predeterminations, no obstinacy, and no egoism. The Master was put in fear in K’wang. He said, “After the death of King Wan, was not the cause of truth lodged here in me? “If Heaven had wished to let this cause of truth perish, then I, a future mortal! should not have got such a rela-
tion to that cause. While Heaven does not let the cause of truth perish, what can the people of K’wang do to me?” A high officer asked Tsze-kung, saying, “May we not say that your Master is a sage? How various is his ability!” Tsze-kung said, “Certainly Heaven has endowed him unlimitedly. He is about a sage. And, moreover, his ability
is various.” The Master heard of the conversation and said, “Does the high officer know me? When I was young, my con-
dition was low, and I acquired my ability in many things, but they were mean matters. Must the superior man have such variety of ability? He does not need variety of ability. Lao said, “The Master said, ‘Having no official employ- ment, I acquired many arts.’”
The Master said, “Am I indeed possessed of knowledge? I am not knowing. But if a mean person, who appears quite empty—like, ask anything of me, I set it forth from one end to the other, and exhaust it.”
The Master said, “The Fang bird does not come; the river sends forth no map:—it is all over with me!” When the Master saw a person in a mourning dress, or any one with the cap and upper and lower garments of
full dress, or a blind person, on observing them approaching, though they were younger than himself, he would rise up, and if he had to pass by them, he would do so hastily.
Yen Yuan, in admiration of the Master’s doctrines, sighed and said, “I looked up to them, and they seemed to become more high; I tried to penetrate them, and they seemed to become more firm; I looked at them before me, and suddenly they seemed to be behind.
“The Master, by orderly method, skillfully leads men on. He enlarged my mind with learning, and taught me the restraints of propriety.
“When I wish to give over the study of his doctrines, I cannot do so, and having exerted all my ability, there seems something to stand right up before me; but though I wish to follow and lay hold of it, I really find no way to
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do so.” The Master being very ill, Tsze-lu wished the disciples to act as ministers to him. During a remission of his illness, he said, “Long has the conduct of Yu been deceitful! By pretending to have
ministers when I have them not, whom should I impose upon? Should I impose upon Heaven? “Moreover, than that I should die in the hands of ministers, is it not better that I should die in the hands of you,
my disciples? And though I may not get a great burial, shall I die upon the road?” Tsze-kung said, “There is a beautiful gem here. Should I lay it up in a case and keep it? or should I seek for a
good price and sell it?” The Master said, “Sell it! Sell it! But I would wait for one to offer the price.” The Master was wishing to go and live among the nine wild tribes of the east. Some one said, “They are rude. How can you do such a thing?” The Master said, “If a superior man dwelt
among them, what rudeness would there be?” The Master said, “I returned from Wei to Lu, and then the music was reformed, and the pieces in the Royal
songs and Praise songs all found their proper places.” The Master said, “Abroad, to serve the high ministers and nobles; at home, to serve one’s father and elder broth-
ers; in all duties to the dead, not to dare not to exert one’s self; and not to be overcome of wine:—which one of these things do I attain to?”
The Master standing by a stream, said, “It passes on just like this, not ceasing day or night!” The Master said, “I have not seen one who loves virtue as he loves beauty.” The Master said, “The prosecution of learning may be compared to what may happen in raising a mound. If
there want but one basket of earth to complete the work, and I stop, the stopping is my own work. It may be com- pared to throwing down the earth on the level ground. Though but one basketful is thrown at a time, the advancing with it my own going forward.”
The Master said, “Never flagging when I set forth anything to him;—ah! that is Hui.” The Master said of Yen Yuan, “Alas! I saw his constant advance. I never saw him stop in his progress.”
The Master said, “There are cases in which the blade springs, but the plant does not go on to flower! There are cases where it flowers but fruit is not subsequently produced!”
The Master said, “A youth is to be regarded with respect. How do we know that his future will not be equal to our present? If he reach the age of forty or fifty, and has not made himself heard of, then indeed he will not be worth being regarded with respect.”
The Master said, “Can men refuse to assent to the words of strict admonition? But it is reforming the conduct because of them which is valuable. Can men refuse to be pleased with words of gentle advice? But it is unfolding their aim which is valuable. If a man be pleased with these words, but does not unfold their aim, and assents to those, but does not reform his conduct, I can really do nothing with him.”
The Master said, “Hold faithfulness and sincerity as first principles. Have no friends not equal to yourself. When you have faults, do not fear to abandon them.”
The Master said, “The commander of the forces of a large state may be carried off, but the will of even a com- mon man cannot be taken from him.”
The Master said, “Dressed himself in a tattered robe quilted with hemp, yet standing by the side of men dressed in furs, and not ashamed;—ah! it is Yu who is equal to this!
“He dislikes none, he covets nothing;—what can he do but what is good!” Tsze-lu kept continually repeating these words of the ode, when the Master said, “Those things are by no means
sufficient to constitute perfect excellence.” The Master said, “When the year becomes cold, then we know how the pine and the cypress are the last to lose
their leaves.” The Master said, “The wise are free from perplexities; the virtuous from anxiety; and the bold from fear.” The Master said, “There are some with whom we may study in common, but we shall find them unable to go
along with us to principles. Perhaps we may go on with them to principles, but we shall find them unable to get established in those along with us. Or if we may get so established along with them, we shall find them unable to weigh occurring events along with us.”
“How the flowers of the aspen-plum flutter and turn! Do I not think of you? But your house is distant.” The Master said, “It is the want of thought about it. How is it distant?”
10 Confucius, in his village, looked simple and sincere, and as if he were not able to speak. When he was in the prince’s ancestral temple, or in the court, he spoke minutely on every point, but cautiously. When he was waiting at court, in speaking with the great officers of the lower grade, he spoke freely, but in a
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straightforward manner; in speaking with those of the higher grade, he did so blandly, but precisely. When the ruler was present, his manner displayed respectful uneasiness; it was grave, but self-possessed. When the prince called him to employ him in the reception of a visitor, his countenance appeared to change,
and his legs to move forward with difficulty. He inclined himself to the other officers among whom he stood, moving his left or right arm, as their position
required, but keeping the skirts of his robe before and behind evenly adjusted. He hastened forward, with his arms like the wings of a bird. When the guest had retired, he would report to the prince, “The visitor is not turning round any more.” When he entered the palace gate, he seemed to bend his body, as if it were not sufficient to admit him. When he was standing, he did not occupy the middle of the gateway; when he passed in or out, he did not tread
upon the threshold. When he was passing the vacant place of the prince, his countenance appeared to change, and his legs to bend
under him, and his words came as if he hardly had breath to utter them. He ascended the reception hall, holding up his robe with both his hands, and his body bent; holding in his
breath also, as if he dared not breathe. When he came out from the audience, as soon as he had descended one step, he began to relax his countenance,
and had a satisfied look. When he had got the bottom of the steps, he advanced rapidly to his place, with his arms like wings, and on occupying it, his manner still showed respectful uneasiness.
When he was carrying the scepter of his ruler, he seemed to bend his body, as if he were not able to bear its weight. He did not hold it higher than the position of the hands in making a bow, nor lower than their position in giving anything to another. His countenance seemed to change, and look apprehensive, and he dragged his feet along as if they were held by something to the ground.
In presenting the presents with which he was charged, he wore a placid appearance. At his private audience, he looked highly pleased. The superior man did not use a deep purple, or a puce color, in the ornaments of his dress. Even in his undress, he did not wear anything of a red or reddish color. In warm weather, he had a single garment either of coarse or fine texture, but he wore it displayed over an inner
garment. Over lamb’s fur he wore a garment of black; over fawn’s fur one of white; and over fox’s fur one of yellow. The fur robe of his undress was long, with the right sleeve short. He required his sleeping dress to be half as long again as his body. When staying at home, he used thick furs of the fox or the badger. When he put off mourning, he wore all the appendages of the girdle. His undergarment, except when it was required to be of the curtain shape, was made of silk cut narrow above
and wide below. He did not wear lamb’s fur or a black cap on a visit of condolence. On the first day of the month he put on his court robes, and presented himself at court. When fasting, he thought it necessary to have his clothes brightly clean and made of linen cloth. When fasting, he thought it necessary to change his food, and also to change the place where he commonly sat
in the apartment. He did not dislike to have his rice finely cleaned, nor to have his mince meat cut quite small. He did not eat rice which had been injured by heat or damp and turned sour, nor fish or flesh which was gone.
He did not eat what was discolored, or what was of a bad flavor, nor anything which was ill-cooked, or was not in season.
He did not eat meat which was not cut properly, nor what was served without its proper sauce. Though there might be a large quantity of meat, he would not allow what he took to exceed the due proportion
for the rice. It was only in wine that he laid down no limit for himself, but he did not allow himself to be confused by it.
He did not partake of wine and dried meat bought in the market. He was never without ginger when he ate. He did not eat much. When he had been assisting at the prince’s sacrifice, he did not keep the flesh which he received overnight. The
flesh of his family sacrifice he did not keep over three days. If kept over three days, people could not eat it. When eating, he did not converse. When in bed, he did not speak. Although his food might be coarse rice and vegetable soup, he would offer a little of it in sacrifice with a grave,
respectful air. If his mat was not straight, he did not sit on it. When the villagers were drinking together, upon those who carried staffs going out, he also went out immedi-
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ately after. When the villagers were going through their ceremonies to drive away pestilential influences, he put on his
court robes and stood on the eastern steps. When he was sending complimentary inquiries to any one in another state, he bowed twice as he escorted the
messenger away. Chi K’ang having sent him a present of physic, he bowed and received it, saying, “I do not know it. I dare not
taste it.” The stable being burned down, when he was at court, on his return he said, “Has any man been hurt?” He did
not ask about the horses. When the he would adjust his mat, first taste it, and then give it away to others. When the prince sent him a gift
of undressed meat, he would have it cooked, and offer it to the spirits of his ancestors. When the prince sent him a gift of a living animal, he would keep it alive.
When he was in attendance on the prince and joining in the entertainment, the prince only sacrificed. He first tasted everything.
When he was ill and the prince came to visit him, he had his head to the east, made his court robes be spread over him, and drew his girdle across them.
When the prince’s order called him, without waiting for his carriage to be yoked, he went at once. When he entered the ancestral temple of the state, he asked about everything. When any of his friends died, if he had no relations offices, he would say, “I will bury him.” When a friend sent him a present, though it might be a carriage and horses, he did not bow. The only present for which he bowed was that of the flesh of sacrifice. In bed, he did not lie like a corpse. At home, he did not put on any formal deportment. When he saw any one in a mourning dress, though it might be an acquaintance, he would change countenance;
when he saw any one wearing the cap of full dress, or a blind person, though he might be in his undress, he would salute him in a ceremonious manner.
To any person in mourning he bowed forward to the crossbar of his carriage; he bowed in the same way to any one bearing the tables of population.
When he was at an entertainment where there was an abundance of provisions set before him, he would change countenance and rise up.
On a sudden clap of thunder, or a violent wind, he would change countenance. When he was about to mount his carriage, he would stand straight, holding the cord. When he was in the carriage, he did not turn his head quite round, he did not talk hastily, he did not point with
his hands. Seeing the countenance, it instantly rises. It flies round, and by and by settles. The Master said, “There is the hen-pheasant on the hill bridge. At its season! At its season!” Tsze-lu made a
motion to it. Thrice it smelt him and then rose.
11 The Master said, “The men of former times in the matters of ceremonies and music were rustics, it is said, while
the men of these latter times, in ceremonies and music, are accomplished gentlemen. “If I have occasion to use those things, I follow the men of former times.” The Master said, “Of those who were with me in Ch’an and Ts’ai, there are none to be found to enter my door.” Distinguished for their virtuous principles and practice, there were Yen Yuan, Min Tsze-ch’ien, Zan Po-niu, and
Chung-kung; for their ability in speech, Tsai Wo and Tsze-kung; for their administrative talents, Zan Yu and Chi Lu; for their literary acquirements, Tsze-yu and Tsze-hsia.
The Master said, “Hui gives me no assistance. There is nothing that I say in which he does not delight.” The Master said, “Filial indeed is Min Tsze-ch’ien! Other people say nothing of him different from the report of
his parents and brothers.” Nan Yung was frequently repeating the lines about a white scepter stone. Confucius gave him the daughter of
his elder brother to wife. Chi K’ang asked which of the disciples loved to learn. Confucius replied to him, “There was Yen Hui; he loved
to learn. Unfortunately his appointed time was short, and he died. Now there is no one who loves to learn, as he did.”
When Yen Yuan died, Yen Lu begged the carriage of the Master to sell and get an outer shell for his son’s coffin. The Master said, “Every one calls his son his son, whether he has talents or has not talents. There was Li; when
he died, he had a coffin but no outer shell. I would not walk on foot to get a shell for him, because, having followed
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in the rear of the great officers, it was not proper that I should walk on foot.” When Yen Yuan died, the Master said, “Alas! Heaven is destroying me! Heaven is destroying me!” When Yen Yuan died, the Master bewailed him exceedingly, and the disciples who were with him said, “Master,
your grief is excessive!” “Is it excessive?” said he. “If I am not to mourn bitterly for this man, for whom should I mourn?” When Yen Yuan died, the disciples wished to give him a great funeral, and the Master said, “You may not do
so.” The disciples did bury him in great style. The Master said, “Hui behaved towards me as his father. I have not been able to treat him as my son. The fault is
not mine; it belongs to you, O disciples.” Chi Lu asked about serving the spirits of the dead. The Master said, “While you are not able to serve men, how
can you serve their spirits?” Chi Lu added, “I venture to ask about death?” He was answered, “While you do not know life, how can you know about death?”
The disciple Min was standing by his side, looking bland and precise; Tsze-lu, looking bold and soldierly; Zan Yu and Tsze-kung, with a free and straightforward manner. The Master was pleased.
He said, “Yu, there!—he will not die a natural death.” Some parties in Lu were going to take down and rebuild the Long Treasury. Min Tsze-ch’ien said, “Suppose it were to be repaired after its old style;—why must it be altered and made
anew?” The Master said, “This man seldom speaks; when he does, he is sure to hit the point.” The Master said, “What has the lute of Yu to do in my door?” The other disciples began not to respect Tszelu. The Master said, “Yu has ascended to the hall, though he has
not yet passed into the inner apartments.” Tsze-kung asked which of the two, Shih or Shang, was the superior. The Master said, “Shih goes beyond the due
mean, and Shang does not come up to it.” “Then,” said Tsze-kung, “the superiority is with Shih, I suppose.” The Master said, “To go beyond is as wrong as to fall short.” The head of the Chi family was richer than the duke of Chau had been, and yet Ch’iu collected his imposts for
him, and increased his wealth. The Master said, “He is no disciple of mine. My little children, beat the drum and assail him.” Ch’ai is simple. Shan is dull. Shih is specious. Yu is coarse. The Master said, “There is Hui! He has nearly attained to perfect virtue. He is often in want. “Ts’ze does not acquiesce in the appointments of Heaven, and his goods are increased by him. Yet his judg-
ments are often correct.” Tsze-chang asked what were the characteristics of the good man. The Master said, “He does not tread in the
footsteps of others, but moreover, he does not enter the chamber of the sage.” The Master said, “If, because a man’s discourse appears solid and sincere, we allow him to be a good man, is he
really a superior man? or is his gravity only in appearance?” Tsze-lu asked whether he should immediately carry into practice what he heard. The Master said, “There are
your father and elder brothers to be consulted;—why should you act on that principle of immediately carrying into practice what you hear?” Zan Yu asked the same, whether he should immediately carry into practice what he heard, and the Master answered, “Immediately carry into practice what you hear.” Kung-hsi Hwa said, “Yu asked whether he should carry immediately into practice what he heard, and you said, ‘There are your father and elder brothers to be consulted.’ Ch’iu asked whether he should immediately carry into practice what he heard, and you said, ‘Carry it immediately into practice.’ I, Ch’ih, am perplexed, and venture to ask you for an explanation.” The Master said, “Ch’iu is retiring and slow; therefore I urged him forward. Yu has more than his own share of energy; therefore I kept him back.”
The Master was put in fear in K’wang and Yen Yuan fell behind. The Master, on his rejoining him, said, “I thought you had died.” Hui replied, “While you were alive, how should I presume to die?”
Chi Tsze-zan asked whether Chung Yu and Zan Ch’iu could be called great ministers. The Master said, “I thought you would ask about some extraordinary individuals, and you only ask about Yu
and Ch’iu! “What is called a great minister, is one who serves his prince according to what is right, and when he finds he
cannot do so, retires. “Now, as to Yu and Ch’iu, they may be called ordinary ministers.” Tsze-zan said, “Then they will always follow their chief;—win they?” The Master said, “In an act of parricide or regicide, they would not follow him.”
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Tsze-lu got Tsze-kao appointed governor of Pi. The Master said, “You are injuring a man’s son.” Tsze-lu said, “There are, there, common people and officers; there are the altars of the spirits of the land and
grain. Why must one read books before he can be considered to have learned?” The Master said, “It is on this account that I hate your glib-tongued people.” Tsze-lu, Tsang Hsi, Zan Yu, and Kunghsi Hwa were sitting by the Master. He said to them, “Though I am a day or so older than you, do not think of that. “From day to day you are saying, ‘We are not known.’ If some ruler were to know you, what would you like to
do?” Tsze-lu hastily and lightly replied, “Suppose the case of a state of ten thousand chariots; let it be straitened be-
tween other large cities; let it be suffering from invading armies; and to this let there be added a famine in corn and in all vegetables:—if I were intrusted with the government of it, in three years’ time I could make the people to be bold, and to recognize the rules of righteous conduct.” The Master smiled at him.
Turning to Yen Yu, he said, “Ch’iu, what are your wishes?” Ch’iu replied, “Suppose a state of sixty or seventy li square, or one of fifty or sixty, and let me have the government of it;—in three years’ time, I could make plenty to abound among the people. As to teaching them the principles of propriety, and music, I must wait for the rise of a superior man to do that.”
“What are your wishes, Ch’ih,” said the Master next to Kung-hsi Hwa. Ch’ih replied, “I do not say that my ability extends to these things, but I should wish to learn them. At the services of the ancestral temple, and at the audienc- es of the princes with the sovereign, I should like, dressed in the dark square-made robe and the black linen cap, to act as a small assistant.”
Last of all, the Master asked Tsang Hsi, “Tien, what are your wishes?” Tien, pausing as he was playing on his lute, while it was yet twanging, laid the instrument aside, and “My wishes,” he said, “are different from the cherished purposes of these three gentlemen.” “What harm is there in that?” said the Master; “do you also, as well as they, speak out your wishes.” Tien then said, “In this, the last month of spring, with the dress of the season all complete, along with five or six young men who have assumed the cap, and six or seven boys, I would wash in the I, enjoy the breeze among the rain altars, and return home singing.” The Master heaved a sigh and said, “I give my approval to Tien.”
The three others having gone out, Tsang Hsi remained behind, and said, “What do you think of the words of these three friends?” The Master replied, “They simply told each one his wishes.”
Hsi pursued, “Master, why did you smile at Yu?” He was answered, “The management of a state demands the rules of propriety. His words were not humble;
therefore I smiled at him.” Hsi again said, “But was it not a state which Ch’iu proposed for himself ?” The reply was, “Yes; did you ever see a
territory of sixty or seventy li or one of fifty or sixty, which was not a state?” Once more, Hsi inquired, “And was it not a state which Ch’ih proposed for himself ?” The Master again replied,
“Yes; who but princes have to do with ancestral temples, and with audiences but the sovereign? If Ch’ih were to be a small assistant in these services, who could be a great one?
12 Yen Yuan asked about perfect virtue. The Master said, “To subdue one’s self and return to propriety, is perfect
virtue. If a man can for one day subdue himself and return to propriety, an under heaven will ascribe perfect virtue to him. Is the practice of perfect virtue from a man himself, or is it from others?”
Yen Yuan said, “I beg to ask the steps of that process.” The Master replied, “Look not at what is contrary to propriety; listen not to what is contrary to propriety; speak not what is contrary to propriety; make no movement which is contrary to propriety.” Yen Yuan then said, “Though I am deficient in intelligence and vigor, I will make it my business to practice this lesson.”
Chung-kung asked about perfect virtue. The Master said, “It is, when you go abroad, to behave to every one as if you were receiving a great guest; to employ the people as if you were assisting at a great sacrifice; not to do to others as you would not wish done to yourself; to have no murmuring against you in the country, and none in the family.” Chung-kung said, “Though I am deficient in intelligence and vigor, I will make it my business to practice this lesson.”
Sze-ma Niu asked about perfect virtue. The Master said, “The man of perfect virtue is cautious and slow in his speech.” “Cautious and slow in his speech!” said Niu;—”is this what is meant by perfect virtue?” The Master said, “When
a man feels the difficulty of doing, can he be other than cautious and slow in speaking?”
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Sze-ma Niu asked about the superior man. The Master said, “The superior man has neither anxiety nor fear.” “Being without anxiety or fear!” said Nui;”does this constitute what we call the superior man?” The Master said, “When internal examination discovers nothing wrong, what is there to be anxious about, what
is there to fear?” Sze-ma Niu, full of anxiety, said, “Other men all have their brothers, I only have not.” Tsze-hsia said to him, “There is the following saying which I have heard—‘Death and life have their determined
appointment; riches and honors depend upon Heaven.’ “Let the superior man never fail reverentially to order his own conduct, and let him be respectful to others and
observant of propriety:—then all within the four seas will be his brothers. What has the superior man to do with being distressed because he has no brothers?”
Tsze-chang asked what constituted intelligence. The Master said, “He with whom neither slander that gradually soaks into the mind, nor statements that startle like a wound in the flesh, are successful may be called intelligent in- deed. Yea, he with whom neither soaking slander, nor startling statements, are successful, may be called farseeing.”
Tsze-kung asked about government. The Master said, “The requisites of government are that there be sufficien- cy of food, sufficiency of military equipment, and the confidence of the people in their ruler.”
Tsze-kung said, “If it cannot be helped, and one of these must be dispensed with, which of the three should be foregone first?” “The military equipment,” said the Master.
Tsze-kung again asked, “If it cannot be helped, and one of the remaining two must be dispensed with, which of them should be foregone?” The Master answered, “Part with the food. From of old, death has been the lot of an men; but if the people have no faith in their rulers, there is no standing for the state.”
Chi Tsze-ch’ang said, “In a superior man it is only the substantial qualities which are wanted;—why should we seek for ornamental accomplishments?”
Tsze-kung said, “Alas! Your words, sir, show you to be a superior man, but four horses cannot overtake the tongue. Ornament is as substance; substance is as ornament. The hide of a tiger or a leopard stripped of its hair, is like the hide of a dog or a goat stripped of its hair.”
The Duke Ai inquired of Yu Zo, saying, “The year is one of scarcity, and the returns for expenditure are not sufficient;—what is to be done?”
Yu Zo replied to him, “Why not simply tithe the people?” “With two tenths, said the duke, “I find it not enough;—how could I do with that system of one tenth?” Yu Zo answered, “If the people have plenty, their prince will not be left to want alone. If the people are in want,
their prince cannot enjoy plenty alone.” Tsze-chang having asked how virtue was to be exalted, and delusions to be discovered, the Master said, “Hold
faithfulness and sincerity as first principles, and be moving continually to what is right,—this is the way to exalt one’s virtue.
“You love a man and wish him to live; you hate him and wish him to die. Having wished him to live, you also wish him to die. This is a case of delusion. ‘It may not be on account of her being rich, yet you come to make a difference.’”
The Duke Ching, of Ch’i, asked Confucius about government. Confucius replied, “There is government, when the prince is prince, and the minister is minister; when the father is father, and the son is son.”
“Good!” said the duke; “if, indeed, the prince be not prince, the not minister, the father not father, and the son not son, although I have my revenue, can I enjoy it?”
The Master said, “Ah! it is Yu, who could with half a word settle litigations!” Tsze-lu never slept over a promise. The Master said, “In hearing litigations, I am like any other body. What is necessary, however, is to cause the
people to have no litigations.” Tsze-chang asked about government. The Master said, “The art of governing is to keep its affairs before the
mind without weariness, and to practice them with undeviating consistency.” The Master said, “By extensively studying all learning, and keeping himself under the restraint of the rules of
propriety, one may thus likewise not err from what is right.” The Master said, “The superior man seeks to perfect the admirable qualities of men, and does not seek to per-
fect their bad qualities. The mean man does the opposite of this.” Chi K’ang asked Confucius about government. Confucius replied, “To govern means to rectify. If you lead on
the people with correctness, who will dare not to be correct?” Chi K’ang, distressed about the number of thieves in the state, inquired of Confucius how to do away with
them. Confucius said, “If you, sir, were not covetous, although you should reward them to do it, they would not steal.”
Chi K’ang asked Confucius about government, saying, “What do you say to killing the unprincipled for the
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good of the principled?” Confucius replied, “Sir, in carrying on your government, why should you use killing at all? Let your evinced desires be for what is good, and the people will be good. The relation between superiors and inferiors is like that between the wind and the grass. The grass must bend, when the wind blows across it.”
Tsze-chang asked, “What must the officer be, who may be said to be distinguished?” The Master said, “What is it you call being distinguished?” Tsze-chang replied, “It is to be heard of through the state, to be heard of throughout his clan.” The Master said, “That is notoriety, not distinction. “Now the man of distinction is solid and straightforward, and loves righteousness. He examines people’s words,
and looks at their countenances. He is anxious to humble himself to others. Such a man will be distinguished in the country; he will be distinguished in his clan.
“As to the man of notoriety, he assumes the appearance of virtue, but his actions are opposed to it, and he rests in this character without any doubts about himself. Such a man will be heard of in the country; he will be heard of in the clan.”
Fan Ch’ih rambling with the Master under the trees about the rain altars, said, “I venture to ask how to exalt virtue, to correct cherished evil, and to discover delusions.”
The Master said, “Truly a good question! “If doing what is to be done be made the first business, and success a secondary consideration:—is not this
the way to exalt virtue? To assail one’s own wickedness and not assail that of others;—is not this the way to correct cherished evil? For a morning’s anger to disregard one’s own life, and involve that of his parents;—is not this a case of delusion?”
Fan Ch’ih asked about benevolence. The Master said, “It is to love all men.” He asked about knowledge. The Master said, “It is to know all men.”
Fan Ch’ih did not immediately understand these answers. The Master said, “Employ the upright and put aside all the crooked; in this way the crooked can be made to be
upright.” Fan Ch’ih retired, and, seeing Tsze-hsia, he said to him, “A Little while ago, I had an interview with our Mas-
ter, and asked him about knowledge. He said, ‘Employ the upright, and put aside all the crooked;—in this way, the crooked will be made to be upright.’ What did he mean?”
Tsze-hsia said, “Truly rich is his saying! “Shun, being in possession of the kingdom, selected from among all the people, and employed Kai-yao-on
which all who were devoid of virtue disappeared. T’ang, being in possession of the kingdom, selected from among all the people, and employed I Yin-and an who were devoid of virtue disappeared.”
Tsze-kung asked about friendship. The Master said, “Faithfully admonish your friend, and skillfully lead him on. If you find him impracticable, stop. Do not disgrace yourself.”
The philosopher Tsang said, “The superior man on grounds of culture meets with his friends, and by friendship helps his virtue.”
13 Tsze-lu asked about government. The Master said, “Go before the people with your example, and be laborious
in their affairs.” He requested further instruction, and was answered, “Be not weary in these things.” Chung-kung, being chief minister to the head of the Chi family, asked about government. The Master said,
“Employ first the services of your various officers, pardon small faults, and raise to office men of virtue and talents.” Chung-kung said, “How shall I know the men of virtue and talent, so that I may raise them to office?” He was
answered, “Raise to office those whom you know. As to those whom you do not know, will others neglect them?” Tsze-lu said, “The ruler of Wei has been waiting for you, in order with you to administer the government. What
will you consider the first thing to be done?” The Master replied, “What is necessary is to rectify names.” “So! indeed!” said Tsze-lu. “You are wide of the mark! Why must there be such rectification?” The Master said, “How uncultivated you are, Yu! A superior man, in regard to what he does not know, shows a
cautious reserve. “If names be not correct, language is not in accordance with the truth of things. If language be not in accor-
dance with the truth of things, affairs cannot be carried on to success. “When affairs cannot be carried on to success, proprieties and music do not flourish. When proprieties and
music do not flourish, punishments will not be properly awarded. When punishments are not properly awarded, the people do not know how to move hand or foot.
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“Therefore a superior man considers it necessary that the names he uses may be spoken appropriately, and also that what he speaks may be carried out appropriately. What the superior man requires is just that in his words there may be nothing incorrect.”
Fan Ch’ih requested to be taught husbandry. The Master said, “I am not so good for that as an old husband- man.” He requested also to be taught gardening, and was answered, “I am not so good for that as an old gardener.”
Fan Ch’ih having gone out, the Master said, “A small man, indeed, is Fan Hsu! If a superior man love propriety, the people will not dare not to be reverent. If he love righteousness, the people will not dare not to submit to his example. If he love good faith, the people will not dare not to be sincere. Now, when these things obtain, the people from all quarters will come to him, bearing their children on their backs; what need has he of a knowledge of hus- bandry?”
The Master said, “Though a man may be able to recite the three hundred odes, yet if, when intrusted with a gov- ernmental charge, he knows not how to act, or if, when sent to any quarter on a mission, he cannot give his replies unassisted, notwithstanding the extent of his learning, of what practical use is it?”
The Master said, “When a prince’s personal conduct is correct, his government is effective without the issuing of orders. If his personal conduct is not correct, he may issue orders, but they will not be followed.”
The Master said, “The governments of Lu and Wei are brothers.” The Master said of Ching, a scion of the ducal family of Wei, that he knew the economy of a family well. When
he began to have means, he said, “Ha! here is a collection—!” When they were a little increased, he said, “Ha! this is complete!” When he had become rich, he said, “Ha! this is admirable!”
When the Master went to Weil Zan Yu acted as driver of his carriage. The Master observed, “How numerous are the people!” Yu said, “Since they are thus numerous, what more shall be done for them?” “Enrich them, was the reply. “And when they have been enriched, what more shall be done?” The Master said, “Teach them.” The Master said, “If there were any of the princes who would employ me, in the course of twelve months, I
should have done something considerable. In three years, the government would be perfected.” The Master said, “‘If good men were to govern a country in succession for a hundred years, they would be able
to transform the violently bad, and dispense with capital punishments.’ True indeed is this saying!” The Master said, “If a truly royal ruler were to arise, it would stir require a generation, and then virtue would
prevail.” The Master said, “If a minister make his own conduct correct, what difficulty will he have in assisting in govern-
ment? If he cannot rectify himself, what has he to do with rectifying others?” The disciple Zan returning from the court, the Master said to him, “How are you so late?” He replied, “We had
government business.” The Master said, “It must have been family affairs. If there had been government business, though I am not now in office, I should have been consulted about it.”
The Duke Ting asked whether there was a single sentence which could make a country prosperous. Confucius replied, “Such an effect cannot be expected from one sentence.
“There is a saying, however, which people have —‘To be a prince is difficult; to be a minister is not easy.’ “If a ruler knows this,—the difficulty of being a prince,—may there not be expected from this one sentence the
prosperity of his country?” The duke then said, “Is there a single sentence which can ruin a country?” Confucius replied, “Such an effect as
that cannot be expected from one sentence. There is, however, the saying which people have—‘I have no pleasure in being a prince, but only in that no one can offer any opposition to what I say!’
“If a ruler’s words be good, is it not also good that no one oppose them? But if they are not good, and no one opposes them, may there not be expected from this one sentence the ruin of his country?”
The Duke of Sheh asked about government. The Master said, “Good government obtains when those who are near are made happy, and those who are far
off are attracted.” Tsze-hsia! being governor of Chu-fu, asked about government. The Master said, “Do not be desirous to have
things done quickly; do not look at small advantages. Desire to have things done quickly prevents their being done thoroughly. Looking at small advantages prevents great affairs from being accomplished.”
The Duke of Sheh informed Confucius, saying, “Among us here there are those who may be styled upright in their conduct. If their father have stolen a sheep, they will bear witness to the fact.”
Confucius said, “Among us, in our part of the country, those who are upright are different from this. The father conceals the misconduct of the son, and the son conceals the misconduct of the father. Uprightness is to be found in this.”
Fan Ch’ih asked about perfect virtue. The Master said, “It is, in retirement, to be sedately grave; in the man- agement of business, to be reverently attentive; in intercourse with others, to be strictly sincere. Though a man go
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among rude, uncultivated tribes, these qualities may not be neglected.” Tsze-kung asked, saying, “What qualities must a man possess to entitle him to be called an officer? The Master
said, “He who in his conduct of himself maintains a sense of shame, and when sent to any quarter will not disgrace his prince’s commission, deserves to be called an officer.”
Tsze-kung pursued, “I venture to ask who may be placed in the next lower rank?” And he was told, “He whom the circle of his relatives pronounce to be filial, whom his fellow villagers and neighbors pronounce to be fraternal.”
Again the disciple asked, “I venture to ask about the class still next in order.” The Master said, “They are deter- mined to be sincere in what they say, and to carry out what they do. They are obstinate little men. Yet perhaps they may make the next class.”
Tsze-kung finally inquired, “Of what sort are those of the present day, who engage in government?” The Master said “Pooh! they are so many pecks and hampers, not worth being taken into account.”
The Master said, “Since I cannot get men pursuing the due medium, to whom I might communicate my instructions, I must find the ardent and the cautiously-decided. The ardent will advance and lay hold of truth; the cautiously-decided will keep themselves from what is wrong.”
The Master said, “The people of the south have a saying —‘A man without constancy cannot be either a wizard or a doctor.’ Good!
“Inconstant in his virtue, he will be visited with disgrace.” The Master said, “This arises simply from not attending to the prognostication.” The Master said, “The superior man is affable, but not adulatory; the mean man is adulatory, but not affable.” Tsze-kung asked, saying, “What do you say of a man who is loved by all the people of his neighborhood?” The
Master replied, “We may not for that accord our approval of him.” “And what do you say of him who is hated by all the people of his neighborhood?” The Master said, “We may not for that conclude that he is bad. It is better than either of these cases that the good in the neighborhood love him, and the bad hate him.”
The Master said, “The superior man is easy to serve and difficult to please. If you try to please him in any way which is not accordant with right, he will not be pleased. But in his employment of men, he uses them according to their capacity. The mean man is difficult to serve, and easy to please. If you try to please him, though it be in a way which is not accordant with right, he may be pleased. But in his employment of men, he wishes them to be equal to everything.”
The Master said, “The superior man has a dignified ease without pride. The mean man has pride without a dignified ease.”
The Master said, “The firm, the enduring, the simple, and the modest are near to virtue.” Tsze-lu asked, saying, “What qualities must a man possess to entitle him to be called a scholar?” The Master
said, “He must be thus,—earnest, urgent, and bland:—among his friends, earnest and urgent; among his brethren, bland.”
The Master said, “Let a good man teach the people seven years, and they may then likewise be employed in war.”
The Master said, “To lead an uninstructed people to war, is to throw them away.”
14 Hsien asked what was shameful. The Master said, “When good government prevails in a state, to be thinking
only of salary; and, when bad government prevails, to be thinking, in the same way, only of salary;—this is shame- ful.”
“When the love of superiority, boasting, resentments, and covetousness are repressed, this may be deemed perfect virtue.”
The Master said, “This may be regarded as the achievement of what is difficult. But I do not know that it is to be deemed perfect virtue.”
The Master said, “The scholar who cherishes the love of comfort is not fit to be deemed a scholar.” The Master said, “When good government prevails in a state, language may be lofty and bold, and actions
the same. When bad government prevails, the actions may be lofty and bold, but the language may be with some reserve.”
The Master said, “The virtuous will be sure to speak correctly, but those whose speech is good may not always be virtuous. Men of principle are sure to be bold, but those who are bold may not always be men of principle.”
Nan-kung Kwo, submitting an inquiry to Confucius, said, “I was skillful at archery, and Ao could move a boat along upon the land, but neither of them died a natural death. Yu and Chi personally wrought at the toils of hus- bandry, and they became possessors of the kingdom.” The Master made no reply; but when Nan-kung Kwo went out, he said, “A superior man indeed is this! An esteemer of virtue indeed is this!”
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The Master said, “Superior men, and yet not always virtuous, there have been, alas! But there never has been a mean man, and, at the same time, virtuous.”
The Master said, “Can there be love which does not lead to strictness with its object? Can there be loyalty which does not lead to the instruction of its object?”
The Master said, “In preparing the governmental notifications, P’i Shan first made the rough draft; Shi-shu ex- amined and discussed its contents; Tsze-yu, the manager of foreign intercourse, then polished the style; and, finally, Tsze-ch’an of Tung-li gave it the proper elegance and finish.”
Some one asked about Tsze-ch’an. The Master said, “He was a kind man.” He asked about Tsze-hsi. The Master said, “That man! That man!” He asked about Kwan Chung. “For him,” said the Master, “the city of Pien, with three hundred families, was
taken from the chief of the Po family, who did not utter a murmuring word, though, to the end of his life, he had only coarse rice to eat.”
The Master said, “To be poor without murmuring is difficult. To be rich without being proud is easy.” The Master said, “Mang Kung-ch’o is more than fit to be chief officer in the families of Chao and Wei, but he is
not fit to be great officer to either of the states Tang or Hsieh.” Tsze-lu asked what constituted a COMPLETE man. The Master said, “Suppose a man with the knowledge of
Tsang Wu-chung, the freedom from covetousness of Kung-ch’o, the bravery of Chwang of Pien, and the varied talents of Zan Ch’iu; add to these the accomplishments of the rules of propriety and music;—such a one might be reckoned a COMPLETE man.”
He then added, “But what is the necessity for a complete man of the present day to have all these things? The man, who in the view of gain, thinks of righteousness; who in the view of danger is prepared to give up his life; and who does not forget an old agreement however far back it extends:—such a man may be reckoned a COMPLETE man.”
The Master asked Kung-ming Chia about Kung-shu Wan, saying, “Is it true that your master speaks not, laughs not, and takes not?”
Kung-ming Chia replied, “This has arisen from the reporters going beyond the truth.—My master speaks when it is the time to speak, and so men do not get tired of his speaking. He laughs when there is occasion to be joyful, and so men do not get tired of his laughing. He takes when it is consistent with righteousness to do so, and so men do not get tired of his taking.” The Master said, “So! But is it so with him?”
The Master said, “Tsang Wu-chung, keeping possession of Fang, asked of the duke of Lu to appoint a successor to him in his family. Although it may be said that he was not using force with his sovereign, I believe he was.”
The Master said, “The duke Wan of Tsin was crafty and not upright. The duke Hwan of Ch’i was upright and not crafty.”
Tsze-lu said, “The Duke Hwan caused his brother Chiu to be killed, when Shao Hu died, with his master, but Kwan Chung did not die. May not I say that he was wanting in virtue?”
The Master said, “The Duke Hwan assembled all the princes together, and that not with weapons of war and chariots:—it was all through the influence of Kwan Chung. Whose beneficence was like his? Whose beneficence was like his?”
Tsze-kung said, “Kwan Chung, I apprehend was wanting in virtue. When the Duke Hwan caused his brother Chiu to be killed, Kwan Chung was not able to die with him. Moreover, he became prime minister to Hwan.”
The Master said, “Kwan Chung acted as prime minister to the Duke Hwan made him leader of all the princes, and united and rectified the whole kingdom. Down to the present day, the people enjoy the gifts which he con- ferred. But for Kwan Chung, we should now be wearing our hair unbound, and the lappets of our coats buttoning on the left side.
“Will you require from him the small fidelity of common men and common women, who would commit sui- cide in a stream or ditch, no one knowing anything about them?”
The great officer, Hsien, who had been family minister to Kung-shu Wan, ascended to the prince’s court in company with Wan.
The Master, having heard of it, said, “He deserved to be considered WAN (the accomplished).” The Master was speaking about the unprincipled course of the duke Ling of Weil when Ch’i K’ang said, “Since
he is of such a character, how is it he does not lose his state?” Confucius said, “The Chung-shu Yu has the superintendence of his guests and of strangers; the litanist, T’o, has
the management of his ancestral temple; and Wang-sun Chia has the direction of the army and forces:—with such officers as these, how should he lose his state?”
The Master said, “He who speaks without modesty will find it difficult to make his words good.” Chan Ch’ang murdered the Duke Chien of Ch’i. Confucius bathed, went to court and informed the Duke Ai, saying, “Chan Hang has slain his sovereign. I beg
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that you will undertake to punish him.” The duke said, “Inform the chiefs of the three families of it.” Confucius retired, and said, “Following in the rear of the great officers, I did not dare not to represent such a
matter, and my prince says, “Inform the chiefs of the three families of it.” He went to the chiefs, and informed them, but they would not act. Confucius then said, “Following in the rear
of the great officers, I did not dare not to represent such a matter.” Tsze-lu asked how a ruler should be served. The Master said, “Do not impose on him, and, moreover, withstand
him to his face.” The Master said, “The progress of the superior man is upwards; the progress of the mean man is downwards.” The Master said, “In ancient times, men learned with a view to their own improvement. Nowadays, men learn
with a view to the approbation of others.” Chu Po-yu sent a messenger with friendly inquiries to Confucius. Confucius sat with him, and questioned him. “What,” said he! “is your master engaged in?” The messenger re-
plied, “My master is anxious to make his faults few, but he has not yet succeeded.” He then went out, and the Master said, “A messenger indeed! A messenger indeed!”
The Master said, “He who is not in any particular office has nothing to do with plans for the administration of its duties.”
The philosopher Tsang said, “The superior man, in his thoughts, does not go out of his place.” The Master said, “The superior man is modest in his speech, but exceeds in his actions.” The Master said, “The way of the superior man is threefold, but I am not equal to it. Virtuous, he is free from
anxieties; wise, he is free from perplexities; bold, he is free from fear. Tsze-kung said, “Master, that is what you yourself say.” Tsze-kung was in the habit of comparing men together. The Master said, “Tsze must have reached a high pitch
of excellence! Now, I have not leisure for this.” The Master said, “I will not be concerned at men’s not knowing me; I will be concerned at my own want of
ability.” The Master said, “He who does not anticipate attempts to deceive him, nor think beforehand of his not being
believed, and yet apprehends these things readily when they occur;—is he not a man of superior worth?” Wei-shang Mau said to Confucius, “Ch’iu, how is it that you keep roosting about? Is it not that you are an insin-
uating talker? Confucius said, “I do not dare to play the part of such a talker, but I hate obstinacy.” The Master said, “A horse is called a ch’i, not because of its strength, but because of its other good qualities.” Some one said, “What do you say concerning the principle that injury should be recompensed with kindness?” The Master said, “With what then will you recompense kindness?” “Recompense injury with justice, and recompense kindness with kindness.” The Master said, “Alas! there is no one that knows me.” Tsze-kung said, “What do you mean by thus saying—that no one knows you?” The Master replied, “I do not
murmur against Heaven. I do not grumble against men. My studies lie low, and my penetration rises high. But there is Heaven;—that knows me!”
The Kung-po Liao, having slandered Tsze-lu to Chi-sun, Tsze-fu Ching-po informed Confucius of it, saying, “Our master is certainly being led astray by the Kung-po Liao, but I have still power enough left to cut Liao off, and expose his corpse in the market and in the court.”
The Master said, “If my principles are to advance, it is so ordered. If they are to fall to the ground, it is so or- dered. What can the Kung-po Liao do where such ordering is concerned?”
The Master said, “Some men of worth retire from the world. Some retire from particular states. Some retire because of disrespectful looks. Some retire because of contradictory language.”
The Master said, “Those who have done this are seven men.” Tsze-lu happening to pass the night in Shih-man, the gatekeeper said to him, “Whom do you come from?”
Tsze-lu said, “From Mr. K’ung.” “It is he,—is it not?”—said the other, “who knows the impracticable nature of the times and yet will be doing in them.”
The Master was playing, one day, on a musical stone in Weil when a man carrying a straw basket passed door of the house where Confucius was, and said, “His heart is full who so beats the musical stone.”
A little while after, he added, “How contemptible is the one-ideaed obstinacy those sounds display! When one is taken no notice of, he has simply at once to give over his wish for public employment. ‘Deep water must be crossed with the clothes on; shallow water may be crossed with the clothes held up.’”
The Master said, “How determined is he in his purpose! But this is not difficult!” Tsze-chang said, “What is meant when the Shu says that Kao-tsung, while observing the usual imperial mourn-
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ing, was for three years without speaking?” The Master said, “Why must Kao-tsung be referred to as an example of this? The ancients all did so. When the
sovereign died, the officers all attended to their several duties, taking instructions from the prime minister for three years.”
The Master said, “When rulers love to observe the rules of propriety, the people respond readily to the calls on them for service.”
Tsze-lu asked what constituted the superior man. The Master said, “The cultivation of himself in reverential carefulness.” “And is this all?” said Tsze-lu. “He cultivates himself so as to give rest to others,” was the reply. “And is this all?” again asked Tsze-lu. The Master said, “He cultivates himself so as to give rest to all the people. He culti- vates himself so as to give rest to all the people:—even Yao and Shun were still solicitous about this.”
Yuan Zang was squatting on his heels, and so waited the approach of the Master, who said to him, “In youth not humble as befits a junior; in manhood, doing nothing worthy of being handed down; and living on to old age:—this is to be a pest.” With this he hit him on the shank with his staff.
A youth of the village of Ch’ueh was employed by Confucius to carry the messages between him and his visi- tors. Some one asked about him, saying, “I suppose he has made great progress.”
The Master said, “I observe that he is fond of occupying the seat of a full-grown man; I observe that he walks shoulder to shoulder with his elders. He is not one who is seeking to make progress in learning. He wishes quickly to become a man.”
15 The Duke Ling of Wei asked Confucius about tactics. Confucius replied, “I have heard all about sacrificial ves-
sels, but I have not learned military matters.” On this, he took his departure the next day. When he was in Chan, their provisions were exhausted, and his followers became so in that they were unable to
rise. Tsze-lu, with evident dissatisfaction, said, “Has the superior man likewise to endure in this way?” The Master
said, “The superior man may indeed have to endure want, but the mean man, when he is in want, gives way to un- bridled license.”
The Master said, “Ts’ze, you think, I suppose, that I am one who learns many things and keeps them in memo- ry?”
Tsze-kung replied, “Yes,—but perhaps it is not so?” “No,” was the answer; “I seek a unity all pervading.” The Master said, “Yu I those who know virtue are few.” The Master said, “May not Shun be instanced as having governed efficiently without exertion? What did he do?
He did nothing but gravely and reverently occupy his royal seat.” Tsze-chang asked how a man should conduct himself, so as to be everywhere appreciated. The Master said, “Let his words be sincere and truthful and his actions honorable and careful;—such conduct
may be practiced among the rude tribes of the South or the North. If his words be not sincere and truthful and his actions not honorable and carefull will he, with such conduct, be appreciated, even in his neighborhood?
“When he is standing, let him see those two things, as it were, fronting him. When he is in a carriage, let him see them attached to the yoke. Then may he subsequently carry them into practice.”
Tsze-chang wrote these counsels on the end of his sash. The Master said, “Truly straightforward was the historiographer Yu. When good government prevailed in his
state, he was like an arrow. When bad government prevailed, he was like an arrow. A superior man indeed is Chu Po-yu! When good government prevails in his state, he is to be found in office. When bad government prevails, he can roll his principles up, and keep them in his breast.”
The Master said, “When a man may be spoken with, not to speak to him is to err in reference to the man. When a man may not be spoken with, to speak to him is to err in reference to our words. The wise err neither in regard to their man nor to their words.”
The Master said, “The determined scholar and the man of virtue will not seek to live at the expense of injuring their virtue. They will even sacrifice their lives to preserve their virtue complete.”
Tsze-kung asked about the practice of virtue. The Master said, “The mechanic, who wishes to do his work well, must first sharpen his tools. When you are living in any state, take service with the most worthy among its great officers, and make friends of the most virtuous among its scholars.”
Yen Yuan asked how the government of a country should be administered. The Master said, “Follow the seasons of Hsia. “Ride in the state carriage of Yin.
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“Wear the ceremonial cap of Chau. “Let the music be the Shao with its pantomimes. Banish the songs of Chang, and keep far from specious talkers.
The songs of Chang are licentious; specious talkers are dangerous.” The Master said, “If a man take no thought about what is distant, he will find sorrow near at hand.” The Master said, “It is all over! I have not seen one who loves virtue as he loves beauty.” The Master said, “Was not Tsang Wan like one who had stolen his situation? He knew the virtue and the talents
of Hui of Liu-hsia, and yet did not procure that he should stand with him in court.” The Master said, “He who requires much from himself and little from others, will keep himself from being the
object of resentment.” The Master said, “When a man is not in the habit of saying—‘What shall I think of this? What shall I think of
this?’ I can indeed do nothing with him!” The Master said, “When a number of people are together, for a whole day, without their conversation turning
on righteousness, and when they are fond of carrying out the suggestions of a small shrewdness;—theirs is indeed a hard case.”
The Master said, “The superior man in everything considers righteousness to be essential. He performs it according to the rules of propriety. He brings it forth in humility. He completes it with sincerity. This is indeed a superior man.”
The Master said, “The superior man is distressed by his want of ability. He is not distressed by men’s not know- ing him.”
The Master said, “The superior man dislikes the thought of his name not being mentioned after his death.” The Master said, “What the superior man seeks, is in himself. What the mean man seeks, is in others.” The Master said, “The superior man is dignified, but does not wrangle. He is sociable, but not a partisan.” The Master said, “The superior man does not promote a man simply on account of his words, nor does he put
aside good words because of the man.” Tsze-kung asked, saying, “Is there one word which may serve as a rule of practice for all one’s life?” The Master
said, “Is not RECIPROCITY such a word? What you do not want done to yourself, do not do to others.” The Master said, “In my dealings with men, whose evil do I blame, whose goodness do I praise, beyond what is
proper? If I do sometimes exceed in praise, there must be ground for it in my examination of the individual. “This people supplied the ground why the three dynasties pursued the path of straightforwardness.” The Master said, “Even in my early days, a historiographer would leave a blank in his text, and he who had a
horse would lend him to another to ride. Now, alas! there are no such things.” The Master said, “Specious words confound virtue. Want of forbearance in small matters confounds great
plans.” The Master said, “When the multitude hate a man, it is necessary to examine into the case. When the multitude
like a man, it is necessary to examine into the case.” The Master said, “A man can enlarge the principles which he follows; those principles do not enlarge the man.” The Master said, “To have faults and not to reform them,—this, indeed, should be pronounced having faults.” The Master said, “I have been the whole day without eating, and the whole night without sleeping:—occupied
with thinking. It was of no use. better plan is to learn.” The Master said, “The object of the superior man is truth. Food is not his object. There is plowing;—even in
that there is sometimes want. So with learning;—emolument may be found in it. The superior man is anxious lest he should not get truth; he is not anxious lest poverty should come upon him.”
The Master said, “When a man’s knowledge is sufficient to attain, and his virtue is not sufficient to enable him to hold, whatever he may have gained, he will lose again.
“When his knowledge is sufficient to attain, and he has virtue enough to hold fast, if he cannot govern with dignity, the people will not respect him.
“When his knowledge is sufficient to attain, and he has virtue enough to hold fast; when he governs also with dignity, yet if he try to move the people contrary to the rules of propriety:—full excellence is not reached.”
The Master said, “The superior man cannot be known in little matters; but he may be intrusted with great con- cerns. The small man may not be intrusted with great concerns, but he may be known in little matters.”
The Master said, “Virtue is more to man than either water or fire. I have seen men die from treading on water and fire, but I have never seen a man die from treading the course of virtue.”
The Master said, “Let every man consider virtue as what devolves on himself. He may not yield the perfor- mance of it even to his teacher.”
The Master said, “The superior man is correctly firm, and not firm merely.” The Master said, “A minister, in serving his prince, reverently discharges his duties, and makes his emolument a
secondary consideration.”
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The Master said, “In teaching there should be no distinction of classes.” The Master said, “Those whose courses are different cannot lay plans for one another.” The Master said, “In language it is simply required that it convey the meaning.” The music master, Mien, having called upon him, when they came to the steps, the Master said, “Here are the
steps.” When they came to the mat for the guest to sit upon, he said, “Here is the mat.” When all were seated, the Master informed him, saying, “So and so is here; so and so is here.”
The music master, Mien, having gone out, Tsze-chang asked, saying. “Is it the rule to tell those things to the music master?”
The Master said, “Yes. This is certainly the rule for those who lead the blind.”
16 The head of the Chi family was going to attack Chwan-yu. Zan Yu and Chi-lu had an interview with Confucius, and said, “Our chief, Chil is going to commence opera-
tions against Chwan-yu.” Confucius said, “Ch’iu, is it not you who are in fault here? “Now, in regard to Chwan-yu, long ago, a former king appointed its ruler to preside over the sacrifices to the
eastern Mang; moreover, it is in the midst of the territory of our state; and its ruler is a minister in direct connec- tion with the sovereign: What has your chief to do with attacking it?”
Zan Yu said, “Our master wishes the thing; neither of us two ministers wishes it.” Confucius said, “Ch’iu, there are the words of Chau Zan, —‘When he can put forth his ability, he takes his place
in the ranks of office; when he finds himself unable to do so, he retires from it. How can he be used as a guide to a blind man, who does not support him when tottering, nor raise him up when fallen?’
“And further, you speak wrongly. When a tiger or rhinoceros escapes from his cage; when a tortoise or piece of jade is injured in its repository:—whose is the fault?”
Zan Yu said, “But at present, Chwan-yu is strong and near to Pi; if our chief do not now take it, it will hereafter be a sorrow to his descendants.”
Confucius said. “Ch’iu, the superior man hates those declining to say—‘I want such and such a thing,’ and fram- ing explanations for their conduct.
“I have heard that rulers of states and chiefs of families are not troubled lest their people should be few, but are troubled lest they should not keep their several places; that they are not troubled with fears of poverty, but are trou- bled with fears of a want of contented repose among the people in their several places. For when the people keep their several places, there will be no poverty; when harmony prevails, there will be no scarcity of people; and when there is such a contented repose, there will be no rebellious upsettings.
“So it is.—Therefore, if remoter people are not submissive, all the influences of civil culture and virtue are to be cultivated to attract them to be so; and when they have been so attracted, they must be made contented and tran- quil.
“Now, here are you, Yu and Ch’iu, assisting your chief. Remoter people are not submissive, and, with your help, he cannot attract them to him. In his own territory there are divisions and downfalls, leavings and separations, and, with your help, he cannot preserve it.
“And yet he is planning these hostile movements within the state.—I am afraid that the sorrow of the Chi-sun family will not be on account of Chwan-yu, but will be found within the screen of their own court.”
Confucius said, “When good government prevails in the empire, ceremonies, music, and punitive military expeditions proceed from the son of Heaven. When bad government prevails in the empire, ceremonies, music, and punitive military expeditions proceed from the princes. When these things proceed from the princes, as a rule, the cases will be few in which they do not lose their power in ten generations. When they proceed from the great officers of the princes, as a rule, the case will be few in which they do not lose their power in five generations. When the subsidiary ministers of the great officers hold in their grasp the orders of the state, as a rule the cases will be few in which they do not lose their power in three generations.
“When right principles prevail in the kingdom, government will not be in the hands of the great officers. “When right principles prevail in the kingdom, there will be no discussions among the common people.” Confucius said, “The revenue of the state has left the ducal house now for five generations. The government has
been in the hands of the great officers for four generations. On this account, the descendants of the three Hwan are much reduced.”
Confucius said, “There are three friendships which are advantageous, and three which are injurious. Friendship with the uplight; friendship with the sincere; and friendship with the man of much observation:—these are advan- tageous. Friendship with the man of specious airs; friendship with the insinuatingly soft; and friendship with the
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glib-tongued:—these are injurious.” Confucius said, “There are three things men find enjoyment in which are advantageous, and three things they
find enjoyment in which are injurious. To find enjoyment in the discriminating study of ceremonies and music; to find enjoyment in speaking of the goodness of others; to find enjoyment in having many worthy friends:—these are advantageous. To find enjoyment in extravagant pleasures; to find enjoyment in idleness and sauntering; to find enjoyment in the pleasures of feasting:—these are injurious.”
Confucius said, “There are three errors to which they who stand in the presence of a man of virtue and station are liable. They may speak when it does not come to them to speak;—this is called rashness. They may not speak when it comes to them to speak;—this is called concealment. They may speak without looking at the countenance of their superior;—this is called blindness.”
Confucius said, “There are three things which the superior man guards against. In youth, when the physical powers are not yet settled, he guards against lust. When he is strong and the physical powers are full of vigor, he guards against quarrelsomeness. When he is old, and the animal powers are decayed, he guards against covetous- ness.”
Confucius said, “There are three things of which the superior man stands in awe. He stands in awe of the ordi- nances of Heaven. He stands in awe of great men. He stands in awe of the words of sages.
“The mean man does not know the ordinances of Heaven, and consequently does not stand in awe of them. He is disrespectful to great men. He makes sport of the words of sages.”
Confucius said, “Those who are born with the possession of knowledge are the highest class of men. Those who learn, and so readily get possession of knowledge, are the next. Those who are dull and stupid, and yet compass the learning, are another class next to these. As to those who are dull and stupid and yet do not learn;—they are the lowest of the people.”
Confucius said, “The superior man has nine things which are subjects with him of thoughtful consideration. In regard to the use of his eyes, he is anxious to see clearly. In regard to the use of his ears, he is anxious to hear dis- tinctly. In regard to his countenance, he is anxious that it should be benign. In regard to his demeanor, he is anxious that it should be respectful. In regard to his speech, he is anxious that it should be sincere. In regard to his doing of business, he is anxious that it should be reverently careful. In regard to what he doubts about, he is anxious to question others. When he is angry, he thinks of the difficulties his anger may involve him in. When he sees gain to be got, he thinks of righteousness.”
Confucius said, “Contemplating good, and pursuing it, as if they could not reach it; contemplating evil! and shrinking from it, as they would from thrusting the hand into boiling water:—I have seen such men, as I have heard such words.
“Living in retirement to study their aims, and practicing righteousness to carry out their principles:—I have heard these words, but I have not seen such men.”
The Duke Ching of Ch’i had a thousand teams, each of four horses, but on the day of his death, the people did not praise him for a single virtue. Po-i and Shu-ch’i died of hunger at the foot of the Shau-yang mountains, and the people, down to the present time, praise them.
“Is not that saying illustrated by this?” Ch’an K’ang asked Po-yu, saying, “Have you heard any lessons from your father different from what we have all
heard?” Po-yu replied, “No. He was standing alone once, when I passed below the hall with hasty steps, and said to me,
‘Have you learned the Odes?’ On my replying ‘Not yet,’ he added, If you do not learn the Odes, you will not be fit to converse with.’ I retired and studied the Odes.
“Another day, he was in the same way standing alone, when I passed by below the hall with hasty steps, and said to me, ‘Have you learned the rules of Propriety?’ On my replying ‘Not yet,’ he added, ‘If you do not learn the rules of Propriety, your character cannot be established.’ I then retired, and learned the rules of Propriety.
“I have heard only these two things from him.” Ch’ang K’ang retired, and, quite delighted, said, “I asked one thing, and I have got three things. I have heard
about the Odes. I have heard about the rules of Propriety. I have also heard that the superior man maintains a dis- tant reserve towards his son.”
The wife of the prince of a state is called by him Fu Zan. She calls herself Hsiao T’ung. The people of the state call her Chun Fu Zan, and, to the people of other states, they call her K’wa Hsiao Chun. The people of other states also call her Chun Fu Zan.
17 Yang Ho wished to see Confucius, but Confucius would not go to see him. On this, he sent a present of a pig to
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Confucius, who, having chosen a time when Ho was not at home went to pay his respects for the gift. He met him, however, on the way.
Ho said to Confucius, “Come, let me speak with you.” He then asked, “Can he be called benevolent who keeps his jewel in his bosom, and leaves his country to confusion?” Confucius replied, “No.” “Can he be called wise, who is anxious to be engaged in public employment, and yet is constantly losing the opportunity of being so?” Confucius again said, “No.” “The days and months are passing away; the years do not wait for us.” Confucius said, “Right; I will go into office.”
The Master said, “By nature, men are nearly alike; by practice, they get to be wide apart.” The Master said, “There are only the wise of the highest class, and the stupid of the lowest class, who cannot be
changed.” The Master, having come to Wu-ch’ang, heard there the sound of stringed instruments and singing. Well pleased and smiling, he said, “Why use an ox knife to kill a fowl?” Tsze-yu replied, “Formerly, Master, I heard you say,—‘When the man of high station is well instructed, he loves
men; when the man of low station is well instructed, he is easily ruled.’” The Master said, “My disciples, Yen’s words are right. What I said was only in sport.” Kung-shan Fu-zao, when he was holding Pi, and in an attitude of rebellion, invited the Master to visit him, who
was rather inclined to go. Tsze-lu was displeased. and said, “Indeed, you cannot go! Why must you think of going to see Kung-shan?” The Master said, “Can it be without some reason that he has invited ME? If any one employ me, may I not make
an eastern Chau?” Tsze-chang asked Confucius about perfect virtue. Confucius said, “To be able to practice five things everywhere
under heaven constitutes perfect virtue.” He begged to ask what they were, and was told, “Gravity, generosity of soul, sincerity, earnestness, and kindness. If you are grave, you will not be treated with disrespect. If you are gen- erous, you will win all. If you are sincere, people will repose trust in you. If you are earnest, you will accomplish much. If you are kind, this will enable you to employ the services of others.
Pi Hsi inviting him to visit him, the Master was inclined to go. Tsze-lu said, “Master, formerly I have heard you say, ‘When a man in his own person is guilty of doing evil, a
superior man will not associate with him.’ Pi Hsi is in rebellion, holding possession of Chung-mau; if you go to him, what shall be said?”
The Master said, “Yes, I did use these words. But is it not said, that, if a thing be really hard, it may be ground without being made thin? Is it not said, that, if a thing be really white, it may be steeped in a dark fluid without being made black?
“Am I a bitter gourd? How can I be hung up out of the way of being eaten?” The Master said, “Yu, have you heard the six words to which are attached six becloudings?” Yu replied, “I have
not.” “Sit down, and I will tell them to you. “There is the love of being benevolent without the love of learning;—the beclouding here leads to a foolish sim-
plicity. There is the love of knowing without the love of learning;—the beclouding here leads to dissipation of mind. There is the love of being sincere without the love of learning;—the beclouding here leads to an injurious disregard of consequences. There is the love of straightforwardness without the love of learning;—the beclouding here leads to rudeness. There is the love of boldness without the love of learning;—the beclouding here leads to insubordina- tion. There is the love of firmness without the love of learning;—the beclouding here leads to extravagant conduct.”
The Master said, “My children, why do you not study the Book of Poetry? “The Odes serve to stimulate the mind. “They may be used for purposes of self-contemplation. “They teach the art of sociability. “They show how to regulate feelings of resentment. “From them you learn the more immediate duty of serving one’s father, and the remoter one of serving one’s
prince. “From them we become largely acquainted with the names of birds, beasts, and plants.” The Master said to Po-yu, “Do you give yourself to the Chau-nan and the Shao-nan. The man who has not
studied the Chau-nan and the Shao-nan is like one who stands with his face right against a wall. Is he not so?” The Master said, “‘It is according to the rules of propriety,’ they say.—‘It is according to the rules of propriety,’ they say. Are gems and silk all that is meant by propriety? ‘It is music,’ they say.—‘It is music,’ they say. Are hers and drums all that is meant by music?”
The Master said, “He who puts on an appearance of stern firmness, while inwardly he is weak, is like one of the small, mean people;—yea, is he not like the thief who breaks through, or climbs over, a wall?”
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The Master said, “Your good, careful people of the villages are the thieves of virtue.” The Master said, To tell, as we go along, what we have heard on the way, is to cast away our virtue.” The Master said, “There are those mean creatures! How impossible it is along with them to serve one’s prince! “While they have not got their aims, their anxiety is how to get them. When they have got them, their anxiety is
lest they should lose them. “When they are anxious lest such things should be lost, there is nothing to which they will not proceed.” The Master said, “Anciently, men had three failings, which now perhaps are not to be found. “The high-mindedness of antiquity showed itself in a disregard of small things; the high-mindedness of the
present day shows itself in wild license. The stern dignity of antiquity showed itself in grave reserve; the stern dig- nity of the present day shows itself in quarrelsome perverseness. The stupidity of antiquity showed itself in straight- forwardness; the stupidity of the present day shows itself in sheer deceit.”
The Master said, “Fine words and an insinuating appearance are seldom associated with virtue.” The Master said, “I hate the manner in which purple takes away the luster of vermilion. I hate the way in which
the songs of Chang confound the music of the Ya. I hate those who with their sharp mouths overthrow kingdoms and families.”
The Master said, “I would prefer not speaking.” Tsze-kung said, “If you, Master, do not speak, what shall we, your disciples, have to record?” The Master said, “Does Heaven speak? The four seasons pursue their courses, and all things are continually
being produced, but does Heaven say anything?” Zu Pei wished to see Confucius, but Confucius declined, on the ground of being sick, to see him. When the
bearer of this message went out at the door, the Master took his lute and sang to it, in order that Pei might hear him. Tsai Wo asked about the three years’ mourning for parents, saying that one year was long enough. “If the superior man,” said he, “abstains for three years from the observances of propriety, those observances
will be quite lost. If for three years he abstains from music, music will be ruined. Within a year the old grain is ex- hausted, and the new grain has sprung up, and, in procuring fire by friction, we go through all the changes of wood for that purpose. After a complete year, the mourning may stop.”
The Master said, “If you were, after a year, to eat good rice, and wear embroidered clothes, would you feel at ease?” “I should,” replied Wo.
The Master said, “If you can feel at ease, do it. But a superior man, during the whole period of mourning, does not enjoy pleasant food which he may eat, nor derive pleasure from music which he may hear. He also does not feel at ease, if he is comfortably lodged. Therefore he does not do what you propose. But now you feel at ease and may do it.”
Tsai Wo then went out, and the Master said, “This shows Yu’s want of virtue. It is not till a child is three years old that it is allowed to leave the arms of its parents. And the three years’ mourning is universally observed throughout the empire. Did Yu enjoy the three years’ love of his parents?”
The Master said, “Hard is it to deal with who will stuff himself with food the whole day, without applying his mind to anything good! Are there not gamesters and chess players? To be one of these would still be better than doing nothing at all.”
Tsze-lu said, “Does the superior man esteem valor?” The Master said, “The superior man holds righteousness to be of highest importance. A man in a superior situation, having valor without righteousness, will be guilty of insub- ordination; one of the lower people having valor without righteousness, will commit robbery.”
Tsze-kung said, “Has the superior man his hatreds also?” The Master said, “He has his hatreds. He hates those who proclaim the evil of others. He hates the man who, being in a low station, slanders his superiors. He hates those who have valor merely, and are unobservant of propriety. He hates those who are forward and determined, and, at the same time, of contracted understanding.”
The Master then inquired, “Ts’ze, have you also your hatreds?” Tsze-kung replied, “I hate those who pry out matters, and ascribe the knowledge to their wisdom. I hate those who are only not modest, and think that they are valorous. I hate those who make known secrets, and think that they are straightforward.”
The Master said, “Of all people, girls and servants are the most difficult to behave to. If you are familiar with them, they lose their humility. If you maintain a reserve towards them, they are discontented.”
The Master said, “When a man at forty is the object of dislike, he will always continue what he is.”
18 The Viscount of Wei withdrew from the court. The Viscount of Chi became a slave to Chau. Pi-kan remonstrat-
ed with him and died. Confucius said, “The Yin dynasty possessed these three men of virtue.” Hui of Liu-hsia, being chief criminal judge, was thrice dismissed from his office. Some one said to him, “Is it
not yet time for you, sir, to leave this?” He replied, “Serving men in an upright way, where shall I go to, and not ex-
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perience such a thrice-repeated dismissal? If I choose to serve men in a crooked way, what necessity is there for me to leave the country of my parents?”
The duke Ching of Ch’i, with reference to the manner in which he should treat Confucius, said, “I cannot treat him as I would the chief of the Chi family. I will treat him in a manner between that accorded to the chief of the Chil and that given to the chief of the Mang family.” He also said, “I am old; I cannot use his doctrines.” Confucius took his departure.
The people of Ch’i sent to Lu a present of female musicians, which Chi Hwan received, and for three days no court was held. Confucius took his departure.
The madman of Ch’u, Chieh-yu, passed by Confucius, singing and saying, “O FANG! O FANG! How is your virtue degenerated! As to the past, reproof is useless; but the future may still be provided against. Give up your vain pursuit. Give up your vain pursuit. Peril awaits those who now engage in affairs of government.”
Confucius alighted and wished to converse with him, but Chieh-yu hastened away, so that he could not talk with him.
Ch’ang-tsu and Chieh-ni were at work in the field together, when Confucius passed by them, and sent Tsze-lu to inquire for the ford.
Ch’ang-tsu said, “Who is he that holds the reins in the carriage there?” Tsze-lu told him, “It is K’ung Ch’iu.’, “Is it not K’ung of Lu?” asked he. “Yes,” was the reply, to which the other rejoined, “He knows the ford.”
Tsze-lu then inquired of Chieh-ni, who said to him, “Who are you, sir?” He answered, “I am Chung Yu.” “Are you not the disciple of K’ung Ch’iu of Lu?” asked the other. “I am,” replied he, and then Chieh-ni said to him, “Dis- order, like a swelling flood, spreads over the whole empire, and who is he that will change its state for you? Rather than follow one who merely withdraws from this one and that one, had you not better follow those who have with- drawn from the world altogether?” With this he fell to covering up the seed, and proceeded with his work, without stopping.
Tsze-lu went and reported their remarks, when the Master observed with a sigh, “It is impossible to associate with birds and beasts, as if they were the same with us. If I associate not with these people,—with mankind,—with whom shall I associate? If right principles prevailed through the empire, there would be no use for me to change its state.”
Tsze-lu, following the Master, happened to fall behind, when he met an old man, carrying across his shoulder on a staff a basket for weeds. Tsze-lu said to him, “Have you seen my master, sir?” The old man replied, “Your four limbs are unaccustomed to toil; you cannot distinguish the five kinds of grain:—who is your master?” With this, he planted his staff in the ground, and proceeded to weed.
Tsze-lu joined his hands across his breast, and stood before him. The old man kept Tsze-lu to pass the night in his house, killed a fowl, prepared millet, and feasted him. He also
introduced to him his two sons. Next day, Tsze-lu went on his way, and reported his adventure. The Master said, “He is a recluse,” and sent Tsze-
lu back to see him again, but when he got to the place, the old man was gone. Tsze-lu then said to the family, “Not to take office is not righteous. If the relations between old and young may
not be neglected, how is it that he sets aside the duties that should be observed between sovereign and minister? Wishing to maintain his personal purity, he allows that great relation to come to confusion. A superior man takes office, and performs the righteous duties belonging to it. As to the failure of right principles to make progress, he is aware of that.”
The men who have retired to privacy from the world have been Po-i, Shu-ch’i, Yuchung, I-yi, Chu-chang, Hui of Liu-hsia, and Shao-lien.
The Master said, “Refusing to surrender their wills, or to submit to any taint in their persons; such, I think, were Po-i and Shu-ch’i.
“It may be said of Hui of Liu-hsia! and of Shaolien, that they surrendered their wills, and submitted to taint in their persons, but their words corresponded with reason, and their actions were such as men are anxious to see. This is all that is to be remarked in them.
“It may be said of Yu-chung and I-yi, that, while they hid themselves in their seclusion, they gave a license to their words; but in their persons, they succeeded in preserving their purity, and, in their retirement, they acted according to the exigency of the times.
“I am different from all these. I have no course for which I am predetermined, and no course against which I am predetermined.”
The grand music master, Chih, went to Ch’i. Kan, the master of the band at the second meal, went to Ch’u. Liao, the band master at the third meal, went to
Ts’ai. Chueh, the band master at the fourth meal, went to Ch’in. Fang-shu, the drum master, withdrew to the north of the river.
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Wu, the master of the hand drum, withdrew to the Han. Yang, the assistant music master, and Hsiang, master of the musical stone, withdrew to an island in the sea. The duke of Chau addressed his son, the duke of Lu, saying, “The virtuous prince does not neglect his relations.
He does not cause the great ministers to repine at his not employing them. Without some great cause, he does not dismiss from their offices the members of old families. He does not seek in one man talents for every employment.”
To Chau belonged the eight officers, Po-ta, Po-kwo, Chung-tu, Chung-hwu, Shu-ya, Shuhsia, Chi-sui, and Chi-kwa.
19 Tsze-chang said, “The scholar, trained for public duty, seeing threatening danger, is prepared to sacrifice his life.
When the opportunity of gain is presented to him, he thinks of righteousness. In sacrificing, his thoughts are rever- ential. In mourning, his thoughts are about the grief which he should feel. Such a man commands our approbation indeed.
Tsze-chang said, “When a man holds fast to virtue, but without seeking to enlarge it, and believes in right prin- ciples, but without firm sincerity, what account can be made of his existence or non-existence?”
The disciples of Tsze-hsia asked Tsze-chang about the principles that should characterize mutual intercourse. Tsze-chang asked, “What does Tsze-hsia say on the subject?” They replied, “Tsze-hsia says: ‘Associate with those who can advantage you. Put away from you those who cannot do so.’” Tsze-chang observed, “This is different from what I have learned. The superior man honors the talented and virtuous, and bears with all. He praises the good, and pities the incompetent. Am I possessed of great talents and virtue?—who is there among men whom I will not bear with? Am I devoid of talents and virtue?—men will put me away from them. What have we to do with the putting away of others?”
Tsze-hsia said, “Even in inferior studies and employments there is something worth being looked at; but if it be attempted to carry them out to what is remote, there is a danger of their proving inapplicable. Therefore, the supe- rior man does not practice them.”
Tsze-hsia said, “He, who from day to day recognizes what he has not yet, and from month to month does not forget what he has attained to, may be said indeed to love to learn.”
Tsze-hsia said, “There are learning extensively, and having a firm and sincere aim; inquiring with earnestness, and reflecting with self-application:—virtue is in such a course.”
Tsze-hsia said, “Mechanics have their shops to dwell in, in order to accomplish their works. The superior man learns, in order to reach to the utmost of his principles.”
Tsze-hsia said, “The mean man is sure to gloss his faults.” Tsze-hsia said, “The superior man undergoes three changes. Looked at from a distance, he appears stern; when
approached, he is mild; when he is heard to speak, his language is firm and decided.” Tsze-hsia said, “The superior man, having obtained their confidence, may then impose labors on his people. If
he have not gained their confidence, they will think that he is oppressing them. Having obtained the confidence of his prince, one may then remonstrate with him. If he have not gained his confidence, the prince will think that he is vilifying him.”
Tsze-hsia said, “When a person does not transgress the boundary line in the great virtues, he may pass and repass it in the small virtues.”
Tsze-yu said, “The disciples and followers of Tsze-hsia, in sprinkling and sweeping the ground, in answering and replying, in advancing and receding, are sufficiently accomplished. But these are only the branches of learning, and they are left ignorant of what is essential.—How can they be acknowledged as sufficiently taught?”
Tsze-hsia heard of the remark and said, “Alas! Yen Yu is wrong. According to the way of the superior man in teaching, what departments are there which he considers of prime importance, and delivers? what are there which he considers of secondary importance, and allows himself to be idle about? But as in the case of plants, which are assorted according to their classes, so he deals with his disciples. How can the way of a superior man be such as to make fools of any of them? Is it not the sage alone, who can unite in one the beginning and the consummation of learning?”
Tsze-hsia said, “The officer, having discharged all his duties, should devote his leisure to learning. The student, having completed his learning, should apply himself to be an officer.”
Tsze-hsia said, “Mourning, having been carried to the utmost degree of grief, should stop with that.” Tsze-hsia said, “My friend Chang can do things which are hard to be done, but yet he is not perfectly virtuous.” The philosopher Tsang said, “How imposing is the manner of Chang! It is difficult along with him to practice
virtue.” The philosopher Tsang said, “I heard this from our Master: ‘Men may not have shown what is in them to the
full extent, and yet they will be found to do so, on the occasion of mourning for their parents.”
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The philosopher Tsang said, “I have heard this from our Master:—‘The filial piety of Mang Chwang, in other matters, was what other men are competent to, but, as seen in his not changing the ministers of his father, nor his father’s mode of government, it is difficult to be attained to.’”
The chief of the Mang family having appointed Yang Fu to be chief criminal judge, the latter consulted the phi- losopher Tsang. Tsang said, “The rulers have failed in their duties, and the people consequently have been disorga- nized for a long time. When you have found out the truth of any accusation, be grieved for and pity them, and do not feel joy at your own ability.”
Tsze-kung said, “Chau’s wickedness was not so great as that name implies. Therefore, the superior man hates to dwell in a low-lying situation, where all the evil of the world will flow in upon him.”
Tsze-kung said, “The faults of the superior man are like the eclipses of the sun and moon. He has his faults, and all men see them; he changes again, and all men look up to him.”
Kung-sun Ch’ao of Wei asked Tszekung, saying. “From whom did Chung-ni get his learning?” Tsze-kung replied, “The doctrines of Wan and Wu have not yet fallen to the ground. They are to be found
among men. Men of talents and virtue remember the greater principles of them, and others, not possessing such talents and virtue, remember the smaller. Thus, all possess the doctrines of Wan and Wu. Where could our Mas- ter go that he should not have an opportunity of learning them? And yet what necessity was there for his having a regular master?”
Shu-sun Wu-shu observed to the great officers in the court, saying, “Tsze-kung is superior to Chung-ni.” Tsze-fu Ching-po reported the observation to Tsze-kung, who said, “Let me use the comparison of a house and
its encompassing wall. My wall only reaches to the shoulders. One may peep over it, and see whatever is valuable in the apartments.
“The wall of my Master is several fathoms high. If one do not find the door and enter by it, he cannot see the ancestral temple with its beauties, nor all the officers in their rich array.
“But I may assume that they are few who find the door. Was not the observation of the chief only what might have been expected?”
Shu-sun Wu-shu having spoken revilingly of Chung-ni, Tsze-kung said, “It is of no use doing so. Chung-ni can- not be reviled. The talents and virtue of other men are hillocks and mounds which may be stepped over. Chung-ni is the sun or moon, which it is not possible to step over. Although a man may wish to cut himself off from the sage, what harm can he do to the sun or moon? He only shows that he does not know his own capacity.
Ch’an Tsze-ch’ in, addressing Tsze-kung, said, “You are too modest. How can Chung-ni be said to be superior to you?”
Tsze-kung said to him, “For one word a man is often deemed to be wise, and for one word he is often deemed to be foolish. We ought to be careful indeed in what we say.
“Our Master cannot be attained to, just in the same way as the heavens cannot be gone up by the steps of a stair. “Were our Master in the position of the ruler of a state or the chief of a family, we should find verified the
description which has been given of a sage’s rule:—he would plant the people, and forthwith they would be estab- lished; he would lead them on, and forthwith they would follow him; he would make them happy, and forthwith multitudes would resort to his dominions; he would stimulate them, and forthwith they would be harmonious. While he lived, he would be glorious. When he died, he would be bitterly lamented. How is it possible for him to be attained to?”
20 Yao said, “Oh! you, Shun, the Heaven-determined order of succession now rests in your person. Sincerely hold
fast the due Mean. If there shall be distress and want within the four seas, the Heavenly revenue will come to a perpetual end.”
Shun also used the same language in giving charge to Yu. T’ang said, “I the child Li, presume to use a dark-colored victim, and presume to announce to Thee, O most
great and sovereign God, that the sinner I dare not pardon, and thy ministers, O God, I do not keep in obscurity. The examination of them is by thy mind, O God. If, in my person, I commit offenses, they are not to be attributed to you, the people of the myriad regions. If you in the myriad regions commit offenses, these offenses must rest on my person.”
Chau conferred great gifts, and the good were enriched. “Although he has his near relatives, they are not equal to my virtuous men. The people are throwing blame
upon me, the One man.” He carefully attended to the weights and measures, examined the body of the laws, restored the discarded offi-
cers, and the good government of the kingdom took its course. He revived states that had been extinguished, restored families whose line of succession had been broken,
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and called to office those who had retired into obscurity, so that throughout the kingdom the hearts of the people turned towards him.
What he attached chief importance to were the food of the people, the duties of mourning, and sacrifices. By his generosity, he won all. By his sincerity, he made the people repose trust in him. By his earnest activity, his
achievements were great. By his justice, all were delighted. Tsze-chang asked Confucius, saying, “In what way should a person in authority act in order that he may
conduct government properly?” The Master replied, “Let him honor the five excellent, and banish away the four bad, things;—then may he conduct government properly.” Tsze-chang said, “What are meant by the five excellent things?” The Master said, “When the person in authority is beneficent without great expenditure; when he lays tasks on the people without their repining; when he pursues what he desires without being covetous; when he maintains a dignified ease without being proud; when he is majestic without being fierce.”
Tsze-chang said, “What is meant by being beneficent without great expenditure?” The Master replied, “When the person in authority makes more beneficial to the people the things from which they naturally derive benefit;— is not this being beneficent without great expenditure? When he chooses the labors which are proper, and makes them labor on them, who will repine? When his desires are set on benevolent government, and he secures it, who will accuse him of covetousness? Whether he has to do with many people or few, or with things great or small, he does not dare to indicate any disrespect;—is not this to maintain a dignified ease without any pride? He adjusts his clothes and cap, and throws a dignity into his looks, so that, thus dignified, he is looked at with awe;—is not this to be majestic without being fierce?”
Tsze-chang then asked, “What are meant by the four bad things?” The Master said, “To put the people to death without having instructed them;—this is called cruelty. To require from them, suddenly, the full tale of work, with- out having given them warning;—this is called oppression. To issue orders as if without urgency, at first, and, when the time comes, to insist on them with severity;—this is called injury. And, generally, in the giving pay or rewards to men, to do it in a stingy way;—this is called acting the part of a mere official.”
The Master said, “Without recognizing the ordinances of Heaven, it is impossible to be a superior man. “Without an acquaintance with the rules of Propriety, it is impossible for the character to be established. “Without knowing the force of words, it is impossible to know men.”
THE ArT oF wAr
Sun Tzu, Translated by Lionel Giles
Probably 6th century B.C.E. China
Sun Tzu’s Art of War is still studied in military academies around the world, including the US military acade- mies (USMA, USNA, and USAFA), and it is taught in business schools and law schools as a manual on how to get ahead of the competition. While scholars argue about when Sun Tzu lived (or whether he was using an older text, or even whether someone named Sun Tzu existed), the impact that the work has had is undeniable. The work is both a military treatise and a philosophical argument about the nature of humanity. Unlike previous strategists, “Sun-Tzu had no patience with the protracted games generals seemed to enjoy playing with each other. Once hos- tilities had erupted, one’s priority was to defeat the enemy, not indulge oneself in chivalry which could only prolong the conflict and cost more lives.” (Mark)
In Confucian thinking, everyone has an assigned place in society, with strict expectations for behavior that could potentially limit creative/unusual responses. Sun Tzu’s approach to warfare is Daoist in nature, rather than Confucian “by adapting oneself to one’s situation, rather than rigidly holding fast to how one thinks things should be, one is able to recognize the fluidity of conditions and act upon them decisively.” (Mark)
It is therefore Sun Tzu’s skill as a Daoist philosopher that guides the work and provides the reader with an in- sightful view of human nature.
Written by Laura J. Getty
Sun Tzu on the Art of war
Introduction Ssu-ma Ch’ien gives the following biography of Sun Tzu: Sun Tzu Wu was a native of the Ch’i State. His ART OF WAR brought him to the notice of Ho Lu, King of Wu.
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Ho Lu said to him: “I have carefully perused your 13 chapters. May I submit your theory of managing soldiers to a slight test?”
Sun Tzu replied: “You may.” Ho Lu asked: “May the test be applied to women?” The answer was again in the affirmative, so arrangements were made to bring 180 ladies out of the Palace. Sun
Tzu divided them into two companies, and placed one of the King’s favorite concubines at the head of each. He then bade them all take spears in their hands, and addressed them thus: “I presume you know the difference between front and back, right hand and left hand?”
The girls replied: “Yes.” Sun Tzu went on: “When I say ‘Eyes front,’ you must look straight ahead. When I say ‘Left turn,’ you must face
towards your left hand. When I say ‘Right turn,’ you must face towards your right hand. When I say ‘About turn,’ you must face right round towards your back.”
Again the girls assented. The words of command having been thus explained, he set up the halberds and bat- tle-axes in order to begin the drill. Then, to the sound of drums, he gave the order “Right turn.” But the girls only burst out laughing. Sun Tzu said: “If words of command are not clear and distinct, if orders are not thoroughly understood, then the general is to blame.”
So he started drilling them again, and this time gave the order “Left turn,” whereupon the girls once more burst into fits of laughter. Sun Tzu: “If words of command are not clear and distinct, if orders are not thoroughly under- stood, the general is to blame. But if his orders ARE clear, and the soldiers nevertheless disobey, then it is the fault of their officers.”
So saying, he ordered the leaders of the two companies to be beheaded. Now the king of Wu was watching the scene from the top of a raised pavilion; and when he saw that his favorite concubines were about to be executed, he was greatly alarmed and hurriedly sent down the following mes- sage: “We are now quite satisfied as to our general’s ability to handle troops. If We are bereft of these two concubines, our meat and drink will lose their savor. It is our wish that they shall not be beheaded.”
Sun Tzu replied: “Having once received His Majesty’s commission to be the general of his forces, there are certain commands of His Majesty which, acting in that capacity, I am unable to accept.”
Accordingly, he had the two leaders beheaded, and straightway installed the pair next in order as leaders in their place. When this had been done, the drum was sounded for the drill once more; and the girls went through all the evolutions, turning to the right or to the left, marching ahead or wheel- ing back, kneeling or standing, with perfect accuracy and precision, not venturing to utter a sound. Then Sun Tzu sent a messen- ger to the King saying: “Your soldiers, Sire, are now properly drilled and disciplined, and ready for your majesty’s inspection. They can be put to any use that their sovereign may desire; bid them go through fire and water, and they will not disobey.”
But the King replied: “Let our general cease drilling and return to camp. As for us, We have no wish to come down and inspect the troops.”
Image 2.2: Bamboo Book-Binding | A copy of The Art of War in Chinese bamboo binding.
Author: User “vlasta2” Source: Wikimedia Commons License: CC BY 2.0
The Art of War
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Thereupon Sun Tzu said: “The King is only fond of words, and cannot translate them into deeds.” After that, Ho Lu saw that Sun Tzu was one who knew how to handle an army, and finally appointed him
general. In the west, he defeated the Ch’u State and forced his way into Ying, the capital; to the north he put fear into the States of Ch’i and Chin, and spread his fame abroad amongst the feudal princes. And Sun Tzu shared in the might of the King.
I. Laying Plans 1. Sun Tzu said: The art of war is of vital importance to the State. 2. It is a matter of life and death, a road either to safety or to ruin. Hence it is a subject of inquiry which can on
no account be neglected. 3. The art of war, then, is governed by five constant factors, to be taken into account in one’s deliberations, when
seeking to determine the conditions obtaining in the field. 4. These are: (1) The Moral Law; (2) Heaven; (3) Earth; (4) The Commander; (5) Method and Discipline. 5, 6. The MORAL LAW causes the people to be in complete accord with their ruler, so that they will follow him
regardless of their lives, undismayed by any danger. 7. HEAVEN signifies night and day, cold and heat, times and seasons. 8. EARTH comprises distances, great and small; danger and security; open ground and narrow passes; the chances
of life and death. 9. The COMMANDER stands for the virtues of wisdom, sincerity, benevolence, courage, and strictness. 10. By METHOD AND DISCIPLINE are to be understood the marshaling of the army in its proper subdivisions,
the graduations of rank among the officers, the maintenance of roads by which supplies may reach the army, and the control of military expenditure.
11. These five heads should be familiar to every general: he who knows them will be victorious; he who knows them not will fail.
12. Therefore, in your deliberations, when seeking to determine the military conditions, let them be made the basis of a comparison, in this wise:—
13. (1) Which of the two sovereigns is imbued with the Moral law? (2) Which of the two generals has most ability? (3) With whom lie the advantages derived from Heaven and Earth? (4) On which side is discipline most rigor- ously enforced? (5) Which army is stronger? (6) On which side are officers and men more highly trained? (7) In which army is there the greater constancy both in reward and punishment?
14. By means of these seven considerations I can forecast victory or defeat. 15. The general that hearkens to my counsel and acts upon it, will conquer:—let such a one be retained in com-
mand! The general that hearkens not to my counsel nor acts upon it, will suffer defeat:—let such a one be dismissed!
16. While heading the profit of my counsel, avail yourself also of any helpful circumstances over and beyond the ordinary rules.
17. According as circumstances are favorable, one should modify one’s plans. 18. All warfare is based on deception. 19. Hence, when able to attack, we must seem unable; when using our forces, we must seem inactive; when we are
near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away; when far away, we must make him believe we are near. 20. Hold out baits to entice the enemy. Feign disorder, and crush him. 21. If he is secure at all points, be prepared for him. If he is in superior strength, evade him. 22. If your opponent is of choleric temper, seek to irritate him. Pretend to be weak, that he may grow arrogant. 23. If he is taking his ease, give him no rest. If his forces are united, separate them. 24. Attack him where he is unprepared, appear where you are not expected. 25. These military devices, leading to victory, must not be divulged beforehand.
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26. Now the general who wins a battle makes many calculations in his temple ere the battle is fought. The general who loses a battle makes but few calculations beforehand. Thus do many calculations lead to victory, and few calculations to defeat: how much more no calculation at all! It is by attention to this point that I can foresee who is likely to win or lose.
II. Waging War 1. Sun Tzu said: In the operations of war, where there are in the field a thousand swift chariots, as many heavy
chariots, and a hundred thousand mail-clad soldiers with provisions enough to carry them a thousand LI the expenditure at home and at the front, including entertainment of guests, small items such as glue and paint, and sums spent on chariots and armor, will reach the total of a thousand ounces of silver per day. Such is the cost of raising an army of 100,000 men.
2. When you engage in actual fighting, if victory is long in coming, then men’s weapons will grow dull and their ardor will be damped. If you lay siege to a town, you will exhaust your strength.
3. Again, if the campaign is protracted, the resources of the State will not be equal to the strain. 4. Now, when your weapons are dulled, your ardor damped, your strength exhausted and your treasure spent, other
chieftains will spring up to take advantage of your extremity. Then no man, however wise, will be able to avert the consequences that must ensue.
5. Thus, though we have heard of stupid haste in war, cleverness has never been seen associated with long delays. 6. There is no instance of a country having benefited from prolonged warfare. 7. It is only one who is thoroughly acquainted with the evils of war that can thoroughly understand the profitable
way of carrying it on. 8. The skillful soldier does not raise a second levy, neither are his supply-wagons loaded more than twice. 9. Bring war material with you from home, but forage on the enemy. Thus the army will have food enough for its
needs. 10. Poverty of the State exchequer causes an army to be maintained by contributions from a distance. Contributing
to maintain an army at a distance causes the people to be impoverished. 11. On the other hand, the proximity of an army causes prices to go up; and high prices cause the people’s substance
to be drained away. 12. When their substance is drained away, the peasantry will be afflicted by heavy exactions. 13, 14. With this loss of substance and exhaustion of strength, the homes of the people will be stripped bare, and
three-tenths of their income will be dissipated; while government expenses for broken chariots, worn-out hors- es, breast-plates and helmets, bows and arrows, spears and shields, protective mantles, draught-oxen and heavy wagons, will amount to four-tenths of its total revenue.
15. Hence a wise general makes a point of foraging on the enemy. One cartload of the enemy’s provisions is equiv- alent to twenty of one’s own, and likewise a single PICUL of his provender is equivalent to twenty from one’s own store.
16. Now in order to kill the enemy, our men must be roused to anger; that there may be advantage from defeating the enemy, they must have their rewards.
17. Therefore in chariot fighting, when ten or more chariots have been taken, those should be rewarded who took the first. Our own flags should be substituted for those of the enemy, and the chariots mingled and used in con- junction with ours. The captured soldiers should be kindly treated and kept.
18. This is called, using the conquered foe to augment one’s own strength. 19. In war, then, let your great object be victory, not lengthy campaigns. 20. Thus it may be known that the leader of armies is the arbiter of the people’s fate, the man on whom it depends
whether the nation shall be in peace or in peril.
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III. Attack by Stratagem Sun Tzu said: In the practical art of war, the best thing of all is to take the enemy’s country whole and intact; to
shatter and destroy it is not so good. So, too, it is better to recapture an army entire than to destroy it, to capture a regiment, a detachment or a company entire than to destroy them. 2. Hence to fight and conquer in all your battles is not supreme excellence; supreme excellence consists in breaking
the enemy’s resistance without fighting. 3. Thus the highest form of generalship is to balk the enemy’s plans; the next best is to prevent the junction of the
enemy’s forces; the next in order is to attack the enemy’s army in the field; and the worst policy of all is to be- siege walled cities.
4. The rule is, not to besiege walled cities if it can possibly be avoided. The preparation of mantlets, movable shel- ters, and various implements of war, will take up three whole months; and the piling up of mounds over against the walls will take three months more.
5. The general, unable to control his irritation, will launch his men to the assault like swarming ants, with the result that one-third of his men are slain, while the town still remains untaken. Such are the disastrous effects of a siege.
6. Therefore the skillful leader subdues the enemy’s troops without any fighting; he captures their cities without laying siege to them; he overthrows their kingdom without lengthy operations in the field.
7. With his forces intact he will dispute the mastery of the Empire, and thus, without losing a man, his triumph will be complete. This is the method of attacking by stratagem.
8. It is the rule in war, if our forces are ten to the enemy’s one, to surround him; if five to one, to attack him; if twice as numerous, to divide our army into two.
9. If equally matched, we can offer battle; if slightly inferior in numbers, we can avoid the enemy; if quite unequal in every way, we can flee from him.
10. Hence, though an obstinate fight may be made by a small force, in the end it must be captured by the larger force.
11. Now the general is the bulwark of the State; if the bulwark is complete at all points, the State will be strong; if the bulwark is defective, the State will be weak.
12. There are three ways in which a ruler can bring misfortune upon his army:— 13. (1) By commanding the army to advance or to retreat, being ignorant of the fact that it cannot obey. This is
called hobbling the army. 14. (2) By attempting to govern an army in the same way as he administers a kingdom, being ignorant of the condi-
tions which obtain in an army. This causes restlessness in the soldier’s minds. 15. (3) By employing the officers of his army without discrimination, through ignorance of the military principle of
adaptation to circumstances. This shakes the confidence of the soldiers. 16. But when the army is restless and distrustful, trouble is sure to come from the other feudal princes. This is sim-
ply bringing anarchy into the army, and flinging victory away. 17. Thus we may know that there are five essentials for victory: (1) He will win who knows when to fight and when
not to fight. (2) He will win who knows how to handle both superior and inferior forces. (3) He will win whose army is animated by the same spirit throughout all its ranks. (4) He will win who, prepared himself, waits to take the enemy unprepared. (5) He will win who has military capacity and is not interfered with by the sover- eign.
18. Hence the saying: If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle.
IV. Tactical Dispositions 1. Sun Tzu said: The good fighters of old first put themselves beyond the possibility of defeat, and then waited for an
opportunity of defeating the enemy.
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2. To secure ourselves against defeat lies in our own hands, but the opportunity of defeating the enemy is provided by the enemy himself.
3. Thus the good fighter is able to secure himself against defeat, but cannot make certain of defeating the enemy. 4. Hence the saying: One may KNOW how to conquer without being able to DO it. 5. Security against defeat implies defensive tactics; ability to defeat the enemy means taking the offensive. 6. Standing on the defensive indicates insufficient strength; attacking, a superabundance of strength. 7. The general who is skilled in defense hides in the most secret recesses of the earth; he who is skilled in attack
flashes forth from the topmost heights of heaven. Thus on the one hand we have ability to protect ourselves; on the other, a victory that is complete.
8. To see victory only when it is within the ken of the common herd is not the acme of excellence. 9. Neither is it the acme of excellence if you fight and conquer and the whole Empire says, “Well done!” 10. To lift an autumn hair is no sign of great strength; to see the sun and moon is no sign of sharp sight; to hear the
noise of thunder is no sign of a quick ear. 11. What the ancients called a clever fighter is one who not only wins, but excels in winning with ease. 12. Hence his victories bring him neither reputation for wisdom nor credit for courage. 13. He wins his battles by making no mistakes. Making no mistakes is what establishes the certainty of victory, for it
means conquering an enemy that is already defeated. 14. Hence the skillful fighter puts himself into a position which makes defeat impossible, and does not miss the
moment for defeating the enemy. 15. Thus it is that in war the victorious strategist only seeks battle after the victory has been won, whereas he who is
destined to defeat first fights and afterwards looks for victory. 16. The consummate leader cultivates the moral law and strictly adheres to method and discipline; thus it is in his
power to control success. 17. In respect of military method, we have, firstly, Measurement; secondly, Estimation of quantity; thirdly, Calcula-
tion; fourthly, Balancing of chances; fifthly, Victory. 18. Measurement owes its existence to Earth; Estimation of quantity to Measurement; Calculation to Estimation of
quantity; Balancing of chances to Calculation; and Victory to Balancing of chances. 19. A victorious army opposed to a routed one, is as a pound’s weight placed in the scale against a single grain. 20. The onrush of a conquering force is like the bursting of pent-up waters into a chasm a thousand fathoms deep.
VI. Weak Points and Strong 1. Sun Tzu said: Whoever is first in the field and awaits the coming of the enemy, will be fresh for the fight; whoever
is second in the field and has to hasten to battle will arrive exhausted. 2. Therefore the clever combatant imposes his will on the enemy, but does not allow the enemy’s will to be imposed
on him. 3. By holding out advantages to him, he can cause the enemy to approach of his own accord; or, by inflicting dam-
age, he can make it impossible for the enemy to draw near. 4. If the enemy is taking his ease, he can harass him; if well supplied with food, he can starve him out; if quietly
encamped, he can force him to move. 5. Appear at points which the enemy must hasten to defend; march swiftly to places where you are not
expected. 6. An army may march great distances without distress, if it marches through country where the enemy is
not. 7. You can be sure of succeeding in your attacks if you only attack places which are undefended. You can
ensure the safety of your defense if you only hold positions that cannot be attacked. 8. hence that general is skillful in attack whose opponent does not know what to defend; and he is skill-
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ful in defense whose opponent does not know what to attack. 9. o divine art of subtlety and secrecy! through you we learn to be invisible, through you inaudible; and
hence we can hold the enemy’s fate in our hands. 10. You may advance and be absolutely irresistible, if you make for the enemy’s weak points; you may
retire and be safe from pursuit if your movements are more rapid than those of the enemy. 11. If we wish to fight, the enemy can be forced to an engagement even though he be sheltered behind
a high rampart and a deep ditch. All we need do is attack some other place that he will be obliged to relieve.
12. If we do not wish to fight, we can prevent the enemy from engaging us even though the lines of our encampment be merely traced out on the ground. All we need do is to throw something odd and unac- countable in his way.
13. By discovering the enemy’s dispositions and remaining invisible ourselves, we can keep our forces concentrated, while the enemy’s must be divided.
14. We can form a single united body, while the enemy must split up into fractions. hence there will be a whole pitted against separate parts of a whole, which means that we shall be many to the enemy’s few.
15. And if we are able thus to attack an inferior force with a superior one, our opponents will be in dire straits.
16. The spot where we intend to fight must not be made known; for then the enemy will have to prepare against a possible attack at several different points; and his forces being thus distributed in many directions, the numbers we shall have to face at any given point will be proportionately few.
17. for should the enemy strengthen his van, he will weaken his rear; should he strengthen his rear, he will weaken his van; should he strengthen his left, he will weaken his right; should he strengthen his right, he will weaken his left. if he sends reinforcements everywhere, he will everywhere be weak.
18. Numerical weakness comes from having to prepare against possible attacks; numerical strength, from compelling our adversary to make these preparations against us.
19. Knowing the place and the time of the coming battle, we may concentrate from the greatest distances in order to fight.
20. But if neither time nor place be known, then the left wing will be impotent to succor the right, the right equally impotent to succor the left, the van unable to relieve the rear, or the rear to support the van. how much more so if the furthest portions of the army are anything under a hundred Li apart, and even the nearest are separated by several Li!
21. though according to my estimate the soldiers of Yueh exceed our own in number, that shall advan- tage them nothing in the matter of victory. i say then that victory can be achieved.
22. Though the enemy be stronger in numbers, we may prevent him from fighting. Scheme so as to dis- cover his plans and the likelihood of their success.
23. rouse him, and learn the principle of his activity or inactivity. force him to reveal himself, so as to find out his vulnerable spots.
24. Carefully compare the opposing army with your own, so that you may know where strength is super- abundant and where it is deficient.
25. in making tactical dispositions, the highest pitch you can attain is to conceal them; conceal your dispositions, and you will be safe from the prying of the subtlest spies, from the machinations of the wisest brains.
26. how victory may be produced for them out of the enemy’s own tactics—that is what the multitude cannot comprehend.
27. All men can see the tactics whereby i conquer, but what none can see is the strategy out of which victory is evolved.
28. do not repeat the tactics which have gained you one victory, but let your methods be regulated by the infinite variety of circumstances.
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29. Military tactics are like unto water; for water in its natural course runs away from high places and hastens downwards.
30. so in war, the way is to avoid what is strong and to strike at what is weak. 31. Water shapes its course according to the nature of the ground over which it flows; the soldier works
out his victory in relation to the foe whom he is facing. 32. therefore, just as water retains no constant shape, so in warfare there are no constant conditions. 33. he who can modify his tactics in relation to his opponent and thereby succeed in winning, may be
called a heaven-born captain. 34. The five elements (water, fire, wood, metal, earth) are not always equally predominant; the four
seasons make way for each other in turn. there are short days and long; the moon has its periods of waning and waxing.
THE BooK oF SonGS
Existed before Confucius (born around 551 B.C.E.) China
The Book of Songs (the Shi king, also translated as The Classic of Poetry and The Book of Odes) is a collection of poems written by various anonymous authors over several centuries. Traditionally, Confucius has been credited as the editor of the collection, and it was part of the canon of Confucian works that scholars were expected to study. Scholars debate how much influence Confucius may have had on them; one theory is that he took a much larger work (possibly several thousand poems) and chose just over three hundred to form the standard version that exists today. Poetry collections in China were meant to represent the voice of the people (male and female, all social class- es). The poems capture moments in time, speaking to the reader about the problems and joys of individuals who were not necessarily the rulers or heroes of other stories.
Written by Laura J. Getty
The Shi King, the old “poetry Classic” of the Chinese
[The Book of Songs]
Translated by William Jennings
BOOK II.: THE ODES OF SHÂU AND THE SOUTH.
The Wedding-Journey of a Princess The magpie has a nest; The dove yet takes possession.— Lo! the young bride departs, In many-wheeled procession. The magpie has a nest; The dove yet there will quarter.— Lo! the young bride departs; And countless cars escort her. The magpie has a nest; The dove will fill it (quickly).— Lo! the young bride departs, With chariots mustered thickly.
A Reverent Helpmate There gathers she the fragrant herb Along the islets, by the pools,
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To mingle with the votive gifts Of him that o’er the princedom rules. There gathers she the fragrant herb Amid the mountain streams again, To mingle with the votive gifts Her prince will offer in the fane. With head-gear all erect and high Ere dawn the temple she attends; With head-gear all uncared for now Back to her place her way she wends.
A Long-Absent Husband Now the crickets chirp and grind; And the hoppers spring and fly. But my lord not yet I find; Ay, and sore at heart am I. O to see him once again! O to meet him once again! Stilled were then the swelling sigh. Climbed I yonder up South Hill, Plucked sweet brackens as I went. But my lord I saw not still; Loud was yet my heart’s lament. O to see him once again! O to meet him once again! So my heart were well content. Climbed I yonder up South Hill, Now to pluck the royal fern. Yet my lord I saw not still; Still my heart must pine and yearn. O to see him once again! O to meet him once again! So my heart’s-ease might return.
The Young Wife’s Zealous Care in the Worship of her Husband’s Ancestors She goes to gather water-wort, Beside the streams south of the hills; She goes to gather water-grass Along the swollen roadside rills; Goes now to store her gathered herbs In basket round, in basket square; Goes now to seethe and simmer them In tripod and in cauldron there; Pours out libations of them all Beneath the light within the Hall.— And who is she—so occupied? —Who, but (our lord’s) young pious bride?
In Memory of a Worthy Chieftain O pear-tree, with thy leafy shade! Ne’er be thou cut, ne’er be thou laid;— Once under thee Shâu’s chieftain stayed. O pear-tree, with thy leafy crest, Ne’er may they cut thee, ne’er molest;— Shâu’s chief beneath thee once found rest.
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O pear-tree, with thy leafy shroud, Ne’er be those branches cut, nor bowed, That shelter to Shâu’s chief allowed.
The Resisted Suitor All soaking was the path with dew. And was it not scarce daybreak, too? I say: the path was drenched with dew. Who says the sparrow has no horn? How bores it then into my dwelling? Who says of thee, thou art forlorn? Why then this forcing and compelling? But force, compel me, do thy will: Husband and wife we are not still. Who says of rats, they have no teeth? How do they bore then through my wall? Who says of thee, thou art forlorn? Why force me then into this brawl? But force me, sue me,—even so, With thee I do not mean to go!
Dignity and Economy of King Wăn’s Councillors Clad in lambskin or in sheepskin, Five white silken seams that show, To their meal from court retiring, With what dignity they go! Bare of wool, the lamb or sheepskin Five white sutures may reveal, Still with dignity retire they From their Master to their meal. Though the skins, now rent in patches, Five white silken seams require, Still with dignity the wearers To their meal from Court retire.
The Lonely Wife Hearken! there is thunder On South Hill’s lofty crest. Hence why must he wander, Nor dare a moment rest? True-hearted husband, fain, oh fain Were I to see thee home again. Hearken! now the thunder Rolls lower on South Hill. Hence why must he wander, Nor ever dare be still? True-hearted husband, fain, oh fain Were I to have thee home again. Hearken! now the thunder Is down upon the plain. Hence why must he wander, Nor dare awhile remain? True-hearted husband, fain, oh fain Were I to find thee home again.
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Fears Of Mature Maidenhood Though shaken be the damson-tree, Left on it yet are seven, O. Ye gentlemen who care for me, Take chance while chance is given, O. Though shaken be the damson-tree, Yet three are still remaining, O. Ye gentlemen who care for me, Now, now; the time is waning, O. Ah, shaken is the damson-tree, And all are in the basket, O. Ye gentlemen who care for me, Your question—would ye ask it, O!
Contented Concubines Starlets dim are yonder peeping,— In the East are five, and three. Softly, where our lord is (sleeping), Soon or late by night go we. Some have high, some low degree. Starlets dim are yonder peeping,— Pleiades, Orion’s band. Softly nightly go we creeping, Quilt and coverlet in hand. Some take high, some lower stand.
Jealousy Overcome The Kiang has arms that wayward wind. Our lady erst as bride Our help declined, Our help declined;— Anon she was of other mind. The Kiang has banks within its bed. Our lady erst as bride Our presence fled, Our presence fled;— Anon a calmer life she led. The Kiang has creeks that leave it long. Our lady erst as bride Spurned all our throng, Spurned all our throng;— Her sneering now is turned to song.
The Cunning Hunter In the wild there lies a dead gazelle, With the reed-grass round it wrapt; And a maid who loveth springtide well By a winsome youth is trapped. In the wood thick undergrowth is found, In the wild the dead gazelle, With the reed-grass round its body bound;— And the maid she looketh well. “Ah! gently, not so fast, good sir; My kerchief, prithee, do not stir; Nor rouse the barking of my cur.”
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A Royal Wedding What radiant bloom is there! Blossoms of cherry wild. What care attends the equipage Of her, the royal child! What radiance! Like the bloom Of peach and plum in one! Granddaughter of the Just King she, He a true noble’s son. How was the bait then laid? ’Twas trimmed with silken twine. He the true noble’s son (thus caught) Her of the Just King’s line!
The Tsow Yu Out there where the reeds grow rank and tall, One round he shoots, five wild boars fall. Hail the Tsow Yu! And there where the grass is waving high, One round he shoots, five wild hogs die. Hail the Tsow Yu!
Note.—Although this is one of the shortest and apparently most trivial of the Odes in the Book of Poetry, it is credited by the Chinese editors with as much meaning as the largest. It is regarded, like so many more, as illustrat- ing the extent of the reformation brought about by King Wăn. Not only was the kingdom better ruled, society better regulated, and individuals more self-disciplined and improved in manners, but the reformation affected all things: vegetation flourished, game became most abundant, hunting was attended to at the right seasons, and the benign influence of the King was everywhere felt by the people. The poet thinks it is sufficient to dwell upon these last char- acteristics. Probably the lines were written after some royal hunt.
BOOK III.: THE ODES OF P‘EI.
P‘ei was one of three principalities which King Wu created after he overthrew the dynasty of Shang. It was in the north; and the two others were—Yung in the south, and Wei in the west. P‘ei and Yung were, after a short time, absorbed in Wei, which had a long history. We have, in Books III., IV. and V. titles taken from all three; but evident- ly the division is only artificial: the three Books might all have been included properly under the title Wei, since it is that State with which all are connected.
Derelict The cedar boat is drifting, On currents never still. Sleepless I lie, vexed inly, As with some unknown ill. ’Tis not that wine is wanting, Or leave to roam at will. My heart is no mere mirror That cannot comprehend. Brothers I have, but may not On brothers e’en depend. Tush! when I go complaining ’Tis only to offend. No stone this heart of mine is, That may be turned and rolled; No mat this heart of mine is,
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To fold or to unfold. Steadfast and strict my life is; Nought ’gainst it can be told. Yet here I sit in sorrow, Scorned by a rabble crew. My troubles have been many, My insults not a few. Calmly I think—then, starting, I beat my breast anew. O moon, why now the brighter? O sun, why now dost wane? My heart wears grief as garments Inured to soil and stain. Calmly I think—then, starting, Would fly—but all in vain.
Supplanted Green now my robe! Green, lined with yellow. Ah! when shall Grief Be not my fellow! Green is the robe; Yellow the skirt! Ah! when shall Grief Nevermore hurt! Green is the silk; Ruled so by you.— Guide me, ye ancients! Harm lest I do. Lawn, fine or coarse, Chills in the wind.— Guide me, ye ancients! Save me my mind.
Friends In Distress O the swallows onward flying, Wings aslant, irregular! O the lady homeward hieing; O’er the wilds escort her far. Gaze I till I gaze in vain, And my tears are like the rain. O the swallows onward flying, Soaring upward, darting low! O the lady homeward hieing; Far then let her escort go. Gaze I till I gaze in vain; Long I stand and weep amain. O the swallows onward flying, High and low, with twittering mouth! O the lady homeward hieing; Far escort her to the South. Gaze I till I gaze in vain, And my heart scarce bears the pain. Lady Chung—on love relying, And of feelings true and deep, Ever sweet and much-complying,
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Strict, yet, self-respect to keep— Thoughtful of the dead she: Bright example to poor me!
Clouds Gathering O sun, O moon, ye downwards turn To earth your glorious gaze. But ah! that men there be like this, Forsaking ancient ways! Where can be peace? Alas, his glance From me for ever strays! O sun, O moon, this earth below Hath you as crown above. But ah, that men there be like this, That give not love for love! Where can be peace? Alas that he Should so responseless prove! O sun, O moon, that morn and eve Rise in yon Eastern sky. Alas that men there be like this, Whose deeds fair words belie. Where can be peace? Ah, better now If memory could but die! O sun, O moon, that morn and eve Rise yonder in the East. O parents mine! your charge of me Hath not for ever ceased. Where can be peace? For to my love Responds he not the least.
The Storm Long, long the stormwind blew, and wild.— He turned to look at me: he smiled; But mockery was there, and scorn. Ah, how my very heart was torn! Long, long it blew, with dust for rain.— “Be kind, and come to me again.” He came not, neither went his way; And long in pensive thought I lay. On still it blew, with storm-clouds black; Scarce light there was, so dense the pack. Wakeful I lay, nor closed mine eyes; And anxious thought brought fitful sighs. Black and more black yet grew the gloom; Then came loud thunder, boom on boom. Awake I lay, all sleep was fled, And anxious thought my fever fed.
The Soldier Sighs For Wife And Home When the beating of drums was heard around, How we sprang to our weapons with leap and bound! But the fields must have some, and the walls of Ts‘o;— We alone to the South must a-marching go. So we followed our leader Sun Tse-Chung, And a peace there was made with Ch‘in and Sung.
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But of homeward march is no sign as yet, And our hearts are heavy, and pine and fret. Ah! here we are lingering; here we stay; And our steeds go wandering far astray; And quest of them all must needs be made Away in the depths of the woodland shade. But, though far to be severed in death or life, We are bound by the pledge each gave to his wife; And we vowed, as we stood then hand in hand, By each other in life’s last years to stand. Alas! now wide is the gulf between! And life to us now is a blank, I ween. And, alas, for the plighted troth—so vain! Untrue to our words we must aye remain.
The Discontented Mother From the South the gladdening breezes blow On the heart of that bush of thorn; And the inmost leaves in it gaily grow.— But the mother with care is worn. From the South the gladdening breezes blow On the twigs of that thorny tree. And the mother is wise and good, but oh! Bad and worthless men are we. From the spring ’neath the walls of Tsun there runs A cool and refreshing rill. But the mother, though hers be seven sons, Unrelieved here toils on still. And the golden bright-eyed orioles Wake their tuneful melodie. But the mother’s heart no son consoles, Though we seven around her be.
Separation The male pheasant has taken his flight, Yet leisurely moved he his wings! Ah, to thee, my beloved, thyself What sorrow this severance brings! The male pheasant has taken his flight; From below, from aloft, yet he cried. Ah, true was my lord; and my heart With its burden of sorrow is tried. As I gaze at the sun and the moon, Free rein to my thoughts I allow. O the way, so they tell me, is long: Tell me, how can be come to me now? Wot ye not, then, ye gentlemen all, Of his virtue and rectitude? From all envy and enmity free, What deed doth he other than good?
Untimely Unions “The leaves of the gourd are yet sour to the taste, And the way through the ford is deep” (quoth she). —“Deep be it, our garments we’ll raise to the waist,
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Or shallow, then up to the knee” (quoth he). “But the ford is full, and the waters rise. Hark! a pheasant there, in alarm she cries.” —“Nay, the ford when full would no axle wet; And the pheasant but cackles to fetch her mate.” “More sweet were the wildgoose’ cries to hear, When the earliest streaks of the dawn appear; And that is how men should seek their brides,— (In the early spring) ere the ice divides. The ferryman beckons and points to his boat:— Let others cross over, I shall not. The others may cross, but I say nay. For a (true) companion here I stay.”
Lament Of A Discarded Wife When East winds blow unceasingly, They bring but gloominess and rain. Strive, strive to live unitedly, And every angry thought restrain. Some plants we gather for their leaves, But leave the roots untouched beneath; So, while unsullied was my name, I should have lived with you till death. With slow, slow step I took the road, My inmost heart rebelling sore. You came not far with me indeed, You only saw me to the door. Who calls the lettuce bitter fare? The cress is not a whit more sweet. Ay, feast there with your new-found bride, Well-pleased, as when fond brothers meet. The Wei, made turbid by the King, Grows limpid by the islets there. There, feasting with your new-found bride, For me no longer now you care. Yet leave to me my fishing-dam; My wicker-nets—remove them not. My person spurned,—some vacant hour May bring compassion for my lot. Where ran the river full and deep, With raft or boat I paddled o’er; And, where it flowed in shallower stream, I dived or swam from shore to shore. And what we had, or what we lost, For that I strained my every nerve; When other folks had loss, I’d crawl Upon my knees, if aught ’twould serve. And you can show me no kind care, Nay, treated like a foe am I! My virtue stood but in your way, Like traders’ goods that none will buy. Once it was feared we could not live; In your reverses then I shared; And now, when fortune smiles on you, To very poison I’m compared. I have laid by a goodly store,—
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For winter’s use it was to be;— Feast on there with your new-found bride,— I was for use in poverty! Rude fits of anger you have shown, Now left me to be sorely tried. Ah, you forget those days gone by, When you came nestling to my side!
A Prince And His Officers In Trouble Fallen so low, so low! Wherefore not homeward go? And we,—how could we for our chief refuse Exposure to the nightly dews? Fallen so low, so low! Wherefore not homeward go? And did we not our chief himself require, How lived we here in mud and mire?
Li Finds No Help In Wei How have the creepers on the crested slope Crept with their tendrils far and wide! And O, ye foster-fathers of our land, How have our days here multiplied! Why is there never movement made? Comes surely some expected aid. Why is this long, protracted pause? ’Tis surely not without a cause. With foxfurs worn and frayed, without our cars, Came we not Eastward here to you? O ye, the foster-fathers of our land, Will ye have nought with us to do? A shattered remnant, last of all our host, But waifs and vagabonds are we! And ye, the foster-fathers of our land, Smile on, but deaf ye seem to be!
Buffoonery At Court Calm and cool, see him advance! Now for posturing and dance,— While the sun’s in middle sky,— There in front of platform high! See him, corpulent and tall, Capering in that ducal hall! Tiger-like in strength of limb,— Reins like ribbons were to him! Left hand now the flute assumes, Right hand grasps the pheasant’s plumes; Red, as though with rouge, the face. “Give him liquor!” cries His Grace. There are hazels on the hill, There is fungus in the fen. Say to whom my thoughts then flee.— To those fine West-country men. Those are admirable men! The West-country men for me!
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Homesick Fain are those waters to be free, Leaving their spring to join the K‘i. So yearns my heart for thee, dear Wei;— No day but there in thought I fly. Here are my cousins, kind are they: O, before these my plans I’ll lay. On leaving home I lodged in Tsi. And drank the god-speed cup in Ni. Maids, when their wedding trip they take, Parents and brothers all forsake. Yet let me go my aunts to greet; Let me my elder sisters meet. And, leaving here, I’d lodge in Kan, Then drink the god-speed cup in Yen. Oil me then well my axles, O! Back in my carriage let me go. Soon should I be in Wei;—but oh! Were I not wrong in acting so? Ah!—For that land of fertile streams Long do I sigh in waking dreams. So when I think of Siu and Ts‘o, Full is my heart, to overflow. Drove I but forth to wander there, Then were unbosomed all my care.
Official Hardships Out by the northern gate I go my way, Bearing a load of sorrow and of care; Vulgarly poor am I, and sore bestead, And of my hardships all are unaware. Ah, so indeed! Yet Heaven hath so decreed; What therefore can I say? On me devolves the business of the king, On me official burdens fast encroach; On me, at home, arriving from abroad, My household all conspire to heap reproach Ah, so indeed! Yet Heaven hath so decreed; What therefore can I say? All urgent is the business of the king; Official cares press on me more and more. And when at home, arriving from abroad, My household one and all thrust at me sore. Ah, so indeed, Yet Heaven hath so decreed; What therefore can I say?
Emigrants Cold north winds are blowing, Heavy falls the snow. Friend, thy hand, if thou art friendly! Forth together let us go. Long, too long, we loiter here:
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Times are too severe. How the north wind whistles, Driving snow and sleet! Friend, thy hand, if thou art friendly! Let us, thou and I, retreat. Long, too long, we loiter here: Times are too severe. Nothing red, but foxes! Nothing black, but crows! Friend, thy hand, if thou art friendly! Come with me—my waggon goes. Long, too long, we loiter here: Times are too severe.
Irregular Love-Making A modest maiden, passing fair to see, Waits at the corner of the wall for me. I love her, yet I have no interview:— I scratch my head—I know not what to do. The modest maid—how winsome was she then, The day she gave me her vermilion pen! Vermilion pen was never yet so bright,— The maid’s own loveliness is my delight. Now from the pasture lands she sends a shoot Of couchgrass fair; and rare it is, to boot. Yet thou, my plant (when beauties I compare), Art but the fair one’s gift, and not the Fair!
The New Tower Past the New Tower, so spick and span, The Ho majestic rolled. There she who sought a gallant mate Found one deformed and old. ’Neath the New Tower’s high battlements The Ho ran smooth and still. She sought a gallant mate, and lo! A shapeless imbecile! The net was ready for a fish, A goose there came instead. And she who sought a gallant mate, Must with this hunchback wed.
The Two Sons Two youths there were, each took his boat, That floated, mirrored in the stream;— And O the fear for those two youths, And O the anxiety extreme! Two youths they were, each took his boat, And floated on the stream away;— And O the fear for those two youths; If harmed, yet innocent were they.
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The Mother of Mencius
THE MoTHEr oF MEnCIUS
Circulated from Mencius’s lifetime on (ca. 371-289 B.C.E.) China
Mencius (ca. 371–289 B.C.E) is an early Chinese philosopher who contributed to the development of Confu- cianism, and he is regarded as the “second sage” in this tradition. He wrote the Mencius, a Confucian text, which was published as one of the “Four Books” of Confucianism in 1190 C.E. by Zhu Xi, a Neo-Confucian philosopher. The Mencius contains Mencius’s sayings, the writings about his life, and his philosophical statements about human nature and government. Mencius emphasized the rulers’ obligations to look after the welfare of the common people. Mencius believed that humans are basically good with the “seeds” of virtue. The selected text here is a famous leg- end about Mencius’s mother from James Legge’s 1895 translation. It sheds light on the educational devotion of Men- cius’s mother (e.g., her moving three times for his education), her Confucian beliefs, and her influence on Mencius.
Written by Kyounghye Kwon
The Mother of Mencius
Translated by William Jennings
Chapter II: Mencius and His opinions Section I: Life of Mencius
1. The materials for a Memoir of Mencius are very scanty. The birth and principal incidents of Confucius’ life are duly chronicled in the various annotated editions of the Ch‘un Ts‘ew, and in Sze-ma Ts‘ëen. Paucity and uncertain- ty of materials. It is not so in the case of Mencius. Ts‘ëen’s account of him is contained in half a dozen columns which are without a single date. That in the “Cyclopædia of Surnames” only covers half a page. Chaou K‘e is more particular in regard to the early years of his subject, but he is equally indefi- nite. Our chief informants are K‘ung Foo, and Lëw Heang in his “Record of Note-worthy Women,” but what we find in them has more the character of legend than history. It is not till we come to the pages of Mencius himself that we are treading on any certain ground. They give the principal incidents of his public life, extending over about twenty-four years. We learn from them that in the course of that time he was in such and such places, and gave expression to such and such opinions; but where he went first and where he went last, it is next to impossible to de- termine. I have carefully examined three attempts, made by competent scholars of the present dynasty, to construct a Harmony that shall reconcile the statements of the “Sev- en Books” with the current chronologies of the time, and do not see my way to adopt entirely the conclusions of
any one of them. The value of the Books lies in the record which they furnish of Mencius’ sentiments, and the lessons which these supply for the regulation of individual conduct and national policy. It is of little importance that we should be able to lay them down in the strict order of time. With Mencius’ withdrawal from public life, all traces of him disappear. All that is said of him is that he spent his latter years along with his disciples in the preparation and publication of his Works. From this paragraph it will be seen that there is not much to be said in this section. I shall relate, first, what is reported of the early years and training of our philosopher, and then look at him as he comes before us in his own pages, in the full maturity of his character and powers.
License: Public Domain
Image 2.3: Mencius | Chinese philosopher and interpreter of Confucianism.
Author: User “PhidiasNL” Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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2. Mencius is the latinized form of Măng-tsze, “The philosopher Măng.” His surname, birth-place; parents; the year of his birth, bc 371. His surname thus connects him with the Măng or Măng-sun family, one of the three great Houses of Loo, whose usurpations were such an offence to Confucius in his day. Their power was broken in the time of duke Gae (bc 493—467), and they thenceforth dwindle into comparative insignificance. Some branches remained in obscurity in Loo, and others went forth to the neighbouring States. The branch from which Mencius sprang found a home in the small adjacent principality of Tsow, which in former times had been made known by the name of Choo. It was absorbed by Loo, and afterwards by Ts‘oo, and its name is still retained in one of the districts of the department of Yen-chow in Shan-tung. Confucius was a native of a district of Loo having the same name, which many contend was also the birth-place of Mencius, making him a native of Loo and not of the State of Tsow. To my mind the evidence is decidedly against such a view. Mencius’ name was K‘o. His designation does not appear in his Works, nor is any given to him by Sze-ma Ts‘ëen or Chaou K‘e. The latter says that he did not know how he had been styled; but the legends tell that he was called Tsze-keu, and Tsze-yu. The same authorities—if we can call them such—say that his father’s name was Keih, and that he was styled Kung-e. They say also that his mother’s maiden surname was Chang. Nothing is related of the former but that he died when his son was quite young, but the latter must have a paragraph to herself. “The mother of Mencius” is famous in China, and held up to the present time as a model of what a mother should be. The year of Mencius’ birth was probably the 4th of the emperor Lëeh, bc 371. He lived to the age of 84, dy- ing in in the year bc 288, the 26th of the emperor Nan, with whom terminated the long sovereignty of the Chow dynasty. The first twenty-three years of his life thus synchronized with the last twenty-three of Plato’s. Aristotle, Zeno, Epicurus, Demosthenes, and other great men of the West, were also his contemporaries. When we place Mencius among them, he can look them in the face. He does not need to hide a diminished head.
3. It was his misfortune, according to Chaou K‘e, “to lose his father at an early period; but in his youthful years he enjoyed the lessons of his kind mother, who thrice changed her residence on his account.” Mencius’ mother. At first they lived near a cemetery, and Mencius amused himself with acting the various scenes which he witnessed at the tombs. “This,” said the lady, “is no place for my son;”—and she removed to a house in the market-place. But the change was no improvement. The boy took to playing the part of a salesman, vaunting his wares, and chaffering with customers. His mother sought a new house, and found one at last close by a public school. There her child’s attention was taken with the various exercises of politeness which the scholars were taught, and he endeavoured to imitate them. The mother was satisfied. “This,” she said, “is the proper place for my son.” Han Ying relates another story of this period. Near their house was a pig-butcher’s. One day Mencius asked his mother what they were killing the pigs for, and was told that it was to feed him. Her conscience immediately reproved her for the answer. She said to herself, “While I was carrying this boy in my womb, I would not sit down if the mat was not placed square, and I ate no meat which was not cut properly;—so I taught him when he was yet unborn. And now when his intelligence is opening, I am deceiving him;—this is to teach him un- truthfulness!” With this she went and bought a piece of pork in order to make good her words. As Mencius grew up, he was sent to school. When he returned home one day, his mother looked up from the web which she was weaving, and asked him how far he had got on. He answered her with an air of indif- ference that he was doing well enough, on which she took a knife and cut the thread of her shuttle. The idler was alarmed, and asked what she meant, when she gave him a long lecture, showing that she had done what he was doing,—that her cutting her thread was like his neglecting his learning. The admonition, it is said, had its proper effect; the lecture did not need to be repeated. There are two other narratives in which Chang-she figures, and though they belong to a later part of Men- cius’ life, it may be as well to embrace them in the present paragraph. His wife was squatting down one day in her own room, when Mencius went in. He was so much offended at finding her in that position, that he told his mother, and expressed his intention to put her away, because of “her want of propriety.” “It is you who have no propriety,” said his mother, “and not your wife. Do not ‘the Rules of Propriety’ say, ‘When you are about to ascend a hall, raise your voice; when you enter a door, keep your eyes low?’ The reason of the rules is that people may not be taken unprepared; but you entered the door of your pri- vate apartment without raising your voice, and so caused your wife to be caught squatting on the ground. The impropriety is with you and not with her.” On this Mencius fell to reproving himself, and did not dare to put away his wife. One day, when he was living with his mother in Ts‘e, she was struck with the sorrowfulness of his aspect,
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as he stood leaning against a pillar, and asked him the cause of it. He replied, “I have heard that the superior man occupies the place for which he is adapted, accepting no reward to which he does not feel entitled, and not covetous of honour and emolument. Now my doctrines are not practised in Ts‘e:—I wish to leave it, but I think of your old age, and am anxious.” His mother said, “It does not belong to a woman to determine any- thing of herself, but she is subject to the rule of the three obediences. When young, she has to obey her parents; when married, she has to obey her husband; when a widow, she has to obey her son. You are a man in your full maturity, and I am old. Do you act as your conviction of righteousness tells you you ought to do, and I will act according to the rule which belongs to me. Why should you be anxious about me?” Such are the accounts which I have found of the mother of Mencius. Possibly some of them are inventions, but they are devoutly believed by the people of China;—and it must be to their profit. We may well believe that she was a woman of very superior character, and that her son’s subsequent distinction was in a great degree owing to her influence and training.
* * * * * *
THE ZHUAnGZI
Zhuangzi (ca. 369-286 B.C.E.)
Compiled ca. the fourth century C.E. China
The Zhuangzi, also known as Nanhua zhenjing (“The Pure Classic of Nanhua”), is regarded as a primary source for Daoism, along with Daodejing (a.k.a. the Laozi) and the Liezi. Out of thirty-three chapters, the first seven chap- ters, called the “inner books,” are attributed to Zhuangzi, whereas the other chapters, called the “outer books,” are credited to the later followers of Zhuangzi. The current arrangement of the book is credited to Guo Xiang in the 4th century C.E.
In contrast to Confucianism, Zhuangzi believed that a truly virtuous man is free from socio-political bounds and obligations, personal attachments, and tradition. Scholars still find the Zhuangzi, written in reflective, serious, and sometimes playful ways, puzzling, but it certainly engages the ideas of relativity, paradox, and uncertainty. The most famous of the Zhuangzi is the part about Zhuangzi dreaming of being a butterfly, which is located at the end of the second chapter. Because the transcription of Chinese sounds into a Roman alphabet can vary, Zhuangzi has been spelled in various ways, such as Chuang Tzu, Chuang-tsze, Chuang Chou, Zhuangzi, Zhuang Tze, Zhuang Zhou, Chuang Tsu, Chouang-Dsi, Chuang Tse, and Chuangtze.
Written by Kyounghye Kwon
The Adjustment of Controversies
Chuang Tzu, Translated by James Legge
(1) Nan-Guo Zi-Qi was seated, leaning forward on his stool. He was looking up to heaven and breathed gently,
seeming to be in a trance, and to have lost all consciousness of any companion. (His disciple), Yan Cheng Zi-You, who was in attendance and standing before him, said, “What is this? Can the body be made to become thus like a withered tree, and the mind to become like slaked lime? His appearance as he leans forward on the stool today is such as I never saw him have before in the same position.” Zi-Qi said, “Yan, you do well to ask such a question, I had just now lost myself; but how should you understand it? You may have heard the notes of Man, but have not heard those of Earth; you may have heard the notes of Earth, but have not heard those of Heaven.”
Zi-You said, “I venture to ask from you a description of all these.” The reply was, “When the breath of the Great Mass (of nature) comes strongly, it is called Wind. Sometimes it does not come so; but when it does, then from a
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myriad apertures there issues its excited noise; have you not heard it in a prolonged gale? Take the projecting bluff of a mountain forest—in the great trees, a hundred spans round, the apertures and cavities are like the nostrils, or the mouth, or the ears; now square, now round like a cup or a mortar; here like a wet footprint, and there like a large puddle. (The sounds issuing from them are like) those of fretted water, of the arrowy whizz, of the stern command, of the inhaling of the breath, of the shout, of the gruff note, of the deep wail, of the sad and piping note.
The first notes are slight, and those that follow deeper, but in harmony with them. Gentle winds produce a small response; violent winds a great one. When the fierce gusts have passed away, all the apertures are empty (and still)— have you not seen this in the bending and quivering of the branches and leaves?”
Zi-You said, “The notes of Earth then are simply those which come from its myriad apertures; and the notes of Man may just be compared to those which (are brought from the tubes of ) bamboo—allow me to ask about the notes of Heaven.” Zi-Qi replied, “Blowing the myriad differences, making them stop [proceed] of themselves, sealing their self-se- lecting—who is it that stirs it all up?”
(2) Great knowledge is wide and comprehen-
sive; small knowledge is partial and restricted. Great speech is exact and complete; small speech is (merely) so much talk. When we sleep, the soul communicates with (what is external to us); when we awake, the body is set free. Our intercourse with others then leads to various activity, and daily there is the striv-
ing of mind with mind. There are hesitancies; deep difficulties; reservations; small apprehensions causing restless distress, and great apprehensions producing endless fears. Where their utterances are like arrows from a bow, we have those who feel it their charge to pronounce what is right and what is wrong; where they are given out like the conditions of a covenant, we have those who maintain their views, determined to overcome. (The weakness of their arguments), like the decay (of things) in autumn and winter, shows the failing (of the minds of some) from day to day; or it is like their water which, once voided, cannot be gathered up again. Then their ideas seem as if fast bound with cords, showing that the mind is become like an old and dry moat, and that it is nigh to death, and cannot be restored to vigour and brightness. Joy and anger, sadness and pleasure, anticipation and regret, fickleness and fixedness, vehemence and indolence, eagerness and tardiness;—(all these moods), like music from an empty tube, or mushrooms from the warm moisture, day and night succeed to one another and come before us, and we do not know whence they sprout. Let us stop! Let us stop! Can we expect to find out suddenly how they are produced?
(3) If there were not (the views of ) another, I should not have mine; if there were not I (with my views), his would
be uncalled for:—this is nearly a true statement of the case, but we do not know what it is that makes it be so. It might seem as if there would be a true Governor concerned in it, but we do not find any trace (of his presence and acting). That such an One could act so I believe; but we do not see His form. He has affections, but He has no form. Given the body, with its hundred parts, its nine openings, and its six viscera, all complete in their places, which do I love the most? Do you love them all equally? or do you love some more than others? Is it not the case that they all perform the part of your servants and waiting women? All of them being such, are they not incompetent to rule one another? or do they take it in turns to be now ruler and now servants? There must be a true Ruler (among them) whether by searching you can find out His character or not, there is neither advantage nor hurt, so far as the truth of His operation is concerned. When once we have received the bodily form complete, its parts do not fail to per- form their functions till the end comes. In conflict with things or in harmony with them, they pursue their course to the end, with the speed of a galloping horse which cannot be stopped—is it not sad? To be constantly toiling
Image 2.4: Zhuangzi Butterfly Dream | Zhuangzi illustrates his idea of “transformation of things” with his butterfly dream.
Author: Unknown Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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all one’s lifetime, without seeing the fruit of one’s labour, and to be weary and worn out with his labour, without knowing where he is going to—is it not a deplorable case? Men may say, “But it is not death;” yet of what advantage is this? When the body is decomposed, the mind will be the same along with it—must not the case be pronounced very deplorable? Is the life of man indeed enveloped in such darkness? Is it I alone to whom it appears so? And does it not appear to be so to other men?
(4) If we were to follow the judgments of the predetermined mind, who would be left alone and without a teach-
er? Not only would it be so with those who know the sequences (of knowledge and feeling) and make their own selection among them, but it would be so as well with the stupid and unthinking. For one who has not this deter- mined mind, to have his affirmations and negations is like the case described in the saying, “He went to Yue to-day, and arrived at it yesterday.” It would be making what was not a fact to be a fact. But even the spirit-like Yu could not have known how to do this, and how should one like me be able to do it? But speech is not like the blowing (of the wind); the speaker has (a meaning in) his words. If, however, what he says, be indeterminate (as from a mind not made up), does he then really speak or not? He thinks that his words are different from the chirpings of fledgel- ings; but is there any distinction between them or not? But how can the Dao be so obscured, that there should be “a True” and “a False” in it? How can speech be so obscured that there should be “the Right” and “the Wrong” about them? Where shall the Dao go to that it will not be found? Where shall speech be found that it will be inappro- priate? Dao becomes obscured through the small comprehension (of the mind), and speech comes to be obscure through the vain-gloriousness (of the speaker). So it is that we have the contentions between the Literati and the Mohists, the one side affirming what the other denies, and vice versa. If we would decide on their several affirma- tions and denials, no plan is like bringing the (proper) light (of the mind) to bear on them.
(5) There is no thing that is not “that”, and there is no thing that is not “this”. If I look at something from “that”, I do
not see it; only if I look at it from knowing do I know it. Hence it is said, “That view comes from this; and this view is a consequence of that:”—which is the theory that that view and this (the opposite views) produce each the other. Although it be so, there is affirmed now life and now death; now death and now life; now the admissibility of a thing and now its inadmissibility; now its inadmissibility and now its admissibility. (The disputants) now affirm and now deny; now deny and now affirm. Therefore the sagely man does not pursue this method, but views things in the light of (his) Heaven (-ly nature), and hence forms his judgment of what is right. This view is the same as that, and that view is the same as this. But that view involves both a right and a wrong; and this view involves also a right and a wrong— are there indeed the two views, that and this? Or are there not the two views, that and this? They have not found their point of correspondency which is called the pivot of the Dao. As soon as one finds this pivot, he stands in the centre of the ring (of thought), where he can respond without end to the changing views; without end to those affirming, and without end to those denying. Therefore I said, “There is nothing like the proper light (of the mind).”
(6)
By means of a finger (of my own) to illustrate that the finger (of another) is not a finger is not so good a plan as to illustrate that it is not so by means of what is (acknowledged to be) not a finger; and by means of (what I call) a horse to illustrate that (what another calls) a horse is not so, is not so good a plan as to illustrate that it is not a horse, by means of what is (acknowledged to be) not a horse. (All things in) heaven and earth may be (dealt with as) a finger; (each of ) their myriads may be (dealt with as) a horse.
Does a thing seem so to me? (I say that) it is so. Does it seem not so to me? (I say that) it is not so. A path is formed by (constant) treading on the ground. A thing is called by its name through the (constant) application of the name to it. How is it so? It is so because it is so. How is it not so? It is not so, because it is not so. Everything has its inherent character and its proper capability. There is nothing which has not these. Therefore, this being so, if we take a stalk of grain and a (large) pillar, a loathsome (leper) and (a beauty like) Xi Shi, things large and things insecure, things crafty and things strange; they may in the light of the Dao all be reduced to the same category (of opinion about them).
It was separation that led to completion; from completion ensued dissolution. But all things, without regard to their completion and dissolution, may again be comprehended in their unity—it is only the far reaching in thought who know how to comprehend them in this unity. This being so, let us give up our devotion to our own views, and occupy ourselves with the ordinary views. These ordinary views are grounded on the use of things. (The study of that) use leads to the comprehensive judgment, and that judgment secures the success (of the inquiry). That success gained, we are near (to the object of our search), and there we stop. When we stop, and yet we do not know how it
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is so, we have what is called the Dao. When we toil our spirits and intelligence, obstinately determined (to establish our own view), and do not know the agreement (which underlies it and the views of others), we have what is called “In the morning three.” What is meant by that “In the morning three?” A keeper of monkeys, in giving them out their acorns, (once) said, “In the morning I will give you three (measures) and in the evening four.” This made them all angry, and he said, “Very well. In the morning I will give you four and in the evening three.” The monkeys were all pleased. His two proposals were substantially the same, but the result of the one was to make the creatures angry, and of the other to make them pleased—an illustration of the point I am insisting on. Therefore the sagely man brings together a dispute in its affirmations and denials, and rests in the equal fashioning of Heaven. Both sides of the question are admissible.
(7) Among the men of old their knowledge reached the extreme point. What was that extreme point? Some held
that at first there was not anything. This is the extreme point, the utmost point to which nothing can be added. A second class held that there was something, but without any responsive recognition of it (on the part of men). A third class held that there was such recognition, but there had not begun to be any expression of different opinions about it. It was through the definite expression of different opinions about it that there ensued injury to (the doc- trine of ) the Dao. It was this injury to the (doctrine of the) Dao which led to the formation of (partial) preferences. Was it indeed after such preferences were formed that the injury came? or did the injury precede the rise of such preferences? If the injury arose after their formation, Zhao’s method of playing on the lute was natural. If the injury arose before their formation, there would have been no such playing on the lute as Zhao’s. Zhao Wen’s playing on the lute, Shi Kuang’s indicating time with his staff, and Huizi’s (giving his views), while leaning against a dryandra tree (were all extraordinary). The knowledge of the three men (in their several arts) was nearly perfect, and there- fore they practised them to the end of their lives. They loved them because they were different from those of others. They loved them and wished to make them known to others. But as they could not be made clear, though they tried to make them so, they ended with the obscure (discussions) about “the hard” and “the white.” And their sons, more- over, with all the threads of their fathers’ compositions, yet to the end of their lives accomplished nothing. If they, proceeding in this way, could be said to have succeeded, then am I also successful; if they cannot be pronounced successful, neither I nor any other can succeed. Therefore the scintillations of light from the midst of confusion and perplexity are indeed valued by the sagely man; but not to use one’s own views and to take his position on the ordinary views is what is called using the (proper) light.
(8) But here now are some other sayings—I do not know whether they are of the same character as those which I
have already given, or of a different character. Whether they be of the same character or not when looked at along with them, they have a character of their own, which cannot be distinguished from the others. But though this be the case, let me try to explain myself. There was a beginning. There was a beginning before that beginning. There was a beginning previous to that beginning before there was the beginning. There was existence; there had been no existence. There was no existence before the beginning of that no existence. There was no existence previous to the no existence before there was the beginning of the no existence. If suddenly there was nonexistence, we do not know whether it was really anything existing, or really not existing. Now I have said what I have said, but I do not know whether what I have said be really anything to the point or not.
(9) Under heaven there is nothing greater than the tip of an autumn down, and the Tai mountain is small. There is
no one more long-lived than a child which dies prematurely, and Peng Zu did not live out his time. Heaven, Earth, and I were produced together, and all things and I are one. Since they are one, can there be speech about them? But since they are spoken of as one, must there not be room for speech? One and Speech are two; two and one are three. Going on from this (in our enumeration), the most skilful reckoner cannot reach (the end of the necessary num- bers), and how much less can ordinary people do so! Therefore from non-existence we proceed to existence till we arrive at three; proceeding from existence to existence, to how many should we reach? Let us abjure such procedure, and simply rest here.
(10) The Dao at first met with no responsive recognition. Speech at first had no constant forms of expression. Be-
cause of this there came the demarcations (of different views). Let me describe those demarcations: they are the Left
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and the Right; the Relations and their Obligations; Classifications and their Distinctions; Emulations and Conten- tions. These are what are called “the Eight Qualities.” Outside the limits of the world of men, the sage occupies his thoughts, but does not discuss about anything; inside those limits he occupies his thoughts, but does not pass any judgments. In the Chun Qiu, which embraces the history of the former kings, the sage indicates his judgments, but does not argue (in vindication of them). Thus it is that he separates his characters from one another without appearing to do so, and argues without the form of argument. How does he do so? The sage cherishes his views in his own breast, while men generally state theirs argumentatively, to show them to others. Hence we have the saying, “Disputation is a proof of not seeing clearly.”
The Great Dao does not admit of being praised. The Great Argument does not require words. Great Benevo- lence is not (officiously) benevolent. Great Disinterestedness does not vaunt its humility. Great Courage is not seen in stubborn bravery. The Dao that is displayed is not the Dao. Words that are argumentative do not reach the point. Benevolence that is constantly exercised does not accomplish its object. Disinterestedness that vaunts its purity is not genuine. Courage that is most stubborn is ineffectual. These five seem to be round (and complete), but they tend to become square (and immovable). Therefore the knowledge that stops at what it does not know is the great- est. Who knows the argument that needs no words, and the Way that is not to be trodden? He who is able to know this has what is called “The Heavenly Treasure-house.” He may pour into it without its being filled; he may pour from it without its being exhausted; and all the while he does not know whence (the supply) comes. This is what is called “The Store of Light.” Therefore of old Yao asked Shun, saying, “I wish to smite (the rulers of ) Zong, Kuai, and Xu-Ao. Even when standing in my court, I cannot get them out of my mind. How is it so?” Shun replied, “Those three rulers live (in their little states) as if they were among the mugwort and other brushwood—how is it that you cannot get them out of your mind? Formerly, ten suns came out together, and all things were illuminated by them; how much should (your) virtue exceed (all) suns!”
(11) Nie Que asked Wang Ni, saying, “Do you know, Sir, what all creatures agree in approving and affirming?” “How
should I know it?” was the reply. “Do you know what it is that you do not know?” asked the other again, and he got the same reply. He asked a third time, “Then are all creatures thus without knowledge?” and Wang Ni answered as before, (adding however), “Notwithstanding, I will try and explain my meaning. How do you know that when I say ‘I know it,’ I really (am showing that) I do not know it, and that when I say ‘I do not know it,’ I really am show- ing that I do know it.” And let me ask you some questions: “If a man sleep in a damp place, he will have a pain in his loins, and half his body will be as if it were dead; but will it be so with an eel? If he be living in a tree, he will be frightened and all in a tremble; but will it be so with a monkey? And does any one of the three know his right place? Men eat animals that have been fed on grain and grass; deer feed on the thick-set grass; centipedes enjoy small snakes; owls and crows delight in mice; but does any one of the four know the right taste? The dog-headed monkey finds its mate in the female gibbon; the elk and the axis deer cohabit; and the eel enjoys itself with other fishes. Mao Qiang and Li Ji were accounted by men to be most beautiful, but when fishes saw them, they dived deep in the water from them; when birds, they flew from them aloft; and when deer saw them, they separated and fled away. But did any of these four know which in the world is the right female attraction? As I look at the matter, the first principles of benevolence and righteousness and the paths of approval and disapproval are inextricably mixed and confused together—how is it possible that I should know how to discriminate among them?” Nie Que said (further), “Since you, Sir, do not know what is advantageous and what is hurtful, is the Perfect man also in the same way without the knowledge of them?” Wang Ni replied, “The Perfect man is spirit-like. Great lakes might be boiling about him, and he would not feel their heat; the He and the Han might be frozen up, and he would not feel the cold; the hurrying thunderbolts might split the mountains, and the wind shake the ocean, without being able to make him afraid. Being such, he mounts on the clouds of the air, rides on the sun and moon, and rambles at ease beyond the four seas. Neither death nor life makes any change in him, and how much less should the considerations of advantage and injury do so!”
(12) Qu Quezi asked Chang Wuzi, saying, “I heard the Master (speaking of such language as the following): ‘The
sagely man does not occupy himself with worldly affairs. He does not put himself in the way of what is profitable, nor try to avoid what is hurtful; he has no pleasure in seeking (for anything from any one); he does not care to be found in (any established) Way; he speaks without speaking; he does not speak when he speaks; thus finding his enjoyment outside the dust and dirt (of the world).’ The Master considered all this to be a shoreless flow of mere words, and I consider it to describe the course of the Mysterious Way—What do you, Sir, think of it?” Chang Wuzi replied, “The hearing of such words would have perplexed even Huang Di, and how should Qiu be competent to
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understand them? And you, moreover, are too hasty in forming your estimate (of their meaning). You see the egg, and (immediately) look out for the cock (that is to be hatched from it); you see the bow, and (immediately) look out for the dove (that is to be brought down by it) being roasted. I will try to explain the thing to you in a rough way; do you in the same way listen to me. How could any one stand by the side of the sun and moon, and hold under his arm all space and all time? (Such language only means that the sagely man) keeps his mouth shut, and puts aside questions that are uncertain and dark; making his inferior capacities unite with him in honouring (the One Lord). Men in general bustle about and toil; the sagely man seems stupid and to know nothing. He blends ten thousand years together in the one (conception of time); the myriad things all pursue their spontaneous course, and they are all before him as doing so. How do I know that the love of life is not a delusion? and that the dislike of death is not like a young person’s losing his way, and not knowing that he is (really) going home? Li Ji was a daughter of the border Warden of Ai. When (the ruler of ) the state of Jin first got possession of her, she wept till the tears wetted all the front of her dress. But when she came to the place of the king, shared with him his luxurious couch, and ate his grain-and-grass-fed meat, then she regretted that she had wept. How do I know that the dead do not repent of their former craving for life? Those who dream of (the pleasures of ) drinking may in the morning wail and weep; those who dream of wailing and weeping may in the morning be going out to hunt. When they were dreaming they did not know it was a dream; in their dream they may even have tried to interpret it; but when they awoke they knew that it was a dream. And there is the great awaking, after which we shall know that this life was a great dream. All the while, the stupid think they are awake, and with nice discrimination insist on their knowledge; now playing the part of rulers, and now of grooms. Bigoted was that Qiu! He and you are both dreaming. I who say that you are dreaming am dreaming myself. These words seem very strange; but if after ten thousand ages we once meet with a great sage who knows how to explain them, it will be as if we met him (unexpectedly) some morning or evening.
“Since you made me enter into this discussion with you, if you have got the better of me and not I of you, are you indeed right, and I indeed wrong? If I have got the better of you and not you of me, am I indeed right and you indeed wrong? Is the one of us right and the other wrong? are we both right or both wrong? Since we cannot come to a mutual and common understanding, men will certainly continue in darkness on the subject. Whom shall I employ to adjudicate in the matter? If I employ one who agrees with you, how can he, agreeing with you, do so correctly? If I employ one who agrees with me, how can he, agreeing with me, do so correctly? If I employ one who disagrees with you and I, how can he, disagreeing with you and I, do so correctly? If I employ one who agrees with you and I, how can he, agreeing with you and I, do so correctly? In this way I and you and those others would all not be able to come to a mutual understanding; and shall we then wait for that (great sage)? (We need not do so.) To wait on others to learn how conflicting opinions are changed is simply like not so waiting at all. The harmonising of them is to be found in the invisible operation of Heaven, and by following this on into the unlimited past. It is by this method that we can complete our years (without our minds being disturbed). What is meant by harmonising (conflicting opinions) in the invisible operation of Heaven? There is the affirmation and the denial of it; and there is the assertion of an opinion and the rejection of it. If the affirmation be according to the reality of the fact, it is cer- tainly different from the denial of it—there can be no dispute about that. If the assertion of an opinion be correct, it is certainly different from its rejection—neither can there be any dispute about that. Let us forget the lapse of time; let us forget the conflict of opinions. Let us make our appeal to the Infinite, and take up our position there.”
(13) The Penumbra asked the Shadow, saying, “Formerly you were walking on, and now you have stopped; formerly
you were sitting, and now you have risen up—how is it that you are so without stability?” The Shadow replied, “I wait for the movements of something else to do what I do, and that something else on which I wait waits further on another to do as it does. My waiting, is it for the scales of a snake, or the wings of a cicada? How should I know why I do one thing, or do not do another?”
(14) “Formerly, I, Zhuang Zhou, dreamt that I was a butterfly, a butterfly flying about, feeling that it was enjoying itself.
I did not know that it was Zhou. Suddenly I awoke, and was myself again, the veritable Zhou. I did not know whether it had formerly been Zhou dreaming that he was a butterfly, or it was now a butterfly dreaming that it was Zhou. But between Zhou and a butterfly there must be a difference. This is a case of what is called the Transformation of Things.”
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The works in this chapter were written down starting around the 4th century B.C.E., but the three stories date back to much earlier in the oral tradition. All three works remain influential and ubiquitous in Indian society to this day: common knowledge that everyone knows, at least in some part. Rather than offering a list of values and beliefs, the stories demonstrate them in action: how to approach complicated moral issues, and what to do when life seems unfair. The answer is not always easy, and sometimes the choice is between two options that are not ideal. The best choice is often the most difficult one, and the expectations of society for these characters can seem overwhelming. The intervention of the gods in these cases becomes absolutely necessary. The Bhagavad-Gita is the most directly religious work, containing as it does the teaching of the god Vishnu through his avatar Krishna, but the other two texts include direct participation of gods (and their avatars) in the stories. Therefore, some basic information about Hinduism is necessary for a clear understanding of the texts:
The one god is Brahman, who both binds the universe together and transcends it. The consciousness of Brah- man is divided into three parts, which worshippers address individually:
• Brahma, the Creator • Vishnu, the Preserver • Shiva, the Destroyer
Each of them is represented by hundreds of minor Hindu gods, who represent aspects of these three and can function separately while still remaining part of the whole (and all of them are part of Brahman). Gods also can send down avatars—pieces of their consciousness that are born, live, and die as humans—to intervene when neces- sary.
In all three works, a belief in samsara—the cycle of reincarnation—drives the characters’ behavior. An individ- ual can move up or down the hierarchy in society based on their karma (the sum of their good and bad deeds), but only in their next reincarnation. For each person, the concept of dharma (doing what one is supposed to do, right behavior, Law) is slightly different: A warrior who takes an oath (no matter how crazy an oath it is) must fulfill his oath, because keeping one’s word is part of a warrior’s honor. Not fulfilling an oath is adharma (described as Unlaw in the texts). A farmer, however, should behave like a good farmer, rather than a warrior, and good farmers do not take crazy oaths or act in ways that could damage their ability to plant and harvest a crop. Farmers also should not try to become warriors. Social mobility, therefore, is not only discouraged, but irreligious in that context. This idea drives the caste system, forcing people to remain in their caste or face being made an Untouchable.
Each character is born into a caste, or Varna, which determines what they can and cannot do, and each Varna is broken down into numerous Jats, or communities:
• Brahmins, the priests and scholars, are the highest Varna. • Kshatriyas, the rulers and the military, are the next level. • Vaishyas are the farmers, landlords, and merchants. • Sudras are peasants, servants, and workers in non-polluting jobs.
The Dalit, or Untouchables, are workers in what are considered polluting jobs. In some places, even contact with the shadow of an Untouchable was considered polluting. In some parts of India (mostly rural districts), the caste system continues, despite government attempts to stop it.
Characters need to be the best they can be (following their individual dharma) in the Varna and Jat into which
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they were born in order to move up the hierarchy in their next reincarnation. They are expected not only to work in their Jat, but to marry within it. Certain problems in The Mahabharata are a direct result of characters who do not stay in their Jat (or even their Varna), and the story warns us that trouble, and even disaster, will follow.
As you read, consider the following questions:
• What is this society’s definition of an epic hero? How do we know, based on examples from the stories themselves?
• How do the characters view the gods, and how do the gods treat humans? • What do we learn about what this society considers proper or improper behavior, again based on the text
itself ? Who is punished or rewarded, and why? • Is family love or romantic love more important in the text, and why?
Written by Laura J. Getty
THE BHAGAVAD GITA
Added to The Mahabharata between 400 B.C.E. and 400 C.E. India
The Bhagavad Gita records the conversation between Krishna and Arjuna right before the epic battle of Kuruk- shetra. Although it is a part of The Mahabharata, it often is taught separately for its insights into Hindu beliefs. Krish- na is the eighth human avatar of the god Vishnu, who sends down an avatar every time that the world requires such serious divine intervention that the good side could not win without his help. In this instance, the warrior Arjuna finds himself in a difficult position; to fight a war against evil, he must fight members of his own family, which would normally be a sin. Krishna must teach Arjuna how to know what to do when faced with conflicting duties. Some of the tension of the work comes from the setting; Krishna and Arjuna are literally between the two armies as they talk, while both sides wait for Arjuna to blow his horn, which will start the battle. The Bhagavad Gita stands as one of the great moral documents in world literature, influencing people as diverse as Thoreau, Tolstoy, and Gandhi.
Written by Laura J. Getty
The Bhagavad Gita
Translated by Ramananda Prasad
Chapter 1 Arjuna’s Dilemma
The war of Mahabharata has begun after all negotiations by Lord Krishna and others to avoid it failed. The blind King (Dhritarashtra) was never very sure about the victory of his sons (Kauravas) in spite of their superior army. Sage Vyasa, the author of Mahabharata, wanted to give the blind King the boon of eyesight so that the King could see the horrors of the war for which he was primarily responsible. But the King refused the offer. He did not want to see the horrors of the war; but preferred to get the war report through his charioteer, Sanjaya. Sage Vyasa granted the power of clairvoyance to Sanjaya. With this power Sanjaya could see, hear, and recall the events of the past, present, and the future. He was able to give an instant replay of the eyewitness war report to the blind King sitting in the palace.
Bhishma, the mightiest man and the commander-in-chief of the Kaurava’s army, is disabled by Arjuna and is lying on deathbed in the battleground on the tenth day of the eighteen day war. Upon hearing this bad news from Sanjaya, the blind King looses all hopes for victory of his sons. Now the King wants to know the details of the war from the begin- ning, including how the mightiest man, and the commander-in-chief of his superior army—who had a boon of dying at his own will—was defeated in the battlefield. The teaching of the Gita begins with the inquiry of the blind King, after Sanjaya described how Bhishma was defeated, as follows:
The King inquired: Sanjaya, please now tell me, in details, what did my people (the Kauravas) and the Pandavas do in the battlefield before the war started?
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Sanjaya said: O King, After seeing the battle formation of the Pandava’s army, your son approached his guru and spoke these words:
O Master, behold this mighty army of the Pandavas, arranged in battle formation by your other talented disci- ple! There are many great warriors, valiant men, heroes, and mighty archers.
Introduction Of The Army Commanders Also there are many heroes on my side who have risked their lives for me. I shall name few distinguished
commanders of my army for your information. He named all the officers of his army, and said: They are armed with various weapons, and are skilled in warfare.
Our army is invincible, while their army is easy to conquer. Therefore all of you, occupying your respective positions, protect our commander-in-chief.
War Starts With The Blowing Of Conch Shells The mighty commander-in-chief and the eldest man of the dynasty, roared as a lion and blew his conch loudly,
bringing joy to your son. Soon after that; conches, kettledrums, cymbals, drums, and trumpets were sounded together. The commotion
was tremendous. After that, Lord Krishna and Arjuna, seated in a grand chariot yoked with white horses, blew their celestial
conches. Krishna blew His conch first, and then Arjuna and all other commanders of various divisions of the army of
Pandavas blew their respective conches. The tumultuous uproar, resounding through the earth and sky, tore the hearts of your sons.
Arjuna Wants To Inspect The Army Against Whom He Is About To Fight Seeing your sons standing, and the war about to begin with the hurling of weapons; Arjuna, whose banner
bore the emblem of Lord Hanumana, took up his bow and spoke these words to Lord Krishna: O Lord, please stop my chariot between the two armies until I behold those who stand here eager for the battle and with whom I must engage in this act of war.
I wish to see those who are willing to serve and appease the evil-minded Kauravas by assembling here to fight the battle.
Sanjaya said: O King; Lord Krishna, as requested by Arjuna, placed the best of all the chariots in the midst of the two armies facing Arjuna’s grandfather, his guru and all other Kings; and said to Arjuna: Behold these assem- bled soldiers!
Arjuna saw his uncles, grandfathers, teachers, maternal uncles, brothers, sons, grandsons, and other comrades in the army.
Arjuna’s Dilemma After seeing fathers-in-law, companions, and all his kinsmen standing in the ranks of the two armies, Arjuna
was overcome with great compassion and sorrowfully spoke these words: O Krishna, seeing my kinsmen standing with a desire to fight, my limbs fail and my mouth becomes dry. My body quivers and my hairs stand on end.
The bow slips from my hand, and my skin intensely burns. My head turns, I am unable to stand steady, and O Krishna, I see bad omens. I see no use of killing my kinsmen in battle.
I desire neither victory, nor pleasure nor kingdom, O Krishna. What is the use of the kingdom, or enjoyment, or even life, O Krishna? Because all those—for whom we desire kingdom, enjoyments, and pleasures—are standing here for the battle, giving up their lives.
I do not wish to kill my teachers, uncles, sons, grandfathers, maternal uncles, fathers-in-law, grandsons, broth- ers-in-law, and other relatives who are about to kill us, even for the sovereignty of the three worlds, let alone for this earthly kingdom, O Krishna.
O Lord Krishna, what pleasure shall we find in killing our cousin brothers? Upon killing these felons we shall incur sin only.
Therefore, we should not kill our cousin brothers. How can we be happy after killing our relatives, O Krishna? Though they are blinded by greed, and do not see evil in the destruction of the family, or sin in being treacher-
ous to friends. Why should not we, who clearly see evil in the destruction of the family, think about turning away from this sin, O Krishna?
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Arjuna Describes the Evils of War Eternal family traditions and codes of moral conduct are destroyed with the destruction of the family. And
immorality prevails in the family due to the destruction of family traditions. And when immorality prevails, O Krishna, the women of the family become corrupted; when women are cor-
rupted, unwanted progeny is born. This brings the family and the slayers of the family to hell, because the spirits of their ancestors are degraded
when deprived of ceremonial offerings of love and respect by the unwanted progeny. The everlasting qualities of social order and family traditions of those who destroy their family are ruined by
the sinful act of illegitimacy. We have been told, O Krishna, that people whose family traditions are destroyed necessarily dwell in hell for a
long time. Alas! We are ready to commit a great sin by striving to slay our relatives because of greed for the pleasures of
the kingdom. It would be far better for me if my cousin brothers kill me with their weapons in battle while I am unarmed and
unresisting.
When Going Gets Tough, Even Tough Ones Can Get Deluded Sanjaya said: Having said this in the battlefield and casting aside his bow and arrow, Arjuna sat down on the
seat of the chariot with his mind overwhelmed with sorrow.
Chapter 2 Transcendental Knowledge
Sanjaya said: Lord Krishna spoke these words to Arjuna whose eyes were tearful and downcast, and who was overwhelmed with compassion and despair.
Lord Krishna said: How has the dejection come to you at this juncture? This is not fit for a person of noble mind and deeds. It is disgraceful, and it does not lead one to heaven, O Arjuna.
Do not become a coward, O Arjuna, because it does not befit you. Shake off this trivial weakness of your heart and get up for the battle, O Arjuna.
Arjuna Continues His Reasoning Against The War Arjuna said: How shall I strike my grandfather, my guru, and all other relatives, who are worthy of my respect,
with arrows in battle, O Krishna? It would be better, indeed, to live on alms in this world than to slay these noble personalities, because by killing
them I would enjoy wealth and pleasures stained with their blood. We do not know which alternative—to fight or to quit—is better for us. Further, we do not know whether we
shall conquer them or they will conquer us. We should not even wish to live after killing our cousin brothers, who are standing in front of us.
My senses are overcome by the weakness of pity, and my mind is confused about duty (Dharma). Please tell me what is better for me. I am Your disciple, and I take refuge in You.
I do not perceive that gaining an unrivaled and prosperous kingdom on this earth, or even lordship over all the celestial controllers will remove the sorrow that is drying up my senses.
Sanjaya said: O King, after speaking like this to Lord Krishna, the mighty Arjuna said to Krishna: I shall not fight, and became silent.
O King, Lord Krishna, as if smiling, spoke these words to the distressed Arjuna in the midst of the two armies.
The Teachings Of The Gita Begin With The True Knowledge Of Spirit And The Physical Body Lord Krishna said: you grieve for those who are not worthy of grief, and yet speak words of wisdom. The
wise grieves neither for the living nor for the dead. There was never a time when these monarchs, you, or I did not exist; nor shall we ever cease to exist in the
future. Just as the soul acquires a childhood body, a youth body, and an old age body during this life; similarly, the
soul acquires another body after death. This should not delude the wise. The contacts of the senses with the sense objects give rise to the feelings of heat and cold, and pain and plea-
sure. They are transitory and impermanent. Therefore, one should learn to endure them.
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Because a calm person—who is not afflicted by these sense objects, and is steady in pain and pleasure—be- comes fit for salvation.
The Spirit Is Eternal, Body Is Transitory The invisible Spirit (Atma, Atman) is eternal, and the visible physical body, is transitory. The reality of these two
is indeed certainly seen by the seers of truth. The Spirit by whom this entire universe is pervaded is indestructible. No one can destroy the imperishable
Spirit. The physical bodies of the eternal, immutable, and incomprehensible Spirit are perishable. Therefore fight, O
Arjuna. The one who thinks that the Spirit is a slayer, and the one who thinks the Spirit is slain, both are ignorant.
Because the Spirit neither slays nor is slain. The Spirit is neither born nor does it die at any time. It does not come into being, or cease to exist. It is unborn,
eternal, permanent, and primeval. The Spirit is not destroyed when the body is destroyed. O Arjuna, how can a person who knows that the Spirit is indestructible, eternal, unborn, and immutable, kill
anyone or causes anyone to be killed?
Death And Transmigration Of Soul Just as a person puts on new garments after discarding the old ones; similarly, the living entity or the indi-
vidual soul acquires new bodies after casting away the old bodies. Weapons do not cut this Spirit, fire does not burn it, water does not make it wet, and the wind does not make
it dry. The Spirit cannot be cut, burned, wetted, or dried. It is eternal, all pervading, unchanging, immovable, and primeval.
The Spirit is said to be unexplainable, incomprehensible, and unchanging. Knowing the Spirit as such you should not grieve.
Even if you think that the physical body takes birth and dies perpetually, even then, O Arjuna, you should not grieve like this. Because death is certain for the one who is born, and birth is certain for the one who dies. There- fore, you should not lament over the inevitable.
All beings are unmanifest, or invisible to our physical eyes before birth and after death. They manifest between the birth and the death only. what is there to grieve about?
The Indestructible Spirit Transcends Mind And Speech Some look upon this Spirit as a wonder, another describes it as wonderful, and others hear of it as a wonder.
Even after hearing about it very few people know what the Spirit is. O Arjuna, the Spirit that dwells in the body of all beings is eternally indestructible. Therefore, you should not
mourn for anybody.
Lord Krishna Reminds Arjuna Of His Duty As A Warrior Considering also your duty as a warrior you should not waver like this. Because there is nothing more auspi-
cious for a warrior than a righteous war. Only the fortunate warriors, O Arjuna, get such an opportunity for an unsought war that is like an open door to
heaven. If you will not fight this righteous war, then you will fail in your duty, lose your reputation, and incur sin. People will talk about your disgrace forever. To the honored, dishonor is worse than death. The great warriors will think that you have retreated from the battle out of fear. Those who have greatly es-
teemed you will lose respect for you. Your enemies will speak many unmentionable words and scorn your ability. What could be more painful to you
than this? You will go to heaven if killed on the line of duty, or you will enjoy the kingdom on the earth if victorious.
Therefore, get up with a determination to fight, O Arjuna. Treating pleasure and pain, gain and loss, and victory and defeat alike, engage yourself in your duty. By
doing your duty this way you will not incur sin.
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Importance Of Karma-Yoga, The Selfless Service The science of transcendental knowledge has been imparted to you, O Arjuna. Now listen to the science of self-
less service (Seva), endowed with which you will free yourself from all Karmic bondage, or sin. No effort is ever lost in selfless service, and there is no adverse effect. Even a little practice of the discipline of
selfless service protects one from the great fear of repeated birth and death. A selfless worker has resolute determination for God-realization, but the desires of the one who works to enjoy
the fruits of work are endless.
The Vedas Deal With Both Material And Spiritual Aspects Of Life The misguided ones who delight in the melodious chanting of the Veda—without understanding the real pur-
pose of the Vedas—think, O Arjuna, as if there is nothing else in the Vedas except the rituals for the sole purpose of obtaining heavenly enjoyment.
They are dominated by material desires, and consider the attainment of heaven as the highest goal of life. They engage in specific rites for the sake of prosperity and enjoyment. Rebirth is the result of their action.
The resolute determination of Self-realization is not formed in the minds of those who are attached to pleasure and power, and whose judgment is obscured by ritualistic activities.
A portion of the Vedas deals with three modes—goodness, passion, and ignorance—of material Nature. Be- come free from pairs of opposites, be ever balanced and unconcerned with the thoughts of acquisition and preser- vation. Rise above these three modes, and be Self-conscious, O Arjuna.
To a Self-realized person the Vedas are as useful as a small reservoir of water when the water of a huge lake becomes available.
Theory And Practice Of Karma-Yoga you have control over doing your respective duty only, but no control or claim over the results. The fruits
of work should not be your motive, and you should never be inactive. Do your duty to the best of your ability, o Arjuna, with your mind attached to the Lord, abandoning worry
and selfish attachment to the results, and remaining calm in both success and failure. The selfless service is a yogic practice that brings peace and equanimity of mind.
Work done with selfish motives is inferior by far to the selfless service. Therefore be a selfless worker, O Arju- na. Those who work only to enjoy the fruits of their labor are verily unhappy, because one has no control over the results.
A Karma-yogi or the selfless person becomes free from both vice and virtue in this life itself. Therefore, strive for selfless service. working to the best of one’s abilities without becoming selfishly attached to the fruits of work is called Karma-yoga or Seva.
Karma-yogis are freed from the bondage of rebirth due to renouncing the selfish attachment to the fruits of all work, and attain blissful divine state of salvation or Nirvana.
When your intellect will completely pierce the veil of confusion, then you will become indifferent to what has been heard and what is to be heard from the scriptures.
When your intellect, that is confused by the conflicting opinions and the ritualistic doctrine of the Vedas, shall stay steady and firm on concentration of the Supreme Being, then you shall attain union with the Supreme in trance.
Arjuna said: O Krishna, what are the marks of an enlightened person whose intellect is steady? What does a person of steady intellect think and talk about? How does such a person behave with others, and live in this world?
Marks Of A Self-Realized Person Lord Krishna said: When one is completely free from all desires of the mind and is satisfied with the Supreme
Being by the joy of Supreme Being, then one is called an enlightened person, O Arjuna. A person whose mind is unperturbed by sorrow, who does not crave pleasures, and who is completely free
from attachment, fear, and anger, is called an enlightened sage of steady intellect. The mind and intellect of a person become steady who is not attached to anything, who is neither elated by
getting desired results, nor perturbed by undesired results. When one can completely withdraw the senses from the sense objects as a tortoise withdraws its limbs into the
shell for protection from calamity, then the intellect of such a person is considered steady. The desire for sensual pleasures fades away if one abstains from sense enjoyment, but the craving for sense
enjoyment remains in a very subtle form. This subtle craving also completely disappears from the one who knows the Supreme Being.
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Dangers Of Unrestrained Senses restless senses, o Arjuna, forcibly carry away the mind of even a wise person striving for perfection. one should fix one’s mind on God with loving contemplation after bringing the senses under control. one’s
intellect becomes steady when one’s senses are under complete control. one develops attachment to sense objects by thinking about sense objects. Desire for sense objects comes
from attachment to sense objects, and anger comes from unfulfilled desires. Delusion or wild idea arises from anger. The mind is bewildered by delusion. Reasoning is destroyed when the
mind is bewildered. One falls down from the right path when reasoning is destroyed.
Attainment Of Peace And Happiness Through Sense Control And Knowledge A disciplined person, enjoying sense objects with senses that are under control and free from attachments and
aversions, attains tranquillity. All sorrows are destroyed upon attainment of tranquillity. The intellect of such a tranquil person soon becomes
completely steady and united with the Supreme. There is neither Self-knowledge, nor Self-perception to those who are not united with the Supreme. Without
Self-perception there is no peace, and without peace there can be no happiness. Because the mind, when controlled by the roving senses, steals away the intellect as a storm takes away a
boat on the sea from its destination—the spiritual shore of peace and happiness. Therefore, O Arjuna, one’s intellect becomes steady whose senses are completely withdrawn from the sense objects. A yogi, the person of self-restraint, remains wakeful when it is night for all others. It is night for the yogi who
sees when all others are wakeful. one attains peace, within whose mind all desires dissipate without creating any mental disturbance, as
river waters enter the full ocean without creating any disturbance. one who desires material objects is never peaceful.
One who abandons all desires, and becomes free from longing and the feeling of ‘I’ and ‘my’, attains peace. O Arjuna, this is the superconscious state of mind. Attaining this state, one is no longer deluded. Gaining this
state, even at the end of one’s life, a person becomes one with the Absolute.
THE MAHABHArATA
Written down between 400 B.C.E. and 400 C.E. India
The Mahabharata is the national epic of India, and it encapsulates ideas about morality, law, family relationships, class structure (in the form of the caste system), and rein- carnation. The basic conflict is between two sets of cousins, the Pandavas and the Kauravas, who both have a legitimate claim to the throne. The story is told through a series of narrators, starting with Vyasa (a character in the story) and continuing down through time to a bard speaking to a descendant of the winning side. Ultimately, the side that follows dharma (and follows the words of the god Vishnu in his human avatar of Krishna) will win. Dharma, which is both a concept and the name of the god who embodies it, is a difficult concept to translate: It includes morality, law, and doing what is correct for your caste level, which can change based on your situation. The epic warns the audience not to transgress caste boundaries; good behavior will be rewarded through reincarnation into a higher caste level. Although the caste system was officially abolished in India in 1949, it remains a pervasive social force. The characters also have a continuing presence in present-day society, with references to them in everything from comic Books and movies to casual conversations.
Image 3.1: wood Carving of a Scene from the Mahabharata | The carving depicts Krishna and Arjuna fighting in the battle of Kurukshetra.
Author: User “thaths” Source: Flickr License: CC BY-NC 2.0
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The Genealogy of the Main Characters in the Mahabharata: Note: Certain letters are dropped sometimes in writing (a form of abbreviation), with “h” being the most
common casualty. Therefore, both “Shiva” and “Siva” are found in various texts, although the correct pronunciation regardless is to say the “h.”
other characters:
• Drona: the tutor of the princes • Drupada: the enemy of Drona, father of both Draupadi (wife of all five Pandavas) and Dhrishtadyumna,
who is meant to kill Drona • Krishna: the seventh avatar of Vishnu, who is related to Kunti in his human incarnation and reveals the
Bhavagad-Gita.
Key ideas: The first thing to realize about the people in the epic is that most of them are related to each other, whether by
blood, marriage, or adoption. The major conflict is between two sets of cousins—the pandavas (sons of Pandu) and the Kauravas (sons of Dhritarashtra)—who want to inherit the throne. Technically, both sets of cousins are Kurus, but the Kauravas are referred to as Kurus more often in the story. Although they both have legitimate claims, the Pandavas are considered the nobler of the cousins. The genealogy is complicated, but the basic idea is straightfor- ward: the cousins will fight until one side wins. Since the Kauravas are (mostly) evil, there are religious reasons for the Pandavas to win, as well, which is why Krishna (an incarnation of Vishnu, one of the three main Hindu gods) sides with the Pandavas.
Laws: The concept of law plays an important role in the epic. In religious terms, Dharma is both the name of one
of the Hindu gods and a concept that means a range of things, including justice, right action, and doing what you must do regardless of the circumstances. The characters in the story speak about either following dharma (Law) or committing an Unlaw (the opposite of dharma), which can put the soul in jeopardy. Obeying your parents and even your elder siblings is part of the law.
King ShantanuGanges The River Goddess
Satyavati a ferry-woman
Bhishma pledges celibacy
Vicitravirya weak and impotent
Vyasa Son of a brahmin
Pandu cursed
Dhritarashtra blind
Vidura mother was a servant
Yudhishthira Dharma
Bhima Vayu, the wind
Arjuna Indra, god of war
Karna by the Sun
Madri
Nakula Sahadeva
Kunti
Gandhari
100 sons including Duryodhana
Citrangada dies young
Madri’s twins are fathered by the twin horesmen, the Ashvins
Vicitraviya has two wives but cannot father children, so
Vyasa is the father.
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Other laws involve family rights. Since the status of a woman in a family depended on her ability to bear chil- dren, a wife whose husband was unable to give her children had the right to demand that one of his brothers be the father of her children. When one of the kings in the epic (Vicitravirya) is unable to father children, his wives insist that either his half-brother (Bhisma) or his step-brother (Vyasa) give them children. Vyasa, the king’s brother by marriage only, becomes the father of the king’s sons, Dhritarashtra and Pandu.
Blood ties, therefore, are less important in the epic than how society chooses to recognize you. By law, children from a previous marriage (or born illegitimately) become the legal children of the man that their mother marries. If a husband accepts a child as his own, even if the father of the child is another man, society recognizes that child as his. When Pandu is unable to have children (for unusual reasons), he asks his wife to say a prayer she knows that will call down various Hindu gods to father his children, and she shares the prayer with his second wife. The sons of Pandu are not his actual blood sons, but rather are accepted as his sons by law.
Sons of pandu:
• Yudhishthira is the eldest. He is the son of Kunti (the first wife) and Dharma, god of justice. • Bhima is the son of Kunti and Vayu, god of the wind (considered the strongest natural force). • Arjuna is the son of Kunti and Indra, god of war. • Nakula and Sahadeva are twins. Their mother is Madri (the second wife), and their fathers are • The Asvins (pronounced Ashvins), twin horsemen gods.
They are related to Krishna through Kunti, who is his aunt, and all five brothers are married to the same wom- an, Draupadi (sometimes referred to as Krishnã), through a mistake in the law.
Written by Laura Getty
Image 3.2: The Battle of Kurukshetra | Armies standing in a circular formation ready to attack in the Battle of Kurukshetra.
Author: User “Yadupati” Source: Flickr License: CC BY-NC-SA
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THE MAHABHArATA - A SynopSIS oF THE GrEAT EpIC oF InDIA
Larry A. Brown
[The full text of the Mahabharata is eight times the length of the Odyssey and the Iliad combined, so a sum- mary covering the basic story provided by Dr. Larry Avis Brown is included here, in order to better understand the Mahabharata holistically. Visit http://larryavisbrown.homestead.com/files/xeno.mahabsynop.htm for further information and discussion of the Mahabharata, and exploration of Dr. Brown’s works]
pronunciation guide of the main characters: Vyasa [Vee-YA-sha]: narrator of the story and father of Pandu and Dhritarashtra BHISH-ma: half-uncle by marriage of Pandu and Dhritarashtra Dhri-ta-RASH-tra: blind king, father of Duryodhana and the Kauravas GAN-dhari: wife of Dhritarashtra KUN-ti: wife of Pandu and mother to the five Pandavas and Karna Yu-DHISH-thira: leader of the Pandavas, rightful heir to the throne BHI-ma: strongest of the Pandava brothers AR-juna: mightiest of warriors NA-kula and Saha-DE-va: Pandava twins DRAU-pa-di: wife to the five Pandavas Du-ry-ODH-ana: leader of the Kauravas Duh-SA-sa-na: brother to Duryodhana KRISH-na: supporter of the Pandavas and avatar of Vishnu DRO-na: teacher of the Pandavas and Kauravas KAR-na: warrior, secret son of Kunti, ally of the Kauravas
Note: quotations throughout are from English versions by C. V. Narasimhan (CN), Krishna Dharma (KD) or the dramatization by Jean-Claude Carriere (available on DVD). Portions of the following summary have been adapted from David Williams, Peter Brook and the Mahabharata: Critical Perspectives, 1991.
pArT onE: THE GAME oF DICE In the first two books of the Mahabharata, we learn the background of the Bharatas (also called the Kurus)
leading up to the conflict between the five sons of Pandu and their cousins the Kauravas. This story is told by the sage Vyasa, whose name came to mean the “compiler.” (Actually, the author of the epic is unknown, probably many authors over centuries.) Vyasa’s mother is Satyavati, whose name means truth, so he is the “son of truth.” In telling his story to a descendant of the Pandavas, Vyasa says, “If you listen carefully, at the end you’ll be someone else.” (play) Vyasa appears infrequently throughout the story, giving advice and also fathering Pandu and Dhritarashtra.
Ancestors of the Pandavas and Kauravas Santanu, king of Hastinapura, was married to the beautiful Ganga, who was the river goddess in disguise. She
agreed to marry him as long as he never questioned her actions. Over the years they had seven sons, but Ganga threw each one into the river. Santanu was distressed but he kept his promise. Finally, when their eighth son was born, Santanu asked his wife who she really was and why she had done this. Ganga revealed herself and told that her children had once been celestial beings, but were cursed to become human. She had ended their “punishment” quickly by drowning them immediately at birth. But since Santanu had questioned her actions, she left him, along with his last son Devarata.
Devarata is better known by his later name Bhishma. He receives this name, which means “of terrible resolve,” after vowing never to marry or have children. His father wanted to marry again (Satyavati, mother of Vyasa), but the conditions of the marriage were that the second wife would be the mother of a king someday. Honoring his father’s wishes, Bhishma makes his vow, guaranteeing that neither he nor a son of his will challenge the claim to the throne.
Years later, one of Bhishma’s half-brothers dies in battle, and the other becomes old enough to marry. On behalf of his half-brother, Bhishma abducts three sisters and fights off all their suitors. On returning home, he learns that one of the sisters, Amba, had already chosen a suitor. Bhishma allows her to leave, but her betrothed does not want her any more. Now abandoned, she returns to Bhishma and demands that he marry her. Ever faithful to his vow, Bhishma refuses. Amba then vows that one day she will kill him, even though the gods have granted Bhishma the power to choose the day of his death, because of his vow.
The importance and power of vows are evident throughout the epic. Once stated, a vow becomes the truth and must be fulfilled, no matter what else may happen. When his father and both his half-brothers die prematurely
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without children, Bhishma refuses to marry his step-brother’s widows (Amba’s sisters). He will not relinquish his vow, even though his celibacy makes no difference anymore.
The young princesses must be given children, but who can father them? There are no other men in the family besides Bhishma, and he has renounced women. So Satyavati, the king’s second wife, asks her first-born son, Vyasa the poet, to give children to the two princesses. He goes to them, but the princesses dislike him, for as an ascetic who has taken a vow of poverty, he is filthy and smells. He explains to them that they will each bear a son: however, the first will be born blind because the first princess closed her eyes when seeing him, and the second will be pale- skinned because the second princess became pale at his touch. The blind son is called Dhritarashtra, the pale one is Pandu. Vyasa has a third son Vidura by a handmaiden.
As his brother is blind and unfit for the throne, Pandu becomes the new king of Hastinapura. One day while hunting in the forest, Pandu shoots a gazelle in the act of mating. The gazelle was actually a brahmin priest in disguise, who curses him saying that should Pandu make love to either of his two wives (Kunti and Madri), he will die instantly. Knowing he can never have children, Pandu resigns the throne, and goes to live with his wives in the mountains. Kunti, his first wife, informs him that she possesses a magic power. By reciting a secret formula, she can invoke a god at will and have a child by him. The mantra’s power is put to the test, and three sons are born to her: Yudhishthira, the first-born, truthful and virtuous, son of the god Dharma; Bhima, the strongest of men, son of Vayu, god of the wind; and Arjuna, an irresistible warrior, son of Indra. Madri, Pandu’s second wife, makes use of this power too. She gives birth to twin sons, Nakula and Sahadeva. Thanks to his two wives, Pandu now has five sons directly descended from the gods, the Pandavas, the heroes of the epic.
Years later, Pandu one day surrenders to his passion for Madri. Fearing for his life, Madri tries to push him away but her struggles only inflame his desire more. Once they make love, Pandu falls dead, fulfilling the curse, and Madri, devoted to him always, joins him on the funeral pyre.
Meanwhile, Dhritarashtra has become king, despite his blindness. He weds Gandhari in an arranged marriage. When she learns of her husband’s infirmity, she decides to cover her eyes with a blindfold which she will never remove, to join him in his world of darkness. Then, after an abnormally long pregnancy of two years, she gives birth to a ball of flesh. Vyasa tells her to split up the ball into 100 parts and put them in jars of ghee (Indian butter); in this way she becomes the mother of one hundred sons, the Kauravas.
The first born is called Duryodhana. Sinister omens of violence greet his arrival into the world: jackals howl, strong winds blow, fires rage through the city. Dhritarashtra worries about what all this means. Vidura tells him that his first son brings hate and destruction into the world. He will one day destroy their race. Vidura urges the king to get rid of the child, but Dhritarashtra ignores his advice.
Dhritarashtra is a weak ruler. He allows physical blindness to become a refusal to face reality and unwillingness to confront hard decisions, being easily led by Duryodhana in later years. He continually blames fate, excusing his own inaction: “Irrevocable were all the things that have happened. Who could have stopped them? What then can I do? Destiny is surely all-powerful” (KD 69). But one of Dhritarashtra’s advisors tells him: “O king, surely a man who meets with calamity as a result of his own acts should not blame the gods, destiny, or others. Each of us receives the just results of our actions” (KD 538).
Growing rivalry between the pandavas and the Kauravas Bhishma, now an old man, takes the responsibility of raising the two sets of cousins. They fight constantly, and
even try to kill each other. One day a teacher and master of arms, Drona, appears and offers his services to train the boys. He has a secret mission: to avenge an insult made by a former friend. When young, Drona was close to Drupada, but years later, when Drona went to see his childhood companion, now a great king, he was scorned by Drupada because “only equals can be friends.” As payment for his training, Drona asks the Pandavas to avenge him. Being mighty warriors, they conquer Drupada’s kingdom, and hand it over to Drona. He promptly gives his former friend half his kingdom back, saying “now we are equals.”
• For revenge, Drupada has children by sorcery, born out of flames: son Dhrishtadyumna is fated to kill Drona; an oracle says daughter Draupadi will “bring destruction on an unrighteous ruler;” a third child Sikhandi is Amba reborn.
• Later in the war, Drona and Bhishma will fight on the side of the Kauravas not so much out of loyalty but because their mortal enemies (Dhrishtadyumna and Sikhandi) fight with the Pandavas.
Drona recognizes Arjuna’s superiority as a master of arms, especially the bow, and favors him with special training. In a contest of skill, he tells each of the Pandavas to strike a target, the eye of a wooden bird in a tree. He asks each one in turn, “O prince, tell me what you see.” One by one they respond, “I see my teacher, my brothers,
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the tree and the bird.” Drona tells them, “Then you will not hit the mark.” Arjuna, however, says he sees only the bird, and in fact, only the eye of the bird. Thus, focused on his target alone, he strikes with total accuracy. Drona rewards Arjuna by giving him a supreme weapon, the Brahmasira, only to be used against celestial beings, or else it will destroy the world.
Drona stages a tournament to display all the Pandavas’ skills, but a stranger appears who challenges Arjuna and equals him in archery. This is Karna, who the reader learns is Kunti’s first son by Surya the sun god, whom she bore before she married Pandu and abandoned in a basket on the river (like Moses). Thus Karna is the older brother of the Pandavas. However, Karna does not know his real mother, being raised by a chariot driver. The Pandavas mock his lowly social status and will not fight with someone who is not of royal birth, but their cousin Duryodhana sees the chance to make an ally. Ignoring the strict rules of caste, he says, “Birth is obscure and men are like rivers whose origins are often unknown” (play). Duryodhana gives Karna a small kingdom, and Karna swears eternal friendship to the Kauravas.
• Karna’s lowly caste (social status) will haunt him throughout the epic; later at a contest for the hand of Draupadi, she rejects him outright because he is from a servant family. For a person who desires to be mea- sured by his accomplishments, living under this shadow is unbearable.
• As the child of the sun, Karna was born with golden armor over his skin. Later, the god Indra tricks Karna into giving this divine protection away.
• After Karna was born, Kunti remained a virgin
The Pandavas narrowly escape a plot by Duryodhana to burn them in a house made of highly flammable ma- terials. For months afterward, they live in hiding in the forest. One night as Bhima keeps watch while the others sleep, there appears a rakshasa named Hidimbi (a man-eating ogre, one type of demon). Assuming the form of a beautiful woman, she falls madly in love with Bhima, who fights and kills her venomous brother. Bhima and the magical creature then have a powerful demon child called Ghatotkatcha; he swears to come to the aid of his father whenever necessary.
Arjuna wins the hand of Draupadi The Pandavas attend the swayamvara of Draupadi, a ceremony where she will pick her husband from a number
of suitors. Arjuna wins the archery contest easily and Draupadi chooses him. When Arjuna announces to his mother that he has won the “prize,” Kunti tells him to share with his brothers, before seeing Draupadi. Like an irrevocable vow, her statement, even by mistake, can’t be undone, so all five brothers marry Draupadi, the daughter of Drupada.
This unusual marriage fulfills karma, for in her former life, Draupadi had prayed to the god Shiva for a husband five times, and thus is rewarded for her devotion in this life.
In the Mahabharata Shiva is not the “destroyer” of the later Puranas, but has more to do with blessings of fertili- ty: he also granted Gandhari her 100 sons.
The brothers agree to respect the privacy of each other when with Draupadi, but one day Arjuna enters the tent to retrieve his weapons and finds Yudhishthira and Draupadi in bed together. Even though Yudhishthira forgives him, Arjuna insists on keeping the vow. As penance, Arjuna goes into exile for a year; while away he marries three other wives, one Krishna’s sister, mostly for political alliances.
As tension mounts between the cousins, Krishna makes his appearance. It is said he may be an incarnation of the god Vishnu, the preserver, come down to save the earth from chaos. The appearance of Krishna introduces a major theme in the epic: dharma (cosmic order) menaced by chaos, so Krishna must step in, indicating that this is not just a family rivalry, but a conflict with universal consequences.
• In the medieval Puranas, the story developed that Vishnu had appeared on earth nine times in the past as an avatar or incarnation, in order to set the world back on the right path, and would appear again at the end of the age.
• Krishna’s deification in the Mahabharata may be based on later interpolations into the text, as there is con- siderable tension in the epic between the depiction of the divine Krishna and the human prince who acts as counselor to the Pandavas, gives devious advice, and eventually dies.
On Krishna’s advice the Pandavas present themselves to the blind king. To make peace, Dhritarashtra offers them half the kingdom, but in a region which was nothing but jungle and desert. Yudhishthira accepts his offer in the hope of averting a war.
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Meanwhile, Arjuna and Krishna agree to assist a hungry brahmin, who reveals himself to be Agni, god of fire. He wants to consume a nearby forest which is protected by Indra’s rain. Agni rewards Krishna with his discus and Arjuna with Varuna’s bow Gandiva along with an inexhaustible supply of arrows. With these he is able to create a canopy of arrows to keep the rain from putting out Agni’s fire. Even Indra cannot defeat Arjuna, because Krishna is with him (an indication of Vishnu’s superiority over Indra by this time). Maya (not god of illusion but an asura or demon who escaped the fires) out of gratitude builds the great hall of Indraprastha.
Living in their new territory of Indraprastha, Yudhishthira turns poor land into a wealthy kingdom, and de- clares himself King of Kings. Duryodhana is jealous and humiliated on his visit to the magnificent palace, where he mistakes a glass floor for a pool, then later falls into a pool thinking it is glass. Draupadi and Bhima laugh at him. He returns home bent on devising their destruction.
The Dice Game and the Humiliation of Draupadi Duryodhana follows the advice of his uncle, the cunning Shakuni, an infamous dice player, and invites Yud-
hishthira to a game, knowing full well that gambling is his cousin’s one weakness. Yudhishthira accepts.
• Duryodhana is not an original thinker, always relying on other’s ideas. His uncle gave him the idea for the arson and the dice game. (Later during the war Duryodhana suggests capturing Yudhishthira and playing another game, which Drona calls stupid.)
• Duryodhana always threatens to commit suicide when things don’t go his way (almost comical): “Excessive self-centeredness leads to unrealistic demands and unreasonable expectations from life” (Chaitanya 67).
• Kunti: “Duryodhana is a blind man’s son, living blindly.” (play)
Both Dhritarashtra and Yudhishthira ignore Vidura’s warning to avoid the game, leaving the results to “supreme and unavoidable” fate. Krishna warns Bhishma not to interfere with the dice game: “If your race must be destroyed to save dharma, would you allow it?” (play) Told by his father that a warrior’s dharma is to fight honorably, not to win at all costs, Duryodhana says, “The way of the warrior is fixed on victory, whether there’s dharma or adharma on his way.”
Carried away by the intoxication of the game, Yudhishthira wagers and loses all that he possesses: his lands, his kingdom, his brothers, even himself, and eventually Draupadi, who is dragged before the company by her hair, a special insult since a married woman’s hair was sacred.
She challenges the Kauravas with a question: how can someone who has lost himself wager someone else in a game, but no one can answer her. Even Bhishma is confounded: “The ways of dharma are subtle.” When even the wise Bhishma cannot resolve the question, she says, “I think time is out of joint. The ancient eternal dharma is lost among the Kauravas.” Instead, they insult her, displaying her during the time of her period. Karna, still stinging from his rejection at the swayamvara, calls her a harlot who services five men. Duryodhana seeks to entice her by uncovering his thigh (obscene in that culture). Enraged at this treatment of his wife, Bhima vows that he will one day drink Duhsasana’s blood and break Duryodhana’s thigh.
Draupadi is about to be stripped naked when she invokes Krishna, who comes to her rescue and creates an endless supply of cloth around her. She swears that one day she will be avenged. There will be a great war, a war without mercy. At her curse a jackal howls. Frightened, Dhritarashtra apologizes to her and gives her husbands’ back everything they lost, but Draupadi asks nothing for herself, saying, “Greed devours all beings and is dharma’s [righteousness] ruin. I refuse greed.” (CN 55)
Seeing his advantage given away, Duryodhana insists on one more throw of the dice. Yudhishthira agrees to a final game, but once again, he loses. The Pandavas and Draupadi are condemned to spend twelve years in exile in the forest, and a thirteenth year in an unknown place, disguised so that no one may recognize them. If anyone does, then they must spend another twelve years in exile.
pArT Two: ExILE Books 3-5 tell of the twelve years of living in the forest, preceding the great war. The Pandavas are not alone in
the wilderness but are followed by many loyal brahmins and servants. The gods give them an inexhaustible plate of food to feed all of them.
Throughout the epic, the importance of brahmins, the priestly caste, is emphasized. Yudhishthira wants to regain his kingdom so that he can provide for 10,000 brahmins. One must never refuse a brahmin anything
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The Importance of Dharma Draupadi and Bhima reproach Yudhishthira for his inaction and resigned passivity. Since it is obvious that
Shakuni cheated at dice, wouldn’t it be better to stand up and fight? Yudhishthira flatly refuses. He will keep his word: he resolves to follow his dharma. Dharma (variously translated as social duty, righteousness, or universal or- der) is the moral obligation which each human being should recognize and follow. Failure to do so could endanger the course of the cosmos as a whole.
Draupadi cannot understand why they are suffering so, if they are the righteous ones. If everything happens by the will of god, then why do the good suffer? It seems only the powerful escape harm, not the righteous. Yudhishthira corrects her: “None should ever perform virtue with a desire to gain its fruits. Such a sinful trader of virtue will never reap the results. ... Do not doubt virtue because you do not see its results. Without doubt, the fruits of virtue will be manifest in time, as will the fruits of sin. The fruits of true virtue are eternal and indestructible” (KD 245-6).
preparations for war Arjuna then leaves, aiming for the highest mountains to look for the celestial weapons they will need during
the war. He meets the god Shiva who gives him powerful weapons. Arjuna then spends five years with his father the divine Indra learning to use the weapons fighting demons.
Meanwhile Karna decides he too must acquire a celestial weapon, so for many months he serves a powerful brahmin, Parasurama, who hates warriors. As a reward, he bestows upon Karna, whom he takes to be a servant, a formula for the supreme weapon. But Karna reveals himself to be a warrior by an excess of bravery, as he does not cry out when a worm bores a hole into his thigh. Parasurama curses him so he will forget the secret formula at the moment he wishes for the weapon, and that will be the moment of his death.
• In the Medieval Puranas, Parasurama becomes one of the avatars of Vishnu, but there is no indication of that aspect in the epic.
Karna later meets Indra (Arjuna’s divine father) in the disguise of a brahmin. Having sworn never to refuse a brahmin’s request, he agrees to surrender his divine covering of golden armor given him at birth. He tears off the armor from his skin, bleeding, and trades it for another mighty weapon, which will kill any being but can only be used once.
During their exile, the Pandavas rescue Duryodhana who is captured during battle, to his great humiliation. Honor bids him swear to repay Arjuna one day. (During the war, Arjuna asks Duryodhana to surrender five arrows of Bhishma’s meant to kill the Pandavas, and he does so, to keep his vow.) Duryodhana is so depressed after his rescue that he intends to kill himself. The Danavas (a family of demons) need him as their champion (he was born at their request) and appear before him. The demons promise they will possess his armies during the coming war, which will continue to give him false hope.
One day, four of the Pandavas are killed by drinking the water from a poisonous lake. However Yudhishthira brings his brothers back to life by correctly answering the questions which Dharma, disguised as a crane, puts to him.
The Thirteenth year According to the conditions of the game of dice, the thirteenth year which the Pandavas are to spend in dis-
guise has now arrived. Yudhishthira (who presents himself as a poor brahmin), his brothers and Draupadi (who pass for wandering servants) all find refuge at the court of King Virata. Kicaka, a general in Virata’s court becomes infatuated with Draupadi. He goes to great lengths to possess her, even threatening her life. Draupadi implores the mighty Bhima to help her; dressed in woman’s clothes, he goes in her stead to a secret rendezvous, and pulverizes the over-amorous general into a bloody mass of flesh.
Meanwhile Duryodhana has launched an attack on Virata’s kingdom. The king entrusts his troops to his young son who needs a chariot driver. Draupadi, who seeks war with the Kauravas at all costs, points out Arjuna as the world’s best charioteer, despite the fact that he has disguised himself as a eunuch. Arjuna cannot refuse to fight and is decisively victorious, one man against countless armies.
War draws even closer. Duryodhana refuses to give his cousins back their kingdom because he claims they came out of hiding before the appointed time. He tries to win Krishna’s support, as does Arjuna. Krishna offers Ar- juna first choice: either he can have all of Krishna’s armies, or he can have Krishna alone. Arjuna chooses Krishna, allowing Duryodhana to have the armies. When Arjuna asks him to drive his chariot, Krishna accepts.
In the Kaurava court, the blind king also senses the imminence of war. He asks the elderly Bhishma, an unpar- alleled warrior, to take the supreme command. His duty to the family outweighs his feelings toward the Pandavas,
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and he reluctantly accepts, but on one condition: that Karna does not fight. Although displeased, Karna bitterly agrees to fight only after Bhishma’s death.
Dhritarashtra sends an envoy to Yudhishthira and begs not to fight since he loves righteousness. It would be better to live without his kingdom than risk the lives of so many. Yudhishthira responds that each caste has its own duty, and his is to be a warrior/king, not a brahmin/beggar. However, even he has reservations: “War is evil in any form. To the dead, victory and defeat are the same” (CN 101).
Krishna arrives as an emissary in a final attempt to safeguard peace. He speaks to Duryodhana who does not listen to him, but orders his guards to seize him. Krishna reveals his divine form: “Krishna laughed and as he did, his body suddenly flashed like lightning. He began to grow in size and various gods issued from him. Brahma sprang from his forehead and Shiva from his chest” (KD 492). Krishna allows even the blind Dhritarashtra to see his glory. Finally, he speaks to Karna, going so far as to reveal that he is the brother of those with whom he intends to fight. But Karna feels abandoned by his mother in his very first hours of life; furthermore he senses the end of this world. He will fight alongside the Kauravas, even though he can already foresee their defeat and his own death.
Duryodhana will not listen to warnings. He convinces himself that since the gods had not blessed the Pandavas thus far, they would not protect them during the war. “I can sacrifice my life, my wealth, my kingdom, my everything, but I can never live in peace with the Pandavas. I will not surrender to them even as much land as can be pierced by the point of a needle” (KD 453). He makes excuses for his nature: “I am whatever the gods have made me” (KD 482).
pArT THrEE: THE wAr Books 5-10 recount the 18-day war between the Pandavas and the Kauravas. The Kauravas have eleven divisions to stand against the seven of the Pandavas. The two armies are described
as two oceans, crashing against each other. Briefly it’s described as a “beautiful sight” (CN 125-6). Kunti tells the narrator Vyasa (in play): “You find too much beauty in men’s death. Blood decorates your poem, and the cries of the dying are your music.”
Bad omens appear prior to battle as thousands of carrion birds gather “crying in glee” (KD 539). Karna prophe- sies that his side will lose, that this is nothing but “a great sacrifice of arms” with Krishna as high priest.
Both sides agree to abide by certain rules of war: no fighting humans with celestial weapons, no fighting at night, do not strike someone who’s retreating or unarmed, or on the back or legs. All these rules will eventually be broken.
The Bhagavad Gita (“The Lord’s Song”)
Just as the battle is about to start, Arjuna falters at the sight of his relatives and teachers, now his sworn enemies. He breaks down and refuses to fight.
How can any good come from killing one’s own relatives? What value is victory if all our friends and loved ones are killed? … We will be overcome by sin if we slay such aggressors. Our proper duty is surely to forgive them. Even if they have lost sight of dharma due to greed, we ourselves should not forget dharma in the same way. (KD 544-5)
Arjuna fears that acting out his own dharma as warrior will conflict with universal dharma: how can killing family members be good, and not disrupt the social order? Herein lies an unresolved conflict in Hinduism between universal dharma and svadharma (an individual’s duty according to caste and station in life). A warrior must kill to fulfill his duty, whereas a brahmin must avoid harming any living creature. Even demons have their own castes and svadharma, which may run counter to human morality. One person’s dharma may be another’s sin. This doctrine distinguishes Hindu thought from religions such as Judeo-Christianity and Islam which teach universal or absolute moral codes.
His charioteer Krishna addresses him as they pause in the no-man’s land between the two armies. This passage is the celebrated Bhagavad Gita, the guide to firm and resolute action.
• Unlike many epic heroes, at this point Arjuna thinks before he acts. Arjuna hesitates before such killing, wanting to retreat from life and responsibility (tension between dharma and moksha), but Krishna tells him as a warrior it’s his dharma to fight. The real conflict today is with the self on the “battlefield of the soul.
• Don’t worry about death, which is only one small step in the great and endless cycle of life. One neither kills or is killed. The soul merely casts off old bodies and enters new ones, just as a person changes gar- ments. Death is only illusion (maya).
• How does a warrior perform his duty without doing wrong, polluting himself with the blood of his ene- mies? The secret is detachment: do your duty without concern for the personal consequences. “Victory and defeat, pleasure and pain are all the same. Act, but don’t reflect on the fruits of the act. Forget desire, seek detachment.” (play)
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• We must always do what is right without desiring success or fearing defeat. “Work without desire for the results, and thus without entangling yourself in karmic reactions” (KD 550). Krishna tells Arjuna that good deeds will not get one to heaven if the desire for heaven is the sole motivation for good deeds. Desire is responsible for rebirth; if any desire remains when we die, we must return to another life.
• Likewise, Yudhishthira told Draupadi during the exile that he performs dharma not for reward but because it is what a good person does; after the battle he has a similar crisis when he temporarily refuses to rule, despairing at all the carnage he has caused.
• “Actions performed under the direct guidance of the Supreme Lord or His representative are called akarma. This type of activity produces neither good nor bad reactions. Just as a soldier may kill under the command of his superior officer and not be held responsible for murder, though if he kills on his own accord he is liable for punishment, similarly, a Krishna-conscious person acts under the Lord’s direction and not for his own sake” (BG as it is: online).
• “Such a person takes no delight in sensual pleasures. He is ever satisfied within himself. No miseries can disturb him, nor any kind of material happiness. He is without attachment, fear and anger, and remains always aloof to the dualities of the world. … His mind is fixed upon the Supreme and he is always peaceful” (KD 551).
• There are two paths to liberation: renunciation (moksha) and performing one’s duty without desire. Since no one can truly renounce all action in life (this is a pretense of asceticism), it is better to work without at- tachment (KD 551). Some scholars think that the Bhagavad Gita was composed to combat a religious chal- lenge from Jainism and Buddhism which arose in the sixth century BC, both teaching salvation through renouncing the world, the former by asceticism, the latter by monastic life (Kinsley 31).
• Krishna explains that the knowledge he imparts is ancient, just as he told it millions of years ago. Arjuna asks, “How can I accept this? It appears that you were born in this world only recently.” Krishna explains, birth too is an illusion, as men are born countless times. But in Krishna’s case, he comes into every age: “Whenever righteousness (dharma) becomes lax, O Arjuna, and injustice (adharma) arises, then I send myself forth to protect the good and bring evildoers to destruction. For the secure establishment of dhar- ma, I come into being age after age. ... I was born to destroy the destroyers.”
• Krishna then reveals his divine, universal nature to Arjuna in a magnificent vision of a multitude of gods, stretching out to infinity. Resolved now to perform his duty to his lord, Arjuna leads his troops into battle.
On a hill overlooking the battlefield, Dhritarashtra hears the words of Krishna through his aid Sanjaya, who
has been granted the ability to see and hear everything that happens in the battle, to relate these things to the blind king. Dhritarashtra shudders when he hears of Krishna’s theophany, fearing that nothing can stop the Pandavas with such a powerful being on their side. But he takes some comfort in knowing that Krishna cannot accomplish everything he wants, as he failed to arrange a peaceful solution to the conflict.
Before the battle, Yudhishthira goes to both his teachers, Bhishma and Drona: “O invincible one, I bow to you. We will fight with you. Please grant us your permission and give us your blessing.” For this sign of respect, both men pray for the Pandavas’ victory, even though they must out of loyalty fight on the side of the Kauravas.
The Battle Begins Bhishma compares the invincible Arjuna to “the Destroyer himself at the end of the Yuga.” (CN 126) In one
confrontation, Arjuna splits Bhishma’s bow with four arrows, and Bhishma praises him: “O son of Pandu, well done! I am pleased with you for this wonderful feat. Now fight your hardest with me” (KD 581). However, he is unable to overcome Bhishma. After nine days of fighting, the Pandavas visit Bhishma by night; they tell him that, unless he is killed in the war, the carnage will carry on until the end of the world.
When asked how he can be defeated, he advises them to place Sikhandi in the front line, from where he will be able to fire freely at Bhishma. Sikhandi is actually a woman, Amba whom Bhishma had refused to marry and who vowed to be his death. Amba practiced asceticism, standing on one toe in the snow for twelve years to learn the se- cret of Bhishma’s death. Amba threw herself into the fire and was reborn from flames as Drupada’s second daughter, later changing sex with a demon to become a man
The next day, confronted by Sikhandi, Bhishma refuses to fight a woman, and he abandons his weapons. Against the rules of war, the Pandavas strike the unarmed warrior with thousands of arrows. There is no space
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on his body thicker than two fingers that is not pierced. He falls from his chariot, and lies fully supported by the arrows, with no part of his body touching the earth. Bhishma does not actually die until much later, at his choosing. He remains lying on a bed of arrows until the end of the battle.
Drona takes command Drona positions the armies in a formation known only to him, the iron disc of war, which nobody knows how
to break open, apart from Arjuna. If only Arjuna can be diverted away from the central battle, Drona promises vic- tory. Arjuna has a fifteen-year old son, Abhimanyu, who, by listening to his father while still in his mother’s womb, has learned to force an entry into Drona’s battle formation. As Arjuna is called to a diversionary battle far away, Yudhishthira entrusts Abhimanyu with the task of opening a breach in the disc. Abhimanyu succeeds, but when Bhima and Yudhishthira try to follow him into the opening, they are stopped by Jayadratha, a brother-in-law to the Kauravas, and the breach closes behind the young Abhimanyu. In spite of his bravery, he is killed.
• Earlier during the time of exile, Jayadratha had tried to kidnap Draupadi, thus another reason for the Pan- davas to hate him.
At this point Arjuna returns to the camp. Inflamed with rage and grief at the sight of his son’s body, he vows to kill Jayadratha before sunset on the following day. He solemnly swears to throw himself into the sacrificial fire, should he fail. Even Krishna is alarmed by this terrible oath. On the next day, Jayadratha is heavily guarded, and Ar- juna is unable to reach him. Krishna causes a momentary eclipse of the sun, convincing the enemy that, since night has come, Arjuna must have killed himself because he hasn’t kept his vow. Rejoicing, they lay down their arms, leaving Jayadratha vulnerable to Arjuna’s arrow.
Jayadratha’s father had pronounced a curse on anyone who killed his son, saying that whoever caused his son’s head to fall to the ground would die. Using magical mantras, Arjuna causes his arrow not only to sever Jayadratha’s head, but to carry it miles away to fall into his father’s lap. Being in prayer, he doesn’t realize what’s happened; he stands up and the head falls, thus he dies from his own curse.
The following day, Karna hurls himself into the battle. Kunti tries to persuade him to join the Pandavas, but Karna is inflexible. However, he does promise Kunti that he will only kill Arjuna, for one of them must die. In this way, she will still have five sons after the war.
Karna possesses a magic lance, the gift of Indra, which will kill any living being but can be used only once. He keeps it in reserve for Arjuna. To dispose of this lance, Krishna calls upon Ghatotkatcha, son of Bhima and the rak- shasa. During the night, he fights an epic battle against Karna, who can destroy the demon only by resorting to his magic lance. Ghatotkatcha is killed, but Krishna dances for joy. With his lance now expended, Karna is vulnerable and Arjuna can kill him.
Drona continues to challenge the Pandava armies, slaying thousands. But the Pandavas know his weakness: the love of his only son Ashvatthama. Bhima slays an elephant, also called Ashvatthama, then deceitfully tells Drona of the death of his son. Suspecting a lie, Drona asks Yudhishthira for the truth: is his son dead or not? Drona will lay down his arms the day an honest man lies. Krishna tells Yudhishthira: “Under such circumstances, falsehood is preferable to truth. By telling a lie to save a life, one is not touched by sin” (CN 157). Yudhishthira speaks a half-lie, “Ashvatthama – (and muttering under his breath) the elephant – is dead.” Before his lie, Yudhishthira’s chariot rode four inches off the ground, but now it sinks back to earth. Drona lays down his arms. Drupada’s son Dhrishtadyum- na cuts off Drona’s head, having sworn to avenge his father’s humiliation.
Meanwhile Bhima sees Duhsasana coming towards him. Bhima had sworn to drink the blood of this avowed enemy for what he had done to Draupadi. Bhima knocks Duhsasana to the ground with his mace and rips open his chest. He drinks his blood, saying that it tastes better than his mother’s milk. Bhima, who kills many Rakshasa (and has a son by one), often acts like the man-eating ogres himself—the bloody deaths of Kicaka and Duhsasana, both to avenge Draupadi; Bhima is her most passionate defender. Bhima kills most of the 100 Kauravas, who were demons incarnate.
The Death of Karna Duryodhana asks Karna to avenge his brother Duhsasana, and he finally meets Arjuna in the decisive con-
frontation. Arjuna and Karna both have celestial weapons (for example, one shoots arrows of fire to be quenched by arrows
of water). Karna has an arrow possessed by a Naga (serpent) spirit who holds a grudge against Arjuna (his family had died in the forest consumed by Agni). When Karna shoots at Arjuna, his charioteer warns him that his aim is too high, but he refuses to listen, and hits Arjuna’s coronet only. When the spirit-possessed arrow returns to him
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and says try again, this time he will not miss, Karna won’t admit failure by shooting the same arrow twice, even if he could kill 100 Arjunas.
As the fight continues, the earth opens up and seizes Karna’s chariot wheel, in fulfillment of a curse. In des- peration, Karna tries to invoke his ultimate weapon, but the magic words escape him. He remembers Parasurama’s words: “When you life depends on your most powerful weapon, you will not be able to summon it.” In his last moments, Karna questions his beliefs: “Knowers of dharma have always said, ‘Dharma protects those devoted to dharma.’ But since my wheel sank today, I think dharma does not always protect” (CN 165).
As he struggles to release his chariot, he cries out to Arjuna: “Do not strike an unarmed man. Wait until I can extract my wheel. You are a virtuous warrior. Remember the codes of war.” But Krishna taunts him: “Men in distress always call on virtue, forgetting their own evil deeds. Where was your virtue, O Karna, when Draupadi was brought weeping in the Kuru assembly? Where was it when Yudhishthira was robbed of his kingdom?” (KD 780) Karna’s head sinks to his chest, and he remains silent, while continuing to struggle with the chariot wheel. Krishna commands Arjuna to shoot, and Karna dies. A bright light rises out of Karna’s body and enters the sun.
• Stubborn but loyal, Karna could have been king, as eldest of the Pandavas, but he remained with the Kau- ravas. He always fights fair, and keeps his promise to Kunti not to kill any brothers but Arjuna. Their rivalry echoes the mythic conflict between their divine fathers Indra and Surya.
The Death of Duryodhana Over the eighteen-day war, Duryodhana has seen his generals and their armies fall to the Pandavas, but to the
very end he refuses to surrender. He hides in the waters of a lake, which he has solidified over him by magic. Ever the gambler, Yudhishthira tells Duryodhana that he can fight any brother he chooses, and if he wins, the kingdom will be his again. It says something of Duryodhana that he fights with Bhima rather than one of the weaker broth- ers. In a close battle between equals, Bhima wins only by treacherously striking Duryodhana on the legs, forbidden in the rules of war. Gandhari had put a protective spell over Duryodhana’s body, but because he wore a loin cloth for modesty before his mother, his thighs were not protected.
Duryodhana accuses Krishna of taking sides unfairly and encouraging Bhima’s treachery. Krishna responds: “Deceit in battle is acceptable against a deceitful foe. Even Indra used deceit to overcome the mighty asuras Viro- chana and Vritra.” An onlooker remarks, “Bhima has sacrificed dharma for the sake of material gain. This can never lead to success and happiness.” Krishna replies that Bhima was merely keeping his earlier vow, a sacred duty: “There is no unrighteousness in Bhima. He has carried out his promise and requited the debt he owed his enemy. Know that the terrible age of Kali is at hand, marked by fierce acts and the loss of dharma” (KD 811-13).
Duryodhana responds bravely: “I am now dying a glorious death. That end which is always sought by virtuous warriors is mine. Who is as fortunate as me? With all my brothers I will ascend to heaven, while you Pandavas will remain here, torn by grief and continuing to suffer” (KD 816).
As Duryodhana lies dying, Ashvatthama, Drona’s son, tells him how he sneaked into the camp of the victorious Pandavas at night to perpetrate a hideous massacre, killing the remaining warriors and all the children while asleep, leaving the Pandavas without any heirs. Rather than welcoming the news, Duryodhana dies disheartened that the race of the Kurus appears to have no future.
Thus all those on both sides die in the war, except the five Pandavas. When Yudhishthira learns of the massacre, he mourns: “We the conquerors have been conquered.”
When the Pandavas seek revenge, Ashvatthama launches the most fearsome celestial weapon in his arsenal. Arjuna counters with his own weapon, which Drona taught both of them; it was only to be used against divine be- ings, or else it could destroy the world. Ashvatthama deflects his into the wombs of the remaining Pandava women, making them sterile, but Krishna promises that Arjuna will nonetheless have descendants. As punishment, Ashvat- thama is cursed to wander the earth in exile for 3000 years.
The Aftermath
Books 11-18 contain events following the war and teachings by Bhishma. After the war, when Krishna exits the chariot, it bursts into flames; only his presence kept the celestial weapons
from destroying it earlier. Krishna reveals that the gods allowed this war to relieve Earth of her great burden (simi- lar to Troy). Duryodhana was the incarnation of Kali, lord of the fourth age.
Yudhishthira reports the death toll at six million. Appalled at such losses, he has a personal crisis similar to Arjuna before the battle. He doesn’t want to rule because it requires the use of force and more violence. He sees that life itself is painful, as men are always searching for more material wealth and power, never satisfied. The man who prizes gold and dirt equally is happiest. The others convince him he must rule and fulfill his duty.
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Yudhishthira has a vision of the age to come: “I see the coming of another age, where barbaric kings rule over a vicious, broken world; where puny, fearful, hard men live tiny lives, white hair at sixteen, copulating with animals, their women perfect whores, making love with greedy mouths. The cows dry, trees stunted, no more flowers, no more purity; ambition, corruption, the age of Kali, the black time” (play).
Bhima asks, why has he come this far only to quit, like a man climbing a honey tree but refusing to taste it, or a man in bed with a woman but refusing to make love? Draupadi questions his manhood, as only eunuchs seek tranquility and avoid violence. Arjuna says refusing to rule will only cause more disorder and create for him great amount of bad karma to face in next life of lowly birth. We should accept our role depending on where we are in life: a father has obligation to his family while they are young, likewise a king must first rule, then in the last years of life he may abandon the world, but to do so earlier would be an act of selfishness.
In his dying speech, pierced by many arrows, Bhishma tells Yudhishthira that in the fourth age (our present age), “dharma becomes adharma and adharma, dharma.” Somewhat paradoxically, he continues, “If one fights against trickery, one should oppose him with trickery. But if one fights lawfully, one should check him with dharma ... One should conquer evil with good. Death by dharma is better than victory by evil deeds.”
Bhishma’s dying advice to Yudhishthira lasts fifty days and covers two of the longest books in the epic (12-13); some of the topics:
• “There is no duty higher than Truth,” but five falsehoods are not sinful: lying in jest, lying to a woman, lying at wedding, lying to save a teacher, lying to save one’s life.
• The foremost duty of kings is to revere Brahmins. • “No creature is more sinful than woman; women are the root of all evil; she is poison, she is a snake, she
is fire,” but at the same time, “Righteousness of men depends on women. All pleasures and enjoyments depend on women.”
• Cows constitute the stairs that lead to heaven; cows are goddesses able to grant every wish; nothing in the world superior; one should never go to bed or rise in the morning without reciting the names of cows.” Cows provide cleansing from sin. “There is nothing unattainable for one who is devoted to cows” (this goes on for about fifty pages).
• 1000 names of Vishnu (twenty-six pages) • Shortly after, Arjuna tells Krishna that he has forgotten his teaching (contained in the Bhagavad Gita), so
for thirty-six chapters this advice is repeated.
Now that all her sons are dead, Gandhari’s eyes are so charged with grief that, by looking under her blindfold, her emotion sears the flesh of Yudhishthira’s foot. She curses Krishna, whom she holds responsible for all of the tragedy that has befallen them: the Pandava kingdom will fall in thirty-six years. Even Krishna will die; he shall be killed by a passing stranger. Krishna calmly accepts this curse, then tells her that a light has been saved, even if she cannot see it. Yudhishthira agrees to reign.
Dhritarashtra has one son by another wife who survives the war. Yuyutsu chose to fight on the side of the Pandavas, deciding to follow dharma rather than loyalty to his family. After the war, out of gratitude Yudhishthira makes Yuyutsu king of his old territory Indraprastha.
Thirty-six years pass, and Yudhishthira arrives at the entrance to paradise, carrying a dog in his arms. His brothers and Draupadi, who left the earth with him, have fallen from the mountains into the abyss along the way. A gatekeeper tells him to abandon the dog if he wants to enter paradise. He refuses to leave a creature so faithful, and is permitted to enter, for this was a test, the dog was the god Dharma in disguise. In paradise, further surprises await him. His enemies are there, smiling and contented. His brothers and Draupadi, on the other hand, seem to be in a place of suffering and torment. Why? Yudhishthira decides to stay with his loved ones in hell, rather than enjoy the delights of heaven with his enemies. This too was a test, the “final illusion.” They are all permitted to enter paradise.
• In Hindu thought, neither heaven (svarga) or hell are eternal, but only intervals between rebirths. Everyone must first spend some time in hell (or a hell, as there are many) to pay for the sins of the most recent life. Yudhishthira had to experience hell for only a moment, because of his lie to Drona. Heaven is obtained by good deeds, but only for a limited time until the accumulated merit runs out.
• According to one tradition, there are six planes of existence (lokas) above earth and seven lokas (hells) below. However, no action can occur in these other worlds, so that a person’s karma doesn’t change until he returns to earth.
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• “Actions performed in accordance with scriptural injunctions … lead the performer to the heavenly planets for prolonged sensual enjoyment. However, when a person’s pious credits are exhausted, he must return to Earth, just as a person returns from a holiday and resumes his work.” (“BG as it is: Online”)
[Due to the length of the Mahabharata, the summary included above, followed by selections from the work, provide for a more in-depth look at the text.]
The Mahabharata of Krishna
Dwaipayana Vyas, Translated by Kisari Mohan Ganguli
Book 2 The Dice Game Section LVIII
Vaisampayana said,—”The sons of Pritha with Yudhishthira at their head, having entered that assembly house, approached all the kings that were present there. And worshipping all those that deserved to be worshipped, and sa- luting others as each deserved according to age, they seated themselves on seats that were clean and furnished with costly carpets. After they had taken their seats, as also all the kings, Sakuni the son of Suvala addressed Yudhishthi- ra and said, ‘O king, the assembly is full. All had been waiting for thee. Let, therefore, the dice be cast and the rules of play be fixed, O Yudhishthira.’
‘Yudhishthira replied, ‘Deceitful gambling is sinful. There is no Kshatriya prowess in it. There is certainly no morality in it. Why, then, O king, dost thou praise gambling so? The wise applaud not the pride that gamesters feel in deceitful play. O Sakuni, vanquish us, not like a wretch, by deceitful means.’
Sakuni said,—’That high-souled player who knoweth the secrets of winning and losing, who is skilled in baf- fling the deceitful arts of his confrere, who is united in all the diverse operations of which gambling consisteth, truly knoweth the play, and he suffereth all in course of it. O son of Pritha, it is the staking at dice, which may be lost or won that may injure us. And it is for that reason that gambling is regarded as a fault. Let us, therefore, O king, begin the play. Fear not. Let the stakes be fixed. Delay not!’
“Yudhishthira said,—’That best of Munis, Devala, the son of Asita, who always instructeth us about all those acts that may lead to heaven, hell, or the other regions, hath said, that it is sinful to play deceitfully with a gamester. To obtain victory in battle without cunning or stratagem is the best sport. Gambling, however, as a sport, is not so. Those that are respectable never use the language of the Mlechchas, nor do they adopt deceitfulness in their be- haviour. War carried on without crookedness and cunning, this is the act of men that are honest. Do not, O Sakuni, playing desperately, win of us that wealth with which according to our abilities, we strive to learn how to benefit the Brahmanas. Even enemies should not be vanquished by desperate stakes in deceitful play. I do not desire either happiness or wealth by means of cunning. The conduct of one that is a gamester, even if it be without deceitfulness, should not be applauded.’
“Sakuni said,—’O Yudhishthira, it is from a desire of winning, which is not a very honest motive, that one high- born person approacheth another (in a contest of race superiority). So also it is from a desire of defeating, which is not a very honest motive, that one learned person approacheth another (in a contest of learning). Such motives, however, are scarcely regarded as really dishonest. So also, O Yudhishthira, a person skilled at dice approacheth one that is not so skilled from a desire of vanquishing him. One also who is conversant with the truths of science ap- proacheth another that is not from desire of victory, which is scarcely an honest motive. But (as I have already said) such a motive is not really dishonest. And, O Yudhishthira, so also one that is skilled in weapons approacheth one that is not so skilled; the strong approacheth the weak. This is the practice in every contest. The motive is victory, O Yudhishthira. If, therefore, thou, in approaching me, regardest me to be actuated by motives that are dishonest, if thou art under any fear, desist then from play.’
“Yudhishthira said,—’Summoned, I do not withdraw. This is my established vow. And, O king, Fate is all pow- erful. We all are under the control of Destiny. With whom in this assembly am I to play? Who is there that can stake equally with me? Let the play begin.’
“Duryodhana said,—’O monarch, I shall supply jewels and gems and every kind of wealth. And it is for me that this Sakuni, my uncle, will play.’
“Yudhishthira said,—’Gambling for one’s sake by the agency of another seemeth to me to be contrary to rule. Thou also, O learned one, will admit this. If, however, thou art still bent on it, let the play begin.’”
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Section LIX Vaisampayana said,—”When the play commenced, all those kings with Dhritarashtra at their head took their
seats in that assembly. And, O Bharata, Bhishma and Drona and Kripa and the high-souled Vidura with cheerless hearts sat behind. And those kings with leonine necks and endued with great energy took their seats separately and in pairs upon many elevated seats of beautiful make and colour. And, O king, that mansion looked resplendent with those assembled kings like heaven itself with a conclave of the celestials of great good fortune. And they were all conversant with the Vedas and brave and of resplendent countenances. And, O great king, the friendly match at dice then commenced.
Yudhishthira said,—”O king, this excellent wealth of pearls of great value, procured from the ocean by churn- ing it (of old), so beautiful and decked with pure gold, this, O king, is my stake. What is thy counter stake, O great king,--the wealth with which thou wishest to play with me?”
“Duryodhana said,—’I have many jewels and much wealth. But I am not vain of them. Win thou this stake.’ Vaisampayana continued,—”Then Sakuni, well-skilled at dice, took up the dice and (casting them) said unto
Yudhishthira, ‘Lo, I have won!’”
Section LX Yudhishthira said,—”Thou hast won this stake of me by unfair means. But be not so proud, O Sakuni. Let us play
staking thousands upon thousands. I have many beautiful jars each full of a thousand Nishkas in my treasury, inex- haustible gold, and much silver and other minerals. This, O king, is the wealth with which I will stake with thee!’”
Vaisampayana continued,—”Thus addressed, Sakuni said unto the chief of the perpetuators of the Kuru race, the eldest of the sons of Pandu, king Yudhishthira, of glory incapable of sustaining any diminution. ‘Lo, I have won!’”
Yudhishthira said,—’This my sacred and victorious and royal car which gladdeneth the heart and hath carried us hither, which is equal unto a thousand cars, which is of symmetrical proportions and covered with tiger-skin, and furnished with excellent wheels and flag-staffs which is handsome, and decked with strings of little bells, whose clatter is even like the roar of the clouds or of the ocean, and which is drawn by eight noble steeds known all over the kingdom and which are white as the moon-beam and from whose hoofs no terrestrial creature can escape--this, O king, is my wealth with which I will stake with thee!’”
Vaisampayana continued,—”Hearing these words, Sakuni ready with the dice, and adopting unfair means, said unto Yudhishthira, ‘Lo, I have won!’
“Yudhishthira said,—’I have a hundred thousand serving-girls, all young, and decked with golden bracelets on their wrists and upper arms, and with nishkas round their necks and other ornaments, adorned with costly gar- lands and attired in rich robes, daubed with the sandal paste, wearing jewels and gold, and well-skilled in the four and sixty elegant arts, especially versed in dancing and singing, and who wait upon and serve at my command the celestials, the Snataka Brahmanas, and kings. With this wealth, O king, I will stake with thee!’”
Vaisampayana continued,—’Hearing these words, Sakuni ready with the dice, adopting unfair means, said unto Yudhishthira. ‘Lo, I have won!’
Yudhishthira said,—”I have thousands of serving-men, skilled in waiting upon guests, always attired in silken robes, endued with wisdom and intelligence, their senses under control though young, and decked with ear-rings, and who serve all guests night and day with plates and dishes in hand. With this wealth, O king, I will stake with thee!’”
Vaisampayana continued,—”Hearing these words, Sakuni, ready with the dice, adopting unfair means said unto Yudhishthira, ‘Lo, I have won!’
“Yudhishthira said,—’I have, O son of Suvala, one thousand musty elephants with golden girdles, decked with ornaments, with the mark of the lotus on their temples and necks and other parts, adorned with golden garlands, with fine white tusks long and thick as plough-shafts, worthy of carrying kings on their backs, capable of bearing every kind of noise on the field of battle, with huge bodies, capable of battering down the walls of hostile towns, of the colour of new-formed clouds, and each possessing eight she-elephants. With this wealth, O king, I will stake with thee.’”
Vaisampayana continued,—”Unto Yudhishthira who had said so, Sakuni, the son of Suvala, laughingly said, ‘Lo, I have won it!’
Yudhishthira said,—’I have as many cars as elephants, all furnished with golden poles and flag-staffs and well- trained horses and warriors that fight wonderfully and each of whom receiveth a thousand coins as his monthly pay whether he fighteth or not. With this wealth, O king, I will stake with thee!’”
Vaisampayana continued,—”When these words had been spoken, the wretch Sakuni, pledged to enmity, said unto Yudhishthira, ‘Lo, I have won it.’
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Yudhishthira said.—’The steeds of the Tittiri, Kalmasha, and Gandharva breeds, decked with ornaments, which Chitraratha having been vanquished in battle and subdued cheerfully gave unto Arjuna, the wielder of the Gandi- va. With this wealth, O king, I will stake with thee.” Vaisampayana continued, “Hearing this, Sakuni, ready at dice, adopting unfair means, said unto Yudhishthira: ‘Lo, I have won!’
Yudhishthira said,—’I have ten thousand cars and vehicles unto which are yoked draught animals of the fore- most breed. And I have also sixty thousand warriors picked from each order by thousands, who are all brave and endued with prowess like heroes, who drink milk and eat good rice, and all of whom have broad chests. With this wealth, O king, I will stake with thee.’
Vaisampayana continued,—”Hearing this, Sakuni ready at dice, adopting unfair means said unto Yudhishthira, ‘Lo, I have won!’
Yudhishthira said,—’I have four hundred Nidis (jewels of great value) encased in sheets of copper and iron. Each one of them is equal to five draunikas of the costliest and purest leaf gold of the Jatarupa kind. With this wealth, O king, I will stake with thee.’”
Vaisampayana continued,—”Hearing this, Sakuni ready at dice, adopting foul means, said unto Yudhishthira, ‘Lo, I have won it!’”
Section LXI Vaisampayana said,—”During the course of this gambling, certain to bring about utter ruin (on Yudhishthira),
Vidura, that dispeller of all doubts, (addressing Dhritarashtra) said, ‘O great king, O thou of the Bharata race, attend to what I say, although my words may not be agreeable to thee, like medicine to one that is ill and about to breathe his last. When this Duryodhana of sinful mind had, immediately after his birth, cried discordantly like a jackal, it was well known that he had been ordained to bring about the destruction of the Bharata race. Know, O king, that he will be the cause of death of ye all. A jackal is living in thy house, O king, in the form of Duryodhana. Thou knowest it not in consequence of thy folly. Listen now to the words of the Poet (Sukra) which I will quote. They that collect honey (in mountains), having received what they seek, do not notice that they are about to fall. Ascending dan- gerous heights, abstracted in the pursuit of what they seek, they fall down and meet with destruction. This Duryo- dhana also, maddened with the play at dice, like the collector of honey, abstracted in what he seeketh, marketh not the consequences. Making enemies of these great warriors, he beholdeth not the fall that is before him. It is known to thee, O thou of great wisdom, that amongst the Bhojas, they abandoned, for the good of the citizens a son that was unworthy of their race. The Andhakas, the Yadavas, and the Bhojas uniting together, abandoned Kansa. And afterwards, when at the command of the whole tribe, the same Kansa had been slain by Krishna that slayer of foes, all the men of the tribe became exceedingly happy for a hundred years. So at thy command, let Arjuna slay this Suy- odhana. And in consequence of the slaying of this wretch, let the Kurus be glad and pass their days in happiness. In exchange of a crow, O great king, buy these peacocks--the Pandavas; and in exchange of a jackal, buy these tigers. For the sake of a family a member may be sacrificed; for the sake of a village a family may be sacrificed, for the sake of a province a village may be sacrificed and for the sake of one’s own soul the whole earth may be sacrificed. Even this was what the omniscient Kavya himself, acquainted with the thoughts of every creature, and a source of terror unto all foes, said unto the great Asuras to induce them to abandon Jambha at the moment of his birth. It is said that a certain king, having caused a number of wild birds that vomited gold to take up their quarters in his own house, afterwards killed them from temptation. O slayer of foes, blinded by temptation and the desire of enjoyment, for the sake of gold, the king destroyed at the same time both his present and future gains. Therefore, O king, pros- ecute not the Pandavas from desire of profit, even like the king in story. For then, blinded by folly thou wilt have to repent afterwards, even like the person that killed the birds. Like a flower-seller that plucketh (many flowers) in the garden from trees that he cherisheth with affection from day to day, continue, O Bharata, to pluck flowers day by day from the Pandavas. Do not scorch them to their roots like a fire-producing breeze that reduceth everything to black charcoal. Go not, O king, unto the region of Yama, with thy sons and troops, for who is there that is capable of fighting with the sons of Pritha, together? Not to speak of others, is the chief of the celestials at the head of the celestials themselves, capable of doing so?”
Section LXII “Vidura said,—”Gambling is the root of dissensions. It bringeth about disunion. Its consequences are frightful.
Yet having recourse to this, Dhritarashtra’s son Duryodhana createth for himself fierce enmity. The descendants of Pratipa and Santanu, with their fierce troops and their allies the Vahlikas, will, for the sins of Duryodhana meet with destruction. Duryodhana, in consequence of this intoxication, forcibly driveth away luck and prosperity from his kingdom, even like an infuriate bull breaking his own horns himself. That brave and learned person who dis- regarding his own foresight, followeth, O king, (the bent of ) another man’s heart, sinketh in terrible affliction even like one that goeth into the sea in a boat guided by a child. Duryodhana is gambling with the son of Pandu, and
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thou art in raptures that he is winning. And it is such success that begeteth war, which endeth in the destruction of men. This fascination (of gambling) that thou has well-devised only leadeth to dire results. Thus hast thou simply brought on by these counsels great affliction to thy heart. And this thy quarrel with Yudhishthira, who is so closely related to thee, even if thou hadst not foreseen it, is still approved by thee. Listen, ye sons of Santanu, ye descen- dants of Pratipa, who are now in this assembly of the Kauravas, to these words of wisdom. Enter ye not into the terrible fire that hath blazed forth following the wretch. When Ajatasatru, the son of Pandu, intoxicated with dice, giveth way to his wrath, and Vrikodara and Arjuna and the twins (do the same), who, in that hour of confusion, will prove your refuge? O great king, thou art thyself a mine of wealth. Thou canst earn (by other means) as much wealth as thou seekest to earn by gambling. What dost thou gain by winning from the Pandavas their vast wealth? Win the Pandavas themselves, who will be to thee more than all the wealth they have. We all know the skill of Su- vala in play. This hill-king knoweth many nefarious methods in gambling. Let Sakuni return whence he came. War not, O Bharata, with the sons of Pandu!’
Section LXIII Duryodhana said,—’O Kshatta, thou art always boasting of the fame of our enemies, deprecating the sons of
Dhritarashtra. We know, O Vidura, of whom thou art really fond. Thou always disregardest us as children, That man standeth confest, who wisheth for success unto those that are near to him and defeat unto those that are not his fa- vourites. His praise and blame are applied accordingly. Thy tongue and mind betray thy heart. But the hostility thou showeth in speech is even greater than what is in thy heart. Thou hast been cherished by us like a serpent on our lap. Like a cat thou wishest evil unto him that cherisheth thee. The wise have said that there is no sin graver than that of injuring one’s master. How is it, O Kshatta, that thou dost not fear this sin? Having vanquished our enemies we have obtained great advantages. Use not harsh words in respect of us. Thou art always willing to make peace with the foes. And it is for this reason that thou hatest us always. A man becometh a foe by speaking words that are unpardonable. Then again in praising the enemy, the secrets of one’s own party should not be divulged. (Thou however, transgressest this rule). Therefore, O thou parasite, why dost thou obstruct us so? Thou sayest whatever thou wishest. Insult us not. We know thy mind. Go and learn sitting at the feet of the old. Keen up the reputation that thou hast won. Meddle not with the affairs of other men. Do not imagine that thou art our chief. Tell us not harsh words always, O Vidura. We do not ask thee what is for our good. Cease, irritate not those that have already borne too much at thy hands. There is only one Controller, no second. He controlleth even the child that is in the mother’s womb. I am controlled by Him. Like water that always floweth in a downward course, I am acting precisely in the way in which He is directing me. He that breaketh his head against a stone-wall, and he that feedeth a serpent, are guided in those acts of theirs by their own intellect. (Therefore, in this matter I am guided by my own intelligence). He becometh a foe who seeketh to control others by force. When advice, however, is offered in a friendly spirit, the learned bear with it. He again that hath set fire to such a highly inflammable object as camphor, beholdeth not its ashes. If he runneth immediately to extinguish it. One should not give shelter to another who is the friend of his foes, or to another who is ever jealous of his protector or to another who is evil-minded. Therefore, O Vidura, go whither-so-ever thou pleasest. A wife that is unchaste, however well-treated, forsaketh her husband yet.’
“Vidura addressing Dhritarashtra, said, ‘O monarch, tell us (impartially) like a witness what thou thinkest of the conduct of those who abandon their serving-men thus for giving instruction to them. The hearts of kings are, indeed, very fickle. Granting protection at first, they strike with clubs at last. O prince (Duryodhana), thou regard- est thyself as mature in intellect, and, O thou of bad heart, thou regardest me as a child. But consider that he is a child who having first accepted one for a friend, subsequently findeth fault with him. An evil-hearted man can nev- er be brought to the path of rectitude, like an unchaste wife in the house of a well-born person. Assuredly, instruc- tion is not agreeable to this bull of the Bharata race like a husband of sixty years to a damsel that is young. After this, O king, if thou wishest to hear words that are agreeable to thee, in respect of all acts good or bad, ask thou women and idiots and cripples or persons of that description. A sinful man speaking words that are agreeable may be had in this world. But a speaker of words that are disagreeable though sound as regimen, or a hearer of the same, is very rare. He indeed, is a king’s true ally who disregarding what is agreeable or disagreeable to his master beareth himself virtuously and uttereth what may be disagreeable but necessary as regimen. O great king, drink thou that which the honest drink and the dishonest shun, even humility, which is like a medicine that is bitter, pungent, burn- ing, unintoxicating, disagreeable, and revolting. And drinking it, O king, regain thou thy sobriety. I always wish Dhritarashtra and his sons affluence and fame. Happen what may unto thee, here I bow to thee (and take my leave). Let the Brahmanas wish me well. O son of Kuru, this is the lesson I carefully inculcate, that the wise should never enrage such as adders as have venom in their very glances!”
Section LXIV
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“Sakuni said,—’Thou hast, O Yudhishthira, lost much wealth of the Pandavas. If thou hast still anything that thou hast not yet lost to us, O son of Kunti, tell us what it is!”
“Yudhishthira said,--O son of Suvala, I know that I have untold wealth. But why is it, O Sakuni, that thou askest me of my wealth? Let tens of thousands and millions and millions and tens of millions and hundreds of millions and tens of billions and hundreds of billions and trillions and tens of trillions and hundreds of trillions and tens of quadrillions and hundreds of quadrillions and even more wealth be staked by thee. I have as much. With that wealth, O king, I will play with thee.”
Vaisampayana said,—”Hearing this, Sakuni, ready with the dice, adopting unfair means, said unto Yudhishthi- ra, ‘Lo, I have won!’
‘Yudhishthira said,—’I have, O son of Suvala, immeasurable kine and horses and milch cows with calves and goats and sheep in the country extending from the Parnasa to the eastern bank of the Sindu. With this wealth, O king, I will play with thee.
Vaisampayana said,—”Hearing this Sakuni, ready with the dice, adopting unfair means, said unto Yudhishthira, ‘Lo, I have won!’
Yudhishthira said,—’I have my city, the country, land, the wealth of all dwelling therein except of the Brah- manas, and all those persons themselves except Brahmanas still remaining to me. With this wealth, O king, I will play with thee.’
Vaisampayana said,—”Hearing this, Sakuni, ready with the dice, adopting foul means, said unto Yudhishthira, ‘Lo! I have won.’
“Yudhishthira said,--These princes here, O king, who look resplendent in their ornaments and their ear-rings and Nishkas and all the royal ornaments on their persons are now my wealth. With this wealth, O king, I play with thee.
Vaisampayana said,—”Hearing this, Sakuni, ready with his dice, adopting foul means, said unto Yudhishthira, ‘Lo! I have won them.’
“Yudhishthira said,—’This Nakula here, of mighty arms and leonine neck, of red eyes and endued with youth, is now my one stake. Know that he is my wealth.’ Sakuni said,—’O king Yudhishthira, prince Nakula is dear to thee. He is already under our subjection. With whom (as stake) wilt thou now play?”
Vaisampayana said,—”Saying this, Sakuni cast those dice, and said unto Yudhishthira, ‘Lo! He hath been won by us.’
Yudhishthira said,—”This Sahadeva administereth justice. He hath also acquired a reputation for learning in this world. However undeserving he may be to be staked in play, with him as stake I will play, with such a dear object as it, indeed, he were not so!”
Vaisampayana said,—”Hearing this, Sakuni, ready with the dice, adopting foul means, said unto Yudhishthira, ‘Lo! I have won.’
“Sakuni continued,—’O king, the sons of Madri, dear unto thee, have both been won by me. It would seem, however, that Bhimasena and Dhananjaya are regarded very much by thee.’
“Yudhishthira said,—’Wretch! thou actest sinfully in thus seeking to create disunion amongst us who are all of one heart, disregarding morality.’
“Sakuni said,—’One that is intoxicated falleth into a pit (hell) and stayeth there deprived of the power of mo- tion. Thou art, O king, senior to us in age, and possessed of the highest accomplishments. O bull of the Bharata race, I (beg my pardon and) bow to thee. Thou knowest, O Yudhishthira, that gamesters, while excited with play, utter such ravings that they never indulge in the like of them in their waking moments nor even in dream.’
“Yudhishthira said,--He that taketh us like a boat to the other shore of the sea of battle, he that is ever victori- ous over foes, the prince who is endued with great activity, he who is the one hero in this world, (is here). With that Falguna as stake, however, undeserving of being made so, I will now play with thee.’”
Vaisampayana said,—”Hearing this, Sakuni, ready with the dice, adopting foul means, said unto Yudhishthira, ‘Lo! I have won.’
“Sakuni continued,—’This foremost of all wielders of the bow, this son of Pandu capable of using both his hands with equal activity hath now been won by me. O play now with the wealth that is still left unto thee, even with Bhima thy dear brother, as thy stake, O son of Pandu.
“Yudhishthira said,—’O king, however, undeserving he may be of being made a stake, I will now play with thee by staking Bhimasena, that prince who is our leader, who is the foremost in fight,--even like the wielder of the thunder-bolt--the one enemy of the Danavas,--the high-souled one with leonine neck and arched eye-brows and eyes looking askance, who is incapable of putting up with an insult, who hath no equal in might in the world, who is the foremost of all wielders of the mace, and who grindeth all foes,’” “Vaisampayana said,—”Hearing this, Sakuni, ready with the dice adopting foul means, said unto Yudhishthira. ‘Lo! I have won.’
Sakuni continued,--Thou hast, O son of Kunti, lost much wealth, horses and elephants and thy brothers as well.
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Say, if thou hast anything which thou hast not lost.’ Yudhishthira, said--’I alone, the eldest of all my brothers and dear unto them, am still unwon. Won by thee, I
will do what he that is won will have to do.’” Vaisampayana said,—”Hearing this Sakuni, ready with the dice, adopting foul means, said unto Yudhishthira,
‘Lo! I have won.’ ‘Sakuni continued,—’Thou hast permitted thyself to be won. This is very sinful. There is wealth still left to thee,
O king. Therefore, thy having lost thyself is certainly sinful.’” Vaisampayana continued,—”Having said this, Sakuni, well-skilled at dice, spoke unto all the brave kings pres-
ent there of his having won, one after another, all the Pandavas. The son of Suvala then, addressing Yudhishthira said,—’O king, there is still one stake dear to thee that is still unwon. Stake thou Krishna, the princess of Panchala. By her, win thyself back.’
“Yudhishthira said,—’With Draupadi as stake, who is neither short nor tall, neither spare nor corpulent, and who is possessed of blue curly locks, I will now play with thee. Possessed of eyes like the leaves of the autumn lotus, and fragrant also as the autumn lotus, equal in beauty unto her (Lakshmi) who delighteth in autumn lotuses, and unto Sree herself in symmetry and every grace she is such a woman as a man may desire for wife in respect of softness of heart, and wealth of beauty and of virtues. Possessed of every accomplishment and compassionate and sweet-speeched, she is such a woman as a man may desire for wife in respect of her fitness for the acquisition of virtue and pleasure and wealth. Retiring to bed last and waking up first, she looketh after all down to the cowherds and the shepherds. Her face too, when covered with sweat, looketh as the lotus or the jasmine. Of slender waist like that of the wasp, of long flowing locks, of red lips, and body without down, is the princess of Panchala. O king, making the slender-waisted Draupadi, who is even such as my stake, I will play with thee, O son of Suvala.’”
Vaisampayana continued,—’When the intelligent king Yudhishthira the just has spoken thus,—’Fie!’ ‘Fie!’ were the words that were uttered by all the aged persons that were in the assembly. And the whole conclave was agitated, and the kings who were present there all gave way to grief. And Bhishma and Drona and Kripa were covered with perspiration. And Vidura holding his head between his hands sat like one that had lost his reason. He sat with face downwards giving way to his reflections and sighing like a snake. But Dhritarashtra glad, at heart, asked repeatedly, ‘Hath the stake been won?’ ‘Hath the stake been won?’ and could not conceal his emotions. Karna with Dussassa- na and others laughed aloud, while tears began to flow from the eyes of all other present in the assembly. And the son of Suvala, proud of success and flurried with excitement and repeating. Thou hast one stake, dear to thee, etc. said,—’Lo! I have won’ and took up the dice that had been cast.”
Section LXV Duryodhana said,—’Come, Kshatta, bring hither Draupadi the dear and loved wife of the Pandavas. Let her
sweep the chambers, force her thereto, and let the unfortunate one stay where our serving-women are.’ “Vidura said,—’Dost thou not know, O wretch, that by uttering such harsh words thou art tying thyself with
cords? Dost thou not understand that thou art hanging on the edge of a precipice? Dost thou not know that being a deer thou provokest so many tigers to rage? Snakes of deadly venom, provoked to ire, are on thy head! Wretch, do not further provoke them lest thou goest to the region of Yama. In my judgement, slavery does not attach to Krishna, in as much as she was staked by the King after he had lost himself and ceased to be his own master. Like the bamboo that beareth fruit only when it is about to die, the son of Dhritarashtra winneth this treasure at play. Intoxicated, he perceiveth nor in these his last moments that dice bring about enmity and frightful terrors. No man should utter harsh speeches and pierce the hearts of the others. No man should subjugate his enemies by dice and such other foul means. No one should utter such words as are disapproved by the Vedas and lead to hell and annoy others. Some one uttereth from his lips words that are harsh. Stung by them another burneth day and night. These words pierce the very heart of another. The learned, therefore, should never utter them, pointing them at others. A goat had once swallowed a hook, and when it was pierced with it, the hunter placing the head of the animal on the ground tore its throat frightfully in drawing it out. Therefore, O Duryodhana, swallow not the wealth of the Pan- davas. Make them not thy enemies. The sons of Pritha never use words such as these. It is only low men that are like dogs who use harsh words towards all classes of people, viz., those that have retired to the woods, those leading do- mestic lives, those employed in ascetic devotions and those that are of great learning. Alas! the son of Dhritarashtra knoweth not that dishonesty is one of the frightful doors of hell. Alas! many of the Kurus with Dussasana amongst them have followed him in the path of dishonesty in the matter of this play at dice. Even gourds may sink and stones may float, and boats also may always sink in water, still this foolish king, the son of Dhritarashtra, listeneth not to my words that are even as regimen unto him. Without doubt, he will be the cause of the destruction of the Kurus. When the words of wisdom spoken by friends and which are even as fit regimen are not listened to, but on the other hand temptation is on the increase, a frightful and universal destruction is sure to overtake all the Kurus.”
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Section LXVI Vaisampayana said,—”Intoxicated with pride, the son of Dhritarashtra spake,—’Fie on Kshatta! and casting his
eyes upon the Pratikamin in attendance, commanded him, in the midst of all those reverend seniors, saying,—’Go Pratikamin, and bring thou Draupadi hither. Thou hast no fear from the sons of Pandu. It is Vidura alone that raveth in fear. Besides, he never wisheth our prosperity!’”
Vaisampayana continued,—”Thus commanded, the Pratikamin, who was of the Suta caste, hearing the words of the king, proceeded with haste, and entering the abode of the Pandavas, like a dog in a lion’s den, approached the queen of the sons of Pandu. And he said,—’Yudhishthira having been intoxicated with dice, Duryodhana, O Draupadi, hath won thee. Come now, therefore, to the abode of Dhritarashtra. I will take thee, O Yajnaseni, and put thee in some menial work.’
Draupadi said,—’Why, O Pratikamin, dost thou say so? What prince is there who playeth staking his wife? The king was certainly intoxicated with dice. Else, could he not find any other object to stake?’
“The Pratikamin said,—’When he had nothing else to stake, it was then that Ajatasatru, the son of Pandu, staked thee. The king had first staked his brothers, then himself, and then thee, O princess.’
“Draupadi said,—’O son of the Suta race, go, and ask that gambler present in the assembly, whom he hath lost first, himself, or me. Ascertaining this, come hither, and then take me with thee, O son of the Suta race.’
Vaisampayana continued,—”The messenger coming back to the assembly told all present the words of Draupa- di. And he spoke unto Yudhishthira sitting in the midst of the kings, these words,--Draupadi hath asked thee, Whose lord wert thou at the time thou lost me in play? Didst thou lose thyself first or me? Yudhishthira, however sat there like one demented and deprived of reason and gave no answer good or ill to the Suta. “Duryodhana then said,—’Let the princess of Panchala come hither and put her question. Let every one hear in this assembly the words that pass between her and Yudhishthira.’
Vaisampayana continued,—”The messenger, obedient to the command of Duryodhana, going once again to the palace, himself much distressed, said unto Draupadi,—’O princess, they that are in the assembly are summoning thee. It seemeth that the end of the Kauravas is at hand. When Duryodhana, O princess, is for taking thee before the assembly, this weak-brained king will no longer be able to protect his prosperity.’
“Draupadi said,—’The great ordainer of the world hath, indeed, ordained so. Happiness and misery pay their court to both the wise and unwise. Morality, however, it hath been said, is the one highest object in the world. If cherished, that will certainly dispense blessings to us. Let not that morality now abandon the Kauravas. Going back to those that are present in that assembly, repeat these my words consonant with morality. I am ready to do what those elderly and virtuous persons conversant with morality will definitely tell me.
Vaisampayana continued,—”The Suta, hearing these words of Yajnaseni, came back to the assembly and re- peated the words of Draupadi. But all sat with faces downwards, uttering not a word, knowing the eagerness and resolution of Dhritarashtra’s son.
“Yudhishthira, however, O bull of the Bharata race, hearing of Duryodhana’s intentions, sent a trusted mes- senger unto Draupadi, directing that although she was attired in one piece of cloth with her navel itself exposed, in consequence of her season having come, she should come before her father-in-law weeping bitterly. And that intelligent messenger, O king, having gone to Draupadi’s abode with speed, informed her of the intentions of Yud- hishthira. The illustrious Pandavas, meanwhile, distressed and sorrowful, and bound by promise, could not settle what they should do. And casting his eyes upon them, king Duryodhana, glad at heart, addressed the Suta and said,—’O Pratikamin, bring her hither. Let the Kauravas answer her question before her face. The Suta, then, obedi- ent to his commands, but terrified at the (possible) wrath of the daughter of Drupada, disregarding his reputation for intelligence, once again said to those that were in the assembly,--what shall I say unto Krishna?’
“Duryodhana, hearing this, said,—’O Dussasana, this son of my Suta, of little intelligence, feareth Vrikodara. Therefore, go thou thyself and forcibly bring hither the daughter of Yajnasena, Our enemies at present are depen- dent on our will. What can they do thee?’ Hearing the command of his brother, prince Dussasana rose with blood- red eyes, and entering the abode of those great warriors, spake these words unto the princess, ‘Come, come, O Krishna, princess of Panchala, thou hast been won by us. And O thou of eyes large as lotus leaves, come now and accept the Kurus for thy lords. Thou hast been won virtuously, come to the assembly.’ At these words, Draupadi, rising up in great affliction, rubbed her pale face with her hands, and distressed she ran to the place where the ladies of Dhritarashtra’s household were. At this, Dussasana roaring in anger, ran after her and seized the queen by her locks, so long and blue and wavy. Alas! those locks that had been sprinkled with water sanctified with mantras in the great Rajasuya sacrifice, were now forcibly seized by the son of Dhritarashtra disregarding the prowess of the Pandavas. And Dussasana dragging Krishna of long long locks unto the presence of the assembly--as if she were helpless though having powerful protectors--and pulling at her, made her tremble like the banana plant in a storm.
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And dragged by him, with body bent, she faintly cried--’Wretch! it ill behoveth thee to take me before the assembly. My season hath come, and I am now clad in one piece of attire. But Dussasana dragging Draupadi forcibly by her black locks while she was praying piteously unto Krishna and Vishnu who were Narayana and Nara (on earth), said unto her--’Whether thy season hath come or not, whether thou art attired in one piece of cloth or entirely naked, when thou hast been won at dice and made our slave, thou art to live amongst our serving-women as thou pleasest.”
Vaisampayana continued,—”With hair dishevelled and half her attire loosened, all the while dragged by Dus- sasana, the modest Krishna consumed with anger, faintly said--”In this assembly are persons conversant with all the branches of learning devoted to the performance of sacrifices and other rites, and all equal unto Indra, persons some of whom are really my superiors and others who deserve to be respected as such. I can not stay before them in this state. O wretch! O thou of cruel deeds, drag me not so. Uncover me not so. The princes (my lords) will not pardon thee, even if thou hast the gods themselves with Indra as thy allies. The illustrious son of Dharma is now bound by the obligations of morality. Morality, however, is subtle. Those only that are possessed of great clearness of vision can ascertain it. In speech even I am unwilling to admit an atom of fault in my lord forgetting his virtues. Thou draggest me who am in my season before these Kuru heroes. This is truly an unworthy act. But no one here rebuketh thee. Assuredly, all these are of the same mind with thee. O fie! Truly hath the virtue of the Bharata gone! Truly also hath the usage of those acquainted with the Kshatriya practice disappeared! Else these Kurus in this as- sembly would never have looked silently on this act that transgresseth the limits of their practices. Oh! both Drona and Bhishma have lost their energy, and so also hath the high-souled Kshatta, and so also this king. Else, why do these foremost of the Kuru elders look silently on this great crime?”
Vaisampayana continued,—”Thus did Krishna of slender waist cry in distress in that assembly. And casting a glance upon her enraged lords--the Pandavas--who were filled with terrible wrath, she inflamed them further with that glance of hers. And they were not so distressed at having been robbed of their kingdom, of their wealth, of their costliest gems, as with that glance of Krishna moved by modesty and anger. And Dussasana, beholding Krishna looking at her helpless lords, dragging her still more forcibly, and addressed her, ‘Slave, Slave’ and laughed aloud. And at those words Karna became very glad and approved of them by laughing aloud. And Sakuni, the son of Suvala, the Gandhara king, similarly applauded Dussasana. And amongst all those that were in the assembly except these three and Duryodhana, every one was filled with sorrow at beholding Krishna thus dragged in sight of that assembly. And beholding it all, Bhishma said, ‘O blessed one, morality is subtle. I therefore am unable to duly decide this point that thou hast put, beholding that on the one hand one that hath no wealth cannot stake the wealth belonging to others, while on the other hand wives are always under the orders and at the disposal of their lords. Yudhishthira can abandon the whole world full of wealth, but he will never sacrifice morality. The son of Pandu hath said--’I am won.’ Therefore, I am unable to decide this matter. Sakuni hath not his equal among men at dice-play. The son of Kunti still voluntarily staked with him. The illustrious Yudhishthira doth not himself regard that Sakuni hath played with him deceitfully. Therefore, I can not decide this point.”
“Draupadi said,—”The king was summoned to this assembly and though possessing no skill at dice, he was made to play with skilful, wicked, deceitful and desperate gamblers. How can he be said then to have staked volun- tarily? The chief of the Pandavas was deprived of his senses by wretches of deceitful conduct and unholy instincts, acting together, and then vanquished. He could not understand their tricks, but he hath now done so. Here, in this assembly, there are Kurus who are the lords of both their sons and their daughters-in-law! Let all of them, reflecting well upon my words, duly decide the point that I have put.
Vaisampayana continued,—’Unto Krishna who was thus weeping and crying piteously, looking at times upon her helpless lord, Dussasana spake many disagreeable and harsh words. And beholding her who was then in her season thus dragged, and her upper garments loosened, beholding her in that condition which she little deserved, Vrikodara afflicted beyond endurance, his eyes fixed upon Yudhishthira, gave way to wrath.”
Section LXVII “Bhima said,—’O Yudhishthira, gamblers have in their houses many women of loose character. They do not yet
stake those women having kindness for them even. Whatever wealth and other excellent articles the king of Kasi gave, whatever, gems, animals, wealth, coats of mail and weapons that other kings of the earth gave, our kingdom, thyself and ourselves, have all been won by the foes. At all this my wrath was not excited for thou art our lord. This, however, I regard as a highly improper act--this act of staking Draupadi. This innocent girl deserveth not this treat- ment. Having obtained the Pandavas as her lords, it is for thee alone that she is being thus persecuted by the low, despicable, cruel, and mean-minded Kauravas. It is for her sake, O king, that my anger falleth on thee. I shall burn those hands of thine. Sahadeva, bring some fire.”
‘Arjuna hearing this, said,—’Thou hast never, O Bhimasena, before this uttered such words as these. Assuredly thy high morality hath been destroyed by these cruel foes. Thou shouldst not fulfil the wishes of the enemy. Practise thou the highest morality. Whom doth it behave to transgress his virtuous eldest brother? The king was summoned
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by the foe, and remembering the usage of the Kshatriyas, he played at dice against his will. That is certainly condu- cive to our great fame.
‘Bhima said,—’If I had not known, O Dhananjaya, that the king had acted according to Kshatriya usage, then I would have, taking his hands together by sheer force, burnt them in a blazing fire.”
Vaisampayana continued,—”Beholding the Pandavas thus distressed and the princess of Panchala also thus afflicted, Vikarna the son of Dhritarashtra said--’Ye kings, answer ye the question that hath been asked by Yajnase- ni. If we do not judge a matter referred to us, all of us will assuredly have to go to hell without delay. How is that Bhishma and Dhritarashtra, both of whom are the oldest of the Kurus, as also the high-souled Vidura, do not say anything! The son of Bharadwaja who is the preceptor of us, as also Kripa, is here. Why do not these best of regen- erate ones answer the question? Let also those other kings assembled here from all directions answer according to their judgment this question, leaving aside all motives of gain and anger. Ye kings, answer ye the question that hath been asked by this blessed daughter of king Drupada, and declare after reflection on which side each of ye is.’ Thus did Vikarna repeatedly appeal to those that were in that assembly. But those kings answered him not one word, good or ill. And Vikarna having repeatedly appealed to all the kings began to rub his hands and sigh like a snake. And at last the prince said--’Ye kings of the earth, ye Kauravas, whether ye answer this question or not, I will say what I regard as just and proper. Ye foremost of men, it hath been said that hunting, drinking, gambling, and too much enjoyment of women, are the four vices of kings. The man, that is addicted to these, liveth forsaking virtue. And people do not regard the acts done by a person who is thus improperly engaged, as of any authority. This son of Pandu, while deeply engaged in one of these vicious acts, urged thereto by deceitful gamblers, made Draupadi a stake. The innocent Draupadi is, besides, the common wife of all the sons of Pandu. And the king, having first lost himself offered her as a stake. And Suvala himself desirous of a stake, indeed prevailed upon the king to stake this Krishna. Reflecting upon all these circumstances, I regard Draupadi as not won.”
“Hearing these words, a loud uproar rose from among those present in that assembly. And they all applaud- ed Vikarna and censured the son of Suvala. And at that sound, the son of Radha, deprived of his senses by an- ger, waving his well-shaped arms, said these words,—’O Vikarna, many opposite and inconsistent conditions are noticeable in this assembly. Like fire produced from a faggot, consuming the faggot itself, this thy ire will consume thee. These personages here, though urged by Krishna, have not uttered a word. They all regard the daughter of Drupada to have been properly won. Thou alone, O son of Dhritarashtra in consequence of thy immature years, art bursting with wrath, for though but a boy thou speakest in the assembly as if thou wert old. O younger brother of Duryodhana, thou dost not know what morality truly is, for thou sayest like a fool that this Krishna who hath been (justly) won as not won at all. O son of Dhritarashtra, how dost thou regard Krishna as not won, when the eldest of the Pandavas before this assembly staked all his possessions? O bull of the Bharata race, Draupadi is included in all the possessions (of Yudhishthira). Therefore, why regardest thou Krishna who hath been justly won as not won? Draupadi had been mentioned (by Suvala) and approved of as a stake by the Pandavas. For what reason then dost thou yet regard her as not won? Or, if thou thinkest that bringing her hither attired in a single piece of cloth, is an action of impropriety, listen to certain excellent reasons I will give. O son of the Kuru race, the gods have ordained only one husband for one woman. This Draupadi, however, hath many husbands. Therefore, certain it is that she is an unchaste woman. To bring her, therefore, into this assembly attired though she be in one piece of cloth--even to uncover her is not at all an act that may cause surprise. Whatever wealth the Pandavas had--she herself and these Pandavas themselves,--have all been justly won by the son of Suvala. O Dussasana, this Vikarna speaking words of (apparent) wisdom is but a boy. Take off the robes of the Pandavas as also the attire of Draupadi. Hearing these words the Pandavas, O Bharata, took of their upper garments and throwing them down sat in that assembly. Then Dussasana, O king, forcibly seizing Draupadi’s attire before the eyes of all, began to drag it off her person.”
Vaisampayana continued,—”When the attire of Draupadi was being thus dragged, the thought of Hari, (And she herself cried aloud, saying), ‘O Govinda, O thou who dwellest in Dwaraka, O Krishna, O thou who art fond of cow-herdesses (of Vrindavana). O Kesava, seest thou not that the Kauravas are humiliating me. O Lord, O husband of Lakshmi, O Lord of Vraja (Vrindavana), O destroyer of all afflictions, O Janarddana, rescue me who am sinking in the Kaurava Ocean. O Krishna, O Krishna, O thou great yogin, thou soul of the universe, Thou creator of all things, O Govinda, save me who am distressed,--who am losing my senses in the midst of the Kurus.’ Thus did that afflicted lady resplendent still in her beauty, O king covering her face cried aloud, thinking of Krishna, of Hari, of the lord of the three worlds. Hearing the words of Draupadi, Krishna was deeply moved. And leaving his seat, the benevolent one from compassion, arrived there on foot. And while Yajnaseni was crying aloud to Krishna, also called Vishnu and Hari and Nara for protection, the illustrious Dharma, remaining unseen, covered her with excellent clothes of many hues. And, O monarch as the attire of Draupadi was being dragged, after one was taken off, another of the same kind, appeared covering her. And thus did it continue till many clothes were seen. And, O exalted on, owing to the protection of Dharma, hundreds upon hundreds of robes of many hues came off Draupadi’s person. And there arose then a deep uproar of many many voices. And the kings present in that assembly beholding that most extraor-
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dinary of all sights in the world, began to applaud Draupadi and censure the son of Dhritarashtra. And Bhima then, squeezing his hands, with lips quivering in rage, swore in the midst of all those kings a terrible oath in a loud voice.
“And Bhima said,--Hear these words of mine, ye Kshatriyas of the world. Words such as these were never before uttered by other men, nor will anybody in the future ever utter them. Ye lords of earth, if having spoken these words I do not accomplish them hereafter, let me not obtain the region of my deceased ancestors. Tearing open in battle, by sheer force, the breast of this wretch, this wicked-minded scoundrel of the Bharata race, if I do not drink his life-blood, let me not obtain the region of my ancestors.”
Vaisampayana continued,—”Hearing these terrible words of Bhima that made the down of the auditors to stand on end, everybody present there applauded him and censured the son of Dhritarashtra. And when a mass of clothes had been gathered in that assembly, all dragged from the person of Draupadi, Dussasana, tired and ashamed, sat down. And beholding the sons of Kunti in that state, the persons--those gods among men--that were in that assembly all uttered the word ‘Fie!’(on the son of Dhritarashtra). And the united voices of all became so loud that they made the down of anybody who heard them stand on end. And all the honest men that were in that assembly began to say,—’Alas! the Kauravas answer not the question that hath been put to them by Draupadi. And all cen- suring Dhritarashtra together, made a loud clamour. Then Vidura, that master of the science of morality, waving his hands and silencing every one, spake these words;—’Ye that are in this assembly, Draupadi having put her ques- tion is weeping helplessly. Ye are not answering her. Virtue and morality are being persecuted by such conduct. An afflicted person approacheth an assembly of good men, like one that is being consumed by fire. They that are in the assembly quench that fire and cool him by means of truth and morality. The afflicted person asketh the assembly about his rights, as sanctioned by morality. They that are in the assembly should, unmoved by interest and anger, answer the question. Ye kings, Vikarna hath answered the question, according to his own knowledge and judgment. Ye should also answer it as ye think proper. Knowing the rules of morality, and having attended an assembly, he that doth not answer a query that is put, incurreth half the demerit that attacheth to a lie. He, on the other hand, who, knowing the rules of morality and having joined an assembly answereth falsely, assuredly incurreth the sin of a lie. The learned quote as an example in this connection the old history of Prahlada and the son of Angirasa.
“There was of old a chief of the Daityas of the name Prahlada. He had a son named Virochana. And Virochana, for the sake of obtaining a bride, quarrelled with Sudhanwan, the son of Angiras. It hath been heard by us that they mutually wagered their lives, saying--I am superior,--I am superior,--for the sake of obtaining a bride. And after they had thus quarrelled with each other, they both made Prahlada the arbitrator to decide between them. And they asked him, saying;--Who amongst us is superior (to the other)? Answer this question. Speak not falsely. Frightened at this quarrel, Prahlada cast his eyes upon Sudhanwan. And Sudhanwan in rage, burning like unto the mace of Yama, told him,--If thou answerest falsely, or dost not answer at all thy head will then be split into a hundred pieces by the wielder of the thunderbolt with that bolt of his.--Thus addressed by Sudhanwan, the Daitya, trembling like a leaf of the fig tree, went to Kasyapa of great energy, for taking counsel with him. And Prahlada said,—’Thou art, O illustrious and exalted one, fully conversant with the rules of morality that should guide both the gods and the Asuras and the Brahmanas as well. Here, however, is a situation of great difficulty in respect of duty. Tell me, I ask thee, what regions are obtainable by them who upon being asked a question, answer it not, or answer it falsely. Kasyapa thus asked answered.—’He that knoweth, but answereth not a question from temptation, anger or fear, casteth upon himself a thousand nooses of Varuna. And the person who, cited as a witness with respect to any mat- ter of ocular or auricular knowledge, speaketh carelessly, casteth a thousand nooses of Varuna upon his own per- son. On the completion of one full year, one such noose is loosened. Therefore, he that knoweth, should speak the truth without concealment. If virtue, pierced by sin, repaireth to an assembly (for aid), it is the duty of every body in the assembly to take off the dart, otherwise they themselves would be pierced with it. In an assembly where a tru- ly censurable act is not rebuked, half the demerit of that act attacheth to the head of that assembly, a fourth to the person acting censurably and a fourth unto those others that are there. In that assembly, on the other hand, when he that deserveth censure is rebuked, the head of the assembly becometh freed from all sins, and the other members also incur none. It is only the perpetrator himself of the act that becometh responsible for it. O Prahlada, they who answer falsely those that ask them about morality destroy the meritorious acts of their seven upper and seven lower generations. The grief of one who hath lost all his wealth, of one who hath lost a son, of one who is in debt, of one who is separated from his companions, of a woman who hath lost her husband, of one that hath lost his all in con- sequence of the king’s demand, of a woman who is sterile, of one who hath been devoured by a tiger (during his last struggles in the tiger’s claws), of one who is a co-wife, and of one who hath been deprived of his property by false witnesses, have been said by the gods to be uniform in degree. These different sorts of grief are his who speaketh false. A person becometh a witness in consequence of his having seen, heard, and understood a thing. Therefore, a witness should always tell the truth. A truth-telling witness never loseth his religious merits and earthly possessions also.’ Hearing these words of Kasyapa, Prahlada told his son, “Sudhanwan is superior to thee, as indeed, (his father) Angiras is superior to me. The mother also of Sudhanwan is superior to thy mother. Therefore, O Virochana, this
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Sudhanwan is now the lord of the life.” At these words of Prahlada, Sudhanwan said, “Since unmoved by affection for thy child, thou hast adhered to virtue, I command, let this son of thine live for a hundred years.”
“Vidura continued,--Let all the persons, therefore, present in this assembly hearing these high truths of morali- ty, reflect upon what should be the answer to the question asked by Draupadi”.
Vaisampayana continued,—”The kings that were there hearing these words of Vidura, answered not a word, yet Karna alone spoke unto Dussasana, telling him. Take away this serving-woman Krishna into the inner apartments. And thereupon Dussasana began to drag before all the spectators the helpless and modest Draupadi, trembling and crying piteously unto the Pandavas her lords.”
Section LXVIII Draupadi said,—’Wait a little, thou worst of men, thou wicked-minded Dussasana. I have an act to perform--a
high duty that hath not been performed by me yet. Dragged forcibly by this wretch’s strong arms, I was deprived of my senses. I salute these reverend seniors in this assembly of the Kurus. That I could not do this before cannot be my fault.’”
Vaisampayana said,—”Dragged with greater force than before, the afflicted and helpless Draupadi, undeserving of such treatment, falling down upon the ground, thus wept in that assembly of the Kurus,—
“’Alas, only once before, on the occasion of the Swayamvara, I was beheld by the assembled kings in the am- phitheatre, and never even once beheld afterwards. I am to-day brought before this assembly. She whom even the winds and the sun had seen never before in her palace is to-day before this assembly and exposed to the gaze of the crowd. Alas, she whom the sons of Pandu could not, while in her palace, suffer to be touched even by the wind, is to-day suffered by the Pandavas to be seized and dragged by this wretch. Alas, these Kauravas also suffer their daughter-in-law, so unworthy of such treatment, to be thus afflicted before them. It seemeth that the times are out of joint. What can be more distressing to me, than that though high-born and chaste, I should yet be compelled to enter this public court? Where is that virtue for which these kings were noted? It hath been heard that the kings of ancient days never brought their wedded wives into the public court. Alas, that eternal usage hath disappeared from among the Kauravas. Else, how is it that the chaste wife of the Pandavas, the sister of Prishata’s son, the friend of Vasudeva, is brought before this assembly? Ye Kauravas, I am the wedded wife of king Yudhishthira the just, hailing from the same dynasty to which the King belonged. Tell me now if I am a serving-maid or otherwise. I will cheerfully accept your answer. This mean wretch, this destroyer of the name of the Kurus, is afflicting me hard. Ye Kauravas, I cannot bear it any longer. Ye kings, I desire ye to answer whether ye regard me as won or unwon. I will accept your verdict whatever it be.’
“Hearing these words, Bhishma answered, I have already said, O blessed one that the course of morality is subtle. Even the illustrious wise in this world fail to understand it always. What in this world a strong man calls morality is regarded as such by others, however otherwise it may really be; but what a weak man calls morality is scarcely regarded as such even if it be the highest morality. From the importance of the issue involved, from its intricacy and subtlety, I am unable to answer with certitude the question thou hast asked. However, it is certain that as all the Ku- rus have become the slaves of covetousness and folly, the destruction of this our race will happen on no distant date. O blessed one, the family into which thou hast been admitted as a daughter-in-law, is such that those who are born in it, however much they might be afflicted by calamities, never deviate from the paths of virtue and morality. O Prin- cess of Panchala, this conduct of thine also, viz. that though sunk in distress, thou still easiest thy eyes on virtue and morality, is assuredly worthy of thee. These persons, Drona and others, of mature years and conversant with morality, sit heads downwards like men that are dead, with bodies from which life hath departed. It seemeth to me, however, that Yudhishthira is an authority on this question. It behoveth him to declare whether thou art won or not won.”
Section LXIX Vaisampayana said,—”The kings present in that assembly, from tear of Duryodhana, uttered not a word, good
or ill, although they beheld Draupadi crying piteously in affliction like a female osprey, and repeatedly appealing to them. And the son of Dhritarashtra beholding those kings and sons and grand sons of kings all remaining silent, smiled a little, and addressing the daughter of the king of Panchala, said,--O Yajnaseni, the question thou hast put dependeth on thy husbands--on Bhima of mighty strength, on Arjuna, on Nakula, on Sahadeva. Let them answer thy question. O Panchali, let them for thy sake declare in the midst of these respectable men that Yudhishthira is not their lord, let them thereby make king Yudhishthira the just a liar. Thou shalt then be freed from the condition of slavery. Let the illustrious son of Dharma, always adhering to virtue, who is even like Indra, himself declare whether he is not thy lord. At his words, accept thou the Pandavas or ourselves without delay. Indeed, all the Kau- ravas present in this assembly are floating in the ocean of thy distress. Endued with magnanimity, they are unable to answer thy question, looking at thy unfortunate husbands.’” Vaisampayana continued,—”Hearing these words of
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the Kuru king, all who were present in the assembly loudly applauded them. And shouting approvingly, they made signs unto one another by motions of their eyes and lips. And amongst some that were there, sounds of distress such as ‘O! and ‘Alas!” were heard. And at these words of Duryodhana, so delightful (to his partisans), the Kauravas present in that assembly became exceedingly glad. And the kings, with faces turned sideways, looked upon Yud- hishthira conversant with the rules of morality, curious to hear what he would say. And every one present in that assembly became curious to hear what Arjuna, the son of Pandu never defeated in battle, and what Bhimasena, and what the twins also would say. And when that busy hum of many voices became still, Bhimasena, waving his strong and well-formed arms smeared with sandalpaste spake these words,—’If this high-souled king Yudhishthira the just, who is our eldest brother, had not been our lord, we would never have forgiven the Kuru race (for all this). He is the lord of all our religious and ascetic merits, the lord of even our lives. If he regardeth himself as won, we too have all been won. If this were not so, who is there amongst creatures touching the earth with their feet and mortal, that would escape from me with his life after having touched those locks of the princess of Panchala? Behold these mighty, well-formed arms of mine, even like maces of iron. Having once come within them, even he of a hundred sacrifices is incapable of effecting an escape. Bound by the ties of virtue and the reverence that is due to our eldest brother, and repeatedly urged by Arjuna to remain silent, I am not doing anything terrible. If however, I am once commanded by king Yudhishthira the just, I would slay these wretched sons of Dhritarashtra, making slaps do the work of swords, like a lion slaying a number of little animals.”
Vaisampayana continued,—”Unto Bhima who had spoken these words Bhishma and Drona and Vidura said, ‘Forbear, O Bhima. Everything is possible with thee.’”
Section LXX “Karna said,—’Of all the persons in the assembly, three, viz., Bhishma, Vidura, and the preceptor of the Kurus
(Drona) appear to be independent; for they always speak of their master as wicked, always censure him, and nev- er wish for his prosperity. O excellent one, the slave, the son, and the wife are always dependent. They cannot earn wealth, for whatever they earn belongeth to their master. Thou art the wife of a slave incapable of possessing anything on his own account. Repair now to the inner apartments of king Dhritarashtra and serve the king’s relatives. We direct that that is now thy proper business. And, O princess, all the sons of Dhritarashtra and not the sons of Pritha are now thy masters. O handsome one, select thou another husband now,--one who will not make thee a slave by gambling. It is well-known that women, especially that are slaves, are not censurable if they proceed with freedom in electing husbands. Therefore let it be done by thee. Nakula hath been won, as also Bhimasena, and Yudhishthira also, and Sahadeva, and Arjuna. And, O Yajnaseni, thou art now a slave. Thy husbands that are slaves cannot continue to be thy lords any longer. Alas, doth not the son of Pritha regards life, prowess and manhood as of no use that he offereth this daughter of Drupada, the king of Panchala, in the presence of all this assembly, as a stake at dice?’”
Vaisampayana continued,—”Hearing these words, the wrathful Bhima breathed hard, a very picture of woe. Obedient to the king and bound by the tie of virtue and duty, burning everything with his eyes inflamed by anger, he said,—’O king, I cannot be angry at these words of this son of a Suta, for we have truly entered the state of servi- tude. But O king, could our enemies have said so unto me, it thou hadst not played staking this princess?’”
Vaisampayana continued,—”Hearing these words of Bhimasena king Duryodhana addressed Yudhishthira who was silent and deprived of his senses, saying,—’O king, both Bhima and Arjuna, and the twins also, are under thy sway. Answer thou the question (that hath been asked by Draupadi). Say, whether thou regardest Krishna as unwon.’ And having spoken thus unto the son of Kunti, Duryodhana. desirous of encouraging the son of Radha and insulting Bhima, quickly uncovered his left thigh that was like unto the stem of a plantain tree or the trunk of an elephant and which was graced with every auspicious sign and endued with the strength of thunder, and showed it to Draupadi in her very sight. And beholding this, Bhimasena expanding his red eyes, said unto Duryodhana in the midst of all those kings and as if piercing them (with his dart-like words),—’Let not Vrikodara attain to the regions, obtained by his ancestors, if he doth not break that thigh of thine in the great conflict. And sparkles of fire began to be emitted from every organ of sense of Bhima filled with wrath, like those that come out of every crack and orifice in the body of a blazing tree.
Vidura then, addressing everybody, said,—’Ye kings of Pratipa’s race, behold the great danger that ariseth from Bhimasena. Know ye for certain that this great calamity that threatens to overtake the Bharatas hath been sent by Destiny itself. The sons of Dhritarashtra have, indeed, gambled disregarding every proper consideration. They are even now disputing in this assembly about a lady (of the royal household). The prosperity of our kingdom is at an end. Alas, the Kauravas are even now engaged in sinful consultations. Ye Kauravas, take to your heart this high precept that I declare. If virtue is persecuted, the whole assembly becometh polluted. If Yudhishthira had staked her before he was himself won, he would certainly have been regarded as her master. If, however a person staketh anything at a time when he himself is incapable of holding any wealth, to win it is very like obtaining wealth in a
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dream. Listening to the words of the king of Gandhara, fall ye not off from this undoubted truth.’ “Duryodhana, hearing Vidura thus speak, said,—’I am willing to abide by the words of Bhima, of Arjuna and of
the twins. Let them say that Yudhishthira is not their master. Yajnaseni will then be freed from her state of bondage.” “Arjuna at this, said,—”This illustrious son of Kunti, king Yudhishthira the just, was certainly our master before
he began to play. But having lost himself, let all the Kauravas judge whose master he could be after that.” Vaisampayana continued,—”Just then, a jackal began to cry loudly in the homa-chamber of king Dhritarashtra’s
palace. And, O king, unto the jackal that howled so, the asses began to bray responsively. And terrible birds also, from all sides, began to answer with their cries. And Vidura conversant with everything and the daughter of Suvala, both understood the meaning of those terrible sounds. And Bhishma and Drona and the learned Gautama loud- ly cried,--Swashti! Swashti! 1 Then Gandhari and the learned Vidura beholding that frightful omen, represented everything, in great affliction, unto the king. And the king (Dhritarashtra) thereupon said,—
‘Thou wicked-minded Duryodhana, thou wretch, destruction hath all ready overtaken thee when thou insultest in language such as this the wife of these bulls among the Kurus, especially their wedded wife Draupadi. And hav- ing spoken those words, the wise Dhritarashtra endued with knowledge, reflecting with the aid of his wisdom and desirous of saving his relatives and friends from destruction, began to console Krishna, the princess of Panchala, and addressing her, the monarch said,—’Ask of me any boon, O princess of Panchala, that thou desirest, Chaste and devoted to virtue, thou art the first of all my daughters-in-law.
“Draupadi said,—’O bull of the Bharata race, if thou will grant me a boon, I ask the handsome Yudhishthira, obedient to every duty, be freed from slavery. Let not unthinking children call my child Prativindhya endued with great energy of mind as the son of a slave. Having been a prince, so superior to all men, and nurtured by kings it is not proper that he should be called the child of a slave.
“Dhritarashtra said unto her,—’O auspicious one, let it be as thou sayest. O excellent one, ask thou another boon, for I will give it. My heart inclineth to give thee a second boon. Thou dost not deserve only one boon.
“Draupadi said,—’I ask, O king, that Bhimasena and Dhananjaya and the twins also, with their cars and bows, freed from bondage, regain their liberty.’
‘Dhritarashtra said,—’O blessed daughter, let it be as thou desirest. Ask thou a third boon, for thou hast not been sufficiently honoured with two boons. Virtuous in thy behaviour, thou art the foremost of all my daughters-in- law.
Draupadi said,—’O best of kings, O illustrious one, covetousness always bringeth about loss of virtue. I do not deserve a third boon. Therefore I dare not ask any. O king of kings, it hath been said that a Vaisya may ask one boon; a Kshatriya lady, two boons; a Kshatriya male, three, and a Brahmana, a hundred. O king, these my husbands freed from the wretched state of bondage, will be able to achieve prosperity by their own virtuous acts!’”
Section LXXI “Karna said,—’We have never heard of such an act (as this one of Draupadi), performed by any of the women
noted in this world for their beauty. When the sons of both Pandu and Dhritarashtra were excited with wrath, this Draupadi became unto the sons of Pandu as their salvation. Indeed the princess of Panchala, becoming as a boat unto the sons of Pandu who were sinking in a boatless ocean of distress, hath brought them in safety to the shore.’”
Vaisampayana continued,—”Hearing these words of Karna in the midst of the Kurus,--viz., that the sons of Pandu were saved by their wife,--the angry Bhimasena in great affliction said (unto Arjuna),—’O Dhananjaya, it hath been said by Devala three lights reside in every person, viz., offspring, acts and learning, for from these three hath sprung creation. When life becometh extinct and the body becometh impure and is cast off by relatives, these three become of service to every person. But the light that is in us hath been dimmed by this act of insult to our wife. How, O Arjuna, can a son born from this insulted wife of ours prove serviceable to us? “Arjuna replied,—’Su- perior persons, O Bharata, never prate about the harsh words that may or may not be uttered by inferior men. Persons that have earned respect for themselves, even if they are able to retaliate, remember not the acts of hostility done by their enemies, but, on the other hand, treasure up only their good deeds.’
‘Bhima said,—’Shall I, O king, slay, without loss of time all these foes assembled together, even here, or shall I destroy them, O Bharata, by the roots, outside this palace? Or, what need is there of words or of command? I shall slay all these even now, and rule thou the whole earth, O king, without a rival. And saying this, Bhima with his younger brothers, like a lion in the midst of a herd of inferior animals, repeatedly cast his angry glances around. But Arjuna, however, of white deeds, with appealing looks began to pacify his elder brother. And the mighty-armed hero endued with great prowess began to burn with the fire of his wrath. And, O king, this fire began to issue out of Vrikodara’s ears and other senses with smoke and sparks and flames. And his face became terrible to behold in consequence of his furrowed brows like those of Yama himself at the time of the universal destruction. Then Yudhishthira forbade the mighty hero, embracing him with his arms and telling him ‘Be not so. Stay in silence and
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peace.’ And having pacified the mighty-armed one with eyes red in wrath, the king approached his uncle Dhri- tarashtra, with hands joined in entreaty.”
Section LXXII “Yudhishthira said,—’O king, thou art our master. Command us as to what we shall do. O Bharata, we desire to
remain always in obedience to thee. “Dhritarashtra replied.—’O Ajatasatru, blest be thou. Go thou in peace and safety. Commanded by me, go, rule
thy own kingdom with thy wealth. And, O child, take to heart this command of an old man, this wholesome advice that I give, and which is even a nutritive regimen. O Yudhishthira, O child, thou knowest the subtle path of morali- ty. Possessed of great wisdom, thou art also humble, and thou waitest also upon the old. Where there is intelligence, there is forbearance. Therefore, O Bharata, follow thou counsels of peace. The axe falleth upon wood, not upon stone. (Thou art open to advice, not Duryodhana). They are the best of men that remember not the acts of hostil- ity of their foes; that behold only the merits, not the faults, of their enemies; and that never enter into hostilities themselves. They that are good remember only the good deeds of their foes and not the hostile acts their foes might have done unto them. The good, besides, do good unto others without expectation of any good, in return. O Yud- hishthira, it is only the worst of men that utter harsh words in quarrelling; while they that are indifferent reply to such when spoken by others. But they that are good and wise never think of or recapitulate such harsh words, little caring whether these may or may not have been uttered by their foes. They that are good, having regard to the state of their own feelings, can understand the feelings of others, and therefore remember only the good deeds and not the acts of hostility of their foes. Thou hast acted even as good men of prepossessing countenance do, who trans- gress not the limits of virtue, wealth, pleasure and salvation. O child, remember not the harsh words of Duryodha- na. Look at thy mother Gandhari and myself also, if thou desirest to remember only what is good. O Bharata, look at me, who am thy father unto you and am old and blind, and still alive. It was for seeing our friends and examin- ing also the strength and weakness of my children, that I had, from motives of policy, suffered this match at dice to proceed. O king those amongst the Kurus that have thee for their ruler, and the intelligent Vidura conversant with every branch of learning for their counsellor, have, indeed, nothing to grieve for. In thee is virtue, in Arjuna is patience, in Bhimasena is prowess, and the twins, those foremost of men, is pure reverence for superiors. Blest be thou, O Ajatasatru. Return to Khandavaprastha, and let there be brotherly love between thee and thy cousins. Let thy heart also be ever fixed on virtue.’”
Vaisampayana continued,—”That foremost of the Bharatas--king Yudhishthira the just--then, thus addressed by his uncle, having gone through every ceremony of politeness, set out with his brothers for Khandavaprastha. And accompanied by Draupadi and ascending their cars which were all of the hue of the clouds, with cheerful hearts they all set out for that best of cities called Indraprastha.”
Section LXXIII Janamejaya said,—”How did the sons of Dhritarashtra feel, when they came to know that the Pandavas had,
with Dhritarashtra’s leave, left Hastinapore with all their wealth and jewels?” Vaisampayana said,—”O king, learning that the Pandavas had been commanded by the wise Dhritarashtra
to return to their capital, Dussasana went without loss of time unto his brother. And, O bull of the Bharata race, having arrived before Duryodhana with his counsellor, the prince, afflicted with grief, began to say,—’Ye mighty warriors, that which we had won after so much trouble, the old man (our father) hath thrown away. Know ye that he hath made over the whole of that wealth to the foes. At these words, Duryodhana and Karna and Sakuni, the son of Suvala, all of whom were guided by vanity, united together, and desirous of counteracting the sons of Pandu, approaching in haste saw privately the wise king Dhritarashtra--the son of Vichitravirya and spake unto him these pleasing and artful words. Duryodhana said,—
‘Hast thou not heard, O king, what the learned Vrihaspati the preceptor of the celestials, said in course of coun- selling Sakra about mortals and politics? Even these, O slayer of foes, were the words of Vrihaspati, ‘Those enemies that always do wrong by stratagem or force, should be slain by every means.’ If, therefore, with the wealth of the Pandavas, we gratify the kings of the earth and then fight with the sons of Pandu, what reverses can overtake us? When one hath placed on the neck and back of venomous snakes full of wrath for encompassing his destruction, is it possible for him to take them off ? Equipped with weapon and seated on their cars, the angry sons of Pandu like wrathful and venomous snakes will assuredly annihilate us, O father. Even now Arjuna proceedeth, encased in mail and furnished with his couple of quivers, frequently taking up the Gandiva and breathing hard and casting angry glances around. It hath (also) been heard by us that Vrikodara, hastily ordering his car to be made ready and riding on it, is proceeding along, frequently whirling his heavy mace. Nakula also is going along, with the sword in his grasp and the semi-circular shield in his hand. And Sahadeva and the king (Yudhishthira) have made signs clearly testifying to their intentions. Having ascended their cars that are full of all kinds of arms, they are whipping their
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horses (for going to Khandava soon) and assembling their forces. Persecuted thus by us they are incapable of for- giving us those injuries. Who is there among them that will forgive that insult to Draupadi? Blest be thou. We will again gamble with the son of Pandu for sending them to exile. O bull among men, we are competent to bring them thus under our sway. Dressed in skins, either we or they defeated at dice, shall repair to the woods for twelve years. The thirteenth year shall have to be spent in some inhabited country unrecognised; and, if recognised, an exile for another twelve years shall be the consequence. Either we or they shall live so. Let the play begin, casting the dice, let the sons of Pandu once more play. O bull of the Bharata race, O king, even this is our highest duty. This Sakuni knoweth well the whole science of dice. Even if they succeed in observing this vow for thirteen years, we shall be in the meantime firmly rooted in the kingdom and making alliances, assemble a vast invincible host and keep them content, so that we shall, O king, defeat the sons of Pandu if they reappear. Let this plan recommend itself to thee, O slayer of foes.
“Dhritarashtra said,--Bring back the Pandavas then, indeed, even if they have gone a great way. Let them come at once again to cast dice.”
Vaisampayana continued,—”Then Drona, Somadatta and Valhika, Gautama, Vidura, the son of Drona, and the mighty son of Dhritarashtra by his Vaisya wife, Bhurisravas, and Bhishma, and that mighty warrior Vikarna,--all said, ‘Let not the play commence. Let there be peace. But Dhritarashtra, partial to his sons, disregarding the coun- sels of all his wise friends and relatives, summoned the sons of Pandu.”
Section LXXIV Vaisampayana said,—’O monarch, it was then that the virtuous Gandhari, afflicted with grief on account of
her affection for her sons, addressed king Dhritarashtra and said, “When Duryodhana was born, Vidura of great intelligence had said, ‘It is well to send this disgrace of the race to the other world. He cried repeatedly and disso- nantly like a jackal. It is certain he will prove the destruction of our race. Take this to heart, O king of the Kurus. O Bharata, sink not, for thy own fault, into an ocean of calamity. O lord, accord not thy approbation to the counsels of the wicked ones of immature years. Be not thou the cause of the terrible destruction of this race. Who is there that will break an embankment which hath been completed, or re-kindle a conflagration which hath been extinguished? O bull of the Bharata race, who is there that will provoke the peaceful sons of Pritha? Thou rememberest, O Ajami- da, everything, but still I will call thy attention to this. The scriptures can never control the wicked-minded for good or evil. And, O king, a person of immature understanding will never act as one of mature years. Let thy sons follow thee as their leader. Let them not be separated from thee for ever (by losing their lives). Therefore, at my word, O king, abandon this wretch of our race. Thou couldst not, O king, from parental affection, do it before. Know that the time hath come for the destruction of race through him. Err not, O king. Let thy mind, guided by counsels of peace, virtue, and true policy, be what it naturally is. That prosperity which is acquired by the aid of wicked acts, is soon destroyed; while that which is won by mild means taketh root and descendeth from generation to generation.”
“The king, thus addressed by Gandhari who pointed out to him in such language the path of virtue, replied unto her, saying,—’If the destruction of our race is come, let it take place freely. I am ill able to prevent it. Let it be as they (these my sons) desire. Let the Pandavas return. And let my sons again gamble with the sons of Pandu.”
Section LXXV Vaisampayana said,—’The royal messenger, agreeably to the commands of the intelligent king Dhritarashtra,
coming upon Yudhishthira, the son of Pritha who had by that time gone a great way, addressed the monarch and said,—’Even these are the words of thy father-like uncle, O Bharata, spoken unto thee, ‘The assembly is ready. O son of Pandu, O king Yudhisthira, come and cast the dice.’
Yudhishthira said,—’Creatures obtain fruits good and ill according to the dispensation of the Ordainer of the creation. Those fruits are inevitable whether I play or not. This is a summons to dice; it is, besides the command of the old king. Although I know that it will prove destructive to me, yet I cannot refuse.’
Vaisampayana continued,—”Although (a living) animal made of gold was an impossibility, yet Rama suffered himself to be tempted by a (golden) deer. Indeed, the minds of men over whom calamities hang, became deranged and out of order. Yudhishthira, therefore, having said these words, retraced his steps along with his brothers. And knowing full well the deception practised by Sakuni, the son of Pritha came back to sit at dice with him again. These mighty warriors again entered that assembly, afflicting the hearts of all their friends. And compelled by Fate they once more sat down at ease for gambling for the destruction of themselves.”
“Sakuni then said,—’The old king hath given ye back all your wealth. That is well. But, O bull of the Bharata race, listen to me, there is a stake of great value. Either defeated by ye at dice, dressed in deer skins we shall enter the great forest and live there for twelve years passing the whole of the thirteenth year in some inhabited region, un- recognised, and if recognised return to an exile of another twelve years; or vanquished by us, dressed in deer skins
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ye shall, with Krishna, live for twelve years in the woods passing the whole of the thirteenth year unrecognised, in some inhabited region. If recognised, an exile of another twelve years is to be the consequence. On the expiry of the thirteenth year, each is to have his kingdom surrendered by the other. O Yudhishthira, with this resolution, play with us, O Bharata, casting the dice.’ “At these words, they that were in that assembly, raising up their arms said in great anxiety of mind, and from the strength of their feelings these words,—’Alas, fie on the friends of Duryodhana that they do not apprise him of his great danger. Whether he, O bull among the Bharatas, (Dhritarashtra) under- standeth or not, of his own sense, it is thy duty to tell him plainly.”
“Vaisampayana continued,--King Yudhishthira, even hearing these various remarks, from shame and a sense of virtue again sat at dice. And though possessed of great intelligence and fully knowing the consequences, he again began to play, as if knowing that the destruction of the Kurus was at hand.
“And Yudhishthira said,—’How can, O Sakuni, a king like me, always observant of the uses of his own order, refuse, when summoned to dice? Therefore I play with thee.”
“Sakuni answered,—’We have many kine and horses, and milch cows, and an infinite number of goats and sheep; and elephants and treasures and gold and slaves both male and female. All these were staked by us before but now let this be our one stake, viz., exile into the woods,--being defeated either ye or we will dwell in the woods (for twelve years) and the thirteenth year, unrecognised, in some inhabited place. Ye bulls among men, with this deter- mination, will we play.”
“O Bharata, this proposal about a stay in the woods was uttered but once. The son of Pritha, however, accepted it and Sakuni took up the dice. And casting them he said unto Yudhishthira,—’Lo, I have won.”
Section LXXVI Vaisampayana said,—”Then the vanquished sons of Pritha prepared for their exile into the woods. And they,
one after another, in due order, casting off their royal robes, attired themselves in deer-skins. And Dussasana, beholding those chastisers of foes, dressed in deer-skins and deprived of their kingdom and ready to go into exile, exclaimed ‘The absolute sovereignty of the illustrious king Duryodhana hath commenced. The sons of Pandu have been vanquished, and plunged into great affliction. Now have we attained the goal either by broad or narrow paths. For today becoming superior to our foes in point of prosperity as also of duration of rule have we become praiseworthy of men. The sons of Pritha have all been plunged by us into everlasting hell. They have been deprived of happiness and kingdom for ever and ever. They who, proud of their wealth, laughed in derision at the son of Dhritarashtra, will now have to go into the woods, defeated and deprived by us of all their wealth. Let them now put off their variegated coats of mail, their resplendent robes of celestial make, and let them all attire themselves in deer-skins according to the stake they had accepted of the son of Suvala. They who always used to boast that they had no equals in all the world, will now know and regard themselves in this their calamity as grains of sesame without the kernel. Although in this dress of theirs the Pandavas seem like unto wise and powerful persons installed in a sacrifice, yet they look like persons not entitled to perform sacrifices, wearing such a guise. The wise Yajnase- na of the Somake race, having bestowed his daughter--the princess of Panchala--on the sons of Pandu, acted most unfortunately for the husbands of Yajnaseni--these sons of Pritha are as eunuchs. And O Yajnaseni, what joy will be thine upon beholding in the woods these thy husbands dressed in skins and thread-bare rags, deprived of their wealth and possessions. Elect thou a husband, whomsoever thou likest, from among all these present here. These Kurus assembled here, are all forbearing and self-controlled, and possessed of great wealth. Elect thou one amongst these as thy lord, so that these great calamity may not drag thee to wretchedness. ‘The sons of Pandu now are even like grains of sesame without the kernel, or like show-animals encased in skins, or like grains of rice without the kernel. Why shouldst thou then longer wait upon the fallen sons of Pandu? Vain is the labour used upon pressing the sesame grain devoid of the kernel!’
“Thus did Dussasana, the son of Dhritarashtra, utter in the hearing of the Pandavas, harsh words of the most cruel import. And hearing them, the unforbearing Bhima, in wrath suddenly approaching that prince like a Hima- layan lion upon a jackal, loudly and chastisingly rebuked him in these words,--Wicked-minded villain, ravest thou so in words that are uttered alone by the sinful? Boastest thou thus in the midst of the kings, advanced as thou art by the skill of the king of Gandhara. As thou piercest our hearts hear with these thy arrowy words, so shall I pierce thy heart in battle, recalling all this to thy mind. And they also who from anger or covetousness are walking behind thee as thy protectors,--them also shall I send to the abode of Yama with their descendants and relatives.”
Vaisampayana continued,--Unto Bhima dressed in deer-skins and uttering these words of wrath without doing any thing, for he could not deviate from the path of virtue, Dussasana abandoning all sense of shame, dancing around the Kurus, loudly said, ‘O cow! O cow!’
Bhima at this once more said,--Wretch darest thou, O Dussasana, use harsh words as these? Whom doth it behove to boast, thus having won wealth by foul means? I tell thee that if Vrikodara, the son of Pritha, drinketh not thy life-blood, piercing open thy breast in battle, let him not attain to regions of blessedness, I tell thee truly that by
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slaying the sons of Dhritarashtra in battle, before the very eyes of all the warriors, I shall pacify this wrath of mine soon enough.’”
Vaisampayana continued,—”And as the Pandavas were going away from the assembly, the wicked king Duryo- dhana from excess of joy mimiced by his own steps the playful leonine trade of Bhima. Then Vrikodara, half turning towards the king said, Think not ye fool that by this thou gainest any ascendency over me slay thee shall I soon with all thy followers, and answer thee, recalling all this to thy mind. And beholding this insult offered to him, the mighty and proud Bhima, suppressing his rising rage and following the steps of Yudhishthira, also spake these words while going out of the Kaurava court, ‘I will slay Duryodhana, and Dhananjaya will slay Karna, and Sahadeva will slay Sakuni that gambler with dice. I also repeat in this assembly these proud words which the gods will as- suredly make good, if ever we engage in battle with the Kurus, I will slay this wretched Duryodhana in battle with my mace, and prostrating him on the ground I will place my foot on his head. And as regards this (other) wicked person--Dussasana who is audacious in speech, I will drink his blood like a lion.
“And Arjuna said,--O Bhima, the resolutions of superior men are not known in words only. On the fourteenth year from this day, they shall see what happeneth.
“And Bhima again said,—’The earth shall drink the blood of Duryodhana, and Karna, and the wicked Sakuni, and Dussasana that maketh the fourth.’
“And Arjuna said,—’O Bhima, I will, as thou directest, slay in battle this Karna so malicious and jealous and harsh-speeched and vain. For doing what is agreeable to Bhima, Arjuna voweth that he will slay in battle with his arrows this Karna with all his followers. And I will send unto the regions of Yama also all those other kings that will from foolishness fight against me. The mountains of Himavat might be removed from where they are, the maker of the day lose his brightness, the moon his coldness, but this vow of mine will ever be cherished. And all this shall assuredly happen if on the fourteenth year from this, Duryodhana doth not, with proper respect, return us our kingdom.’”
Vaisampayana continued,—”After Arjuna had said this, Sahadeva the handsome son of Madri, endued with great energy, desirous of slaying Sakuni, waving his mighty arms and sighing like snake, exclaimed, with eyes red with anger--’Thou disgrace of the Gandhara kings, those whom thou thinkest as defeated are not really so. Those are even sharp-pointed arrows from whose wounds thou hast run the risk in battle. I shall certainly accomplish all which Bhima hath said adverting to thee with all thy followers. If therefore thou hast anything to do, do it before that day cometh. I shall assuredly slay thee in battle with all thy followers soon enough, it thou, O son of Suvala, stayest in the light pursuant to the Kshatriya usage.’
“’Then, O monarch hearing these words of Sahadeva, Nakula the handsomest of men spake these words,—’I shall certainly send unto the abode of Yama all those wicked sons of Dhritarashtra, who desirous of death and impelled by Fate, and moved also by the wish of doing what is agreeable to Duryodhana, have used harsh and in- sulting speeches towards this daughter o Yajnasena at the gambling match. Soon enough shall I, at the command of Yudhishthira and remembering the wrongs to Draupadi, make the earth destitute of the sons of Dhritarashtra.’
Vaisampayana continued,—”And those tigers among men, all endued with long arms, having thus pledged themselves to virtuous promises approached king Dhritarashtra.”
Section LXXVII Yudhishthira said,—’I bid farewell unto all the Bharatas, unto my old grand-sire (Bhishma), king Somadatta,
the great king Vahlika, Drona, Kripa, all the other kings, Aswathaman, Vidura, Dhritarashtra, all the sons of Dhri- tarashtra, Yayutsu, Sanjaya, and all the courtiers, I bid fare well, all of ye and returning again I shall see you.”
Vaisampayana continued,—”Overcome with shame none of those that were present there, could tell Yud- hishthira anything. Within their hearts, however, they prayed for the welfare of that intelligent prince.
Vidura then said,--The reverend Pritha is a princess by birth. It behoveth her not to go into the woods. Delicate and old and ever known to happiness the blessed one will live, respected by me, in my abode. Known this, ye sons of Pandu. And let safety be always yours.’
Vaisampayana continued,—’The Pandavas thereupon said,--O sinless one, let it be as thou sayest. Thou art our uncle, and, therefore like as our father. We also are all obedient to thee. Thou art, O learned one, our most respected superior. We should always obey what thou choosest to command. And, O high-souled one, order thou whatever else there is that remaineth to be done.
“Vidura replied,—’O Yudhishthira, O bull of the Bharata race, know this to be my opinion, that one that is vanquished by sinful means need not be pained by such defeat. Thou knowest every rule of morality; Dhananjaya is ever victorious in battle; Bhimasena is the slayer of foes; Nakula is the gatherer of wealth; Sahadeva hath adminis- trative talents, Dhaumya is the foremost of all conversant with the vedas; and the well-behaved Draupadi is conver- sant with virtue and economy. Ye are attached to one another and feel delight at one another’s sight and enemies can
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not separate you from one another, and ye are contented. Therefore, who is there that will not envy ye? O Bharata, this patient abstraction from the possession of the world will be of great benefit to thee. No foe, even if he were equal to sakra himself, will be able to stand it. Formerly thou wert instructed on the mountains of Himavat by Meru Savarni; in the town of Varanavata by Krishna Dwaipayana; on the cliff of Bhrigu by Rama; and on the banks of the Dhrishadwati by Sambhu himself. Thou hast also listened to the instruction of the great Rishi Asita on the hills of Anjana; and thou becamest a disciple of Bhrigu on the banks of the Kalmashi. Narada and this thy priest Dhaumya will now become thy instructors. In the matter of the next world, abandon not these excellent lessons thou hast obtained from the Rishis. O son of Pandu. thou surpassest in intelligence even Pururavas, the son of Ila; in strength, all other monarchs, and in virtue, even the Rishis. Therefore, resolve thou earnestly to win victory, which belongeth to Indra; to control thy wrath, which belongeth to Yama; to give in charity, which belongeth to Kuvera; and to con- trol all passions, which belongeth to Varuna. And, O Bharata, obtain thou the power of gladdening from the moon, the power of sustaining all from water; forbearance from the earth; energy from the entire solar disc; strength from the winds, and affluence from the other elements. Welfare and immunity from ailment be thine; I hope to see thee return. And, O Yudhishthira, act properly and duly in all seasons,--in those of distress--in those of difficulty,--in- deed, in respect of everything, O son of Kunti, with our leave go hence. O Bharata, blessing be thine. No one can say that ye have done anything sinful before. We hope to see thee, therefore, return in safety and crowned with success.”
Vaisampayana continued,—”Thus addressed by Vidura, Yudhishthira the son of Pandu, of prowess incapable of being baffled, saying, ‘So be it,’ bowing low unto Bhishma and Drona, went away.”
Book 6 Battle of Kurukshetra: Bhishma
Section CXVI Dhritarashtra said, “How, O Sanjaya, did Santanu’s son Bhishma of mighty energy fight on the tenth day of bat-
tle, with the Pandavas and the Srinjayas? How also did the Kurus resist the Pandavas in battle? Describe to me the great battle fought by Bhishma, that ornament of battle.”
Sanjaya said, “I will presently describe to thee, O Bharata, how the Kauravas fought with the Pandavas, and how that battle took place. Day after day many mighty car-warriors of thy army, excited with wrath, were despatched to the other world by the diadem-decked (Arjuna) with his great weapons. The ever-victorious Kuru warrior Bhish- ma also, agreeably to his vow, always caused a great carnage among the Partha army. O chastiser of foes, beholding Bhishma, fighting at the head of the Kurus, and Arjuna also fighting at the head of the Panchalas, we could not say truly on which side the victory would declare itself. On the tenth day of battle, when Bhishma and Arjuna en- countered each other, awful was the carnage that took place. On that day, O scorcher of foes, Santanu’s son, Bhish- ma, conversant with high and mighty weapons, repeatedly slew thousands upon thousands of warriors. Many, O Bharata, whose names and families were not known, but who, endued with great bravery, were unretreating from battle, were on that day slain by Bhishma. Scorching the Pandava army for ten days, Bhishma of virtuous soul, gave up all desire of protecting his life. Wishing his own slaughter presently at the head of his troops,--No more shall I slay large numbers of foremost of warriors.--thought thy mighty-armed sire Devavrata. And seeing Yudhishthira near him, O king, he addressed him, saying, ‘O Yudhishthira, O thou of great wisdom, O thou that art acquainted with every branch of learning, listen to these righteous and heaven-leading words, O sire, that I say. O Bharata, I no longer desire to protect, O sire, this body of mine. I have passed much time in slaying large numbers of men in battle. If thou wishest to do what is agreeable to me, strive to slay me, placing Partha with the Panchalas and the Srinjayas at thy van’. Ascertaining this to be his intention, king Yudhishthira of true sight proceeded to battle with the Srinjayas (for his support). Then Dhrishtadyumna, O king, and Pandu’s son Yudhishthira, having heard those words of Bhishma urged their array on. And Yudhishthira said, ‘Advance! Fight! Vanquish Bhishma in battle. Ye all will be protected by that conqueror of foes, viz., Jishnu of unbaffled aim. And this great bowman, this genera- lissimo (of our forces), viz., the son of Prishata, as also Bhima, will assuredly protect you. Ye Srinjayas, entertain no fear today of Bhishma in battle. Without doubt, we will vanquish Bhishma today, placing Sikhandin in our van’. Having, on the tenth day of battle, made such a vow, the Pandavas, resolved to (conquer or) go to heaven, advanced, blinded by rage, with Sikhandin and Dhananjaya the son of Pandu to the fore. And they made the most vigorous efforts for the overthrow of Bhishma. Then diverse kings, of great might, urged by thy son, and accompanied by Drona and his son and a large force, and the mighty Dussasana at the head of all his uterine brothers, proceeded towards Bhishma staying in the midst of that battle. Then those brave warriors of thy army, placing Bhishma of high vows in their van, battled with the Parthas headed by Sikhandin. Supported by the Chedis and the Panchalas, the ape-bannered Arjuna, placing Sikhandin ahead, proceeded towards Bhishma, the son of Santanu. And the grand- son of Sini battled with Drona’s son, and Dhrishtaketu with the descendant of Puru, and Yudhamanyu with thy son
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Duryodhana at the head of his followers. And Virata, at the head of his forces, encountered Jayadratha supported by his own troops. And Vardhakshatra’s heir, O chastiser of foes, encountered thy son Chitrasena armed with excellent bow and arrows. 1 And Yudhishthira proceeded against the mighty bowman Salya at the head of his troops. And Bhimasena, well-protected, proceeded against the elephant-division (of the Kaurava army). And Dhrishtadyumna, the prince of Panchala, excited with fury and accompanied by his brothers, proceeded against Drona, that foremost of all wielders of weapons, invincible, and irresistible. That chastiser of foes, viz., prince Vrihadvala, bearing on his standard the device of the lion, proceeded against Subhadra’s son whose standard bore the device of the Karnika- ra flower. Thy sons, accompanied by many kings, proceeded against Sikhandin and Dhananjaya the son of Pritha, from desire of slaughtering both of them. When the combatants of both armies rushed against each other with aw- ful prowess, the earth shook (under their tread). Beholding Santanu’s son in battle, the divisions of thy army and of the foe, O Bharata, became mingled with one another. Tremendous was the din, O Bharata, that arose there of those warriors burning with rage and rushing against each other. And it was heard on all sides, O king. With the blare of conchs and the leonine shouts of the soldiers, the uproar became awful. The splendour, equal to that of either the Sun or the Moon, of bracelets and diadems of all the heroic kings, became dimmed. And the dust that rose looked like a cloud, the flash of bright weapons constituting its lightning. And the twang of bows, the whiz of arrows, the blare of conchs, the loud beat of drums, and the rattle of cars, of both the armies, constituted the fierce roar of those clouds. And the welkin, over the field of battle, in consequence of the bearded darts, the javelins, the swords and showers of arrows of both armies, was darkened. And car-warriors, and horsemen felled horsemen, in that dread- ful battle. And elephants killed elephants, and foot-soldiers slew foot-soldiers. And the battle that took place there for Bhishma’s sake, between the Kurus and the Pandavas, O tiger among men, was fierce in the extreme, like that between two hawks for a piece of flesh. Engaged in battle, that encounter between those combatants desirous of slaughtering and vanquishing one another, was extremely dreadful.”
Section CXVII Sanjaya said, “Abhimanyu, O king, displaying his prowess for the sake of Bhishma, fought with thy son who
was supported by a large force. Then Duryodhana, excited with wrath, struck Abhimanyu in the chest with rune straight arrows, and once more with three. Then in that battle, Arjuna’s son, inflamed with wrath, hurled at Duryo- dhana’s car a terrible dart resembling the rod of Death himself. Thy son, however, that mighty car-warrior, O king, with a broad-headed arrow of great sharpness, cut off in twain that dart of terrible force coursing towards him with great speed. Beholding that dart of his drop down on the earth, Arjuna’s wrathful son pierced Duryodhana with three shafts in his arms and chest. And once more, O Chief of the Bharatas, that mighty car-warrior of Bharata’s race struck the Kuru king with ten fierce shafts in the centre of his chest. And the battle, O Bharata, that took place between those two heroes, viz., Subhadra’s son, and that bull of Kuru’s race, the former fighting for compassing Bhishma’s death and the latter for Arjuna’s defeat, was fierce and interesting to behold, and gratifying to the senses, and was applauded by all the kings. That bull among Brahmanas and chastiser of foes, viz., the son of Drona, ex- cited with wrath in that battle, forcibly struck Satyaki in the chest with fierce arrow. The grandson of Sini also, that hero of immeasurable soul, struck the preceptor’s son in every vital limbs with nine shafts winged with the feathers of the Kanka bird. Aswatthaman then, in that battle, struck Satyaki (in return) with nine shafts, and once more, quickly, with thirty, in his arms and chest. Then that great bowman Of the Satwata race, possessed of great fame, deeply pierced by Drona’s son, pierced the latter (in return) with arrows. The mighty car-warrior Paurava, covering Dhrishtaketu in that battle with his shafts, mangled that great bowman exceedingly. The mighty car-warrior Dhr- ishtaketu, endued with great strength, quickly pierced the former with thirty arrows. Then the mighty car-warrior Paurava cut off Dhrishtaketu’s bow, and uttering a loud shout, pierced him with whetted shafts. Dhrishtaketu then taking up another bow, pierced Paurava, O king, with three and seventy shafts of great sharpness. Those two great bowmen and mighty car-warriors, both of gigantic stature, pierced each other with showers of arrows. Each suc- ceeded in cutting off the other’s bow, and each slew the other’s steeds. And both of them, thus deprived of their cars, then encountered each other in a battle with swords. And each took up a beautiful shield made of bull’s hide and docked with a hundred moons and graced with a hundred stars. And each of them also took up a polished sword of brilliant lustre. And thus equipt, they rushed, O king at each other, like two lions in the deep forest, both seeking the companionship of the same lioness in her season. They wheeled in beautiful circles, advanced and retreated, and displayed other movements, seeking to strike each other. Then Paurava, excited with wrath, addressed Dhrishta- ketu, saying--Wait, Wait,--and struck him on the frontal bone with that large scimitar of his. The king of the Chedis also, in that battle, struck Paurava, that bull among men, on his shoulder-joint, with his large scimitar of sharp edge. Those two repressors of foes thus encountering each other in dreadful battle and thus striking each other, O king, both fell down on the field. Then thy son Jayatsena, taking Paurava up on his car, removed him from the field of battle on that vehicle. And as regards Dhrishtaketu, the valiant and heroic Sahadeva, the son of Madri, possessed of
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great prowess, bore him away from the field. “Chitrasena, having pierced Susarman with many arrows made wholly of iron, once more pierced him with
sixty arrows and once more with nine. Susarman, however, excited with wrath in battle, pierced thy son, O king, with hundreds of arrows. Chitrasena then, O monarch, excited with rage, pierced his adversary with thirty straight shafts. Susarman, however, pierced Chitrasena again in return.
“In that battle for the destruction of Bhishma, Subhadra’s son, enhancing his fame and honour, fought with prince Vrihadvala, putting forth his prowess for aiding (his sire) Partha and then proceeded towards Bhishma’s front. The ruler of the Kosalas, having pierced the son of Arjuna with five shafts made of iron, once more pierced him with twenty straight shafts. Then the son of Subhadra pierced the ruler of Kosalas with eight shafts made whol- ly of iron. He succeeded not, however, in making the ruler of the Kosalas to tremble, and, therefore, he once more pierced him with many arrows. And Phalguni’s son then cut off Vrihadvala’s bow, and struck him again with thirty arrows winged with feathers of the Kanka bird. Prince Vrihadvala then, taking up another bow, angrily pierced the son of Phalguni in that battle with many arrows. Verily, O scorcher of foes, the battle, for Bhishma’s sake, that took place between them, both excited with rage and both conversant with every mode of fight, was like the encounter of Vali and Vasava in days of old on the occasion of the battle between the gods and the Asuras.
“Bhimasena, fighting against the elephant-division, looked highly resplendent like Sakra armed with the thunder after splitting large mountains. 1 Indeed, elephants, huge as hills, slaughtered by Bhimasena in battle, fell down in numbers on the field, filling the earth with their shrieks. Resembling massive heaps of antimony, and of mountain-like proportions, those elephants with frontal globes split open, lying prostrate on the earth, seemed like mountains strewn over the earth’s surface. The mighty bowman Yudhishthira, protected by a large force, afflicted the ruler of the Madras, encountering him in that dreadful battle. The ruler of the Madras, in return, displaying his prowess for the sake of Bhishma, afflicted the son of Dharma, that mighty car-warrior, in battle. The king of Sindhus, having pierced Virata with nine straight arrows of keen points, once more struck him with thirty. Virata, however, O king, that commander of a large division, struck Jayadratha in the centre of his chest with thirty shafts of keen points. The ruler of the Matsyas and the ruler of the Sindhus, both armed with beautiful bows and beauti- ful scimitars, both decked with handsome coats of mail and weapons and standards, and both of beautiful forms looked resplendent in that battle.
“Drona, encountering Dhrishtadyumna the prince of the Panchalas in dreadful battle, fought fiercely with his straight shafts. Then Drona, O king, having cut off the large bow of Prishata’s son, pierced him deeply with fifty arrows. Then that slayer of hostile heroes, viz., the son of Prishata, taking up another bow, sped at Drona who was contending with him, many arrows. The mighty car-warrior Drona however, cut off all those arrows, striking them with his own. And then Drona sped at Drupada’s son five fierce shafts. Then that slayer of hostile heroes, viz., the son of Prishata, excited with rage, hurled at Drona in that battle a mace resembling the rod of Death himself. Drona however, with fifty arrows checked that mace decked with gold as it coursed impetuously towards him. Thereupon that mace, cut into fragments, O king, by those shafts shot from Drona’s bow, fell down on the earth. Then that scorcher of foes, viz., the son of Prishata, beholding his mace baffled, hurled at Drona an excellent dart made wholly of iron. Drona, however, O Bharata, cut that dart with nine shafts in that battle and then afflicted that great bow- man, viz., the son of Prishata. Thus took place, O king, that fierce and awful battle between Drona and the son of Prishata, for the sake of Bhishma.
“Arjuna, getting at the son of Ganga, afflicted him with many arrows of keen points, and rushed at him like an infuriate elephant in the forest upon another. King Bhagadatta, however, of great prowess then rushed at Arjuna, and checked his course in battle with showers of arrows. Arjuna then, in that dreadful battle, pierced Bhagadatta’s elephant coming towards him, with many polished arrows of iron, that were all bright as silver and furnished with keen points. The son of Kunti, meanwhile, O king, urged Sikhandin, saying,--Proceed, proceed, towards Bhishma, and slay him!--Then, O elder brother of Pandu, the ruler of Pragjyotishas, abandoning that son of Pandu, quickly proceeded, O king, against the car of Drupada. Then Arjuna, O monarch, speedily proceeded towards Bhishma, placing Sikhandin ahead. And then there took place a fierce battle, for all the brave combatants of thy army rushed with great vigour against Arjuna, uttering loud shouts. And all this seemed extremely wonderful. Like the wind dispersing in the summer masses of clouds in the welkin, Arjuna dispersed, O king, all those diverse divisions of thy sons. Sikhandin, however, without any anxiety, coming up at the grandsire of the Bharatas, quickly pierced him with great many arrows. As regards Bhishma, his car was then his fire-chamber. His bow was the flame of that fire. And swords I and darts and maces constituted the fuel of that fire. And the showers of arrows he shot were the blazing sparks of that fire with which he was then consuming Kshatriyas in that battle. As a raging conflagration with constant supply of fuel, wandereth amid masses of dry grass when aided by the wind, so did Bhishma blaze up with his flames, scattering his celestial weapons. And the Kuru hero slew the Somakas that followed Partha in that battle. Indeed that mighty car-warrior checked also the other forces of Arjuna, by means of his straight and whetted shafts furnished with wings of gold. Filling in that dreadful battle all the points of the compass, cardinal and sub-
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sidiary, with his leonine shouts, Bhishma felled many car-warriors, O king, (from their cars) and many steeds along with their riders. And he caused large bodies of cars to look like forests of palmyras shorn of their leafy heads. That foremost of all wielders of weapons, in that battle, deprived cars and steeds and elephants, of their riders. Hearing the twang of his bow and the slap of his palms, both resembling the roll of the thunder, the troops, O king, trembled all over the field. The shafts, O chief of men, of thy sire were never bootless as they fell. Indeed, shot from Bhishma’s bow they never fell only touching the bodies of the foe (but pierced them through in every case). We saw crowds of cars, O king, deprived of riders, but unto which were yoked fleet steeds, dragged on all sides with the speed of the wind. Full fourteen thousand great car-warriors of noble parentage, prepared to lay down their lives, unretreat- ing and brave, and possessed of standards decked with gold, belonging to the Chedis, the Kasis, and the Karushas, approaching Bhishma, that hero who resembled the Destroyer himself with wide-open mouth, were despatched to the other world, with their steeds, cars and elephants. There was not, O king, a single great car-warrior among the Somakas, who, having approached Bhishma in that battle, returned with life from that engagement. Beholding Bhishma’s prowess, people regarded all those warriors (who approached him) as already despatched to the abode of the king of the Dead. Indeed, no car-warrior ventured to approach Bhishma in battle, except the heroic Arjuna hav- ing white steeds (yoked unto his car) and owning Krishna for his charioteer, and Sikhandin, the prince of Panchala, of immeasurable energy.”
Section CXVIII Sanjaya said,--Sikhandin, O bull among men, approaching Bhishma in battle, struck him in the centre of the
chest with ten broad-headed arrows The son of Ganga, however, O Bharata, only looked at Sikhandin with wrath and as if consuming the Panchala prince with that look. Remembering his femininity, O king, Bhishma, in the very sight of all, struck him not. Sikhandin, however, understood it not. Then Arjuna, O monarch, addressed Sikhandin, saying,—’Rush quickly and slay the grandsire. What needst thou say, O hero? Slay the mighty car-warrior Bhishma. I do not see any other warrior in Yudhishthira’s army who is competent to fight with Bhishma in battle, save thee, O tiger among men. I say this truly.’ Thus addressed by Partha, Sikhandin, O bull of Bharata’s race, quickly covered the grandsire with diverse kinds of weapons. Disregarding those shafts, thy sire Devavrata began, with his shafts, to check the angry Arjuna only in that battle. And that mighty car-warrior, O sire, began also to despatch, with his shafts of keen points, the whole army of the Pandavas to the other world. The Pandavas also, O king, after the same manner, supported by their vast host, began to overwhelm Bhishma like the clouds covering the maker of day. O bull of Bharata’s race, surrounded on all sides, that Bharata hero consumed many brave warriors in that battle like a raging conflagration in the forest (consuming numberless trees). The prowess that we then beheld there of thy son (Dussasana) was wonderful, inasmuch as he battled with Partha and protected the grandsire at the same time. With that feat of thy son Dussasana, that illustrious bowman, all the people there were highly gratified. Alone he battled with all the Pandavas having Arjuna amongst them; and he fought with such vigour that the Pandavas were unable to resist him. Many car-warriors were in that battle deprived of their cars by Dussasana. And many mighty bowmen on horseback and many mighty-warriors, elephants, pierced with Dussasana’s keen shafts, fell down on the earth. And many elephants, afflicted with his shafts, ran away in all directions. As a fire fiercely blazeth forth with bright flames when fed with fuel, so did thy son blaze forth, consuming the Pandava host. And no car-warrior, O Bharata, of the Pandava host ventured to vanquish or even proceed against that warrior of gigantic proportions, save Indra’s son (Arjuna) owning white steeds and having Krishna for his charioteer. Then Arjuna also called Vijaya, vanquish- ing Dussasana in battle, O king, in the very sight of all the troops, proceeded against Bhishma. Though vanquished, thy son, however, relying upon the might of Bhishma’s arms, repeatedly comforted his own side and battled with the Pandavas with great fierceness. Arjuna, O king, fighting with his foes in that battle, looked exceedingly resplen- dent. 1 Then Sikhandin, in that battle, O king, pierced the grandsire with many arrows whose touch resembled that of the bolts of heaven and which were as fatal as the poison of the snake. These arrows, however, O monarch, caused thy sire little pain, for the son of Ganga received them laughingly. Indeed, as a person afflicted with heat cheerful- ly receives torrents of rain, even so did the son of Ganga received those arrows of Sikhandin. And the Kshatriyas there, O king, beheld Bhishma in that great battle as a being of fierce visage who was incessantly consuming the troops of the high-souled Pandavas.
“Then thy son (Duryodhana), addressing all his warriors, said unto them, ‘Rush ye against Phalguni from all sides. Bhishma, acquainted with the duties of a commander, will protect you’. Thus addressed, the Kaurava troops casting off all fear, fought with the Pandavas. (And once more, Duryodhana said unto them). ‘With his tall standard bearing the device of the golden palmyra, Bhishma stayeth, protecting the honour and the armour of all the Dhar- tarashtra warriors. The very gods, striving vigorously, cannot vanquish the illustrious and mighty Bhishma. What need be said, therefore, of the Parthas who are mortals? Therefore, ye warriors, fly not away from the field, getting Phalguni for a foe. I myself, striving vigorously, will today fight with the Pandavas.. uniting with all of you, ye lords
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of earth, exerting yourselves actively.’ Hearing these words, O monarch, of thy son with bow in hand, many mighty combatants, excited with rage, belonging to the Videhas, the Kalingas, and the diverse tribes of the Daserkas, fell upon Phalguni. And many combatants also, belonging to the Nishadas, the Sauviras, the Valhikas, the Daradas, the Westerners, the Northerners, the Malavas, the Abhighatas, the Surasenas, the Sivis, the Vasatis, the Salwas, the Sakas, the Trigartas, the Amvashthas, and the Kekayas, similarly fell upon Partha, like flights of insects upon a fire. The mighty Dhananjaya, otherwise called Vibhatsu, then, O monarch, calling to mind diverse celestial weapons and aiming them at those great car-warriors at the heads of their respective divisions, 1 quickly consumed them all, by means of those weapons of great force, like fire consuming a flight of insects. And while that firm bowman was (by means of his celestial weapons) creating thousands upon thousands of arrows, his Gandiva looked highly resplen- dent in the welkin. Then those Kshatriyas, O monarch, afflicted with those arrows with their tall standards torn and overthrown, could not even together, approach the ape-bannered (Partha). Car-warriors fell down with their standards, and horsemen with their horses, and elephant-riders with their elephants, attacked by Kiritin with his shafts. And the earth was soon covered all on all sides with the retreating troops of those kings, routed in conse- quence of the shafts shot from Arjuna’s arms. Partha then, O monarch, having routed the Kaurava army, sped many arrows at Dussasana. Those arrows with iron heads, piercing thy son Dussasana through, all entered the earth like snakes through ant-hills. Arjuna then slew Dussasana’s steeds and then felled his charioteer. And the lord Arjuna, with twenty shafts, deprived Vivingsati of his car, and struck him five straight shafts. And piercing Kripa and Vikar- na and Salya with many arrows made wholly of iron, Kunti’s son owning white steeds deprived all of them of their cars. Thus deprived of their cars and vanquished in battle by Savyasachin, Kripa and Salya, O sire, and Dussasana, and Vikarna and Vivingsati, all fled away. Having vanquished those mighty car-warriors, O chief of the Bharatas, in the forenoon, Partha blazed up in that battle like a smokeless conflagration. Scattering his shafts all around like the Sun shedding rays of light, Partha felled many other kings, O monarch. Making those mighty car-warriors turn their backs upon the field by means of his arrowy showers, Arjuna caused a large river of bloody current to flow in that battle between the hosts of the Kurus and the Pandavas, O Bharata. Large numbers of elephants and steeds and car-warriors were slain by car-warriors. And many were the car-warriors slain by elephants, and many also were the steeds slain by foot-soldiers. And the bodies of many elephant-riders and horsemen and car-warriors, cut off in the middle, as also their heads, fell down on every part of the field. And the field of battle, O king, was strewn with (slain) princes,--mighty car-warriors,--falling or fallen, decked with ear-rings and bracelets. And it was also strewn with the bodies of many warriors cut off by car-wheels, or trodden down by elephants. And foot-soldiers ran away, and horsemen also with their horses. And many elephants and car-warriors fell down on all sides. And many cars, with wheels and yokes and standards broken, lay scattered all about on the field. And the field of battle, dyed with the gore of large numbers of elephants, steeds, and car-warriors, looked beautiful like a red cloud, in the autumnal sky. Dogs, and crows, and vultures, and wolves, and jackals, and many other frightful beasts and birds, set up loud howls, at the sight of the food that lay before them. Diverse kinds of winds blew along all directions. And Rakshasas and evil spirits were seen there, uttering loud roars. And strings, embroidered with gold, and costly banners, were seen to wave, moved by the wind. And thousands of umbrellas and great cars with standards attached to them, were seen lying scattered about on the field. Then Bhishma, O king, invoking a celestial weapon, rushed at the son of Kunti, in the very sight of all the bowmen. Thereupon Sikhandin, clad in mail, rushed at Bhishma who was dashing towards Arjuna. At this, Bhishma withdrew that weapon resembling fire (in effulgence and energy). Meanwhile Kunti’s son owning white steeds slaughtered thy troops, confounding the grandsire.”
Section CXIX Sanjaya said, “When the combatants of both armies, strong in number, were thus disposed in battle array, all
those unretreating heroes, O Bharata, set their heart upon the region of Brahma. 1 In course of the general engage- ment that followed, the same class of combatants did not fight with the same class of combatants. Car-warriors fought not with car-warriors, or foot-soldiers with foot-soldiers, or horsemen with horsemen, or elephant-warriors with elephant-warriors. On the other hand, O monarch, the combatants fought with one another like mad men. Great and dreadful was the calamity that overtook both the armies. In that fierce slaughter when elephants and men spread themselves on the field, all distinctions between them ceased, for they fought indiscriminately.
“Then Salya and Kripa, and Chitrasena, O Bharata, and Dussasana, and Vikarna, those heroes mounted on their bright cars, caused the Pandava host to tremble. Slaughtered in battle by those high-souled warriors, the Pandava army began to reel in diverse ways, O king, like a boat on the waters tossed by the wind. As the wintry cold cuts kine to the quick, so did Bhishma cut the sons of Pandu to the quick. As regards thy army also, many elephants, looking like newly-risen clouds, were felled by the illustrious Partha. And many foremost of warriors too were seen to be crushed by that hero. And struck with arrows and long shafts in thousands, many huge elephants fell down, uttering frightful shrieks of pain. And the field of battle looked beautiful, strewn with the bodies, still decked with
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ornaments of high-souled warriors deprived of life and with heads still decked with ear-rings. And in that battle, O king, which was destructive of great heroes, when Bhishma and Dhananjaya the son of Pandu put forth their prow- ess, thy sons, O monarch, beholding the grandsire exert himself vigorously, approached him, with all their troops placed ahead. Desirous of laying down their lives in battle and making heaven itself their goal, they approached the Pandavas in that battle, which was fraught with great carnage. The brave Pandavas also, O king, bearing in mind the many injuries of diverse kinds inflicted upon them before by thee and thy son, O monarch, and casting off all fear, and eager to win the highest heavens, cheerfully fought with thy son and the other warriors of thy army.
“Then the generalissimo of the Pandava army, viz., the mighty car-warrior Dhrishtadyumna, addressing his soldiers, said, ‘Ye Somakas, accompanied by the Srinjayas, rush ye at Ganga’s son.’ Hearing those words of their commander the Somakas and the Srinjayas, though afflicted with showers of arrows, rushed at the son of Ganga. Thus attacked, O king, thy sire Bhishma, influenced by wrath, began to fight with the Srinjayas. In days of old, O sire, the intelligent Rama had imparted to Bhishma of glorious achievements that instruction in weapons which was so destructive of hostile ranks. Relying on that instruction and causing a great havoc among the troops of the foe, that slayer of hostile heroes, viz., the old Kuru grandsire Bhishma, day after day, slew ten thousand warriors of the Ratha. On the tenth day, however, O bull of Bharata’s race, Bhishma, single-handed, slew ten thousand ele- phants. And then he slew seven great car-warriors among the Matsyas and the Panchalas. In addition to all this, in that dreadful battle five thousand foot-soldiers, and one thousand tuskers, and ten thousand steeds, were also slain by thy sire, O king, through skill acquired by education. Then having thinned the ranks of all the kings, he slew Satanika, the dear brother of Virata. And the valiant Bhishma, having slain Satanika in battle, felled, O king, full one thousand Kshatriyas with his broad-headed shafts. Besides these, all the Kshatriyas of the Pandava army who followed Dhananjaya, as soon as they approached Bhishma, had to go to Yama’s abode. Covering the Pandava host from every side with showers of arrows, Bhishma stayed in battle at the head of the Kaurava army. Achieving the most glorious feats on the tenth day, as he stayed between the two armies, bow in hand, none of the kings, O monarch, could even look at him, for he then resembled the hot mid-day Sun in the summer sky. As Sakra scorched the Daitya host in battle, even so, O Bharata, did Bhishma scorch the Pandava host. Beholding him thus put forth his prowess, the slayer of Madhu, viz., the son of Devaki, cheerfully addressing Dhananjaya, said, ‘There, Bhish- ma, the son of Santanu, stayeth between the two armies. Slaying him by putting forth thy might, thou mayst win victory. There, at that spot, whence he breaketh our ranks, check him, putting forth thy strength. O lord, none else, save thee, ventureth to bear the arrows of Bhishma. Thus urged, the ape-bannered Arjuna at that moment made Bhishma with his car, steeds, and standard, invisible by means of his arrows. That bull, however, among the fore- most of Kurus, by means of his own arrowy showers, pierced those showers of shafts shot by the son of Pandu. Then the king of the Panchalas the valiant Dhrishtaketu, Bhimasena the son of Pandu, Dhrishtadyumna of Prishata’s race, the twins (Nakula and Sahadeva), Chekitana, and the five Kaikaya brothers, and the mighty-armed Satyaki and Subhadra’s son, and Ghatotkacha, and the (five) sons of Draupadi, and Sikhandin, and the valiant Kuntibhoja, and Susarman, and Virata, these and many other powerful warriors of the Pandava army, afflicted by the shafts of Bhishma, seemed to sink in an ocean of grief, Phalguni, however, rescued them all. Then Sikhandin, taking up a mighty weapon and protected by Kiritin, rushed impetuously towards Bhishma alone. The unvanquished Vibhatsu then, knowing what should be done after what, slew all those that followed Bhishma, and then himself rushed at him. And Satyaki, and Chekitana, and Dhristadyumna of Prishata’s race, and Virata, and Drupada, and the twin sons of Madri by Pandu, all protected by that firm bowman (viz., Arjuna) rushed against Bhishma alone in that battle. And Abhimanyu, and the five sons of Draupadi also, with mighty weapons upraised, rushed against Bhish- ma in battle. All those firm bowmen, unretreating from battle, pierced Bhishma in diverse parts of his body with well-aimed shafts. Disregarding all those shafts, large in number, shot by those foremost of princes belonging to the Pandava host, Bhishma of undepressed soul penetrated into the Pandava ranks. And the grandsire baffled all those arrows, as if sporting the while. Frequently looking at Sikhandin the prince of the Panchalas with a laugh, he aimed not a single arrow at him, recollecting his femininity. On the other hand, he slew seven great car-warriors belonging to Drupada’s division. Then confused cries of woe soon arose amongst the Matsyas, the Panchalas, and the Chedis, who were together rushing at that single hero. With large numbers of foot-soldiers and steeds and cars, and with showers of arrows, O scorcher of foes, they overwhelmed that single warrior, viz., Bhishma the son of Bhagirathi, that scorcher of foes, like the clouds overwhelming the maker of day. Then in that battle between him and them, which resembled the battle between the gods and the Asuras in days of old, the diadem-decked (Arjuna), placing Sikhandin before him, pierced Bhishma (repeatedly).’
Section CXX Sanjaya said, “Thus all the Pandavas, placing Sikhandin before them pierced Bhishma in that battle repeatedly
surrounding him on all sides. And all the Srinjayas, uniting together, struck him with dreadful Sataghnis, and
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spiked maces, and battle-axes, and mallets, and short thick clubs, and bearded darts, and other missiles, and arrows furnished with golden wing, and darts and lances and kampanas; and with long shafts, and arrows furnished with heads shaped like the calf-tooth, and rockets. Thus afflicted by many, his coat of mail was pierced everywhere. But though pierced in every vital part, Bhishma felt no pain. On the other hand, he then seemed to his enemies to resemble in appearance the (all-destructive) fire that rises at the end of Yuga. His bow and arrows constituted the blazing flames (of that fire). The flight of his weapons constituted its (friendly) breeze. The rattle of his car-wheels constituted its heat and mighty weapons constituted its splendour. His beautiful bow formed its fierce tongue, and the bodies of heroic warriors, its profuse fuel. And Bhishma was seen to roll through the midst of crowds of cars belonging to those kings, or to come out (of the press) at times, or course once more through their midst. Then, disregarding the king of the Panchalas and Dhrishtaketu, he penetrated, O monarch, into the midst of the Pandava army. He then pierced the six Pandava warriors, viz., Satyaki, and Bhima, and Dhananjaya the son of Pandu, and Drupada, and Virata, and Dhrishtadyumna of Prishata’s race, with many excellent arrows of great sharpness and dreadful whizz and exceeding impetuosity, and capable of piercing through every kind of armour. Those mighty car-warriors, however, checking those keen shafts, afflicted Bhishma with great force, each of them striking him with ten shafts. Those mighty shafts, whetted on stone and furnished with golden wings, which the great car-war- rior Sikhandin shot, quickly penetrated into Bhishma’s body. Then the diadem-decked (Arjuna), excited with wrath, and placing Sikhandin ahead rushed at Bhishma and cut off the latter’s bow. Thereupon mighty car-warriors, seven in number, viz., Drona and Kritavarman, and Jayadratha the ruler of the Sindhus, and Bhurisravas, and Sala, and Salya, and Bhagadatta could not brook that act of Arjuna. Inflamed with rage, they rushed at him. Indeed, those mighty car-warriors, invoking into existence celestial weapons, fell with great wrath upon that son of Pandu, and covered him with their arrows. And as they rushed towards Phalguni’s car, the noise made by them was heard to resemble that made by the ocean itself when it swelleth in rage at the end of the Yuga, Kill, Bring up (our forces), Take, Pierce, Cut off, this was the furious uproar heard about Phalguni’s car. Hearing that furious uproar, the mighty car-warriors of the Pandava army rushed forward, O bull of Bharata’s race, for protecting Arjuna. They were Satyaki, and Bhimasena, and Dhrishtadyumna of Prishata’s race, and both Virata and Drupada, and the Rakshasa Ghatotkacha, and the wrathful Abhimanyu. These seven, inflamed with rage, and armed with excellent bows, rushed with great speed. And the battle that took place between these and the Kaurava warriors was fierce, making the hair stand on end, and resembling O chief of the Bharatas, the battle of the gods with the Danavas. Sikhandin, however, that foremost of car-warriors, protected in the battle by the diadem-decked (Arjuna), pierced Bhishma, in that encounter, with ten shafts after the latter’s bow had been cut off. And he struck Bhishma’s charioteer with other shafts, and cut off the latter’s standard with one shaft. Then the son of Ganga took up another bow that was tougher. That even was cut off by Phalguni with three sharp shafts. Indeed, that chastiser of foes, viz., Arjuna, who was capable of drawing the bow with even his left hand, excited with rage, one after another, cut off all the bows that Bhishma took up. Then Bhishma, whose bows were thus cut off, excited with rage, and licking the corners of his mouth, took up a dart that was capable of riving a hill. In rage he hurled it at Phalguni’s car. Beholding its course towards him like the blazing bolt of heaven, the delighter of the Pandavas fixed five sharp broad-headed arrows (on his bow-string). And with those five arrows, O chief of the Bharatas, the angry Arjuna cut off into five fragments that dart hurled from Bhishma’s arms. Thus cut off by the angry Arjuna, that dart then fell down like a flash of lightning separated from a mass of clouds. Beholding his dart cut off, Bhishma became filled with rage. That hero, that subjugator of hostile cities, then began to reflect. And he said unto himself, ‘With only a single bow I could slay all the Pandavas, if the mighty Vishnu himself had not been their protector. For two reasons, however, I will not fight with the Pandavas, viz., their unslayableness, and the femininity of Sikhandin. Formerly, when my sire wedded Kali, he pleased (with me) gave me two boons, viz., that I should be incapable of being slain in battle, and that my death should depend on my own choice. I should, however, now wish my own death, this being the proper hour.’ Ascertaining this to be the resolve of Bhishma of immeasurable energy, the Rishis and the Vasus stationed in the firmament, said, ‘That which hath been resolved by thee is approved by us also, O son! Act according to thy resolu- tion, O king. Withdraw thy heart from battle.’ On the conclusion, of those words, fragrant and auspicious breeze charged with particles of water, began to blow along a natural direction. 1 And celestial cymbals of loud sounds began to beat. And a flowery shower fell upon Bhishma, O sire. The words spoken by the Rishis and the Vasus, however, O king, were not heard by any one save Bhishma himself. I also heard them, through the power conferred on me by the Muni. Great was the grief, O monarch, that filled the hearts of the celestials at the thought of Bhish- ma, that favourite of all the worlds, falling down from his car. Having listened to these words of the celestials, Santanu’s son Bhishma of great ascetic merit rushed out at Vibhatsu, even though he was then being pierced with sharp arrows capable of penetrating through every armour. Then Sikhandin, O king, excited with rage, struck the grandsire of the Bharatas in the chest with nine sharp arrows. The Kuru grandsire Bhishma, however, though struck by him in battle, thus, trembled not, O monarch, but remained unmoved like a mountain during an earthquake. Then Vibhatsu, drawing his bow Gandiva with a laugh, pierced the son of Ganga with five and twenty arrows. And
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once more, Dhananjaya, with great speed and excited with wrath struck him in every vital part with hundreds of arrows. Thus pierced by others, also with thousands of arrows, the mighty car-warrior Bhishma pierced those others in return with great speed. And as regards the arrows shot by those warriors, Bhishma, pos- sessed of prowess in battle that was incapable of being baffled, equally checked them all with his own straight arrows. Those arrows, however, endued with wings of gold and whetted on stone, which the mighty car-warrior Sikhandin shot in that battle, scarcely caused Bhishma any pain. Then the diadem-decked (Arjuna), excited with rage and placing Sikhandin to the fore, ap- proached Bhishma (nearer) and once more cut off his bow. And then piercing Bhishma with ten arrows, he cut off the latter’s standard with one. And striking Bhishma’s chariot with ten arrows, Arjuna caused him to tremble. The son of Ganga then took up another bow that was stronger. Within, however, the twinkling of an eye, as soon,
in fact, as it was taken up, Arjuna cut that bow also into three fragments with three broad-headed shafts. And thus the son of Pandu cut off in that battle even all the bows of Bhishma. After that, Bhishma the son of Santanu, no longer desired to battle with Arjuna. The latter, however, then pierced him with five and twenty arrows. That great bowman, thus pierced greatly, then addressed Dussasana, and skid, ‘Behold, Partha, that great car-warrior of the Pandavas, excited with wrath in battle, pierceth me alone with many thousands of arrows. He is incapable of being vanquished in battle by the wielder of the thunder-bolt himself. As regards myself also, O hero, the very gods, Danavas and Rakshasas united together, are incapable of vanquishing me. What I shall say then of mighty car-war- riors among men?’ While Bhishma was thus speaking to Dussasana, Phalguni with sharp shafts, and placing Sikhandin to the fore, pierced Bhishma in that battle. Then Bhishma, deeply and excessively pierced by the wielder of Gandiva with keen-pointed shafts, once more addressed Dussasana with a smile and said, ‘These arrows coursing towards me in one continuous line, whose touch resembleth that of heaven’s bolt, have been shot by Arjuna. These are not Sikhandin’s. Cutting me to the quick, piercing through even my hard coat of mail, and striking me with the force of mushalas, these arrows are not Sikhandin’s. Of touch as hard as that of the Brahmana’s rod (of chastise- ment), 1 and of impetus unbearable as that of the thunder-bolt, these arrows are afflicting my vital forces. These are not Sikhandin’s. Of the touch of maces and spiked bludgeons, those arrows are destroying my vital forces like messengers of Death commissioned (by the grim king himself ). These are not Sikhandin’s. Like angry snakes of virulent poison, projecting their tongues out, these are penetrating into my vitals. These are not Sikhandin’s--these that cut me to the quick like the cold of winter cutting kine to the quick. Save the heroic wielder of Gandiva, viz., the ape-bannered Jishnu, even all other kings united together cannot cause me pain. Saying these words, Bhishma, the valiant son of Santanu, as if for the object of consuming the Pandavas, hurled a dart at Partha. Partha, however, caused that dart to drop down, cutting it into three fragments with three shafts, in the very sight, O Bharata, of all the Kuru heroes of thy army. Desirous of obtaining either death or victory, the son of Ganga then took up a sword and a shield decked with gold. Before, however, he could come down from his car, Arjuna cut off by means of his arrows, that shield into a hundred fragments. And that feat of his seemed exceedingly wonderful. Then the king Yudhishthira urged his own troops, saying, ‘Rush ye at Ganga’s son. Do not entertain the slightest fear’. Then, armed with bearded darts, and lances, and arrows, from all sides, with axes, and excellent scimitars, and long shafts of great sharpness, with calf-toothed arrows, and broad-headed shafts, they all rushed at that single warrior. Then arose from among the Pandava host a loud shout. Then thy sons also, O king, desirous of Bhishma’s victory, sur- rounded him and uttered leonine shouts. Fierce was the battle fought there between thy troops and those of the enemy on that the tenth day, O king, when Bhishma and Arjuna met together. Like unto the vortex that occurs at the spot where the Ganga meets the Ocean, for a short while a vortex occurred there where the troops of both armies met and struck one another down. And the Earth, wet with gore, assumed a fierce form. And the even and the uneven spots on her surface could no longer be distinguished. Although Bhishma was pierced in all his vital limbs, yet on that the tenth day he stayed (calmly) in battle, having slain ten thousand warriors. Then that great bowman, Partha, stationed at the head of his troops, broke the centre of the Kuru army. Ourselves then, afraid of
Image 3.3: Fight with Ghatotkacha | This folio from the Mahabharata depicts Ghatotkacha fighting other mythical figures from the story.
Author: User “Fæ” Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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Kunti’s son Dhananjaya having white steeds attached to his car, and afflicted by him with polished weapons, fled away from the battle. The Sauviras, the Kitavas, the Easterners, the Westerners, the Northerners, the Malavas, the Abhishahas, the Surasenas, the Sivis, the Vasatis, the Salwas, the Sayas, the Trigartas, the Amvashthas, and the Kaikeyas. 1--these and many other illustrious warriors,--afflicted with arrows and pained by their wounds, aban- doned Bhishma in that battle while he was fighting with the diadem-decked (Arjuna). Then a great many warriors, surrounding that single warrior on all sides, defeated the Kurus (that protected him) and covered him with shower of arrows. Throw down, Seize, Fight, Cut into pieces,--this was the furious uproar, O king, heard in the vicinity of Bhishma’s car. Having slain in that battle, O monarch, (his foes) by hundreds and thousands, there was not in Bhishma’s body space of even two fingers’ breadth that was not pierced with arrows. Thus was thy sire mangled with arrows of keen points by Phalguni in that battle. And then he fell down from his car with his head to the east, a little before sunset, in the very sight of thy sons. And while Bhishma fell, loud cries of alas and oh, O Bharata, were heard in the welkin uttered by the celestials and the kings of the earth. And beholding the high-souled grandsire falling down (from his car), the hearts of all of us fell with him. That foremost of all bowmen, that mighty-armed hero, fell down, like an uprooted standard of Indra, making the earth tremble the while. 2 Pierced all over with arrows, his body touched not the ground. At that moment, O bull of Bharata’s race, a divine nature took possession of that great bowman lying on a bed of arrows. The clouds poured a (cool) shower (over him) and the Earth trembled. While falling he had marked that the Sun was then in the southern solstice. That hero, therefore, permitted not his senses to depart, thinking of that (inauspicious) season (of death). And all around in the welkin he heard celestial voices saying, ‘Why, Oh why, should Ganga’s son, that foremost of all warriors of weapons, yield up his life during the southern declension?’ Hearing these words, the son of Ganga answered, ‘I am alive!’ Although fallen upon the earth, the Kuru grandsire Bhishma, expectant of the northern declension, suffered not his life to depart. Ascertain- ing that to be his resolve, Ganga, the daughter of Himavat, sent unto him the great Rishis in swanlike form. Then those Rishis in the forms of swans inhabiting the Manasa lake, quickly rose up, and came together, for obtaining a sight of the Kuru grandsire Bhishma, to that spot where that foremost of men was lying on his bed of arrows. Then those Rishis in swanlike forms, coming to Bhishma, beheld that perpetuator of Kuru’s race lying on his bed of arrows. Beholding that high-souled son of Ganga, that chief of the Bharatas, they walked round him, and the Sun being then in the southern solstice, they said, addressing one another, these words, ‘Being a high-souled person, why should Bhishma pass out (of the world) during the southern declension?’ Having said these words, those swans went away, proceeding towards the southern direction. Endued with great intelligence, Bhishma, O Bharata. beholding them, reflected for a moment. And the son of Santanu then said unto them. ‘I will never pass out (of the world) as long as the Sun is in the southern solstice. Even this is my resolve. I will proceed to my own ancient abode when the Sun reacheth the northern solstice. Ye swans, I tell you this truly. Expectant of the northern declension I will hold my life. Since I have the fullest control over the yielding up of my life, I will, therefore, hold life, expectant of death during the northern declension. The boon that was granted to me by my illustrious sire, to the effect that my death would depend on my own wish O, let that boon become true. I will hold my life, since I have control in the matter of laying it down.’ Having said these words to those swans, he continued to lie down on his bed of arrows.
“When that crest of the Kuru race, viz., Bhishma of great energy, fell down, the Pandavas and the Srinjayas uttered leonine shouts. When the grandsire of the Bharatas who was endued with great might was overthrown, thy son, O bull of Bharata’s race, knew not what to do. And all the Kurus were entirely deprived of their senses. And the Kurus headed by Kripa, and Duryodhana, sighed and wept. And from grief they remained for a long while deprived of their senses. And they remained perfectly still, O monarch, without setting their hearts on battle. As if seized by thighs, they stood motionless, without proceeding against the Pandavas. When Santanu’s son Bhishma of mighty energy, who was (regarded as) unslayable, was slain, all of us thought that the destruction of the Kuru king was at hand. 1 Vanquished by Savyasachin, with our foremost heroes slain, and ourselves mangled with sharp arrows, we knew not what to do. And the heroic Pandavas possessed of massive arms that looked like spiked maces, having obtained the victory and won a highly blessed state in the other world, 1 all blew their great conches. And the So- makas and the Panchalas all rejoiced, O king. Then when thousands of trumpets were blown, the mighty Bhimase- na slapped his arm-pits and uttered loud shouts. When the all-powerful son of Ganga was slain, the heroic warriors of both armies, laying down their weapons, began to reflect thoughtfully. And some uttered loud shrieks and some fled away, and some were deprived of their senses. And some censured the practices of the Kshatriya order and some applauded Bhishma. And the Rishis and the Pitris all applauded Bhishma of high vows. And the deceased ancestors of the Bharatas also praised Bhishma. Meanwhile the valiant and intelligent Bhishma, the son of Santa- nu, having recourse to that Yoga which is taught in the great Upanishads and engaged in mental prayers, remained quiet, expectant of his hour.”
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Battle of Kurukshetra: Drona Section CXCI
“Sanjaya said, ‘Then Drona caused a great carnage among the Panchalas, like the slaughter caused by Sakra himself in rage amongst the Danavas in the days of yore. The great car-warriors of the Pandava army, endued with might and energy, though slaughtered, O king, by Drona’s weapons, were not yet afraid of Drona in that battle. Indeed, O monarch, those mighty car-warriors, viz., the Panchalas and the Srinjayas, all rushed against Drona himself, for fighting with him. Loud and fierce were the yells they uttered as they rushed towards Drona for en- compassing him on all sides and were slaughtered by him with shafts and darts. Beholding the slaughter of the Panchalas in that battle by the illustrious Drona, and seeing his, weapons overwhelm all sides, fear entered the hearts of the Pandavas. Beholding that dreadful carnage of steeds and human beings in that battle, the Pandavas, O monarch, became hopeless of victory. (They began to say unto each other) ‘Is it not evident that Drona, that war- rior conversant with the mightiest of weapons, will consume us all like a raging conflagration consuming a heap of straw in the season of spring? There is none competent to even look at him in battle. Conversant with the ways of morality, Arjuna (who alone is a match for him) will not fight with him.’ Beholding the sons of Kunti afflicted with the shafts of Drona and inspired with fear, Kesava, endued with great intelligence and, devoted to their welfare, addressed Arjuna and said, ‘This foremost of all bowmen is incapable of being ever vanquished by force in battle, by the very gods with Vasava at their head. When, however, he lays aside his weapons, he becomes capable of being slain on the field even by human beings. Casting aside virtue, ye sons of Pandu, adopt now some contrivance for gaining the victory, so that Drona of the golden car may not slay us all in battle. Upon the full of (his son) Aswat- thaman he will cease to fight, I think. Let sonic man, therefore, tell him that Aswatthaman, hath been slain in battle.’ This advice, however, O kin was not approved by Kunti’s son, Dhananjaya. Others approved of it. But Yudhishthira accepted it with great difficulty. Then the mighty-armed Bhima, O king, slew with a mace a foe-crushing, terrible and huge elephant named Aswatthaman, of his own army, belonging to Indravarman, the chief of the Malavas. Approaching Drona then in that battle with some bashfulness Bhimasena began to exclaim aloud, ‘Aswatthaman hath been slain.’ That elephant named Aswatthaman having been thus slain, Bhima spoke of Aswatthaman’s slaugh- ter. Keeping the true fact within his mind, he said what was untrue, Hearing those highly disagreeable words of Bhima and reflecting upon them, Drona’s limbs seemed to dissolve like sands in water. Recollecting however, the prowess of his son, he soon came to regard that intelligence as false. Hearing, therefore, of his slaughter, Drona did not become unmanned. Indeed, soon recovering his senses, he became comforted, remembering that his son was incapable of being resisted by foes. Rushing towards the son of Prishata and desirous of slaying that hero who had been ordained as his slayer, he covered him with a thousand keen shafts, equipped with kanka feathers. Then twenty thousand Panchala car-warriors of great energy covered him, while he was thus careering in battle, with their shafts. Completely shrouded with those shafts, we could not any longer see that great car-warrior who then resembled, O monarch, the sun, covered with clouds in the season of rains. Filled with wrath and desirous of compassing the destruction of those brave Panchalas, that mighty car-warrior, that scorcher of foes, viz., Drona, dispelling all those shafts of the Panchalas, then invoked into existence the Brahma weapon. At that time, Drona looked resplendent like a smokeless, blazing fire. Once more filled with rage the valiant son of Bharadwaja slaughtering all the Somak- as, seemed to be invested with great splendour. In that dreadful battle, he felled the heads of the Panchalas and cut off their massive arms, looking like spiked maces and decked with golden ornaments. Indeed, those Kshatriyas, slaughtered in battle by Bharadwaja’s son fell down on the earth and lay scattered like trees uprooted by the tempest. In consequence of fallen elephants and steeds, O Bharata, the earth, miry with flesh and blood, became impassable. Having slain twenty thousand Panchala car-warriors, Drona, in that battle, shone resplendent like a smokeless, blazing fire. Once more filled with rage, the valiant son of Bharadwaja cut off, with a broad-headed arrow, the head of Vasudana from his trunk. Once more slaying five hundred Matsyas, and six thousand elephants, he slew ten thousand steeds. Beholding Drona stationed on the field for the extermination of the Kshatriya race, the Rishis Viswamitra, and Jamadagni, and Bharadwaja, and Gautama, and Vasishtha, and Kasyapa, and Atri, and the Srikatas, the Prisnis, Garga, the Valkhilyas, the Marichis, the descendants of Bhrigu and Angiras, and diverse other sages of subtle forms quickly came thither, with the Bearer of sacrificial libations at their head, and, desirous of taking Drona unto the region of Brahman, addressed Drona, that ornament of battle, and said, ‘Thou art fighting unrigh- teously. The hour of thy death is come. Laying aside thy weapons in battle, O Drona, behold us stationed here. After this, it behoveth thee not to perpetrate such exceedingly cruel deeds. Thou art versed in the Vedas and their branch- es. Thou art devoted to the duties enjoined by truth, especially, thou art a Brahmana. Such acts do not become thee. Lay aside thy weapons. Drive away the film of error that shrouds thee. Adhere now to the eternal path. The period for which thou art to dwell in the world of men is now full. Thou hast, with the Brahma weapon, burnt men on earth that are unacquainted with weapons. This act that thou hast perpetrated, O regenerate one, is not righteous. Lay aside thy weapons in battle without delay, O Drona, do not wait longer on earth. Do not, O regenerate one, per-
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petrate such a sinful act.’ Hearing these words of their as also those spoken by Bhimasena, and beholding Dhrishta- dyumna before him, Drona became exceedingly cheerless in battle. Burning with grief and exceedingly afflicted, he enquired of Kunti’s son Yudhishthira as to whether his son (Aswatthaman) had been slain or not. Drona firmly believed that Yudhishthira would never speak an untruth even for the sake of the sovereignty of the three worlds. For this reason, that bull among Brahmanas asked Yudhishthira and not any body else. He had hoped for truth from Yudhishthira from the latter’s infancy.
“Meanwhile, O monarch, Govinda, knowing that Drona, that foremost of warriors, was capable of sweeping all the Pandavas off the face of the earth, became much distressed. Addressing Yudhishthira he said, ‘If Drona fighteth, filled with rage, for even half-a-day, I tell thee truly, thy army will then be annihilated. Save us, then, from Drona. under such circumstances, falsehood is better than truth. By telling an untruth for saving a life, one is not touched by sin. There is no sin in untruth spoken unto women, or in marriages, or for saving king, or for rescuing a Brahmana.’ 1 While Govinda and Yudhishthira were thus talking with each other, Bhimasena (addressing the king) said, ‘As soon, O monarch, as I heard of the means by which the high-souled Drona might be slain, putting forth my prowess in battle, I immediately slew a mighty elephant, like unto the elephant of Sakra himself, belonging to Indravarman, the chief of the Malavas, who was standing within thy army. I then went to Drona and told him, ‘Aswatthaman has been slain, O Brahmana! Cease, then, to fight. Verily, O bull among men, the preceptor did not believe in the truth of words. Desirous of victory as thou art, accept the advice of Govinda. Tell Drona, O King, that the son of Saradwat’s daughter is no more. Told by thee, that bull among Brahmanas will never fight. Thou, O ruler of men, art reputed to be truthful in the three worlds.’ Hearing those words of Bhima and induced by the counsels of Krishna, and owing also to the inevitability of destiny, O monarch, Yudhishthira made up his mind to say what he desired. Fearing to utter an untruth, but earnestly desirous of victory, Yudhishthira distinctly said that Aswattha- man was dead, adding indistinctly the world elephant (after the name), Before this, Yudhishthira’s car had stayed at a height of four fingers’ breadth from the surface of the earth; after, however, he had said that untruth, his (vehicle and) animals touched the earth. Hearing those words from Yudhishthira, the mighty car-warrior Drona, afflicted with grief, for the (supposed) death of his son, yielded to the influence of despair. By the words, again, of the Rishis, he regarded himself a great offender against the high-souled Pandavas. Hearing now about the death of his son, he became perfectly cheerless and filled with anxiety; upon beholding Dhrishtadyumna, O king, that chastiser of foes could not fight as before.’”
Section CXCII “Sanjaya said, ‘Beholding Drona filled with great anxiety and almost deprived of his senses by grief, Dhrishta-
dyumna, the son of the Panchala king, rushed at him. That hero had, for the destruction of Drona, been obtained by Drupada, that ruler of men, at a great sacrifice, from the Bearer of sacrificial libations. Desirous of slaying Drona, he now took up a victory-giving and formidable bow whose twang resembled the roll of the clouds, whose string was possessed of great strength, and which was irrefragable and celestial. And he fixed on it a fierce arrow, resembling a snake of virulent poison and possessed of the splendour of fire. That arrow, resembling a fire of fierce flame, while within the circle of his bow, looked like the autumnal sun of great splendour within a radiant circle. Beholding that blazing bow bent with force by Prishata’s son, the troops regarded that to be the last hour (of the world). Seeing that arrow aimed at him, the valiant son of Bharadwaja thought that the last hour of his body had come. The preceptor prepared with care to baffle that shaft. The weapons, however, of that high-souled one, O monarch, no longer appeared at his bidding. 1 His weapons had not been exhausted although he had shot them ceaselessly for four days and one night. On the expiry, however, of the third part of that of the fifth day, his arrows became exhausted. Seeing the exhaustion of his arrows and afflicted with grief on account of his son’s death, and in consequence also of the unwillingness of the celestial weapons to appear at his bidding, he desired to lay aside his weapons, as requested by the words of the Rishis also. Though filled with great energy, he could not however, fight as before. Then taking up another celestial bow that Angiras had given him, and certain arrows that resembled a Brahmana’s curse, he contin- ued to fight with Dhrishtadyumna. He covered the Panchala prince with a thick shower of arrows, and filled with rage, mangled his angry antagonist. With his own keen shafts he cut off in a hundred fragments those of the prince as also the latter’s standard and bow. He then his antagonist’s driver. Then Dhrishtadyumna, smiling, took up anoth- er bow, and pierced Drona with a keen shaft in the centre of the chest. Deeply pierced therewith and losing his self-possession in that encounter, that mighty bowman, then, with a sharp and broad-headed arrow, once more cut off Dhrishtadyumna’s bow. Indeed, the invincible Drona then cut off all the weapons, O king, and all the bows that his antagonist had, with the exception only of his mace and sword. Filled with rage, he then pierced the angry Dhrishtadyumna, O chastiser of foes, nine keen arrows, capable of taking the life of every foe. Then the mighty car-warrior Dhrishtadyumna, of immeasurable soul, invoking into existence the Brahma weapon, caused the steeds of his own car to be mingled with those of his foes. Endued with the speed of the wind, those steeds that were red
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and of the hue of pigeons, O bull of Bharata’s race, thus mingled together, looked exceedingly beautiful. Indeed, O king, those steeds thus mingled together on the field of battle, looked beautiful like roaring clouds in the season of rains, charged with lightning. Then that twice-born one of immeasurable soul cut off the shaft-joints, the wheel- joints, and (other) car-joints of Dhrishtadyumna. Deprived of his bow, and made carless and steedless and driver- less, the heroic Dhrishtadyumna, fallen into great distress, grasped a mace. Filled with rage, the mighty car-warrior, Drona, of unbaffled prowess, by means of a number of keen shafts, cut off that mace, while it was on the point of being hurled at him. Beholding his mace cut off by Drona with arrows, that tiger among men, (viz., the Panchala prince), took up a spotless sword and a bright shield decked with a hundred moons. Without doubt, under those circumstances, the Panchala prince determined to make an end of that foremost of preceptors, that high-souled warrior. Sometimes, sheltering himself in his car-box and sometimes riding on his car-shafts, the prince moved about, uplifting his swords and whirling his bright shield. The mighty car-warrior Dhrishtadyumna, desirous of achieving, from folly, a difficult feat, hoped to pierce the chest of Bharadwaja’s son in that battle. Sometimes, he stayed upon the yoke, and sometimes under the haunches of Drona’s red steeds. These movements of his were highly applauded by all the troops. Indeed, while he stayed amid the trappings of the yoke or behind those red steeds, Drona found no opportunity to strike him. All this seemed exceedingly wonderful. The movements of both Drona and Prishata’s son in that battle resembled the fight of hawk careering through the welkin for a piece of meat. Then Drona, by means of a dart pierced the white steeds of his antagonist, one after another, not striking, however, the red ones amongst them (that belonged to himself ) 1. Deprived of life, those steeds of Dhrishtadyumna fell down upon the earth. Thereupon, the red steeds of Drona himself, O king, where freed from the entanglements of Dhrishtadyumna’s car. Beholding his steeds slain by that foremost of Brahmanas, Prishata’s sons, that mighty car-warrior, that foremost of fighters, could not brook it. Though deprived of his car, still that foremost of all swordsmen, armed with his sword, sprang towards Drona, O monarch, like Vinata’s son (Garuda) making a swoop at a snake. The form, O king, of Dhrishtadyumna at that time, when he sought to slay the son of Bharadwaja, resembled the form of Vishnu himself in days of yore when at the point of slaying Hiranyakasipu. He performed diverse evolutions, in fact. O Kauravya, the son of Prishata, careering in that battle, exhibited the well-known one and twenty different kinds of motion. Armed with the sword, and shield in hand, Prishata’s son wheeled about and whirled his sword on high, and made side thrusts, and rushed forward, and ran sideways, and leapt high, and assailed the flanks of his antagonists and receded backwards, and closed with his foes, and pressed them hard. Having practised them well, he also showed the evolutions called Bharata, Kausika Satwata, as he careened in that battle for compassing the destruction of Drona, Beholding those beautiful evolutions of Dhrishtadyumna, as he careered on the field, sword and shield in hand, all the warriors, as also the celestials assembled there, were filled with wonder. The regenerate Drona then, shooting a thousand arrows in the thick of fight, cut off the sword of Dhrishtadyumna as also his shield, decked with a hundred moons. Those arrows that Drona shot, while fighting from such a near point, were of the length of a span. Such arrows are used only in close fight. None else have arrows of that kind, except Kripa, and Partha, and Aswatthaman and Karna, Pradyumna and Yuyudhana; Abhimanyu also had such arrows. Then the preceptor, desirous of slaying his disciple who was unto him even as his own son, fixed on his bow-string a shaft endued with great impetuosity. That shaft, however, Satyaki cut off by means of ten arrows, in the very sight of thy son as also of the high-souled Karna, as thus rescued Dhrishtadyumna who was on the point of succumbing to Drona. Then Kesava and Dhananjaya beheld Satyaki of prowess incapable of being baffled, who, O Bharata, was thus careering in the car-tracks (of the Kuru warriors) and within the range of the shafts of Drona and Karna and Kripa. Saying. ‘Excellent, Excellent!’ both of them loudly applauded Satyaki of unfading glory, who was thus destroying the celestial weapons of all those warriors. Then Kesava and Dhananjaya rushed towards the Kurus. Addressing Krishna, Dhananjaya said, ‘Behold, O Kesava, that perpetuator of Madhu’s race, viz., Satyaki of true prowess, sporting before the preceptor and those mighty car-warriors and gladdening me and the twins and Bhima and king Yudhishthira. With skill acquired by practice and without insolence, behold that enhancer of the fame of the Vrishnis, viz., Satyaki, careering in battle, sporting the while with those mighty car-warriors. All these troops, as also the Siddhas (in the welkin), beholding him invincible in battle, are filled with wonder, and applaud- ing him, saying, ‘Excellent, Excellent!’ Indeed, O king, the warriors of both armies all applauded the Satwata hero, for his feats.’”
Section CXCIII “Sanjaya said, ‘Beholding those feats of the Satwata hero, Duryodhana and others, filled with rage, quickly
encompassed the grandson of Sini on all sides. Kripa and Karna, of also thy sorts, O sire, in that battle, quickly approaching the grandson of Sini, began to strike him with keen arrows. Then king Yudhishthira, and the two other Pandavas, viz., the two sons of Madri and Bhimasena of great might surrounded Satyaki (for protecting him). Karna, and the mighty car-warrior Kripa, and Duryodhana and others, all resisted Satyaki, pouring showers of
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arrows on him. The grand son of Sini, however, contending with all those car-warriors, baffled, O monarch, that terrible downpour of arrows, so suddenly created by his foes. Indeed, in that dreadful battle, Satyaki, by means of his own celestial weapons, duly resisted all those celestial weapons aimed at him by those illustrious warriors. The field of battle became full of many cruel sights upon that encounter of those royal combatants, resembling that scene of yore when Rudra, filled with rage, had destroyed all creatures. Human arms and heads and bows, O Bharata, and umbrellas displaced (from cars), and yak-tails, were seen lying in heaps on the field of battle. The earth became quickly strewn with broken wheels and cars, and massive arms lopped off from trunks, and brave horsemen deprived of life. And, O foremost one among the Kurus, large number of warriors, mangled with falling arrows, were seen in that great battle to roll and writhe on the ground in agony of the last spasms of death. During the prog- ress of that terrible battle, resembling the encounter in days of old between the celestials and the Asuras, king Yudhishthira the just, addressing his warriors, said, Putting forth all your vigour, rush, ye great car-warriors, against the Pot-born! Yonder the heroic son of Prishata is engaged with Drona! He is endeavouring to the utmost of his might, to slay the son of Bharadwaja. Judging from the aspect he is presenting in this great battle, it is evident that filled with rage, he will today overthrow Drona. Uniting together, all of you fight with the Pot-born.’ Thus ordered by Yudhishthira, the mighty car-warriors of the Srinjayas all rushed with great vigour to slay the son of Bharadwaja. That mighty car-warrior, viz., Bharadwaja’s son, quickly rushed against those advancing warriors, knowing for certain that he would die. When Drona, of sure aim, thus proceeded, the earth trembled violently. Fierce winds began to blow, inspiring the (hostile) ranks with fear. Large meteors fell, seemingly issuing out of the sun, blazing fiercely as they fell and foreboding great terrors. The weapons of Drona, O sire, seemed to blaze forth. Cars seemed to produce loud rattles, and steeds to shed tears. The mighty car-warrior, Drona, seemed to be divested of his energy, His left eye and left hand began to twitch. Beholding Prishata’s son, again, before him, and bearing in mind the words of the Rishis about his leaving the world for heaven, he became cheerless. He then desired to give up life by fighting fairly. Encompassed on all sides by the troops of Drupada’s son, Drona began to career in battle, con- suming large numbers of Kshatriyas. That grinder of foes, having slain four and twenty thousand Kshatriyas, then despatched to Yama’s abode ten times ten thousand, by means of his shafts of keen points. Exerting himself with care, he seemed to stand in that battle like a smokeless fire. For the extermination of the Kshatriya race, he then had recourse to the Brahma weapon. Then the mighty Bhima, beholding the illustrious and irresistible prince of the Panchalas carless and weaponless, quickly proceeded towards him. Beholding him striking at Drona from a near point, that grinder of foes took up Dhrishtadyumna on his own car and said unto him, ‘Save thee there is no other man that can venture to fight with the preceptor. Be quick to slay him. The burden of his slaughter rests upon thee.’ Thus addressed by Bhima, the mighty-armed Dhrishtadyumna speedily took up a strong, a new and a superb bow capable of bearing a great strain. Filled with rage, and shooting his arrows in that battle at the irresistible Drona, Dhrishtadyumna covered the preceptor, desirous of withstanding him. Those two ornaments of battle then, both foremost of fighters and both filled with rage, invoked into existence the Brahma and diverse other celestial weap- ons. Indeed, O king, Dhrishtadyumna covered Drona with many mighty weapons in that encounter. Destroying all the weapons of Bharadwaja’s son, the Panchala prince, that warrior of unfading glory, began to slay the Vasatis, the Sivis, the Valhikas and the Kurus, that is, them, who protected Drona in that battle. Indeed, O king, shooting showers of arrows on all sides, Dhrishtadyumna at that time looked resplendent like the sun himself shedding his thousands of rays. Drona, however, once more cut off the prince’s bow and pierced the vitals of the prince himself with many arrows. Thus pierced, the prince felt great pain. Then Bhima, of great wrath, holding the car of Drona, O monarch, slowly said these words unto him: If wretches amongst Brahmanas, discontented with the avocations of their own order, but well-versed in arms, did not fight, the Kshatriya order then would not have been thus extermi- nated. Abstention from injury to all creatures hath been said to be the highest of all virtues. The Brahmana is the root of that virtue. As regards thyself, again, thou art the foremost of all persons acquainted with Brahma. Slaying all those Mlecchas and other warriors, who, however, are all engaged in the proper avocations of their order, moved thereto by ignorance and folly, O Brahmana, and by the desire of wealth for benefiting sons and wives; indeed, for the sake of an only son, why dost thou not feel ashamed? He for whom thou hast taken up weapons, and for whom thou livest, he, deprived of life, lieth today on the field of battle, unknown to thee and behind thy back. King Yudhishthira the just hath told thee this. It behoveth thee not to doubt this fact.’ Thus addressed by Bhima, Drona laid aside his bow. Desirous of laying aside all his weapons also, Bharadwaja’s son of virtuous soul said aloud, ‘O Karna, Karna, O great bowman, O Kripa, O Duryodhana, I tell you repeatedly, exert yourselves carefully in battle. Let no injury happen to you from the Pandayas. As regards myself, I lay aside my weapons.’ Saying these words, he began loudly to take the name of Aswatthaman. Laying aside his weapons then in that battle, and sitting down on the terrace of his car, he devoted himself to Yoga and assured all creatures, dispelling their fears. Beholding that opportunity, Dhrishtadyumna mustered all his energy. Laying down on the car his formidable bow, with arrow fixed on the bow-string, he took up a sword, and jumping down from his vehicle, rushed quickly against Drona. All creatures, human beings and others, uttered exclamation of woe, beholding Drona thus brought under Dhrishta-
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dyumna’s power. Loud cries of Oh and Alas were uttered, as also those of Oh and Fie. As regards Drona himself, abandoning his weapons, he was then in a supremely tranquil state. Having said those words he had devoted himself to Yoga. Endued with great effulgence and possessed of high ascetic merit, he had fixed his heart on that Supreme and Ancient Being, viz., Vishnu. Bending his face slightly down, and heaving his breast forward, and closing his eyes, and resting ort the quality of goodness, and disposing his heart to contemplation, and thinking on the monosyllable Om, representing. Brahma, and remembering the puissant, supreme, and indestructible God of gods, the radiant Drona or high ascetic merit, the preceptor (of the Kurus and the Pandavas) repaired to heaven that is so difficult of being attained even by the pious. Indeed, when Drona thus proceeded to heaven it seemed to us that there were then two suns in the firmament. The whole welkin was ablaze and seemed to be one vast expanse of equal light when the sun-like Bharadwaja, of solar effulgence, disappeared. Confused sounds of joy were heard, uttered by the delighted celestials. When Drona thus repaired to the region of Brahman, Dhrishtadyumna stood, unconscious of it all, beside him. Only we five amongst men beheld the high-souled Drona rapt in Yoga proceed to the highest region of blessed- ness. These five were myself, Dhananjaya, the son of Pritha, and Drona’s son, Aswatthaman, and Vasudeva of Vrish- ni’s race, and king Yudhishthira the just, the son of Pandu. Nobody else, O king, could see that glory of the wise Drona, devoted to Yoga, while passing out of the world. In fact, all human beings were unconscious of the fact that the preceptor attained to the supreme region of Brahman, a region mysterious to the very gods, and one that is the highest of all. Indeed, none of them could see the preceptor, that chastiser of foes, proceed to the region of Brahman, devoted to Yoga in the company of the foremost of Rishis, his body mangled with arrows and bathed in blood, after he had laid aside his weapons. As regards Prishata’s son, though everybody cried fie on him, yet casting his eyes on the lifeless Drona’s head, he began to drag it. With his sword, then, he lopped off from his foe’s trunk that head,--his foe remained speechless the while. Having slain Bharadwaja’s son. Dhrishtadyumna was filled with great joy, and uttered leonine shouts, whirling his sword. Of a dark complexion, with white locks hanging down to his ears, that old man of five and eighty years of age, used, for thy sake only, to career on the field of battle with the activity of a youth of sixteen. The mighty-armed Dhananjaya, the son of Kunti, (before Drona’s head was cut off ) had said, ‘O son of Drupada, bring the preceptor alive, do not slay him. He should not be slain.’ Even thus all the troops also had cried out. Arjuna, in particular, melted with pity, had cried out repeatedly. Disregarding, however, the cries of Arjuna as also these of all the kings, Dhrishtadyumna stew Drona, that bull among men, on the terrace of his car. Covered with Drona’s blood, Dhrishtadyumna then Jumped from the car down upon the ground. Looking red like the sun, he then seemed to be exceedingly fierce. Thy troops beheld Drona slain even thus in that battle. Then Dhrishtadyumna. that great bowman, O king, threw down that large head of Bharadwaja’s son before the warriors of thy army. Thy soldiers, O monarch, beholding the head of Bharadwaja’s son, set their hearts on flight and ran away in all directions. Mean- while Drona, ascending the skies, entered the stellar path. Through the grace of the Rishis Krishna (Dwaipayana), the son of Satyavati, I witnessed, O king, the (true circumstances about the) death of Drona. I beheld that illustrious one proceeding, after he had ascended the sky, like a smokeless brand of blazing splendour. Upon the fall of Drona, the Kurus, the Pandavas and the Srinjayas, all became cheerless and ran away with great speed. The army then broke up. Many had been slain, and many wounded by means of keen shafts. Thy warriors (in particular), upon the fall of Drona, seemed to be deprived of life. Having sustained a defeat, and being inspired with fear about the future, the Kurus regarded themselves deprived of both the worlds. Indeed, they lost all self-control. 1 Searching for the body of Bharadwaja’s, son, O monarch, on the field covered with thousands of headless trunks, the kings could not find it. The Pandavas, having gained the victory and great prospects of renown in the future, began to make loud sounds with their arrows and conchs and uttered loud leonine roars. Then Bhimasena, O king, and Dhrishtadyumna, the son of Prishata, were seen in the midst of the (Pandava) host to embrace each other. Addressing the son of Prishata, that scorcher of foes, viz., Bhima said, ‘I will again embrace thee, O son of Prishata, as one crowned with victory, when that wretch of a Suta’s son shall be slain in battle, as also that other wretch, viz., Duryodhana.’ Having said these words, Bhimasena, the son of Pandu, filled with transports of joy, caused the earth to tremble with slaps on his armpits. Terrified by that sound, thy troops ran away from battle, forgetting the duties of the Kshatriyas and setting their hearts on flight. The Pandavas, having become victors, became very glad, O monarch, and they felt great happiness, derived from the destruction of their foes in battle.’”
Book 8 Battle of Kurukshetra: Karna
Section XC “Sanjaya said, ‘Flying away in consequence of the falling of Arjuna’s arrows, the broken divisions of the Kau-
ravas, staying at a distance, continued to gaze at Arjuna’s weapon swelling with energy and careering around with the effulgence of lightning. Then Karna, with showers of terrible shafts, baffled that weapon of Arjuna while it was
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still careering in the welkin and which Arjuna had shot with great vigour in that fierce encounter for the destruc- tion of his foe. Indeed, that weapon (of Partha) which, swelling with energy, had been consuming the Kurus, the Suta’s son now crushed with his shafts winged with gold. Bending then his own loud-sounding bow of irrefragable string, Karna shot showers of shafts. The Suta’s son destroyed that burning weapon of Arjuna with his own foe-kill- ing weapon of great power which he had obtained from Rama, and which resembled (in efficacy) an Atharvan rite. And he pierced Partha also with numerous keen shafts. The encounter then, O king, that took place between Arjuna and the son of Adhiratha, became a very dreadful one. They continued to strike each other with arrows like two fierce elephants striking each other with their tusks. All the points of the compass then became shrouded with weapons and the very sun became invisible. Indeed, Karna and Partha, with their arrowy downpours, made the welkin one vast expanse of arrows without any space between. All the Kauravas and the Somakas then beheld a wide-spread arrowy net. In that dense darkness caused by arrows, they were unable to see anything else. Those two foremost of men, both accomplished in weapons, as they incessantly aimed and shot innumerable arrows, O king, displayed diverse kinds of beautiful manoeuvres. While they were thus contending with each other in battle, sometimes the Suta’s son prevailed over his rival and sometimes the diadem-decked Partha prevailed over his, in prowess and weapons and lightness of hands. Beholding that terrible and awful passage-at-arms between those two heroes each of whom was desirous of availing himself of the other’s lapses, all the other warriors on the field of battle became filled with wonder. The beings in the welkin, O king, applauded Karna and Arjuna. Indeed, many of them at a time, filled with joy, cheerfully shouted, sometimes saying, “Excellent, O Karna!” and sometimes saying, “Excellent, O Arjuna!” During the progress of that fierce encounter, while the earth was being pressed deep with the weight of cars and the tread of steeds and elephants, the snake Aswasena, who was hostile to Arjuna, was passing his time in the nether region. Freed from the conflagration at Khandava, O king, he had, from anger, penetrated through the earth (for going to the subterranean region). That brave snake, recollecting the death of his mother and the enmity he on that account harboured against Arjuna, now rose from the lower region. Endued with the power of ascending the skies, he soared up with great speed upon beholding that fight between Karna and Arjuna. Think- ing that that was the time for gratifying his animosity towards, as he thought, the wicked-souled Partha, he quickly entered into Karna’s quiver, O king, in the form of an arrow. At that time a net of arrows was seen, shedding its bright arrows around. Karna and Partha made the welkin one dense mass of arrows by means of their arrowy downpours. Beholding that wide-spread expanse of arrows, all the Kauravas and the Somakas became filled with fear. In that thick and awful darkness caused by arrows they were unable to see anything else. Then those two tigers among men, those two foremost of all bowmen in the world, those two heroes, fatigued with their exertions in battle, looked at each other. Both of them were then fanned with excellent and waving fans made of young (palm) leaves and sprinkled with fragrant sandal-water by many Apsaras staying in the welkin. And Sakra and Surya, using their hands, gently brushed the faces of those two heroes. When at last Karna found that he could not prevail over Partha and was exceedingly scorched with the shafts of the former, that hero, his limbs very much mangled, set his heart upon that shaft of his which lay singly within a quiver. The Suta’s son then fixed on his bow-string that foe-killing, exceedingly keen, snake-mouthed, blazing, and fierce shaft, which had been polished according to rule, and which he had long kept for the sake of Partha’s destruction. Stretching his bow-string to his ear, Karna fixed that shaft of fierce energy and blazing splendour, that ever-worshipped weapon which lay within a golden quiver amid sandal dust, and aimed it at Partha. Indeed, he aimed that blazing arrow, born in Airavata’s race, for cutting off Phalguna’s head in battle. All the points of the compass and the welkin became ablaze and terrible meteors, and thunderbolts fell. When that snake of the form of an arrow was fixed on the bow-string, the Regents of the world, including Sakra, set up loud wails. The Suta’s son did not know that the snake Aswasena had entered his arrow by the aid of his Yoga powers. Beholding Vaikartana aim that arrow, the high-souled ruler of the Madras, addressing Karna, said, “This arrow, O Karna, will not succeed in striking off Arjuna’s head. Searching carefully, fix another arrow that may succeed in striking off thy enemy’s head.” Endued with great activity, the Suta’s son, with eyes burning in wrath, then said unto the ruler of the Madras, “O Shalya, Karna never aimeth an arrow twice. Persons like us never become crooked warriors.” Having said these words, Karna, with great care, let off that shaft which he had worshipped for many long years. Bent upon winning the victory, O king, he quickly said unto his rival, “Thou art slain, O Phalguna!” Sped from Karna’s arms, that shaft of awful whizz, resembling fire or the sun in splendour, as it left the bow-string, blazed up in the welkin and seemed to divide it by a line such as is visible on the crown of a woman dividing her tresses. Beholding that shaft blazing in the welkin, the slayer of Kamsa, Madhava, with great speed and the greatest ease, pressed down with his feet that excellent car, causing it to sink about a cubit deep. At this, the steeds, white as the rays of the moon and decked in trappings of gold, bending their knees, laid themselves down on the ground. Indeed, seeing that snake (in the form of an arrow) aimed by Karna, Madhava, that foremost of all persons endued with might, put forth his strength and thus pressed down with his feet that car into the earth, whereat the steeds, (as already said) bending down their knees, laid themselves down upon the earth when the car itself had sank into it. Then loud sounds arose in the welkin in applause of Vasudeva. Many celestial voices were
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heard, and celestial flowers were showered upon Krishna, and leonine shouts also were uttered. When the car had thus been pressed down into the earth through the exertions of the slayer of Madhu, the excellent ornament of Arjuna’s head, celebrated throughout the earth, the welkin, heaven, and the waters, the Suta’s son swept off from the crown of his rival, with that arrow, in consequence of the very nature of that snaky weapon and the great care and wrath with which it had been shot. That diadem, endued with the splendour of the sun or the moon or fire or a planet, and adorned with gold and pearls and gems and diamonds, had with great care been made by the puissant Self-born himself for Purandara. Costly as its appearance indicated, it was inspiring terror in the hearts of foes, contributing to the happiness of him that wore it, and shedding a fragrance, that ornament had been given by the chief of the celestials himself with a cheerful heart unto Partha while the latter had proceeded to slaughter the foes of the gods. That diadem was incapable of being crushed by Rudra and the Lord of waters and Kuvera with Pinaka and noose and thunderbolt and the very foremost of shafts. It could not be endured by even the foremost ones among the gods. Vrisha, however, now broke it forcibly with his snake-inspired shaft. Endued with great activity, that wicked-natured snake of fierce form and false vows, falling upon that diadem-decked with gold and gems, swept it away from Arjuna’s head. That snake, O king, forcibly tore it away from Partha’s head, quickly reducing into fragments that well-made ornament set over with many a gem and blazing with beauty, like the thunderbolt riving a mountain summit decked with lofty and beautiful trees graced with flowers. Crushed by that excellent weapon, possessed of splendour, and blazing with the fire of (the snake’s) poison, that beautiful and much-liked diadem of Partha fell down on the earth like the blazing disc of the Sun from the Asta hills. Indeed, that snake forcibly swept away from Arjuna’s head that diadem adorned with many gems, like the thunder of Indra felling a beautiful moun- tain summit adorned with lofty trees bearing budding leaves and flowers. And the earth, welkin, heaven, and the waters, when agitated by a tempest, roar aloud, O Bharata, even such was the roar that arose in all the worlds at that time. Hearing that tremendous noise, people, notwithstanding their efforts to be calm, became extremely agitated and reeled as they stood. Reft of diadem, the dark complexioned and youthful Partha looked beautiful like a blue mountain of lofty summit. Binding then his locks with a white cloth, Arjuna stood perfectly unmoved. With that white gear on his head, he looked like the Udaya hill illumined with the rays of the sun. Thus that she-snake (whom Arjuna had killed at Khandava) of excellent mouth, through her son in the form of an arrow, sped by Surya’s son, beholding Arjuna of exceeding energy and might standing with his head at a level with the reins of the steeds, took away his diadem only, that well-made ornament (formerly) owned by Aditi’s son and endued with the effulgence of Surya himself. But Arjuna also (as will appear in the sequel) did not return from that battle without causing the snake to succumb to the power of Yama. Sped from Karna’s arms, that costly shaft resembling fire or the sun in effulgence, viz., that mighty snake who from before had become the deadly foe of Arjuna, thus crushing the latter’s diadem, went away. Having burnt the gold-decked diadem of Arjuna displayed on his head, he desired to come to Arjuna once more with great speed. Asked, however, by Karna (who saw him but knew him not), he said these words, “Thou hadst sped me, O Karna, without having seen me. It was for this that I could not strike off Arjuna’s head. Do thou quickly shoot me once again, after seeing me well. I shall then slay thy foe and mine too.” Thus addressed in that battle by him, the Suta’s son said, “Who are you possessed of such fierce form?” The snake an- swered, saying, “Know me as one that has been wronged by Partha. My enmity towards him is due to his having slain my mother. If the wielder of the thunderbolt himself were to protect Partha, the latter would still have to go to the domains of the king of the pitris. Do not disregard me. Do my bidding. I will slay thy foe. Shoot me without delay.” Hearing those words, Karna said, “Karna, O snake, never desires to have victory in battle today by relying on another’s might. Even if I have to slay a hundred Arjunas, I will not, O snake, still shoot the same shaft twice.” Once more addressing him in the midst of battle, that best of men, viz., Surya’s son, Karna, said, “Aided by the nature of my other snaky weapons, and by resolute effort and wrath, I shall slay Partha. Be thou happy and go elsewhere.” Thus addressed, in battle, by Karna, that prince of snakes, unable from rage to bear those words, himself proceeded, O king, for the slaughter of Partha, having assumed the form of an arrow. Of fierce form, the desire he ardently cherished was the destruction of his enemy. Then Krishna, addressing Partha in that encounter, said into him, “Slay that great snake inimical to thee.” Thus addressed by the slayer of Madhu, the wielder of Gandiva, that bowman who was always fierce unto foes, enquired of him, saying, “Who is that snake that advanceth of his own accord against me, as if, indeed he advanceth right against the mouth of Garuda?” Krishna replied, “Whilst thou, armed with bow, wert engaged at Khandava in gratifying the god Agni, this snake was then in the sky, his body ensconced within his mother’s. Thinking that it was only a single snake that was so staying in the sky, thou killedest the mother. Remembering that act of hostility done by thee, he cometh towards thee today for thy destruction. O resister of foes, behold him coming like a blazing meteor, falling from the firmament!’”
“Sanjaya continued, ‘Then Jishnu, turning his face in rage, cut off, with six keen shafts, that snake in the welkin as the latter was coursing in a slanting direction. His body thus cut off, he fell down on the earth. After that snake had been cut off by Arjuna, the lord Keshava himself, O king, of massive arms, that foremost of beings, raised up with his arms that car from the earth. At that time, Karna, glancing obliquely at Dhananjaya, pierced that foremost
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of persons, viz., Krishna, with ten shafts whetted on stone and equipped with peacock feathers. Then Dhananjaya, piercing Karna with a dozen well-shot and keen arrows equipped with heads like the boar’s ear, sped a cloth-yard shaft endued with the energy of a snake of virulent poison and shot from his bow-string stretched to his ear. That foremost of shafts, well shot by Arjuna, penetrated through Karna’s armour, and as if suspending his life breaths, drank his blood and entered the earth, its wings also having been drenched with gore. Endued with great activity, Vrisha, enraged at the stroke of the shaft, like a snake beaten with stick, shot many mighty shafts, like snakes of virulent poison vomiting venom. And he pierced Janardana with a dozen shafts and Arjuna with nine and ninety. And once more piercing the son of Pandu with a terrible shaft, Karna laughed and uttered a loud roar. The son of Pandu, however, could not endure his enemy’s joy. Acquainted with all the vital parts of the human body, Partha, possessed of prowess like that of Indra, pierced those vital limbs with hundreds of arrows even as Indra had struck Vala with great energy. Then Arjuna sped ninety arrows, each resembling the rod of Death at Karna. Deeply pierced with those shafts, Karna trembled like a mountain riven with thunder. The head-gear of Karna, adorned with costly gems and precious diamonds and pure gold, as also his earrings, cut off by Dhananjaya with his winged arrows, fell down on the earth. The costly and bright armour also of the Suta’s son that had been forged with great care by many foremost of artists working for a long time, the son of Pandu cut off within a moment in many fragments. After thus divesting him of his armour, Partha then, in rage, pierced Karna with four whetted shafts of great energy. Struck forcibly by his foe, Karna suffered great pain like a diseased person afflicted by bile, phlegm, wind, and fever. Once more Arjuna, with great speed, mangled Karna, piercing his very vitals, with numerous excellent shafts, of great keenness, and sped from his circling bow with much force and speed and care. Deeply struck by Partha with those diverse arrows of keen points and fierce energy, Karna (covered with blood) looked resplendent like a moun- tain of red chalk with streams of red water running adown its breast. Once more Arjuna pierced Karna in the centre of the chest with many straight-coursing and strong shafts made entirely of iron and equipped with wings of gold and each resembling the fiery rod of the Destroyer, like the son of Agni piercing the Krauncha mountains. Then the Suta’s son, casting aside his bow that resembled the very bow of Sakra, as also his quiver, felt great pain, and stood inactive, stupefied, and reeling, his grasp loosened and himself in great anguish. The virtuous Arjuna, observant of the duty of manliness, wished not to slay his enemy while fallen into such distress. The younger brother of Indra then, with great excitement, addressed him, saying, “Why, O son of Pandu, dost thou become so forgetful? They that are truly wise never spare their foes, however weak, even for a moment. He that is learned earneth both merit and fame by slaying foes fallen into distress. Lose no time in precipitately crushing Karna who is always inimical to thee and who is the first of heroes. The Suta’s son, when able, will once more advance against thee as before. Slay him, therefore, like Indra slaying the Asura Namuci.” Saying, “So be it, O Krishna!” and worshipping Janardana, Arjuna, that foremost of all persons in Kuru’s race once more quickly pierced Karna with many excellent arrows like the ruler of heaven, piercing the Asura, Samvara. The diadem-decked Partha, O Bharata, covered Karna and his car and steeds with many calf-toothed arrows, and putting forth all his vigour he shrouded all the points of the compass with shafts equipped with wings of gold. Pierced with those arrows equipped with heads like the calf ’s tooth, Adhiratha’s son of broad chest looked resplendent like an Asoka or Palasa or Salmali decked with its flowery load or a mountain overgrown with a forest of sandal trees. Indeed, with those numerous arrows sticking to his body, Karna, O monarch, in that battle, looked resplendent like the prince of mountains with its top and glens overgrown with trees or decked with flowering Karnikaras. Karna also shooting repeated showers of arrows, looked, with those arrows constituting his rays, like the sun coursing towards the Asta hills, with disc bright with crimson rays. Shafts, however, of keen points, sped from Arjuna’s arms, encountering in the welkin the blazing arrows, resembling mighty snakes, sped from the arms of Adhiratha’s son, destroyed them all. Recovering his coolness, and shooting many shafts that resembled angry snakes, Karna then pierced Partha with ten shafts and Krishna with half a dozen, each of which looked like an angry snake. Then Dhananjaya desired to shoot a mighty and terrible arrow, made wholly of iron, resembling the poison of snake or fire in energy, and whose whizz resembling the peal of Indra’s thunder, and which was inspired with the force of a high (celestial) weapon. At that time, when the hour of Karna’s death had come, Kala, approaching invisibly, and alluding to the Brahmana’s curse, and desirous of inform- ing Karna that his death was near, told him, “The Earth is devouring thy wheel!” Indeed, O foremost of men, when the hour of Karna’s death came, the high brahmastra that the illustrious Bhargava had imparted unto him, escaped from his memory. And the earth also began to devour the left wheel of his car. Then in consequence of the curse of that foremost of Brahmanas, Karna’s car began to reel, having sunk deep into the earth and having been transfixed at that spot like a sacred tree with its load of flowers standing upon an elevated platform. When his car began to reel from the curse of the Brahmana, and when the high weapon he had obtained from Rama no longer shone in him through inward light, and when his terrible snake-mouthed shaft also had been cut off by Partha, Karna became filled with melancholy. Unable to endure all those calamities, he waved his arms and began to rail at righteousness saying, “They that are conversant with righteousness always say that righteousness protects those that are righteous. As regards ourselves, we always endeavour, to the best of our ability and knowledge to practise righteousness. That
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righteousness, however, is destroying us now instead of protecting us that are devoted to it. I, therefore, think that righteousness does not always protect its worshippers.” While saying these words, he became exceedingly agitated by the strokes of Arjuna’s arrows. His steeds and his driver also were displaced from their usual position. His very vitals having been struck, he became indifferent as to what he did, and repeatedly railed at righteousness in that battle. He then pierced Krishna in the arm with three terrible arrows, and Partha, too, with seven. Then Arjuna sped seven and ten terrible arrows, perfectly straight and of fierce impetuosity, resembling fire in splendour and like unto Indra’s thunder in force. Endued with awful impetuosity, those arrows pierced Karna and passing out of his body fell upon the surface of the earth. Trembling at the shock, Karna then displayed his activity to the utmost of his power. Steadying himself by a powerful effort he invoked the brahmastra. Beholding the brahmastra, Arjuna invoked the Aindra weapon with proper mantras. Inspiring gandiva, its string, and his shafts also, with mantras, that scorcher of foes poured showers like Purandara pouring rain in torrents. Those arrows endued with great energy and power, issuing out of Partha’s car, were seen to be displayed in the vicinity of Karna’s vehicle. The mighty car-warrior Karna baffled all those shafts displayed in his front. Seeing that weapon thus destroyed, the Vrishni hero, addressing Arjuna, said, “Shoot high weapons, O Partha! The son of Radha baffles thy shafts.” With proper mantras, Arjuna then fixed the brahmastra on his string, and shrouding all the points of the compass with arrows, Partha struck Karna (with many) arrows. Then Karna, with a number of whetted shafts endued with great energy, cut off the string of Arjuna’s bow. Similarly he cut off the second string, and then the third, and then the fourth, and then the fifth. The sixth also was cut off by Vrisha, and then the seventh, then the eighth, then the ninth, then the tenth, and then at last the eleventh. Capable of shooting hundreds upon hundreds of arrows, Karna knew not that Partha had a hundred strings to his bow. Tying another string to his bow and shooting many arrows, the son of Pandu covered Karna with shafts that resembled snakes of blazing mouths. So quickly did Arjuna replace each broken string that Karna could not mark when it was broken and when replaced. The feat seemed to him to be exceedingly wonderful. The son of Radha baffled with his own weapons those of Savyasaci. Displaying also his own prowess, he seemed to get the better of Dhananjaya at that time. Then Krishna, beholding Arjuna afflicted with the weapons of Karna, said these words unto Partha: “Approaching Karna, strike him with superior weapons.” Then Dhananjaya, filled with rage, inspiring with mantras another celestial weapons that looked like fire and that resem- bled the poison of the snake and that was as hard as the essence of adamant, and uniting the Raudra weapon with it, became desirous of shooting it at his foe. At that time, O king, the earth swallowed up one of wheels of Karna’s car. Quickly alighting then from his vehicle, he seized his sunken wheel with his two arms and endeavoured to lift it up with a great effort. Drawn up with force by Karna, the earth, which had swallowed up his wheel, rose up to a height of four fingers’ breadth, with her seven islands and her hills and waters and forests. Seeing his wheel swallowed, the son of Radha shed tears from wrath, and beholding Arjuna, filled with rage he said these words, “O Partha, O Partha, wait for a moment, that is, till I lift this sunken wheel. Beholding, O Partha, the left wheel of my car swal- lowed through accident by the earth, abandon (instead of cherishing) this purpose (of striking and slaying me) that is capable of being harboured by only a coward. Brave warriors that are observant of the practices of the righteous, never shoot their weapons at persons with dishevelled hair, or at those that have turned their faces from battle, or at a Brahmana, or at him who joins his palms, or at him who yields himself up or beggeth for quarter or at one who has put up his weapon, or at one whose arrows are exhausted, or at one whose armour is displaced, or at one whose weapon has fallen off or been broken! Thou art the bravest of men in the world. Thou art also of righteous be- haviour, O son of Pandu! Thou art well-acquainted with the rules of battle. For these reasons, excuse me for a moment, that is, till I extricate my wheel, O Dhananjaya, from the earth. Thyself staying on thy car and myself standing weak and languid on the earth, it behoveth thee not to slay me now. Neither Vasudeva, nor thou, O son of Pandu, inspirest me with the slightest fear. Thou art born in the Kshatriya order. Thou art the perpetuator of a high race. Recollecting the teachings of righteousness, excuse me for a moment, O son of Pandu!”’”
Section XCI “Sanjaya said, ‘Then Vasudeva, stationed on the car, addressed Karna, saying, “By good luck it is, O son of Radha,
that thou rememberest virtue! It is generally seen that they that are mean, when they sink into distress, rail at Provi- dence but never at their own misdeeds. Thyself and Suyodhana and Duhshasana and Shakuni, the son of Subala, had caused Draupadi, clad in a single piece of raiment, to be brought into the midst of the assembly. On that occasion, O Karna, this virtue of thine did not manifest itself. When at the assembly Shakuni, an adept in dice, vanquished Kunti’s son Yudhishthira who was unacquainted with it, whither had this virtue of thine gone? When the Kuru king (Duryo- dhana), acting under thy counsels, treated Bhimasena in that way with the aid of snakes and poisoned food, whither had this virtue of thine then gone? When the period of exile into the woods was over as also the thirteenth year, thou didst not make over to the Pandavas their kingdom. Whither had this virtue of thine then gone? Thou didst set fire to the house of lac at Varanavata for burning to death the sleeping Pandavas. Whither then, O son of Radha, had this virtue of thine gone? Thou laughedest at Krishna while she stood in the midst of the assembly, scantily dressed be-
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cause in her season and obedient to Duhshasana’s will, whither, then, O Karna, had this virtue of thine gone? When from the apartment reserved for the females innocent Krishna was dragged, thou didst not interfere. Whither, O son of Radha, had this virtue of thine gone? Thyself addressing the princess Draupadi, that lady whose tread is as digni- fied as that of the elephant, in these words, viz., ‘The Pandavas, O Krishna, are lost. They have sunk into eternal hell. Do thou choose another husband!’ thou lookedest on the scene with delight. Whither then, O Karna, had this virtue of thine gone? Covetous of kingdom and relying on the ruler of the Gandharvas, thou summonedest the Pandavas (to a match of dice). Whither then had this virtue of thine gone? When many mighty car-warriors, encompassing the boy Abhimanyu in battle, slew him, whither had this virtue of thine then gone? If this virtue that thou now invokest was nowhere on those occasions, what is the use then of parching thy palate now, by uttering that word? Thou art now for the practice of virtue, O Suta, but thou shalt not escape with life. Like Nala who was defeated by Pushkara with the aid of dice but who regained his kingdom by prowess, the Pandavas, who are free from cupidity, will recover their kingdom by the prowess of their arms, aided with all their friends. Having slain in battle their powerful foes, they, with the Somakas, will recover their kingdom. The Dhartarashtras will meet with destruction at the hands of those lions among men (viz., the sons of Pandu), that are always protected by virtue!’”
“Sanjaya continued, ‘Thus addressed, O Bharata, by Vasudeva, Karna hung down his head in shame and gave no answer. With lips quivering in rage, he raised his bow, O Bharata, and, being endued with great energy and prowess, he continued to fight with Partha. Then Vasudeva, addressing Phalguna, that bull among men, said, “O thou of great might, piercing Karna with a celestial weapon, throw him down.” Thus addressed by the holy one, Arjuna became filled with rage. Indeed, remembering the incidents alluded to by Krishna, Dhananjaya blazed up with fury. Then, O king, blazing flames of fire seemed to emanate from all the pores of the angry Partha’s body. The sight seemed to be exceedingly wonderful. Beholding it, Karna, invoking the brahmastra, showered his shafts upon Dhananjaya, and once more made an effort to extricate his car. Partha also, by the aid of the brahmastra, poured arrowy downpours upon Karna. Baffling with his own weapon the weapon of his foe, the son of Pandu continued to strike him. The son of Kunti then, aiming at Karna sped another favourite weapon of his that was inspired with the energy of Agni. Sped by Arjuna, that weapon blazed up with its own energy. Karna, however, quenched that confla- gration with the Varuna weapon. The Suta’s son also, by the clouds he created, caused all the points of the compass to be shrouded with a darkness such as may be seen on a rainy day. The son of Pandu, endued with great energy, fearlessly dispelled those clouds by means of the Vayavya weapon in the very sight of Karna. The Suta’s son then, for slaying the son of Pandu, took up a terrible arrow blazing like fire. When that adored shaft was fixed on the bow- string, the earth, O king, trembled with her mountains and waters and forests. Violent winds began to blow, bearing hard pebbles. All the points of the compass became enveloped with dust. Wails of grief, O Bharata, arose among the gods in the welkin. Beholding that shaft aimed by the Suta’s son, O sire, the Pandavas, with cheerless hearts, gave themselves up to great sorrow. That shaft of keen point and endued with the effulgence of Sakra’s thunder, sped from Karna’s arms, fell upon Dhananjaya’s chest and penetrated it like a mighty snake penetrating an ant-hill. That grinder of foes, viz., the high-souled Vibhatsu, thus deeply pierced in that encounter, began to reel. His grasp became loosened, at which his bow Gandiva dropped from his hand. He trembled like the prince of mountains in an earthquake. Availing himself of that opportunity, the mighty car-warrior Vrisha, desirous of extricating his car-wheel that had been swallowed up by the earth, jumped down from his vehicle. Seizing the wheel with his two arms he endeavoured to drag it up, but though possessed of great strength, he failed in his efforts, as destiny would have it. Meanwhile the diadem-decked and high-souled Arjuna, recovering his senses, took up a shaft, fatal as the rod of Death, and called anjalika. Then Vasudeva, addressing Partha, said, “Cut off with thy arrow the head of this enemy of thine, viz., Vrisha, before he succeeds in getting upon his car.” Applauding those words of the lord Va- sudeva, and while the wheel of his enemy was still sunk, the mighty car-warrior Arjuna took up a razor-headed arrow of blazing effulgence and struck the standard (of Karna) bearing the elephant’s rope and bright as the spotless sun. That standard bearing the device of the costly elephant’s rope, was adorned with gold and pearls and gems and diamonds, and forged with care by foremost of artists excelling in knowledge, and possessed of great beauty, and variegated with pure gold. That standard always used to fill thy troops with high courage and the enemy with fear. Its form commanded applause. Celebrated over the whole world, it resembled the sun in splendour. Indeed, its effulgence was like that of fire or the sun or the moon. The diadem-decked Arjuna, with that razor-headed shaft, exceedingly sharp, equipped with wings of gold, possessed of the splendour of fire when fed with libations of clarified butter, and blazing with beauty, cut off that standard of Adhiratha’s son, that great car-warrior. With that standard, as it fell, the fame, pride, hope of victory, and everything dear, as also the hearts of the Kurus, fell, and loud wails of “Oh!” and “Alas!” arose (from the Kuru army). Beholding that standard cut off and thrown down by that hero of Kuru’s race possessed of great lightness of hand, thy troops, O Bharata, were no longer hopeful of Karna’s victory. Hastening then for Karna’s destruction, Partha took out from his quiver an excellent Anjalika weapon that resembled the thunder of Indra or the rod of fire and that was possessed of the effulgence of the thousand-rayed Sun. Capable of penetrating the very vitals, besmeared with blood and flesh, resembling fire or the sun, made of
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costly materials, destructive of men, steeds, and elephants, of straight course and fierce impetuosity, it measured three cubits and six feet. Endued with the force of the thousand-eyed Indra’s thunder, irresistible as Rakshasas in the night, resembling Pinaka or Narayana’s discus, it was exceedingly terrible and destructive of all living creatures. Partha cheerfully took up that great weapon, in the shape of an arrow, which could not be resisted by the very gods, that high-souled being which was always adored by the son of Pandu, and which was capable of vanquishing the very gods and the Asuras. Beholding that shaft grasped by Partha in that battle, the entire universe shook with its mobile and immobile creatures. Indeed, seeing that weapon raised (for being sped) in that dreadful battle, the Rishis loudly cried out, “Peace be to the universe!” The wielder of Gandiva then fixed on his bow that unrivalled arrow, uniting it with a high and mighty weapon. Drawing his bow Gandiva, he quickly said, “Let this shaft of mine be like a mighty weapon capable of quickly destroying the body and heart of my enemy, if I have ever practised ascetic austerities, gratified my superiors, and listened to the counsels of well-wishers. Let this shaft, worshipped by me and possessed of great sharpness, slay my enemy Karna by that Truth.” Having said these words Dhananjaya let off that terrible shaft for the destruction of Karna, that arrow fierce and efficacious as a rite prescribed in the Atharvan of Angiras, blazing with effulgence, and incapable of being endured by Death himself in battle. And the diadem-decked Partha, desirous of slaying Karna, with great cheerfulness, said, “Let this shaft conduce to my victory. Shot by me, let this arrow possessed of the splendour of fire or the sun take Karna to the presence of Yama.” Saying these words, Arjuna, decked with diadem and garlands, cherishing feelings of hostility towards Karna and desirous of slaying him, cheerfully struck his foe with that foremost of shafts which was possessed of the splendour of the sun or the moon and capable of bestowing victory. Thus sped by that mighty warrior, that shaft endued with the energy of the sun caused all the points of the compass to blaze up with light. With that weapon Arjuna struck off his enemy’s head like Indra striking off the head of Vritra with his thunder. Indeed, O king, with that excellent Anjalika weapon inspired with mantras into a mighty weapon, the son of Indra cut off the head of Vaikartana in the afternoon. Thus cut off with that Anja- lika, the trunk of Karna fell down on the earth. The head also of that commander of the (Kaurava) army, endued with splendour equal to that of the risen sun and resembling the meridian sun of autumn, fell down on the earth like the sun of bloody disc dropped down from the Asta hills. Indeed, that head abandoned with great unwillingness the body, exceedingly beautiful and always nursed in luxury, of Karna of noble deeds, like an owner abandoning with great unwillingness his commodious mansion filled with great wealth. Cut off with Arjuna’s arrow, and deprived of life, the tall trunk of Karna endued with great splendour, with blood issuing from every wound, fell down like the thunder-riven summit of a mountain of red chalk with crimson streams running down its sides after a shower. Then from that body of the fallen Karna a light passing through the welkin penetrated the sun. This wonderful sight, O king, was beheld by the human warriors after the fall of Karna. Then the Pandavas, beholding Karna slain by Phalgu- na, loudly blew their conchs. Similarly, Krishna and Dhananjaya also, filled with delight, and losing no time, blew their conchs. The Somakas beholding Karna slain and lying on the field, were filled with joy and uttered loud shouts with the other troops (of the Pandava army). In great delight they blew their trumpets and waved their arms and garments. All the warriors, O king, approaching Partha, began to applaud him joyfully. Others, possessed of might, danced, embracing each other, and uttering loud shouts, said, “By good luck, Karna hath been stretched on the earth and mangled with arrows.” Indeed, the severed head of Karna looked beautiful like a mountain summit loosened by a tempest, or a quenched fire after the sacrifice is over, or the image of the sun after it has reached the Asta hills. The Karna-sun, with arrows for its rays, after having scorched the hostile army, was at last caused to be set by the mighty Arjuna-time. As the Sun, while proceeding towards the Asta hills, retires taking away with him all his rays, even so that shaft (of Arjuna) passed out, taking with it Karna’s life breaths. The death hour of the Suta’s son, O sire, was the afternoon of that day. Cut off with the Anjalika weapon in that battle, the head of Karna fell down along with his body. Indeed, that arrow of Arjuna, in the very sight of the Kaurava troops, quickly took away the head and the body of Karna. Beholding the heroic Karna thrown down stretched on the earth, pierced with arrows and bathed in blood, the king of the Madras, went away on that car deprived of its standard. After the fall of Karna, the Kauravas, deeply pierced with shafts in that battle, and afflicted with fear, fled away from the field, frequently casting their eyes on that lofty standard of Arjuna that blazed with splendour. The beautiful head, graced with a face that resembled a lotus of a 1,000 petals, of Karna whose feats were like those of the thousand-eyed Indra, fell down on the earth like the thou- sand-rayed sun as he looks at the close of day.’”
Book 17 End of Reign
Section I Om! Having bowed down unto Narayana, and to Nara, the foremost of men, as also to the goddess Sarasvati,
should the word “Jaya” be uttered.
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Janamejaya said: “Having heard of that encounter with iron bolts between the heroes of the Vrishni and the Andhaka races, and having been informed also of Krishna’s ascension to Heaven, what did the Pandavas do?”
Vaishampayana said: “Having heard the particulars of the great slaughter of the Vrishnis, the Kaurava king set his heart on leaving the world. He addressed Arjuna, saying, ‘O thou of great intelligence, it is Time that cooks every creature (in his cauldron). I think that what has happened is due to the cords of Time (with which he binds us all). It behoveth thee also to see it.’
“Thus addressed by his brother, the son of Kunti only repeated the word ‘Time, Time!’ and fully endorsed the view of his eldest brother gifted with great intelligence. Ascertaining the resolution of Arjuna, Bhimasena and the twins fully endorsed the words that Arjuna had said. Resolved to retire from the world for earning merit, they brought Yuyutsu before them. Yudhishthira made over the kingdom to the son of his uncle by his Vaisya wife. Installing Parikshit also on their throne, as king, the eldest brother of the Pandavas, filled with sorrow, addressed Subhadra, saying, ‘This son of thy son will be the king of the Kurus. The survivor of the Yadus, Vajra, has been made a king. Parikshit will rule in Hastinapura, while the Yadava prince, Vajra, will rule in Shakraprastha. He should be protected by thee. Never set thy heart on unrighteousness.’
“Having said these words, king Yudhishthira the just, along with his brothers, promptly offered oblations of water unto Vasudeva of great intelligence, as also unto his old maternal uncle and Rama and others. He then duly performed the Sraddhas of all those deceased kinsmen of his. The king, in honour of Hari and naming him repeat- edly, fed the Island-born Vyasa, and Narada, and Markandeya possessed of wealth of penances, and Yajnavalkya of Bharadwaja’s race, with many delicious viands. In honour of Krishna, he also gave away many jewels and gems, and robes and clothes, and villages, and horses and cars, and female slaves by hundreds and thousands unto foremost of Brahmanas. Summoning the citizens. Kripa was installed as the preceptor and Parikshit was made over to him as his disciple, O chief of Bharata’s race.
“Then Yudhishthira once more summoned all his subjects. The royal sage informed them of his intentions. The citizens and the inhabitants of the provinces, hearing the king’s words, became filled with anxiety and disapproved of them. ‘This should never be done,’ said they unto the king. The monarch, well versed with the changes brought about by time, did not listen to their counsels. Possessed of righteous soul, he persuaded the people to sanction his views. He then set his heart on leaving the world. His brothers also formed the same resolution. Then Dharma’s son, Yudhishthira, the king of the Kurus, casting off his ornaments, wore barks of trees. Bhima and Arjuna and the twins, and Draupadi also of great fame, similarly clad themselves in bark of trees, O king. Having caused the pre- liminary rites of religion, O chief of Bharata’s race, which were to bless them in the accomplishment of their design, those foremost of men cast off their sacred fires into the water. The ladies, beholding the princes in that guise, wept aloud. They seemed to look as they had looked in days before, when with Draupadi forming the sixth in number they set out from the capital after their defeat at dice. The brothers, however, were all very cheerful at the prospect of retirement. Ascertaining the intentions of Yudhishthira and seeing the destruction of the Vrishnis, no other course of action could please them then.
“The five brothers, with Draupadi forming the sixth, and a dog forming the seventh, set out on their journey. Indeed, even thus did king Yudhishthira depart, himself the head of a party of seven, from the city named after the elephant. The citizen and the ladies of the royal household followed them for some distance. None of them, how- ever, could venture to address the king for persuading him to give up his intention. The denizens of the city then returned; Kripa and others stood around Yuyutsu as their centre. Ulupi, the daughter of the Naga chief, O thou of Kunti’s race, entered the waters of Ganga. The princess Chitrangada set out for the capital of Manipura. The other ladies who were the grandmothers of Parikshit centered around him. Meanwhile the high-souled Pandavas, O thou of Kuru’s race, and Draupadi of great fame, having observed the preliminary fast, set out with their faces towards the east. Setting themselves on Yoga, those high-souled ones, resolved to observe the religion of Renunciation, traversed through various countries and reached diverse rivers and seas. Yudhishthira, proceeded first. Behind him was Bhima; next walked Arjuna; after him were the twins in the order of their birth; behind them all, O foremost one of Bharata’s race, proceeded Draupadi, that first of women, possessed of great beauty, of dark complexion, and endued with eyes resembling lotus petals. While the Pandavas set out for the forest, a dog followed them.
“Proceeding on, those heroes reached the sea of red waters. Dhananjaya had not cast off his celestial bow Gan- diva, nor his couple of inexhaustible quivers, actuated, O king, by the cupidity that attaches one to things of great value. The Pandavas there beheld the deity of fire standing before them like a hill. Closing their way, the god stood there in his embodied form. The deity of seven flames then addressed the Pandavas, saying, ‘Ye heroic sons of Pan- du, know me for the deity of fire. O mighty-armed Yudhishthira, O Bhimasena that art a scorcher of foes, O Arjuna, and ye twins of great courage, listen to what I say! Ye foremost ones of Kuru’s race, I am the god of fire. The forest of Khandava was burnt by me, through the puissance of Arjuna and of Narayana himself. Let your brother Phalguna proceed to the woods after casting off Gandiva, that high weapon. He has no longer any need of it. That precious discus, which was with the high-souled Krishna, has disappeared (from the world). When the time again comes,
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it will come back into his hands. This foremost of bows, Gandiva, was procured by me from Varuna for the use of Partha. Let it be made over to Varuna himself.’
“At this, all the brothers urged Dhananjaya to do what the deity said. He then threw into the waters (of the sea) both the bow and the couple of inexhaustible quivers. After this, O chief of Bharata’s race, the god of the fire disap- peared then and there. The heroic sons of Pandu next proceeded with their faces turned towards the south. Then, by the northern coast of the salt sea, those princes of Bharata’s race proceeded to the south-west. Turning next towards the west, they beheld the city of Dwaraka covered by the ocean. Turning next to the north, those foremost ones proceeded on. Observant of Yoga, they were desirous of making a round of the whole Earth.”
Section II Vaishampayana said: “Those princes of restrained souls and devoted to Yoga, proceeding to the north, beheld
Himavat, that very large mountain. Crossing the Himavat, they beheld a vast desert of sand. They then saw the mighty mountain Meru, the foremost of all high-peaked mountains. As those mighty ones were proceeding quickly, all rapt in Yoga, Yajnaseni, falling of from Yoga, dropped down on the Earth. Beholding her fallen down, Bhimasena of great strength addressed king Yudhishthira the just, saying, ‘O scorcher of foes, this princess never did any sinful act. Tell us what the cause is for which Krishna has fallen down on the Earth!’
“Yudhishthira said: ‘O best of men, though we were all equal unto her she had great partiality for Dhananjaya. She obtains the fruit of that conduct today, O best of men.’”
Vaishampayana continued: “Having said this, that foremost one of Bharata’s race proceeded on. Of righteous soul, that foremost of men, endued with great intelligence, went on, with mind intent on itself. Then Sahadeva of great learning fell down on the Earth. Beholding him drop down, Bhima addressed the king, saying, ‘He who with great humility used to serve us all, alas, why is that son of Madravati fallen down on the Earth?’
“Yudhishthira said, ‘He never thought anybody his equal in wisdom. It is for that fault that this prince has fallen down.’
Vaishampayana continued: “Having said this, the king proceeded, leaving Sahadeva there. Indeed, Kunti’s son Yudhishthira went on, with his brothers and with the dog. Beholding both Krishna and the Pandava Sahadeva fallen down, the brave Nakula, whose love for kinsmen was very great, fell down himself. Upon the falling down of the heroic Nakula of great personal beauty, Bhima once more addressed the king, saying, ‘This brother of ours who was endued with righteousness without incompleteness, and who always obeyed our behests, this Nakula who was unrivalled for beauty, has fallen down.’
“Thus addressed by Bhimasena, Yudhishthira, said, with respect to Nakula, these words: ‘He was of righteous soul and the foremost of all persons endued with intelligence. He, however, thought that there was nobody that equalled him in beauty of person. Indeed, he regarded himself as superior to all in that respect. It is for this that Nakula has fallen down. Know this, O Vrikodara. What has been ordained for a person, O hero, must have to be endured by him.’
“Beholding Nakula and the others fall down, Pandu’s son Arjuna of white steeds, that slayer of hostile heroes, fell down in great grief of heart. When that foremost of men, who was endued with the energy of Shakra, had fallen down, indeed, when that invincible hero was on the point of death, Bhima said unto the king, ‘I do not recollect any untruth uttered by this high-souled one. Indeed, not even in jest did he say anything false. What then is that for whose evil consequence this one has fallen down on the Earth?’
“Yudhishthira said, ‘Arjuna had said that he would consume all our foes in a single day. Proud of his heroism, he did not, however, accomplish what he had said. Hence has he fallen down. This Phalguna disregarded all wield- ers of bows. One desirous of prosperity should never indulge in such sentiments.’”
Vaishampayana continued: “Having said so, the king proceeded on. Then Bhima fell down. Having fallen down, Bhima addressed king Yudhishthira the just, saying, ‘O king, behold, I who am thy darling have fallen down. For what reason have I dropped down? Tell me if thou knowest it.’
“Yudhishthira said, ‘Thou wert a great eater, and thou didst use to boast of thy strength. Thou never didst at- tend, O Bhima, to the wants of others while eating. It is for that, O Bhima, that thou hast fallen down.’
“Having said these words, the mighty-armed Yudhishthira proceeded on, without looking back. He had only one companion, the dog of which I have repeatedly spoken to thee, that followed him now.
Section III Vaishampayana said: “Then Shakra, causing the firmament and the Earth to be filled by a loud sound, came to
the son of Pritha on a car and asked him to ascend it. Beholding his brothers fallen on the Earth, king Yudhishthi- ra the just said unto that deity of a 1,000 eyes these words: ‘My brothers have all dropped down here. They must go with me. Without them by me I do not wish to go to Heaven, O lord of all the deities. The delicate princess
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(Draupadi) deserving of every comfort, O Purandara, should go with us. It behoveth thee to permit this.’ “Shakra said, ‘Thou shalt behold thy brothers in Heaven. They have reached it before thee. Indeed, thou shalt
see all of them there, with Krishna. Do not yield to grief, O chief of the Bharatas. Having cast off their human bod- ies they have gone there, O chief of Bharata’s race. As regards thee, it is ordained that thou shalt go thither in this very body of thine.’
“Yudhishthira said, ‘This dog, O lord of the Past and the Present, is exceedingly devoted to me. He should go with me. My heart is full of compassion for him.’
“Shakra said, ‘Immortality and a condition equal to mine, O king, prosperity extending in all directions, and high success, and all the felicities of Heaven, thou hast won today. Do thou cast off this dog. In this there will be no cruelty.’
“Yudhishthira said, ‘O thou of a 1,000 eyes. O thou that art of righteous behaviour, it is exceedingly difficult for one that is of righteous behaviour to perpetrate an act that is unrighteous. I do not desire that union with prosperity for which I shall have to cast off one that is devoted to me.’
“Indra said, ‘There is no place in Heaven for persons with dogs. Besides, the (deities called) Krodhavasas take away all the merits of such persons. Reflecting on this, act, O king Yudhishthira the just. Do thou abandon this dog. There is no cruelty in this.’
“Yudhishthira said, ‘It has been said that the abandonment of one that is devoted is infinitely sinful. It is equal to the sin that one incurs by slaying a Brahmana. Hence, O great Indra, I shall not abandon this dog today from desire of my happiness. Even this is my vow steadily pursued, that I never give up a person that is terrified, nor one that is devoted to me, nor one that seeks my protection, saying that he is destitute, nor one that is afflicted, nor one that has come to me, nor one that is weak in protecting oneself, nor one that is solicitous of life. I shall never give up such a one till my own life is at an end.’
“Indra said, ‘Whatever gifts, or sacrifices spread out, or libations poured on the sacred fire, are seen by a dog, are taken away by the Krodhavasas. Do thou, therefore, abandon this dog. By abandoning this dog thou wilt attain to the region of the deities. Having abandoned thy brothers and Krishna, thou hast, O hero, acquired a region of felicity by thy own deeds. Why art thou so stupefied? Thou hast renounced everything. Why then dost thou not renounce this dog?’ “Yudhishthira said, ‘This is well known in all the worlds that there is neither friendship nor en- mity with those that are dead. When my brothers and Krishna died, I was unable to revive them. Hence it was that I abandoned them. I did not, however, abandon them as long as they were alive. To frighten one that has sought protection, the slaying of a woman, the theft of what belongs to a Brahmana, and injuring a friend, each of these four, O Shakra, is I think equal to the abandonment of one that is devoted.’”
Vaishampayana continued: “Hearing these words of king Yudhishthira the just, (the dog became transformed into) the deity of Righteousness, who, well pleased, said these words unto him in a sweet voice fraught with praise.
“Dharma said: ‘Thou art well born, O king of kings, and possessed of the intelligence and the good conduct of Pandu. Thou hast compassion for all creatures, O Bharata, of which this is a bright example. Formerly, O son, thou wert once examined by me in the woods of Dwaita, where thy brothers of great prowess met with (an appearance of ) death. Disregarding both thy brothers Bhima and Arjuna, thou didst wish for the revival of Nakula from thy desire of doing good to thy (step-) mother. On the present occasion, thinking the dog to be devoted to thee, thou hast renounced the very car of the celestials instead of renouncing him. Hence. O king, there is no one in Heaven that is equal to thee. Hence, O Bharata, regions of inexhaustible felicity are thine. Thou hast won them, O chief of the Bharatas, and thine is a celestial and high goal.’”
Vaishampayana continued: “Then Dharma, and Shakra, and the Maruts, and the Ashvinis, and other deities, and the celestial Rishis, causing Yudhishthira to ascend on a car, proceeded to Heaven. Those beings crowned with success and capable of going everywhere at will, rode their respective cars. King Yudhishthira, that perpetuator of Kuru’s race, riding on that car, ascended quickly, causing the entire welkin to blaze with his effulgence. Then Nara- da, that foremost of all speakers, endued with penances, and conversant with all the worlds, from amidst that con- course of deities, said these words: ‘All those royal sages that are here have their achievements transcended by those of Yudhishthira. Covering all the worlds by his fame and splendour and by his wealth of conduct, he has attained to Heaven in his own (human) body. None else than the son of Pandu has been heard to achieve this.’
“Hearing these words of Narada, the righteous-souled king, saluting the deities and all the royal sages there present, said, ‘Happy or miserable, whatever the region be that is now my brothers’, I desire to proceed to. I do not wish to go anywhere else.’
“Hearing this speech of the king, the chief of the deities, Purandara, said these words fraught with noble sense: ‘Do thou live in this place, O king of kings, which thou hast won by thy meritorious deeds. Why dost thou still cherish human affections? Thou hast attained to great success, the like of which no other man has ever been able to attain. Thy brothers, O delighter of the Kurus, have succeeded in winning regions of felicity. Human affections still touch thee. This is Heaven. Behold these celestial Rishis and Siddhas who have attained to the region of the gods.’
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“Gifted with great intelligence, Yudhishthira answered the chief of the deities once more, saying, ‘O conqueror of Daityas, I venture not to dwell anywhere separated from them. I desire to go there, where my brothers have gone. I wish to go there where that foremost of women, Draupadi, of ample proportions and darkish complexion and endued with great intelligence and righteous of conduct, has gone.’”
The end of Mahaprasthanika-parva
Book 18 The Last Illusions
Section I Om! Having bowed down into Narayana, and to Nara, the foremost of men, as also to the goddess Sarasvati,
should the word “Jaya” be uttered. Janamejaya said, “Having attained to Heaven, what regions were respectively attained by my grandsires of old,
viz., the Pandavas and the sons of Dhritarashtra? I desire to hear this. I think that thou art conversant with every- thing, having been taught by the great Rishi Vyasa of wonderful feats.
Vaishampayana said, “Listen now to what thy grandsires, Yudhishthira and others, did after having attained to Heaven, that place of the deities. Arrived at Heaven, king Yudhishthira the just, beheld Duryodhana endued with prosperity and seated on an excellent seat. He blazed with effulgence like the sun and wore all those signs of glory which belong to heroes. And he was in the company of many deities of blazing effulgence and of Sadhyas of righ- teous deeds. Yudhishthira, beholding Duryodhana and his prosperity, became suddenly filled with rage and turned back from the sight.
“He loudly addressed his companions, saying, ‘I do not desire to share regions of felicity with Duryodhana who was stained by cupidity and possessed of little foresight. It was for him that friends, and kinsmen, over the whole Earth were slaughtered by us whom he had afflicted greatly in the deep forest. It was for him that the virtuous prin- cess of Pancala, Draupadi of faultless features, our wife, was dragged into the midst of the assembly before all our seniors. Ye gods, I have no desire to even behold Suyodhana. I wish to go there where my brothers are.’
“Narada, smiling, told him, ‘It should not be so, O king of kings. While residing in Heaven, all enmities cease. O mighty-armed Yudhishthira, do not say so about king Duryodhana. Hear my words. Here is king Duryodhana. He is worshipped with the gods by those righteous men and those foremost of kings who are now denizens of Heaven. By causing his body to be poured as a libation on the fire of battle, he has obtained the end that consists in attain- ment of the region for heroes. You and your brothers, who were veritable gods on Earth, were always persecuted by this one. Yet through his observance of Kshatriya practices he has attained to this region. This lord of Earth was not terrified in a situation fraught with terror.
“‘O son, thou shouldst not bear in mind the woes inflicted on thee on account of the match at dice. It behoveth thee not to remember the afflictions of Draupadi. It behoveth thee not to remember the other woes which were yours in consequence of the acts of your kinsmen,—the woes, viz., that were due to battle or to other situations. Do thou meet Duryodhana now according to the ordinances of polite intercourse. This is Heaven, O lord of men. There can be no enmities here.’
“Though thus addressed by Narada, the Kuru king Yudhishthira, endued with great intelligence, enquired about his brothers and said, ‘If these eternal regions reserved for heroes be Duryodhana’s, that unrighteous and sinful wight, that man who was the destroyer of friends and of the whole world, that man for whose sake the entire Earth was devastated with all her horses and elephants and human beings, that wight for whose sake we were burnt with wrath in thinking of how best we might remedy our wrongs, I desire to see what regions have been attained by those high-souled heroes, my brothers of high vows, steady achievers of promises, truthful in speech, and distin- guished for courage. The high-souled Karna, the son of Kunti, incapable of being baffled in battle, Dhrishtadyumna, Satyaki, the sons of Dhrishtadyumna and those other Kshatriyas who met with death in the observance of Ksha- triya practices, where are those lords of Earth, O Brahmana? I do not see them here, O Narada. I desire to see, O Narada, Virata and Drupada and the other great Kshatriyas headed by Dhrishtaketu, as also Shikhandi, the Pancala prince, the sons of Draupadi, and Abhimanyu, irresistible in battle.’
Section II “Yudhishthira said, ‘Ye deities, I do not see here Radha’s son of immeasurable prowess, as also my high-souled
brothers, and Yudhamanyu and Uttamaujas, those great car-warriors that poured their bodies (as libations) on the fire of battle, those kings and princes that met with death for my sake in battle. Where are those great car-warriors that possessed the prowess of tigers? Have those foremost of men acquired this region? If those great car-warriors have obtained these regions, then only do you know, ye gods, that I shall reside here with those high-souled ones.
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If this auspicious and eternal region has not been acquired by those kings, then know, ye gods, that without those brothers and kinsmen of mine, I shall not live here. At the time of performing the water rites (after the battle), I heard my mother say, ‘Do thou offer oblations of water unto Karna.’ Since hearing those words of my mother, I am burning with grief. I grieve also incessantly at this, ye gods, that when I marked the resemblance between the feet of my mother and those of Karna of immeasurable soul, I did not immediately place myself under orders of that afflicter of hostile ranks. Ourselves joined with Karna, Shakra himself would have been unable to vanquish in battle. Wherever may that child of Surya be, I desire to see him. Alas, his relationship with us being unknown, I caused him to be slain by Arjuna. Bhima also of terrible prowess and dearer to me than my life-breaths, Arjuna too, resembling Indra himself, the twins also that resembled the Destroyer himself in prowess, I desire to behold. I wish to see the princess of Pancala, whose conduct was always righteous. I wish not to stay here. I tell you the truth. Ye foremost ones among the deities, what is Heaven to me if I am dissociated from my brothers? That is Heaven where those brothers of mine are. This, in my opinion, is not Heaven.’
“The gods said, ‘If thou longest to be there, go then, O son, without delay. At the command of the chief of the deities, we are ready to do what is agreeable to thee.’
Vaishampayana continued: Having said so, the gods then ordered the celestial messenger, O scorcher of foes, saying, ‘Do thou show unto Yudhishthira his friends and kinsmen.’ Then the royal son of Kunti and the celestial messenger proceeded together, O foremost of kings, to that place where those chiefs of men (whom Yudhishthi- ra had wished to see) were. The celestial messenger proceeded first, the king followed him behind. The path was inauspicious and difficult and trodden by men of sinful deeds. It was enveloped in thick darkness, and covered with hair and moss forming its grassy vesture. Polluted with the stench of sinners, and miry with flesh and blood, it abounded with gadflies and stinging bees and gnats and was endangered by the inroads of grisly bears. Rotting corpses lay here and there. Overspread with bones and hair, it was noisome with worms and insects. It was skirted all along with a blazing fire. It was infested by crows and other birds and vultures, all having beaks of iron, as also by evil spirits with long mouths pointed like needles. And it abounded with inaccessible fastnesses like the Vindhya mountains. Human corpses were scattered over it, smeared with fat and blood, with arms and thighs cut off, or with entrails torn out and legs severed.
“Along that path so disagreeable with the stench of corpses and awful with other incidents, the righteous-souled king proceeded, filled with diverse thoughts. He beheld a river full of boiling water and, therefore, difficult to cross, as also a forest of trees whose leaves were sharp swords and razors. There were plains full of fine white sand exceed- ingly heated, and rocks and stones made of iron. There were many jars of iron all around, with boiling oil in them. Many a Kuta-salmalika was there, with sharp thorns and, therefore, exceedingly painful to the touch. The son of Kunti beheld also the tortures inflicted upon sinful men.
“Beholding that inauspicious region abounding with every sort of foulness, Yudhishthira asked the celestial messenger, saying, ‘How far shall we proceed along a path like this? It behoveth thee to tell me where those brothers of mine are. I desire also to know what region is this of the gods?’
“Hearing these words of king Yudhishthira the just, the celestial messenger stopped in his course and replied, saying, ‘Thus far is your way. The denizens of Heaven commanded me that having come thus far, I am to stop. If thou art tired, O king of kings, thou mayst return with me.’
“Yudhishthira, however, was exceedingly disconsolate and stupefied by the foul odour. Resolved to return, O Bharata, he retraced his steps. Afflicted by sorrow and grief, the righteous-souled monarch turned back. Just at that moment he heard piteous lamentations all around, ‘O son of Dharma, O royal sage, O thou of sacred origin, O son of Pandu, do thou stay a moment for favouring us. At thy approach, O invincible one, a delightful breeze hath be- gun to blow, bearing the sweet scent of thy person. Great hath been our relief at this. O foremost of kings, beholding thee, O first of men, great hath been our happiness. O son of Pritha, let that happiness last longer through thy stay here, for a few moments more. Do thou remain here, O Bharata, for even a short while. As long as thou art here, O thou of Kuru’s race, torments cease to afflict us.’ These and many similar words, uttered in piteous voices by persons in pain, the king heard in that region, wafted to his ears from every side.
“Hearing those words of beings in woe, Yudhishthira of compassionate heart exclaimed aloud, ‘Alas, how pain- ful!’ And the king stood still. The speeches of those woe-begone and afflicted persons seemed to the son of Pandu to be uttered in voices that he had heard before although he could not recognise them on that occasion.
“Unable to recognise voices, Dharma’s son, Yudhishthira, enquired, saying, ‘Who are you? Why also do you stay here?’ “Thus addressed, they answered him from all sides, saying, ‘I am Karna!’ ‘I am Bhimasena!’ ‘I am Arjuna!’ ‘I
am Nakula!’ ‘I am Sahadeva!’ ‘I am Dhrishtadyumna!’ ‘I am Draupadi!’ ‘We are the sons of Draupadi!’ Even thus, O king, did those voices speak.
“Hearing those exclamations, O king, uttered in voices of pain suitable to that place, the royal Yudhishthira asked himself ‘What perverse destiny is this? What are those sinful acts which were committed by those high- souled beings, Karna and the sons of Draupadi, and the slender-waisted princess of Pancala, so that their residence
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has been assigned in this region of foetid smell and great woe? I am not aware of any transgression that can be attributed to these persons of righteous deeds. What is that act by doing which Dhritarashtra’s son, king Suyodha- na, with all his sinful followers, has become invested with such prosperity? Endued with prosperity like that of the great Indra himself, he is highly adored. What is that act through the consequence of which these (high-souled ones) have fallen into Hell? All of them were conversant with every duty, were heroes, were devoted to truth and the Vedas; were observant of Kshatriya practices; were righteous in their acts; were performers of sacrifices; and givers of large presents unto brahmanas. Am I asleep or awake? Am I conscious or unconscious? Or, is all this a mental delusion due to disorders of the brain?’
“Overwhelmed by sorrow and grief, and with his senses agitated by anxiety, king Yudhishthira indulged in such reflections for a long time. The royal son of Dharma then gave way to great wrath. Indeed, Yudhishthira then cen- sured the gods, as also Dharma himself. Afflicted by the very foul odour, he addressed the celestial messenger, say- ing, ‘Return to the presence of those whose messenger thou art. Tell them that I shall not go back to where they are, but shall stay even here, since, in consequence of my companionship, these afflicted brothers of mine have become comforted.’ Thus addressed by the intelligent son of Pandu, the celestial messenger returned to the place where the chief of the deities was, viz., he of a hundred sacrifices. He represented unto him the acts of Yudhishthira. Indeed, O ruler of men, he informed Indra of all that Dharma’s son had said!
Section III Vaishampayana said, “King Yudhishthira the just, the son of Pritha, had not stayed there for more than a mo-
ment when, O thou of Kuru’s race, all the gods with Indra at their head came to that spot. The deity of Righteous- ness in his embodied form also came to that place where the Kuru king was, for seeing that monarch. Upon the advent of those deities of resplendent bodies and sanctified and noble deeds, the darkness that had overwhelmed that region immediately disappeared. The torments undergone by beings of sinful deeds were no longer seen. The river Vaitarani, the thorny Salmali, the iron jars, and the boulders of rock, so terrible to behold, also vanished from sight. The diverse repulsive corpses also, which the Kuru king had seen, disappeared at the same time. Then a breeze, delicious and fraught with pleasant perfumes, perfectly pure and delightfully cool, O Bharata, began to blow on that spot in consequence of the presence of the gods. The Maruts, with Indra, the Vasus with the twin Ashvinis, the Sadhyas, the Rudras, the Adityas, and the other denizens of Heaven, as also the Siddhas and the great Rishis, all came there where Dharma’s royal son of great energy was.
“Then Shakra, the lord of the deities, endued with blazing prosperity, addressed Yudhishthira and comforting him, said, ‘O Yudhishthira of mighty arms, come, come, O chief of men. These illusions have ended, O puissant one. Success has been attained by thee, O mighty-armed one, and eternal regions (of felicity) have become thine. Thou shouldst not yield to wrath. Listen to these words of mine. Hell, O son, should without doubt be beheld by every king. Of both good and bad there is abundance, O chief of men. He who enjoys first the fruits of his good acts must afterwards endure Hell. He, on the other hand, who first endures Hell, must afterwards enjoy Heaven. He whose sinful acts are many enjoys Heaven first. It is for this, O king, that desirous of doing thee good, I caused thee to be sent for having a view of Hell. Thou hadst, by a pretence, deceived Drona in the matter of his son. Thou hast, in consequence thereof, been shown Hell by an act of deception. After the manner of thyself, Bhima and Arjuna, and Draupadi, have all been shown the place of sinners by an act of deception. Come, O chief of men, all of them have been cleansed of their sins. All those kings who had aided thee and who have been slain in battle, have all attained to Heaven. Come and behold them, O foremost one of Bharata’s race.
“‘Karna, the mighty bowman, that foremost of all wielders of weapons for whom thou art grieving, has also at- tained to high success. Behold, O puissant one, that foremost of men, viz., the son of Surya. He is in that place which is his own, O mighty-armed one. Kill this grief of thine, O chief of men. Behold thy brothers and others, those kings, that is, who had espoused thy side. They have all attained to their respective places (of felicity). Let the fever of thy heart be dispelled. Having endured a little misery first, from this time, O son of Kuru’s race, do thou sport with me in happiness, divested of grief and all thy ailments dispelled. O mighty-armed one, do thou now enjoy, O king, the rewards of all thy deeds of righteousness of those regions which thou hast acquired thyself by thy penances and of all thy gifts. Let deities and Gandharvas, and celestial Apsaras, decked in pure robes and excellent ornaments, wait upon and serve thee for thy happiness. Do thou, O mighty-armed one, enjoy now those regions (of felicity) which have become thine through the Rajasuya sacrifice performed by thee and whose felicities have been enhanced by the sacrificial scimitar employed by thee. Let the high fruits of thy penances be enjoyed by thee. Thy regions, O Yud- hishthira, are above, those of kings. They are equal to those of Hariscandra, O son of Pritha. Come, and sport there in bliss. There where the royal sage Mandhatri is, there where king Bhagiratha is, there where Dushmanta’s son Bharata is, there wilt thou sport in bliss. Here is the celestial river, sacred and sanctifying the three worlds. It is called Heaven- ly Ganga. Plunging into it, thou wilt go to thy own regions. Having bathed in this stream, thou wilt be divested of thy human nature. Indeed, thy grief dispelled, thy ailments conquered, thou wilt be freed from all enmities.’
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“While, O Kuru king, the chief of the gods was saying so unto Yudhishthira, the deity of Righteousness, in his em- bodied form, then addressed his own son and said, ‘O king, I am greatly pleased, O thou of great wisdom, with thee, O son, by thy devotion to me, by thy truthfulness of speech, and forgiveness, and self-restraint. This, indeed, is the third test, O king, to which I put thee. Thou art incapable, O son of Pritha, of being swerved from thy nature or reason. Be- fore this, I had examined thee in the Dwaita woods by my questions, when thou hadst come to that lake for recovering a couple of fire sticks. Thou stoodst it well. Assuming the shape of a dog, I examined thee once more, O son, when thy brothers with Draupadi had fallen down. This has been thy third test; thou hast expressed thy wish to stay at Hell for the sake of thy brothers. Thou hast become cleansed, O highly blessed one. Purified of sin, be thou happy.
O son of Pritha, thy brothers, O king, were not such as to deserve Hell. All this has been an illusion created by the chief of the gods. Without doubt, all kings, O son, must once behold Hell. Hence hast thou for a little while been subjected to this great affliction. O king, neither Arjuna, nor Bhima, nor any of those foremost of men, viz., the twins, nor Karna, ever truthful in speech and possessed of great courage, could be deserving of Hell for a long time. The princess Krishna too, O Yudhishthira, could not be deserving of that place of sinners. Come, come, O foremost one of the Bharatas, behold Ganga who spreads her current over the three worlds.’
“Thus addressed, that royal sage, viz., thy grandsire, proceeded with Dharma and all the other gods. Having bathed in the celestial river Ganga, sacred and sanctifying and ever adored by the Rishis, he cast off his human body. Assuming then a celestial form, king Yudhishthira the just, in consequence of that bath, became divested of all his enmities and grief. Surrounded by the deities, the Kuru king Yudhishthira then proceeded from that spot. He was accompanied by Dharma, and the great Rishis uttered his praises. Indeed, he reached that place where those foremost of men, those heroes, viz., the Pandavas and the Dhartarashtras, freed from (human) wrath, were enjoying each his respective status.
Section IV Vaishampayana said, “King Yudhishthira, thus praised by the gods, the Maruts and the Rishis, proceeded to
that place where those foremost ones of Kuru’s race were. He beheld Govinda endued with his Brahma-form. It resembled that form of his which had been seen before and which, therefore, helped the recognition. Blazing forth in that form of his, he was adorned with celestial weapons, such as the terrible discus and others in their respective embodied forms. He was being adored by the heroic Phalguna, who also was endued with a blazing effulgence. The son of Kunti beheld the slayer of Madhu also in his own form. Those two foremost of Beings, adored by all the gods, beholding Yudhishthira, received him with proper honours.
“In another place, the delighter of the Kurus beheld Karna, that foremost one among all wielders of weapons, resembling a dozen Suryas in splendour. In another part he beheld Bhimasena of great puissance, sitting in the midst of the Maruts, and endued with a blazing form. He was sitting by the side of the God of Wind in his embod- ied form. Indeed, he was then in a celestial form endued with great beauty, and had attained to the highest success. In place belonging to the Ashvinis, the delighter of the Kurus beheld Nakula and Sahadeva, each blazing with his own effulgence.
“He also beheld the princess of Pancala, decked in garlands of lotuses. Having attained to Heaven, she was sitting there, endued with a form possessed of solar splendour. King Yudhishthira suddenly wished to question her. Then the illustrious Indra, the chief of the gods, spoke to him, ‘This one is Sree herself. It was for your sake that she took birth, as the daughter of Drupada, among human beings, issuing not from any mother’s womb, O Yudhishthira, endued with agreeable perfume and capable of delighting the whole world. For your pleasure, she was created by the wielder of the trident. She was born in the race of Drupada and was enjoyed by you all. These five highly blessed Gandharvas endued with the effulgence of fire, and possessed of great energy, were, O king, the sons of Draupadi and yourself.
“Behold Dhritarashtra, the king of the Gandharvas, possessed of great wisdom. Know that this one was the eldest brother of thy sire. This one is thy eldest brother, the son of Kunti, endued with effulgence of fire. The son of Surya, thy eldest brother, the foremost of men, even this one was known as the son of Radha. He moves in the com- pany of Surya. Behold this foremost of Beings. Among the tribes of the Saddhyas, the gods, the Viswedevas, and the Maruts, behold, O king of kings, the mighty car-warriors of the Vrishnis and the Andhakas, viz., those heroes having Satyaki for their first, and those mighty ones among the Bhojas. Behold the son of Subhadra, invincible in battle, now staying with Soma. Even he is the mighty bowman Abhimanyu, now endued with the gentle effulgence of the great luminary of the night. Here is the mighty bowman Pandu, now united with Kunti and Madri. Thy sire frequently comes to me on his excellent car. Behold the royal Bhishma, the son of Santanu, now in the midst of the Vasus. Know that this one by the side of Brihaspati is thy preceptor Drona. These and other kings, O son of Pandu, who had warred on thy side now walk with the Gandharvas or Yakshas or other sacred beings. Some have attained to the status of Guhyakas, O king. Having cast off their bodies, they have conquered Heaven by the merit they had acquired through word, thought and deed.’
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Section V Janamejaya said, “Bhishma and Drona, those two high-souled persons, king Dhritarashtra, and Virata and
Drupada, and Sankha and Uttara. Dhrishtaketu and Jayatsena and king Satyajit, the sons of Duryodhana, and Shakuni the son of Subala, Karna’s sons of great prowess, king Jayadratha, Ghatotkaca and others whom thou hast not mentioned, the other heroic kings of blazing forms—tell me for what period they remained in Heaven. O fore- most of regenerate persons, was theirs an eternal place in Heaven? What was the end attained to by those foremost of men when their acts came to an end? I desire to hear this, O foremost of regenerate persons, and therefore have I asked thee. Through thy blazing penances thou seest all things.
Sauti said: Thus questioned, that regenerate Rishi, receiving the permission of the high-souled Vyasa, set him- self to answer the question of the king.
Vaishampayana said, “Every one, O king of men, is not capable of returning to his own nature at the end of his deeds. Whether this is so or not, is, indeed a good question asked by thee. Hear, O king, this which is a mystery of the gods, O chief of Bharata’s race. It was explained (to us) by Vyasa of mighty energy, celestial vision and great prowess, that ancient ascetic, O Kauravya, who is the son of Parasara and who always observes high vows, who is of immeasurable understanding, who is omniscient, and who, therefore knows the end attached to all acts.
“Bhishma of mighty energy and great effulgence attained to the status of the Vasus. Eight Vasus, O chief of Bharata’s race, are now seen. Drona entered into Brihaspati, that foremost one of Angirasa’s descendants. Hridika’s son Kritavarma entered the Maruts. Pradyumna entered Sanatkumara whence he had issued. Dhritarashtra ob- tained the regions, so difficult of acquisition, that belong to the Lord of treasures. The famous Gandhari obtained the same regions with her husband Dhritarashtra. With his two wives, Pandu proceeded to the abode of the great Indra. Both Virata and Drupada, the king Dhrishtaketu, as also Nishatha, Akrura, Samva, Bhanukampa, and Vidu- ratha, and Bhurishrava and Sala and king Bhuri, and Kansa, and Ugrasena, and Vasudeva, and Uttara, that foremost of men, with his brother Sankha—all these foremost of persons entered the deities. Soma’s son of great prowess, named Varchas of mighty energy, became Abhimanyu, the son of Phalguna, that lion among men. Having fought, agreeably to Kshatriya practices, with bravery such as none else had ever been able to show, that mighty-armed and righteous-souled being entered Soma. Slain on the field of battle, O foremost of men, Karna entered Surya. Shakuni obtained absorption into Dwapara, and Dhrishtadyumna into the deity of fire. The sons of Dhritarashtra were all Rakshasas of fierce might. Sanctified by death caused by weapons, those high-souled beings of prosperity all suc- ceeded in attaining to Heaven. Both Kshattri and king Yudhishthira entered into the god of Righteousness. The holy and illustrious Ananta (who had taken birth as Balarama) proceeded to the region below the Earth. Through the command of the Grandsire, he, aided by his Yoga power, supported the Earth. Vasudeva was a portion of that eter- nal god of gods called Narayana. Accordingly, he entered into Narayana. 16,000 women had been married to Va- sudeva as his wives. When the time came, O Janamejaya, they, plunged into the Sarasvati. Casting off their (human) bodies there, they re-ascended to Heaven. Transformed into Apsaras, they approached the presence of Vasudeva. Those heroic and mighty car-warriors, Ghatotkaca and others, who were slain in the great battle, attained to the status, some of gods and some of Yakshas. Those that had fought on the side of Duryodhana are said to have been Rakshasas. Gradually, O king, they have all attained to excellent regions of felicity. Those foremost of men have pro- ceeded, some to the abode of Indra, some to that of Kuvera of great intelligence, and some to that of Varuna. I have now told thee, O thou of great splendour, everything about the acts, O Bharata, of both the Kurus and the Pandavas.
Sauti said: Hearing this, ye foremost of regenerate ones, at the intervals of sacrificial rites, king Janamejaya became filled with wonder. The sacrificial priests then finished the rites that remained to be gone through. Astika, having rescued the snakes (from fiery death), became filled with joy. King Janamejaya then gratified all the Brah- manas with copious presents. Thus worshipped by the king, they returned to their respective abodes. Having dis- missed those learned Brahmanas, king Janamejaya came back from Takshasila to the city named after the elephant.
I have now told everything that Vaishampayana narrated, at the command of Vyasa, unto the king at his snake sacrifice. Called a history, it is sacred, sanctifying and excellent. It has been composed by the ascetic Krishna, O Brahmana, of truthful speech. He is omniscient, conversant with all ordinances, possessed of a knowledge of all duties, endued with piety, capable of perceiving what is beyond the ken of the senses, pure, having a soul cleansed by penances, possessed of the six high attributes, and devoted to Sankhya Yoga. He has composed this, beholding everything with a celestial eye that has been cleansed (strengthened) by varied lore. He has done this, desiring to spread the fame, throughout the world, of the high-souled Pandavas, as also of other Kshatriyas possessed of abun- dant wealth of energy.
That learned man who recites this history of sacred days in the midst of a listening auditory becomes cleansed of every sin, conquers Heaven, and attains to the status of Brahma. Of that man who listens with rapt attention to the recitation of the whole of this Veda composed by (the Island-born) Krishna, a million sins, numbering such grave ones as Brahmanicide and the rest, are washed off. The Pitris of that man who recites even a small portion of this history at a Sraddha, obtain inexhaustible food and drink. The sins that one commits during the day by one’s
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senses or the mind are all washed off before evening by reciting a portion of the Mahabharata. Whatever sins a Brahmana may commit at night in the midst of women are all washed off before dawn by reciting a portion of the Mahabharata.
The high race of the Bharatas is its topic. Hence it is called Bharata. And because of its grave import, as also of the Bharatas being its topic, it is called Mahabharata. He who is versed in interpretations of this great treatise, becomes cleansed of every sin. Such a man lives in righteousness, wealth, and pleasure, and attains to Emancipation also, O chief of Bharata’s race.
That which occurs here occurs elsewhere. That which does not occur here occurs nowhere else. This history is known by the name of Jaya. It should be heard by every one desirous of Emancipation. It should be read by Brahmanas, by kings, and by women quick with children. He that desires Heaven attains to Heaven; and he that desires victory attains to victory. The woman quick with child gets either a son or a daughter highly blessed. The puissant Island-born Krishna, who will not have to come back, and who is Emancipation incarnate, made an abstract of the Bharata, moved by the desire of aiding the cause of righteousness. He made another compilation consisting of sixty lakhs of verses. Thir- ty lakhs of these were placed in the region of the deities. In the region of the Pitris fifteen lakhs, it should be known, are current; while in that of the Yakshas fourteen lakhs are in vogue. One lakh is current among human beings.
Narada recited the Mahabharata to the gods; Asita-Devala to the Pitris; Suka to the Rakshasas and the Yak- shas; and Vaishampayana to human beings. This history is sacred, and of high import, and regarded as equal to the Vedas. That man, O Saunaka, who hears this history, placing a Brahmana before him, acquires both fame and the fruition of all his wishes. He who, with fervid devotion, listens to a recitation of the Mahabharata, attains (hereaf- ter) to high success in consequence of the merit that becomes his through understanding even a very small portion thereof. All the sins of that man who recites or listens to this history with devotion are washed off.
In former times, the great Rishi Vyasa, having composed this treatise, caused his son Suka to read it with him, along with these four Verses. —Thousands of mothers and fathers, and hundreds of sons and wives arise in the world and depart from it. Others will (arise and) similarly depart. There are thousands of occasions for joy and hundreds of occasions for fear. These affect only him that is ignorant but never him that is wise. With uplifted arms I am crying aloud but nobody hears me. From Righteousness is Wealth as also Pleasure. Why should not Righ- teousness, therefore, be courted? For the sake neither of pleasure, nor of fear, nor of cupidity should any one cast off Righteousness. Indeed, for the sake of even life one should not cast off Righteousness. Righteousness is eternal. Pleasure and Pain are not eternal. Jiva is eternal. The cause, however, of Jiva’s being invested with a body is not so.
That man who, waking up at dawn, reads this Savittri of the Bharata, acquires all the rewards attached to a rec- itation of this history and ultimately attains to the highest Brahma. As the sacred Ocean, as the Himavat mountain, are both regarded as mines of precious gems, even so is this Bharata (regarded as a mine of precious gems). The man of learning, by reciting to others this Veda or Agama composed by (the Island-born) Krishna, earns wealth. There is no doubt in this that he who, with rapt attention, recites this history called Bharata, attains to high success. What need has that man of a sprinkling of the waters of Pushkara who attentively listens to this Bharata, while it is recited to him? It represents the nectar that fell from the lips of the Island-born. It is immeasurable, sacred, sancti- fying, sin-cleansing, and auspicious.
THE râMâyAnA
Attributed to Valmiki
Written version composed in the fourth century B.C.E. India
The Ramayana is the story of Rama, who is the seventh avatar of the god Vishnu. In times of trouble, Vishnu sends down a human avatar to defeat evil; the avatar, therefore, is the embodiment (literally) of divine intervention. Rama has the opportunity to fight evil when his wife, Sita, is kidnapped by the demon Ravana. Sita is the avatar of the goddess Lakshmi, wife of Vishnu, and her human incarnation is identified as the daughter of the earth goddess, since she was found in a plowed field by King Janaka (her name means “furrow”). When Rama and his brothers rescue Sita, they have the help of one of the most popular figures in Indian mythology: the monkey god Hanuman, who is the eleventh avatar of Shiva, and whose monkey incarnation is the son of the wind god Vayu. The action that follows is in keeping with the divine nature and power of the characters.
Written by Laura J. Getty
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[The full text of the Ramayana is roughly 24,000 couplets, so a summary is included here, followed by selections from the work for a more in-depth look at the text.]
The Story of the râmâyana
Valmiki, Translated by Kate Milner Rabb
Brahma, creator of the universe, though all powerful, could not revoke a promise once made. For this reason, Ravana, the demon god of Ceylon, stood on his head in the midst of five fires for ten thousand years, and at the end of that time boldly demanded of Brahma as a reward that he should not be slain by gods, demons, or genii. He also requested the gift of nine other heads and eighteen additional arms and hands.
These having been granted, he began by the aid of his evil spirits, the Rakshasas, to lay waste the earth and to do violence to the good, especially to the priests.
At the time when Ravana’s outrages were spreading terror throughout the land, and Brahma, looking down from his throne, shuddered to see the monster he had gifted with such fell power, there reigned in Ayodhya, now the city of Oude, a good and wise raja, Dasaratha, who had reigned over the splendid city for nine thousand years without once growing weary. He had but one grief,—that he was childless,—and at the opening of the story he was preparing to make the great sacrifice, Asva-medha, to propitiate the gods, that they might give him a son.
The gods, well pleased, bore his request to Brahma in person, and incidentally preferred a request that he provide some means of destroying the monster Ravana that was working such woe among their priests, and dis- turbing their sacrifices.
Brahma granted the first request, and, cudgeling his brains for a device to destroy Ravana, bethought himself that while he had prom- ised that neither gods, genii, nor demons should slay him, he had said nothing of man. He accordingly led the appealing gods to Vishnu, who proclaimed that the monster should be slain by men and mon- keys, and that he would himself be re-incarnated as the eldest son of Dasaratha and in this form compass the death of Ravana.
In course of time, as a reward for his performance of the great sacrifice, four sons were born to Dasaratha, Rama by Kausalya, his oldest wife, Bharata, whose mother was Kaikeyi, and twin sons, Lakshmana and Satrughna, whose mother was Sumitra.
Rama, the incarnation of Vishnu, destined to destroy Ravana, grew daily in grace, beauty, and strength. When he was but sixteen years old, having been sent for by a sage to destroy the demons who were disturbing the forest hermits in their religious rites, he depart- ed unattended, save by his brother Lakshmana and a guide, into the pathless forests, where he successfully overcame the terrible Raksha- sa, Tarika, and conveyed her body to the grateful sage.
While he was journeying through the forests, destroying countless Rakshasas, he chanced to pass near the king- dom of Mithila and heard that its king, Janaka, had offered his peerless daughter, Sita, in marriage to the man who could bend the mighty bow of Siva the destroyer, which, since its owner’s death, had been kept at Janaka’s court.
Rama at once determined to accomplish the feat, which had been essayed in vain by so many suitors. When he presented himself at court Janaka was at once won by his youth and beauty; and when the mighty bow, resting upon an eight-wheeled car, was drawn in by five thousand men, and Rama without apparent effort bent it until it broke, he gladly gave him his beautiful daughter, and after the splendid wedding ceremonies were over, loaded the happy pair with presents to carry back to Ayodhya.
When Dasaratha, who had attended the marriage of his son at Mithila, returned home, he began to feel weary of reigning, and bethought himself of the ancient Hindu custom of making the eldest son and heir apparent a Yuva-Raja,— that is appointing him assistant king. Rama deserved this honor, and would, moreover, be of great assistance to him.
His happy people received the announcement of his intention with delight; the priests approved of it as well, and the whole city was in the midst of the most splendid preparations for the ceremony, when it occurred to Dasaratha that all he lacked was the congratulations of his youngest and favorite wife, Kaikeyi, on this great event. The well-watered streets and the garlanded houses had already aroused the suspicions of Kaikeyi,—suspicions speedily confirmed by the report of her maid. Angered and jealous because the son of Kausalya and not her darling Bharata, at that time absent from the city, was to be made Yuva-Raja, she fled to the “Chamber of Sorrows,” and was there found by the old Raja.
License: Public Domain
Image 3.4: Cloth printed with Human Figures from The râmâyana Epic | This fabric artwork shows various characters from the Râmâyana engaged in battle with one another.
Author: User “Tropenmuseum” Source: Wikimedia Commons License: CC BY-SA 3.0
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Though Kaikeyi was his youngest and most beautiful wife, her tears, threats, and entreaties would have been of no avail had she not recalled that, months before, the old Raja, in gratitude for her devoted nursing during his illness, had granted her two promises. She now demanded the fulfilment of these before she would consent to smile upon him, and the consent won, she required him, first, to appoint Bharata Yuva-Raja; and, second, to exile Rama for fourteen years to the terrible forest of Dandaka.
The promise of a Hindu, once given, cannot be revoked. In spite of the grief of the old Raja, of Kausalya, his old wife, and of all the people, who were at the point of revolt at the sudden disgrace of their favorite prince, the terrible news was announced to Rama, and he declared himself ready to go, to save his father from dishonor.
He purposed to go alone, but Sita would not suffer herself to be thus deserted. Life without him, she pleaded, was worse than death; and so eloquent was her grief at the thought of parting that she was at last permitted to don the rough garment of bark provided by the malicious Kaikeyi.
The people of Ayodhya, determined to share the fate of their favorites, accompanied them from the city, their tears laying the dust raised by Rama’s chariot wheels. But when sleep overcame them, Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana escaped from them, dismissed their charioteer, and, crossing the Ganges, made their way to the mountain of Ci- tra-kuta, where they took up their abode.
No more beautiful place could be imagined. Flowers of every kind, delicious fruits, and on every side the most pleasing prospects, together with perfect love, made their hermitage a paradise on earth. Here the exiles led an idyllic existence until sought out by Bharata, who, learning from his mother on his return home the ruin she had wrought in the Raj, had indignantly spurned her, and hastened to Dandaka. The old Raja had died from grief soon after the departure of the exiles, and Bharata now demanded that Rama should return to Ayodhya and become Raja, as was his right, as eldest son.
When Rama refused to do this until the end of his fourteen years of exile, Bharata vowed that for fourteen years he would wear the garb of a devotee and live outside the city, committing the management of the Raj to a pair of golden sandals which he took from Rama’s feet. All the affairs of state would be transacted under the authority of the sandals, and Bharata, while ruling the Raj, would pay homage to them.
Soon after the departure of Bharata the exiles were warned to depart from their home on Citra-kuta and seek a safer hermitage, for terrible rakshasas filled this part of the forest. They accordingly sought the abode of Atri the hermit, whose wife Anasuya was so pleased with Sita’s piety and devotion to her husband that she bestowed upon her the crown of immortal youth and beauty. They soon found a new abode in the forest of Pancarati, on the banks of the river Godavari, where Lakshmana erected a spacious bamboo house.
Their happiness in this elysian spot was destined to be short-lived. Near them dwelt a horrible rakshasa, Surpanakha by name, who fell in love with Rama. When she found that he did not admire the beautiful form she assumed to win him, and that both he and Lakshmana laughed at her advances, she attempted to destroy Sita, only to receive in the attempt a disfiguring wound from the watchful Lakshmana. Desiring revenge for her disfigured countenance and her scorned love, she hastened to the court of her brother Ravana, in Ceylon, and in order to induce him to avenge her wrongs, dwelt upon the charms of the beautiful wife of Rama.
Some days after, Sita espied a golden fawn, flecked with silver, among the trees near their home. Its shining body, its jewel-like horns, so captivated her fancy that she implored Rama, if possible, to take it alive for her; if not, at least to bring her its skin for a couch. As Rama departed, he warned Lakshmana not to leave Sita for one moment; he would surely return, since no weapon could harm him. In the depths of the forest the fawn fell by his arrow, crying as it fell, “O Sita! O Lakshmana!” in Rama’s very tones.
When Sita heard the cry she reproached Lakshmana for not going to his brother’s aid, until he left her to escape her bitter words. He had no sooner disappeared in the direction of the cry than a hermit appeared and asked her to minister unto his wants.
Sita carried him food, bathed his feet, and conversed with him until, able no longer to conceal his admiration for her, he revealed himself in his true form as the demon god of Ceylon.
When she indignantly repulsed him he seized her, and mounting his chariot drove rapidly towards Ceylon. When Rama and Lakshmana returned home, soon after, they found the house empty. As they searched through
the forest for traces of her they found a giant vulture dying from wounds received while endeavoring to rescue the shrieking Sita. Going farther, they encountered the monkey king Sugriva and his chiefs, among whom Sita had dropped from the chariot her scarf and ornaments.
Sugriva had been deposed from his kingdom by his brother Bali, who had also taken his wife from him. Rama agreed to conquer Bali if Sugriva would assist in the search for Sita; and, the agreement made, they at once marched upon Kishkindha, together slew Bali, and gained possession of the wealthy city and the queen Tara. They were now ready to search for the lost Sita.
In his quest through every land, Hanuman, the monkey general, learned from the king of the vultures that she had been carried to Ceylon. He immediately set out for the coast with his army, only to find a bridgeless ocean
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stretching between them and the island. Commanding his soldiers to remain where they were, Hanuman expanded his body to enormous proportions, leaped the vast expanse of water, and alighted upon a mountain, from which he could look down upon Lanka, the capital city of Ceylon. Perceiving the city to be closely guarded, he assumed the form of a cat, and thus, unsuspected, crept through the barriers and examined the city. He found the demon god in his apartments, surrounded by beautiful women, but Sita was not among them. Continuing his search, he at last discovered her, her beauty dimmed by grief, seated under a tree in a beautiful asoka grove, guarded by hideous rakshasas with the faces of buffaloes, dogs, and swine.
Assuming the form of a tiny monkey, Hanuman crept down the tree, and giving her the ring of Rama, took one from her. He offered to carry her away with him, but Sita declared that Rama must himself come to her res- cue. While they were talking together, the demon god appeared, and, after fruitless wooing, announced that if Sita did not yield herself to him in two months he would have her guards “mince her limbs with steel” for his morning repast.
In his rage, Hanuman destroyed a mango grove and was captured by the demon’s guards, who were ordered to set his tail on fire. As soon as this was done, Hanuman made himself so small that he slipped from his bonds, and, jumping upon the roofs, spread a conflagration through the city of Lanka.
He leaped back to the mainland, conveyed the news of Sita’s captivity to Rama and Sugriva, and was soon en- gaged in active preparations for the campaign.
As long as the ocean was unbridged it was impossible for any one save Hanuman to cross it. In his anger at be- ing so thwarted, Rama turned his weapons against it, until from the terrified waves rose the god of the ocean, who promised him that if Nala built a bridge, the waves should support the materials as firmly as though it were built on land.
Terror reigned in Lanka at the news of the approach of Rama. Vibishana, Ravana’s brother, deserted to Rama, because of the demon’s rage when he advised him to make peace with Rama. Fiercely fought battles ensued, in which even the gods took part, Vishnu and Indra taking sides with Rama, and the evil spirits fighting with Ravana.
After the war had been carried on for some time, with varying results, it was decided to determine it by single combat between Ravana and Rama. Then even the gods were terrified at the fierceness of the conflict. At each shot Rama’s mighty bow cut off a head of the demon, which at once grew back, and the hero was in despair until he remembered the all-powerful arrow given him by Brahma.
As the demon fell by this weapon, flowers rained from heaven upon the happy victor, and his ears were ravished with celestial music.
Touched by the grief of Ravana’s widows, Rama ordered his foe a splendid funeral, and then sought the con- quered city.
Sita was led forth, beaming with happiness at finding herself re-united to her husband; but her happiness was destined to be of short duration. Rama received her with coldness and with downcast eyes, saying that she could no longer be his wife, after having dwelt in the zenana of the demon. Sita assured him of her innocence; but on his con- tinuing to revile her, she ordered her funeral pyre to be built, since she would rather die by fire than live despised by Rama. The sympathy of all the bystanders was with Sita, but Rama saw her enter the flames without a tremor. Soon Agni, the god of fire, appeared, bearing the uninjured Sita in his arms. Her innocence thus publicly proved by the trial by fire, she was welcomed by Rama, whose treatment she tenderly forgave.
The conquest made, the demon destroyed, and Sita restored, Rama returned in triumph to Ayodhya, and assumed the government. The city was prosperous, the people were happy, and for a time all went well. It was not long, however, before whispers concerning Sita’s long abode in Ceylon spread abroad, and some one whispered to Rama that a famine in the country was due to the guilt of Sita, who had suffered the caresses of the demon while in captivity in Ceylon. Forgetful of the trial by fire, forgetful of Sita’s devotion to him through weal and woe, the un- grateful Rama immediately ordered her to the forest in which they had spent together the happy years of their exile.
Without a murmur the unhappy Sita, alone and unbefriended, dragged herself to the forest, and, torn with grief of body and spirit, found the hermitage of Valmiki, where she gave birth to twin sons, Lava and Kuça. Here she reared them, with the assistance of the hermit, who was their teacher, and under whose care they grew to manhood, handsome and strong.
It chanced about the time the youths were twenty years old, that Rama, who had grown peevish and disagree- able with age, began to think the gods were angered with him because he had killed Ravana, who was the son of a Brahman. Determined to propitiate them by means of the great sacrifice, he caused a horse to be turned loose in the forest. When his men went to retake it, at the end of the year, it was caught by two strong and beautiful youths who resisted all efforts to capture them. In his rage Rama went to the forest in person, only to learn that the youths were his twin sons, Lava and Kuça. Struck with remorse, Rama recalled the sufferings of his wife Sita, and on learning that she was at the hermitage of Valmiki, ordered her to come to him, that he might take her to him again, having first caused her to endure the trial by fire to prove her innocence to all his court.
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Sita had had time to recover from the love of her youth, and the prospect of life with Rama, without the couleur de rose of youthful love, was not altogether pleasant. At first, she even refused to see him; but finally, moved by the appeals of Valmiki and his wife, she clad herself in her richest robes, and, young and beautiful as when first won by Rama, she stood before him. Not deigning to look in his face, she appealed to the earth. If she had never loved any man but Rama, if her truth and purity were known to the earth, let it open its bosom and take her to it. While the armies stood trembling with horror, the earth opened, a gorgeous throne appeared, and the goddess of earth, seated upon it, took Sita beside her and conveyed her to the realms of eternal happiness, leaving the too late repentant Rama to wear out his remaining years in shame and penitence.
[The first selection covers Rama’s sudden exile, with the reactions of those around him.]
Book II Translated by Ralph T. H. Griffith
Canto XVII. Ráma’s Approach. As Ráma, rendering blithe and gay His loving friends, pursued his way, He saw on either hand a press Of mingled people numberless. The royal street he traversed, where 5 Incense of aloe filled the air, Where rose high palaces, that vied With paly clouds, on either side; With flowers of myriad colours graced. And food for every varied taste, 10 Bright as the glowing path o’erhead Which feet of Gods celestial tread, Loud benedictions, sweet to hear, From countless voices soothed his ear. While he to each gave due salute 15 His place and dignity to suit: “Be thou,” the joyful people cried, “Be thou our guardian, lord and guide. Throned and anointed king to-day, Thy feet set forth upon the way 20 Wherein, each honoured as a God, Thy fathers and forefathers trod. Thy sire and his have graced the throne, And loving care to us have shown: Thus blest shall we and ours remain, 25 Yea still more blest in Ráma’s reign. No more of dainty fare we need, And but one cherished object heed, That we may see our prince today Invested with imperial sway.” 30
Such were the words and pleasant speech That Ráma heard, unmoved, from each Of the dear friends around him spread, As onward through the street he sped, For none could turn his eye or thought 35 From the dear form his glances sought, With fruitless ardour forward cast Even when Raghu’s son had past. And he who saw not Ráma nigh, Nor caught a look from Ráma’s eye, 40
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A mark for scorn and general blame, Reproached himself in bitter shame. For to each class his equal mind With sympathy and love inclined
Most fully of the princely four, 45 So greatest love to him they bore.
His circling course the hero bent Round shrine and altar, reverent, Round homes of Gods, where cross-roads met, Where many a sacred tree was set. 50 Near to his father’s house he drew Like Indra’s beautiful to view, And with the light his glory gave Within the royal palace drave. Through three broad courts, where bowmen kept 55 Their watch and ward, his coursers swept, Then through the two remaining went On foot the prince preëminent. Through all the courts the hero passed, And gained the ladies’ bower at last; 60 Then through the door alone withdrew, And left without his retinue. When thus the monarch’s noble boy
Had gone his sire to meet, The multitude, elate with joy, 65
Stood watching in the street, And his return with eager eyes
Expected at the gates, As for his darling moon to rise
The King of Rivers waits. 70
Image 3.5: Jor Bangla Temple (ramayana Motifs) | This temple wall in India shows numerous scenes from the Râmâyana.
Author: User “Jonoikobangali” Source: Wikimedia Commons License: CC BY-SA 3.0
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Canto XVIII. The Sentence. With hopeless eye and pallid mien There sat the monarch with the queen. His father’s feet with reverence due He clasped, and touched Kaikeyí’s too. The king, with eyes still brimming o’er, 5 Cried Ráma! and could do no more. His voice was choked, his eye was dim, He could not speak or look on him. Then sudden fear made Ráma shake As though his foot had roused a snake, 10 Soon as his eyes had seen the change So mournful, terrible, and strange. For there his reason well-nigh fled, Sighing, with soul disquieted,
To torturing pangs a prey, 15 Dismayed, despairing, and distraught, In a fierce whirl of wildering thought
The hapless monarch lay, Like Ocean wave-engarlanded Storm-driven from his tranquil bed, 20
The Sun-God in eclipse, Or like a holy seer, heart-stirred With anguish, when a lying word
Has passed his heedless lips. The sight of his dear father, pained 25 With woe and misery unexplained
Filled Ráma with unrest, As Ocean’s pulses rise and swell When the great moon he loves so well
Shines full upon his breast. 30 So grieving for his father’s sake, To his own heart the hero spake: “Why will the king my sire to-day No kindly word of greeting say? At other times, though wroth he be, 35 His eyes grow calm that look on me. Then why does anguish wring his brow To see his well-beloved now?” Sick and perplexed, distraught with woe, To Queen Kaikeyí bowing low, 40 While pallor o’er his bright cheek spread, With humble reverence he said: “What have I done, unknown, amiss To make my father wroth like this? Declare it, O dear Queen, and win 45 His pardon for my heedless sin. Why is the sire I ever find Filled with all love to-day unkind? With eyes cast down and pallid cheek This day alone he will not speak. 50 Or lies he prostrate neath the blow Of fierce disease or sudden woe? For all our bliss is dashed with pain, And joy unmixt is hard to gain. Does stroke of evil fortune smite 55 Dear Bharat, charming to the sight,
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Or on the brave Śatrughna fall, Or consorts, for he loves them all? Against his words when I rebel, Or fail to please the monarch well, 60 When deeds of mine his soul offend, That hour I pray my life may end. How should a man to him who gave His being and his life behave? The sire to whom he owes his birth 65 Should be his deity on earth. Hast thou, by pride and folly moved, With bitter taunt the king reproved? Has scorn of thine or cruel jest To passion stirred his gentle breast? 70 Speak truly, Queen, that I may know What cause has changed the monarch so.”
Thus by the high-souled prince addressed, Of Raghu’s sons the chief and best, She cast all ruth and shame aside, 75 And bold with greedy words replied: “Not wrath, O Ráma, stirs the king, Nor misery stabs with sudden sting; One thought that fills his soul has he, But dares not speak for fear of thee. 80 Thou art so dear, his lips refrain From words that might his darling pain. But thou, as duty bids, must still The promise of thy sire fulfil. He who to me in days gone by 85 Vouchsafed a boon with honours high, Dares now, a king, his word regret, And caitiff-like disowns the debt. The lord of men his promise gave To grant the boon that I might crave, 90 And now a bridge would idly throw When the dried stream has ceased to flow. His faith the monarch must not break In wrath, or e’en for thy dear sake. From faith, as well the righteous know, 95 Our virtue and our merits flow. Now, be they good or be they ill, Do thou thy father’s words fulfil: Swear that his promise shall not fail, And I will tell thee all the tale. 100 Yes, Ráma, when I hear that thou Hast bound thee by thy father’s vow, Then, not till then, my lips shall speak, Nor will he tell what boon I seek.”
He heard, and with a troubled breast 105 This answer to the queen addressed: “Ah me, dear lady, canst thou deem That words like these thy lips beseem? I, at the bidding of my sire, Would cast my body to the fire, 110 A deadly draught of poison drink,
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Or in the waves of ocean sink: If he command, it shall be done,— My father and my king in one. Then speak and let me know the thing 115 So longed for by my lord the king. It shall be done: let this suffice; Ráma ne’er makes a promise twice.”
He ended. To the princely youth Who loved the right and spoke the truth, 120 Cruel, abominable came The answer of the ruthless dame: “When Gods and Titans fought of yore, Transfixed with darts and bathed in gore Two boons to me thy father gave 125 For the dear life ‘twas mine to save. Of him I claim the ancient debt, That Bharat on the throne be set, And thou, O Ráma, go this day To Daṇḍak forest far away. 130 Now, Ráma, if thou wilt maintain Thy father’s faith without a stain, And thine own truth and honour clear, Then, best of men, my bidding hear. Do thou thy father’s word obey, 135 Nor from the pledge he gave me stray. Thy life in Daṇḍak forest spend Till nine long years and five shall end. Upon my Bharat’s princely head Let consecrating drops be shed, 140 With all the royal pomp for thee Made ready by the king’s decree. Seek Daṇḍak forest and resign Rites that would make the empire thine, For twice seven years of exile wear 145 The coat of bark and matted hair. Then in thy stead let Bharat reign Lord of his royal sire’s domain, Rich in the fairest gems that shine, Cars, elephants, and steeds, and kine. 150 The monarch mourns thy altered fate And vails his brow compassionate: Bowed down by bitter grief he lies And dares not lift to thine his eyes. Obey his word: be firm and brave, 155 And with great truth the monarch save.”
While thus with cruel words she spoke, No grief the noble youth betrayed;
But forth the father’s anguish broke, At his dear Ráma’s lot dismayed. 160
Canto XIX. Ráma’s Promise Calm and unmoved by threatened woe The noble conqueror of the foe Answered the cruel words she spoke, Nor quailed beneath the murderous stroke:
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“Yea, for my father’s promise sake 165 I to the wood my way will take, And dwell a lonely exile there In hermit dress with matted hair. One thing alone I fain would learn, Why is the king this day so stern? 170 Why is the scourge of foes so cold, Nor gives me greeting as of old? Now let not anger flush thy cheek: Before thy face the truth I speak, In hermit’s coat with matted hair 175 To the wild wood will I repair. How can I fail his will to do, Friend, master, grateful sovereign too? One only pang consumes my breast: That his own lips have not expressed 180 His will, nor made his longing known That Bharat should ascend the throne. To Bharat I would yield my wife, My realm and wealth, mine own dear life, Unasked I fain would yield them all: 185 More gladly at my father’s call, More gladly when the gift may free His honour and bring joy to thee. Thus, lady, his sad heart release From the sore shame, and give him peace. 190 But tell me, O, I pray thee, why The lord of men, with downcast eye, Lies prostrate thus, and one by one Down his pale cheek the tear-drops run. Let couriers to thy father speed 195 On horses of the swiftest breed, And, by the mandate of the king, Thy Bharat to his presence bring. My father’s words I will not stay To question, but this very day 200 To Daṇḍak’s pathless wild will fare, For twice seven years an exile there.”
When Ráma thus had made reply Kaikeyí’s heart with joy beat high. She, trusting to the pledge she held, 205 The youth’s departure thus impelled: “‘Tis well. Be messengers despatched On coursers ne’er for fleetness matched, To seek my father’s home and lead My Bharat back with all their speed. 210 And, Ráma, as I ween that thou Wilt scarce endure to linger now, So surely it were wise and good This hour to journey to the wood. And if, with shame cast down and weak, 215 No word to thee the king can speak, Forgive, and from thy mind dismiss A trifle in an hour like this. But till thy feet in rapid haste Have left the city for the waste, 220
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And to the distant forest fled, He will not bathe nor call for bread.”
“Woe! woe!” from the sad monarch burst, In surging floods of grief immersed; Then swooning, with his wits astray, 225 Upon the gold-wrought couch he lay, And Ráma raised the aged king: But the stern queen, unpitying, Checked not her needless words, nor spared The hero for all speed prepared, 230 But urged him with her bitter tongue, Like a good horse with lashes stung, She spoke her shameful speech. Serene He heard the fury of the queen, And to her words so vile and dread 235 Gently, unmoved in mind, he said: “I would not in this world remain A grovelling thrall to paltry gain, But duty’s path would fain pursue, True as the saints themselves are true. 240 From death itself I would not fly My father’s wish to gratify, What deed soe’er his loving son May do to please him, think it done. Amid all duties, Queen, I count 245 This duty first and paramount, That sons, obedient, aye fulfil Their honoured fathers’ word and will. Without his word, if thou decree, Forth to the forest will I flee, 250 And there shall fourteen years be spent Mid lonely wilds in banishment. Methinks thou couldst not hope to find One spark of virtue in my mind, If thou, whose wish is still my lord, 255 Hast for this grace the king implored. This day I go, but, ere we part, Must cheer my Sítá’s tender heart, To my dear mother bid farewell; Then to the woods, a while to dwell. 260 With thee, O Queen, the care must rest That Bharat hear his sire’s behest, And guard the land with righteous sway, For such the law that lives for aye.”
In speechless woe the father heard, 265 Wept with loud cries, but spoke no word. Then Ráma touched his senseless feet, And hers, for honour most unmeet; Round both his circling steps he bent, Then from the bower the hero went. 270 Soon as he reached the gate he found His dear companions gathered round. Behind him came Sumitrá’s child With weeping eyes so sad and wild. Then saw he all that rich array 275
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Of vases for the glorious day. Round them with reverent stops he paced, Nor vailed his eye, nor moved in haste. The loss of empire could not dim The glory that encompassed him. 280 So will the Lord of Cooling Rays On whom the world delights to gaze, Through the great love of all retain Sweet splendour in the time of wane. Now to the exile’s lot resigned 285 He left the rule of earth behind: As though all worldly cares he spurned No trouble was in him discerned. The chouries that for kings are used, And white umbrella, he refused, 290 Dismissed his chariot and his men, And every friend and citizen. He ruled his senses, nor betrayed The grief that on his bosom weighed, And thus his mother’s mansion sought 295 To tell the mournful news he brought. Nor could the gay-clad people there Who flocked round Ráma true and fair, One sign of altered fortune trace Upon the splendid hero’s face. 300 Nor had the chieftain, mighty-armed, Lost the bright look all hearts that charmed, As e’en from autumn moons is thrown A splendour which is all their own. With his sweet voice the hero spoke 305 Saluting all the gathered folk, Then righteous-souled and great in fame Close to his mother’s house he came. Lakshmaṇ the brave, his brother’s peer In princely virtues, followed near, 310 Sore troubled, but resolved to show No token of his secret woe. Thus to the palace Ráma went
Where all were gay with hope and joy; But well he knew the dire event 315
That hope would mar, that bliss destroy. So to his grief he would not yield
Lest the sad change their hearts might rend, And, the dread tiding unrevealed,
Spared from the blow each faithful friend. 320
Canto XXVI. Alone With Sítá So Ráma, to his purpose true, To Queen Kauśalyá bade adieu, Received the benison she gave, And to the path of duty clave. As through the crowded street he passed, 5 A radiance on the way he cast, And each fair grace, by all approved, The bosoms of the people moved.
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Now of the woeful change no word The fair Videhan bride had heard; 10 The thought of that imperial rite Still filled her bosom with delight. With grateful heart and joyful thought The Gods in worship she had sought, And, well in royal duties learned, 15 Sat longing till her lord returned, Not all unmarked by grief and shame Within his sumptuous home he came, And hurried through the happy crowd With eye dejected, gloomy-browed. 20 Up Sítá sprang, and every limb Trembled with fear at sight of him. She marked that cheek where anguish fed, Those senses care-disquieted. For, when he looked on her, no more 25 Could his heart hide the load it bore, Nor could the pious chief control The paleness o’er his cheek that stole. His altered cheer, his brow bedewed With clammy drops, his grief she viewed, 30 And cried, consumed with fires of woe, “What, O my lord, has changed thee so? Vrihaspati looks down benign, And the moon rests in Pushya’s sign, As Bráhmans sage this day declare: 35 Then whence, my lord, this grief and care? Why does no canopy, like foam For its white beauty, shade thee home, Its hundred ribs spread wide to throw Splendour on thy fair head below? 40 Where are the royal fans, to grace The lotus beauty of thy face, Fair as the moon or wild-swan’s wing, And waving round the new-made king? Why do no sweet-toned bards rejoice 45 To hail thee with triumphant voice? No tuneful heralds love to raise Loud music in their monarch’s praise? Why do no Bráhmans, Scripture-read, Pour curds and honey on thy head, 50 Anointed, as the laws ordain, With holy rites, supreme to reign? Where are the chiefs of every guild? Where are the myriads should have filled The streets, and followed home their king 55 With merry noise and triumphing? Why does no gold-wrought chariot lead With four brave horses, best for speed? No elephant precede the crowd Like a huge hill or thunder cloud, 60 Marked from his birth for happy fate, Whom signs auspicious decorate? Why does no henchman, young and fair, Precede thee, and delight to bear Entrusted to his reverent hold 65
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The burthen of thy throne of gold? Why, if the consecrating rite Be ready, why this mournful plight? Why do I see this sudden change, This altered mien so sad and strange?” 70
To her, as thus she weeping cried, Raghu’s illustrious son replied: “Sítá, my honoured sire’s decree Commands me to the woods to flee. O high-born lady, nobly bred 75 In the good paths thy footsteps tread, Hear, Janak’s daughter, while I tell The story as it all befell. Of old my father true and brave Two boons to Queen Kaikeyí gave. 80 Through these the preparations made For me to-day by her are stayed, For he is bound to disallow This promise by that earlier vow. In Daṇḍak forest wild and vast 85 Must fourteen years by me be passed. My father’s will makes Bharat heir, The kingdom and the throne to share. Now, ere the lonely wild I seek, I come once more with thee to speak. 90 In Bharat’s presence, O my dame, Ne’er speak with pride of Ráma’s name: Another’s eulogy to hear Is hateful to a monarch’s ear. Thou must with love his rule obey 95 To whom my father yields the sway. With love and sweet observance learn His grace, and more the king’s, to earn. Now, that my father may not break The words of promise that he spake, 100 To the drear wood my steps are bent: Be firm, good Sítá, and content. Through all that time, my blameless spouse, Keep well thy fasts and holy vows. Rise from thy bed at break of day, 105 And to the Gods due worship pay. With meek and lowly love revere The lord of men, my father dear, And reverence to Kauśalyá show, My mother, worn with eld and woe: 110 By duty’s law, O best of dames, High worship from thy love she claims, Nor to the other queens refuse Observance, rendering each her dues: By love and fond attention shown 115 They are my mothers like mine own. Let Bharat and Śatrughna bear In thy sweet love a special share: Dear as my life, O let them be Like brother and like son to thee. 120 In every word and deed refrain
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From aught that Bharat’s soul may pain: He is Ayodhyá’s king and mine, The head and lord of all our line. For those who serve and love them much 125 With weariless endeavour, touch And win the gracious hearts of kings. While wrath from disobedience springs. Great monarchs from their presence send Their lawful sons who still offend, 130 And welcome to the vacant place Good children of an alien race. Then, best of women, rest thou here, And Bharat’s will with love revere. Obedient to thy king remain, 135 And still thy vows of truth maintain.
To the wide wood my steps I bend: Make thou thy dwelling here;
See that thy conduct ne’er offend, And keep my words, my dear.” 140
Canto XXVII. Sítá’s Speech His sweetly-speaking bride, who best Deserved her lord, he thus addressed. Then tender love bade passion wake, And thus the fair Videhan spake: “What words are these that thou hast said? 5 Contempt of me the thought has bred. O best of heroes, I dismiss With bitter scorn a speech like this: Unworthy of a warrior’s fame It taints a monarch’s son with shame, 10 Ne’er to be heard from those who know The science of the sword and bow. My lord, the mother, sire, and son Receive their lots by merit won; The brother and the daughter find 15 The portions to their deeds assigned. The wife alone, whate’er await, Must share on earth her husband’s fate. So now the king’s command which sends Thee to the wild, to me extends. 20 The wife can find no refuge, none, In father, mother, self, or son: Both here, and when they vanish hence, Her husband is her sole defence. If, Raghu’s son, thy steps are led 25 Where Daṇḍak’s pathless wilds are spread, My foot before thine own shall pass Through tangled thorn and matted grass. Dismiss thine anger and thy doubt: Like refuse water cast them out, 30 And lead me, O my hero, hence— I know not sin—with confidence. Whate’er his lot, ‘tis far more sweet To follow still a husband’s feet Than in rich palaces to lie, 35
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Or roam at pleasure through the sky. My mother and my sire have taught What duty bids, and trained each thought, Nor have I now mine ear to turn The duties of a wife to learn. 40 I’ll seek with thee the woodland dell And pathless wild where no men dwell, Where tribes of silvan creatures roam, And many a tiger makes his home. My life shall pass as pleasant there 45 As in my father’s palace fair. The worlds shall wake no care in me; My only care be truth to thee. There while thy wish I still obey, True to my vows with thee I’ll stray, 50 And there shall blissful hours be spent In woods with honey redolent. In forest shades thy mighty arm Would keep a stranger’s life from harm, And how shall Sítá think of fear 55 When thou, O glorious lord, art near? Heir of high bliss, my choice is made, Nor can I from my will be stayed. Doubt not; the earth will yield me roots, These will I eat, and woodland fruits; 60 And as with thee I wander there I will not bring thee grief or care. I long, when thou, wise lord, art nigh, All fearless, with delighted eye To gaze upon the rocky hill, 65 The lake, the fountain, and the rill; To sport with thee, my limbs to cool, In some pure lily-covered pool, While the white swan’s and mallard’s wings Are plashing in the water-springs. 70 So would a thousand seasons flee Like one sweet day, if spent with thee. Without my lord I would not prize A home with Gods above the skies: Without my lord, my life to bless, 75 Where could be heaven or happiness? Forbid me not: with thee I go
The tangled wood to tread. There will I live with thee, as though This roof were o’er my head. 80 My will for thine shall be resigned;
Thy feet my steps shall guide. Thou, only thou, art in my mind:
I heed not all beside. Thy heart shall ne’er by me be grieved; 85
Do not my prayer deny: Take me, dear lord; of thee bereaved
Thy Sítá swears to die.” These words the duteous lady spake,
Nor would he yet consent 90 His faithful wife with him to take
To share his banishment.
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He soothed her with his gentle speech; To change her will he strove;
And much he said the woes to teach 95 Of those in wilds who rove.
Canto XXVIII. The Dangers Of The Wood Thus Sítá spake, and he who knew His duty, to its orders true, Was still reluctant as the woes Of forest life before him rose. He sought to soothe her grief, to dry 5 The torrent from each brimming eye, And then, her firm resolve to shake, These words the pious hero spake:
“O daughter of a noble line, Whose steps from virtue ne’er decline, 10 Remain, thy duties here pursue, As my fond heart would have thee do. Now hear me, Sítá, fair and weak, And do the words that I shall speak. Attend and hear while I explain 15 Each danger in the wood, each pain. Thy lips have spoken: I condemn The foolish words that fell from them. This senseless plan, this wish of thine To live a forest life, resign. 20 The names of trouble and distress Suit well the tangled wilderness. In the wild wood no joy I know, A forest life is nought but woe. The lion in his mountain cave 25 Answers the torrents as they rave, And forth his voice of terror throws: The wood, my love, is full of woes. There mighty monsters fearless play, And in their maddened onset slay 30 The hapless wretch who near them goes: The wood, my love, is full of woes. ‘Tis hard to ford each treacherous flood, So thick with crocodiles and mud, Where the wild elephants repose: 35 The wood, my love, is full of woes. Or far from streams the wanderer strays Through thorns and creeper-tangled ways, While round him many a wild-cock crows: The wood, my love, is full of woes. 40 On the cold ground upon a heap Of gathered leaves condemned to sleep, Toil-wearied, will his eyelids close: The wood, my love, is full of woes. Long days and nights must he content 45 His soul with scanty aliment, What fruit the wind from branches blows: The wood, my love, is full of woes. O Sítá, while his strength may last,
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The ascetic in the wood must fast, 50 Coil on his head his matted hair, And bark must be his only wear. To Gods and spirits day by day The ordered worship he must pay, And honour with respectful care 55 Each wandering guest who meets him there. The bathing rites he ne’er must shun At dawn, at noon, at set of sun, Obedient to the law he knows: The wood, my love, is full of woes. 60 To grace the altar must be brought The gift of flowers his hands have sought— The debt each pious hermit owes: The wood, my love, is full of woes. The devotee must be content 65 To live, severely abstinent, On what the chance of fortune shows: The wood, my love, is full of woes. Hunger afflicts him evermore: The nights are black, the wild winds roar; 70 And there are dangers worse than those: The wood, my love, is full of woes. There creeping things in every form Infest the earth, the serpents swarm, And each proud eye with fury glows: 75 The wood, my love, is full of woes. The snakes that by the rives hide In sinuous course like rivers glide, And line the path with deadly foes: The wood, my love, is full of woes. 80 Scorpions, and grasshoppers, and flies Disturb the wanderer as he lies, And wake him from his troubled doze: The wood, my love, is full of woes. Trees, thorny bushes, intertwined, 85 Their branched ends together bind, And dense with grass the thicket grows: The wood, my dear, is full of woes, With many ills the flesh is tried, When these and countless fears beside 90 Vex those who in the wood remain: The wilds are naught but grief and pain. Hope, anger must be cast aside, To penance every thought applied: No fear must be of things to fear: 95 Hence is the wood for ever drear. Enough, my love: thy purpose quit: For forest life thou art not fit. As thus I think on all, I see The wild wood is no place for thee.” 100
Canto XXIX. Sítá’s Appeal Thus Ráma spake. Her lord’s address The lady heard with deep distress, And, as the tear bedimmed her eye,
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In soft low accents made reply: “The perils of the wood, and all 5 The woes thou countest to appal, Led by my love I deem not pain; Each woe a charm, each loss a gain. Tiger, and elephant, and deer, Bull, lion, buffalo, in fear, 10 Soon as thy matchless form they see, With every silvan beast will flee. With thee, O Ráma, I must go: My sire’s command ordains it so. Bereft of thee, my lonely heart 15 Must break, and life and I must part. While thou, O mighty lord, art nigh, Not even He who rules the sky, Though He is strongest of the strong, With all his might can do me wrong. 20 Nor can a lonely woman left By her dear husband live bereft. In my great love, my lord, I ween, The truth of this thou mayst have seen. In my sire’s palace long ago 25 I heard the chief of those who know, The truth-declaring Bráhmans, tell My fortune, in the wood to dwell. I heard their promise who divine The future by each mark and sign, 30 And from that hour have longed to lead The forest life their lips decreed. Now, mighty Ráma, I must share Thy father’s doom which sends thee there; In this I will not be denied, 35 But follow, love, where thou shalt guide. O husband, I will go with thee, Obedient to that high decree. Now let the Bráhmans’ words be true, For this the time they had in view. 40 I know full well the wood has woes; But they disturb the lives of those Who in the forest dwell, nor hold Their rebel senses well controlled. In my sire’s halls, ere I was wed, 45 I heard a dame who begged her bread Before my mother’s face relate What griefs a forest life await. And many a time in sport I prayed To seek with thee the greenwood shade, 50 For O, my heart on this is set, To follow thee, dear anchoret. May blessings on thy life attend: I long with thee my steps to bend, For with such hero as thou art 55 This pilgrimage enchants my heart. Still close, my lord, to thy dear side My spirit will be purified: Love from all sin my soul will free: My husband is a God to me. 60
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So, love, with thee shall I have bliss And share the life that follows this. I heard a Bráhman, dear to fame, This ancient Scripture text proclaim: “The woman whom on earth below 65 Her parents on a man bestow, And lawfully their hands unite With water and each holy rite, She in this world shall be his wife, His also in the after life.” 70 Then tell me, O beloved, why Thou wilt this earnest prayer deny, Nor take me with thee to the wood, Thine own dear wife so true and good. But if thou wilt not take me there 75 Thus grieving in my wild despair, To fire or water I will fly, Or to the poisoned draught, and die.”
So thus to share his exile, she Besought him with each earnest plea, 80 Nor could she yet her lord persuade To take her to the lonely shade. The answer of the strong-armed chief Smote the Videhan’s soul with grief, And from her eyes the torrents came 85 bathing the bosom of the dame.
Canto XXX. The Triumph Of Love The daughter of Videha’s king, While Ráma strove to soothe the sting Of her deep anguish, thus began Once more in furtherance of her plan: And with her spirit sorely tried By fear and anger, love and pride, 5 With keenly taunting words addressed Her hero of the stately breast: “Why did the king my sire, who reigns O’er fair Videha’s wide domains, Hail Ráma son with joy unwise, 10 A woman in a man’s disguise? Now falsely would the people say, By idle fancies led astray, That Ráma’s own are power and might, As glorious as the Lord of Light. 15 Why sinkest thou in such dismay? What fears upon thy spirit weigh, That thou, O Ráma, fain wouldst flee From her who thinks of naught but thee? To thy dear will am I resigned 20 In heart and body, soul and mind, As Sávitrí gave all to one, Satyaván, Dyumatsena’s son. Not e’en in fancy can I brook To any guard save thee to look: 25 Let meaner wives their houses shame,
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To go with thee is all my claim. Like some low actor, deemst thou fit Thy wife to others to commit— Thine own, espoused in maiden youth, 30 Thy wife so long, unblamed for truth? Do thou, my lord, his will obey For whom thou losest royal sway, To whom thou wouldst thy wife confide— Not me, but thee, his wish may guide. 35 Thou must not here thy wife forsake, And to the wood thy journey make, Whether stern penance, grief, and care, Or rule or heaven await thee there. Nor shall fatigue my limbs distress 40 When wandering in the wilderness: Each path which near to thee I tread Shall seem a soft luxurious bed. The reeds, the bushes where I pass, The thorny trees, the tangled grass 45 Shall feel, if only thou be near, Soft to my touch as skins of deer. When the rude wind in fury blows, And scattered dust upon me throws, That dust, beloved lord, to me 50 Shall as the precious sandal be. And what shall be more blest than I, When gazing on the wood I lie In some green glade upon a bed With sacred grass beneath us spread? 55 The root, the leaf, the fruit which thou Shalt give me from the earth or bough, Scanty or plentiful, to eat, Shall taste to me as Amrit sweet. As there I live on flowers and roots 60 And every season’s kindly fruits, I will not for my mother grieve, My sire, my home, or all I leave. My presence, love, shall never add One pain to make the heart more sad; 65 I will not cause thee grief or care, Nor be a burden hard to bear. With thee is heaven, where’er the spot; Each place is hell where thou art not. Then go with me, O Ráma; this 70 Is all my hope and all my bliss. If thou wilt leave thy wife who still Entreats thee with undaunted will, This very day shall poison close The life that spurns the rule of foes. 75 How, after, can my soul sustain The bitter life of endless pain, When thy dear face, my lord, I miss? No, death is better far than this. Not for an hour could I endure 80 The deadly grief that knows not cure, Far less a woe I could not shun For ten long years, and three, and one.”
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While fires of woe consumed her, such Her sad appeal, lamenting much; 85 Then with a wild cry, anguish-wrung, About her husband’s neck she clung. Like some she-elephant who bleeds Struck by the hunter’s venomed reeds, So in her quivering heart she felt 90 The many wounds his speeches dealt. Then, as the spark from wood is gained, Down rolled the tear so long restrained: The crystal moisture, sprung from woe, From her sweet eyes began to flow, 95 As runs the water from a pair Of lotuses divinely fair. And Sítá’s face with long dark eyes, Pure as the moon of autumn skies, Faded with weeping, as the buds 100 Of lotuses when sink the floods. Around his wife his arms he strained, Who senseless from her woe remained, And with sweet words, that bade her wake To life again, the hero spake: 105 “I would not with thy woe, my Queen, Buy heaven and all its blissful sheen. Void of all fear am I as He, The self-existent God, can be. I knew not all thy heart till now, 110 Dear lady of the lovely brow, So wished not thee in woods to dwell; Yet there mine arm can guard thee well. Now surely thou, dear love, wast made To dwell with me in green wood shade. 115 And, as a high saint’s tender mind Clings to its love for all mankind, So I to thee will ever cling, Sweet daughter of Videha’s king. The good, of old, O soft of frame, 120 Honoured this duty’s sovereign claim, And I its guidance will not shun, True as light’s Queen is to the Sun. I cannot, pride of Janak’s line, This journey to the wood decline: 125 My sire’s behest, the oath he sware, The claims of truth, all lead me there. One duty, dear the same for aye, Is sire and mother to obey: Should I their orders once transgress 130 My very life were weariness. If glad obedience be denied To father, mother, holy guide, What rites, what service can be done That stern Fate’s favour may be won? 135 These three the triple world comprise, O darling of the lovely eyes. Earth has no holy thing like these Whom with all love men seek to please. Not truth, or gift, or bended knee,
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Not honour, worship, lordly fee, 140 Storms heaven and wins a blessing thence Like sonly love and reverence. Heaven, riches, grain, and varied lore, With sons and many a blessing more, All these are made their own with ease 145 By those their elders’ souls who please. The mighty-souled, who ne’er forget, Devoted sons, their filial debt, Win worlds where Gods and minstrels are, And Brahmá’s sphere more glorious far. 150 Now as the orders of my sire, Who keeps the way of truth, require, So will I do, for such the way Of duty that endures for aye: To take thee, love, to Daṇḍak’s wild 155 My heart at length is reconciled, For thee such earnest thoughts impel To follow, and with me to dwell. O faultless form from feet to brows, Come with me, as my will allows, 160 And duty there with me pursue, Trembler, whose bright eyes thrill me through. In all thy days, come good come ill, Preserve unchanged such noble will, And thou, dear love, wilt ever be 165 The glory of thy house and me. Now, beauteous-armed, begin the tasks The woodland life of hermits asks. For me the joys of heaven above Have charms no more without thee, love. 170 And now, dear Sítá, be not slow: Food on good mendicants bestow, And for the holy Bráhmans bring Thy treasures and each precious thing. Thy best attire and gems collect, 175 The jewels which thy beauty decked, And every ornament and toy Prepared for hours of sport and joy: The beds, the cars wherein I ride, Among our followers, next, divide.” 180
She conscious that her lord approved Her going, with great rapture moved, Hastened within, without delay, Prepared to give their wealth away.
Canto XXXI. Lakshman’s Prayer When Lakshmaṇ, who had joined them there, Had heard the converse of the pair, His mien was changed, his eyes o’erflowed, His breast no more could bear its load. The son of Raghu, sore distressed, 5 His brother’s feet with fervour pressed, While thus to Sítá he complained, And him by lofty vows enchained:
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“If thou wilt make the woods thy home, Where elephant and roebuck roam, 10 I too this day will take my bow And in the path before thee go. Our way will lie through forest ground Where countless birds and beasts are found, I heed not homes of Gods on high, 15 I heed not life that cannot die, Nor would I wish, with thee away, O’er the three worlds to stretch my sway.”
Thus Lakshmaṇ spake, with earnest prayer His brother’s woodland life to share. 20 As Ráma still his prayer denied With soothing words, again he cried: “When leave at first thou didst accord, Why dost thou stay me now, my lord? Thou art my refuge: O, be kind, 25 Leave me not, dear my lord, behind. Thou canst not, brother, if thou choose That I still live, my wish refuse.”
The glorious chief his speech renewed To faithful Lakshmaṇ as he sued, 30 And on the eyes of Ráma gazed Longing to lead, with hands upraised: “Thou art a hero just and dear, Whose steps to virtue’s path adhere, Loved as my life till life shall end, 35 My faithful brother and my friend. If to the woods thou take thy way With Sítá and with me to-day, Who for Kauśalyá will provide, And guard the good Sumitrá’s side? 40 The lord of earth, of mighty power, Who sends good things in plenteous shower, As Indra pours the grateful rain, A captive lies in passion’s chain. The power imperial for her son 45 Has Aśvapati’s daughter won, And she, proud queen, will little heed Her miserable rivals’ need. So Bharat, ruler of the land, By Queen Kaikeyí’s side will stand, 50 Nor of those two will ever think, While grieving in despair they sink. Now, Lakshmaṇ, as thy love decrees, Or else the monarch’s heart to please, Follow this counsel and protect 55 My honoured mother from neglect. So thou, while not to me alone Thy great affection will be shown, To highest duty wilt adhere By serving those thou shouldst revere. 60 Now, son of Raghu, for my sake Obey this one request I make, Or, of her darling son bereft, Kauśalyá has no comfort left.”
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The faithful Lakshmaṇ, thus addressed 65 In gentle words which love expressed, To him in lore of language learned, His answer, eloquent, returned:
“Nay, through thy might each queen will share Attentive Bharat’s love and care, 70 Should Bharat, raised as king to sway This noblest realm, his trust betray, Nor for their safety well provide, Seduced by ill-suggesting pride, Doubt not my vengeful hand shall kill 75 The cruel wretch who counsels ill— Kill him and all who lend him aid, And the three worlds in league arrayed. And good Kauśalyá well can fee A thousand champions like to me. 80 A thousand hamlets rich in grain The station of that queen maintain. She may, and my dear mother too, Live on the ample revenue. Then let me follow thee: herein: 85 Is naught that may resemble sin. So shall I in my wish succeed, And aid, perhaps, my brother’s need. My bow and quiver well supplied With arrows hanging at my side, 90 My hands shall spade and basket bear, And for thy feet the way prepare. I’ll bring thee roots and berries sweet. And woodland fare which hermits eat. Thou shall with thy Videhan spouse 95 Recline upon the mountain’s brows; Be mine the toil, be mine to keep Watch o’er thee waking or asleep.”
Filled by his speech with joy and pride, Ráma to Lakshmaṇ thus replied: 100 “Go then, my brother, bid adieu To all thy friends and retinue. And those two bows of fearful might, Celestial, which, at that famed rite, Lord Varuṇ gave to Janak, king 105 Of fair Vedeha with thee bring, With heavenly coats of sword-proof mail, Quivers, whose arrows never fail, And golden-hilted swords so keen, The rivals of the sun in sheen. 110 Tended with care these arms are all Preserved in my preceptor’s hall. With speed, O Lakshmaṇ, go, produce, And bring them hither for our use.” So on a woodland life intent, 115 To see his faithful friends he went, And brought the heavenly arms which lay By Ráma’s teacher stored away. And Raghu’s son to Ráma showed Those wondrous arms which gleamed and glowed, 120
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Well kept, adorned with many a wreath Of flowers on case, and hilt, and sheath. The prudent Ráma at the sight Addressed his brother with delight: “Well art thou come, my brother dear, 125 For much I longed to see thee here. For with thine aid, before I go, I would my gold and wealth bestow Upon the Bráhmans sage, who school Their lives by stern devotion’s rule. 130 And for all those who ever dwell Within my house and serve me well, Devoted servants, true and good, Will I provide a livelihood. Quick, go and summon to this place 135
The good Vaśishṭha’s son, Suyajǹa, of the Bráhman race
The first and holiest one. To all the Bráhmans wise and good
Will I due reverence pay, 140 Then to the solitary wood
With thee will take my way.”
[The next selection covers the kidnapping of Sita.]
Book III Canto XLII. Márícha Transformed
Márícha thus in wild unrest With bitter words the king addressed. Then to his giant lord in dread, “Arise, and let us go,” he said. “Ah, I have met that mighty lord 5 Armed with his shafts and bow and sword, And if again that bow he bend Our lives that very hour will end. For none that warrior can provoke And think to fly his deadly stroke. 10 Like Yáma with his staff is he, And his dread hand will slaughter thee. What can I more? My words can find No passage to thy stubborn mind. I go, great King, thy task to share, 15 And may success attend thee there.”
With that reply and bold consent The giant king was well content. He strained Márícha to his breast And thus with joyful words addressed: 20 “There spoke a hero dauntless still, Obedient to his master’s will, Márícha’s proper self once more: Some other took thy shape before. Come, mount my jewelled car that flies. 25 Will-governed, through the yielding skies. These asses, goblin-faced, shall bear Us quickly through the fields of air.
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Attract the lady with thy shape, Then through the wood, at will, escape. 30 And I, when she has no defence, Will seize the dame and bear her thence.”
Again Márícha made reply, Consent and will to signify. With rapid speed the giants two 35 From the calm hermit dwelling flew, Borne in that wondrous chariot, meet For some great God’s celestial seat. They from their airy path looked down On many a wood and many a town, 40 On lake and river, brook and rill, City and realm and towering hill. Soon he whom giant hosts obeyed, Márícha by his side, surveyed The dark expanse of Daṇḍak wood 45 Where Ráma’s hermit cottage stood. They left the flying car, whereon The wealth of gold and jewels shone, And thus the giant king addressed Márícha as his hand he pressed: 50
“Márícha, look! before our eyes Round Ráma’s home the plantains rise. His hermitage is now in view: Quick to the work we came to do!”
Thus Rávaṇ spoke, Márícha heard 55 Obedient to his master’s word, Threw off his giant shape and near The cottage strayed a beauteous deer. With magic power, by rapid change, His borrowed form was fair and strange. 60 A sapphire tipped each horn with light; His face was black relieved with white. The turkis and the ruby shed A glory from his ears and head. His arching neck was proudly raised, 65 And lazulites beneath it blazed. With roseate bloom his flanks were dyed, And lotus tints adorned his hide. His shape was fair, compact, and slight; His hoofs were carven lazulite. 70 His tail with every changing glow Displayed the hues of Indra’s bow. With glossy skin so strangely flecked, With tints of every gem bedecked. A light o’er Ráma’s home he sent, 75 And through the wood, where’er he went. The giant clad in that strange dress That took the soul with loveliness, To charm the fair Videhan’s eyes With mingled wealth of mineral dyes, 80 Moved onward, cropping in his way, The grass and grain and tender spray.
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His coat with drops of silver bright, A form to gaze on with delight, He raised his fair neck as he went 85 To browse on bud and filament. Now in the Cassia grove he strayed, Now by the cot in plantains’ shade. Slowly and slowly on he came To catch the glances of the dame, 90 And the tall deer of splendid hue Shone full at length in Sítá’s view. He roamed where’er his fancy chose Where Ráma’s leafy cottage rose. Now near, now far, in careless ease, 95 He came and went among the trees. Now with light feet he turned to fly, Now, reassured, again drew nigh: Now gambolled close with leap and bound, Now lay upon the grassy ground: 100 Now sought the door, devoid of fear, And mingled with the troop of deer; Led them a little way, and thence Again returned with confidence. Now flying far, now turning back 105 Emboldened on his former track, Seeking to win the lady’s glance He wandered through the green expanse. Then thronging round, the woodland deer Gazed on his form with wondering fear; 110 A while they followed where he led, Then snuffed the tainted gale and fled. The giant, though he longed to slay The startled quarry, spared the prey, And mindful of the shape he wore 115 To veil his nature, still forbore. Then Sítá of the glorious eye, Returning from her task drew nigh; For she had sought the wood to bring Each loveliest flower of early spring. 120 Now would the bright-eyed lady choose Some gorgeous bud with blending hues, Now plucked the mango’s spray, and now The bloom from an Aśoka bough. She with her beauteous form, unmeet 125 For woodland life and lone retreat, That wondrous dappled deer beheld Gemmed with rich pearls, unparalleled, His silver hair the lady saw, His radiant teeth and lips and jaw, 130 And gazed with rapture as her eyes Expanded in their glad surprise. And when the false deer’s glances fell On her whom Ráma loved so well, He wandered here and there, and cast 135 A luminous beauty as he passed; And Janak’s child with strange delight Kept gazing on the unwonted sight.
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Canto XLIII. The Wondrous Deer She stooped, her hands with flowers to fill, But gazed upon the marvel still: Gazed on its back and sparkling side Where silver hues with golden vied. Joyous was she of faultless mould, 5 With glossy skin like polished gold. And loudly to her husband cried And bow-armed Lakshmaṇ by his side: Again, again she called in glee: “O come this glorious creature see; 10 Quick, quick, my lord, this deer to view. And bring thy brother Lakshmaṇ too.” As through the wood her clear tones rang, Swift to her side the brothers sprang. With eager eyes the grove they scanned, 15 And saw the deer before them stand. But doubt was strong in Lakshmaṇ’s breast, Who thus his thought and fear expressed:
“Stay, for the wondrous deer we see The fiend Márícha’s self may be. 20 Ere now have kings who sought this place To take their pastime in the chase, Met from his wicked art defeat, And fallen slain by like deceit. He wears, well trained in magic guile, 25 The figure of a deer a while, Bright as the very sun, or place Where dwell the gay Gandharva race. No deer, O Ráma, e’er was seen Thus decked with gold and jewels’ sheen. 30 ‘Tis magic, for the world has ne’er, Lord of the world, shown aught so fair.”
But Sítá of the lovely smile, A captive to the giant’s wile, Turned Lakshmaṇ’s prudent speech aside 35 And thus with eager words replied: “My honoured lord, this deer I see With beauty rare enraptures me. Go, chief of mighty arm, and bring For my delight this precious thing. 40 Fair creatures of the woodland roam Untroubled near our hermit home. The forest cow and stag are there, The fawn, the monkey, and the bear, Where spotted deer delight to play, 45 And strong and beauteous Kinnars stray. But never, as they wandered by, Has such a beauty charmed mine eye As this with limbs so fair and slight, So gentle, beautiful and bright. 50 O see, how fair it is to view With jewels of each varied hue: Bright as the rising moon it glows, Lighting the wood where’er it goes.
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Ah me, what form and grace are there! 55 Its limbs how fine, its hues how fair! Transcending all that words express, It takes my soul with loveliness. O, if thou would, to please me, strive To take the beauteous thing alive, 60 How thou wouldst gaze with wondering eyes Delighted on the lovely prize! And when our woodland life is o’er, And we enjoy our realm once more, The wondrous animal will grace 65 The chambers of my dwelling-place, And a dear treasure will it be To Bharat and the queens and me, And all with rapture and amaze Upon its heavenly form will gaze. 70 But if the beauteous deer, pursued, Thine arts to take it still elude, Strike it, O chieftain, and the skin Will be a treasure, laid within. O, how I long my time to pass 75 Sitting upon the tender grass, With that soft fell beneath me spread Bright with its hair of golden thread! This strong desire, this eager will, Befits a gentle lady ill: 80 But when I first beheld, its look My breast with fascination took. See, golden hair its flank adorns, And sapphires tip its branching horns. Resplendent as the lunar way, 85 Or the first blush of opening day, With graceful form and radiant hue It charmed thy heart, O chieftain, too.”
He heard her speech with willing ear, He looked again upon the deer. 90 Its lovely shape his breast beguiled Moved by the prayer of Janak’s child, And yielding for her pleasure’s sake, To Lakshmaṇ Ráma turned and spake:
“Mark, Lakshmaṇ, mark how Sítá’s breast 95 With eager longing is possessed. To-day this deer of wondrous breed Must for his passing beauty bleed, Brighter than e’er in Nandan strayed, Or Chaitraratha’s heavenly shade. 100 How should the groves of earth possess Such all-surpassing loveliness! The hair lies smooth and bright and fine, Or waves upon each curving line, And drops of living gold bedeck 105 The beauty of his side and neck. O look, his crimson tongue between His teeth like flaming fire is seen, Flashing, whene’er his lips he parts,
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As from a cloud the lightning darts. 110 O see his sunlike forehead shine With emerald tints and almandine, While pearly light and roseate glow Of shells adorn his neck below. No eye on such a deer can rest 115 But soft enchantment takes the breast: No man so fair a thing behold Ablaze with light of radiant gold, Celestial, bright with jewels’ sheen, Nor marvel when his eyes have seen. 120 A king equipped with bow and shaft Delights in gentle forest craft, And as in boundless woods he strays The quarry for the venison slays. There as he wanders with his train 125 A store of wealth he oft may gain. He claims by right the precious ore, He claims the jewels’ sparkling store. Such gains are dearer in his eyes Than wealth that in his chamber lies, 130 The dearest things his spirit knows, Dear as the bliss which Śukra chose. But oft the rich expected gain Which heedless men pursue in vain, The sage, who prudent counsels know, 135 Explain and in a moment show. This best of deer, this gem of all, To yield his precious spoils must fall, And tender Sítá by my side Shall sit upon the golden hide. 140 Ne’er could I find so rich a coat On spotted deer or sheep or goat. No buck or antelope has such, So bright to view, so soft to touch. This radiant deer and one on high 145 That moves in glory through the sky, Alike in heavenly beauty are, One on the earth and one a star. But, brother, if thy fears be true, And this bright creature that we view 150 Be fierce Márícha in disguise, Then by this hand he surely dies. For that dire fiend who spurns control With bloody hand and cruel soul, Has roamed this forest and dismayed 155 The holiest saints who haunt the shade. Great archers, sprung of royal race, Pursuing in the wood the chase, Have fallen by his wicked art, And now my shaft shall strike his heart. 160 Vatápi, by his magic power Made heedless saints his flesh devour, Then, from within their frames he rent Forth bursting from imprisonment. But once his art in senseless pride 165 Upon the mightiest saint he tried,
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Agastya’s self, and caused him taste The baited meal before him placed. Vátápi, when the rite was o’er, Would take the giant form he wore, 170 But Saint Agastya knew his wile And checked the giant with smile. “Vátápi, thou with cruel spite Hast conquered many an anchorite The noblest of the Bráhman caste,— 175 And now thy ruin comes at last.” Now if my power he thus defies, This giant, like Vátápi dies, Daring to scorn a man like me, A self subduing devotee. 180 Yea, as Agastya slew the foe, My hand shall lay Márícha low Clad in thine arms thy bow in hand, To guard the Maithil lady stand, With watchful eye and thoughtful breast 185 Keeping each word of my behest I go, and hunting through the brake This wondrous deer will bring or take. Yea surely I will bring the spoil Returning from my hunter’s toil 190 See, Lakshmaṇ how my consort’s eyes Are longing for the lovely prize. This day it falls, that I may win The treasure of so fair a skin. Do thou and Sítá watch with care 195 Lest danger seize you unaware. Swift from my bow one shaft will fly; The stricken deer will fall and die Then quickly will I strip the game And bring the trophy to my dame. 200 Jaṭáyus, guardian good and wise,
Our old and faithful friend, The best and strongest bird that flies,
His willing aid will lend The Maithil lady well protect, 205
For every chance provide, And in thy tender care suspect
A foe on every side.”
Canto XLIV. Márícha’s Death Thus having warned his brother bold He grasped his sword with haft of gold, And bow with triple flexure bent, His own delight and ornament; Then bound two quivers to his side, 5 And hurried forth with eager stride. Soon as the antlered monarch saw The lord of monarchs near him draw, A while with trembling heart he fled, Then turned and showed his stately head. 10 With sword and bow the chief pursued Where’er the fleeing deer he viewed Sending from dell and lone recess
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The splendour of his loveliness. Now full in view the creature stood 15 Now vanished in the depth of wood; Now running with a languid flight, Now like a meteor lost to sight. With trembling limbs away he sped; Then like the moon with clouds o’erspread 20 Gleamed for a moment bright between The trees, and was again unseen. Thus in the magic deer’s disguise Márícha lured him to the prize, And seen a while, then lost to view, 25 Far from his cot the hero drew. Still by the flying game deceived The hunter’s heart was wroth and grieved, And wearied with the fruitless chase He stayed him in a shady place. 30 Again the rover of the night Enraged the chieftain, full in sight, Slow moving in the coppice near, Surrounded by the woodland deer. Again the hunter sought the game 35 That seemed a while to court his aim: But seized again with sudden dread, Beyond his sight the creature fled. Again the hero left the shade, Again the deer before him strayed. 40 With surer hope and stronger will The hunter longed his prey to kill. Then as his soul impatient grew, An arrow from his side he drew, Resplendent at the sunbeam’s glow, 45 The crusher of the smitten foe. With skillful heed the mighty lord Fixed well shaft and strained the cord. Upon the deer his eyes he bent, And like a fiery serpent went 50 The arrow Brahma’s self had framed, Alive with sparks that hissed and flamed, Like Indra’s flashing levin, true To the false deer the missile flew Cleaving his flesh that wonderous dart 55 Stood quivering in Márícha’s heart. Scarce from the ground one foot he sprang, Then stricken fell with deadly pang. Half lifeless, as he pressed the ground, He gave a roar of awful sound 60 And ere the wounded giant died He threw his borrowed form aside Remembering still his lord’s behest He pondered in his heart how best Sítá might send her guard away, 65 And Rávaṇ seize the helpless prey. The monster knew the time was nigh, And called aloud with eager cry, “Ho, Sítá, Lakshmaṇ” and the tone He borrowed was like Ráma’s own. 70
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So by that matchless arrow cleft, The deer’s bright form Márícha left, Resumed his giant shape and size And closed in death his languid eyes. When Ráma saw his awful foe 75 Gasp, smeared with blood, in deadly throe, His anxious thoughts to Sítá sped, And the wise words that Lakshmaṇ said, That this was false Márícha’s art, Returned again upon his heart. 80 He knew the foe he triumphed o’er The name of great Márícha bore. “The fiend,” he pondered, ‘ere he died, “Ho, Lakshmaṇ! ho, my Sítá!” cried Ah, if that cry has reached her ear, 85 How dire must be my darling’s fear! And Lakshmaṇ of the mighty arm, What thinks he in his wild alarm? As thus he thought in sad surmise, Each startled hair began to rise, 90 And when he saw the giant slain And thought upon that cry again, His spirit sank and terror pressed Full sorely on the hero’s breast. Another deer he chased and struck, 95 He bore away the the fallen buck, To Janasthán then turned his face And hastened to his dwelling place.
Canto XLV. Lakshman’s Departure But Sítá hearing as she thought, Her husband’s cry with anguish fraught, Called to her guardian, “Lakshmaṇ, run And in the wood seek Raghu’s son. Scarce can my heart retain its throne, 5 Scarce can my life be called mine own, As all my powers and senses fail At that long, loud and bitter wail. Haste to the wood with all thy speed And save thy brother in his need. 10 Go, save him in the distant glade Where loud he calls, for timely aid. He falls beneath some giant foe— A bull whom lions overthrow.”
Deaf to her prayer, no step he stirred 15 Obedient to his mother’s word, Then Janak’s child, with ire inflamed, In words of bitter scorn exclaimed exclaimed
“Sumitrá’s son, a friend in show, Thou art in truth thy brother’s foe, 20 Who canst at such any hour deny Thy succour and neglect his cry. Yes, Lakshmaṇ, smit with love of me Thy brother’s death thou fain wouldst see. This guilty love thy heart has swayed 25
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And makes thy feet so loth to aid. Thou hast no love for Ráma, no: Thy joy is vice, thy thoughts are low Hence thus unmoved thou yet canst stay While my dear lord is far away. 30 If aught of ill my lord betide Who led thee here, thy chief and guide, Ah, what will be my hapless fate Left in the wild wood desolate!”
Thus spoke the lady sad with fear, 35 With many a sigh and many a tear, Still trembling like a captured doe: And Lakshmaṇ spoke to calm her woe:
“Videhan Queen, be sure of this,— And at the thought thy fear dismiss,— 40 Thy husband’s mightier power defies All Gods and angels of the skies, Gandharvas, and the sons of light, Serpents, and rovers of the night. I tell thee, of the sons of earth, 45 Of Gods who boast celestial birth, Of beasts and birds and giant hosts, Of demigods, Gandharvas, ghosts, Of awful fiends, O thou most fair, There lives not one whose heart would dare 50 To meet thy Ráma in the fight, Like Indra’s self unmatched in might. Such idle words thou must not say Thy Ráma lives whom none may slay. I will not, cannot leave thee here 55 In the wild wood till he be near. The mightiest strength can ne’er withstand His eager force, his vigorous hand. No, not the triple world allied With all the immortal Gods beside. 60 Dismiss thy fear, again take heart, Let all thy doubt and woe depart. Thy lord, be sure, will soon be here And bring thee back that best of deer. Not his, not his that mournful cry, 65 Nor haply came it from the sky. Some giant’s art was busy there And framed a castle based on air. A precious pledge art thou, consigned To me by him of noblest mind, 70 Nor can I fairest dame, forsake The pledge which Ráma bade me take. Upon our heads, O Queen, we drew The giants’ hate when Ráma slew Their chieftain Khara, and the shade 75 Of Janasthán in ruin laid. Through all this mighty wood they rove With varied cries from grove to grove On rapine bent they wander here: But O, dismiss thy causeless fear.” 80
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Bright flashed her eye as Lakshmaṇ spoke And forth her words of fury broke Upon her truthful guardian, flung With bitter taunts that pierced and stung: “Shame on such false compassion, base 85 Defiler of thy glorious race! ‘Twere joyous sight I ween to thee My lord in direst strait to see. Thou knowest Ráma sore bested, Or word like this thou ne’er hadst said. 90 No marvel if we find such sin In rivals false to kith and kin. Wretches like thee of evil kind, Concealing crime with crafty mind. Thou, wretch, thine aid wilt still deny, 95 And leave my lord alone to die. Has love of me unnerved thy hand, Or Bharat’s art this ruin planned? But be the treachery his or thine, In vain, in vain the base design. 100 For how shall I, the chosen bride Of dark-hued Ráma, lotus-eyed, The queen who once called Ráma mine, To love of other men decline? Believe me, Lakshmaṇ, Ráma’s wife 105 Before thine eyes will quit this life, And not a moment will she stay If her dear lord have passed away.”
The lady’s bitter speech, that stirred Each hair upon his frame, he heard. 110 With lifted hands together laid, His calm reply he gently made:
“No words have I to answer now: My deity, O Queen, art thou. But ‘tis no marvel, dame, to find 115 Such lack of sense in womankind. Throughout this world, O Maithil dame, Weak women’s hearts are still the same. Inconstant, urged by envious spite, They sever friends and hate the right. 120 I cannot brook, Videhan Queen, Thy words intolerably keen. Mine ears thy fierce reproaches pain As boiling water seethes the brain. And now to bear me witness all 125 The dwellers in the wood I call, That, when with words of truth I plead, This harsh reply is all my meed. Ah, woe is thee! Ah, grief, that still Eager to do my brother’s will, 130 Mourning thy woman’s nature, I Must see thee doubt my truth and die. I fly to Ráma’s side, and Oh, May bliss attend thee while I go! May all attendant wood-gods screen 135
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Thy head from harm, O large-eyed Queen! And though dire omens meet my sight And fill my soul with wild affright, May I return in peace and see The son of Raghu safe with thee!” 140
The child of Janak heard him speak, And the hot tear-drops down her cheek, Increasing to a torrent, ran, As thus once more the dame began: “O Lakshmaṇ, if I widowed be 145 Godávarí’s flood shall cover me, Or I will die by cord, or leap, Life weary, from yon rocky steep; Or deadly poison will I drink, Or ‘neath the kindled flames will sink, 150 But never, reft of Ráma, can Consent to touch a meaner man.”
The Maithil dame with many sighs, And torrents pouring from her eyes, The faithful Lakshmaṇ thus addressed, 155 And smote her hands upon her breast. Sumitrá’s son, o’erwhelmed by fears,
Looked on the large-eyed queen: He saw that flood of burning tears,
He saw that piteous mien. 160 He yearned sweet comfort to afford,
He strove to soothe her pain; But to the brother of her lord
She spoke no word again. His reverent hands once more he raised, 165
His head he slightly bent, Upon her face he sadly gazed,
And then toward Ráma went.
Canto XLVI. The Guest The angry Lakshmaṇ scarce could brook Her bitter words, her furious look. With dark forebodings in his breast To Ráma’s side he quickly pressed.
Then ten necked Rávaṇ saw the time 5 Propitious for his purposed crime. A mendicant in guise he came And stood before the Maithil dame. His garb was red, with tufted hair And sandalled feet a shade he bare, 10 And from the fiend’s left shoulder slung A staff and water-vessel hung. Near to the lovely dame he drew, While both the chiefs were far from view, As darkness takes the evening air 15 When neither sun nor moon is there. He bent his eye upon the dame, A princess fair, of spotless fame:
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So might some baleful planet be Near Moon-forsaken Rohiṇí. 20 As the fierce tyrant nearer drew, The trees in Janasthán that grew Waved not a leaf for fear and woe, And the hushed wind forbore to blow. Godávarí’s waters as they fled, 25 Saw his fierce eye-balls flashing red, And from each swiftly-gliding wave A melancholy murmur gave. Then Rávaṇ, when his eager eye Beheld the longed-for moment nigh, 30 In mendicant’s apparel dressed Near to the Maithil lady pressed. In holy guise, a fiend abhorred, He found her mourning for her lord. Thus threatening draws Śaniśchar nigh 35 To Chitrá in the evening sky; Thus the deep well by grass concealed Yawns treacherous in the verdant field. He stood and looked upon the dame Of Ráma, queen of spotless fame 40 With her bright teeth and each fair limb Like the full moon she seemed to him, Sitting within her leafy cot, Weeping for woe that left her not. Thus, while with joy his pulses beat, 45 He saw her in her lone retreat, Eyed like the lotus, fair to view In silken robes of amber hue. Pierced to the core by Káma’s dart He murmured texts with lying art, 50 And questioned with a soft address The lady in her loneliness. The fiend essayed with gentle speech The heart of that fair dame to reach, Pride of the worlds, like Beauty’s Queen 55 Without her darling lotus seen:
“O thou whose silken robes enfold A form more fair than finest gold, With lotus garland on thy head, Like a sweet spring with bloom o’erspread, 60 Who art thou, fair one, what thy name, Beauty, or Honour, Fortune, Fame, Spirit, or nymph, or Queen of love Descended from thy home above? Bright as the dazzling jasmine shine 65 Thy small square teeth in level line. Like two black stars aglow with light Thine eyes are large and pure and bright. Thy charms of smile and teeth and hair And winning eyes, O thou most fair, 70 Steal all my spirit, as the flow Of rivers mines the bank below. How bright, how fine each flowing tress! How firm those orbs beneath thy dress!
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That dainty waist with ease were spanned, 75 Sweet lady, by a lover’s hand. Mine eyes, O beauty, ne’er have seen Goddess or nymph so fair of mien, Or bright Gandharva’s heavenly dame, Or woman of so perfect frame. 80 In youth’s soft prime thy years are few, And earth has naught so fair to view. I marvel one like thee in face Should make the woods her dwelling-place. Leave, lady, leave this lone retreat 85 In forest wilds for thee unmeet, Where giants fierce and strong assume All shapes and wander in the gloom. These dainty feet were formed to tread Some palace floor with carpets spread, 90 Or wander in trim gardens where Each opening bud perfumes the air. The richest robe thy form should deck, The rarest gems adorn thy neck, The sweetest wreath should bind thy hair, 95 The noblest lord thy bed should share. Art thou akin, O fair of form, To Rudras, or the Gods of storm, Or to the glorious Vasus? How Can less than these be bright as thou? 100 But never nymph or heavenly maid Or Goddess haunts this gloomy shade. Here giants roam, a savage race; What led thee to so dire a place? Here monkeys leap from tree to tree, 105 And bears and tigers wander free; Here ravening lions prowl, and fell Hyenas in the thickets yell, And elephants infuriate roam, Mighty and fierce, their woodland home. 110 Dost thou not dread, so soft and fair, Tiger and lion, wolf and bear? Hast thou, O beauteous dame, no fear In the wild wood so lone and drear? Whose and who art thou? whence and why 115 Sweet lady, with no guardian nigh, Dost thou this awful forest tread By giant bands inhabited?”
The praise the high-souled Rávaṇ spoke No doubt within her bosom woke. 120 His saintly look and Bráhman guise Deceived the lady’s trusting eyes. With due attention on the guest Her hospitable rites she pressed. She bade the stranger to a seat, 125 And gave him water for his feet. The bowl and water-pot he bare, And garb which wandering Bráhmans wear
Forbade a doubt to rise. Won by his holy look she deemed 130
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The stranger even as he seemed To her deluded eyes.
Intent on hospitable care, She brought her best of woodland fare,
And showed her guest a seat. 135 She bade the saintly stranger lave His feet in water which she gave,
And sit and rest and eat. He kept his eager glances bent On her so kindly eloquent, 140 Wife of the noblest king; And longed in heart to steal her thence, Preparing by the dire offence, Death on his head to bring. The lady watched with anxious face 145 For Ráma coming from the chase
With Lakshmaṇ by his side: But nothing met her wandering glance Save the wild forest’s green expanse
Extending far and wide. 150
Canto XLVII. Rávan’s Wooing As, clad in mendicant’s disguise, He questioned thus his destined prize, She to the seeming saintly man The story of her life began. “My guest is he,” she thought, “and I, 5 To ‘scape his curse, must needs reply:” “Child of a noble sire I spring From Janak, fair Videha’s king. May every good be thine! my name Is Sítá, Ráma’s cherished dame. 10 Twelve winters with my lord I spent Most happily with sweet content In the rich home of Raghu’s line, And every earthly joy was mine. Twelve pleasant years flew by, and then 15 His peers advised the king of men, Ráma, my lord, to consecrate Joint ruler of his ancient state. But when the rites were scarce begun, To consecrate Ikshváku’s son, 20 The queen Kaikeyí, honoured dame, Sought of her lord an ancient claim. Her plea of former service pressed, And made him grant her new request, To banish Ráma to the wild 25 And consecrate instead her child. This double prayer on him, the best And truest king, she strongly pressed: “Mine eyes in sleep I will not close, Nor eat, nor drink, nor take repose. 30 This very day my death shall bring If Ráma be anointed king.” As thus she spake in envious ire, The aged king, my husband’s sire,
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Besought with fitting words; but she 35 Was cold and deaf to every plea. As yet my days are few; eighteen The years of life that I have seen; And Ráma, best of all alive, Has passed of years a score and five— 40 Ráma the great and gentle, through All region famed as pure and true, Large-eyed and mighty-armed and tall, With tender heart that cares for all. But Daśaratha, led astray 45 By woman’s wile and passion’s sway, By his strong love of her impelled, The consecrating rites withheld. When, hopeful of the promised grace, My Ráma sought his father’s face, 50 The queen Kaikeyí, ill at ease, Spoke to my lord brief words like these: “Hear, son of Raghu, hear from me The words thy father says to thee: “I yield this day to Bharat’s hand, 55 Free from all foes, this ancient land. Fly from this home no longer thine, And dwell in woods five years and nine. Live in the forest and maintain Mine honour pure from falsehood’s stain.’ ” 60 Then Ráma spoke, untouched by dread: “Yea, it shall be as thou hast said.” And answered, faithful to his vows, Obeying Daśaratha’s spouse: “The offered realm I would not take, 65 But still keep true the words he spake.” Thus, gentle Bráhman, Ráma still Clung to his vow with firmest will. And valiant Lakshmaṇ, dear to fame, His brother by a younger dame, 70 Bold victor in the deadly fray, Would follow Ráma on his way. On sternest vows his heart was set, And he, a youthful anchoret, Bound up in twisted coil his hair 75 And took the garb which hermits wear; Then with his bow to guard us, he Went forth with Ráma and with me. By Queen Kaikeyí’s art bereft The kingdom and our home we left, 80 And bound by stern religious vows We sought this shade of forest boughs. Now, best of Bráhmans, here we tread These pathless regions dark and dread. But come, refresh thy soul, and rest 85 Here for a while an honoured guest, For he, my lord, will soon be here With fresh supply of woodland cheer, Large store of venison of the buck, Or some great boar his hand has struck. 90 Meanwhile, O stranger, grant my prayer:
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Thy name, thy race, thy birth declare, And why with no companion thou Roamest in Daṇḍak forest now.”
Thus questioned Sítá, Ráma’s dame. 95 Then fierce the stranger’s answer came: “Lord of the giant legions, he From whom celestial armies flee,— The dread of hell and earth and sky, Rávaṇ the Rákshas king am I. 100 Now when thy gold-like form I view Arrayed in silks of amber hue, My love, O thou of perfect mould, For all my dames is dead and cold. A thousand fairest women, torn 105 From many a land my home adorn. But come, loveliest lady, be The queen of every dame and me. My city Lanká, glorious town, Looks from a mountain’s forehead down 110 Where ocean with his flash and foam Beats madly on mine island home. With me, O Sítá, shalt thou rove Delighted through each shady grove, Nor shall thy happy breast retain 115 Fond memory of this life of pain. In gay attire, a glittering band, Five thousand maids shall round thee stand, And serve thee at thy beck and sign, If thou, fair Sítá, wilt be mine.” 120
Then forth her noble passion broke As thus in turn the lady spoke: “Me, me the wife of Ráma, him The lion lord with lion’s limb, Strong as the sea, firm as the rock, 125 Like Indra in the battle shock. The lord of each auspicious sign, The glory of his princely line, Like some fair Bodh tree strong and tall, The noblest and the best of all, 130 Ráma, the heir of happy fate Who keeps his word inviolate, Lord of the lion gait, possessed Of mighty arm and ample chest, Ráma the lion-warrior, him 135 Whose moon bright face no fear can dim, Ráma, his bridled passions’ lord, The darling whom his sire adored,— Me, me the true and loving dame Of Ráma, prince of deathless fame— 140 Me wouldst thou vainly woo and press? A jackal woo a lioness! Steal from the sun his glory! such Thy hope Lord Ráma’s wife to touch. Ha! Thou hast seen the trees of gold, 145 The sign which dying eyes behold,
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Thus seeking, weary of thy life, To win the love of Ráma’s wife. Fool! wilt thou dare to rend away The famished lion’s bleeding prey, 150 Or from the threatening jaws to take The fang of some envenomed snake? What, wouldst thou shake with puny hand Mount Mandar, towering o’er the land, Put poison to thy lips and think 155 The deadly cup a harmless drink? With pointed needle touch thine eye, A razor to thy tongue apply, Who wouldst pollute with impious touch The wife whom Ráma loves so much? 160 Be round thy neck a millstone tied, And swim the sea from side to side; Or raising both thy hands on high Pluck sun and moon from yonder sky; Or let the kindled flame be pressed, 165 Wrapt in thy garment, to thy breast; More wild the thought that seeks to win Ráma’s dear wife who knows not sin. The fool who thinks with idle aim To gain the love of Ráma’s dame, 170 With dark and desperate footing makes His way o’er points of iron stakes. As Ocean to a bubbling spring, The lion to a fox, the king Of all the birds that ply the wing 175
To an ignoble crow As gold to lead of little price, As to the drainings of the rice The drink they quaff in Paradise,
The Amrit’s heavenly flow, 180 As sandal dust with perfume sweet Is to the mire that soils our feet,
A tiger to a cat, As the white swan is to the owl, The peacock to the waterfowl, 185
An eagle to a bat, Such is my lord compared with thee; And when with bow and arrows he, Mighty as Indra’s self shall see
His foeman, armed to slay, 190 Thou, death-doomed like the fly that sips The oil that on the altar drips, Shalt cast the morsel from thy lips
And lose thy half-won prey.” Thus in high scorn the lady flung 195 The biting arrows of her tongue In bitter words that pierced and stung
The rover of the night. She ceased. Her gentle cheek grew pale, Her loosened limbs began to fail, 200 And like a plantain in the gale
She trembled with affright. He terrible as Death stood nigh,
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And watched with fierce exulting eye The fear that shook her frame. 205
To terrify the lady more, He counted all his triumphs o’er, Proclaimed the titles that he bore,
His pedigree and name.
Canto XLVIII. Rávan’s Speech With knitted brow and furious eye The stranger made his fierce reply: “In me O fairest dame, behold The brother of the King of Gold. The Lord of Ten Necks my title, named 5 Rávaṇ, for might and valour famed. Gods and Gandharva hosts I scare; Snakes, spirits, birds that roam the air Fly from my coming, wild with fear, Trembling like men when Death is near. 10 Vaiśravaṇ once, my brother, wrought To ire, encountered me and fought, But yielding to superior might Fled from his home in sore affright. Lord of the man-drawn chariot, still 15 He dwells on famed Kailása’s hill. I made the vanquished king resign The glorious car which now is mine,— Pushpak, the far-renowned, that flies Will-guided through the buxom skies. 20 Celestial hosts by Indra led Flee from my face disquieted, And where my dreaded feet appear The wind is hushed or breathless is fear. Where’er I stand, where’er I go 25 The troubled waters cease to flow, Each spell-bound wave is mute and still And the fierce sun himself is chill. Beyond the sea my Lanká stands Filled with fierce forms and giant bands, 30 A glorious city fair to see As Indra’s Amarávatí. A towering height of solid wall, Flashing afar, surrounds it all, Its golden courts enchant the sight, 35 And gates aglow with lazulite. Steeds, elephants, and cars are there, And drums’ loud music fills the air, Fair trees in lovely gardens grow Whose boughs with varied fruitage glow. 40 Thou, beauteous Queen, with me shalt dwell In halls that suit a princess well, Thy former fellows shall forget Nor think of women with regret, No earthly joy thy soul shall miss, 45 And take its fill of heavenly bliss. Of mortal Ráma think no more, Whose terms of days will soon be o’er.
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King Daśaratha looked in scorn On Ráma though the eldest born, 50 Sent to the woods the weakling fool, And set his darling son to rule. What, O thou large-eyed dame, hast thou To do with fallen Ráma now, From home and kingdom forced to fly, 55 A wretched hermit soon to die? Accept thy lover, nor refuse The giant king who fondly woos. O listen, nor reject in scorn A heart by Káma’s arrows torn. 60 If thou refuse to hear my prayer, Of grief and coming woe beware; For the sad fate will fall on thee Which came on hapless Urvaśí, When with her foot she chanced to touch 65 Purúravas, and sorrowed much. My little finger raised in fight Were more than match for Ráma’s might. O fairest, blithe and happy be With him whom fortune sends to thee.” 70
Such were the words the giant said, And Sítá’s angry eyes were red. She answered in that lonely place The monarch of the giant race:
“Art thou the brother of the Lord 75 Of Gold by all the world adored, And sprung of that illustrious seed Wouldst now attempt this evil deed? I tell thee, impious Monarch, all The giants by thy sin will fall, 80 Whose reckless lord and king thou art, With foolish mind and lawless heart. Yea, one may hope to steal the wife Of Indra and escape with life. But he who Ráma’s dame would tear 85 From his loved side must needs despair. Yea, one may steal fair Śachí, dame Of Him who shoots the thunder flame, May live successful in his aim
And length of day may see; 90 But hope, O giant King, in vain, Though cups of Amrit thou may drain, To shun the penalty and pain
Of wronging one like me.”
Canto XLIX. The Rape Of Sítá The Rákshas monarch, thus addressed, His hands a while together pressed, And straight before her startled eyes Stood monstrous in his giant size. Then to the lady, with the lore 5 Of eloquence, he spoke once more:
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“Thou scarce,” he cried, “hast heard aright The glories of my power and might. I borne sublime in air can stand And with these arms upheave the land, 10 Drink the deep flood of Ocean dry And Death with conquering force defy, Pierce the great sun with furious dart And to her depths cleave earth apart. See, thou whom love and beauty blind, 15 I wear each form as wills my mind.”
As thus he spake in burning ire His glowing eyes were red with fire. His gentle garb aside was thrown And all his native shape was shown. 20 Terrific, monstrous, wild, and dread As the dark God who rules the dead, His fiery eyes in fury rolled, His limbs were decked with glittering gold. Like some dark cloud the monster showed, 25 And his fierce breast with fury glowed. The ten-faced rover of the night, With twenty arms exposed to sight, His saintly guise aside had laid And all his giant height displayed. 30 Attired in robes of crimson dye He stood and watched with angry eye The lady in her bright array Resplendent as the dawn of day When from the east the sunbeams break, 35 And to the dark-haired lady spake: “If thou would call that lord thine own Whose fame in every world is known, Look kindly on my love, and be Bride of a consort meet for thee. 40 With me let blissful years be spent, For ne’er thy choice shalt thou repent. No deed of mine shall e’er displease My darling as she lives at ease. Thy love for mortal man resign, 45 And to a worthier lord incline. Ah foolish lady, seeming wise In thine own weak and partial eyes, By what fair graces art thou held To Ráma from his realm expelled? 50 Misfortunes all his life attend, And his brief days are near their end. Unworthy prince, infirm of mind! A woman spoke and he resigned His home and kingdom and withdrew 55 From troops of friends and retinue. And sought this forest dark and dread By savage beasts inhabited.”
Thus Rávaṇ urged the lady meet For love, whose words were soft and sweet. 60 Near and more near the giant pressed
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As love’s hot fire inflamed his breast. The leader of the giant crew His arm around the lady threw: Thus Budha with ill-omened might 65 Steals Rohiṇí’s delicious light. One hand her glorious tresses grasped, One with its ruthless pressure clasped The body of his lovely prize, The Maithil dame with lotus eyes. 70 The silvan Gods in wild alarm Marked his huge teeth and ponderous arm, And from that Death-like presence fled, Of mountain size and towering head. Then seen was Rávaṇ’s magic car 75 Aglow with gold which blazed afar,— The mighty car which asses drew Thundering as it onward flew. He spared not harsh rebuke to chide The lady as she moaned and cried, 80 Then with his arm about her waist His captive in the car he placed. In vain he threatened: long and shrill Rang out her lamentation still, O Ráma! which no fear could stay: 85 But her dear lord was far away. Then rose the fiend, and toward the skies Bore his poor helpless struggling prize: Hurrying through the air above The dame who loathed his proffered love. 90 So might a soaring eagle bear A serpent’s consort through the air. As on he bore her through the sky She shrieked aloud her bitter cry. As when some wretch’s lips complain 95 In agony of maddening pain; “O Lakshmaṇ, thou whose joy is still To do thine elder brother’s will, This fiend, who all disguises wears, From Ráma’s side his darling tears. 100 Thou who couldst leave bliss, fortune, all, Yea life itself at duty’s call, Dost thou not see this outrage done To hapless me, O Raghu’s son? ‘Tis thine, O victor of the foe, 105 To bring the haughtiest spirit low, How canst thou such an outrage see And let the guilty fiend go free? Ah, seldom in a moment’s time Comes bitter fruit of sin and crime, 110 But in the day of harvest pain Comes like the ripening of the grain. So thou whom fate and folly lead To ruin for this guilty deed, Shalt die by Ráma’s arm ere long 115 A dreadful death for hideous wrong. Ah, too successful in their ends Are Queen Kaikeyí and her friends,
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When virtuous Ráma, dear to fame, Is mourning for his ravished dame. 120 Ah me, ah me! a long farewell To lawn and glade and forest dell In Janasthán’s wild region, where The Cassia trees are bright and fair With all your tongues to Ráma say 125 That Rávaṇ bears his wife away. Farewell, a long farewell to thee, O pleasant stream Godávarí, Whose rippling waves are ever stirred By many a glad wild water-bird! 130 All ye to Ráma’s ear relate The giant’s deed and Sítá’s fate. O all ye Gods who love this ground Where trees of every leaf abound, Tell Ráma I am stolen hence, 135 I pray you all with reverence. On all the living things beside That these dark boughs and coverts hide, Ye flocks of birds, ye troops of deer, I call on you my prayer to hear. 140 All ye to Ráma’s ear proclaim That Rávaṇ tears away his dame With forceful arms,—his darling wife, Dearer to Ráma than his life. O, if he knew I dwelt in hell, 145 My mighty lord, I know full well, Would bring me, conqueror, back to-day, Though Yáma’s self reclaimed his prey.”
Thus from the air the lady sent With piteous voice her last lament, 150 And as she wept she chanced to see The vulture on a lofty tree. As Rávaṇ bore her swiftly by, On the dear bird she bent her eye, And with a voice which woe made faint 155 Renewed to him her wild complaint:
“O see, the king who rules the race Of giants, cruel, fierce and base, Rávaṇ the spoiler bears me hence The helpless prey of violence. 160 This fiend who roves in midnight shade By thee, dear bird, can ne’er be stayed, For he is armed and fierce and strong Triumphant in the power to wrong. For thee remains one only task, 165 To do, kind friend, the thing I ask. To Ráma’s ear by thee be borne How Sítá from her home is torn, And to the valiant Lakshmaṇ tell The giant’s deed and what befell.” 170
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Canto L. Jatáyus The vulture from his slumber woke And heard the words which Sítá spoke He raised his eye and looked on her, Looked on her giant ravisher. That noblest bird with pointed beak, Majestic as a mountain peak, 5 High on the tree addressed the king Of giants, wisely counselling: “O Ten-necked lord, I firmly hold To faith and laws ordained of old, And thou, my brother, shouldst refrain 10 From guilty deeds that shame and stain. The vulture king supreme in air, Jaṭáyus is the name I bear. Thy captive, known by Sítá’s name, Is the dear consort and the dame 15 Of Ráma, Daśaratha’s heir Who makes the good of all his care. Lord of the world in might he vies With the great Gods of seas and skies. The law he boasts to keep allows 20 No king to touch another’s spouse, And, more than all, a prince’s dame High honour and respect may claim. Back to the earth thy way incline, Nor think of one who is not thine. 25 Heroic souls should hold it shame To stoop to deeds which others blame, And all respect by them is shown To dames of others as their own. Not every case of bliss and gain 30 The Scripture’s holy texts explain, And subjects, when that light is dim, Look to their prince and follow him. The king is bliss and profit, he Is store of treasures fair to see, 35 And all the people’s fortunes spring, Their joy and misery, from the king. If, lord of giant race, thy mind Be fickle, false, to sin inclined, How wilt thou kingly place retain? 40 High thrones in heaven no sinners gain. The soul which gentle passions sway Ne’er throws its nobler part away, Nor will the mansion of the base Long be the good man’s dwelling-place. 45 Prince Ráma, chief of high renown, Has wronged thee not in field or town. Ne’er has he sinned against thee: how Canst thou resolve to harm him now? If moved by Śúrpaṇakhá’s prayer 50 The giant Khara sought him there, And fighting fell with baffled aim, His and not Ráma’s is the blame. Say, mighty lord of giants, say What fault on Ráma canst thou lay? 55
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What has the world’s great master done That thou should steal his precious one? Quick, quick the Maithil dame release; Let Ráma’s consort go in peace, Lest scorched by his terrific eye 60 Beneath his wrath thou fall and die Like Vritra when Lord Indra threw The lightning flame that smote and slew. Ah fool, with blinded eyes to take Home to thy heart a venomed snake! 65 Ah foolish eyes, too blind to see That Death’s dire coils entangle thee! The prudent man his strength will spare, Nor lift a load too great to bear. Content is he with wholesome food 70 Which gives him life and strength renewed, But who would dare the guilty deed That brings no fame or glorious meed, Where merit there is none to win And vengeance soon o’ertakes the sin? 75 My course of life, Pulastya’s son, For sixty thousand years has run. Lord of my kind I still maintain Mine old hereditary reign. I, worn by years, am older far 80 Than thou, young lord of bow and car, In coat of glittering mail encased And armed with arrows at thy waist, But not unchallenged shalt thou go, Or steal the dame without a blow. 85 Thou canst not, King, before mine eyes Bear off unchecked thy lovely prize, Safe as the truth of Scripture bent By no close logic’s argument. Stay if thy courage let thee, stay 90 And meet me in the battle fray, And thou shalt stain the earth with gore Falling as Khara fell before. Soon Ráma, clothed in bark, shall smite Thee, his proud foe, in deadly fight,— 95 Ráma, from whom have oft times fled The Daitya hosts discomfited. No power have I to kill or slay: The princely youths are far away, But soon shalt thou with fearful eye 100 Struck down beneath their arrows lie. But while I yet have life and sense, Thou shalt not, tyrant, carry hence Fair Sítá, Ramá’s honoured queen, With lotus eyes and lovely mien. 105 Whate’er the pain, whate’er the cost, Though in the struggle life be lost, The will of Raghu’s noblest son And Daśaratha must be done. Stay for a while, O Rávaṇ, stay, 110 One hour thy flying car delay, And from that glorious chariot thou
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Shalt fall like fruit from shaken bough, For I to thee, while yet I live, The welcome of a foe will give.” 115
Canto LI. The Combat. Rávaṇ’s red eyes in fury rolled: Bright with his armlets’ flashing gold, In high disdain, by passion stirred He rushed against the sovereign bird. With clash and din and furious blows 5 Of murderous battle met the foes: Thus urged by winds two clouds on high Meet warring in the stormy sky. Then fierce the dreadful combat raged As fiend and bird in war engaged, 10 As if two winged mountains sped To dire encounter overhead. Keen pointed arrows thick and fast, In never ceasing fury cast, Rained hurtling on the vulture king 15 And smote him on the breast and wing. But still that noblest bird sustained The cloud of shafts which Rávaṇ rained, And with strong beak and talons bent The body of his foeman rent. 20 Then wild with rage the ten-necked king Laid ten swift arrows on his string,— Dread as the staff of Death were they, So terrible and keen to slay. Straight to his ear the string he drew, 25 Straight to the mark the arrows flew, And pierced by every iron head The vulture’s mangled body bled. One glance upon the car he bent Where Sítá wept with shrill lament, 30 Then heedless of his wounds and pain Rushed at the giant king again. Then the brave vulture with the stroke Of his resistless talons broke The giant’s shafts and bow whereon 35 The fairest pearls and jewels shone. The monster paused, by rage unmanned: A second bow soon armed his hand, Whence pointed arrows swift and true In hundreds, yea in thousands, flew. 40 The monarch of the vultures, plied With ceaseless darts on every side, Showed like a bird that turns to rest Close covered by the branch-built nest. He shook his pinions to repel 45 The storm of arrows as it fell; Then with his talons snapped in two The mighty bow which Rávaṇ drew. Next with terrific wing he smote So fiercely on the giant’s coat, 50 The harness, glittering with the glow
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Of fire, gave way beneath the blow. With storm of murderous strokes he beat The harnessed asses strong and fleet,— Each with a goblin’s monstrous face 55 And plates of gold his neck to grace. Then on the car he turned his ire,— The will-moved car that shone like fire, And broke the glorious chariot, broke The golden steps and pole and yoke. 60 The chouris and the silken shade Like the full moon to view displayed, Together with the guards who held Those emblems, to the ground he felled. The royal vulture hovered o’er 65 The driver’s head, and pierced and tore With his strong beak and dreaded claws His mangled brow and cheek and jaws. With broken car and sundered bow, His charioteer and team laid low, 70 One arm about the lady wound, Sprang the fierce giant to the ground. Spectators of the combat, all The spirits viewed the monster’s fall: Lauding the vulture every one 75 Cried with glad voice, Well done! well done! But weak with length of days, at last The vulture’s strength was failing fast. The fiend again assayed to bear The lady through the fields of air. 80 But when the vulture saw him rise Triumphant with his trembling prize, Bearing the sword that still was left When other arms were lost or cleft, Once more, impatient of repose, 85 Swift from the earth her champion rose, Hung in the way the fiend would take, And thus addressing Rávaṇ spake: “Thou, King of giants, rash and blind, Wilt be the ruin of thy kind, 90 Stealing the wife of Ráma, him With lightning scars on chest and limb. A mighty host obeys his will And troops of slaves his palace fill; His lords of state are wise and true, 95 Kinsmen has he and retinue. As thirsty travellers drain the cup, Thou drinkest deadly poison up. The rash and careless fool who heeds No coming fruit of guilty deeds, 100 A few short years of life shall see, And perish doomed to death like thee. Say whither wilt thou fly to loose Thy neck from Death’s entangling noose, Caught like the fish that finds too late 105 The hook beneath the treacherous bait? Never, O King—of this be sure— Will Raghu’s fiery sons endure,
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Terrific in their vengeful rage, This insult to their hermitage. 110 Thy guilty hands this day have done A deed which all reprove and shun, Unworthly of a noble chief, The pillage loved by coward thief. Stay, if thy heart allow thee, stay 115 And meet me in the deadly fray. Soon shall thou stain the earth with gore, And fall as Khara fell before. The fruits of former deeds o’erpower The sinner in his dying hour: 120 And such a fate on thee, O King, Thy tyranny and madness bring. Not e’en the Self-existent Lord, Who reigns by all the worlds adored, Would dare attempt a guilty deed 125 Which the dire fruits of crime succeed.”
Thus brave Jaṭáyus, best of birds, Addressed the fiend with moving words, Then ready for the swift attack Swooped down upon the giant’s back. 130 Down to the bone the talons went; With many a wound the flesh was rent: Such blows infuriate drivers deal Their elephants with pointed steel. Fixed in his back the strong beak lay, 135 The talons stripped the flesh away. He fought with claws and beak and wing, And tore the long hair of the king. Still as the royal vulture beat The giant with his wings and feet, 140 Swelled the fiend’s lips, his body shook With furious rage too great to brook. About the Maithil dame he cast One huge left arm and held her fast. In furious rage to frenzy fanned 145 He struck the vulture with his hand. Jatáyus mocked the vain assay, And rent his ten left arms away. Down dropped the severed limbs: anew Ten others from his body grew: 150 Thus bright with pearly radiance glide Dread serpents from the hillock side, Again in wrath the giant pressed The lady closer to his breast, And foot and fist sent blow on blow 155 In ceaseless fury at the foe. So fierce and dire the battle, waged Between those mighty champions, raged: Here was the lord of giants, there The noblest of the birds of air. 160 Thus, as his love of Ráma taught, The faithful vulture strove and fought. But Rávaṇ seized his sword and smote His wings and side and feet and throat.
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At mangled side and wing he bled; 165 He fell, and life was almost fled. The lady saw her champion lie, His plumes distained with gory dye, And hastened to the vulture’s side Grieving as though a kinsman died. 170 The lord of Lanká’s island viewed
The vulture as he lay: Whose back like some dark cloud was hued,
His breast a paly grey, Like ashes, when by none renewed, 175
The flame has died away. The lady saw with mournful eye,
Her champion press the plain,— The royal bird, her true ally
Whom Rávaṇ’s might had slain. 180 Her soft arms locked in strict embrace
Around his neck she kept, And lovely with her moon-bright face
Bent o’er her friend and wept.
Canto LII. Rávan’s Flight Fair as the lord of silvery rays Whom every star in heaven obeys, The Maithil dame her plaint renewed O’er him by Rávaṇ’s might subdued: “Dreams, omens, auguries foreshow Our coming lot of weal and woe: 5 But thou, my Ráma, couldst not see The grievous blow which falls on thee. The birds and deer desert the brakes And show the path my captor takes, And thus e’en now this royal bird 10 Flew to mine aid by pity stirred. Slain for my sake in death he lies, The broad-winged rover of the skies. O Ráma, haste, thine aid I crave: O Lakshmaṇ, why delay to save? 15 Brave sons of old Ikshváku, hear And rescue in this hour of fear.”
Her flowery wreath was torn and rent, Crushed was each sparkling ornament. She with weak arms and trembling knees 20 Clung like a creeper to the trees, And like some poor deserted thing With wild shrieks made the forest ring. But swift the giant reached her side, As loud on Ráma’s name she cried. 25 Fierce as grim Death one hand he laid Upon her tresses’ lovely braid. “That touch, thou impious King, shall be The ruin of thy race and thee.” The universal world in awe 30 That outrage on the lady saw, All nature shook convulsed with dread,
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And darkness o’er the land was spread. The Lord of Day grew dark and chill, And every breath of air was still. 35 The Eternal Father of the sky Beheld the crime with heavenly eye, And spake with solemn voice, “The deed, The deed is done, of old decreed.” Sad were the saints within the grove, 40 But triumph with their sorrow strove. They wept to see the Maithil dame Endure the outrage, scorn, and shame: They joyed because his life should pay The penalty incurred that day. 45 Then Rávaṇ raised her up, and bare His captive through the fields of air, Calling with accents loud and shrill On Ráma and on Lakshmaṇ still. With sparkling gems on arm and breast, 50 In silk of paly amber dressed, High in the air the Maithil dame Gleamed like the lightning’s flashing flame. The giant, as the breezes blew Upon her robes of amber hue, 55 And round him twined that gay attire, Showed like a mountain girt with fire. The lady, fairest of the fair, Had wreathed a garland round her hair; Its lotus petals bright and sweet 60 Rained down about the giant’s feet. Her vesture, bright as burning gold, Gave to the wind each glittering fold, Fair as a gilded cloud that gleams Touched by the Day-God’s tempered beams. 65 Yet struggling in the fiend’s embrace, The lady with her sweet pure face, Far from her lord, no longer wore The light of joy that shone before. Like some sad lily by the side 70 Of waters which the sun has dried; Like the pale moon uprising through An autumn cloud of darkest hue, So was her perfect face between The arms of giant Rávaṇ seen: 75 Fair with the charm of braided tress And forehead’s finished loveliness; Fair with the ivory teeth that shed White lustre through the lips’ fine red, 80 Fair as the lotus when the bud Is rising from the parent flood. With faultless lip and nose and eye, Dear as the moon that floods the sky With gentle light, of perfect mould, 85 She seemed a thing of burnished gold, Though on her cheek the traces lay Of tears her hand had brushed away. But as the moon-beams swiftly fade Ere the great Day-God shines displayed, 90
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So in that form of perfect grace Still trembling in the fiend’s embrace, From her beloved Ráma reft, No light of pride or joy was left. The lady with her golden hue 95 O’er the swart fiend a lustre threw, As when embroidered girths enfold An elephant with gleams of gold. Fair as the lily’s bending stem,— Her arms adorned with many a gem, 100 A lustre to the fiend she lent Gleaming from every ornament, As when the cloud-shot flashes light The shadows of a mountain height. Whene’er the breezes earthward bore 105 The tinkling of the zone she wore, He seemed a cloud of darkness hue Sending forth murmurs as it flew. As on her way the dame was sped From her sweet neck fair flowers were shed, 110 The swift wind caught the flowery rain And poured it o’er the fiend again. The wind-stirred blossoms, sweet to smell, On the dark brows of Rávaṇ fell, Like lunar constellations set 115 On Meru for a coronet. From her small foot an anklet fair With jewels slipped, and through the air, Like a bright circlet of the flame Of thunder, to the valley came. 120 The Maithil lady, fair to see As the young leaflet of a tree Clad in the tender hues of spring, Flashed glory on the giant king, As when a gold-embroidered zone 125 Around an elephant is thrown. While, bearing far the lady, through The realms of sky the giant flew, She like a gleaming meteor cast A glory round her as she passed. 130 Then from each limb in swift descent Dropped many a sparkling ornament: On earth they rested dim and pale Like fallen stars when virtues fail. Around her neck a garland lay 135 Bright as the Star-God’s silvery ray: It fell and flashed like Gangá sent From heaven above the firmament. The birds of every wing had flocked To stately trees by breezes rocked: 140 These bowed their wind-swept heads and said: “My lady sweet, be comforted.” With faded blooms each brook within Whose waters moved no gleamy fin, Stole sadly through the forest dell 145 Mourning the dame it loved so well. From every woodland region near
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Came lions, tigers, birds, and deer, And followed, each with furious look, The way her flying shadow took. 150 For Sítá’s loss each lofty hill Whose tears were waterfall, and rill, Lifting on high each arm-like steep, Seemed in the general woe to weep. When the great sun, the lord of day, 155 Saw Rávaṇ tear the dame away, His glorious light began to fail And all his disk grew cold and pale. “If Rávaṇ from the forest flies With Ráma’s Sítá as his prize, 160 Justice and truth have vanished hence, Honour and right and innocence.” Thus rose the cry of wild despair From spirits as they gathered there. In trembling troops in open lawns 165 Wept, wild with woe, the startled fawns, And a strange terror changed the eyes They lifted to the distant skies. On silvan Gods who love the dell A sudden fear and trembling fell, 170 As in the deepest woe they viewed The lady by the fiend subdued. Still in loud shrieks was heard afar That voice whose sweetness naught could mar, While eager looks of fear and woe 175 She bent upon the earth below. The lady of each winning wile With pearly teeth and lovely smile, Seized by the lord of Lanká’s isle, Looked down for friends in vain. 180 She saw no friend to aid her, none, Not Ráma nor the younger son Of Daśaratha, and undone She swooned with fear and pain.
Canto LIII. Sítá’s Threats Soon as the Maithil lady knew That high through air the giant flew, Distressed with grief and sore afraid Her troubled spirit sank dismayed. Then, as anew the waters welled 5 From those red eyes which sorrow swelled, Forth in keen words her passion broke, And to the fierce-eyed fiend she spoke: “Canst thou attempt a deed so base, Untroubled by the deep disgrace,— 10 To steal me from my home and fly, When friend or guardian none was nigh? Thy craven soul that longed to steal, Fearing the blows that warriors deal, Upon a magic deer relied 15 To lure my husband from my side, Friend of his sire, the vulture king
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Lies low on earth with mangled wing, Who gave his aged life for me And died for her he sought to free. 20 Ah, glorious strength indeed is thine, Thou meanest of thy giant line, Whose courage dared to tell thy name And conquer in the fight a dame. Does the vile deed that thou hast done 25 Cause thee no shame, thou wicked one— A woman from her home to rend When none was near his aid to lend? Through all the worlds, O giant King, The tidings of this deed will ring, 30 This deed in law and honour’s spite By one who claims a hero’s might. Shame on thy boasted valour, shame! Thy prowess is an empty name. Shame, giant, on this cursed deed 35 For which thy race is doomed to bleed! Thou fliest swifter than the gale, For what can strength like thine avail? Stay for one hour, O Rávaṇ, stay; Thou shalt not flee with life away. 40 Soon as the royal chieftains’ sight Falls on the thief who roams by night, Thou wilt not, tyrant, live one hour Though backed by all thy legions’ power. Ne’er can thy puny strength sustain 45 The tempest of their arrowy rain: Have e’er the trembling birds withstood The wild flames raging in the wood? Hear me, O Rávaṇ, let me go, And save thy soul from coming woe. 50 Or if thou wilt not set me free, Wroth for this insult done to me. With his brave brother’s aid my lord Against thy life will raise his sword. A guilty hope inflames thy breast 55 His wife from Ráma’s home to wrest. Ah fool, the hope thou hast is vain; Thy dreams of bliss shall end in pain. If torn from all I love by thee My godlike lord no more I see, 60 Soon will I die and end my woes, Nor live the captive of my foes. Ah fool, with blinded eyes to choose The evil and the good refuse! So the sick wretch with stubborn will 65 Turns fondly to the cates that kill, And madly draws his lips away From medicine that would check decay. About thy neck securely wound The deadly coil of Fate is bound, 70 And thou, O Rávaṇ, dost not fear Although the hour of death is near. With death-doomed sight thine eyes behold The gleaming of the trees of gold,—
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See dread Vaitaraṇi, the flood 75 That rolls a stream of foamy blood,— See the dark wood by all abhorred— Its every leaf a threatening sword. The tangled thickets thou shall tread Where thorns with iron points are spread. 80 For never can thy days be long, Base plotter of this shame and wrong To Ráma of the lofty soul: He dies who drinks the poisoned bowl. The coils of death around thee lie: 85 They hold thee and thou canst not fly. Ah whither, tyrant, wouldst thou run The vengeance of my lord to shun? By his unaided arm alone Were twice seven thousand fiends o’erthrown: 90 Yes, in the twinkling of an eye He forced thy mightiest fiends to die. And shall that lord of lion heart, Skilled in the bow and spear and dart, Spare thee, O fiend, in battle strife, 95 The robber of his darling wife?”
These were her words, and more beside, By wrath and bitter hate supplied. Then by her woe and fear o’erthrown She wept again and made her moan. 100 As long she wept in grief and dread, Scarce conscious of the words she said, The wicked giant onward fled
And bore her through the air. As firm he held the Maithil dame, 105 Still wildly struggling, o’er her frame With grief and bitter misery came
The trembling of despair.
Canto LIV. Lanká He bore her on in rapid flight, And not a friend appeared in sight. But on a hill that o’er the wood Raised its high top five monkeys stood. From her fair neck her scarf she drew, 5 And down the glittering vesture flew. With earring, necklet, chain, and gem, Descending in the midst of them: “For these,” she thought, “my path may show, And tell my lord the way I go.” 10 Nor did the fiend, in wild alarm, Mark when she drew from neck and arm And foot the gems and gold, and sent To earth each gleaming ornament. The monkeys raised their tawny eyes 15 That closed not in their first surprise, And saw the dark-eyed lady, where She shrieked above them in the air. High o’er their heads the giant passed
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Holding the weeping lady fast. 20 O’er Pampa’s flashing flood he sped And on to Lanká’s city fled. He bore away in senseless joy The prize that should his life destroy, Like the rash fool who hugs beneath 25 His robe a snake with venomed teeth. Swift as an arrow from a bow, Speeding o’er lands that lay below, Sublime in air his course he took O’er wood and rock and lake and brook. 30 He passed at length the sounding sea Where monstrous creatures wander free,— Seat of Lord Varuṇ’s ancient reign, Controller of the eternal main. The angry waves were raised and tossed 35 As Rávaṇ with the lady crossed, And fish and snake in wild unrest Showed flashing fin and gleaming crest. Then from the blessed troops who dwell In air celestial voices fell: 40 “O ten-necked King,” they cried, “attend: This guilty deed will bring thine end.”
Then Rávaṇ speeding like the storm, Bearing his death in human form, The struggling Sítá, lighted down 45 In royal Lanká’s glorious town; A city bright and rich, that showed Well-ordered street and noble road; Arranged with just division, fair With multitudes in court and square. 50 Thus, all his journey done, he passed Within his royal home at last. There in a queenly bower he placed The black-eyed dame with dainty waist: Thus in her chamber Máyá laid 55 The lovely Máyá, demon maid. Then Rávaṇ gave command to all The dread she-fiends who filled the hall: “This captive lady watch and guard From sight of man and woman barred. 60 But all the fair one asks beside Be with unsparing hand supplied: As though ‘twere I that asked, withhold No pearls or dress or gems or gold. And she among you that shall dare 65 Of purpose or through want of care One word to vex her soul to say, Throws her unvalued life away.”
Thus spake the monarch of their race To those she-fiends who thronged the place, 70 And pondering on the course to take Went from the chamber as he spake. He saw eight giants, strong and dread, On flesh of bleeding victims fed,
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Proud in the boon which Brahmá gave, 75 And trusting in its power to save. He thus the mighty chiefs addressed Of glorious power and strength possessed: “Arm, warriors, with the spear and bow; With all your speed from Lanká go, 80 For Janasthán, our own no more, Is now defiled with giants’ gore; The seat of Khara’s royal state Is left unto us desolate. In your brave hearts and might confide, 85 And cast ignoble fear aside. Go, in that desert region dwell Where the fierce giants fought and fell. A glorious host that region held, For power and might unparalleled, 90 By Dúshaṇ and brave Khara led,— All, slain by Ráma’s arrows, bled. Hence boundless wrath that spurns control Reigns paramount within my soul, And naught but Ráma’s death can sate 95 The fury of my vengeful hate. I will not close my slumbering eyes Till by this hand my foeman dies. And when mine arm has slain the foe Who laid those giant princes low, 100 Long will I triumph in the deed, Like one enriched in utmost need. Now go; that I this end may gain, In Janasthán, O chiefs, remain. Watch Ráma there with keenest eye, 105 And all his deeds and movements spy. Go forth, no helping art neglect, Be brave and prompt and circumspect, And be your one endeavour still To aid mine arm this foe to kill. 110 Oft have I seen your warrior might Proved in the forehead of the fight, And sure of strength I know so well Send you in Janasthán to dwell.” The giants heard with prompt assent 115
The pleasant words he said, And each before his master bent
For meet salute, his head. Then as he bade, without delay,
From Lanká’s gate they passed, 120 And hurried forward on their way
Invisible and fast.
Canto LV. Sítá In Prison Thus Rávaṇ his commandment gave To those eight giants strong and brave, So thinking in his foolish pride Against all dangers to provide. Then with his wounded heart aflame 5 With love he thought upon the dame,
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And took with hasty steps the way To the fair chamber where she lay. He saw the gentle lady there Weighed down by woe too great to bear, 10 Amid the throng of fiends who kept Their watch around her as she wept: A pinnace sinking neath the wave When mighty winds around her rave: A lonely herd-forsaken deer, 15 When hungry dogs are pressing near. Within the bower the giant passed: Her mournful looks were downward cast. As there she lay with streaming eyes The giant bade the lady rise, 20 And to the shrinking captive showed The glories of his rich abode, Where thousand women spent their days In palaces with gold ablaze; Where wandered birds of every sort, 25 And jewels flashed in hall and court. Where noble pillars charmed the sight With diamond and lazulite, And others glorious to behold With ivory, crystal, silver, gold. 30 There swelled on high the tambour’s sound, And burnished ore was bright around He led the mournful lady where Resplendent gold adorned the stair, And showed each lattice fair to see 35 With silver work and ivory: Showed his bright chambers, line on line, Adorned with nets of golden twine. Beyond he showed the Maithil dame His gardens bright as lightning’s flame, 40 And many a pool and lake he showed Where blooms of gayest colour glowed. Through all his home from view to view The lady sunk in grief he drew. Then trusting in her heart to wake 45 Desire of all she saw, he spake: “Three hundred million giants, all Obedient to their master’s call, Not counting young and weak and old, Serve me with spirits fierce and bold. 50 A thousand culled from all of these Wait on the lord they long to please. This glorious power, this pomp and sway, Dear lady, at thy feet I lay: Yea, with my life I give the whole, 55 O dearer than my life and soul. A thousand beauties fill my hall: Be thou my wife and rule them all. O hear my supplication! why This reasonable prayer deny? 60 Some pity to thy suitor show, For love’s hot flames within me glow. This isle a hundred leagues in length,
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Encompassed by the ocean’s strength, Would all the Gods and fiends defy 65 Though led by Him who rules the sky. No God in heaven, no sage on earth, No minstrel of celestial birth, No spirit in the worlds I see A match in power and might for me. 70 What wilt thou do with Ráma, him Whose days are short, whose light is dim, Expelled from home and royal sway, Who treads on foot his weary way? Leave the poor mortal to his fate, 75 And wed thee with a worthier mate. My timid love, enjoy with me The prime of youth before it flee. Do not one hour the hope retain To look on Ráma’s face again. 80 For whom would wildest thought beguile To seek thee in the giants’ isle? Say who is he has power to bind In toils of net the rushing wind. Whose is the mighty hand will tame 85 And hold the glory of the flame? In all the worlds above, below, Not one, O fair of form, I know Who from this isle in fight could rend The lady whom these arms defend. 90 Fair Queen, o’er Lanká’s island reign, Sole mistress of the wide domain. Gods, rovers of the night like me, And all the world thy slaves will be. O’er thy fair brows and queenly head 95 Let consecrating balm be shed, And sorrow banished from thy breast, Enjoy my love and take thy rest. Here never more thy soul shall know The memory of thy former woe, 100 And here shall thou enjoy the meed Deserved by every virtuous deed. Here garlands glow of flowery twine, With gorgeous hues and scent divine. Take gold and gems and rich attire: 105 Enjoy with me thy heart’s desire. There stand, of chariots far the best, The car my brother once possessed. Which, victor in the stricken field, I forced the Lord of Gold to yield. 110 ‘Tis wide and high and nobly wrought, Bright as the sun and swift as thought. Therein O Sítá, shalt thou ride Delighted by thy lover’s side. But sorrow mars with lingering trace 115 The splendour of thy lotus face. A cloud of woe is o’er it spread, And all the light of joy is fled.”
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The lady, by her woe distressed, One corner of her raiment pressed 120 To her sad cheek like moonlight clear, And wiped away a falling tear. The rover of the night renewed His eager pleading as he viewed The lady stand like one distraught, 125 Striving to fix her wandering thought:
“Think not, sweet lady, of the shame Of broken vows, nor fear the blame. The saints approve with favouring eyes This union knit with marriage ties. 130 O beauty, at thy radiant feet I lay my heads, and thus entreat. One word of grace, one look I crave: Have pity on thy prostrate slave. These idle words I speak are vain, 135 Wrung forth by love’s consuming pain, And ne’er of Rávaṇ be it said He wooed a dame with prostrate head.” Thus to the Maithil lady sued The monarch of the giant brood, 140 And “She is now mine own,” he thought, In Death’s dire coils already caught.
Canto LVI. Sítá’s Disdain His words the Maithil lady heard Oppressed by woe but undeterred. Fear of the fiend she cast aside, And thus in noble scorn replied: “His word of honour never stained 5 King Daśaratha nobly reigned, The bridge of right, the friend of truth. His eldest son, a noble youth, Is Ráma, virtue’s faithful friend, Whose glories through the worlds extend. 10 Long arms and large full eyes has he, My husband, yea a God to me. With shoulders like the forest king’s, From old Ikshváku’s line he springs. He with his brother Lakshmaṇ’s aid 15 Will smite thee with the vengeful blade. Hadst thou but dared before his eyes To lay thine hand upon the prize, Thou stretched before his feet hadst lain In Janasthán like Khara slain. 20 Thy boasted rovers of the night With hideous shapes and giant might,— Like serpents when the feathered king Swoops down with his tremendous wing,— Will find their useless venom fail 25 When Ráma’s mighty arms assail. The rapid arrows bright with gold, Shot from the bow he loves to hold, Will rend thy frame from flank to flank
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As Gangá’s waves erode the bank. 30 Though neither God nor fiend have power To slay thee in the battle hour, Yet from his hand shall come thy fate, Struck down before his vengeful hate. That mighty lord will strike and end 35 The days of life thou hast to spend. Thy days are doomed, thy life is sped Like victims to the pillar led. Yea, if the glance of Ráma bright With fury on thy form should light, 40 Thou scorched this day wouldst fall and die Like Káma slain by Rudra’s eye. He who from heaven the moon could throw, Or bid its bright rays cease to glow,— He who could drain the mighty sea 45 Will set his darling Sítá free. Fled is thy life, thy glory, fled Thy strength and power: each sense is dead. Soon Lanká widowed by thy guilt Will see the blood of giants spilt. 50 This wicked deed, O cruel King, No triumph, no delight will bring. Thou with outrageous might and scorn A woman from her lord hast torn. My glorious husband far away, 55 Making heroic strength his stay, Dwells with his brother, void of fear, In Daṇḍak forest lone and drear. No more in force of arms confide: That haughty strength, that power and pride 60 My hero with his arrowy rain From all thy bleeding limbs will drain. When urged by fate’s dire mandate, nigh Comes the fixt hour for men to die. Caught in Death’s toils their eyes are blind, 65 And folly takes each wandering mind. So for the outrage thou hast done The fate is near thou canst not shun,— The fate that on thyself and all Thy giants and thy town shall fall. 70 I spurn thee: can the altar dight With vessels for the sacred rite, O’er which the priest his prayer has said, Be sullied by an outcaste’s tread? So me, the consort dear and true 75 Of him who clings to virtue too, Thy hated touch shall ne’er defile, Base tyrant lord of Lanká’s isle. Can the white swan who floats in pride Through lilies by her consort’s side, 80 Look for one moment, as they pass, On the poor diver in the grass? This senseless body waits thy will, To torture, chain, to wound or kill. I will not, King of giants, strive 85 To keep this fleeting soul alive
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But never shall they join the name Of Sítá with reproach and shame.”
Thus as her breast with fury burned Her bitter speech the dame returned. 90 Such words of rage and scorn, the last She uttered, at the fiend she cast. Her taunting speech the giant heard, And every hair with anger stirred. Then thus with fury in his eye 95 He made in threats his fierce reply: “Hear Maithil lady, hear my speech: List to my words and ponder each. If o’er thy head twelve months shall fly And thou thy love wilt still deny, 100 My cooks shall mince thy flesh with steel And serve it for my morning meal.”
Thus with terrific threats to her Spake Rávaṇ, cruel ravener. Mad with the rage her answer woke 105 He called the fiendish train and spoke: “Take her, ye Rákshas dames, who fright With hideous form and mien the sight, Who make the flesh of men your food,— And let her pride be soon subdued.” 110 He spoke, and at his word the band Of fiendish monsters raised each hand In reverence to the giant king, And pressed round Sítá in a ring. Rávaṇ once more with stern behest 115 To those she-fiends his speech addressed: Shaking the earth beneath his tread, He stamped his furious foot and said: “To the Aśoka garden bear The dame, and guard her safely there 120 Until her stubborn pride be bent By mingled threat and blandishment. See that ye watch her well, and tame, Like some she-elephant, the dame.”
They led her to that garden where 125 The sweetest flowers perfumed the air, Where bright trees bore each rarest fruit, And birds, enamoured, ne’er were mute. Bowed down with terror and distress, Watched by each cruel giantess,— 130 Like a poor solitary deer When ravening tigresses are near,— The hapless lady lay distraught Like some wild thing but newly caught, And found no solace, no relief 135 From agonizing fear and grief; Not for one moment could forget Each terrifying word and threat, Or the fierce eyes upon her set By those who watched around. 140
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She thought of Ráma far away, She mourned for Lakshmaṇ as she lay In grief and terror and dismay Half fainting on the ground.
Canto LVII. Sítá Comforted Soon as the fiend had set her down Within his home in Lanká’s town Triumph and joy filled Indra’s breast, Whom thus the Eternal Sire addressed:
“This deed will free the worlds from woe 5 And cause the giants’ overthrow. The fiend has borne to Lanká’s isle The lady of the lovely smile, True consort born to happy fate With features fair and delicate. 10 She looks and longs for Ráma’s face, But sees a crowd of demon race, And guarded by the giant’s train Pines for her lord and weeps in vain. But Lanká founded on a steep 15 Is girdled by the mighty deep, And how will Ráma know his fair And blameless wife is prisoned there? She on her woe will sadly brood And pine away in solitude, 20 And heedless of herself, will cease To live, despairing of release. Yes, pondering on her fate, I see Her gentle life in jeopardy. Go, Indra, swiftly seek the place, 25 And look upon her lovely face. Within the city make thy way: Let heavenly food her spirit stay.”
Thus Brahma spake: and He who slew The cruel demon Páka, flew 30 Where Lanká’s royal city lay, And Sleep went with him on his way. “Sleep,” cried the heavenly Monarch, “close Each giant’s eye in deep repose.”
Thus Indra spoke, and Sleep fulfilled 35 With joy his mandate, as he willed, To aid the plan the Gods proposed, The demons’ eyes in sleep she closed. Then Śachí’s lord, the Thousand-eyed, To the Aśoka garden hied. 40 He came and stood where Sítá lay, And gently thus began to say: “Lord of the Gods who hold the sky, Dame of the lovely smile, am I. Weep no more, lady, weep no more; 45 Thy days of woe will soon be o’er. I come, O Janak’s child, to be
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The helper of thy lord and thee. He through my grace, with hosts to aid, This sea-girt land will soon invade. 50 ‘Tis by my art that slumbers close The eyelids of thy giant foes. Now I, with Sleep, this place have sought, Videhan lady, and have brought A gift of heaven’s ambrosial food 55 To stay thee in thy solitude. Receive it from my hand, and taste, O lady of the dainty waist: For countless ages thou shall be From pangs of thirst and hunger free.” 60
But doubt within her bosom woke As to the Lord of Gods she spoke: “How may I know for truth that thou Whose form I see before me now Art verily the King adored 65 By heavenly Gods, and Śachí’s lord? With Raghu’s sons I learnt to know The certain signs which Godhead show. These marks before mine eyes display If o’er the Gods thou bear the sway.” 70
The heavenly lord of Śachí heard, And did according to her word. Above the ground his feet were raised; With eyelids motionless he gazed. No dust upon his raiment lay, 75 And his bright wreath was fresh and gay. Nor was the lady’s glad heart slow The Monarch of the Gods to know, And while the tears unceasing ran From her sweet eyes she thus began: 80 “My lord has gained a friend in thee, And I this day thy presence see Shown clearly to mine eyes, as when Ráma and Lakshmaṇ, lords of men, Beheld it, and their sire the king, 85 And Janak too from whom I spring. Now I, O Monarch of the Blest, Will eat this food at thy behest, Which thou hast brought me, of thy grace, To aid and strengthen Raghu’s race.” 90
She spoke, and by his words relieved, The food from Indra’s hand received, Yet ere she ate the balm he brought, On Lakshmaṇ and her lord she thought. “If my brave lord be still alive, 95 If valiant Lakshmaṇ yet survive, May this my taste of heavenly food Bring health to them and bliss renewed!” She ate, and that celestial food
Stayed hunger, thirst, and lassitude, 100 And all her strength restored.
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Great joy her hopeful spirit stirred At the glad tidings newly heard
Of Lakshmaṇ and her lord. And Indra’s heart was joyful too: 105
He bade the Maithil dame adieu, His saving errand done.
With Sleep beside him parting thence He sought his heavenly residence
To prosper Raghu’s son. 110
[Hanuman, the Vanar chieftain described below, goes to find Sita for Rama, making a huge leap over the waters to the island of Sri Lanka, where she is being held captive.]
Book V Canto XV. Sítá
Fair as Kailása white with snow He saw a palace flash and glow, A crystal pavement gem-inlaid, And coral steps and colonnade, And glittering towers that kissed the skies, 5 Whose dazzling splendour charmed his eyes. There pallid, with neglected dress, Watched close by fiend and giantess, Her sweet face thin with constant flow Of tears, with fasting and with woe; 10 Pale as the young moon’s crescent when The first faint light returns to men: Dim as the flame when clouds of smoke The latent glory hide and choke; Like Rohiṇí the queen of stars 15 Oppressed by the red planet Mars; From her dear friends and husband torn, Amid the cruel fiends, forlorn, Who fierce-eyed watch around her kept, A tender woman sat and wept. 20 Her sobs, her sighs, her mournful mien, Her glorious eyes, proclaimed the queen. “This, this is she,” the Vánar cried, “Fair as the moon and lotus-eyed, I saw the giant Rávan bear 25 A captive through the fields of air. Such was the beauty of the dame; Her form, her lips, her eyes the same. This peerless queen whom I behold Is Ráma’s wife with limbs of gold. 30 Best of the sons of men is he, And worthy of her lord is she.”
Canto XVI. Hanumán’s Lament Then, all his thoughts on Sítá bent, The Vánar chieftain made lament: “The queen to Ráma’s soul endeared, By Lakshmaṇ’s pious heart revered, Lies here,—for none may strive with Fate, 5 A captive, sad and desolate.
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The brothers’ might full well she knows, And bravely bears the storm of woes, As swelling Gangá in the rains The rush of every flood sustains. 10 Her lord, for her, fierce Báli slew, Virádha’s monstrous might o’erthrew, For her the fourteen thousand slain In Janasthán bedewed the plain. And if for her Ikshváku’s son 15 Destroyed the world ‘twere nobly done. This, this is she, so far renowned, Who sprang from out the furrowed ground, Child of the high-souled king whose sway The men of Míthilá obey: 20 The glorious lady wooed and won By Daśaratha’s noblest son; And now these sad eyes look on her Mid hostile fiends a prisoner. From home and every bliss she fled 25 By wifely love and duty led, And heedless of a wanderer’s woes, A life in lonely forests chose. This, this is she so fair of mould. Whose limbs are bright as burnished gold. 30 Whose voice was ever soft and mild, Who sweetly spoke and sweetly smiled. O, what is Ráma’s misery! how He longs to see his darling now! Pining for one of her fond looks 35 As one athirst for water brooks. Absorbed in woe the lady sees No Rákshas guard, no blooming trees. Her eyes are with her thoughts, and they Are fixed on Ráma far away.” 40
Canto XVII. Sítá’s Guard His pitying eyes with tears bedewed, The weeping queen again he viewed, And saw around the prisoner stand Her demon guard, a fearful band. Some earless, some with ears that hung 5 Low as their feet and loosely swung: Some fierce with single ears and eyes, Some dwarfish, some of monstrous size: Some with their dark necks long and thin With hair upon the knotty skin: 10 Some with wild locks, some bald and bare, Some covered o’er with bristly hair: Some tall and straight, some bowed and bent With every foul disfigurement: All black and fierce with eyes of fire, 15 Ruthless and stern and swift to ire: Some with the jackal’s jaw and nose, Some faced like boars and buffaloes: Some with the heads of goats and kine, Of elephants, and dogs, and swine: 20
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With lions’ lips and horses’ brows, They walked with feet of mules and cows: Swords, maces, clubs, and spears they bore In hideous hands that reeked with gore, And, never sated, turned afresh 25 To bowls of wine and piles of flesh. Such were the awful guards who stood Round Sítá in that lovely wood, While in her lonely sorrow she Wept sadly neath a spreading tree. 30 He watched the spouse of Ráma there Regardless of her tangled hair, Her jewels stripped from neck and limb, Decked only with her love of him.
Canto XVIII. Rávan While from his shelter in the boughs The Vánar looked on Ráma’s spouse He heard the gathered giants raise The solemn hymn of prayer and praise.— Priests skilled in rite and ritual, who The Vedas and their branches knew. 5 Then, as loud strains of music broke His sleep, the giant monarch woke. Swift to his heart the thought returned Of the fair queen for whom he burned; Nor could the amorous fiend control 10 The passion that absorbed his soul. In all his brightest garb arrayed He hastened to that lovely shade, Where glowed each choicest flower and fruit, And the sweet birds were never mute, 15 And tall deer bent their heads to drink On the fair streamlet’s grassy brink. Near that Aśoka grove he drew,— A hundred dames his retinue. Like Indra with the thousand eyes 20 Girt with the beauties of the skies. Some walked beside their lord to hold The chouries, fans, and lamps of gold. And others purest water bore In golden urns, and paced before. 25 Some carried, piled on golden plates, Delicious food of dainty cates; Some wine in massive bowls whereon The fairest gems resplendent shone. Some by the monarch’s side displayed, 30 Wrought like a swan, a silken shade: Another beauty walked behind, The sceptre to her care assigned. Around the monarch gleamed the crowd 35 As lightnings flash about a cloud, And each made music as she went With zone and tinkling ornament. Attended thus in royal state The monarch reached the garden gate, 40
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While gold and silver torches, fed With scented oil a soft light shed. He, while the flame of fierce desire Burnt in his eyes like kindled fire, Seemed Love incarnate in his pride, 45 His bow and arrows laid aside. His robe, from spot and blemish free Like Amrit foamy from the sea, Hung down in many a loosened fold Inwrought with flowers and bright with gold. 50 The Vánar from his station viewed, Amazed, the wondrous multitude, Where, in the centre of that ring Of noblest women, stood the king, As stands the full moon fair to view, 55 Girt by his starry retinue.
Canto XIX. Sítá’s Fear Then o’er the lady’s soul and frame A sudden fear and trembling came, When, glowing in his youthful pride, She saw the monarch by her side. Silent she sat, her eyes depressed, 5 Her soft arms folded o’er her breast, And,—all she could,—her beauties screened From the bold gazes of the fiend. There where the wild she-demons kept Their watch around, she sighed and wept. 10 Then, like a severed bough, she lay Prone on the bare earth in dismay. The while her thoughts on love’s fleet wings Flew to her lord the best of kings. She fell upon the ground, and there 15 Lay struggling with her wild despair, Sad as a lady born again To misery and woe and pain, Now doomed to grief and low estate, Once noble fair and delicate: 20 Like faded light of holy lore, Like Hope when all her dreams are o’er; Like ruined power and rank debased, Like majesty of kings disgraced: Like worship foiled by erring slips, 25 The moon that labours in eclipse; A pool with all her lilies dead, An army when its king has fled: So sad and helpless wan and worn, She lay among the fiends forlorn. 30
Canto XX. Rávan’s Wooing With amorous look and soft address The fiend began his suit to press: “Why wouldst thou, lady lotus-eyed, From my fond glance those beauties hide? Mine eager suit no more repel: 5 But love me, for I love thee well.
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Dismiss, sweet dame, dismiss thy fear; No giant and no man is near. Ours is the right by force to seize What dames soe’er our fancy please. 10 But I with rude hands will not touch A lady whom I love so much. Fear not, dear queen: no fear is nigh: Come, on thy lover’s love rely, Some little sign of favor show, 15 Nor lie enamoured of thy woe. Those limbs upon that cold earth laid, Those tresses twined in single braid, The fast and woe that wear thy frame, Beseem not thee, O beauteous dame. 20 For thee the fairest wreaths were meant, The sandal and the aloe’s scent, Rich ornaments and pearls of price, And vesture meet for Paradise. With dainty cates shouldst thou be fed, 25 And rest upon a sumptuous bed. And festive joys to thee belong, The music, and the dance and song. Rise, pearl of women, rise and deck With gems and chains thine arms and neck. 30 Shall not the dame I love be seen In vesture worthy of a queen? Methinks when thy sweet form was made His hand the wise Creator stayed; For never more did he design 35 A beauty meet to rival thine. Come, let us love while yet we may, For youth will fly and charms decay, Come cast thy grief and fear aside, And be my love, my chosen bride. 40 The gems and jewels that my hand Has reft from every plundered land,— To thee I give them all this day, And at thy feet my kingdom lay. The broad rich earth will I o’errun, 45 And leave no town unconquered, none; Then of the whole an offering make To Janak, dear, for thy sweet sake. In all the world no power I see Of God or man can strive with me. 50 Of old the Gods and Asurs set In terrible array I met: Their scattered hosts to earth I beat, And trod their flags beneath my feet. Come, taste of bliss and drink thy fill, 55 And rule the slave who serves thy will. Think not of wretched Ráma: he Is less than nothing now to thee. Stript of his glory, poor, dethroned, A wanderer by his friends disowned, 60 On the cold earth he lays his head, Or is with toil and misery dead. And if perchance he lingers yet,
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His eyes on thee shall ne’er be set. Could he, that mighty monarch, who 65 Was named Hiraṇyakaśipu, Could he who wore the garb of gold Win Glory back from Indra’s hold? O lady of the lovely smile, Whose eyes the sternest heart beguile, 70 In all thy radiant beauty dressed My heart and soul thou ravishest. What though thy robe is soiled and worn, And no bright gems thy limbs adorn, Thou unadorned art dearer far 75 Than all my loveliest consorts are. My royal home is bright and fair; A thousand beauties meet me there, But come, my glorious love, and be The queen of all those dames and me.” 80
Canto XXI. Sítá’s Scorn She thought upon her lord and sighed, And thus in gentle tones replied: “Beseems thee not, O King, to woo A matron, to her husband true. Thus vainly one might hope by sin 5 And evil deeds success to win. Shall I, so highly born, disgrace My husband’s house, my royal race? Shall I, a true and loyal dame, Defile my soul with deed of shame?” 10
Then on the king her back she turned, And answered thus the prayer she spurned: “Turn, Rávaṇ, turn thee from thy sin; Seek virtue’s paths and walk therein. To others dames be honour shown; 15 Protect them as thou wouldst thine own. Taught by thyself, from wrong abstain Which, wrought on thee, thy heart would pain. Beware: this lawless love of thine Will ruin thee and all thy line; 20 And for thy sin, thy sin alone, Will Lanká perish overthrown. Dream not that wealth and power can sway My heart from duty’s path to stray. Linked like the Day-God and his shine, 25 I am my lord’s and he is mine. Repent thee of thine impious deed; To Ráma’s side his consort lead. Be wise; the hero’s friendship gain, Nor perish in his fury slain. 30 Go, ask the God of Death to spare, Or red bolt flashing through the air, But look in vain for spell or charm To stay my Ráma’s vengeful arm. Thou, when the hero bends his bow, 35 Shalt hear the clang that heralds woe,
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Loud as the clash when clouds are rent And Indra’s bolt to earth is sent. Then shall his furious shafts be sped, Each like a snake with fiery head, 40 And in their flight shall hiss and flame Marked with the mighty archer’s name. Then in the fiery deluge all Thy giants round their king shall fall.”
Canto XXII. Rávan’s Threat Then anger swelled in Rávaṇ’s breast, Who fiercely thus the dame addressed: “‘Tis ever thus: in vain we sue To woman, and her favour woo. A lover’s humble words impel 5 Her wayward spirit to rebel. The love of thee that fills my soul Still keeps my anger in control, As charioteers with bit and rein The swerving of the steed restrain. 10 The love that rules me bids me spare Thy forfeit life, O thou most fair. For this, O Sítá, have I borne The keen reproach, the bitter scorn, And the fond love thou boastest yet 15 For that poor wandering anchoret; Else had the words which thou hast said Brought death upon thy guilty head. Two months, fair dame, I grant thee still To bend thee to thy lover’s will. 20 If when that respite time is fled Thou still refuse to share my bed, My cooks shall mince thy limbs with steel And serve thee for my morning meal.”
The minstrel daughters of the skies 25 Looked on her woe with pitying eyes, And sun-bright children of the Gods Consoled the queen with smiles and nods. She saw, and with her heart at ease, Addressed the fiend in words like these; 30 “Hast thou no friend to love thee, none In all this isle to bid thee shun The ruin which thy crime will bring On thee and thine, O impious King? Who in all worlds save thee could woo 35 Me, Ráma’s consort pure and true, As though he tempted with his love Queen Śachí on her throne above? How canst thou hope, vile wretch, to fly The vengeance that e’en now is nigh, 40 When thou hast dared, untouched by shame, To press thy suit on Ráma’s dame? Where woods are thick and grass is high A lion and a hare may lie; My Ráma is the lion, thou 45
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Art the poor hare beneath the bough. Thou railest at the lord of men, But wilt not stand within his ken. What! is that eye unstricken yet Whose impious glance on me was set? 50 Still moves that tongue that would not spare The wife of Daśaratha’s heir?”
Then, hissing like a furious snake, The fiend again to Sítá spake: “Deaf to all prayers and threats art thou, 55 Devoted to thy senseless vow. No longer respite will I give, And thou this day shalt cease to live; For I, as sunlight kills the morn, Will slay thee for thy scathe and scorn.” 60
The Rákshas guard was summoned: all The monstrous crew obeyed the call, And hastened to the king to take The orders which he fiercely spake: “See that ye guard her well, and tame, 65 Like some wild thing, the stubborn dame, Until her haughty soul be bent By mingled threat and blandishment.”
The monsters heard: away he strode, And passed within his queens’ abode. 70
Canto XXIII. The Demons’ Threats Then round the helpless Sítá drew With fiery eyes the hideous crew, And thus assailed her, all and each, With insult, taunt, and threatening speech: “What! can it be thou prizest not 5 This happy chance, this glorious lot, To be the chosen wife of one So strong and great, Pulastya’s son? Pulastya—thus have sages told— Is mid the Lords of Life enrolled. 10 Lord Brahmá’s mind-born son was he, Fourth of that glorious company. Viśravas from Pulastya sprang,— Through all the worlds his glory rang. And of Viśravas, large-eyed dame! 15 Our king the mighty Rávaṇ came. His happy consort thou mayst be: Scorn not the words we say to thee.”
One awful demon, fiery-eyed, Stood by the Maithil queen and cried: 20 ‘Come and be his, if thou art wise, Who smote the sovereign of the skies, And made the thirty Gods and three, O’ercome in furious battle, flee. Thy lover turns away with scorn 25
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From wives whom grace and youth adorn. Thou art his chosen consort, thou Shall be his pride and darling now.”
Another, Vikatá by name, In words like these addressed the dame: 30 “The king whose blows, in fury dealt, The Nágas and Gandharvas felt, In battle’s fiercest brunt subdued, Has stood by thee and humbly wooed. And wilt thou in thy folly miss 35 The glory of a love like this? Scared by his eye the sun grows chill, The wanderer wind is hushed and still. The rains at his command descend, And trees with new-blown blossoms bend. 40 His word the hosts of demons fear, And wilt thou, dame, refuse to hear? Be counselled; with his will comply, Or, lady, thou shalt surely die.”
Canto XXIV. Sítá’s Reply Still with reproaches rough and rude Those fiends the gentle queen pursued: “What! can so fair a life displease, To dwell with him in joyous ease? Dwell in his bowers a happy queen 5 In silk and gold and jewels’ sheen? Still must thy woman fancy cling To Ráma and reject our king? Die in thy folly, or forget That wretched wandering anchoret. 10 Come, Sítá, in luxurious bowers Spend with our lord thy happy hours; The mighty lord who makes his own The treasures of the worlds o’erthrown.”
Then, as a tear bedewed her eye, 15 The hapless lady made reply: “I loathe, with heart and soul detest The shameful life your words suggest. Eat, if you will, this mortal frame: My soul rejects the sin and shame. 20 A homeless wanderer though he be, In him my lord, my life I see, And, till my earthly days be done, Will cling to great Ikshváku’s son.”
Then with fierce eyes on Sítá set 25 They cried again with taunt and threat: Each licking with her fiery tongue The lip that to her bosom hung, And menacing the lady’s life With axe, or spear or murderous knife: 30 “Hear, Sítá, and our words obey, Or perish by our hands to-day.
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Thy love for Raghu’s son forsake, And Rávaṇ for thy husband take, Or we will rend thy limbs apart 35 And banquet on thy quivering heart. Now from her body strike the head, And tell the king the dame is dead. Then by our lord’s commandment she A banquet for our band shall be. 40 Come, let the wine be quickly brought That frees each heart from saddening thought. Then to the western gate repair, And we will dance and revel there.”
[After the great battle, Hanuman goes to Sita to tell her about the victory.]
Book VI Canto CXV. Sítá’s Joy
The Vánar chieftain bowed his head, Within the walls of Lanká sped, Leave from the new-made king obtained, And Sítá’s lovely garden gained. Beneath a tree the queen he found, 5 Where Rákshas warders watched around. Her pallid cheek, her tangled hair, Her raiment showed her deep despair, Near and more near the envoy came And gently hailed the weeping dame. 10 She started up in sweet surprise, And sudden joy illumed her eyes. For well the Vánar’s voice she knew, And hope reviving sprang and grew.
“Fair Queen,” he said, “our task is done: 15 The foe is slain and Lanká won. Triumphant mid triumphant friends Kind words of greeting Ráma sends. “Blest for thy sake, O spouse most true, My deadly foe I met and slew. 20 Mine eyes are strangers yet to sleep: I built a bridge athwart the deep And crossed the sea to Lanká’s shore To keep the mighty oath I swore. Now, gentle love, thy cares dispel, 25 And weep no more, for all is well. Fear not in Rávaṇ’s house to stay For good Vibhishaṇ now bears sway, For constant truth and friendship known Regard his palace as thine own.” 30 He greets thee thus thy heart to cheer, And urged by love will soon be here.”
Then flushed with joy the lady’s cheek. Her eyes o’erflowed, her voice was weak; But struggling with her sobs she broke 35 Her silence thus, and faintly spoke: “So fast the flood of rapture came,
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My trembling tongue no words could frame. Ne’er have I heard in days of bliss A tale that gave such joy as this. 40 More precious far than gems and gold The message which thy lips have told.”
His reverent hands the Vánar raised And thus the lady’s answer praised: “Sweet are the words, O Queen, which thou 45 True to thy lord, hast spoken now, Better than gems and pearls of price, Yea, or the throne of Paradise. But, lady, ere I leave this place, Grant me, I pray, a single grace. 50 Permit me, and this vengeful hand Shall slay thy guards, this Rákshas band, Whose cruel insult threat and scorn Thy gentle soul too long has borne.”
Thus, stern of mood, Hanúmán cried: 55 The Maithil lady thus replied: “Nay, be not wroth with servants: they, When monarchs bid must needs obey. And, vassals of their lords, fulfil Each fancy of their sovereign will. 60 To mine own sins the blame impute, For as we sow we reap the fruit. The tyrant’s will these dames obeyed When their fierce threats my soul dismayed.”
She ceased: with admiration moved 65 The Vánar chief her words approved: “Thy speech,” he cried, “is worthy one Whom love has linked to Raghu’s son. Now speak, O Queen, that I may know Thy pleasure, for to him I go.” 70 The Vánar ceased: then Janak’s child Made answer as she sweetly smiled: “‘My first, my only wish can be, O chief, my loving lord to see.” Again the Vánar envoy spoke, 75 And with his words new rapture woke: “Queen, ere this sun shall cease to shine Thy Ráma’s eyes shall look in thine. Again the lord of Raghu’s race Shall turn to thee his moon-bright face. 80 His faithful brother shall thou see And every friend who fought for thee, And greet once more thy king restored Like Śachí to her heavenly lord.” To Raghu’s son his steps he bent 85 And told the message that she sent.
Canto CXVI. The Meeting He looked upon that archer chief Whose full eye mocked the lotus leaf, And thus the noble Vánar spake:
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“Now meet the queen for whose dear sake Thy mighty task was first begun, 5 And now the glorious fruit is won. O’erwhelmed with woe thy lady lies, The hot tears streaming from her eyes. And still the queen must long and pine Until those eyes be turned to thine.” 10
But Ráma stood in pensive mood, And gathering tears his eyes bedewed. His sad looks sought the ground: he sighed And thus to King Vibhishaṇ cried: “Let Sítá bathe and tire her head 15 And hither to my sight be led In raiment sweet with precious scent, And gay with golden ornament.”
The Rákshas king his palace sought, And Sítá from her bower was brought. 20 Then Rákshas bearers tall and strong, Selected from the menial throng, Through Lanká’s gate the queen, arrayed In glorious robes and gems, conveyed. Concealed behind the silken screen, 25 Swift to the plain they bore the queen, While Vánars, close on every side, With eager looks the litter eyed. The warders at Vibhishaṇ’s hest The onward rushing throng repressed, 30 While like the roar of ocean loud Rose the wild murmur of the crowd. The son of Raghu saw and moved With anger thus the king reproved: “Why vex with hasty blow and threat 35 The Vánars, and my rights forget? Repress this zeal, untimely shown: I count this people as mine own. A woman’s guard is not her bower, The lofty wall, the fenced tower: 40 Her conduct is her best defence, And not a king’s magnificence. At holy rites, in war and woe, Her face unveiled a dame may show; When at the Maiden’s Choice they meet, 45 When marriage troops parade the street. And she, my queen, who long has lain In prison racked with care and pain, May cease a while her face to hide, For is not Ráma by her side? 50 Lay down the litter: on her feet Let Sítá come her lord to meet. And let the hosts of woodland race Look near upon the lady’s face.”
Then Lakshmaṇ and each Vánar chief 55 Who heard his words were filled with grief. The lady’s gentle spirit sank,
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And from each eye in fear she shrank, As, her sweet eyelids veiled for shame, Slowly before her lord she came. 60 While rapture battled with surprise She raised to his her wistful eyes. Then with her doubt and fear she strove, And from her breast all sorrow drove. Regardless of the gathering crowd, 65 Bright as the moon without a cloud, She bent her eyes, no longer dim, In joy and trusting love on him.
Canto CXVII. Sítá’s Disgrace He saw her trembling by his side, And looked upon her face and cried: “Lady, at length my task is done, And thou, the prize of war, art won, This arm my glory has retrieved, 5 And all that man might do achieved; The insulting foe in battle slain And cleared mine honour from its stain. This day has made my name renowned And with success my labour crowned. 10 Lord of myself, the oath I swore Is binding on my soul no more. If from my home my queen was reft, This arm has well avenged the theft, And in the field has wiped away 15 The blot that on mine honour lay. The bridge that spans the foaming flood, The city red with giants’ blood; The hosts by King Sugríva led Who wisely counselled, fought and bled; 20 Vibhishaṇ’s love, our guide and stay— All these are crowned with fruit to-day. But, lady, ‘twas not love for thee That led mine army o’er the sea. ‘Twas not for thee our blood was shed, 25 Or Lanká filled with giant dead. No fond affection for my wife Inspired me in the hour of strife. I battled to avenge the cause Of honour and insulted laws. 30 My love is fled, for on thy fame Lies the dark blot of sin and shame; And thou art hateful as the light That flashes on the injured sight. The world is all before thee: flee: 35 Go where thou wilt, but not with me. How should my home receive again A mistress soiled with deathless stain? How should I brook the foul disgrace, Scorned by my friends and all my race? 40 For Rávaṇ bore thee through the sky, And fixed on thine his evil eye. About thy waist his arms he threw,
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Close to his breast his captive drew, And kept thee, vassal of his power, 45 An inmate of his ladies’ bower.”
Canto CXVIII. Sítá’s Reply
Struck down with overwhelming shame She shrank within her trembling frame. Each word of Ráma’s like a dart Had pierced the lady to the heart; And from her sweet eyes unrestrained 5 The torrent of her sorrows, rained. Her weeping eyes at length she dried, And thus mid choking sobs replied: “Canst thou, a high-born prince, dismiss A high-born dame with speech like this? 10 Such words befit the meanest hind, Not princely birth and generous mind, By all my virtuous life I swear I am not what thy words declare. If some are faithless, wilt thou find 15 No love and truth in womankind? Doubt others if thou wilt, but own The truth which all my life has shown. If, when the giant seized his prey, Within his hated arms I lay, 20 And felt the grasp I dreaded, blame Fate and the robber, not thy dame. What could a helpless woman do? My heart was mine and still was true, Why when Hanúmán sent by thee 25 Sought Lanká’s town across the sea, Couldst thou not give, O lord of men, Thy sentence of rejection then? Then in the presence of the chief Death, ready death, had brought relief, 30 Nor had I nursed in woe and pain This lingering life, alas in vain.
Image 3.6: Battle Scene in a City | This folio shows great crowds of people running and fighting in an unspecified city from the Râmâyana.
Author: User “Fæ” Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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Then hadst thou shunned the fruitless strife Nor jeopardied thy noble life, But spared thy friends and bold allies 35 Their vain and weary enterprise. Is all forgotten, all? my birth, Named Janak’s child, from fostering earth? That day of triumph when a maid My trembling hand in thine I laid? 40 My meek obedience to thy will, My faithful love through joy and ill, That never failed at duty’s call— O King, is all forgotten, all?”
To Lakshmaṇ then she turned and spoke 45 While sobs and sighs her utterance broke: “Sumitrá’s son, a pile prepare, My refuge in my dark despair. I will not live to bear this weight Of shame, forlorn and desolate. 50 The kindled fire my woes shall end And be my best and surest friend.”
His mournful eyes the hero raised And wistfully on Ráma gazed, In whose stern look no ruth was seen, 55 No mercy for the weeping queen. No chieftain dared to meet those eyes, To pray, to question or advise.
The word was passed, the wood was piled And fain to die stood Janak’s child. 60 She slowly paced around her lord, The Gods with reverent act adored, Then raising suppliant hands the dame Prayed humbly to the Lord of Flame: “As this fond heart by virtue swayed 65 From Raghu’s son has never strayed, So, universal witness, Fire Protect my body on the pyre, As Raghu’s son has idly laid This charge on Sítá, hear and aid.” 70
She ceased: and fearless to the last Within the flame’s wild fury passed. Then rose a piercing cry from all Dames, children, men, who saw her fall Adorned with gems and gay attire 75 Beneath the fury of the fire.
Canto CXIX. Glory To Vishnu The shrill cry pierced through Ráma’s ears And his sad eyes o’erflowed with tears, When lo, transported through the sky A glorious band of Gods was nigh. Ancestral shades, by men revered, 5 In venerable state appeared,
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And he from whom all riches flow, And Yáma Lord who reigns below: King Indra, thousand-eyed, and he Who wields the sceptre of the sea. 10 The God who shows the blazoned bull, And Brahmá Lord most bountiful By whose command the worlds were made All these on radiant cars conveyed, Brighter than sun-beams, sought the place 15 Where stood the prince of Raghu’s race, And from their glittering seats the best Of blessed Gods the chief addressed:
“Couldst thou, the Lord of all, couldst thou, Creator of the worlds, allow 20 Thy queen, thy spouse to brave the fire And give her body to the pyre? Dost thou not yet, supremely wise, Thy heavenly nature recognize?” They ceased: and Ráma thus began: 25 “I deem myself a mortal man. Of old Ikshváku’s line, I spring From Daśaratha Kośal’s king.” He ceased: and Brahmá’s self replied: “O cast the idle thought aside. 30 Thou art the Lord Náráyaṇ, thou The God to whom all creatures bow. Thou art the saviour God who wore Of old the semblance of a boar; Thou he whose discus overthrows 35 All present, past and future foes; Thou Brahmá, That whose days extend Without beginning, growth or end; The God, who, bears the bow of horn, Whom four majestic arms adorn; 40 Thou art the God who rules the sense And sways with gentle influence; Thou all-pervading Vishṇu Lord Who wears the ever-conquering sword; Thou art the Guide who leads aright, 45 Thou Krishṇa of unequalled might. Thy hand, O Lord, the hills and plains, And earth with all her life sustains; Thou wilt appear in serpent form When sinks the earth in fire and storm. 50 Queen Sítá of the lovely brows Is Lakshmí thy celestial spouse. To free the worlds from Rávaṇ thou Wouldst take the form thou wearest now. Rejoice: the mighty task is done: 55 Rejoice, thou great and glorious one. The tyrant, slain, thy labours end: Triumphant now to heaven ascend. High bliss awaits the devotee Who clings in loving faith to thee, 60 Who celebrates with solemn praise The Lord of ne’er beginning days.
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On earth below, in heaven above Great joy shall crown his faith and love. And he who loves the tale divine 65 Which tells each glorious deed of thine Through life’s fair course shall never know The fierce assault of pain and woe.”
Canto CXX. Sítá Restored Thus spoke the Self-existent Sire: Then swiftly from the blazing pyre The circling flames were backward rolled, And, raising in his gentle hold Alive unharmed the Maithil dame, 5 The Lord of Fire embodied came. Fair as the morning was her sheen, And gold and gems adorned the queen. Her form in crimson robes arrayed, Her hair was bound in glossy braid. 10 Her wreath was fresh and sweet of scent, Undimmed was every ornament. Then, standing close to Ráma’a side, The universal witness cried: “From every blot and blemish free 15 Thy faithful queen returns to thee. In word or deed, in look or mind Her heart from thee has ne’er declined. By force the giant bore away From thy lone cot his helpless prey; 20 And in his bowers securely kept She still has longed for thee and wept. With soft temptation, bribe and threat, He bade the dame her love forget: But, nobly faithful to her lord, 25 Her soul the giant’s suit abhorred. Receive, O King, thy queen again, Pure, ever pure from spot and stain.”
Still stood the king in thoughtful mood And tears of joy his eyes bedewed. 30 Then to the best of Gods the best Of warrior chiefs his mind expressed:
“‘Twas meet that mid the thousands here The searching fire my queen should clear; For long within the giant’s bower 35 She dwelt the vassal of his power. For else had many a slanderous tongue Reproaches on mine honour flung, And scorned the king who, love-impelled, His consort from the proof withheld. 40 No doubt had I, but surely knew That Janak’s child was pure and true, That, come what might, in good and ill Her faithful heart was with me still. I knew that Rávaṇ could not wrong 45 My queen whom virtue made so strong.
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I knew his heart would sink and fail, Nor dare her honour to assail, As Ocean, when he raves and roars, Fears to o’erleap his bounding shores. 50 Now to the worlds her truth is shown, And Sítá is again mine own. Thus proved before unnumbered eyes, On her pure fame no shadow lies. As heroes to their glory cleave, 55 Mine own dear spouse I ne’er will leave.” He ceased: and clasped in fond embrace On his dear breast she hid her face.
Rome 4
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When Dante walks through Limbo in the Inferno, he talks to a group that he identifies as the five greatest poets in history: Homer, Virgil, Ovid, Horace, and Lucan. While Dante, as an Italian, obviously stacks the deck in favor of Roman poets, his list highlights the importance of the two selections in this chapter: Virgil’s Aeneid and Ovid’s Metamorphoses. While Horace and Lucan are no longer quite as famous as the others, literary critics today recog- nize the influence and quality of Virgil and Ovid’s works.
Although they were (roughly) contemporaries, the older Virgil had grown up in a world split by civil wars: first Julius Caesar against Pompey the Great, and later Mark Antony (and Cleopatra) against Julius Caesar’s nephew Oc- tavian, who would take the name Augustus Caesar when he became the first Roman Emperor. Ovid was born after the civil wars were over. As a result, Virgil was an advocate for stability in his poetry, while Ovid took a much freer approach in his works.
Virgil reshapes the story of Aeneas to demonstrate what he (and Augustus) saw as the perfect Roman values. Aeneas, however, is not simply a reflection of Virgil’s time period; the Aeneid attempts to use literature to shape real life by showing a model hero worthy of inspiring imitation. To a certain extent, Virgil succeeds, at least in future generations. Ovid is more of a reflection of Virgil’s actual time period. Ovid’s witty sophistication and humorous excesses in his early love poetry provide us with a more decadent picture of Rome. Both poets turn to epic poet- ry later in life, but for opposite reasons: one to create order out of chaos, and one to question (in all seriousness) whether that order is artificial.
Augustus Caesar’s reaction to each poet epitomizes the difference between them. Virgil was directed by Augus- tus to write the Aeneid, which rewrites history to explain how Rome was pre-ordained by the gods to be an empire. Virgil’s depiction of the fall of Troy includes Roman fighting techniques and religious beliefs (such as the lares, or household gods) that would have been foreign to Homer’s Greeks and Trojans. Since the Aeneid includes the dei- fication of Augustus (foretold in Aeneid 6), it is a splendid piece of propaganda for a man who only called himself the son of the deified (Julius Caesar), rather than a god. When Virgil was dying, he asked that the nearly complete manuscript be burnt; Augustus ordered the manuscript to be finished and published. Conversely, Ovid’s work challenged the very notion that the people around him were anything but human. Ovid’s works included a book of letters by the women who are abandoned by the so-called heroes of mythology (the Heroides), a scandalous book of love poetry (the Amores), and a manual on how to pick up women (the Ars Amatoria). In particular, the Ars Amato- ria was so popular that he wrote a section on how women could pick up men (hardly an example of early feminism, but unusual for the time). Ovid’s view of power was skeptical, at best, since the Metamorphoses catalogues the bad behavior of the gods that led us to the present state of affairs. In Metamorphoses 15, Ovid explains why the gods al- lowed Julius Caesar to be killed, followed by a prayer that Augustus should have more time on earth before the gods take him too: not exactly the emphasis that Augustus might have preferred. Exiled by Augustus for his scandalous poetry, Ovid was never allowed to return to Rome.
Although Roman culture had appropriated Greek literature and religion, changing the names of characters and gods but continuing their stories, there were significant differences in Roman religious practices. Worship of the most important gods was directed by the flamines maiores (the “major priests”) of the three principle cults (to Jupiter, Mars, and Quirinus), while the flamines minores (or “minor priests”) directed the worship of the rest of the gods. The Romans had quite a few gods that had no equivalent among the Greek gods, and their identities some- times altered over time. In certain cases, earlier Roman gods were absorbed into another god’s identity or replaced entirely. For example, the Greek goddess Artemis was, over time, equated with the Roman goddess Diana, who also came to be identified with the Greek goddess Hecate, whose rough equivalent was the Roman goddess Trivia. All four figures eventually were identified as one goddess, who had multiple aspects to her power, and who was worshipped by multiple names. Apollo, however, had no equivalent match among the Roman gods, so he remained Apollo. The following comparison of Greek and Roman gods is particularly useful for anyone who has read Ho- mer’s works.
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Roman Name Greek Name Jupiter/Jove Zeus
Juno hera Minerva Athena (or Pallas Athena) Apollo Apollo Venus Aphrodite diana Artemis
Mercury hermes Neptune Poseidon
Pluto hades Mars Ares
Vulcan hephaestus Bacchus dionysus
Proserpina Persephone Ceres demeter Pan Pan
Cupid eros (Ulysses) (Odysseus)
As you read, consider the following questions:
• How does each epic portray the gods? How do humans feel about the gods in each work? • How is the view of “Fate” different in these works from the earlier Greek texts? In particular, what can the
gods do in Roman literature that they cannot do in Greek literature? • What is human nature like in each of the stories? Are there any similarities? • What view of authority does each epic seem to recommend? Why? • What is the definition of a hero in each work? How do we know, based on the evidence in the texts? • Is there a unified view of “duty” in these works? Why or why not?
Written by Laura J. Getty
THE AEnEID
Virgil (70-19 B.C.E.)
Published around 19 B.C.E. Rome
The Aeneid is a Roman epic purporting to explain how Trojans fleeing the fall of Troy become the ancestors of the Romans: in essence, a continuation of Homer’s Iliad. The story centers on Aeneas, a prince of Troy and the son of Venus/Aphrodite, who leads the search for a new homeland. The epic was commissioned by the first Roman emperor, Augustus Caesar, to justify why Rome was no longer a republic: According to the story, the gods them- selves planned for Rome to become an empire long before Rome ever existed, and legend is rewritten so that the Trojan Aeneas (who appears in Homer’s Iliad) becomes the model Roman citizen. Virgil’s execution of the story is more complex, recognizing as it does that the price for the foundation of Rome is a steep one. In Virgil’s time, Greek literature enjoyed more prestige than Roman literature, so the Aeneid attempts in part to revise and replace
Image 4.1: Augustus | Etching of a bust of Augustus, the first Roman emperor.
Author: Unknown Source: Hathi Trust Digital Library License: Public Domain
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earlier Greek epics; the first six books of the Aeneid are a conscious parallel to Homer’s Odyssey, and the last six books refigure Homer’s Iliad. Because of the widespread use of Latin in the European Middle Ages, Virgil’s perspective on history (and figures that he considered to be historical) exerted considerable influence on writers who followed him.
Written by Laura J. Getty
The Aeneid
Virgil, Translated by John Dryden
Book I Arms, and the man I sing, who, forc’d by fate, And haughty Juno’s unrelenting hate, Expell’d and exil’d, left the Trojan shore. Long labors, both by sea and land, he bore, And in the doubtful war, before he won 5 The Latian realm, and built the destin’d town; His banish’d gods restor’d to rites divine, And settled sure succession in his line, From whence the race of Alban fathers come, And the long glories of majestic Rome. 10
O Muse! the causes and the crimes relate; What goddess was provok’d, and whence her hate; For what offense the Queen of Heav’n began To persecute so brave, so just a man; Involv’d his anxious life in endless cares, 15 Expos’d to wants, and hurried into wars! Can heav’nly minds such high resentment show, Or exercise their spite in human woe?
Against the Tiber’s mouth, but far away, An ancient town was seated on the sea; 20 A Tyrian colony; the people made Stout for the war, and studious of their trade: Carthage the name; belov’d by Juno more Than her own Argos, or the Samian shore. Here stood her chariot; here, if Heav’n were kind, 25 The seat of awful empire she design’d. Yet she had heard an ancient rumor fly,
(Long cited by the people of the sky,) That times to come should see the Trojan race Her Carthage ruin, and her tow’rs deface; 30 Nor thus confin’d, the yoke of sov’reign sway Should on the necks of all the nations lay. She ponder’d this, and fear’d it was in fate; Nor could forget the war she wag’d of late For conqu’ring Greece against the Trojan state. 35 Besides, long causes working in her mind, And secret seeds of envy, lay behind; Deep graven in her heart the doom remain’d Of partial Paris, and her form disdain’d; The grace bestow’d on ravish’d Ganymed, 40 Electra’s glories, and her injur’d bed. Each was a cause alone; and all combin’d
License: Public Domain
Roman Name Greek Name Jupiter/Jove Zeus
Juno hera Minerva Athena (or Pallas Athena) Apollo Apollo Venus Aphrodite diana Artemis
Mercury hermes Neptune Poseidon
Pluto hades Mars Ares
Vulcan hephaestus Bacchus dionysus
Proserpina Persephone Ceres demeter Pan Pan
Cupid eros (Ulysses) (Odysseus)
As you read, consider the following questions:
• How does each epic portray the gods? How do humans feel about the gods in each work? • How is the view of “Fate” different in these works from the earlier Greek texts? In particular, what can the
gods do in Roman literature that they cannot do in Greek literature? • What is human nature like in each of the stories? Are there any similarities? • What view of authority does each epic seem to recommend? Why? • What is the definition of a hero in each work? How do we know, based on the evidence in the texts? • Is there a unified view of “duty” in these works? Why or why not?
Written by Laura J. Getty
THE AEnEID
Virgil (70-19 B.C.E.)
Published around 19 B.C.E. Rome
The Aeneid is a Roman epic purporting to explain how Trojans fleeing the fall of Troy become the ancestors of the Romans: in essence, a continuation of Homer’s Iliad. The story centers on Aeneas, a prince of Troy and the son of Venus/Aphrodite, who leads the search for a new homeland. The epic was commissioned by the first Roman emperor, Augustus Caesar, to justify why Rome was no longer a republic: According to the story, the gods them- selves planned for Rome to become an empire long before Rome ever existed, and legend is rewritten so that the Trojan Aeneas (who appears in Homer’s Iliad) becomes the model Roman citizen. Virgil’s execution of the story is more complex, recognizing as it does that the price for the foundation of Rome is a steep one. In Virgil’s time, Greek literature enjoyed more prestige than Roman literature, so the Aeneid attempts in part to revise and replace
Image 4.1: Augustus | Etching of a bust of Augustus, the first Roman emperor.
Author: Unknown Source: Hathi Trust Digital Library License: Public Domain
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To kindle vengeance in her haughty mind. For this, far distant from the Latian coast She drove the remnants of the Trojan host; 45 And sev’n long years th’ unhappy wand’ring train Were toss’d by storms, and scatter’d thro’ the main. Such time, such toil, requir’d the Roman name, Such length of labor for so vast a frame.
Now scarce the Trojan fleet, with sails and oars, 50 Had left behind the fair Sicilian shores, Ent’ring with cheerful shouts the wat’ry reign, And plowing frothy furrows in the main; When, lab’ring still with endless discontent, The Queen of Heav’n did thus her fury vent: 55
“Then am I vanquish’d? must I yield?” said she, “And must the Trojans reign in Italy? So Fate will have it, and Jove adds his force; Nor can my pow’r divert their happy course. Could angry Pallas, with revengeful spleen, 60 The Grecian navy burn, and drown the men? She, for the fault of one offending foe, The bolts of Jove himself presum’d to throw: With whirlwinds from beneath she toss’d the ship, And bare expos’d the bosom of the deep; 65 Then, as an eagle gripes the trembling game, The wretch, yet hissing with her father’s flame, She strongly seiz’d, and with a burning wound Transfix’d, and naked, on a rock she bound. But I, who walk in awful state above, 70 The majesty of heav’n, the sister wife of Jove, For length of years my fruitless force employ Against the thin remains of ruin’d Troy! What nations now to Juno’s pow’r will pray, Or off ’rings on my slighted altars lay?” 75
Thus rag’d the goddess; and, with fury fraught. The restless regions of the storms she sought, Where, in a spacious cave of living stone, The tyrant Aeolus, from his airy throne, With pow’r imperial curbs the struggling winds, 80 And sounding tempests in dark prisons binds. This way and that th’ impatient captives tend, And, pressing for release, the mountains rend. High in his hall th’ undaunted monarch stands, And shakes his scepter, and their rage commands; 85 Which did he not, their unresisted sway Would sweep the world before them in their way; Earth, air, and seas thro’ empty space would roll, And heav’n would fly before the driving soul. In fear of this, the Father of the Gods 90 Confin’d their fury to those dark abodes, And lock’d ‘em safe within, oppress’d with mountain loads; Impos’d a king, with arbitrary sway, To loose their fetters, or their force allay. To whom the suppliant queen her pray’rs address’d, 95 And thus the tenor of her suit express’d:
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“O Aeolus! for to thee the King of Heav’n The pow’r of tempests and of winds has giv’n; Thy force alone their fury can restrain, And smooth the waves, or swell the troubled main 100 A race of wand’ring slaves, abhorr’d by me, With prosp’rous passage cut the Tuscan sea; To fruitful Italy their course they steer, And for their vanquish’d gods design new temples there. Raise all thy winds; with night involve the skies; 105 Sink or disperse my fatal enemies. Twice sev’n, the charming daughters of the main, Around my person wait, and bear my train: Succeed my wish, and second my design; The fairest, Deiopeia, shall be thine, 110 And make thee father of a happy line.”
To this the god: “‘T is yours, O queen, to will The work which duty binds me to fulfil. These airy kingdoms, and this wide command, Are all the presents of your bounteous hand: 115 Yours is my sov’reign’s grace; and, as your guest, I sit with gods at their celestial feast; Raise tempests at your pleasure, or subdue; Dispose of empire, which I hold from you.”
He said, and hurl’d against the mountain side 120 His quiv’ring spear, and all the god applied. The raging winds rush thro’ the hollow wound, And dance aloft in air, and skim along the ground; Then, settling on the sea, the surges sweep, Raise liquid mountains, and disclose the deep. 125 South, East, and West with mix’d confusion roar, And roll the foaming billows to the shore. The cables crack; the sailors’ fearful cries Ascend; and sable night involves the skies; And heav’n itself is ravish’d from their eyes. 130 Loud peals of thunder from the poles ensue; Then flashing fires the transient light renew; The face of things a frightful image bears, And present death in various forms appears. Struck with unusual fright, the Trojan chief, 135 With lifted hands and eyes, invokes relief; And, “Thrice and four times happy those,” he cried, “That under Ilian walls before their parents died! Tydides, bravest of the Grecian train! Why could not I by that strong arm be slain, 140 And lie by noble Hector on the plain, Or great Sarpedon, in those bloody fields Where Simois rolls the bodies and the shields Of heroes, whose dismember’d hands yet bear The dart aloft, and clench the pointed spear!” 145
Thus while the pious prince his fate bewails, Fierce Boreas drove against his flying sails, And rent the sheets; the raging billows rise, And mount the tossing vessels to the skies:
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Nor can the shiv’ring oars sustain the blow; 150 The galley gives her side, and turns her prow; While those astern, descending down the steep, Thro’ gaping waves behold the boiling deep. Three ships were hurried by the southern blast, And on the secret shelves with fury cast. 155 Those hidden rocks th’ Ausonian sailors knew: They call’d them Altars, when they rose in view, And show’d their spacious backs above the flood. Three more fierce Eurus, in his angry mood, Dash’d on the shallows of the moving sand, 160 And in mid ocean left them moor’d aland. Orontes’ bark, that bore the Lycian crew, (A horrid sight!) ev’n in the hero’s view, From stem to stern by waves was overborne: The trembling pilot, from his rudder torn, 165 Was headlong hurl’d; thrice round the ship was toss’d, Then bulg’d at once, and in the deep was lost; And here and there above the waves were seen Arms, pictures, precious goods, and floating men. The stoutest vessel to the storm gave way, 170 And suck’d thro’ loosen’d planks the rushing sea. Ilioneus was her chief: Alethes old, Achates faithful, Abas young and bold, Endur’d not less; their ships, with gaping seams, Admit the deluge of the briny streams. 175
Meantime imperial Neptune heard the sound Of raging billows breaking on the ground. Displeas’d, and fearing for his wat’ry reign, He rear’d his awful head above the main, Serene in majesty; then roll’d his eyes 180 Around the space of earth, and seas, and skies. He saw the Trojan fleet dispers’d, distress’d, By stormy winds and wintry heav’n oppress’d. Full well the god his sister’s envy knew, And what her aims and what her arts pursue. 185 He summon’d Eurus and the western blast, And first an angry glance on both he cast; Then thus rebuk’d: “Audacious winds! from whence This bold attempt, this rebel insolence? Is it for you to ravage seas and land, 190 Unauthoriz’d by my supreme command? To raise such mountains on the troubled main? Whom I but first ‘t is fit the billows to restrain; And then you shall be taught obedience to my reign. Hence! to your lord my royal mandate bear 195 The realms of ocean and the fields of air Are mine, not his. By fatal lot to me The liquid empire fell, and trident of the sea. His pow’r to hollow caverns is confin’d: There let him reign, the jailer of the wind, 200 With hoarse commands his breathing subjects call, And boast and bluster in his empty hall.” He spoke; and, while he spoke, he smooth’d the sea, Dispell’d the darkness, and restor’d the day. Cymothoe, Triton, and the sea-green train 205
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Of beauteous nymphs, the daughters of the main, Clear from the rocks the vessels with their hands: The god himself with ready trident stands, And opes the deep, and spreads the moving sands; Then heaves them off the shoals. Where’er he guides 210 His finny coursers and in triumph rides, The waves unruffle and the sea subsides. As, when in tumults rise th’ ignoble crowd, Mad are their motions, and their tongues are loud; And stones and brands in rattling volleys fly, 215 And all the rustic arms that fury can supply: If then some grave and pious man appear, They hush their noise, and lend a list’ning ear; He soothes with sober words their angry mood, And quenches their innate desire of blood: 220 So, when the Father of the Flood appears, And o’er the seas his sov’reign trident rears, Their fury falls: he skims the liquid plains, High on his chariot, and, with loosen’d reins, Majestic moves along, and awful peace maintains. 225 The weary Trojans ply their shatter’d oars To nearest land, and make the Libyan shores.
Within a long recess there lies a bay: An island shades it from the rolling sea, And forms a port secure for ships to ride; 230 Broke by the jutting land, on either side, In double streams the briny waters glide. Betwixt two rows of rocks a sylvan scene Appears above, and groves for ever green: A grot is form’d beneath, with mossy seats, 235 To rest the Nereids, and exclude the heats. Down thro’ the crannies of the living walls The crystal streams descend in murm’ring falls: No haulsers need to bind the vessels here, Nor bearded anchors; for no storms they fear. 240 Sev’n ships within this happy harbor meet, The thin remainders of the scatter’d fleet. The Trojans, worn with toils, and spent with woes, Leap on the welcome land, and seek their wish’d repose.
First, good Achates, with repeated strokes 245 Of clashing flints, their hidden fire provokes: Short flame succeeds; a bed of wither’d leaves The dying sparkles in their fall receives: Caught into life, in fiery fumes they rise, And, fed with stronger food, invade the skies. 250 The Trojans, dropping wet, or stand around The cheerful blaze, or lie along the ground: Some dry their corn, infected with the brine, Then grind with marbles, and prepare to dine. Aeneas climbs the mountain’s airy brow, 255 And takes a prospect of the seas below, If Capys thence, or Antheus he could spy, Or see the streamers of Caicus fly. No vessels were in view; but, on the plain, Three beamy stags command a lordly train 260
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Of branching heads: the more ignoble throng Attend their stately steps, and slowly graze along. He stood; and, while secure they fed below, He took the quiver and the trusty bow Achates us’d to bear: the leaders first 265 He laid along, and then the vulgar pierc’d; Nor ceas’d his arrows, till the shady plain Sev’n mighty bodies with their blood distain. For the sev’n ships he made an equal share, And to the port return’d, triumphant from the war. 270 The jars of gen’rous wine (Acestes’ gift, When his Trinacrian shores the navy left) He set abroach, and for the feast prepar’d, In equal portions with the ven’son shar’d. Thus while he dealt it round, the pious chief 275 With cheerful words allay’d the common grief: “Endure, and conquer! Jove will soon dispose To future good our past and present woes. With me, the rocks of Scylla you have tried; Th’ inhuman Cyclops and his den defied. 280 What greater ills hereafter can you bear? Resume your courage and dismiss your care, An hour will come, with pleasure to relate Your sorrows past, as benefits of Fate. Thro’ various hazards and events, we move 285 To Latium and the realms foredoom’d by Jove. Call’d to the seat (the promise of the skies) Where Trojan kingdoms once again may rise, Endure the hardships of your present state; Live, and reserve yourselves for better fate.” 290
These words he spoke, but spoke not from his heart; His outward smiles conceal’d his inward smart. The jolly crew, unmindful of the past, The quarry share, their plenteous dinner haste. Some strip the skin; some portion out the spoil; 295 The limbs, yet trembling, in the caldrons boil; Some on the fire the reeking entrails broil. Stretch’d on the grassy turf, at ease they dine, Restore their strength with meat, and cheer their souls with wine. Their hunger thus appeas’d, their care attends 300 The doubtful fortune of their absent friends: Alternate hopes and fears their minds possess, Whether to deem ‘em dead, or in distress. Above the rest, Aeneas mourns the fate Of brave Orontes, and th’ uncertain state 305 Of Gyas, Lycus, and of Amycus. The day, but not their sorrows, ended thus.
When, from aloft, almighty Jove surveys Earth, air, and shores, and navigable seas, At length on Libyan realms he fix’d his eyes 310 Whom, pond’ring thus on human miseries, When Venus saw, she with a lowly look, Not free from tears, her heav’nly sire bespoke:
“O King of Gods and Men! whose awful hand
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Disperses thunder on the seas and land, 315 Disposing all with absolute command; How could my pious son thy pow’r incense? Or what, alas! is vanish’d Troy’s offense? Our hope of Italy not only lost, On various seas by various tempests toss’d, 320 But shut from ev’ry shore, and barr’d from ev’ry coast. You promis’d once, a progeny divine Of Romans, rising from the Trojan line, In after times should hold the world in awe, And to the land and ocean give the law. 325 How is your doom revers’d, which eas’d my care When Troy was ruin’d in that cruel war? Then fates to fates I could oppose; but now, When Fortune still pursues her former blow, What can I hope? What worse can still succeed? 330 What end of labors has your will decreed? Antenor, from the midst of Grecian hosts, Could pass secure, and pierce th’ Illyrian coasts, Where, rolling down the steep, Timavus raves And thro’ nine channels disembogues his waves. 335 At length he founded Padua’s happy seat, And gave his Trojans a secure retreat; There fix’d their arms, and there renew’d their name, And there in quiet rules, and crown’d with fame. But we, descended from your sacred line, 340 Entitled to your heav’n and rites divine, Are banish’d earth; and, for the wrath of one, Remov’d from Latium and the promis’d throne. Are these our scepters? these our due rewards? And is it thus that Jove his plighted faith regards?” 345
To whom the Father of th’ immortal race, Smiling with that serene indulgent face, With which he drives the clouds and clears the skies, First gave a holy kiss; then thus replies:
“Daughter, dismiss thy fears; to thy desire 350 The fates of thine are fix’d, and stand entire. Thou shalt behold thy wish’d Lavinian walls; And, ripe for heav’n, when fate Aeneas calls, Then shalt thou bear him up, sublime, to me: No councils have revers’d my firm decree. 355 And, lest new fears disturb thy happy state, Know, I have search’d the mystic rolls of Fate: Thy son (nor is th’ appointed season far) In Italy shall wage successful war, Shall tame fierce nations in the bloody field, 360 And sov’reign laws impose, and cities build, Till, after ev’ry foe subdued, the sun Thrice thro’ the signs his annual race shall run: This is his time prefix’d. Ascanius then, Now call’d Iulus, shall begin his reign. 365 He thirty rolling years the crown shall wear, Then from Lavinium shall the seat transfer, And, with hard labor, Alba Longa build. The throne with his succession shall be fill’d
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Three hundred circuits more: then shall be seen 370 Ilia the fair, a priestess and a queen, Who, full of Mars, in time, with kindly throes, Shall at a birth two goodly boys disclose. The royal babes a tawny wolf shall drain: Then Romulus his grandsire’s throne shall gain, 375 Of martial tow’rs the founder shall become, The people Romans call, the city Rome. To them no bounds of empire I assign, Nor term of years to their immortal line. Ev’n haughty Juno, who, with endless broils, 380 Earth, seas, and heav’n, and Jove himself turmoils; At length aton’d, her friendly pow’r shall join, To cherish and advance the Trojan line. The subject world shall Rome’s dominion own, And, prostrate, shall adore the nation of the gown. 385 An age is ripening in revolving fate When Troy shall overturn the Grecian state, And sweet revenge her conqu’ring sons shall call, To crush the people that conspir’d her fall. Then Caesar from the Julian stock shall rise, 390 Whose empire ocean, and whose fame the skies Alone shall bound; whom, fraught with eastern spoils, Our heav’n, the just reward of human toils, Securely shall repay with rites divine; And incense shall ascend before his sacred shrine. 395 Then dire debate and impious war shall cease, And the stern age be soften’d into peace: Then banish’d Faith shall once again return, And Vestal fires in hallow’d temples burn; And Remus with Quirinus shall sustain 400 The righteous laws, and fraud and force restrain. Janus himself before his fane shall wait, And keep the dreadful issues of his gate, With bolts and iron bars: within remains Imprison’d Fury, bound in brazen chains; 405 High on a trophy rais’d, of useless arms, He sits, and threats the world with vain alarms.”
He said, and sent Cyllenius with command To free the ports, and ope the Punic land To Trojan guests; lest, ignorant of fate, 410 The queen might force them from her town and state. Down from the steep of heav’n Cyllenius flies, And cleaves with all his wings the yielding skies. Soon on the Libyan shore descends the god, Performs his message, and displays his rod: 415 The surly murmurs of the people cease; And, as the fates requir’d, they give the peace: The queen herself suspends the rigid laws, The Trojans pities, and protects their cause.
Meantime, in shades of night Aeneas lies: 420 Care seiz’d his soul, and sleep forsook his eyes. But, when the sun restor’d the cheerful day, He rose, the coast and country to survey, Anxious and eager to discover more.
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It look’d a wild uncultivated shore; 425 But, whether humankind, or beasts alone Possess’d the new-found region, was unknown. Beneath a ledge of rocks his fleet he hides: Tall trees surround the mountain’s shady sides; The bending brow above a safe retreat provides. 430 Arm’d with two pointed darts, he leaves his friends, And true Achates on his steps attends. Lo! in the deep recesses of the wood, Before his eyes his goddess mother stood: A huntress in her habit and her mien; 435 Her dress a maid, her air confess’d a queen. Bare were her knees, and knots her garments bind; Loose was her hair, and wanton’d in the wind; Her hand sustain’d a bow; her quiver hung behind. She seem’d a virgin of the Spartan blood: 440 With such array Harpalyce bestrode Her Thracian courser and outstripp’d the rapid flood. “Ho, strangers! have you lately seen,” she said, “One of my sisters, like myself array’d, Who cross’d the lawn, or in the forest stray’d? 445 A painted quiver at her back she bore; Varied with spots, a lynx’s hide she wore; And at full cry pursued the tusky boar.”
Thus Venus: thus her son replied again: “None of your sisters have we heard or seen, 450 O virgin! or what other name you bear Above that style—O more than mortal fair! Your voice and mien celestial birth betray! If, as you seem, the sister of the day, Or one at least of chaste Diana’s train, 455 Let not an humble suppliant sue in vain; But tell a stranger, long in tempests toss’d, What earth we tread, and who commands the coast? Then on your name shall wretched mortals call, And offer’d victims at your altars fall.” 460 “I dare not,” she replied, “assume the name Of goddess, or celestial honors claim: For Tyrian virgins bows and quivers bear, And purple buskins o’er their ankles wear. Know, gentle youth, in Libyan lands you are— 465 A people rude in peace, and rough in war. The rising city, which from far you see, Is Carthage, and a Tyrian colony. Phoenician Dido rules the growing state, Who fled from Tyre, to shun her brother’s hate. 470 Great were her wrongs, her story full of fate; Which I will sum in short. Sichaeus, known For wealth, and brother to the Punic throne, Possess’d fair Dido’s bed; and either heart At once was wounded with an equal dart. 475 Her father gave her, yet a spotless maid; Pygmalion then the Tyrian scepter sway’d: One who condemn’d divine and human laws. Then strife ensued, and cursed gold the cause. The monarch, blinded with desire of wealth, 480
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With steel invades his brother’s life by stealth; Before the sacred altar made him bleed, And long from her conceal’d the cruel deed. Some tale, some new pretense, he daily coin’d, To soothe his sister, and delude her mind. 485 At length, in dead of night, the ghost appears Of her unhappy lord: the specter stares, And, with erected eyes, his bloody bosom bares. The cruel altars and his fate he tells, And the dire secret of his house reveals, 490 Then warns the widow, with her household gods, To seek a refuge in remote abodes. Last, to support her in so long a way, He shows her where his hidden treasure lay. Admonish’d thus, and seiz’d with mortal fright, 495 The queen provides companions of her flight: They meet, and all combine to leave the state, Who hate the tyrant, or who fear his hate. They seize a fleet, which ready rigg’d they find; Nor is Pygmalion’s treasure left behind. 500 The vessels, heavy laden, put to sea With prosp’rous winds; a woman leads the way. I know not, if by stress of weather driv’n, Or was their fatal course dispos’d by Heav’n; At last they landed, where from far your eyes 505 May view the turrets of new Carthage rise; There bought a space of ground, which (Byrsa call’d, From the bull’s hide) they first inclos’d, and wall’d. But whence are you? what country claims your birth? What seek you, strangers, on our Libyan earth?” 510
To whom, with sorrow streaming from his eyes, And deeply sighing, thus her son replies: “Could you with patience hear, or I relate, O nymph, the tedious annals of our fate! Thro’ such a train of woes if I should run, 515 The day would sooner than the tale be done! From ancient Troy, by force expell’d, we came— If you by chance have heard the Trojan name. On various seas by various tempests toss’d, At length we landed on your Libyan coast. 520 The good Aeneas am I call’d—a name, While Fortune favor’d, not unknown to fame. My household gods, companions of my woes, With pious care I rescued from our foes. To fruitful Italy my course was bent; 525 And from the King of Heav’n is my descent. With twice ten sail I cross’d the Phrygian sea; Fate and my mother goddess led my way. Scarce sev’n, the thin remainders of my fleet, From storms preserv’d, within your harbor meet. 530 Myself distress’d, an exile, and unknown, Debarr’d from Europe, and from Asia thrown, In Libyan desarts wander thus alone.”
His tender parent could no longer bear; But, interposing, sought to soothe his care. 535
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“Whoe’er you are—not unbelov’d by Heav’n, Since on our friendly shore your ships are driv’n— Have courage: to the gods permit the rest, And to the queen expose your just request. Now take this earnest of success, for more: 540 Your scatter’d fleet is join’d upon the shore; The winds are chang’d, your friends from danger free; Or I renounce my skill in augury. Twelve swans behold in beauteous order move, And stoop with closing pinions from above; 545 Whom late the bird of Jove had driv’n along, And thro’ the clouds pursued the scatt’ring throng: Now, all united in a goodly team, They skim the ground, and seek the quiet stream. As they, with joy returning, clap their wings, 550 And ride the circuit of the skies in rings; Not otherwise your ships, and ev’ry friend, Already hold the port, or with swift sails descend. No more advice is needful; but pursue The path before you, and the town in view.” 555
Thus having said, she turn’d, and made appear Her neck refulgent, and dishevel’d hair, Which, flowing from her shoulders, reach’d the ground. And widely spread ambrosial scents around: In length of train descends her sweeping gown; 560 And, by her graceful walk, the Queen of Love is known. The prince pursued the parting deity With words like these: “Ah! whither do you fly? Unkind and cruel! to deceive your son In borrow’d shapes, and his embrace to shun; 565 Never to bless my sight, but thus unknown; And still to speak in accents not your own.” Against the goddess these complaints he made, But took the path, and her commands obey’d. They march, obscure; for Venus kindly shrouds 570 With mists their persons, and involves in clouds, That, thus unseen, their passage none might stay, Or force to tell the causes of their way. This part perform’d, the goddess flies sublime To visit Paphos and her native clime; 575 Where garlands, ever green and ever fair, With vows are offer’d, and with solemn pray’r: A hundred altars in her temple smoke; A thousand bleeding hearts her pow’r invoke.
They climb the next ascent, and, looking down, 580 Now at a nearer distance view the town. The prince with wonder sees the stately tow’rs, Which late were huts and shepherds’ homely bow’rs, The gates and streets; and hears, from ev’ry part, The noise and busy concourse of the mart. 585 The toiling Tyrians on each other call To ply their labor: some extend the wall; Some build the citadel; the brawny throng Or dig, or push unwieldly stones along. Some for their dwellings choose a spot of ground, 590
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Which, first design’d, with ditches they surround. Some laws ordain; and some attend the choice Of holy senates, and elect by voice. Here some design a mole, while others there Lay deep foundations for a theater; 595 From marble quarries mighty columns hew, For ornaments of scenes, and future view. Such is their toil, and such their busy pains, As exercise the bees in flow’ry plains, When winter past, and summer scarce begun, 600 Invites them forth to labor in the sun; Some lead their youth abroad, while some condense Their liquid store, and some in cells dispense; Some at the gate stand ready to receive The golden burthen, and their friends relieve; 605 All with united force, combine to drive The lazy drones from the laborious hive: With envy stung, they view each other’s deeds; The fragrant work with diligence proceeds. “Thrice happy you, whose walls already rise!” 610 Aeneas said, and view’d, with lifted eyes, Their lofty tow’rs; then, entiring at the gate, Conceal’d in clouds (prodigious to relate) He mix’d, unmark’d, among the busy throng, Borne by the tide, and pass’d unseen along. 615
Full in the center of the town there stood, Thick set with trees, a venerable wood. The Tyrians, landing near this holy ground, And digging here, a prosp’rous omen found: From under earth a courser’s head they drew, 620 Their growth and future fortune to foreshew. This fated sign their foundress Juno gave, Of a soil fruitful, and a people brave. Sidonian Dido here with solemn state Did Juno’s temple build, and consecrate, 625 Enrich’d with gifts, and with a golden shrine; But more the goddess made the place divine. On brazen steps the marble threshold rose, And brazen plates the cedar beams inclose: The rafters are with brazen cov’rings crown’d; 630 The lofty doors on brazen hinges sound. What first Aeneas this place beheld, Reviv’d his courage, and his fear expell’d. For while, expecting there the queen, he rais’d His wond’ring eyes, and round the temple gaz’d, 635 Admir’d the fortune of the rising town, The striving artists, and their arts’ renown; He saw, in order painted on the wall, Whatever did unhappy Troy befall: The wars that fame around the world had blown, 640 All to the life, and ev’ry leader known. There Agamemnon, Priam here, he spies, And fierce Achilles, who both kings defies. He stopp’d, and weeping said: “O friend! ev’n here The monuments of Trojan woes appear! 645 Our known disasters fill ev’n foreign lands:
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See there, where old unhappy Priam stands! Ev’n the mute walls relate the warrior’s fame, And Trojan griefs the Tyrians’ pity claim.” He said (his tears a ready passage find), 650 Devouring what he saw so well design’d, And with an empty picture fed his mind: For there he saw the fainting Grecians yield, And here the trembling Trojans quit the field, Pursued by fierce Achilles thro’ the plain, 655 On his high chariot driving o’er the slain. The tents of Rhesus next his grief renew, By their white sails betray’d to nightly view; And wakeful Diomede, whose cruel sword The sentries slew, nor spar’d their slumb’ring lord, 660 Then took the fiery steeds, ere yet the food Of Troy they taste, or drink the Xanthian flood. Elsewhere he saw where Troilus defied Achilles, and unequal combat tried; Then, where the boy disarm’d, with loosen’d reins, 665 Was by his horses hurried o’er the plains, Hung by the neck and hair, and dragg’d around: The hostile spear, yet sticking in his wound, With tracks of blood inscrib’d the dusty ground. Meantime the Trojan dames, oppress’d with woe, 670 To Pallas’ fane in long procession go, In hopes to reconcile their heav’nly foe. They weep, they beat their breasts, they rend their hair, And rich embroider’d vests for presents bear; But the stern goddess stands unmov’d with pray’r. 675 Thrice round the Trojan walls Achilles drew The corpse of Hector, whom in fight he slew. Here Priam sues; and there, for sums of gold, The lifeless body of his son is sold. So sad an object, and so well express’d, 680 Drew sighs and groans from the griev’d hero’s breast, To see the figure of his lifeless friend, And his old sire his helpless hand extend. Himself he saw amidst the Grecian train, Mix’d in the bloody battle on the plain; 685 And swarthy Memnon in his arms he knew, His pompous ensigns, and his Indian crew. Penthisilea there, with haughty grace, Leads to the wars an Amazonian race: In their right hands a pointed dart they wield; 690 The left, for ward, sustains the lunar shield. Athwart her breast a golden belt she throws, Amidst the press alone provokes a thousand foes, And dares her maiden arms to manly force oppose.
Thus while the Trojan prince employs his eyes, 695 Fix’d on the walls with wonder and surprise, The beauteous Dido, with a num’rous train And pomp of guards, ascends the sacred fane. Such on Eurotas’ banks, or Cynthus’ height, Diana seems; and so she charms the sight, 700 When in the dance the graceful goddess leads The choir of nymphs, and overtops their heads:
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Known by her quiver, and her lofty mien, She walks majestic, and she looks their queen; Latona sees her shine above the rest, 705 And feeds with secret joy her silent breast. Such Dido was; with such becoming state, Amidst the crowd, she walks serenely great. Their labor to her future sway she speeds, And passing with a gracious glance proceeds; 710 Then mounts the throne, high plac’d before the shrine: In crowds around, the swarming people join. She takes petitions, and dispenses laws, Hears and determines ev’ry private cause; Their tasks in equal portions she divides, 715 And, where unequal, there by lots decides. Another way by chance Aeneas bends His eyes, and unexpected sees his friends, Antheus, Sergestus grave, Cloanthus strong, And at their backs a mighty Trojan throng, 720 Whom late the tempest on the billows toss’d, And widely scatter’d on another coast. The prince, unseen, surpris’d with wonder stands, And longs, with joyful haste, to join their hands; But, doubtful of the wish’d event, he stays, 725 And from the hollow cloud his friends surveys, Impatient till they told their present state, And where they left their ships, and what their fate, And why they came, and what was their request; For these were sent, commission’d by the rest, 730 To sue for leave to land their sickly men, And gain admission to the gracious queen. Ent’ring, with cries they fill’d the holy fane; Then thus, with lowly voice, Ilioneus began:
“O queen! indulg’d by favor of the gods 735 To found an empire in these new abodes, To build a town, with statutes to restrain The wild inhabitants beneath thy reign, We wretched Trojans, toss’d on ev’ry shore, From sea to sea, thy clemency implore. 740 Forbid the fires our shipping to deface! Receive th’ unhappy fugitives to grace, And spare the remnant of a pious race! We come not with design of wasteful prey, To drive the country, force the swains away: 745 Nor such our strength, nor such is our desire; The vanquish’d dare not to such thoughts aspire. A land there is, Hesperia nam’d of old; The soil is fruitful, and the men are bold— Th’ Oenotrians held it once—by common fame 750 Now call’d Italia, from the leader’s name. To that sweet region was our voyage bent, When winds and ev’ry warring element Disturb’d our course, and, far from sight of land, Cast our torn vessels on the moving sand: 755 The sea came on; the South, with mighty roar, Dispers’d and dash’d the rest upon the rocky shore. Those few you see escap’d the Storm, and fear,
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Unless you interpose, a shipwreck here. What men, what monsters, what inhuman race, 760 What laws, what barb’rous customs of the place, Shut up a desart shore to drowning men, And drive us to the cruel seas again? If our hard fortune no compassion draws, Nor hospitable rights, nor human laws, 765 The gods are just, and will revenge our cause. Aeneas was our prince: a juster lord, Or nobler warrior, never drew a sword; Observant of the right, religious of his word. If yet he lives, and draws this vital air, 770 Nor we, his friends, of safety shall despair; Nor you, great queen, these offices repent, Which he will equal, and perhaps augment. We want not cities, nor Sicilian coasts, Where King Acestes Trojan lineage boasts. 775 Permit our ships a shelter on your shores, Refitted from your woods with planks and oars, That, if our prince be safe, we may renew Our destin’d course, and Italy pursue. But if, O best of men, the Fates ordain 780 That thou art swallow’d in the Libyan main, And if our young Iulus be no more, Dismiss our navy from your friendly shore, That we to good Acestes may return, And with our friends our common losses mourn.” 785 Thus spoke Ilioneus: the Trojan crew With cries and clamors his request renew.
The modest queen a while, with downcast eyes, Ponder’d the speech; then briefly thus replies: “Trojans, dismiss your fears; my cruel fate, 790 And doubts attending an unsettled state, Force me to guard my coast from foreign foes. Who has not heard the story of your woes, The name and fortune of your native place, The fame and valor of the Phrygian race? 795 We Tyrians are not so devoid of sense, Nor so remote from Phoebus’ influence. Whether to Latian shores your course is bent, Or, driv’n by tempests from your first intent, You seek the good Acestes’ government, 800 Your men shall be receiv’d, your fleet repair’d, And sail, with ships of convoy for your guard: Or, would you stay, and join your friendly pow’rs To raise and to defend the Tyrian tow’rs, My wealth, my city, and myself are yours. 805 And would to Heav’n, the Storm, you felt, would bring On Carthaginian coasts your wand’ring king. My people shall, by my command, explore The ports and creeks of ev’ry winding shore, And towns, and wilds, and shady woods, in quest 810 Of so renown’d and so desir’d a guest.”
Rais’d in his mind the Trojan hero stood, And long’d to break from out his ambient cloud:
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Achates found it, and thus urg’d his way: “From whence, O goddess-born, this long delay? 815 What more can you desire, your welcome sure, Your fleet in safety, and your friends secure? One only wants; and him we saw in vain Oppose the Storm, and swallow’d in the main. Orontes in his fate our forfeit paid; 820 The rest agrees with what your mother said.” Scarce had he spoken, when the cloud gave way, The mists flew upward and dissolv’d in day.
The Trojan chief appear’d in open sight, August in visage, and serenely bright. 825 His mother goddess, with her hands divine, Had form’d his curling locks, and made his temples shine, And giv’n his rolling eyes a sparkling grace, And breath’d a youthful vigor on his face; Like polish’d ivory, beauteous to behold, 830 Or Parian marble, when enchas’d in gold: Thus radiant from the circling cloud he broke, And thus with manly modesty he spoke:
“He whom you seek am I; by tempests toss’d, And sav’d from shipwreck on your Libyan coast; 835 Presenting, gracious queen, before your throne, A prince that owes his life to you alone. Fair majesty, the refuge and redress Of those whom fate pursues, and wants oppress, You, who your pious offices employ 840 To save the relics of abandon’d Troy; Receive the shipwreck’d on your friendly shore, With hospitable rites relieve the poor; Associate in your town a wand’ring train, And strangers in your palace entertain: 845 What thanks can wretched fugitives return, Who, scatter’d thro’ the world, in exile mourn? The gods, if gods to goodness are inclin’d; If acts of mercy touch their heav’nly mind, And, more than all the gods, your gen’rous heart. 850 Conscious of worth, requite its own desert! In you this age is happy, and this earth, And parents more than mortal gave you birth. While rolling rivers into seas shall run, And round the space of heav’n the radiant sun; 855 While trees the mountain tops with shades supply, Your honor, name, and praise shall never die. Whate’er abode my fortune has assign’d, Your image shall be present in my mind.” Thus having said, he turn’d with pious haste, 860 And joyful his expecting friends embrac’d: With his right hand Ilioneus was grac’d, Serestus with his left; then to his breast Cloanthus and the noble Gyas press’d; And so by turns descended to the rest. 865
The Tyrian queen stood fix’d upon his face, Pleas’d with his motions, ravish’d with his grace;
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Admir’d his fortunes, more admir’d the man; Then recollected stood, and thus began: “What fate, O goddess-born; what angry pow’rs 870 Have cast you shipwrack’d on our barren shores? Are you the great Aeneas, known to fame, Who from celestial seed your lineage claim?
The same Aeneas whom fair Venus bore To fam’d Anchises on th’ Idaean shore? 875 It calls into my mind, tho’ then a child, When Teucer came, from Salamis exil’d, And sought my father’s aid, to be restor’d: My father Belus then with fire and sword Invaded Cyprus, made the region bare, 880 And, conqu’ring, finish’d the successful war. From him the Trojan siege I understood, The Grecian chiefs, and your illustrious blood. Your foe himself the Dardan valor prais’d, And his own ancestry from Trojans rais’d. 885 Enter, my noble guest, and you shall find, If not a costly welcome, yet a kind: For I myself, like you, have been distress’d, Till Heav’n afforded me this place of rest; Like you, an alien in a land unknown, 890 I learn to pity woes so like my own.” She said, and to the palace led her guest; Then offer’d incense, and proclaim’d a feast. Nor yet less careful for her absent friends, Twice ten fat oxen to the ships she sends; 895 Besides a hundred boars, a hundred lambs, With bleating cries, attend their milky dams; And jars of gen’rous wine and spacious bowls She gives, to cheer the sailors’ drooping souls. Now purple hangings clothe the palace walls, 900 And sumptuous feasts are made in splendid halls: On Tyrian carpets, richly wrought, they dine; With loads of massy plate the sideboards shine, And antique vases, all of gold emboss’d (The gold itself inferior to the cost), 905 Of curious work, where on the sides were seen The fights and figures of illustrious men, From their first founder to the present queen.
The good Aeneas, paternal care Iulus’ absence could no longer bear, 910 Dispatch’d Achates to the ships in haste, To give a glad relation of the past, And, fraught with precious gifts, to bring the boy, Snatch’d from the ruins of unhappy Troy: A robe of tissue, stiff with golden wire; 915 An upper vest, once Helen’s rich attire, From Argos by the fam’d adultress brought, With golden flow’rs and winding foliage wrought, Her mother Leda’s present, when she came To ruin Troy and set the world on flame; 920 The scepter Priam’s eldest daughter bore, Her orient necklace, and the crown she wore
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Of double texture, glorious to behold, One order set with gems, and one with gold. Instructed thus, the wise Achates goes, 925 And in his diligence his duty shows.
But Venus, anxious for her son’s affairs, New counsels tries, and new designs prepares: That Cupid should assume the shape and face Of sweet Ascanius, and the sprightly grace; 930 Should bring the presents, in her nephew’s stead, And in Eliza’s veins the gentle poison shed: For much she fear’d the Tyrians, double-tongued, And knew the town to Juno’s care belong’d. These thoughts by night her golden slumbers broke, 935 And thus alarm’d, to winged Love she spoke: “My son, my strength, whose mighty pow’r alone Controls the Thund’rer on his awful throne, To thee thy much-afflicted mother flies, And on thy succor and thy faith relies. 940 Thou know’st, my son, how Jove’s revengeful wife, By force and fraud, attempts thy brother’s life; And often hast thou mourn’d with me his pains. Him Dido now with blandishment detains; But I suspect the town where Juno reigns. 945 For this ‘t is needful to prevent her art, And fire with love the proud Phoenician’s heart: A love so violent, so strong, so sure, As neither age can change, nor art can cure. How this may be perform’d, now take my mind: 950 Ascanius by his father is design’d To come, with presents laden, from the port, To gratify the queen, and gain the court. I mean to plunge the boy in pleasing sleep, And, ravish’d, in Idalian bow’rs to keep, 955 Or high Cythera, that the sweet deceit May pass unseen, and none prevent the cheat. Take thou his form and shape. I beg the grace But only for a night’s revolving space: Thyself a boy, assume a boy’s dissembled face; 960 That when, amidst the fervor of the feast, The Tyrian hugs and fonds thee on her breast, And with sweet kisses in her arms constrains, Thou may’st infuse thy venom in her veins.” The God of Love obeys, and sets aside 965 His bow and quiver, and his plumy pride; He walks Iulus in his mother’s sight, And in the sweet resemblance takes delight.
The goddess then to young Ascanius flies, And in a pleasing slumber seals his eyes: 970 Lull’d in her lap, amidst a train of Loves, She gently bears him to her blissful groves, Then with a wreath of myrtle crowns his head, And softly lays him on a flow’ry bed. Cupid meantime assum’d his form and face, 975 Foll’wing Achates with a shorter pace, And brought the gifts. The queen already sate
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Amidst the Trojan lords, in shining state, High on a golden bed: her princely guest Was next her side; in order sate the rest. 980 Then canisters with bread are heap’d on high; Th’ attendants water for their hands supply, And, having wash’d, with silken towels dry. Next fifty handmaids in long order bore The censers, and with fumes the gods adore: 985 Then youths, and virgins twice as many, join To place the dishes, and to serve the wine. The Tyrian train, admitted to the feast, Approach, and on the painted couches rest. All on the Trojan gifts with wonder gaze, 990 But view the beauteous boy with more amaze, His rosy-color’d cheeks, his radiant eyes, His motions, voice, and shape, and all the god’s disguise; Nor pass unprais’d the vest and veil divine, Which wand’ring foliage and rich flow’rs entwine. 995 But, far above the rest, the royal dame, (Already doom’d to love’s disastrous flame,) With eyes insatiate, and tumultuous joy, Beholds the presents, and admires the boy. The guileful god about the hero long, 1000 With children’s play, and false embraces, hung; Then sought the queen: she took him to her arms With greedy pleasure, and devour’d his charms. Unhappy Dido little thought what guest, How dire a god, she drew so near her breast; 1005 But he, not mindless of his mother’s pray’r, Works in the pliant bosom of the fair, And molds her heart anew, and blots her former care. The dead is to the living love resign’d; And all Aeneas enters in her mind. 1010
Now, when the rage of hunger was appeas’d, The meat remov’d, and ev’ry guest was pleas’d, The golden bowls with sparkling wine are crown’d, And thro’ the palace cheerful cries resound. From gilded roofs depending lamps display 1015 Nocturnal beams, that emulate the day. A golden bowl, that shone with gems divine, The queen commanded to be crown’d with wine: The bowl that Belus us’d, and all the Tyrian line. Then, silence thro’ the hall proclaim’d, she spoke: 1020 “O hospitable Jove! we thus invoke, With solemn rites, thy sacred name and pow’r; Bless to both nations this auspicious hour! So may the Trojan and the Tyrian line In lasting concord from this day combine. 1025 Thou, Bacchus, god of joys and friendly cheer, And gracious Juno, both be present here! And you, my lords of Tyre, your vows address To Heav’n with mine, to ratify the peace.” The goblet then she took, with nectar crown’d 1030 (Sprinkling the first libations on the ground,) And rais’d it to her mouth with sober grace; Then, sipping, offer’d to the next in place.
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‘T was Bitias whom she call’d, a thirsty soul; He took challenge, and embrac’d the bowl, 1035 With pleasure swill’d the gold, nor ceas’d to draw, Till he the bottom of the brimmer saw. The goblet goes around: Iopas brought His golden lyre, and sung what ancient Atlas taught: The various labors of the wand’ring moon, 1040 And whence proceed th’ eclipses of the sun; Th’ original of men and beasts; and whence The rains arise, and fires their warmth dispense, And fix’d and erring stars dispose their influence; What shakes the solid earth; what cause delays 1045 The summer nights and shortens winter days. With peals of shouts the Tyrians praise the song: Those peals are echo’d by the Trojan throng. Th’ unhappy queen with talk prolong’d the night, And drank large draughts of love with vast delight; 1050 Of Priam much enquir’d, of Hector more; Then ask’d what arms the swarthy Memnon wore, What troops he landed on the Trojan shore; The steeds of Diomede varied the discourse, And fierce Achilles, with his matchless force; 1055 At length, as fate and her ill stars requir’d, To hear the series of the war desir’d. “Relate at large, my godlike guest,” she said, “The Grecian stratagems, the town betray’d: The fatal issue of so long a war, 1060 Your flight, your wand’rings, and your woes, declare; For, since on ev’ry sea, on ev’ry coast, Your men have been distress’d, your navy toss’d, Sev’n times the sun has either tropic view’d, The winter banish’d, and the spring renew’d.” 1065
Book II All were attentive to the godlike man, When from his lofty couch he thus began: “Great queen, what you command me to relate Renews the sad remembrance of our fate: An empire from its old foundations rent, 1070 And ev’ry woe the Trojans underwent; A peopled city made a desart place; All that I saw, and part of which I was: Not ev’n the hardest of our foes could hear, Nor stern Ulysses tell without a tear. 1075 And now the latter watch of wasting night, And setting stars, to kindly rest invite; But, since you take such int’rest in our woe, And Troy’s disastrous end desire to know, I will restrain my tears, and briefly tell 1080 What in our last and fatal night befell.
“By destiny compell’d, and in despair, The Greeks grew weary of the tedious war, And by Minerva’s aid a fabric rear’d, Which like a steed of monstrous height appear’d: 1085 The sides were plank’d with pine; they feign’d it made
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For their return, and this the vow they paid. Thus they pretend, but in the hollow side Selected numbers of their soldiers hide: With inward arms the dire machine they load, 1090 And iron bowels stuff the dark abode. In sight of Troy lies Tenedos, an isle (While Fortune did on Priam’s empire smile) Renown’d for wealth; but, since, a faithless bay, Where ships expos’d to wind and weather lay. 1095 There was their fleet conceal’d. We thought, for Greece Their sails were hoisted, and our fears release. The Trojans, coop’d within their walls so long, Unbar their gates, and issue in a throng, Like swarming bees, and with delight survey 1100 The camp deserted, where the Grecians lay: The quarters of the sev’ral chiefs they show’d; Here Phoenix, here Achilles, made abode; Here join’d the battles; there the navy rode. Part on the pile their wond’ring eyes employ: 1105 The pile by Pallas rais’d to ruin Troy. Thymoetes first (‘t is doubtful whether hir’d, Or so the Trojan destiny requir’d) Mov’d that the ramparts might be broken down, To lodge the monster fabric in the town. 1110 But Capys, and the rest of sounder mind, The fatal present to the flames designed, Or to the wat’ry deep; at least to bore The hollow sides, and hidden frauds explore. The giddy vulgar, as their fancies guide, 1115 With noise say nothing, and in parts divide. Laocoon, follow’d by a num’rous crowd, Ran from the fort, and cried, from far, aloud: ‘O wretched countrymen! what fury reigns? What more than madness has possess’d your brains? 1120 Think you the Grecians from your coasts are gone? And are Ulysses’ arts no better known? This hollow fabric either must inclose, Within its blind recess, our secret foes; Or ‘t is an engine rais’d above the town, 1125 T’ o’erlook the walls, and then to batter down. Somewhat is sure design’d, by fraud or force: Trust not their presents, nor admit the horse.’ Thus having said, against the steed he threw His forceful spear, which, hissing as flew, 1130 Pierc’d thro’ the yielding planks of jointed wood, And trembling in the hollow belly stood. The sides, transpierc’d, return a rattling sound, And groans of Greeks inclos’d come issuing thro’ the wound And, had not Heav’n the fall of Troy design’d, 1135 Or had not men been fated to be blind, Enough was said and done t’ inspire a better mind. Then had our lances pierc’d the treach’rous wood, And Ilian tow’rs and Priam’s empire stood. Meantime, with shouts, the Trojan shepherds bring 1140 A captive Greek, in bands, before the king; Taken to take; who made himself their prey, T’ impose on their belief, and Troy betray;
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Fix’d on his aim, and obstinately bent To die undaunted, or to circumvent. 1145 About the captive, tides of Trojans flow; All press to see, and some insult the foe. Now hear how well the Greeks their wiles disguis’d; Behold a nation in a man compris’d. Trembling the miscreant stood, unarm’d and bound; 1150 He star’d, and roll’d his haggard eyes around, Then said: ‘Alas! what earth remains, what sea Is open to receive unhappy me? What fate a wretched fugitive attends, Scorn’d by my foes, abandon’d by my friends?’ 1155 He said, and sigh’d, and cast a rueful eye: Our pity kindles, and our passions die. We cheer youth to make his own defense, And freely tell us what he was, and whence: What news he could impart, we long to know, 1160 And what to credit from a captive foe.
“His fear at length dismiss’d, he said: ‘Whate’er My fate ordains, my words shall be sincere: I neither can nor dare my birth disclaim; Greece is my country, Sinon is my name. 1165 Tho’ plung’d by Fortune’s pow’r in misery, ‘T is not in Fortune’s pow’r to make me lie. If any chance has hither brought the name Of Palamedes, not unknown to fame, Who suffer’d from the malice of the times, 1170 Accus’d and sentenc’d for pretended crimes, Because these fatal wars he would prevent; Whose death the wretched Greeks too late lament— Me, then a boy, my father, poor and bare Of other means, committed to his care, 1175 His kinsman and companion in the war. While Fortune favor’d, while his arms support The cause, and rul’d the counsels, of the court, I made some figure there; nor was my name Obscure, nor I without my share of fame. 1180 But when Ulysses, with fallacious arts, Had made impression in the people’s hearts, And forg’d a treason in my patron’s name (I speak of things too far divulg’d by fame), My kinsman fell. Then I, without support, 1185 In private mourn’d his loss, and left the court. Mad as I was, I could not bear his fate With silent grief, but loudly blam’d the state, And curs’d the direful author of my woes. ‘T was told again; and hence my ruin rose. 1190 I threaten’d, if indulgent Heav’n once more Would land me safely on my native shore, His death with double vengeance to restore. This mov’d the murderer’s hate; and soon ensued Th’ effects of malice from a man so proud. 1195 Ambiguous rumors thro’ the camp he spread, And sought, by treason, my devoted head; New crimes invented; left unturn’d no stone, To make my guilt appear, and hide his own;
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Till Calchas was by force and threat’ning wrought— 1200 But why—why dwell I on that anxious thought? If on my nation just revenge you seek, And ‘t is t’ appear a foe, t’ appear a Greek; Already you my name and country know; Assuage your thirst of blood, and strike the blow: 1205 My death will both the kingly brothers please, And set insatiate Ithacus at ease.’ This fair unfinish’d tale, these broken starts, Rais’d expectations in our longing hearts: Unknowing as we were in Grecian arts. 1210 His former trembling once again renew’d, With acted fear, the villain thus pursued:
“‘Long had the Grecians (tir’d with fruitless care, And wearied with an unsuccessful war) Resolv’d to raise the siege, and leave the town; 1215 And, had the gods permitted, they had gone; But oft the wintry seas and southern winds Withstood their passage home, and chang’d their minds. Portents and prodigies their souls amaz’d; But most, when this stupendous pile was rais’d: 1220 Then flaming meteors, hung in air, were seen, And thunders rattled thro’ a sky serene. Dismay’d, and fearful of some dire event, Eurypylus t’ enquire their fate was sent. He from the gods this dreadful answer brought: 1225
“O Grecians, when the Trojan shores you sought, Your passage with a virgin’s blood was bought: So must your safe return be bought again, And Grecian blood once more atone the main.” The spreading rumor round the people ran; 1230 All fear’d, and each believ’d himself the man. Ulysses took th’ advantage of their fright; Call’d Calchas, and produc’d in open sight: Then bade him name the wretch, ordain’d by fate The public victim, to redeem the state. 1235 Already some presag’d the dire event, And saw what sacrifice Ulysses meant. For twice five days the good old seer withstood Th’ intended treason, and was dumb to blood, Till, tir’d, with endless clamors and pursuit 1240 Of Ithacus, he stood no longer mute; But, as it was agreed, pronounc’d that I Was destin’d by the wrathful gods to die. All prais’d the sentence, pleas’d the storm should fall On one alone, whose fury threaten’d all. 1245 The dismal day was come; the priests prepare Their leaven’d cakes, and fillets for my hair. I follow’d nature’s laws, and must avow I broke my bonds and fled the fatal blow. Hid in a weedy lake all night I lay, 1250 Secure of safety when they sail’d away. But now what further hopes for me remain, To see my friends, or native soil, again; My tender infants, or my careful sire,
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Whom they returning will to death require; 1255 Will perpetrate on them their first design, And take the forfeit of their heads for mine? Which, O! if pity mortal minds can move, If there be faith below, or gods above, If innocence and truth can claim desert, 1260 Ye Trojans, from an injur’d wretch avert.’
“False tears true pity move; the king commands To loose his fetters, and unbind his hands: Then adds these friendly words: ‘Dismiss thy fears; Forget the Greeks; be mine as thou wert theirs. 1265 But truly tell, was it for force or guile, Or some religious end, you rais’d the pile?’ Thus said the king. He, full of fraudful arts, This well-invented tale for truth imparts: ‘Ye lamps of heav’n!’ he said, and lifted high 1270 His hands now free, ‘thou venerable sky! Inviolable pow’rs, ador’d with dread! Ye fatal fillets, that once bound this head! Ye sacred altars, from whose flames I fled! Be all of you adjur’d; and grant I may, 1275 Without a crime, th’ ungrateful Greeks betray, Reveal the secrets of the guilty state, And justly punish whom I justly hate! But you, O king, preserve the faith you gave, If I, to save myself, your empire save. 1280 The Grecian hopes, and all th’ attempts they made, Were only founded on Minerva’s aid. But from the time when impious Diomede, And false Ulysses, that inventive head, Her fatal image from the temple drew, 1285 The sleeping guardians of the castle slew, Her virgin statue with their bloody hands Polluted, and profan’d her holy bands; From thence the tide of fortune left their shore, And ebb’d much faster than it flow’d before: 1290 Their courage languish’d, as their hopes decay’d; And Pallas, now averse, refus’d her aid. Nor did the goddess doubtfully declare Her alter’d mind and alienated care. When first her fatal image touch’d the ground, 1295 She sternly cast her glaring eyes around, That sparkled as they roll’d, and seem’d to threat: Her heav’nly limbs distill’d a briny sweat. Thrice from the ground she leap’d, was seen to wield Her brandish’d lance, and shake her horrid shield. 1300 Then Calchas bade our host for flight And hope no conquest from the tedious war, Till first they sail’d for Greece; with pray’rs besought Her injur’d pow’r, and better omens brought. And now their navy plows the wat’ry main, 1305 Yet soon expect it on your shores again, With Pallas pleas’d; as Calchas did ordain. But first, to reconcile the blue-ey’d maid For her stol’n statue and her tow’r betray’d, Warn’d by the seer, to her offended name 1310
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We rais’d and dedicate this wondrous frame, So lofty, lest thro’ your forbidden gates It pass, and intercept our better fates: For, once admitted there, our hopes are lost; And Troy may then a new Palladium boast; 1315 For so religion and the gods ordain, That, if you violate with hands profane Minerva’s gift, your town in flames shall burn, (Which omen, O ye gods, on Graecia turn!) But if it climb, with your assisting hands, 1320 The Trojan walls, and in the city stands; Then Troy shall Argos and Mycenae burn, And the reverse of fate on us return.’
“With such deceits he gain’d their easy hearts, Too prone to credit his perfidious arts. 1325 What Diomede, nor Thetis’ greater son, A thousand ships, nor ten years’ siege, had done— False tears and fawning words the city won.
“A greater omen, and of worse portent, Did our unwary minds with fear torment, 1330 Concurring to produce the dire event. Laocoon, Neptune’s priest by lot that year, With solemn pomp then sacrific’d a steer; When, dreadful to behold, from sea we spied Two serpents, rank’d abreast, the seas divide, 1335 And smoothly sweep along the swelling tide. Their flaming crests above the waves they show; Their bellies seem to burn the seas below; Their speckled tails advance to steer their course, And on the sounding shore the flying billows force. 1340 And now the strand, and now the plain they held; Their ardent eyes with bloody streaks were fill’d; Their nimble tongues they brandish’d as they came, And lick’d their hissing jaws, that sputter’d flame. We fled amaz’d; their destin’d way they take, 1345 And to Laocoon and his children make; And first around the tender boys they wind, Then with their sharpen’d fangs their limbs and bodies grind. The wretched father, running to their aid With pious haste, but vain, they next invade; 1350 Twice round his waist their winding volumes roll’d; And twice about his gasping throat they fold. The priest thus doubly chok’d, their crests divide, And tow’ring o’er his head in triumph ride. With both his hands he labors at the knots; 1355 His holy fillets the blue venom blots; His roaring fills the flitting air around. Thus, when an ox receives a glancing wound, He breaks his bands, the fatal altar flies, And with loud bellowings breaks the yielding skies. 1360 Their tasks perform’d, the serpents quit their prey, And to the tow’r of Pallas make their way: Couch’d at her feet, they lie protected there By her large buckler and protended spear. Amazement seizes all; the gen’ral cry 1365
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Proclaims Laocoon justly doom’d to die, Whose hand the will of Pallas had withstood, And dared to violate the sacred wood. All vote t’ admit the steed, that vows be paid And incense offer’d to th’ offended maid. 1370 A spacious breach is made; the town lies bare; Some hoisting-levers, some the wheels prepare And fasten to the horse’s feet; the rest With cables haul along th’ unwieldly beast. Each on his fellow for assistance calls; 1375 At length the fatal fabric mounts the walls, Big with destruction. Boys with chaplets crown’d, And choirs of virgins, sing and dance around. Thus rais’d aloft, and then descending down, It enters o’er our heads, and threats the town. 1380 O sacred city, built by hands divine! O valiant heroes of the Trojan line! Four times he struck: as oft the clashing sound Of arms was heard, and inward groans rebound. Yet, mad with zeal, and blinded with our fate, 1385 We haul along the horse in solemn state; Then place the dire portent within the tow’r. Cassandra cried, and curs’d th’ unhappy hour; Foretold our fate; but, by the god’s decree, All heard, and none believ’d the prophecy. 1390 With branches we the fanes adorn, and waste, In jollity, the day ordain’d to be the last. Meantime the rapid heav’ns roll’d down the light, And on the shaded ocean rush’d the night; Our men, secure, nor guards nor sentries held, 1395 But easy sleep their weary limbs compell’d. The Grecians had embark’d their naval pow’rs From Tenedos, and sought our well-known shores, Safe under covert of the silent night, And guided by th’ imperial galley’s light; 1400 When Sinon, favor’d by the partial gods, Unlock’d the horse, and op’d his dark abodes; Restor’d to vital air our hidden foes, Who joyful from their long confinement rose. Tysander bold, and Sthenelus their guide, 1405 And dire Ulysses down the cable slide: Then Thoas, Athamas, and Pyrrhus haste; Nor was the Podalirian hero last, Nor injur’d Menelaus, nor the fam’d Epeus, who the fatal engine fram’d. 1410 A nameless crowd succeed; their forces join T’ invade the town, oppress’d with sleep and wine. Those few they find awake first meet their fate; Then to their fellows they unbar the gate.
“‘T was in the dead of night, when sleep repairs 1415 Our bodies worn with toils, our minds with cares, When Hector’s ghost before my sight appears: A bloody shroud he seem’d, and bath’d in tears; Such as he was, when, by Pelides slain, Thessalian coursers dragg’d him o’er the plain. 1420 Swoln were his feet, as when the thongs were thrust
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Thro’ the bor’d holes; his body black with dust; Unlike that Hector who return’d from toils Of war, triumphant, in Aeacian spoils, Or him who made the fainting Greeks retire, 1425 And launch’d against their navy Phrygian fire. His hair and beard stood stiffen’d with his gore; And all the wounds he for his country bore Now stream’d afresh, and with new purple ran. I wept to see the visionary man, 1430 And, while my trance continued, thus began: ‘O light of Trojans, and support of Troy, Thy father’s champion, and thy country’s joy! O, long expected by thy friends! from whence Art thou so late return’d for our defense? 1435 Do we behold thee, wearied as we are With length of labors, and with toils of war? After so many fun’rals of thy own Art thou restor’d to thy declining town? But say, what wounds are these? What new disgrace 1440 Deforms the manly features of thy face?’
“To this the specter no reply did frame, But answer’d to the cause for which he came, And, groaning from the bottom of his breast, This warning in these mournful words express’d: 1445 ‘O goddess-born! escape, by timely flight, The flames and horrors of this fatal night. The foes already have possess’d the wall; Troy nods from high, and totters to her fall. Enough is paid to Priam’s royal name, 1450 More than enough to duty and to fame. If by a mortal hand my father’s throne Could be defended, ‘t was by mine alone. Now Troy to thee commends her future state, And gives her gods companions of thy fate: 1455 From their assistance walls expect, Which, wand’ring long, at last thou shalt erect.’ He said, and brought me, from their blest abodes, The venerable statues of the gods, With ancient Vesta from the sacred choir, 1460 The wreaths and relics of th’ immortal fire.
“Now peals of shouts come thund’ring from afar, Cries, threats, and loud laments, and mingled war: The noise approaches, tho’ our palace stood Aloof from streets, encompass’d with a wood. 1465 Louder, and yet more loud, I hear th’ alarms Of human cries distinct, and clashing arms. Fear broke my slumbers; I no longer stay, But mount the terrace, thence the town survey, And hearken what the frightful sounds convey. 1470 Thus, when a flood of fire by wind is borne, Crackling it rolls, and mows the standing corn; Or deluges, descending on the plains, Sweep o’er the yellow year, destroy the pains Of lab’ring oxen and the peasant’s gains; 1475 Unroot the forest oaks, and bear away
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Flocks, folds, and trees, and undistinguish’d prey: The shepherd climbs the cliff, and sees from far The wasteful ravage of the wat’ry war. Then Hector’s faith was manifestly clear’d, 1480 And Grecian frauds in open light appear’d. The palace of Deiphobus ascends In smoky flames, and catches on his friends. Ucalegon burns next: the seas are bright With splendor not their own, and shine with Trojan light. 1485 New clamors and new clangors now arise, The sound of trumpets mix’d with fighting cries. With frenzy seiz’d, I run to meet th’ alarms, Resolv’d on death, resolv’d to die in arms, But first to gather friends, with them t’ oppose 1490 (If fortune favor’d) and repel the foes; Spurr’d by my courage, by my country fir’d, With sense of honor and revenge inspir’d.
“Pantheus, Apollo’s priest, a sacred name, Had scap’d the Grecian swords, and pass’d the flame: 1495 With relics loaden, to my doors he fled, And by the hand his tender grandson led. ‘What hope, O Pantheus? whither can we run? Where make a stand? and what may yet be done?’ Scarce had I said, when Pantheus, with a groan: 1500 ‘Troy is no more, and Ilium was a town! The fatal day, th’ appointed hour, is come, When wrathful Jove’s irrevocable doom Transfers the Trojan state to Grecian hands. The fire consumes the town, the foe commands; 1505 And armed hosts, an unexpected force, Break from the bowels of the fatal horse. Within the gates, proud Sinon throws about The flames; and foes for entrance press without, With thousand others, whom I fear to name, 1510 More than from Argos or Mycenae came. To sev’ral posts their parties they divide; Some block the narrow streets, some scour the wide: The bold they kill, th’ unwary they surprise; Who fights finds death, and death finds him who flies. 1515 The warders of the gate but scarce maintain Th’ unequal combat, and resist in vain.’
“I heard; and Heav’n, that well-born souls inspires, Prompts me thro’ lifted swords and rising fires To run where clashing arms and clamor calls, 1520 And rush undaunted to defend the walls. Ripheus and Iph’itus by my side engage, For valor one renown’d, and one for age. Dymas and Hypanis by moonlight knew My motions and my mien, and to my party drew; 1525 With young Coroebus, who by love was led To win renown and fair Cassandra’s bed, And lately brought his troops to Priam’s aid, Forewarn’d in vain by the prophetic maid. Whom when I saw resolv’d in arms to fall, 1530 And that one spirit animated all:
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‘Brave souls!’ said I,—‘but brave, alas! in vain— Come, finish what our cruel fates ordain. You see the desp’rate state of our affairs, And heav’n’s protecting pow’rs are deaf to pray’rs. 1535 The passive gods behold the Greeks defile Their temples, and abandon to the spoil Their own abodes: we, feeble few, conspire To save a sinking town, involv’d in fire. Then let us fall, but fall amidst our foes: 1540 Despair of life the means of living shows.’ So bold a speech incourag’d their desire Of death, and added fuel to their fire.
“As hungry wolves, with raging appetite, Scour thro’ the fields, nor fear the stormy night— 1545 Their whelps at home expect the promis’d food, And long to temper their dry chaps in blood— So rush’d we forth at once; resolv’d to die, Resolv’d, in death, the last extremes to try. We leave the narrow lanes behind, and dare 1550 Th’ unequal combat in the public square: Night was our friend; our leader was despair. What tongue can tell the slaughter of that night? What eyes can weep the sorrows and affright? An ancient and imperial city falls: 1555 The streets are fill’d with frequent funerals; Houses and holy temples float in blood, And hostile nations make a common flood. Not only Trojans fall; but, in their turn, The vanquish’d triumph, and the victors mourn. 1560 Ours take new courage from despair and night: Confus’d the fortune is, confus’d the fight. All parts resound with tumults, plaints, and fears; And grisly Death in sundry shapes appears. Androgeos fell among us, with his band, 1565 Who thought us Grecians newly come to land. ‘From whence,’ said he, ‘my friends, this long delay? You loiter, while the spoils are borne away: Our ships are laden with the Trojan store; And you, like truants, come too late ashore.’ 1570 He said, but soon corrected his mistake, Found, by the doubtful answers which we make: Amaz’d, he would have shunn’d th’ unequal fight; But we, more num’rous, intercept his flight. As when some peasant, in a bushy brake, 1575 Has with unwary footing press’d a snake; He starts aside, astonish’d, when he spies His rising crest, blue neck, and rolling eyes; So from our arms surpris’d Androgeos flies. In vain; for him and his we compass’d round, 1580 Possess’d with fear, unknowing of the ground, And of their lives an easy conquest found. Thus Fortune on our first endeavor smil’d. Coroebus then, with youthful hopes beguil’d, Swoln with success, and a daring mind, 1585 This new invention fatally design’d. ‘My friends,’ said he, ‘since Fortune shows the way,
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‘T is fit we should th’ auspicious guide obey. For what has she these Grecian arms bestow’d, But their destruction, and the Trojans’ good? 1590 Then change we shields, and their devices bear: Let fraud supply the want of force in war. They find us arms.’ This said, himself he dress’d In dead Androgeos’ spoils, his upper vest, His painted buckler, and his plumy crest. 1595 Thus Ripheus, Dymas, all the Trojan train, Lay down their own attire, and strip the slain. Mix’d with the Greeks, we go with ill presage, Flatter’d with hopes to glut our greedy rage; Unknown, assaulting whom we blindly meet, 1600 And strew with Grecian carcasses the street. Thus while their straggling parties we defeat, Some to the shore and safer ships retreat; And some, oppress’d with more ignoble fear, Remount the hollow horse, and pant in secret there. 1605
“But, ah! what use of valor can be made, When heav’n’s propitious pow’rs refuse their aid! Behold the royal prophetess, the fair Cassandra, dragg’d by her dishevel’d hair, Whom not Minerva’s shrine, nor sacred bands, 1610 In safety could protect from sacrilegious hands: On heav’n she cast her eyes, she sigh’d, she cried— ‘T was all she could—her tender arms were tied. So sad a sight Coroebus could not bear; But, fir’d with rage, distracted with despair, 1615 Amid the barb’rous ravishers he flew: Our leader’s rash example we pursue. But storms of stones, from the proud temple’s height, Pour down, and on our batter’d helms alight: We from our friends receiv’d this fatal blow, 1620 Who thought us Grecians, as we seem’d in show. They aim at the mistaken crests, from high; And ours beneath the pond’rous ruin lie. Then, mov’d with anger and disdain, to see Their troops dispers’d, the royal virgin free, 1625 The Grecians rally, and their pow’rs unite, With fury charge us, and renew the fight. The brother kings with Ajax join their force, And the whole squadron of Thessalian horse.
“Thus, when the rival winds their quarrel try, 1630 Contending for the kingdom of the sky, South, east, and west, on airy coursers borne; The whirlwind gathers, and the woods are torn: Then Nereus strikes the deep; the billows rise, And, mix’d with ooze and sand, pollute the skies. 1635 The troops we squander’d first again appear From several quarters, and enclose the rear. They first observe, and to the rest betray, Our diff ’rent speech; our borrow’d arms survey. Oppress’d with odds, we fall; Coroebus first, 1640 At Pallas’ altar, by Peneleus pierc’d. Then Ripheus follow’d, in th’ unequal fight;
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Just of his word, observant of the right: Heav’n thought not so. Dymas their fate attends, With Hypanis, mistaken by their friends. 1645 Nor, Pantheus, thee, thy miter, nor the bands Of awful Phoebus, sav’d from impious hands. Ye Trojan flames, your testimony bear, What I perform’d, and what I suffer’d there; No sword avoiding in the fatal strife, 1650 Expos’d to death, and prodigal of life; Witness, ye heavens! I live not by my fault: I strove to have deserv’d the death I sought. But, when I could not fight, and would have died, Borne off to distance by the growing tide, 1655 Old Iphitus and I were hurried thence, With Pelias wounded, and without defense. New clamors from th’ invested palace ring: We run to die, or disengage the king. So hot th’ assault, so high the tumult rose, 1660 While ours defend, and while the Greeks oppose As all the Dardan and Argolic race Had been contracted in that narrow space; Or as all Ilium else were void of fear, And tumult, war, and slaughter, only there. 1665 Their targets in a tortoise cast, the foes, Secure advancing, to the turrets rose: Some mount the scaling ladders; some, more bold, Swerve upwards, and by posts and pillars hold; Their left hand gripes their bucklers in th’ ascent, 1670 While with their right they seize the battlement. From their demolish’d tow’rs the Trojans throw Huge heaps of stones, that, falling, crush the foe; And heavy beams and rafters from the sides (Such arms their last necessity provides) 1675 And gilded roofs, come tumbling from on high, The marks of state and ancient royalty. The guards below, fix’d in the pass, attend The charge undaunted, and the gate defend. Renew’d in courage with recover’d breath, 1680 A second time we ran to tempt our death, To clear the palace from the foe, succeed The weary living, and revenge the dead.
“A postern door, yet unobserv’d and free, Join’d by the length of a blind gallery, 1685 To the king’s closet led: a way well known To Hector’s wife, while Priam held the throne, Thro’ which she brought Astyanax, unseen, To cheer his grandsire and his grandsire’s queen. Thro’ this we pass, and mount the tow’r, from whence 1690 With unavailing arms the Trojans make defense. From this the trembling king had oft descried The Grecian camp, and saw their navy ride. Beams from its lofty height with swords we hew, Then, wrenching with our hands, th’ assault renew; 1695 And, where the rafters on the columns meet, We push them headlong with our arms and feet. The lightning flies not swifter than the fall,
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Nor thunder louder than the ruin’d wall: Down goes the top at once; the Greeks beneath 1700 Are piecemeal torn, or pounded into death. Yet more succeed, and more to death are sent; We cease not from above, nor they below relent. Before the gate stood Pyrrhus, threat’ning loud, With glitt’ring arms conspicuous in the crowd. 1705 So shines, renew’d in youth, the crested snake, Who slept the winter in a thorny brake, And, casting off his slough when spring returns, Now looks aloft, and with new glory burns; Restor’d with poisonous herbs, his ardent sides 1710 Reflect the sun; and rais’d on spires he rides; High o’er the grass, hissing he rolls along, And brandishes by fits his forky tongue. Proud Periphas, and fierce Automedon, His father’s charioteer, together run 1715 To force the gate; the Scyrian infantry Rush on in crowds, and the barr’d passage free. Ent’ring the court, with shouts the skies they rend; And flaming firebrands to the roofs ascend. Himself, among the foremost, deals his blows, 1720 And with his ax repeated strokes bestows On the strong doors; then all their shoulders ply, Till from the posts the brazen hinges fly. He hews apace; the double bars at length Yield to his ax and unresisted strength. 1725 A mighty breach is made: the rooms conceal’d Appear, and all the palace is reveal’d; The halls of audience, and of public state, And where the lonely queen in secret sate. Arm’d soldiers now by trembling maids are seen, 1730 With not a door, and scarce a space, between. The house is fill’d with loud laments and cries, And shrieks of women rend the vaulted skies; The fearful matrons run from place to place, And kiss the thresholds, and the posts embrace. 1735 The fatal work inhuman Pyrrhus plies, And all his father sparkles in his eyes; Nor bars, nor fighting guards, his force sustain: The bars are broken, and the guards are slain. In rush the Greeks, and all the apartments fill; 1740 Those few defendants whom they find, they kill. Not with so fierce a rage the foaming flood Roars, when he finds his rapid course withstood; Bears down the dams with unresisted sway, And sweeps the cattle and the cots away. 1745 These eyes beheld him when he march’d between The brother kings: I saw th’ unhappy queen, The hundred wives, and where old Priam stood, To stain his hallow’d altar with his brood. The fifty nuptial beds (such hopes had he, 1750 So large a promise, of a progeny), The posts, of plated gold, and hung with spoils, Fell the reward of the proud victor’s toils. Where’er the raging fire had left a space, The Grecians enter and possess the place. 1755
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“Perhaps you may of Priam’s fate enquire. He, when he saw his regal town on fire, His ruin’d palace, and his ent’ring foes, On ev’ry side inevitable woes, In arms, disus’d, invests his limbs, decay’d, 1760 Like them, with age; a late and useless aid. His feeble shoulders scarce the weight sustain; Loaded, not arm’d, he creeps along with pain, Despairing of success, ambitious to be slain! Uncover’d but by heav’n, there stood in view 1765 An altar; near the hearth a laurel grew, Dodder’d with age, whose boughs encompass round The household gods, and shade the holy ground. Here Hecuba, with all her helpless train Of dames, for shelter sought, but sought in vain. 1770 Driv’n like a flock of doves along the sky, Their images they hug, and to their altars fly. The Queen, when she beheld her trembling lord, And hanging by his side a heavy sword, ‘What rage,’ she cried, ‘has seiz’d my husband’s mind? 1775 What arms are these, and to what use design’d? These times want other aids! Were Hector here, Ev’n Hector now in vain, like Priam, would appear. With us, one common shelter thou shalt find, Or in one common fate with us be join’d.’ 1780 She said, and with a last salute embrac’d The poor old man, and by the laurel plac’d. Behold! Polites, one of Priam’s sons, Pursued by Pyrrhus, there for safety runs. Thro’ swords and foes, amaz’d and hurt, he flies 1785 Thro’ empty courts and open galleries. Him Pyrrhus, urging with his lance, pursues, And often reaches, and his thrusts renews. The youth, transfix’d, with lamentable cries, Expires before his wretched parent’s eyes: 1790 Whom gasping at his feet when Priam saw, The fear of death gave place to nature’s law; And, shaking more with anger than with age, ‘The gods,’ said he, ‘requite thy brutal rage! As sure they will, barbarian, sure they must, 1795 If there be gods in heav’n, and gods be just— Who tak’st in wrongs an insolent delight; With a son’s death t’ infect a father’s sight. Not he, whom thou and lying fame conspire To call thee his—not he, thy vaunted sire, 1800 Thus us’d my wretched age: the gods he fear’d, The laws of nature and of nations heard. He cheer’d my sorrows, and, for sums of gold, The bloodless carcass of my Hector sold; Pitied the woes a parent underwent, 1805 And sent me back in safety from his tent.’
“This said, his feeble hand a javelin threw, Which, flutt’ring, seem’d to loiter as it flew: Just, and but barely, to the mark it held, And faintly tinkled on the brazen shield. 1810
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“Then Pyrrhus thus: ‘Go thou from me to fate, And to my father my foul deeds relate. Now die!’ With that he dragg’d the trembling sire, Slidd’ring thro’ clotter’d blood and holy mire, (The mingled paste his murder’d son had made,) 1815 Haul’d from beneath the violated shade, And on the sacred pile the royal victim laid. His right hand held his bloody falchion bare, His left he twisted in his hoary hair; Then, with a speeding thrust, his heart he found: 1820 The lukewarm blood came rushing thro’ the wound, And sanguine streams distain’d the sacred ground. Thus Priam fell, and shar’d one common fate With Troy in ashes, and his ruin’d state: He, who the scepter of all Asia sway’d, 1825 Whom monarchs like domestic slaves obey’d. On the bleak shore now lies th’ abandon’d king, A headless carcass, and a nameless thing.
“Then, not before, I felt my cruddled blood Congeal with fear, my hair with horror stood: 1830 My father’s image fill’d my pious mind, Lest equal years might equal fortune find. Again I thought on my forsaken wife, And trembled for my son’s abandon’d life. I look’d about, but found myself alone, 1835 Deserted at my need! My friends were gone. Some spent with toil, some with despair oppress’d, Leap’d headlong from the heights; the flames consum’d the rest. Thus, wand’ring in my way, without a guide, The graceless Helen in the porch I spied 1840 Of Vesta’s temple; there she lurk’d alone; Muffled she sate, and, what she could, unknown: But, by the flames that cast their blaze around, That common bane of Greece and Troy I found. For Ilium burnt, she dreads the Trojan sword; 1845 More dreads the vengeance of her injur’d lord; Ev’n by those gods who refug’d her abhorr’d. Trembling with rage, the strumpet I regard, Resolv’d to give her guilt the due reward: ‘Shall she triumphant sail before the wind, 1850 And leave in flames unhappy Troy behind? Shall she her kingdom and her friends review, In state attended with a captive crew, While unreveng’d the good old Priam falls, And Grecian fires consume the Trojan walls? 1855 For this the Phrygian fields and Xanthian flood Were swell’d with bodies, and were drunk with blood? ‘T is true, a soldier can small honor gain, And boast no conquest, from a woman slain: Yet shall the fact not pass without applause, 1860 Of vengeance taken in so just a cause; The punish’d crime shall set my soul at ease, And murm’ring manes of my friends appease.’ Thus while I rave, a gleam of pleasing light Spread o’er the place; and, shining heav’nly bright, 1865 My mother stood reveal’d before my sight
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Never so radiant did her eyes appear; Not her own star confess’d a light so clear: Great in her charms, as when on gods above She looks, and breathes herself into their love. 1870 She held my hand, the destin’d blow to break; Then from her rosy lips began to speak: ‘My son, from whence this madness, this neglect Of my commands, and those whom I protect? Why this unmanly rage? Recall to mind 1875 Whom you forsake, what pledges leave behind. Look if your helpless father yet survive, Or if Ascanius or Creusa live. Around your house the greedy Grecians err; And these had perish’d in the nightly war, 1880 But for my presence and protecting care. Not Helen’s face, nor Paris, was in fault; But by the gods was this destruction brought. Now cast your eyes around, while I dissolve The mists and films that mortal eyes involve, 1885 Purge from your sight the dross, and make you see The shape of each avenging deity. Enlighten’d thus, my just commands fulfill, Nor fear obedience to your mother’s will. Where yon disorder’d heap of ruin lies, 1890 Stones rent from stones; where clouds of dust arise— Amid that smother Neptune holds his place, Below the wall’s foundation drives his mace, And heaves the building from the solid base. Look where, in arms, imperial Juno stands 1895 Full in the Scaean gate, with loud commands, Urging on shore the tardy Grecian bands. See! Pallas, of her snaky buckler proud, Bestrides the tow’r, refulgent thro’ the cloud: See! Jove new courage to the foe supplies, 1900 And arms against the town the partial deities. Haste hence, my son; this fruitless labor end: Haste, where your trembling spouse and sire attend: Haste; and a mother’s care your passage shall befriend.’ She said, and swiftly vanish’d from my sight, 1905 Obscure in clouds and gloomy shades of night. I look’d, I listen’d; dreadful sounds I hear; And the dire forms of hostile gods appear. Troy sunk in flames I saw (nor could prevent), And Ilium from its old foundations rent; 1910 Rent like a mountain ash, which dar’d the winds, And stood the sturdy strokes of lab’ring hinds. About the roots the cruel ax resounds; The stumps are pierc’d with oft-repeated wounds: The war is felt on high; the nodding crown 1915 Now threats a fall, and throws the leafy honors down. To their united force it yields, tho’ late, And mourns with mortal groans th’ approaching fate: The roots no more their upper load sustain; But down she falls, and spreads a ruin thro’ the plain. 1920
“Descending thence, I scape thro’ foes and fire: Before the goddess, foes and flames retire.
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Arriv’d at home, he, for whose only sake, Or most for his, such toils I undertake, The good Anchises, whom, by timely flight, 1925 I purpos’d to secure on Ida’s height, Refus’d the journey, resolute to die And add his fun’rals to the fate of Troy, Rather than exile and old age sustain. ‘Go you, whose blood runs warm in ev’ry vein. 1930 Had Heav’n decreed that I should life enjoy, Heav’n had decreed to save unhappy Troy. ‘T is, sure, enough, if not too much, for one, Twice to have seen our Ilium overthrown. Make haste to save the poor remaining crew, 1935 And give this useless corpse a long adieu. These weak old hands suffice to stop my breath; At least the pitying foes will aid my death, To take my spoils, and leave my body bare: As for my sepulcher, let Heav’n take care. 1940 ‘T is long since I, for my celestial wife Loath’d by the gods, have dragg’d a ling’ring life; Since ev’ry hour and moment I expire, Blasted from heav’n by Jove’s avenging fire.’ This oft repeated, he stood fix’d to die: 1945 Myself, my wife, my son, my family, Intreat, pray, beg, and raise a doleful cry— ‘What, will he still persist, on death resolve, And in his ruin all his house involve!’ He still persists his reasons to maintain; 1950 Our pray’rs, our tears, our loud laments, are vain.
“Urg’d by despair, again I go to try The fate of arms, resolv’d in fight to die: ‘What hope remains, but what my death must give? Can I, without so dear a father, live? 1955 You term it prudence, what I baseness call: Could such a word from such a parent fall? If Fortune please, and so the gods ordain, That nothing should of ruin’d Troy remain, And you conspire with Fortune to be slain, 1960 The way to death is wide, th’ approaches near: For soon relentless Pyrrhus will appear, Reeking with Priam’s blood—the wretch who slew The son (inhuman) in the father’s view, And then the sire himself to the dire altar drew. 1965 O goddess mother, give me back to Fate; Your gift was undesir’d, and came too late! Did you, for this, unhappy me convey Thro’ foes and fires, to see my house a prey? Shall I my father, wife, and son behold, 1970 Welt’ring in blood, each other’s arms infold? Haste! gird my sword, tho’ spent and overcome: ‘T is the last summons to receive our doom. I hear thee, Fate; and I obey thy call! Not unreveng’d the foe shall see my fall. 1975 Restore me to the yet unfinish’d fight: My death is wanting to conclude the night.’ Arm’d once again, my glitt’ring sword I wield,
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While th’ other hand sustains my weighty shield, And forth I rush to seek th’ abandon’d field. 1980 I went; but sad Creusa stopp’d my way, And cross the threshold in my passage lay, Embrac’d my knees, and, when I would have gone, Shew’d me my feeble sire and tender son: ‘If death be your design, at least,’ said she, 1985 ‘Take us along to share your destiny. If any farther hopes in arms remain, This place, these pledges of your love, maintain. To whom do you expose your father’s life, Your son’s, and mine, your now forgotten wife!’ 1990 While thus she fills the house with clam’rous cries, Our hearing is diverted by our eyes: For, while I held my son, in the short space Betwixt our kisses and our last embrace; Strange to relate, from young Iulus’ head 1995 A lambent flame arose, which gently spread Around his brows, and on his temples fed. Amaz’d, with running water we prepare To quench the sacred fire, and slake his hair; But old Anchises, vers’d in omens, rear’d 2000 His hands to heav’n, and this request preferr’d: ‘If any vows, almighty Jove, can bend Thy will; if piety can pray’rs commend, Confirm the glad presage which thou art pleas’d to send.’ Scarce had he said, when, on our left, we hear 2005 A peal of rattling thunder roll in air: There shot a streaming lamp along the sky, Which on the winged lightning seem’d to fly; From o’er the roof the blaze began to move, And, trailing, vanish’d in th’ Idaean grove. 2010 It swept a path in heav’n, and shone a guide, Then in a steaming stench of sulphur died.
“The good old man with suppliant hands implor’d The gods’ protection, and their star ador’d. ‘Now, now,’ said he, ‘my son, no more delay! 2015 I yield, I follow where Heav’n shews the way. Keep, O my country gods, our dwelling place, And guard this relic of the Trojan race, This tender child! These omens are your own, And you can yet restore the ruin’d town. 2020 At least accomplish what your signs foreshow: I stand resign’d, and am prepar’d to go.’
“He said. The crackling flames appear on high. And driving sparkles dance along the sky. With Vulcan’s rage the rising winds conspire, 2025 And near our palace roll the flood of fire. ‘Haste, my dear father, (‘t is no time to wait,) And load my shoulders with a willing freight. Whate’er befalls, your life shall be my care; One death, or one deliv’rance, we will share. 2030 My hand shall lead our little son; and you, My faithful consort, shall our steps pursue. Next, you, my servants, heed my strict commands:
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Without the walls a ruin’d temple stands, To Ceres hallow’d once; a cypress nigh 2035 Shoots up her venerable head on high, By long religion kept; there bend your feet, And in divided parties let us meet. Our country gods, the relics, and the bands, Hold you, my father, in your guiltless hands: 2040 In me ‘t is impious holy things to bear, Red as I am with slaughter, new from war, Till in some living stream I cleanse the guilt Of dire debate, and blood in battle spilt.’ Thus, ord’ring all that prudence could provide, 2045 I clothe my shoulders with a lion’s hide And yellow spoils; then, on my bending back, The welcome load of my dear father take; While on my better hand Ascanius hung, And with unequal paces tripp’d along. 2050 Creusa kept behind; by choice we stray Thro’ ev’ry dark and ev’ry devious way. I, who so bold and dauntless, just before, The Grecian darts and shock of lances bore, At ev’ry shadow now am seiz’d with fear, 2055 Not for myself, but for the charge I bear; Till, near the ruin’d gate arriv’d at last, Secure, and deeming all the danger past, A frightful noise of trampling feet we hear. My father, looking thro’ the shades, with fear, 2060 Cried out: ‘Haste, haste, my son, the foes are nigh; Their swords and shining armor I descry.’ Some hostile god, for some unknown offense, Had sure bereft my mind of better sense; For, while thro’ winding ways I took my flight, 2065 And sought the shelter of the gloomy night, Alas! I lost Creusa: hard to tell If by her fatal destiny she fell, Or weary sate, or wander’d with affright; But she was lost for ever to my sight. 2070 I knew not, or reflected, till I meet My friends, at Ceres’ now deserted seat. We met: not one was wanting; only she Deceiv’d her friends, her son, and wretched me.
“What mad expressions did my tongue refuse! 2075 Whom did I not, of gods or men, accuse! This was the fatal blow, that pain’d me more Than all I felt from ruin’d Troy before. Stung with my loss, and raving with despair, Abandoning my now forgotten care, 2080 Of counsel, comfort, and of hope bereft, My sire, my son, my country gods I left. In shining armor once again I sheathe My limbs, not feeling wounds, nor fearing death. Then headlong to the burning walls I run, 2085 And seek the danger I was forc’d to shun. I tread my former tracks; thro’ night explore Each passage, ev’ry street I cross’d before. All things were full of horror and affright,
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And dreadful ev’n the silence of the night. 2090 Then to my father’s house I make repair, With some small glimpse of hope to find her there. Instead of her, the cruel Greeks I met; The house was fill’d with foes, with flames beset. Driv’n on the wings of winds, whole sheets of fire, 2095 Thro’ air transported, to the roofs aspire. From thence to Priam’s palace I resort, And search the citadel and desart court. Then, unobserv’d, I pass by Juno’s church: A guard of Grecians had possess’d the porch; 2100 There Phoenix and Ulysses watch prey, And thither all the wealth of Troy convey: The spoils which they from ransack’d houses brought, And golden bowls from burning altars caught, The tables of the gods, the purple vests, 2105 The people’s treasure, and the pomp of priests. A rank of wretched youths, with pinion’d hands, And captive matrons, in long order stands. Then, with ungovern’d madness, I proclaim, Thro’ all the silent street, Creusa’s name: 2110 Creusa still I call; at length she hears, And sudden thro’ the shades of night appears— Appears, no more Creusa, nor my wife, But a pale specter, larger than the life. Aghast, astonish’d, and struck dumb with fear, 2115 I stood; like bristles rose my stiffen’d hair. Then thus the ghost began to soothe my grief ‘Nor tears, nor cries, can give the dead relief. Desist, my much-lov’d lord,’t indulge your pain; You bear no more than what the gods ordain. 2120 My fates permit me not from hence to fly; Nor he, the great controller of the sky. Long wand’ring ways for you the pow’rs decree; On land hard labors, and a length of sea. Then, after many painful years are past, 2125 On Latium’s happy shore you shall be cast, Where gentle Tiber from his bed beholds The flow’ry meadows, and the feeding folds. There end your toils; and there your fates provide A quiet kingdom, and a royal bride: 2130 There fortune shall the Trojan line restore, And you for lost Creusa weep no more. Fear not that I shall watch, with servile shame, Th’ imperious looks of some proud Grecian dame; Or, stooping to the victor’s lust, disgrace 2135 My goddess mother, or my royal race. And now, farewell! The parent of the gods Restrains my fleeting soul in her abodes: I trust our common issue to your care.’ She said, and gliding pass’d unseen in air. 2140 I strove to speak: but horror tied my tongue; And thrice about her neck my arms I flung, And, thrice deceiv’d, on vain embraces hung. Light as an empty dream at break of day, Or as a blast of wind, she rush’d away. 2145
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“Thus having pass’d the night in fruitless pain, I to my longing friends return again, Amaz’d th’ augmented number to behold, Of men and matrons mix’d, of young and old; A wretched exil’d crew together brought, 2150 With arms appointed, and with treasure fraught, Resolv’d, and willing, under my command, To run all hazards both of sea and land. The Morn began, from Ida, to display Her rosy cheeks; and Phosphor led the day: 2155 Before the gates the Grecians took their post, And all pretense of late relief was lost. I yield to Fate, unwillingly retire, And, loaded, up the hill convey my sire.”
Book III “When Heav’n had overturn’d the Trojan state 2160 And Priam’s throne, by too severe a fate; When ruin’d Troy became the Grecians’ prey, And Ilium’s lofty tow’rs in ashes lay; Warn’d by celestial omens, we retreat, To seek in foreign lands a happier seat. 2165 Near old Antandros, and at Ida’s foot, The timber of the sacred groves we cut, And build our fleet; uncertain yet to find What place the gods for our repose assign’d. Friends daily flock; and scarce the kindly spring 2170 Began to clothe the ground, and birds to sing, When old Anchises summon’d all to sea: The crew my father and the Fates obey. With sighs and tears I leave my native shore, And empty fields, where Ilium stood before. 2175 My sire, my son, our less and greater gods, All sail at once, and cleave the briny floods.
“Against our coast appears a spacious land, Which once the fierce Lycurgus did command, (Thracia the name—the people bold in war; 2180 Vast are their fields, and tillage is their care,) A hospitable realm while Fate was kind, With Troy in friendship and religion join’d. I land; with luckless omens then adore Their gods, and draw a line along the shore; 2185 I lay the deep foundations of a wall, And Aenos, nam’d from me, the city call. To Dionaean Venus vows are paid, And all the pow’rs that rising labors aid; A bull on Jove’s imperial altar laid. 2190 Not far, a rising hillock stood in view; Sharp myrtles on the sides, and cornels grew. There, while I went to crop the sylvan scenes, And shade our altar with their leafy greens, I pull’d a plant—with horror I relate 2195 A prodigy so strange and full of fate. The rooted fibers rose, and from the wound Black bloody drops distill’d upon the ground.
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Mute and amaz’d, my hair with terror stood; Fear shrunk my sinews, and congeal’d my blood. 2200 Mann’d once again, another plant I try: That other gush’d with the same sanguine dye. Then, fearing guilt for some offense unknown, With pray’rs and vows the Dryads I atone, With all the sisters of the woods, and most 2205 The God of Arms, who rules the Thracian coast, That they, or he, these omens would avert, Release our fears, and better signs impart. Clear’d, as I thought, and fully fix’d at length To learn the cause, I tugged with all my strength: 2210 I bent my knees against the ground; once more The violated myrtle ran with gore. Scarce dare I tell the sequel: from the womb Of wounded earth, and caverns of the tomb, A groan, as of a troubled ghost, renew’d 2215 My fright, and then these dreadful words ensued: ‘Why dost thou thus my buried body rend? O spare the corpse of thy unhappy friend! Spare to pollute thy pious hands with blood: The tears distil not from the wounded wood; 2220 But ev’ry drop this living tree contains Is kindred blood, and ran in Trojan veins. O fly from this unhospitable shore, Warn’d by my fate; for I am Polydore! Here loads of lances, in my blood embrued, 2225 Again shoot upward, by my blood renew’d.’
“My falt’ring tongue and shiv’ring limbs declare My horror, and in bristles rose my hair. When Troy with Grecian arms was closely pent, Old Priam, fearful of the war’s event, 2230 This hapless Polydore to Thracia sent: Loaded with gold, he sent his darling, far From noise and tumults, and destructive war, Committed to the faithless tyrant’s care; Who, when he saw the pow’r of Troy decline, 2235 Forsook the weaker, with the strong to join; Broke ev’ry bond of nature and of truth, And murder’d, for his wealth, the royal youth. O sacred hunger of pernicious gold! What bands of faith can impious lucre hold? 2240 Now, when my soul had shaken off her fears, I call my father and the Trojan peers; Relate the prodigies of Heav’n, require What he commands, and their advice desire. All vote to leave that execrable shore, 2245 Polluted with the blood of Polydore; But, ere we sail, his fun’ral rites prepare, Then, to his ghost, a tomb and altars rear. In mournful pomp the matrons walk the round, With baleful cypress and blue fillets crown’d, 2250 With eyes dejected, and with hair unbound. Then bowls of tepid milk and blood we pour, And thrice invoke the soul of Polydore.
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“Now, when the raging storms no longer reign, But southern gales invite us to the main, 2255 We launch our vessels, with a prosp’rous wind, And leave the cities and the shores behind.
“An island in th’ Aegaean main appears; Neptune and wat’ry Doris claim it theirs. It floated once, till Phoebus fix’d the sides 2260 To rooted earth, and now it braves the tides. Here, borne by friendly winds, we come ashore, With needful ease our weary limbs restore, And the Sun’s temple and his town adore.
“Anius, the priest and king, with laurel crown’d, 2265 His hoary locks with purple fillets bound, Who saw my sire the Delian shore ascend, Came forth with eager haste to meet his friend; Invites him to his palace; and, in sign Of ancient love, their plighted hands they join. 2270 Then to the temple of the god I went, And thus, before the shrine, my vows present: ‘Give, O Thymbraeus, give a resting place To the sad relics of the Trojan race; A seat secure, a region of their own, 2275 A lasting empire, and a happier town. Where shall we fix? where shall our labors end? Whom shall we follow, and what fate attend? Let not my pray’rs a doubtful answer find; But in clear auguries unveil thy mind.’ 2280 Scarce had I said: he shook the holy ground, The laurels, and the lofty hills around; And from the tripos rush’d a bellowing sound. Prostrate we fell; confess’d the present god, Who gave this answer from his dark abode: 2285 ‘Undaunted youths, go, seek that mother earth From which your ancestors derive their birth. The soil that sent you forth, her ancient race In her old bosom shall again embrace. Thro’ the wide world th’ Aeneian house shall reign, 2290 And children’s children shall the crown sustain.’ Thus Phoebus did our future fates disclose: A mighty tumult, mix’d with joy, arose.
“All are concern’d to know what place the god Assign’d, and where determin’d our abode. 2295 My father, long revolving in his mind The race and lineage of the Trojan kind, Thus answer’d their demands: ‘Ye princes, hear Your pleasing fortune, and dispel your fear. The fruitful isle of Crete, well known to fame, 2300 Sacred of old to Jove’s imperial name, In the mid ocean lies, with large command, And on its plains a hundred cities stand. Another Ida rises there, and we From thence derive our Trojan ancestry. 2305 From thence, as ‘t is divulg’d by certain fame, To the Rhoetean shores old Teucrus came;
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There fix’d, and there the seat of empire chose, Ere Ilium and the Trojan tow’rs arose. In humble vales they built their soft abodes, 2310 Till Cybele, the mother of the gods, With tinkling cymbals charm’d th’ Idaean woods, She secret rites and ceremonies taught, And to the yoke the savage lions brought. Let us the land which Heav’n appoints, explore; 2315 Appease the winds, and seek the Gnossian shore. If Jove assists the passage of our fleet, The third propitious dawn discovers Crete.’ Thus having said, the sacrifices, laid On smoking altars, to the gods he paid: 2320 A bull, to Neptune an oblation due, Another bull to bright Apollo slew; A milk-white ewe, the western winds to please, And one coal-black, to calm the stormy seas. Ere this, a flying rumor had been spread 2325 That fierce Idomeneus from Crete was fled, Expell’d and exil’d; that the coast was free From foreign or domestic enemy.
“We leave the Delian ports, and put to sea; By Naxos, fam’d for vintage, make our way; 2330 Then green Donysa pass; and sail in sight Of Paros’ isle, with marble quarries white. We pass the scatter’d isles of Cyclades, That, scarce distinguish’d, seem to stud the seas. The shouts of sailors double near the shores; 2335 They stretch their canvas, and they ply their oars. ‘All hands aloft! for Crete! for Crete!’ they cry, And swiftly thro’ the foamy billows fly. Full on the promis’d land at length we bore, With joy descending on the Cretan shore. 2340 With eager haste a rising town I frame, Which from the Trojan Pergamus I name: The name itself was grateful; I exhort To found their houses, and erect a fort. Our ships are haul’d upon the yellow strand; 2345 The youth begin to till the labor’d land; And I myself new marriages promote, Give laws, and dwellings I divide by lot; When rising vapors choke the wholesome air, And blasts of noisome winds corrupt the year; 2350 The trees devouring caterpillars burn; Parch’d was the grass, and blighted was the corn: Nor ‘scape the beasts; for Sirius, from on high, With pestilential heat infects the sky: My men—some fall, the rest in fevers fry. 2355 Again my father bids me seek the shore Of sacred Delos, and the god implore, To learn what end of woes we might expect, And to what clime our weary course direct.
“‘T was night, when ev’ry creature, void of cares, 2360 The common gift of balmy slumber shares: The statues of my gods (for such they seem’d),
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Those gods whom I from flaming Troy redeem’d, Before me stood, majestically bright, Full in the beams of Phoebe’s ent’ring light. 2365 Then thus they spoke, and eas’d my troubled mind: ‘What from the Delian god thou go’st to find, He tells thee here, and sends us to relate. Those pow’rs are we, companions of thy fate, Who from the burning town by thee were brought, 2370 Thy fortune follow’d, and thy safety wrought. Thro’ seas and lands as we thy steps attend, So shall our care thy glorious race befriend. An ample realm for thee thy fates ordain, A town that o’er the conquer’d world shall reign. 2375 Thou, mighty walls for mighty nations build; Nor let thy weary mind to labors yield: But change thy seat; for not the Delian god, Nor we, have giv’n thee Crete for our abode. A land there is, Hesperia call’d of old, 2380 (The soil is fruitful, and the natives bold— Th’ Oenotrians held it once,) by later fame Now call’d Italia, from the leader’s name. Iasius there and Dardanus were born; From thence we came, and thither must return. 2385 Rise, and thy sire with these glad tidings greet. Search Italy; for Jove denies thee Crete.’
“Astonish’d at their voices and their sight, (Nor were they dreams, but visions of the night; I saw, I knew their faces, and descried, 2390 In perfect view, their hair with fillets tied;) I started from my couch; a clammy sweat On all my limbs and shiv’ring body sate. To heav’n I lift my hands with pious haste, And sacred incense in the flames I cast. 2395 Thus to the gods their perfect honors done, More cheerful, to my good old sire I run, And tell the pleasing news. In little space He found his error of the double race; Not, as before he deem’d, deriv’d from Crete; 2400 No more deluded by the doubtful seat: Then said: ‘O son, turmoil’d in Trojan fate! Such things as these Cassandra did relate. This day revives within my mind what she Foretold of Troy renew’d in Italy, 2405 And Latian lands; but who could then have thought That Phrygian gods to Latium should be brought, Or who believ’d what mad Cassandra taught? Now let us go where Phoebus leads the way.’
“He said; and we with glad consent obey, 2410 Forsake the seat, and, leaving few behind, We spread our sails before the willing wind. Now from the sight of land our galleys move, With only seas around and skies above; When o’er our heads descends a burst of rain, 2415 And night with sable clouds involves the main; The ruffling winds the foamy billows raise;
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The scatter’d fleet is forc’d to sev’ral ways; The face of heav’n is ravish’d from our eyes, And in redoubled peals the roaring thunder flies. 2420 Cast from our course, we wander in the dark. No stars to guide, no point of land to mark. Ev’n Palinurus no distinction found Betwixt the night and day; such darkness reign’d around. Three starless nights the doubtful navy strays, 2425 Without distinction, and three sunless days; The fourth renews the light, and, from our shrouds, We view a rising land, like distant clouds; The mountain-tops confirm the pleasing sight, And curling smoke ascending from their height. 2430 The canvas falls; their oars the sailors ply; From the rude strokes the whirling waters fly. At length I land upon the Strophades, Safe from the danger of the stormy seas. Those isles are compass’d by th’ Ionian main, 2435 The dire abode where the foul Harpies reign, Forc’d by the winged warriors to repair To their old homes, and leave their costly fare. Monsters more fierce offended Heav’n ne’er sent From hell’s abyss, for human punishment: 2440 With virgin faces, but with wombs obscene, Foul paunches, and with ordure still unclean; With claws for hands, and looks for ever lean.
“We landed at the port, and soon beheld Fat herds of oxen graze the flow’ry field, 2445 And wanton goats without a keeper stray’d. With weapons we the welcome prey invade, Then call the gods for partners of our feast, And Jove himself, the chief invited guest. We spread the tables on the greensward ground; 2450 We feed with hunger, and the bowls go round; When from the mountain-tops, with hideous cry, And clatt’ring wings, the hungry Harpies fly; They snatch the meat, defiling all they find, And, parting, leave a loathsome stench behind. 2455 Close by a hollow rock, again we sit, New dress the dinner, and the beds refit, Secure from sight, beneath a pleasing shade, Where tufted trees a native arbor made. Again the holy fires on altars burn; 2460 And once again the rav’nous birds return, Or from the dark recesses where they lie, Or from another quarter of the sky; With filthy claws their odious meal repeat, And mix their loathsome ordures with their meat. 2465 I bid my friends for vengeance then prepare, And with the hellish nation wage the war. They, as commanded, for the fight provide, And in the grass their glitt’ring weapons hide; Then, when along the crooked shore we hear 2470 Their clatt’ring wings, and saw the foes appear, Misenus sounds a charge: we take th’ alarm, And our strong hands with swords and bucklers arm.
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In this new kind of combat all employ Their utmost force, the monsters to destroy. 2475 In vain—the fated skin is proof to wounds; And from their plumes the shining sword rebounds. At length rebuff ’d, they leave their mangled prey, And their stretch’d pinions to the skies display. Yet one remain’d—the messenger of Fate: 2480 High on a craggy cliff Celaeno sate, And thus her dismal errand did relate: ‘What! not contented with our oxen slain, Dare you with Heav’n an impious war maintain, And drive the Harpies from their native reign? 2485 Heed therefore what I say; and keep in mind What Jove decrees, what Phoebus has design’d, And I, the Furies’ queen, from both relate— You seek th’ Italian shores, foredoom’d by fate: Th’ Italian shores are granted you to find, 2490 And a safe passage to the port assign’d. But know, that ere your promis’d walls you build, My curses shall severely be fulfill’d. Fierce famine is your lot for this misdeed, Reduc’d to grind the plates on which you feed.’ 2495 She said, and to the neighb’ring forest flew. Our courage fails us, and our fears renew. Hopeless to win by war, to pray’rs we fall, And on th’ offended Harpies humbly call, And whether gods or birds obscene they were, 2500 Our vows for pardon and for peace prefer. But old Anchises, off ’ring sacrifice, And lifting up to heav’n his hands and eyes, Ador’d the greater gods: ‘Avert,’ said he, ‘These omens; render vain this prophecy, 2505 And from th’ impending curse a pious people free!’
“Thus having said, he bids us put to sea; We loose from shore our haulsers, and obey, And soon with swelling sails pursue the wat’ry way. Amidst our course, Zacynthian woods appear; 2510 And next by rocky Neritos we steer: We fly from Ithaca’s detested shore, And curse the land which dire Ulysses bore. At length Leucate’s cloudy top appears, And the Sun’s temple, which the sailor fears. 2515 Resolv’d to breathe a while from labor past, Our crooked anchors from the prow we cast, And joyful to the little city haste. Here, safe beyond our hopes, our vows we pay To Jove, the guide and patron of our way. 2520 The customs of our country we pursue, And Trojan games on Actian shores renew. Our youth their naked limbs besmear with oil, And exercise the wrastlers’ noble toil; Pleas’d to have sail’d so long before the wind, 2525 And left so many Grecian towns behind. The sun had now fulfill’d his annual course, And Boreas on the seas display’d his force: I fix’d upon the temple’s lofty door
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The brazen shield which vanquish’d Abas bore; 2530 The verse beneath my name and action speaks: ‘These arms Aeneas took from conqu’ring Greeks.’ Then I command to weigh; the seamen ply Their sweeping oars; the smoking billows fly. The sight of high Phaeacia soon we lost, 2535 And skimm’d along Epirus’ rocky coast.
“Then to Chaonia’s port our course we bend, And, landed, to Buthrotus’ heights ascend. Here wondrous things were loudly blaz’d fame: How Helenus reviv’d the Trojan name, 2540 And reign’d in Greece; that Priam’s captive son Succeeded Pyrrhus in his bed and throne; And fair Andromache, restor’d by fate, Once more was happy in a Trojan mate. I leave my galleys riding in the port, 2545 And long to see the new Dardanian court. By chance, the mournful queen, before the gate, Then solemniz’d her former husband’s fate. Green altars, rais’d of turf, with gifts she crown’d, And sacred priests in order stand around, 2550 And thrice the name of hapless Hector sound. The grove itself resembles Ida’s wood; And Simois seem’d the well-dissembled flood. But when at nearer distance she beheld My shining armor and my Trojan shield, 2555 Astonish’d at the sight, the vital heat Forsakes her limbs; her veins no longer beat: She faints, she falls, and scarce recov’ring strength, Thus, with a falt’ring tongue, she speaks at length:
“‘Are you alive, O goddess-born?’ she said, 2560 ‘Or if a ghost, then where is Hector’s shade?’ At this, she cast a loud and frightful cry. With broken words I made this brief reply: ‘All of me that remains appears in sight; I live, if living be to loathe the light. 2565 No phantom; but I drag a wretched life, My fate resembling that of Hector’s wife. What have you suffer’d since you lost your lord? By what strange blessing are you now restor’d? Still are you Hector’s? or is Hector fled, 2570 And his remembrance lost in Pyrrhus’ bed?’ With eyes dejected, in a lowly tone, After a modest pause she thus begun:
“‘O only happy maid of Priam’s race, Whom death deliver’d from the foes’ embrace! 2575 Commanded on Achilles’ tomb to die, Not forc’d, like us, to hard captivity, Or in a haughty master’s arms to lie. In Grecian ships unhappy we were borne, Endur’d the victor’s lust, sustain’d the scorn: 2580 Thus I submitted to the lawless pride Of Pyrrhus, more a handmaid than a bride. Cloy’d with possession, he forsook my bed,
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And Helen’s lovely daughter sought to wed; Then me to Trojan Helenus resign’d, 2585 And his two slaves in equal marriage join’d; Till young Orestes, pierc’d with deep despair, And longing to redeem the promis’d fair, Before Apollo’s altar slew the ravisher. By Pyrrhus’ death the kingdom we regain’d: 2590 At least one half with Helenus remain’d. Our part, from Chaon, he Chaonia calls, And names from Pergamus his rising walls. But you, what fates have landed on our coast? What gods have sent you, or what storms have toss’d? 2595 Does young Ascanius life and health enjoy, Sav’d from the ruins of unhappy Troy? O tell me how his mother’s loss he bears, What hopes are promis’d from his blooming years, How much of Hector in his face appears?’ 2600 She spoke; and mix’d her speech with mournful cries, And fruitless tears came trickling from her eyes.
“At length her lord descends upon the plain, In pomp, attended with a num’rous train; Receives his friends, and to the city leads, 2605 And tears of joy amidst his welcome sheds. Proceeding on, another Troy I see, Or, in less compass, Troy’s epitome. A riv’let by the name of Xanthus ran, And I embrace the Scaean gate again. 2610 My friends in porticoes were entertain’d, And feasts and pleasures thro’ the city reign’d. The tables fill’d the spacious hall around, And golden bowls with sparkling wine were crown’d. Two days we pass’d in mirth, till friendly gales, 2615 Blown from the south supplied our swelling sails. Then to the royal seer I thus began: ‘O thou, who know’st, beyond the reach of man, The laws of heav’n, and what the stars decree; Whom Phoebus taught unerring prophecy, 2620 From his own tripod, and his holy tree; Skill’d in the wing’d inhabitants of air, What auspices their notes and flights declare: O say—for all religious rites portend A happy voyage, and a prosp’rous end; 2625 And ev’ry power and omen of the sky Direct my course for destin’d Italy; But only dire Celaeno, from the gods, A dismal famine fatally forebodes— O say what dangers I am first to shun, 2630 What toils vanquish, and what course to run.’
“The prophet first with sacrifice adores The greater gods; their pardon then implores; Unbinds the fillet from his holy head; To Phoebus, next, my trembling steps he led, 2635 Full of religious doubts and awful dread. Then, with his god possess’d, before the shrine, These words proceeded from his mouth divine:
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‘O goddess-born, (for Heav’n’s appointed will, With greater auspices of good than ill, 2640 Foreshows thy voyage, and thy course directs; Thy fates conspire, and Jove himself protects,) Of many things some few I shall explain, Teach thee to shun the dangers of the main, And how at length the promis’d shore to gain. 2645 The rest the fates from Helenus conceal, And Juno’s angry pow’r forbids to tell. First, then, that happy shore, that seems so nigh, Will far from your deluded wishes fly; Long tracts of seas divide your hopes from Italy: 2650 For you must cruise along Sicilian shores, And stem the currents with your struggling oars; Then round th’ Italian coast your navy steer; And, after this, to Circe’s island veer; And, last, before your new foundations rise, 2655 Must pass the Stygian lake, and view the nether skies. Now mark the signs of future ease and rest, And bear them safely treasur’d in thy breast. When, in the shady shelter of a wood, And near the margin of a gentle flood, 2660 Thou shalt behold a sow upon the ground, With thirty sucking young encompass’d round; The dam and offspring white as falling snow— These on thy city shall their name bestow, And there shall end thy labors and thy woe. 2665 Nor let the threaten’d famine fright thy mind, For Phoebus will assist, and Fate the way will find. Let not thy course to that ill coast be bent, Which fronts from far th’ Epirian continent: Those parts are all by Grecian foes possess’d; 2670 The salvage Locrians here the shores infest; There fierce Idomeneus his city builds, And guards with arms the Salentinian fields; And on the mountain’s brow Petilia stands, Which Philoctetes with his troops commands. 2675 Ev’n when thy fleet is landed on the shore, And priests with holy vows the gods adore, Then with a purple veil involve your eyes, Lest hostile faces blast the sacrifice. These rites and customs to the rest commend, 2680 That to your pious race they may descend.
“‘When, parted hence, the wind, that ready waits For Sicily, shall bear you to the straits Where proud Pelorus opes a wider way, Tack to the larboard, and stand off to sea: 2685 Veer starboard sea and land. Th’ Italian shore And fair Sicilia’s coast were one, before An earthquake caus’d the flaw: the roaring tides The passage broke that land from land divides; And where the lands retir’d, the rushing ocean rides. 2690 Distinguish’d by the straits, on either hand, Now rising cities in long order stand, And fruitful fields: so much can time invade The mold’ring work that beauteous Nature made.
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Far on the right, her dogs foul Scylla hides: 2695 Charybdis roaring on the left presides, And in her greedy whirlpool sucks the tides; Then spouts them from below: with fury driv’n, The waves mount up and wash the face of heav’n. But Scylla from her den, with open jaws, 2700 The sinking vessel in her eddy draws, Then dashes on the rocks. A human face, And virgin bosom, hides her tail’s disgrace: Her parts obscene below the waves descend, With dogs inclos’d, and in a dolphin end. 2705 ‘T is safer, then, to bear aloof to sea, And coast Pachynus, tho’ with more delay, Than once to view misshapen Scylla near, And the loud yell of wat’ry wolves to hear.
“‘Besides, if faith to Helenus be due, 2710 And if prophetic Phoebus tell me true, Do not this precept of your friend forget, Which therefore more than once I must repeat: Above the rest, great Juno’s name adore; Pay vows to Juno; Juno’s aid implore. 2715 Let gifts be to the mighty queen design’d, And mollify with pray’rs her haughty mind. Thus, at the length, your passage shall be free, And you shall safe descend on Italy. Arriv’d at Cumae, when you view the flood 2720 Of black Avernus, and the sounding wood, The mad prophetic Sibyl you shall find, Dark in a cave, and on a rock reclin’d. She sings the fates, and, in her frantic fits, The notes and names, inscrib’d, to leafs commits. 2725 What she commits to leafs, in order laid, Before the cavern’s entrance are display’d: Unmov’d they lie; but, if a blast of wind Without, or vapors issue from behind, The leafs are borne aloft in liquid air, 2730 And she resumes no more her museful care, Nor gathers from the rocks her scatter’d verse, Nor sets in order what the winds disperse. Thus, many not succeeding, most upbraid The madness of the visionary maid, 2735 And with loud curses leave the mystic shade.
“‘Think it not loss of time a while to stay, Tho’ thy companions chide thy long delay; Tho’ summon’d to the seas, tho’ pleasing gales Invite thy course, and stretch thy swelling sails: 2740 But beg the sacred priestess to relate With willing words, and not to write thy fate. The fierce Italian people she will show, And all thy wars, and all thy future woe, And what thou may’st avoid, and what must undergo. 2745 She shall direct thy course, instruct thy mind, And teach thee how the happy shores to find. This is what Heav’n allows me to relate: Now part in peace; pursue thy better fate,
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And raise, by strength of arms, the Trojan state.’ 2750
“This when the priest with friendly voice declar’d, He gave me license, and rich gifts prepar’d: Bounteous of treasure, he supplied my want With heavy gold, and polish’d elephant; Then Dodonaean caldrons put on board, 2755 And ev’ry ship with sums of silver stor’d. A trusty coat of mail to me he sent, Thrice chain’d with gold, for use and ornament; The helm of Pyrrhus added to the rest, That flourish’d with a plume and waving crest. 2760 Nor was my sire forgotten, nor my friends; And large recruits he to my navy sends: Men, horses, captains, arms, and warlike stores; Supplies new pilots, and new sweeping oars. Meantime, my sire commands to hoist our sails, 2765 Lest we should lose the first auspicious gales.
“The prophet bless’d the parting crew, and last, With words like these, his ancient friend embrac’d: ‘Old happy man, the care of gods above, Whom heav’nly Venus honor’d with her love, 2770 And twice preserv’d thy life, when Troy was lost, Behold from far the wish’d Ausonian coast: There land; but take a larger compass round, For that before is all forbidden ground. The shore that Phoebus has design’d for you, 2775 At farther distance lies, conceal’d from view. Go happy hence, and seek your new abodes, Blest in a son, and favor’d by the gods: For I with useless words prolong your stay, When southern gales have summon’d you away.’ 2780
“Nor less the queen our parting thence deplor’d, Nor was less bounteous than her Trojan lord. A noble present to my son she brought, A robe with flow’rs on golden tissue wrought, A phrygian vest; and loads with gifts beside 2785 Of precious texture, and of Asian pride. ‘Accept,’ she said, ‘these monuments of love, Which in my youth with happier hands I wove: Regard these trifles for the giver’s sake; ‘T is the last present Hector’s wife can make. 2790 Thou call’st my lost Astyanax to mind; In thee his features and his form I find: His eyes so sparkled with a lively flame; Such were his motions; such was all his frame; And ah! had Heav’n so pleas’d, his years had been the same.’ 2795
“With tears I took my last adieu, and said: ‘Your fortune, happy pair, already made, Leaves you no farther wish. My diff ’rent state, Avoiding one, incurs another fate. To you a quiet seat the gods allow: 2800 You have no shores to search, no seas to plow, Nor fields of flying Italy to chase:
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(Deluding visions, and a vain embrace!) You see another Simois, and enjoy The labor of your hands, another Troy, 2805 With better auspice than her ancient tow’rs, And less obnoxious to the Grecian pow’rs. If e’er the gods, whom I with vows adore, Conduct my steps to Tiber’s happy shore; If ever I ascend the Latian throne, 2810 And build a city I may call my own; As both of us our birth from Troy derive, So let our kindred lines in concord live, And both in acts of equal friendship strive. Our fortunes, good or bad, shall be the same: 2815 The double Troy shall differ but in name; That what we now begin may never end, But long to late posterity descend.’
“Near the Ceraunian rocks our course we bore; The shortest passage to th’ Italian shore. 2820 Now had the sun withdrawn his radiant light, And hills were hid in dusky shades of night: We land, and, on the bosom of the ground, A safe retreat and a bare lodging found. Close by the shore we lay; the sailors keep 2825 Their watches, and the rest securely sleep. The night, proceeding on with silent pace, Stood in her noon, and view’d with equal face Her steepy rise and her declining race. Then wakeful Palinurus rose, to spy 2830 The face of heav’n, and the nocturnal sky; And listen’d ev’ry breath of air to try; Observes the stars, and notes their sliding course, The Pleiads, Hyads, and their wat’ry force; And both the Bears is careful to behold, 2835 And bright Orion, arm’d with burnish’d gold. Then, when he saw no threat’ning tempest nigh, But a sure promise of a settled sky, He gave the sign to weigh; we break our sleep, Forsake the pleasing shore, and plow the deep. 2840
“And now the rising morn with rosy light Adorns the skies, and puts the stars to flight; When we from far, like bluish mists, descry The hills, and then the plains, of Italy. Achates first pronounc’d the joyful sound; 2845 Then, ‘Italy!’ the cheerful crew rebound. My sire Anchises crown’d a cup with wine, And, off ’ring, thus implor’d the pow’rs divine: ‘Ye gods, presiding over lands and seas, And you who raging winds and waves appease, 2850 Breathe on our swelling sails a prosp’rous wind, And smooth our passage to the port assign’d!’ The gentle gales their flagging force renew, And now the happy harbor is in view. Minerva’s temple then salutes our sight, 2855 Plac’d, as a landmark, on the mountain’s height. We furl our sails, and turn the prows to shore;
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The curling waters round the galleys roar. The land lies open to the raging east, Then, bending like a bow, with rocks compress’d, 2860 Shuts out the storms; the winds and waves complain, And vent their malice on the cliffs in vain. The port lies hid within; on either side Two tow’ring rocks the narrow mouth divide. The temple, which aloft we view’d before, 2865 To distance flies, and seems to shun the shore. Scarce landed, the first omens I beheld Were four white steeds that cropp’d the flow’ry field. ‘War, war is threaten’d from this foreign ground,’ My father cried, ‘where warlike steeds are found. 2870 Yet, since reclaim’d to chariots they submit, And bend to stubborn yokes, and champ the bit, Peace may succeed to war.’ Our way we bend To Pallas, and the sacred hill ascend; There prostrate to the fierce virago pray, 2875 Whose temple was the landmark of our way. Each with a Phrygian mantle veil’d his head, And all commands of Helenus obey’d, And pious rites to Grecian Juno paid. These dues perform’d, we stretch our sails, and stand 2880 To sea, forsaking that suspected land.
“From hence Tarentum’s bay appears in view, For Hercules renown’d, if fame be true. Just opposite, Lacinian Juno stands; Caulonian tow’rs, and Scylacaean strands, 2885 For shipwrecks fear’d. Mount Aetna thence we spy, Known by the smoky flames which cloud the sky. Far off we hear the waves with surly sound Invade the rocks, the rocks their groans rebound. The billows break upon the sounding strand, 2890 And roll the rising tide, impure with sand. Then thus Anchises, in experience old: ‘’T is that Charybdis which the seer foretold, And those the promis’d rocks! Bear off to sea!’ With haste the frighted mariners obey. 2895 First Palinurus to the larboard veer’d; Then all the fleet by his example steer’d. To heav’n aloft on ridgy waves we ride, Then down to hell descend, when they divide; And thrice our galleys knock’d the stony ground, 2900 And thrice the hollow rocks return’d the sound, And thrice we saw the stars, that stood with dews around. The flagging winds forsook us, with the sun; And, wearied, on Cyclopian shores we run. The port capacious, and secure from wind, 2905 Is to the foot of thund’ring Aetna join’d. By turns a pitchy cloud she rolls on high; By turns hot embers from her entrails fly, And flakes of mounting flames, that lick the sky. Oft from her bowels massy rocks are thrown, 2910 And, shiver’d by the force, come piecemeal down. Oft liquid lakes of burning sulphur flow, Fed from the fiery springs that boil below.
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Enceladus, they say, transfix’d by Jove, With blasted limbs came tumbling from above; 2915 And, where he fell, th’ avenging father drew This flaming hill, and on his body threw. As often as he turns his weary sides, He shakes the solid isle, and smoke the heavens hides. In shady woods we pass the tedious night, 2920 Where bellowing sounds and groans our souls affright, Of which no cause is offer’d to the sight; For not one star was kindled in the sky, Nor could the moon her borrow’d light supply; For misty clouds involv’d the firmament, 2925 The stars were muffled, and the moon was pent.
“Scarce had the rising sun the day reveal’d, Scarce had his heat the pearly dews dispell’d, When from the woods there bolts, before our sight, Somewhat betwixt a mortal and a sprite, 2930 So thin, so ghastly meager, and so wan, So bare of flesh, he scarce resembled man. This thing, all tatter’d, seem’d from far t’ implore Our pious aid, and pointed to the shore. We look behind, then view his shaggy beard; 2935 His clothes were tagg’d with thorns, and filth his limbs besmear’d; The rest, in mien, in habit, and in face, Appear’d a Greek, and such indeed he was. He cast on us, from far, a frightful view, Whom soon for Trojans and for foes he knew; 2940 Stood still, and paus’d; then all at once began To stretch his limbs, and trembled as he ran. Soon as approach’d, upon his knees he falls, And thus with tears and sighs for pity calls: ‘Now, by the pow’rs above, and what we share 2945 From Nature’s common gift, this vital air, O Trojans, take me hence! I beg no more; But bear me far from this unhappy shore. ‘T is true, I am a Greek, and farther own, Among your foes besieg’d th’ imperial town. 2950 For such demerits if my death be due, No more for this abandon’d life I sue; This only favor let my tears obtain, To throw me headlong in the rapid main: Since nothing more than death my crime demands, 2955 I die content, to die by human hands.’ He said, and on his knees my knees embrac’d: I bade him boldly tell his fortune past, His present state, his lineage, and his name, Th’ occasion of his fears, and whence he came. 2960 The good Anchises rais’d him with his hand; Who, thus encourag’d, answer’d our demand: ‘From Ithaca, my native soil, I came To Troy; and Achaemenides my name. Me my poor father with Ulysses sent; 2965 (O had I stay’d, with poverty content!) But, fearful for themselves, my countrymen Left me forsaken in the Cyclops’ den. The cave, tho’ large, was dark; the dismal floor
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Was pav’d with mangled limbs and putrid gore. 2970 Our monstrous host, of more than human size, Erects his head, and stares within the skies; Bellowing his voice, and horrid is his hue. Ye gods, remove this plague from mortal view! The joints of slaughter’d wretches are his food; 2975 And for his wine he quaffs the streaming blood. These eyes beheld, when with his spacious hand He seiz’d two captives of our Grecian band; Stretch’d on his back, he dash’d against the stones Their broken bodies, and their crackling bones: 2980 With spouting blood the purple pavement swims, While the dire glutton grinds the trembling limbs.
“‘Not unreveng’d Ulysses bore their fate, Nor thoughtless of his own unhappy state; For, gorg’d with flesh, and drunk with human wine 2985 While fast asleep the giant lay supine, Snoring aloud, and belching from his maw His indigested foam, and morsels raw; We pray; we cast the lots, and then surround The monstrous body, stretch’d along the ground: 2990 Each, as he could approach him, lends a hand To bore his eyeball with a flaming brand. Beneath his frowning forehead lay his eye; For only one did the vast frame supply— But that a globe so large, his front it fill’d, 2995 Like the sun’s disk or like a Grecian shield. The stroke succeeds; and down the pupil bends: This vengeance follow’d for our slaughter’d friends. But haste, unhappy wretches, haste to fly! Your cables cut, and on your oars rely! 3000 Such, and so vast as Polypheme appears, A hundred more this hated island bears: Like him, in caves they shut their woolly sheep; Like him, their herds on tops of mountains keep; Like him, with mighty strides, they stalk from steep to steep 3005 And now three moons their sharpen’d horns renew, Since thus, in woods and wilds, obscure from view, I drag my loathsome days with mortal fright, And in deserted caverns lodge by night; Oft from the rocks a dreadful prospect see 3010 Of the huge Cyclops, like a walking tree: From far I hear his thund’ring voice resound, And trampling feet that shake the solid ground. Cornels and salvage berries of the wood, And roots and herbs, have been my meager food. 3015 While all around my longing eyes I cast, I saw your happy ships appear at last. On those I fix’d my hopes, to these I run; ‘T is all I ask, this cruel race to shun; What other death you please, yourselves bestow.’ 3020
“Scarce had he said, when on the mountain’s brow We saw the giant shepherd stalk before His following flock, and leading to the shore: A monstrous bulk, deform’d, depriv’d of sight;
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His staff a trunk of pine, to guide his steps aright. 3025 His pond’rous whistle from his neck descends; His woolly care their pensive lord attends: This only solace his hard fortune sends. Soon as he reach’d the shore and touch’d the waves, From his bor’d eye the gutt’ring blood he laves: 3030 He gnash’d his teeth, and groan’d; thro’ seas he strides, And scarce the topmost billows touch’d his sides.
“Seiz’d with a sudden fear, we run to sea, The cables cut, and silent haste away; The well-deserving stranger entertain; 3035 Then, buckling to the work, our oars divide the main. The giant harken’d to the dashing sound: But, when our vessels out of reach he found, He strided onward, and in vain essay’d Th’ Ionian deep, and durst no farther wade. 3040 With that he roar’d aloud: the dreadful cry Shakes earth, and air, and seas; the billows fly Before the bellowing noise to distant Italy. The neigh’ring Aetna trembling all around, The winding caverns echo to the sound. 3045 His brother Cyclops hear the yelling roar, And, rushing down the mountains, crowd the shore. We saw their stern distorted looks, from far, And one-eyed glance, that vainly threaten’d war: A dreadful council, with their heads on high; 3050 (The misty clouds about their foreheads fly;) Not yielding to the tow’ring tree of Jove, Or tallest cypress of Diana’s grove. New pangs of mortal fear our minds assail; We tug at ev’ry oar, and hoist up ev’ry sail, 3055 And take th’ advantage of the friendly gale. Forewarn’d by Helenus, we strive to shun Charybdis’ gulf, nor dare to Scylla run. An equal fate on either side appears: We, tacking to the left, are free from fears; 3060 For, from Pelorus’ point, the North arose, And drove us back where swift Pantagias flows. His rocky mouth we pass, and make our way By Thapsus and Megara’s winding bay. This passage Achaemenides had shown, 3065 Tracing the course which he before had run.
“Right o’er against Plemmyrium’s wat’ry strand, There lies an isle once call’d th’ Ortygian land. Alpheus, as old fame reports, has found From Greece a secret passage under ground, 3070 By love to beauteous Arethusa led; And, mingling here, they roll in the same sacred bed. As Helenus enjoin’d, we next adore Diana’s name, protectress of the shore. With prosp’rous gales we pass the quiet sounds 3075 Of still Elorus, and his fruitful bounds. Then, doubling Cape Pachynus, we survey The rocky shore extended to the sea. The town of Camarine from far we see,
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And fenny lake, undrain’d by fate’s decree. 3080 In sight of the Geloan fields we pass, And the large walls, where mighty Gela was; Then Agragas, with lofty summits crown’d, Long for the race of warlike steeds renown’d. We pass’d Selinus, and the palmy land, 3085 And widely shun the Lilybaean strand, Unsafe, for secret rocks and moving sand. At length on shore the weary fleet arriv’d, Which Drepanum’s unhappy port receiv’d. Here, after endless labors, often toss’d 3090 By raging storms, and driv’n on ev’ry coast, My dear, dear father, spent with age, I lost: Ease of my cares, and solace of my pain, Sav’d thro’ a thousand toils, but sav’d in vain The prophet, who my future woes reveal’d, 3095 Yet this, the greatest and the worst, conceal’d; And dire Celaeno, whose foreboding skill Denounc’d all else, was silent of the ill. This my last labor was. Some friendly god From thence convey’d us to your blest abode.” 3100
Thus, to the list’ning queen, the royal guest His wand’ring course and all his toils express’d; And here concluding, he retir’d to rest.
Book IV But anxious cares already seiz’d the queen: She fed within her veins a flame unseen; 3105 The hero’s valor, acts, and birth inspire Her soul with love, and fan the secret fire. His words, his looks, imprinted in her heart, Improve the passion, and increase the smart. Now, when the purple morn had chas’d away 3110 The dewy shadows, and restor’d the day, Her sister first with early care she sought, And thus in mournful accents eas’d her thought:
“My dearest Anna, what new dreams affright My lab’ring soul! what visions of the night 3115 Disturb my quiet, and distract my breast With strange ideas of our Trojan guest! His worth, his actions, and majestic air, A man descended from the gods declare. Fear ever argues a degenerate kind; 3120 His birth is well asserted by his mind. Then, what he suffer’d, when by Fate betray’d! What brave attempts for falling Troy he made! Such were his looks, so gracefully he spoke, That, were I not resolv’d against the yoke 3125 Of hapless marriage, never to be curst With second love, so fatal was my first, To this one error I might yield again; For, since Sichaeus was untimely slain, This only man is able to subvert 3130 The fix’d foundations of my stubborn heart.
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And, to confess my frailty, to my shame, Somewhat I find within, if not the same, Too like the sparkles of my former flame. But first let yawning earth a passage rend, 3135 And let me thro’ the dark abyss descend; First let avenging Jove, with flames from high, Drive down this body to the nether sky, Condemn’d with ghosts in endless night to lie, Before I break the plighted faith I gave! 3140 No! he who had my vows shall ever have; For, whom I lov’d on earth, I worship in the grave.”
She said: the tears ran gushing from her eyes, And stopp’d her speech. Her sister thus replies: “O dearer than the vital air I breathe, 3145 Will you to grief your blooming years bequeath, Condemn’d to waste in woes your lonely life, Without the joys of mother or of wife? Think you these tears, this pompous train of woe, Are known or valued by the ghosts below? 3150 I grant that, while your sorrows yet were green, It well became a woman, and a queen, The vows of Tyrian princes to neglect, To scorn Hyarbas, and his love reject, With all the Libyan lords of mighty name; 3155 But will you fight against a pleasing flame! This little spot of land, which Heav’n bestows, On ev’ry side is hemm’d with warlike foes; Gaetulian cities here are spread around, And fierce Numidians there your frontiers bound; 3160 Here lies a barren waste of thirsty land, And there the Syrtes raise the moving sand; Barcaean troops besiege the narrow shore, And from the sea Pygmalion threatens more. Propitious Heav’n, and gracious Juno, lead 3165 This wand’ring navy to your needful aid: How will your empire spread, your city rise, From such a union, and with such allies? Implore the favor of the pow’rs above, And leave the conduct of the rest to love. 3170 Continue still your hospitable way, And still invent occasions of their stay, Till storms and winter winds shall cease to threat, And planks and oars repair their shatter’d fleet.”
These words, which from a friend and sister came, 3175 With ease resolv’d the scruples of her fame, And added fury to the kindled flame. Inspir’d with hope, the project they pursue; On ev’ry altar sacrifice renew: A chosen ewe of two years old they pay 3180 To Ceres, Bacchus, and the God of Day; Preferring Juno’s pow’r, for Juno ties The nuptial knot and makes the marriage joys. The beauteous queen before her altar stands, And holds the golden goblet in her hands. 3185 A milk-white heifer she with flow’rs adorns,
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And pours the ruddy wine betwixt her horns; And, while the priests with pray’r the gods invoke, She feeds their altars with Sabaean smoke, With hourly care the sacrifice renews, 3190 And anxiously the panting entrails views. What priestly rites, alas! what pious art, What vows avail to cure a bleeding heart! A gentle fire she feeds within her veins, Where the soft god secure in silence reigns. 3195
Sick with desire, and seeking him she loves, From street to street the raving Dido roves. So when the watchful shepherd, from the blind, Wounds with a random shaft the careless hind, Distracted with her pain she flies the woods, 3200 Bounds o’er the lawn, and seeks the silent floods, With fruitless care; for still the fatal dart Sticks in her side, and rankles in her heart. And now she leads the Trojan chief along The lofty walls, amidst the busy throng; 3205 Displays her Tyrian wealth, and rising town, Which love, without his labor, makes his own. This pomp she shows, to tempt her wand’ring guest; Her falt’ring tongue forbids to speak the rest. When day declines, and feasts renew the night, 3210 Still on his face she feeds her famish’d sight; She longs again to hear the prince relate His own adventures and the Trojan fate. He tells it o’er and o’er; but still in vain, For still she begs to hear it once again. 3215 The hearer on the speaker’s mouth depends, And thus the tragic story never ends.
Then, when they part, when Phoebe’s paler light Withdraws, and falling stars to sleep invite, She last remains, when ev’ry guest is gone, 3220 Sits on the bed he press’d, and sighs alone; Absent, her absent hero sees and hears; Or in her bosom young Ascanius bears, And seeks the father’s image in the child, If love by likeness might be so beguil’d. 3225
Meantime the rising tow’rs are at a stand; No labors exercise the youthful band, Nor use of arts, nor toils of arms they know; The mole is left unfinish’d to the foe; The mounds, the works, the walls, neglected lie, 3230 Short of their promis’d heighth, that seem’d to threat the sky,
But when imperial Juno, from above, Saw Dido fetter’d in the chains of love, Hot with the venom which her veins inflam’d, And by no sense of shame to be reclaim’d, 3235 With soothing words to Venus she begun: “High praises, endless honors, you have won, And mighty trophies, with your worthy son! Two gods a silly woman have undone!
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Nor am I ignorant, you both suspect 3240 This rising city, which my hands erect: But shall celestial discord never cease? ‘T is better ended in a lasting peace. You stand possess’d of all your soul desir’d: Poor Dido with consuming love is fir’d. 3245 Your Trojan with my Tyrian let us join; So Dido shall be yours, Aeneas mine: One common kingdom, one united line. Eliza shall a Dardan lord obey, And lofty Carthage for a dow’r convey.” 3250 Then Venus, who her hidden fraud descried, Which would the scepter of the world misguide To Libyan shores, thus artfully replied: “Who, but a fool, would wars with Juno choose, And such alliance and such gifts refuse, 3255 If Fortune with our joint desires comply? The doubt is all from Jove and destiny; Lest he forbid, with absolute command, To mix the people in one common land— Or will the Trojan and the Tyrian line 3260 In lasting leagues and sure succession join? But you, the partner of his bed and throne, May move his mind; my wishes are your own.”
“Mine,” said imperial Juno, “be the care; Time urges, now, to perfect this affair: 3265 Attend my counsel, and the secret share. When next the Sun his rising light displays, And gilds the world below with purple rays, The queen, Aeneas, and the Tyrian court Shall to the shady woods, for sylvan game, resort. 3270 There, while the huntsmen pitch their toils around, And cheerful horns from side to side resound, A pitchy cloud shall cover all the plain With hail, and thunder, and tempestuous rain; The fearful train shall take their speedy flight, 3275 Dispers’d, and all involv’d in gloomy night; One cave a grateful shelter shall afford To the fair princess and the Trojan lord. I will myself the bridal bed prepare, If you, to bless the nuptials, will be there: 3280 So shall their loves be crown’d with due delights, And Hymen shall be present at the rites.” The Queen of Love consents, and closely smiles At her vain project, and discover’d wiles.
The rosy morn was risen from the main, 3285 And horns and hounds awake the princely train: They issue early thro’ the city gate, Where the more wakeful huntsmen ready wait, With nets, and toils, and darts, beside the force Of Spartan dogs, and swift Massylian horse. 3290 The Tyrian peers and officers of state For the slow queen in antechambers wait; Her lofty courser, in the court below, Who his majestic rider seems to know,
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Proud of his purple trappings, paws the ground, 3295 And champs the golden bit, and spreads the foam around. The queen at length appears; on either hand The brawny guards in martial order stand. A flow’r’d simar with golden fringe she wore, And at her back a golden quiver bore; 3300 Her flowing hair a golden caul restrains, A golden clasp the Tyrian robe sustains. Then young Ascanius, with a sprightly grace, Leads on the Trojan youth to view the chase. But far above the rest in beauty shines 3305 The great Aeneas, the troop he joins; Like fair Apollo, when he leaves the frost Of wint’ry Xanthus, and the Lycian coast, When to his native Delos he resorts, Ordains the dances, and renews the sports; 3310 Where painted Scythians, mix’d with Cretan bands, Before the joyful altars join their hands: Himself, on Cynthus walking, sees below The merry madness of the sacred show. Green wreaths of bays his length of hair inclose; 3315 A golden fillet binds his awful brows; His quiver sounds: not less the prince is seen In manly presence, or in lofty mien.
Now had they reach’d the hills, and storm’d the seat Of salvage beasts, in dens, their last retreat. 3320 The cry pursues the mountain goats: they bound From rock to rock, and keep the craggy ground; Quite otherwise the stags, a trembling train, In herds unsingled, scour the dusty plain, And a long chase in open view maintain. 3325 The glad Ascanius, as his courser guides, Spurs thro’ the vale, and these and those outrides. His horse’s flanks and sides are forc’d to feel The clanking lash, and goring of the steel. Impatiently he views the feeble prey, 3330 Wishing some nobler beast to cross his way, And rather would the tusky boar attend, Or see the tawny lion downward bend.
Meantime, the gath’ring clouds obscure the skies: From pole to pole the forky lightning flies; 3335 The rattling thunders roll; and Juno pours A wintry deluge down, and sounding show’rs. The company, dispers’d, to converts ride, And seek the homely cots, or mountain’s hollow side. The rapid rains, descending from the hills, 3340 To rolling torrents raise the creeping rills. The queen and prince, as love or fortune guides, One common cavern in her bosom hides. Then first the trembling earth the signal gave, And flashing fires enlighten all the cave; 3345 Hell from below, and Juno from above, And howling nymphs, were conscious of their love. From this ill-omen’d hour in time arose Debate and death, and all succeeding woes.
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The queen, whom sense of honor could not move, 3350 No longer made a secret of her love, But call’d it marriage, by that specious name To veil the crime and sanctify the shame.
The loud report thro’ Libyan cities goes. Fame, the great ill, from small beginnings grows: 3355 Swift from the first; and ev’ry moment brings New vigor to her flights, new pinions to her wings. Soon grows the pigmy to gigantic size; Her feet on earth, her forehead in the skies. Inrag’d against the gods, revengeful Earth 3360 Produc’d her last of the Titanian birth. Swift is her walk, more swift her winged haste: A monstrous phantom, horrible and vast. As many plumes as raise her lofty flight, So many piercing eyes inlarge her sight; 3365 Millions of opening mouths to Fame belong, And ev’ry mouth is furnish’d with a tongue, And round with list’ning ears the flying plague is hung. She fills the peaceful universe with cries; No slumbers ever close her wakeful eyes; 3370 By day, from lofty tow’rs her head she shews, And spreads thro’ trembling crowds disastrous news; With court informers haunts, and royal spies; Things done relates, not done she feigns, and mingles truth with lies.
Talk is her business, and her chief delight 3375 To tell of prodigies and cause affright. She fills the people’s ears with Dido’s name, Who, lost to honor and the sense of shame, Admits into her throne and nuptial bed A wand’ring guest, who from his country fled: 3380 Whole days with him she passes in delights, And wastes in luxury long winter nights, Forgetful of her fame and royal trust, Dissolv’d in ease, abandon’d to her lust.
The goddess widely spreads the loud report, 3385 And flies at length to King Hyarba’s court. When first possess’d with this unwelcome news Whom did he not of men and gods accuse? This prince, from ravish’d Garamantis born, A hundred temples did with spoils adorn, 3390 In Ammon’s honor, his celestial sire; A hundred altars fed with wakeful fire; And, thro’ his vast dominions, priests ordain’d, Whose watchful care these holy rites maintain’d. The gates and columns were with garlands crown’d, 3395 And blood of victim beasts enrich’d the ground.
He, when he heard a fugitive could move The Tyrian princess, who disdain’d his love, His breast with fury burn’d, his eyes with fire, Mad with despair, impatient with desire; 3400 Then on the sacred altars pouring wine, He thus with pray’rs implor’d his sire divine:
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“Great Jove! propitious to the Moorish race, Who feast on painted beds, with off ’rings grace Thy temples, and adore thy pow’r divine 3405 With blood of victims, and with sparkling wine, Seest thou not this? or do we fear in vain Thy boasted thunder, and thy thoughtless reign? Do thy broad hands the forky lightnings lance? Thine are the bolts, or the blind work of chance? 3410 A wand’ring woman builds, within our state, A little town, bought at an easy rate; She pays me homage, and my grants allow A narrow space of Libyan lands to plow; Yet, scorning me, by passion blindly led, 3415 Admits a banish’d Trojan to her bed! And now this other Paris, with his train Of conquer’d cowards, must in Afric reign! (Whom, what they are, their looks and garb confess, Their locks with oil perfum’d, their Lydian dress.) 3420 He takes the spoil, enjoys the princely dame; And I, rejected I, adore an empty name.”
His vows, in haughty terms, he thus preferr’d, And held his altar’s horns. The mighty Thund’rer heard; Then cast his eyes on Carthage, where he found 3425 The lustful pair in lawless pleasure drown’d, Lost in their loves, insensible of shame, And both forgetful of their better fame. He calls Cyllenius, and the god attends, By whom his menacing command he sends: 3430 “Go, mount the western winds, and cleave the sky; Then, with a swift descent, to Carthage fly: There find the Trojan chief, who wastes his days In slothful riot and inglorious ease, Nor minds the future city, giv’n by fate. 3435 To him this message from my mouth relate: ‘Not so fair Venus hop’d, when twice she won Thy life with pray’rs, nor promis’d such a son. Hers was a hero, destin’d to command A martial race, and rule the Latian land, 3440 Who should his ancient line from Teucer draw, And on the conquer’d world impose the law.’ If glory cannot move a mind so mean, Nor future praise from fading pleasure wean, Yet why should he defraud his son of fame, 3445 And grudge the Romans their immortal name! What are his vain designs! what hopes he more From his long ling’ring on a hostile shore, Regardless to redeem his honor lost, And for his race to gain th’ Ausonian coast! 3450 Bid him with speed the Tyrian court forsake; With this command the slumb’ring warrior wake.”
Hermes obeys; with golden pinions binds His flying feet, and mounts the western winds: And, whether o’er the seas or earth he flies, 3455 With rapid force they bear him down the skies. But first he grasps within his awful hand
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The mark of sov’reign pow’r, his magic wand; With this he draws the ghosts from hollow graves; With this he drives them down the Stygian waves; 3460 With this he seals in sleep the wakeful sight, And eyes, tho’ clos’d in death, restores to light. Thus arm’d, the god begins his airy race, And drives the racking clouds along the liquid space; Now sees the tops of Atlas, as he flies, 3465 Whose brawny back supports the starry skies; Atlas, whose head, with piny forests crown’d, Is beaten by the winds, with foggy vapors bound. Snows hide his shoulders; from beneath his chin The founts of rolling streams their race begin; 3470 A beard of ice on his large breast depends. Here, pois’d upon his wings, the god descends: Then, rested thus, he from the tow’ring height Plung’d downward, with precipitated flight, Lights on the seas, and skims along the flood. 3475 As waterfowl, who seek their fishy food, Less, and yet less, to distant prospect show; By turns they dance aloft, and dive below: Like these, the steerage of his wings he plies, And near the surface of the water flies, 3480 Till, having pass’d the seas, and cross’d the sands, He clos’d his wings, and stoop’d on Libyan lands: Where shepherds once were hous’d in homely sheds, Now tow’rs within the clouds advance their heads. Arriving there, he found the Trojan prince 3485 New ramparts raising for the town’s defense. A purple scarf, with gold embroider’d o’er, (Queen Dido’s gift,) about his waist he wore; A sword, with glitt’ring gems diversified, For ornament, not use, hung idly by his side. 3490
Then thus, with winged words, the god began, Resuming his own shape: “Degenerate man, Thou woman’s property, what mak’st thou here, These foreign walls and Tyrian tow’rs to rear, Forgetful of thy own? All-pow’rful Jove, 3495 Who sways the world below and heav’n above, Has sent me down with this severe command: What means thy ling’ring in the Libyan land? If glory cannot move a mind so mean, Nor future praise from flitting pleasure wean, 3500 Regard the fortunes of thy rising heir: The promis’d crown let young Ascanius wear, To whom th’ Ausonian scepter, and the state Of Rome’s imperial name is ow’d by fate.” So spoke the god; and, speaking, took his flight, 3505 Involv’d in clouds, and vanish’d out of sight.
The pious prince was seiz’d with sudden fear; Mute was his tongue, and upright stood his hair. Revolving in his mind the stern command, He longs to fly, and loathes the charming land. 3510 What should he say? or how should he begin? What course, alas! remains to steer between
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Th’ offended lover and the pow’rful queen? This way and that he turns his anxious mind, And all expedients tries, and none can find. 3515 Fix’d on the deed, but doubtful of the means, After long thought, to this advice he leans: Three chiefs he calls, commands them to repair The fleet, and ship their men with silent care; Some plausible pretense he bids them find, 3520 To color what in secret he design’d. Himself, meantime, the softest hours would choose, Before the love-sick lady heard the news; And move her tender mind, by slow degrees, To suffer what the sov’reign pow’r decrees: 3525 Jove will inspire him, when, and what to say. They hear with pleasure, and with haste obey.
But soon the queen perceives the thin disguise: (What arts can blind a jealous woman’s eyes!) She was the first to find the secret fraud, 3530 Before the fatal news was blaz’d abroad. Love the first motions of the lover hears, Quick to presage, and ev’n in safety fears. Nor impious Fame was wanting to report The ships repair’d, the Trojans’ thick resort, 3535 And purpose to forsake the Tyrian court. Frantic with fear, impatient of the wound, And impotent of mind, she roves the city round. Less wild the Bacchanalian dames appear, When, from afar, their nightly god they hear, 3540 And howl about the hills, and shake the wreathy spear. At length she finds the dear perfidious man; Prevents his form’d excuse, and thus began: “Base and ungrateful! could you hope to fly, And undiscover’d scape a lover’s eye? 3545 Nor could my kindness your compassion move. Nor plighted vows, nor dearer bands of love? Or is the death of a despairing queen Not worth preventing, tho’ too well foreseen? Ev’n when the wintry winds command your stay, 3550 You dare the tempests, and defy the sea. False as you are, suppose you were not bound To lands unknown, and foreign coasts to sound; Were Troy restor’d, and Priam’s happy reign, Now durst you tempt, for Troy, the raging main? 3555 See whom you fly! am I the foe you shun? Now, by those holy vows, so late begun, By this right hand, (since I have nothing more To challenge, but the faith you gave before;) I beg you by these tears too truly shed, 3560 By the new pleasures of our nuptial bed; If ever Dido, when you most were kind, Were pleasing in your eyes, or touch’d your mind; By these my pray’rs, if pray’rs may yet have place, Pity the fortunes of a falling race. 3565 For you I have provok’d a tyrant’s hate, Incens’d the Libyan and the Tyrian state; For you alone I suffer in my fame,
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Bereft of honor, and expos’d to shame. Whom have I now to trust, ungrateful guest? 3570 (That only name remains of all the rest!) What have I left? or whither can I fly? Must I attend Pygmalion’s cruelty, Or till Hyarba shall in triumph lead A queen that proudly scorn’d his proffer’d bed? 3575 Had you deferr’d, at least, your hasty flight, And left behind some pledge of our delight, Some babe to bless the mother’s mournful sight, Some young Aeneas, to supply your place, Whose features might express his father’s face; 3580 I should not then complain to live bereft Of all my husband, or be wholly left.”
Here paus’d the queen. Unmov’d he holds his eyes, By Jove’s command; nor suffer’d love to rise, Tho’ heaving in his heart; and thus at length replies: 3585 “Fair queen, you never can enough repeat Your boundless favors, or I own my debt; Nor can my mind forget Eliza’s name, While vital breath inspires this mortal frame. This only let me speak in my defense: 3590 I never hop’d a secret flight from hence, Much less pretended to the lawful claim Of sacred nuptials, or a husband’s name. For, if indulgent Heav’n would leave me free, And not submit my life to fate’s decree, 3595 My choice would lead me to the Trojan shore, Those relics to review, their dust adore, And Priam’s ruin’d palace to restore. But now the Delphian oracle commands, And fate invites me to the Latian lands. 3600 That is the promis’d place to which I steer, And all my vows are terminated there. If you, a Tyrian, and a stranger born, With walls and tow’rs a Libyan town adorn, Why may not we—like you, a foreign race— 3605 Like you, seek shelter in a foreign place? As often as the night obscures the skies With humid shades, or twinkling stars arise, Anchises’ angry ghost in dreams appears, Chides my delay, and fills my soul with fears; 3610 And young Ascanius justly may complain Of his defrauded and destin’d reign. Ev’n now the herald of the gods appear’d: Waking I saw him, and his message heard. From Jove he came commission’d, heav’nly bright 3615 With radiant beams, and manifest to sight (The sender and the sent I both attest) These walls he enter’d, and those words express’d. Fair queen, oppose not what the gods command; Forc’d by my fate, I leave your happy land.” 3620
Thus while he spoke, already she began, With sparkling eyes, to view the guilty man; From head to foot survey’d his person o’er,
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Nor longer these outrageous threats forebore: “False as thou art, and, more than false, forsworn! 3625 Not sprung from noble blood, nor goddess-born, But hewn from harden’d entrails of a rock! And rough Hyrcanian tigers gave thee suck! Why should I fawn? what have I worse to fear? Did he once look, or lent a list’ning ear, 3630 Sigh’d when I sobb’d, or shed one kindly tear?— All symptoms of a base ungrateful mind, So foul, that, which is worse, ‘tis hard to find. Of man’s injustice why should I complain? The gods, and Jove himself, behold in vain 3635 Triumphant treason; yet no thunder flies, Nor Juno views my wrongs with equal eyes; Faithless is earth, and faithless are the skies! Justice is fled, and Truth is now no more! I sav’d the shipwrack’d exile on my shore; 3640 With needful food his hungry Trojans fed; I took the traitor to my throne and bed: Fool that I was—‘t is little to repeat The rest—I stor’d and rigg’d his ruin’d fleet. I rave, I rave! A god’s command he pleads, 3645 And makes Heav’n accessary to his deeds. Now Lycian lots, and now the Delian god, Now Hermes is employ’d from Jove’s abode, To warn him hence; as if the peaceful state Of heav’nly pow’rs were touch’d with human fate! 3650 But go! thy flight no longer I detain— Go seek thy promis’d kingdom thro’ the main! Yet, if the heav’ns will hear my pious vow, The faithless waves, not half so false as thou, Or secret sands, shall sepulchers afford 3655 To thy proud vessels, and their perjur’d lord. Then shalt thou call on injur’d Dido’s name: Dido shall come in a black sulph’ry flame, When death has once dissolv’d her mortal frame; Shall smile to see the traitor vainly weep: 3660 Her angry ghost, arising from the deep, Shall haunt thee waking, and disturb thy sleep. At least my shade thy punishment shall know, And Fame shall spread the pleasing news below.”
Abruptly here she stops; then turns away 3665 Her loathing eyes, and shuns the sight of day. Amazd he stood, revolving in his mind What speech to frame, and what excuse to find. Her fearful maids their fainting mistress led, And softly laid her on her ivory bed. 3670
But good Aeneas, tho’ he much desir’d To give that pity which her grief requir’d; Tho’ much he mourn’d, and labor’d with his love, Resolv’d at length, obeys the will of Jove; Reviews his forces: they with early care 3675 Unmoor their vessels, and for sea prepare. The fleet is soon afloat, in all its pride, And well-calk’d galleys in the harbor ride.
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Then oaks for oars they fell’d; or, as they stood, Of its green arms despoil’d the growing wood, 3680 Studious of flight. The beach is cover’d o’er With Trojan bands, that blacken all the shore: On ev’ry side are seen, descending down, Thick swarms of soldiers, loaden from the town. Thus, in battalia, march embodied ants, 3685 Fearful of winter, and of future wants, T’ invade the corn, and to their cells convey The plunder’d forage of their yellow prey. The sable troops, along the narrow tracks, Scarce bear the weighty burthen on their backs: 3690 Some set their shoulders to the pond’rous grain; Some guard the spoil; some lash the lagging train; All ply their sev’ral tasks, and equal toil sustain.
What pangs the tender breast of Dido tore, When, from the tow’r, she saw the cover’d shore, 3695 And heard the shouts of sailors from afar, Mix’d with the murmurs of the wat’ry war! All-pow’rful Love! what changes canst thou cause In human hearts, subjected to thy laws! Once more her haughty soul the tyrant bends: 3700 To pray’rs and mean submissions she descends. No female arts or aids she left untried, Nor counsels unexplor’d, before she died. “Look, Anna! look! the Trojans crowd to sea; They spread their canvas, and their anchors weigh. 3705 The shouting crew their ships with garlands bind, Invoke the sea gods, and invite the wind. Could I have thought this threat’ning blow so near, My tender soul had been forewarn’d to bear. But do not you my last request deny; 3710 With yon perfidious man your int’rest try, And bring me news, if I must live or die. You are his fav’rite; you alone can find The dark recesses of his inmost mind: In all his trusted secrets you have part, 3715 And know the soft approaches to his heart. Haste then, and humbly seek my haughty foe; Tell him, I did not with the Grecians go, Nor did my fleet against his friends employ, Nor swore the ruin of unhappy Troy, 3720 Nor mov’d with hands profane his father’s dust: Why should he then reject a suit so just! Whom does he shun, and whither would he fly! Can he this last, this only pray’r deny! Let him at least his dang’rous flight delay, 3725 Wait better winds, and hope a calmer sea. The nuptials he disclaims I urge no more: Let him pursue the promis’d Latian shore. A short delay is all I ask him now; A pause of grief, an interval from woe, 3730 Till my soft soul be temper’d to sustain Accustom’d sorrows, and inur’d to pain. If you in pity grant this one request, My death shall glut the hatred of his breast.”
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This mournful message pious Anna bears, 3735 And seconds with her own her sister’s tears: But all her arts are still employ’d in vain; Again she comes, and is refus’d again. His harden’d heart nor pray’rs nor threat’nings move; Fate, and the god, had stopp’d his ears to love. 3740
As, when the winds their airy quarrel try, Justling from ev’ry quarter of the sky, This way and that the mountain oak they bend, His boughs they shatter, and his branches rend; With leaves and falling mast they spread the ground; 3745 The hollow valleys echo to the sound: Unmov’d, the royal plant their fury mocks, Or, shaken, clings more closely to the rocks; Far as he shoots his tow’ring head on high, So deep in earth his fix’d foundations lie. 3750 No less a storm the Trojan hero bears; Thick messages and loud complaints he hears, And bandied words, still beating on his ears. Sighs, groans, and tears proclaim his inward pains; But the firm purpose of his heart remains. 3755
The wretched queen, pursued by cruel fate, Begins at length the light of heav’n to hate, And loathes to live. Then dire portents she sees, To hasten on the death her soul decrees: Strange to relate! for when, before the shrine, 3760 She pours in sacrifice the purple wine, The purple wine is turn’d to putrid blood, And the white offer’d milk converts to mud. This dire presage, to her alone reveal’d, From all, and ev’n her sister, she conceal’d. 3765 A marble temple stood within the grove, Sacred to death, and to her murther’d love; That honor’d chapel she had hung around With snowy fleeces, and with garlands crown’d: Oft, when she visited this lonely dome, 3770 Strange voices issued from her husband’s tomb; She thought she heard him summon her away, Invite her to his grave, and chide her stay. Hourly ‘t is heard, when with a boding note The solitary screech owl strains her throat, 3775 And, on a chimney’s top, or turret’s height, With songs obscene disturbs the silence of the night. Besides, old prophecies augment her fears; And stern Aeneas in her dreams appears, Disdainful as by day: she seems, alone, 3780 To wander in her sleep, thro’ ways unknown, Guideless and dark; or, in a desart plain, To seek her subjects, and to seek in vain: Like Pentheus, when, distracted with his fear, He saw two suns, and double Thebes, appear; 3785 Or mad Orestes, when his mother’s ghost Full in his face infernal torches toss’d, And shook her snaky locks: he shuns the sight, Flies o’er the stage, surpris’d with mortal fright; The Furies guard the door and intercept his flight. 3790
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Now, sinking underneath a load of grief, From death alone she seeks her last relief; The time and means resolv’d within her breast, She to her mournful sister thus address’d (Dissembling hope, her cloudy front she clears, 3795 And a false vigor in her eyes appears): “Rejoice!” she said. “Instructed from above, My lover I shall gain, or lose my love. Nigh rising Atlas, next the falling sun, Long tracts of Ethiopian climates run: 3800 There a Massylian priestess I have found, Honor’d for age, for magic arts renown’d: Th’ Hesperian temple was her trusted care; ‘T was she supplied the wakeful dragon’s fare. She poppy seeds in honey taught to steep, 3805 Reclaim’d his rage, and sooth’d him into sleep. She watch’d the golden fruit; her charms unbind The chains of love, or fix them on the mind: She stops the torrents, leaves the channel dry, Repels the stars, and backward bears the sky. 3810 The yawning earth rebellows to her call, Pale ghosts ascend, and mountain ashes fall. Witness, ye gods, and thou my better part, How loth I am to try this impious art! Within the secret court, with silent care, 3815 Erect a lofty pile, expos’d in air: Hang on the topmost part the Trojan vest, Spoils, arms, and presents, of my faithless guest. Next, under these, the bridal bed be plac’d, Where I my ruin in his arms embrac’d: 3820 All relics of the wretch are doom’d to fire; For so the priestess and her charms require.”
Thus far she said, and farther speech forbears; A mortal paleness in her face appears: Yet the mistrustless Anna could not find 3825 The secret fun’ral in these rites design’d; Nor thought so dire a rage possess’d her mind. Unknowing of a train conceal’d so well, She fear’d no worse than when Sichaeus fell; Therefore obeys. The fatal pile they rear, 3830 Within the secret court, expos’d in air. The cloven holms and pines are heap’d on high, And garlands on the hollow spaces lie. Sad cypress, vervain, yew, compose the wreath, And ev’ry baleful green denoting death. 3835 The queen, determin’d to the fatal deed, The spoils and sword he left, in order spread, And the man’s image on the nuptial bed.
And now (the sacred altars plac’d around) The priestess enters, with her hair unbound, 3840 And thrice invokes the pow’rs below the ground. Night, Erebus, and Chaos she proclaims, And threefold Hecate, with her hundred names, And three Dianas: next, she sprinkles round With feign’d Avernian drops the hallow’d ground; 3845
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Culls hoary simples, found by Phoebe’s light, With brazen sickles reap’d at noon of night; Then mixes baleful juices in the bowl, And cuts the forehead of a newborn foal, Robbing the mother’s love. The destin’d queen 3850 Observes, assisting at the rites obscene; A leaven’d cake in her devoted hands She holds, and next the highest altar stands: One tender foot was shod, her other bare; Girt was her gather’d gown, and loose her hair. 3855 Thus dress’d, she summon’d, with her dying breath, The heav’ns and planets conscious of her death, And ev’ry pow’r, if any rules above, Who minds, or who revenges, injur’d love.
‘T was dead of night, when weary bodies close 3860 Their eyes in balmy sleep and soft repose: The winds no longer whisper thro’ the woods, Nor murm’ring tides disturb the gentle floods. The stars in silent order mov’d around; And Peace, with downy wings, was brooding on the ground 3865 The flocks and herds, and party-color’d fowl, Which haunt the woods, or swim the weedy pool, Stretch’d on the quiet earth, securely lay, Forgetting the past labors of the day. All else of nature’s common gift partake: 3870 Unhappy Dido was alone awake. Nor sleep nor ease the furious queen can find; Sleep fled her eyes, as quiet fled her mind. Despair, and rage, and love divide her heart; Despair and rage had some, but love the greater part. 3875
Then thus she said within her secret mind: “What shall I do? what succor can I find? Become a suppliant to Hyarba’s pride, And take my turn, to court and be denied? Shall I with this ungrateful Trojan go, 3880 Forsake an empire, and attend a foe? Himself I refug’d, and his train reliev’d— ‘T is true—but am I sure to be receiv’d? Can gratitude in Trojan souls have place! Laomedon still lives in all his race! 3885 Then, shall I seek alone the churlish crew, Or with my fleet their flying sails pursue? What force have I but those whom scarce before I drew reluctant from their native shore? Will they again embark at my desire, 3890 Once more sustain the seas, and quit their second Tyre? Rather with steel thy guilty breast invade, And take the fortune thou thyself hast made. Your pity, sister, first seduc’d my mind, Or seconded too well what I design’d. 3895 These dear-bought pleasures had I never known, Had I continued free, and still my own; Avoiding love, I had not found despair, But shar’d with salvage beasts the common air. Like them, a lonely life I might have led, 3900
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Not mourn’d the living, nor disturb’d the dead.” These thoughts she brooded in her anxious breast. On board, the Trojan found more easy rest. Resolv’d to sail, in sleep he pass’d the night; And order’d all things for his early flight. 3905
To whom once more the winged god appears; His former youthful mien and shape he wears, And with this new alarm invades his ears: “Sleep’st thou, O goddess-born! and canst thou drown Thy needful cares, so near a hostile town, 3910 Beset with foes; nor hear’st the western gales Invite thy passage, and inspire thy sails? She harbors in her heart a furious hate, And thou shalt find the dire effects too late; Fix’d on revenge, and obstinate to die. 3915 Haste swiftly hence, while thou hast pow’r to fly. The sea with ships will soon be cover’d o’er, And blazing firebrands kindle all the shore. Prevent her rage, while night obscures the skies, And sail before the purple morn arise. 3920 Who knows what hazards thy delay may bring? Woman’s a various and a changeful thing.” Thus Hermes in the dream; then took his flight Aloft in air unseen, and mix’d with night.
Twice warn’d by the celestial messenger, 3925 The pious prince arose with hasty fear; Then rous’d his drowsy train without delay: “Haste to your banks; your crooked anchors weigh, And spread your flying sails, and stand to sea. A god commands: he stood before my sight, 3930 And urg’d us once again to speedy flight. O sacred pow’r, what pow’r soe’er thou art, To thy blest orders I resign my heart. Lead thou the way; protect thy Trojan bands, And prosper the design thy will commands.” 3935 He said: and, drawing forth his flaming sword, His thund’ring arm divides the many-twisted cord. An emulating zeal inspires his train: They run; they snatch; they rush into the main. With headlong haste they leave the desert shores, 3940 And brush the liquid seas with lab’ring oars.
Aurora now had left her saffron bed, And beams of early light the heav’ns o’erspread, When, from a tow’r, the queen, with wakeful eyes, Saw day point upward from the rosy skies. 3945 She look’d to seaward; but the sea was void, And scarce in ken the sailing ships descried. Stung with despite, and furious with despair, She struck her trembling breast, and tore her hair. “And shall th’ ungrateful traitor go,” she said, 3950 “My land forsaken, and my love betray’d? Shall we not arm? not rush from ev’ry street, To follow, sink, and burn his perjur’d fleet? Haste, haul my galleys out! pursue the foe!
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Bring flaming brands! set sail, and swiftly row! 3955 What have I said? where am I? Fury turns My brain; and my distemper’d bosom burns. Then, when I gave my person and my throne, This hate, this rage, had been more timely shown. See now the promis’d faith, the vaunted name, 3960 The pious man, who, rushing thro’ the flame, Preserv’d his gods, and to the Phrygian shore The burthen of his feeble father bore! I should have torn him piecemeal; strow’d in floods His scatter’d limbs, or left expos’d in woods; 3965 Destroy’d his friends and son; and, from the fire, Have set the reeking boy before the sire. Events are doubtful, which on battles wait: Yet where’s the doubt, to souls secure of fate? My Tyrians, at their injur’d queen’s command, 3970 Had toss’d their fires amid the Trojan band; At once extinguish’d all the faithless name; And I myself, in vengeance of my shame, Had fall’n upon the pile, to mend the fun’ral flame. Thou Sun, who view’st at once the world below; 3975 Thou Juno, guardian of the nuptial vow; Thou Hecate hearken from thy dark abodes! Ye Furies, fiends, and violated gods, All pow’rs invok’d with Dido’s dying breath, Attend her curses and avenge her death! 3980 If so the Fates ordain, Jove commands, Th’ ungrateful wretch should find the Latian lands, Yet let a race untam’d, and haughty foes, His peaceful entrance with dire arms oppose: Oppress’d with numbers in th’ unequal field, 3985 His men discourag’d, and himself expell’d, Let him for succor sue from place to place, Torn from his subjects, and his son’s embrace. First, let him see his friends in battle slain, And their untimely fate lament in vain; 3990 And when, at length, the cruel war shall cease, On hard conditions may he buy his peace: Nor let him then enjoy supreme command; But fall, untimely, by some hostile hand, And lie unburied on the barren sand! 3995 These are my pray’rs, and this my dying will; And you, my Tyrians, ev’ry curse fulfil. Perpetual hate and mortal wars proclaim, Against the prince, the people, and the name. These grateful off ’rings on my grave bestow; 4000 Nor league, nor love, the hostile nations know! Now, and from hence, in ev’ry future age, When rage excites your arms, and strength supplies the rage Rise some avenger of our Libyan blood, With fire and sword pursue the perjur’d brood; 4005 Our arms, our seas, our shores, oppos’d to theirs; And the same hate descend on all our heirs!”
This said, within her anxious mind she weighs The means of cutting short her odious days. Then to Sichaeus’ nurse she briefly said 4010
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(For, when she left her country, hers was dead): “Go, Barce, call my sister. Let her care The solemn rites of sacrifice prepare; The sheep, and all th’ atoning off ’rings bring, Sprinkling her body from the crystal spring 4015 With living drops; then let her come, and thou With sacred fillets bind thy hoary brow. Thus will I pay my vows to Stygian Jove, And end the cares of my disastrous love; Then cast the Trojan image on the fire, 4020 And, as that burns, my passions shall expire.”
The nurse moves onward, with officious care, And all the speed her aged limbs can bear. But furious Dido, with dark thoughts involv’d, Shook at the mighty mischief she resolv’d. 4025 With livid spots distinguish’d was her face; Red were her rolling eyes, and discompos’d her pace; Ghastly she gaz’d, with pain she drew her breath, And nature shiver’d at approaching death.
Then swiftly to the fatal place she pass’d, 4030 And mounts the fun’ral pile with furious haste; Unsheathes the sword the Trojan left behind (Not for so dire an enterprise design’d). But when she view’d the garments loosely spread, Which once he wore, and saw the conscious bed, 4035 She paus’d, and with a sigh the robes embrac’d; Then on the couch her trembling body cast, Repress’d the ready tears, and spoke her last: “Dear pledges of my love, while Heav’n so pleas’d, Receive a soul, of mortal anguish eas’d: 4040 My fatal course is finish’d; and I go, A glorious name, among the ghosts below. A lofty city by my hands is rais’d, Pygmalion punish’d, and my lord appeas’d. What could my fortune have afforded more, 4045 Had the false Trojan never touch’d my shore!” Then kiss’d the couch; and, “Must I die,” she said, “And unreveng’d? ‘T is doubly to be dead! Yet ev’n this death with pleasure I receive: On any terms, ‘t is better than to live. 4050 These flames, from far, may the false Trojan view; These boding omens his base flight pursue!”
She said, and struck; deep enter’d in her side The piercing steel, with reeking purple dyed: Clogg’d in the wound the cruel weapon stands; 4055 The spouting blood came streaming on her hands. Her sad attendants saw the deadly stroke, And with loud cries the sounding palace shook. Distracted, from the fatal sight they fled, And thro’ the town the dismal rumor spread. 4060 First from the frighted court the yell began; Redoubled, thence from house to house it ran: The groans of men, with shrieks, laments, and cries Of mixing women, mount the vaulted skies.
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Not less the clamor, than if—ancient Tyre, 4065 Or the new Carthage, set by foes on fire— The rolling ruin, with their lov’d abodes, Involv’d the blazing temples of their gods.
Her sister hears; and, furious with despair, She beats her breast, and rends her yellow hair, 4070 And, calling on Eliza’s name aloud, Runs breathless to the place, and breaks the crowd. “Was all that pomp of woe for this prepar’d; These fires, this fun’ral pile, these altars rear’d? Was all this train of plots contriv’d,” said she, 4075 “All only to deceive unhappy me? Which is the worst? Didst thou in death pretend To scorn thy sister, or delude thy friend? Thy summon’d sister, and thy friend, had come; One sword had serv’d us both, one common tomb: 4080 Was I to raise the pile, the pow’rs invoke, Not to be present at the fatal stroke? At once thou hast destroy’d thyself and me, Thy town, thy senate, and thy colony! Bring water; bathe the wound; while I in death 4085 Lay close my lips to hers, and catch the flying breath.” This said, she mounts the pile with eager haste, And in her arms the gasping queen embrac’d; Her temples chaf ’d; and her own garments tore, To stanch the streaming blood, and cleanse the gore. 4090 Thrice Dido tried to raise her drooping head, And, fainting thrice, fell grov’ling on the bed; Thrice op’d her heavy eyes, and sought the light, But, having found it, sicken’d at the sight, And clos’d her lids at last in endless night. 4095
Then Juno, grieving that she should sustain A death so ling’ring, and so full of pain, Sent Iris down, to free her from the strife Of lab’ring nature, and dissolve her life. For since she died, not doom’d by Heav’n’s decree, 4100 Or her own crime, but human casualty, And rage of love, that plung’d her in despair, The Sisters had not cut the topmost hair, Which Proserpine and they can only know; Nor made her sacred to the shades below. 4105 Downward the various goddess took her flight, And drew a thousand colors from the light; Then stood above the dying lover’s head, And said: “I thus devote thee to the dead. This off ’ring to th’ infernal gods I bear.” 4110 Thus while she spoke, she cut the fatal hair: The struggling soul was loos’d, and life dissolv’d in air.
Book V Meantime the Trojan cuts his wat’ry way, Fix’d on his voyage, thro’ the curling sea; Then, casting back his eyes, with dire amaze, 4115 Sees on the Punic shore the mounting blaze.
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The cause unknown; yet his presaging mind The fate of Dido from the fire divin’d; He knew the stormy souls of womankind, What secret springs their eager passions move, 4120 How capable of death for injur’d love. Dire auguries from hence the Trojans draw; Till neither fires nor shining shores they saw. Now seas and skies their prospect only bound; An empty space above, a floating field around. 4125 But soon the heav’ns with shadows were o’erspread; A swelling cloud hung hov’ring o’er their head: Livid it look’d, the threat’ning of a storm: Then night and horror ocean’s face deform. The pilot, Palinurus, cried aloud: 4130 “What gusts of weather from that gath’ring cloud My thoughts presage! Ere yet the tempest roars, Stand to your tackle, mates, and stretch your oars; Contract your swelling sails, and luff to wind.” The frighted crew perform the task assign’d. 4135 Then, to his fearless chief: “Not Heav’n,” said he, “Tho’ Jove himself should promise Italy, Can stem the torrent of this raging sea. Mark how the shifting winds from west arise, And what collected night involves the skies! 4140 Nor can our shaken vessels live at sea, Much less against the tempest force their way. ‘T is fate diverts our course, and fate we must obey. Not far from hence, if I observ’d aright The southing of the stars, and polar light, 4145 Sicilia lies, whose hospitable shores In safety we may reach with struggling oars.” Aeneas then replied: “Too sure I find We strive in vain against the seas and wind: Now shift your sails; what place can please me more 4150 Than what you promise, the Sicilian shore, Whose hallow’d earth Anchises’ bones contains, And where a prince of Trojan lineage reigns?” The course resolv’d, before the western wind They scud amain, and make the port assign’d. 4155 Meantime Acestes, from a lofty stand, Beheld the fleet descending on the land; And, not unmindful of his ancient race, Down from the cliff he ran with eager pace, And held the hero in a strict embrace. 4160 Of a rough Libyan bear the spoils he wore, And either hand a pointed jav’lin bore. His mother was a dame of Dardan blood; His sire Crinisus, a Sicilian flood. He welcomes his returning friends ashore 4165 With plenteous country cates and homely store.
Now, when the following morn had chas’d away The flying stars, and light restor’d the day, Aeneas call’d the Trojan troops around, And thus bespoke them from a rising ground: 4170 “Offspring of heav’n, divine Dardanian race! The sun, revolving thro’ th’ ethereal space,
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The shining circle of the year has fill’d, Since first this isle my father’s ashes held: And now the rising day renews the year; 4175 A day for ever sad, for ever dear. This would I celebrate with annual games, With gifts on altars pil’d, and holy flames, Tho’ banish’d to Gaetulia’s barren sands, Caught on the Grecian seas, or hostile lands: 4180 But since this happy storm our fleet has driv’n (Not, as I deem, without the will of Heav’n) Upon these friendly shores and flow’ry plains, Which hide Anchises and his blest remains, Let us with joy perform his honors due, 4185 And pray for prosp’rous winds, our voyage to renew; Pray, that in towns and temples of our own, The name of great Anchises may be known, And yearly games may spread the gods’ renown. Our sports Acestes, of the Trojan race, 4190 With royal gifts ordain’d, is pleas’d to grace: Two steers on ev’ry ship the king bestows; His gods and ours shall share your equal vows. Besides, if, nine days hence, the rosy morn Shall with unclouded light the skies adorn, 4195 That day with solemn sports I mean to grace: Light galleys on the seas shall run a wat’ry race; Some shall in swiftness for the goal contend, And others try the twanging bow to bend; The strong, with iron gauntlets arm’d, shall stand 4200 Oppos’d in combat on the yellow sand. Let all be present at the games prepar’d, And joyful victors wait the just reward. But now assist the rites, with garlands crown’d.” He said, and first his brows with myrtle bound. 4205 Then Helymus, by his example led, And old Acestes, each adorn’d his head; Thus young Ascanius, with a sprightly grace, His temples tied, and all the Trojan race. Aeneas then advanc’d amidst the train, 4210 By thousands follow’d thro’ the flow’ry plain, To great Anchises’ tomb; which when he found, He pour’d to Bacchus, on the hallow’d ground, Two bowls of sparkling wine, of milk two more, And two (from offer’d bulls) of purple gore, 4215 With roses then the sepulcher he strow’d And thus his father’s ghost bespoke aloud: “Hail, O ye holy manes! hail again, Paternal ashes, now review’d in vain! The gods permitted not, that you, with me, 4220 Should reach the promis’d shores of Italy, Or Tiber’s flood, what flood soe’er it be.” Scarce had he finish’d, when, with speckled pride, A serpent from the tomb began to glide; His hugy bulk on sev’n high volumes roll’d; 4225 Blue was his breadth of back, but streak’d with scaly gold: Thus riding on his curls, he seem’d to pass A rolling fire along, and singe the grass. More various colors thro’ his body run,
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Than Iris when her bow imbibes the sun. 4230 Betwixt the rising altars, and around, The sacred monster shot along the ground; With harmless play amidst the bowls he pass’d, And with his lolling tongue assay’d the taste: Thus fed with holy food, the wondrous guest 4235 Within the hollow tomb retir’d to rest. The pious prince, surpris’d at what he view’d, The fun’ral honors with more zeal renew’d, Doubtful if this place’s genius were, Or guardian of his father’s sepulcher. 4240 Five sheep, according to the rites, he slew; As many swine, and steers of sable hue; New gen’rous wine he from the goblets pour’d. And call’d his father’s ghost, from hell restor’d. The glad attendants in long order come, 4245 Off ’ring their gifts at great Anchises’ tomb: Some add more oxen: some divide the spoil; Some place the chargers on the grassy soil; Some blow the fires, and offered entrails broil.
Now came the day desir’d. The skies were bright 4250 With rosy luster of the rising light: The bord’ring people, rous’d by sounding fame Of Trojan feasts and great Acestes’ name, The crowded shore with acclamations fill, Part to behold, and part to prove their skill. 4255 And first the gifts in public view they place, Green laurel wreaths, and palm, the victors’ grace: Within the circle, arms and tripods lie, Ingots of gold and silver, heap’d on high, And vests embroider’d, of the Tyrian dye. 4260 The trumpet’s clangor then the feast proclaims, And all prepare for their appointed games. Four galleys first, which equal rowers bear, Advancing, in the wat’ry lists appear. The speedy Dolphin, that outstrips the wind, 4265 Bore Mnestheus, author of the Memmian kind: Gyas the vast Chimaera’s bulk commands, Which rising, like a tow’ring city stands; Three Trojans tug at ev’ry lab’ring oar; Three banks in three degrees the sailors bore; 4270 Beneath their sturdy strokes the billows roar. Sergesthus, who began the Sergian race, In the great Centaur took the leading place; Cloanthus on the sea-green Scylla stood, From whom Cluentius draws his Trojan blood. 4275
Far in the sea, against the foaming shore, There stands a rock: the raging billows roar Above his head in storms; but, when ‘t is clear, Uncurl their ridgy backs, and at his foot appear. In peace below the gentle waters run; 4280 The cormorants above lie basking in the sun. On this the hero fix’d an oak in sight, The mark to guide the mariners aright. To bear with this, the seamen stretch their oars;
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Then round the rock they steer, and seek the former shores. 4285 The lots decide their place. Above the rest, Each leader shining in his Tyrian vest; The common crew with wreaths of poplar boughs Their temples crown, and shade their sweaty brows: Besmear’d with oil, their naked shoulders shine. 4290 All take their seats, and wait the sounding sign: They gripe their oars; and ev’ry panting breast Is rais’d by turns with hope, by turns with fear depress’d. The clangor of the trumpet gives the sign; At once they start, advancing in a line: 4295 With shouts the sailors rend the starry skies; Lash’d with their oars, the smoky billows rise; Sparkles the briny main, and the vex’d ocean fries. Exact in time, with equal strokes they row: At once the brushing oars and brazen prow 4300 Dash up the sandy waves, and ope the depths below. Not fiery coursers, in a chariot race, Invade the field with half so swift a pace; Not the fierce driver with more fury lends The sounding lash, and, ere the stroke descends, 4305 Low to the wheels his pliant body bends. The partial crowd their hopes and fears divide, And aid with eager shouts the favor’d side. Cries, murmurs, clamors, with a mixing sound, From woods to woods, from hills to hills rebound. 4310
Amidst the loud applauses of the shore, Gyas outstripp’d the rest, and sprung before: Cloanthus, better mann’d, pursued him fast, But his o’er-masted galley check’d his haste. The Centaur and the Dolphin brush the brine 4315 With equal oars, advancing in a line; And now the mighty Centaur seems to lead, And now the speedy Dolphin gets ahead; Now board to board the rival vessels row, The billows lave the skies, and ocean groans below. 4320 They reach’d the mark. Proud Gyas and his train In triumph rode, the victors of the main; But, steering round, he charg’d his pilot stand More close to shore, and skim along the sand— “Let others bear to sea!” Menoetes heard; 4325 But secret shelves too cautiously he fear’d, And, fearing, sought the deep; and still aloof he steer’d. With louder cries the captain call’d again: “Bear to the rocky shore, and shun the main.” He spoke, and, speaking, at his stern he saw 4330 The bold Cloanthus near the shelvings draw. Betwixt the mark and him the Scylla stood, And in a closer compass plow’d the flood. He pass’d the mark; and, wheeling, got before: Gyas blasphem’d the gods, devoutly swore, 4335 Cried out for anger, and his hair he tore. Mindless of others’ lives (so high was grown His rising rage) and careless of his own, The trembling dotard to the deck he drew; Then hoisted up, and overboard he threw: 4340
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This done, he seiz’d the helm; his fellows cheer’d, Turn’d short upon the shelfs, and madly steer’d.
Hardly his head the plunging pilot rears, Clogg’d with his clothes, and cumber’d with his years: Now dropping wet, he climbs the cliff with pain. 4345 The crowd, that saw him fall and float again, Shout from the distant shore; and loudly laugh’d, To see his heaving breast disgorge the briny draught. The following Centaur, and the Dolphin’s crew, Their vanish’d hopes of victory renew; 4350 While Gyas lags, they kindle in the race, To reach the mark. Sergesthus takes the place; Mnestheus pursues; and while around they wind, Comes up, not half his galley’s length behind; Then, on the deck, amidst his mates appear’d, 4355 And thus their drooping courage he cheer’d: “My friends, and Hector’s followers heretofore, Exert your vigor; tug the lab’ring oar; Stretch to your strokes, my still unconquer’d crew, Whom from the flaming walls of Troy I drew. 4360 In this, our common int’rest, let me find That strength of hand, that courage of the mind, As when you stemm’d the strong Malean flood, And o’er the Syrtes’ broken billows row’d. I seek not now the foremost palm to gain; 4365 Tho’ yet—but, ah! that haughty wish is vain! Let those enjoy it whom the gods ordain. But to be last, the lags of all the race!— Redeem yourselves and me from that disgrace.” Now, one and all, they tug amain; they row 4370 At the full stretch, and shake the brazen prow. The sea beneath ‘em sinks; their lab’ring sides Are swell’d, and sweat runs gutt’ring down in tides. Chance aids their daring with unhop’d success; Sergesthus, eager with his beak to press 4375 Betwixt the rival galley and the rock, Shuts up th’ unwieldly Centaur in the lock. The vessel struck; and, with the dreadful shock, Her oars she shiver’d, and her head she broke. The trembling rowers from their banks arise, 4380 And, anxious for themselves, renounce the prize. With iron poles they heave her off the shores, And gather from the sea their floating oars. The crew of Mnestheus, with elated minds, Urge their success, and call the willing winds; 4385 Then ply their oars, and cut their liquid way In larger compass on the roomy sea. As, when the dove her rocky hold forsakes, Rous’d in a fright, her sounding wings she shakes; The cavern rings with clatt’ring; out she flies, 4390 And leaves her callow care, and cleaves the skies: At first she flutters; but at length she springs To smoother flight, and shoots upon her wings: So Mnestheus in the Dolphin cuts the sea; And, flying with a force, that force assists his way. 4395 Sergesthus in the Centaur soon he pass’d,
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Wedg’d in the rocky shoals, and sticking fast. In vain the victor he with cries implores, And practices to row with shatter’d oars. Then Mnestheus bears with Gyas, and outflies: 4400 The ship, without a pilot, yields the prize. Unvanquish’d Scylla now alone remains; Her he pursues, and all his vigor strains. Shouts from the fav’ring multitude arise; Applauding Echo to the shouts replies; 4405 Shouts, wishes, and applause run rattling thro’ the skies. These clamors with disdain the Scylla heard, Much grudg’d the praise, but more the robb’d reward: Resolv’d to hold their own, they mend their pace, All obstinate to die, or gain the race. 4410 Rais’d with success, the Dolphin swiftly ran; For they can conquer, who believe they can. Both urge their oars, and fortune both supplies, And both perhaps had shar’d an equal prize; When to the seas Cloanthus holds his hands, 4415 And succor from the wat’ry pow’rs demands: “Gods of the liquid realms, on which I row! If, giv’n by you, the laurel bind my brow, Assist to make me guilty of my vow! A snow-white bull shall on your shore be slain; 4420 His offer’d entrails cast into the main, And ruddy wine, from golden goblets thrown, Your grateful gift and my return shall own.” The choir of nymphs, and Phorcus, from below, With virgin Panopea, heard his vow; 4425 And old Portunus, with his breadth of hand, Push’d on, and sped the galley to the land. Swift as a shaft, or winged wind, she flies, And, darting to the port, obtains the prize.
The herald summons all, and then proclaims 4430 Cloanthus conqu’ror of the naval games. The prince with laurel crowns the victor’s head, And three fat steers are to his vessel led, The ship’s reward; with gen’rous wine beside, And sums of silver, which the crew divide. 4435 The leaders are distinguish’d from the rest; The victor honor’d with a nobler vest, Where gold and purple strive in equal rows, And needlework its happy cost bestows. There Ganymede is wrought with living art, 4440 Chasing thro’ Ida’s groves the trembling hart: Breathless he seems, yet eager to pursue; When from aloft descends, in open view, The bird of Jove, and, sousing on his prey, With crooked talons bears the boy away. 4445 In vain, with lifted hands and gazing eyes, His guards behold him soaring thro’ the skies, And dogs pursue his flight with imitated cries.
Mnestheus the second victor was declar’d; And, summon’d there, the second prize he shard. 4450 A coat of mail, brave Demoleus bore,
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More brave Aeneas from his shoulders tore, In single combat on the Trojan shore: This was ordain’d for Mnestheus to possess; In war for his defense, for ornament in peace. 4455 Rich was the gift, and glorious to behold, But yet so pond’rous with its plates of gold, That scarce two servants could the weight sustain; Yet, loaded thus, Demoleus o’er the plain Pursued and lightly seiz’d the Trojan train. 4460 The third, succeeding to the last reward, Two goodly bowls of massy silver shar’d, With figures prominent, and richly wrought, And two brass caldrons from Dodona brought.
Thus all, rewarded by the hero’s hands, 4465 Their conqu’ring temples bound with purple bands; And now Sergesthus, clearing from the rock, Brought back his galley shatter’d with the shock. Forlorn she look’d, without an aiding oar, And, houted by the vulgar, made to shore. 4470 As when a snake, surpris’d upon the road, Is crush’d athwart her body by the load Of heavy wheels; or with a mortal wound Her belly bruis’d, and trodden to the ground: In vain, with loosen’d curls, she crawls along; 4475 Yet, fierce above, she brandishes her tongue; Glares with her eyes, and bristles with her scales; But, groveling in the dust, her parts unsound she trails: So slowly to the port the Centaur tends, But, what she wants in oars, with sails amends. 4480 Yet, for his galley sav’d, the grateful prince Is pleas’d th’ unhappy chief to recompense. Pholoe, the Cretan slave, rewards his care, Beauteous herself, with lovely twins as fair.
From thence his way the Trojan hero bent 4485 Into the neighb’ring plain, with mountains pent, Whose sides were shaded with surrounding wood. Full in the midst of this fair valley stood A native theater, which, rising slow By just degrees, o’erlook’d the ground below. 4490 High on a sylvan throne the leader sate; A num’rous train attend in solemn state. Here those that in the rapid course delight, Desire of honor and the prize invite. The rival runners without order stand; 4495 The Trojans mix’d with the Sicilian band. First Nisus, with Euryalus, appears; Euryalus a boy of blooming years, With sprightly grace and equal beauty crown’d; Nisus, for friendship to the youth renown’d. 4500 Diores next, of Priam’s royal race, Then Salius joined with Patron, took their place; (But Patron in Arcadia had his birth, And Salius his from Arcananian earth;) Then two Sicilian youths—the names of these, 4505 Swift Helymus, and lovely Panopes:
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Both jolly huntsmen, both in forest bred, And owning old Acestes for their head; With sev’ral others of ignobler name, Whom time has not deliver’d o’er to fame. 4510
To these the hero thus his thoughts explain’d, In words which gen’ral approbation gain’d: “One common largess is for all design’d, (The vanquish’d and the victor shall be join’d,) Two darts of polish’d steel and Gnosian wood, 4515 A silver-studded ax, alike bestow’d. The foremost three have olive wreaths decreed: The first of these obtains a stately steed, Adorn’d with trappings; and the next in fame, The quiver of an Amazonian dame, 4520 With feather’d Thracian arrows well supplied: A golden belt shall gird his manly side, Which with a sparkling diamond shall be tied. The third this Grecian helmet shall content.” He said. To their appointed base they went; 4525 With beating hearts th’ expected sign receive, And, starting all at once, the barrier leave. Spread out, as on the winged winds, they flew, And seiz’d the distant goal with greedy view. Shot from the crowd, swift Nisus all o’erpass’d; 4530 Nor storms, nor thunder, equal half his haste. The next, but tho’ the next, yet far disjoin’d, Came Salius, and Euryalus behind; Then Helymus, whom young Diores plied, Step after step, and almost side by side, 4535 His shoulders pressing; and, in longer space, Had won, or left at least a dubious race.
Now, spent, the goal they almost reach at last, When eager Nisus, hapless in his haste, Slipp’d first, and, slipping, fell upon the plain, 4540 Soak’d with the blood of oxen newly slain. The careless victor had not mark’d his way; But, treading where the treach’rous puddle lay, His heels flew up; and on the grassy floor He fell, besmear’d with filth and holy gore. 4545 Not mindless then, Euryalus, of thee, Nor of the sacred bonds of amity, He strove th’ immediate rival’s hope to cross, And caught the foot of Salius as he rose. So Salius lay extended on the plain; 4550 Euryalus springs out, the prize to gain, And leaves the crowd: applauding peals attend The victor to the goal, who vanquish’d by his friend. Next Helymus; and then Diores came, By two misfortunes made the third in fame. 4555
But Salius enters, and, exclaiming loud For justice, deafens and disturbs the crowd; Urges his cause may in the court be heard; And pleads the prize is wrongfully conferr’d. But favor for Euryalus appears; 4560
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His blooming beauty, with his tender tears, Had brib’d the judges for the promis’d prize. Besides, Diores fills the court with cries, Who vainly reaches at the last reward, If the first palm on Salius be conferr’d. 4565 Then thus the prince: “Let no disputes arise: Where fortune plac’d it, I award the prize. But fortune’s errors give me leave to mend, At least to pity my deserving friend.” He said, and, from among the spoils, he draws 4570 (Pond’rous with shaggy mane and golden paws) A lion’s hide: to Salius this he gives. Nisus with envy sees the gift, and grieves. “If such rewards to vanquish’d men are due.” He said, “and falling is to rise by you, 4575 What prize may Nisus from your bounty claim, Who merited the first rewards and fame? In falling, both an equal fortune tried; Would fortune for my fall so well provide!” With this he pointed to his face, and show’d 4580 His hand and all his habit smear’d with blood. Th’ indulgent father of the people smil’d, And caus’d to be produc’d an ample shield, Of wondrous art, by Didymaon wrought, Long since from Neptune’s bars in triumph brought. 4585 This giv’n to Nisus, he divides the rest, And equal justice in his gifts express’d.
The race thus ended, and rewards bestow’d, Once more the prince bespeaks th’ attentive crowd: “If there he here whose dauntless courage dare 4590 In gauntlet-fight, with limbs and body bare, His opposite sustain in open view, Stand forth the champion, and the games renew. Two prizes I propose, and thus divide: A bull with gilded horns, and fillets tied, 4595 Shall be the portion of the conqu’ring chief; A sword and helm shall cheer the loser’s grief.”
Then haughty Dares in the lists appears; Stalking he strides, his head erected bears: His nervous arms the weighty gauntlet wield, 4600 And loud applauses echo thro’ the field. Dares alone in combat us’d to stand The match of mighty Paris, hand to hand; The same, at Hector’s fun’rals, undertook Gigantic Butes, of th’ Amycian stock, 4605 And, by the stroke of his resistless hand, Stretch’d the vast bulk upon the yellow sand. Such Dares was; and such he strode along, And drew the wonder of the gazing throng. His brawny back and ample breast he shows, 4610 His lifted arms around his head he throws, And deals in whistling air his empty blows. His match is sought; but, thro’ the trembling band, Not one dares answer to the proud demand. Presuming of his force, with sparkling eyes 4615
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Already he devours the promis’d prize. He claims the bull with awless insolence, And having seiz’d his horns, accosts the prince: “If none my matchless valor dares oppose, How long shall Dares wait his dastard foes? 4620 Permit me, chief, permit without delay, To lead this uncontended gift away.” The crowd assents, and with redoubled cries For the proud challenger demands the prize.
Acestes, fir’d with just disdain, to see 4625 The palm usurp’d without a victory, Reproach’d Entellus thus, who sate beside, And heard and saw, unmov’d, the Trojan’s pride: “Once, but in vain, a champion of renown, So tamely can you bear the ravish’d crown, 4630 A prize in triumph borne before your sight, And shun, for fear, the danger of the fight? Where is our Eryx now, the boasted name, The god who taught your thund’ring arm the game? Where now your baffled honor? Where the spoil 4635 That fill’d your house, and fame that fill’d our isle?” Entellus, thus: “My soul is still the same, Unmov’d with fear, and mov’d with martial fame; But my chill blood is curdled in my veins, And scarce the shadow of a man remains. 4640 O could I turn to that fair prime again, That prime of which this boaster is so vain, The brave, who this decrepid age defies, Should feel my force, without the promis’d prize.”
He said; and, rising at the word, he threw 4645 Two pond’rous gauntlets down in open view; Gauntlets which Eryx wont in fight to wield, And sheathe his hands with in the listed field. With fear and wonder seiz’d, the crowd beholds The gloves of death, with sev’n distinguish’d folds 4650 Of tough bull hides; the space within is spread With iron, or with loads of heavy lead: Dares himself was daunted at the sight, Renounc’d his challenge, and refus’d to fight. Astonish’d at their weight, the hero stands, 4655 And pois’d the pond’rous engines in his hands. “What had your wonder,” said Entellus, “been, Had you the gauntlets of Alcides seen, Or view’d the stern debate on this unhappy green! These which I bear your brother Eryx bore, 4660 Still mark’d with batter’d brains and mingled gore. With these he long sustain’d th’ Herculean arm; And these I wielded while my blood was warm, This languish’d frame while better spirits fed, Ere age unstrung my nerves, or time o’ersnow’d my head. 4665 But if the challenger these arms refuse, And cannot wield their weight, or dare not use; If great Aeneas and Acestes join In his request, these gauntlets I resign; Let us with equal arms perform the fight, 4670 And let him leave to fear, since I resign my right.”
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This said, Entellus for the strife prepares; Stripp’d of his quilted coat, his body bares; Compos’d of mighty bones and brawn he stands, A goodly tow’ring object on the sands. 4675 Then just Aeneas equal arms supplied, Which round their shoulders to their wrists they tied. Both on the tiptoe stand, at full extent, Their arms aloft, their bodies inly bent; Their heads from aiming blows they bear afar; 4680 With clashing gauntlets then provoke the war. One on his youth and pliant limbs relies; One on his sinews and his giant size. The last is stiff with age, his motion slow; He heaves for breath, he staggers to and fro, 4685 And clouds of issuing smoke his nostrils loudly blow. Yet equal in success, they ward, they strike; Their ways are diff ’rent, but their art alike. Before, behind, the blows are dealt; around Their hollow sides the rattling thumps resound. 4690 A storm of strokes, well meant, with fury flies, And errs about their temples, ears, and eyes. Nor always errs; for oft the gauntlet draws A sweeping stroke along the crackling jaws. Heavy with age, Entellus stands his ground, 4695 But with his warping body wards the wound. His hand and watchful eye keep even pace; While Dares traverses and shifts his place, And, like a captain who beleaguers round Some strong-built castle on a rising ground, 4700 Views all th’ approaches with observing eyes: This and that other part in vain he tries, And more on industry than force relies. With hands on high, Entellus threats the foe; But Dares watch’d the motion from below, 4705 And slipp’d aside, and shunn’d the long descending blow. Entellus wastes his forces on the wind, And, thus deluded of the stroke design’d, Headlong and heavy fell; his ample breast And weighty limbs his ancient mother press’d. 4710 So falls a hollow pine, that long had stood On Ida’s height, or Erymanthus’ wood, Torn from the roots. The diff ’ring nations rise, And shouts and mingled murmurs rend the skies, Acestus runs with eager haste, to raise 4715 The fall’n companion of his youthful days. Dauntless he rose, and to the fight return’d; With shame his glowing cheeks, his eyes with fury burn’d. Disdain and conscious virtue fir’d his breast, And with redoubled force his foe he press’d. 4720 He lays on load with either hand, amain, And headlong drives the Trojan o’er the plain; Nor stops, nor stays; nor rest nor breath allows; But storms of strokes descend about his brows, A rattling tempest, and a hail of blows. 4725 But now the prince, who saw the wild increase Of wounds, commands the combatants to cease, And bounds Entellus’ wrath, and bids the peace.
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First to the Trojan, spent with toil, he came, And sooth’d his sorrow for the suffer’d shame. 4730 “What fury seiz’d my friend? The gods,” said he, “To him propitious, and averse to thee, Have giv’n his arm superior force to thine. ‘T is madness to contend with strength divine.” The gauntlet fight thus ended, from the shore 4735 His faithful friends unhappy Dares bore: His mouth and nostrils pour’d a purple flood, And pounded teeth came rushing with his blood. Faintly he stagger’d thro’ the hissing throng, And hung his head, and trail’d his legs along. 4740 The sword and casque are carried by his train; But with his foe the palm and ox remain.
The champion, then, before Aeneas came, Proud of his prize, but prouder of his fame: “O goddess-born, and you, Dardanian host, 4745 Mark with attention, and forgive my boast; Learn what I was, by what remains; and know From what impending fate you sav’d my foe.” Sternly he spoke, and then confronts the bull; And, on his ample forehead aiming full, 4750 The deadly stroke, descending, pierc’d the skull. Down drops the beast, nor needs a second wound, But sprawls in pangs of death, and spurns the ground. Then, thus: “In Dares’ stead I offer this. Eryx, accept a nobler sacrifice; 4755 Take the last gift my wither’d arms can yield: Thy gauntlets I resign, and here renounce the field.”
This done, Aeneas orders, for the close, The strife of archers with contending bows. The mast Sergesthus’ shatter’d galley bore 4760 With his own hands he raises on the shore. A flutt’ring dove upon the top they tie, The living mark at which their arrows fly. The rival archers in a line advance, Their turn of shooting to receive from chance. 4765 A helmet holds their names; the lots are drawn: On the first scroll was read Hippocoon. The people shout. Upon the next was found Young Mnestheus, late with naval honors crown’d. The third contain’d Eurytion’s noble name, 4770 Thy brother, Pandarus, and next in fame, Whom Pallas urg’d the treaty to confound, And send among the Greeks a feather’d wound. Acestes in the bottom last remain’d, Whom not his age from youthful sports restrain’d. 4775 Soon all with vigor bend their trusty bows, And from the quiver each his arrow chose. Hippocoon’s was the first: with forceful sway It flew, and, whizzing, cut the liquid way. Fix’d in the mast the feather’d weapon stands: 4780 The fearful pigeon flutters in her bands, And the tree trembled, and the shouting cries Of the pleas’d people rend the vaulted skies.
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Then Mnestheus to the head his arrow drove, With lifted eyes, and took his aim above, 4785 But made a glancing shot, and missed the dove; Yet miss’d so narrow, that he cut the cord Which fasten’d by the foot the flitting bird. The captive thus releas’d, away she flies, And beats with clapping wings the yielding skies. 4790 His bow already bent, Eurytion stood; And, having first invok’d his brother god, His winged shaft with eager haste he sped. The fatal message reach’d her as she fled: She leaves her life aloft; she strikes the ground, 4795 And renders back the weapon in the wound. Acestes, grudging at his lot, remains, Without a prize to gratify his pains. Yet, shooting upward, sends his shaft, to show An archer’s art, and boast his twanging bow. 4800 The feather’d arrow gave a dire portent, And latter augurs judge from this event. Chaf ’d by the speed, it fir’d; and, as it flew, A trail of following flames ascending drew: Kindling they mount, and mark the shiny way; 4805 Across the skies as falling meteors play, And vanish into wind, or in a blaze decay. The Trojans and Sicilians wildly stare, And, trembling, turn their wonder into pray’r. The Dardan prince put on a smiling face, 4810 And strain’d Acestes with a close embrace; Then, hon’ring him with gifts above the rest, Turn’d the bad omen, nor his fears confess’d. “The gods,” said he, “this miracle have wrought, And order’d you the prize without the lot. 4815 Accept this goblet, rough with figur’d gold, Which Thracian Cisseus gave my sire of old: This pledge of ancient amity receive, Which to my second sire I justly give.” He said, and, with the trumpets’ cheerful sound, 4820 Proclaim’d him victor, and with laurel-crown’d. Nor good Eurytion envied him the prize, Tho’ he transfix’d the pigeon in the skies. Who cut the line, with second gifts was grac’d; The third was his whose arrow pierc’d the mast. 4925
The chief, before the games were wholly done, Call’d Periphantes, tutor to his son, And whisper’d thus: “With speed Ascanius find; And, if his childish troop be ready join’d, On horseback let him grace his grandsire’s day, 4930 And lead his equals arm’d in just array.” He said; and, calling out, the cirque he clears. The crowd withdrawn, an open plain appears. And now the noble youths, of form divine, Advance before their fathers, in a line; 4935 The riders grace the steeds; the steeds with glory shine.
Thus marching on in military pride, Shouts of applause resound from side to side.
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Their casques adorn’d with laurel wreaths they wear, Each brandishing aloft a cornel spear. 4940 Some at their backs their gilded quivers bore; Their chains of burnish’d gold hung down before. Three graceful troops they form’d upon the green; Three graceful leaders at their head were seen; Twelve follow’d ev’ry chief, and left a space between. 4945 The first young Priam led; a lovely boy, Whose grandsire was th’ unhappy king of Troy; His race in after times was known to fame, New honors adding to the Latian name; And well the royal boy his Thracian steed became. 4950 White were the fetlocks of his feet before, And on his front a snowy star he bore. Then beauteous Atys, with Iulus bred, Of equal age, the second squadron led. The last in order, but the first in place, 4955 First in the lovely features of his face, Rode fair Ascanius on a fiery steed, Queen Dido’s gift, and of the Tyrian breed. Sure coursers for the rest the king ordains, With golden bits adorn’d, and purple reins. 4960
The pleas’d spectators peals of shouts renew, And all the parents in the children view; Their make, their motions, and their sprightly grace, And hopes and fears alternate in their face.
Th’ unfledg’d commanders and their martial train 4965 First make the circuit of the sandy plain Around their sires, and, at th’ appointed sign, Drawn up in beauteous order, form a line. The second signal sounds, the troop divides In three distinguish’d parts, with three distinguish’d guides 4970 Again they close, and once again disjoin; In troop to troop oppos’d, and line to line. They meet; they wheel; they throw their darts afar With harmless rage and well-dissembled war. Then in a round the mingled bodies run: 4975 Flying they follow, and pursuing shun; Broken, they break; and, rallying, they renew In other forms the military shew. At last, in order, undiscern’d they join, And march together in a friendly line. 4980 And, as the Cretan labyrinth of old, With wand’ring ways and many a winding fold, Involv’d the weary feet, without redress, In a round error, which denied recess; So fought the Trojan boys in warlike play, 4985 Turn’d and return’d, and still a diff ’rent way. Thus dolphins in the deep each other chase In circles, when they swim around the wat’ry race. This game, these carousels, Ascanius taught; And, building Alba, to the Latins brought; 4990 Shew’d what he learn’d: the Latin sires impart To their succeeding sons the graceful art; From these imperial Rome receiv’d the game, Which Troy, the youths the Trojan troop, they name.
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Thus far the sacred sports they celebrate: 4995 But Fortune soon resum’d her ancient hate; For, while they pay the dead his annual dues, Those envied rites Saturnian Juno views; And sends the goddess of the various bow, To try new methods of revenge below; 5000 Supplies the winds to wing her airy way, Where in the port secure the navy lay. Swiftly fair Iris down her arch descends, And, undiscern’d, her fatal voyage ends. She saw the gath’ring crowd; and, gliding thence, 5005 The desart shore, and fleet without defense. The Trojan matrons, on the sands alone, With sighs and tears Anchises’ death bemoan; Then, turning to the sea their weeping eyes, Their pity to themselves renews their cries. 5010 “Alas!” said one, “what oceans yet remain For us to sail! what labors to sustain!” All take the word, and, with a gen’ral groan, Implore the gods for peace, and places of their own.
The goddess, great in mischief, views their pains, 5015 And in a woman’s form her heav’nly limbs restrains. In face and shape old Beroe she became, Doryclus’ wife, a venerable dame, Once blest with riches, and a mother’s name. Thus chang’d, amidst the crying crowd she ran, 5020 Mix’d with the matrons, and these words began: “O wretched we, whom not the Grecian pow’r, Nor flames, destroy’d, in Troy’s unhappy hour! O wretched we, reserv’d by cruel fate, Beyond the ruins of the sinking state! 5025 Now sev’n revolving years are wholly run, Since this improsp’rous voyage we begun; Since, toss’d from shores to shores, from lands to lands, Inhospitable rocks and barren sands, Wand’ring in exile thro’ the stormy sea, 5030 We search in vain for flying Italy. Now cast by fortune on this kindred land, What should our rest and rising walls withstand, Or hinder here to fix our banish’d band? O country lost, and gods redeem’d in vain, 5035 If still in endless exile we remain! Shall we no more the Trojan walls renew, Or streams of some dissembled Simois view! Haste, join with me, th’ unhappy fleet consume! Cassandra bids; and I declare her doom. 5040 In sleep I saw her; she supplied my hands (For this I more than dreamt) with flaming brands: ‘With these,’ said she, ‘these wand’ring ships destroy: These are your fatal seats, and this your Troy.’ Time calls you now; the precious hour employ: 5045 Slack not the good presage, while Heav’n inspires Our minds to dare, and gives the ready fires. See! Neptune’s altars minister their brands: The god is pleas’d; the god supplies our hands.” Then from the pile a flaming fire she drew, 5050 And, toss’d in air, amidst the galleys threw.
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Wrapp’d in amaze, the matrons wildly stare: Then Pyrgo, reverenc’d for her hoary hair, Pyrgo, the nurse of Priam’s num’rous race: “No Beroe this, tho’ she belies her face! 5055 What terrors from her frowning front arise! Behold a goddess in her ardent eyes! What rays around her heav’nly face are seen! Mark her majestic voice, and more than mortal mien! Beroe but now I left, whom, pin’d with pain, 5060 Her age and anguish from these rites detain,” She said. The matrons, seiz’d with new amaze, Roll their malignant eyes, and on the navy gaze. They fear, and hope, and neither part obey: They hope the fated land, but fear the fatal way. 5065 The goddess, having done her task below, Mounts up on equal wings, and bends her painted bow. Struck with the sight, and seiz’d with rage divine, The matrons prosecute their mad design: They shriek aloud; they snatch, with impious hands, 5070 The food of altars; fires and flaming brands. Green boughs and saplings, mingled in their haste, And smoking torches, on the ships they cast. The flame, unstopp’d at first, more fury gains, And Vulcan rides at large with loosen’d reins: 5075 Triumphant to the painted sterns he soars, And seizes, in this way, the banks and crackling oars. Eumelus was the first the news to bear, While yet they crowd the rural theater. Then, what they hear, is witness’d by their eyes: 5080 A storm of sparkles and of flames arise. Ascanius took th’ alarm, while yet he led His early warriors on his prancing steed, And, spurring on, his equals soon o’erpass’d; Nor could his frighted friends reclaim his haste. 5085 Soon as the royal youth appear’d in view, He sent his voice before him as he flew: “What madness moves you, matrons, to destroy The last remainders of unhappy Troy! Not hostile fleets, but your own hopes, you burn, 5090 And on your friends your fatal fury turn. Behold your own Ascanius!” While he said, He drew his glitt’ring helmet from his head, In which the youths to sportful arms he led. By this, Aeneas and his train appear; 5095 And now the women, seiz’d with shame and fear, Dispers’d, to woods and caverns take their flight, Abhor their actions, and avoid the light; Their friends acknowledge, and their error find, And shake the goddess from their alter’d mind. 5100
Not so the raging fires their fury cease, But, lurking in the seams, with seeming peace, Work on their way amid the smold’ring tow, Sure in destruction, but in motion slow. The silent plague thro’ the green timber eats, 5105 And vomits out a tardy flame by fits. Down to the keels, and upward to the sails,
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The fire descends, or mounts, but still prevails; Nor buckets pour’d, nor strength of human hand, Can the victorious element withstand. 5110
The pious hero rends his robe, and throws To heav’n his hands, and with his hands his vows. “O Jove,” he cried, “if pray’rs can yet have place; If thou abhorr’st not all the Dardan race; If any spark of pity still remain; 5115 If gods are gods, and not invok’d in vain; Yet spare the relics of the Trojan train! Yet from the flames our burning vessels free, Or let thy fury fall alone on me! At this devoted head thy thunder throw, 5120 And send the willing sacrifice below!”
Scarce had he said, when southern storms arise: From pole to pole the forky lightning flies; Loud rattling shakes the mountains and the plain; Heav’n bellies downward, and descends in rain. 5125 Whole sheets of water from the clouds are sent, Which, hissing thro’ the planks, the flames prevent, And stop the fiery pest. Four ships alone Burn to the waist, and for the fleet atone.
But doubtful thoughts the hero’s heart divide; 5230 If he should still in Sicily reside, Forgetful of his fates, or tempt the main, In hope the promis’d Italy to gain. Then Nautes, old and wise, to whom alone The will of Heav’n by Pallas was foreshown; 5235 Vers’d in portents, experience’d, and inspir’d To tell events, and what the fates requir’d; Thus while he stood, to neither part inclin’d, With cheerful words reliev’d his lab’ring mind: “O goddess-born, resign’d in ev’ry state, 5240 With patience bear, with prudence push your fate. By suff ’ring well, our Fortune we subdue; Fly when she frowns, and, when she calls, pursue. Your friend Acestes is of Trojan kind; To him disclose the secrets of your mind: 5345 Trust in his hands your old and useless train; Too num’rous for the ships which yet remain: The feeble, old, indulgent of their ease, The dames who dread the dangers of the seas, With all the dastard crew, who dare not stand 5350 The shock of battle with your foes by land. Here you may build a common town for all, And, from Acestes’ name, Acesta call.” The reasons, with his friend’s experience join’d, Encourag’d much, but more disturb’d his mind. 5355
‘T was dead of night; when to his slumb’ring eyes His father’s shade descended from the skies, And thus he spoke: “O more than vital breath, Lov’d while I liv’d, and dear ev’n after death; O son, in various toils and troubles toss’d, 5360
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The King of Heav’n employs my careful ghost On his commands: the god, who sav’d from fire Your flaming fleet, and heard your just desire. The wholesome counsel of your friend receive, And here the coward train and woman leave: 5365 The chosen youth, and those who nobly dare, Transport, to tempt the dangers of the war. The stern Italians will their courage try; Rough are their manners, and their minds are high. But first to Pluto’s palace you shall go, 5370 And seek my shade among the blest below: For not with impious ghosts my soul remains, Nor suffers with the damn’d perpetual pains, But breathes the living air of soft Elysian plains. The chaste Sibylla shall your steps convey, 5375 And blood of offer’d victims free the way. There shall you know what realms the gods assign, And learn the fates and fortunes of your line. But now, farewell! I vanish with the night, And feel the blast of heav’n’s approaching light.” 5380 He said, and mix’d with shades, and took his airy flight. “Whither so fast?” the filial duty cried; “And why, ah why, the wish’d embrace denied?”
He said, and rose; as holy zeal inspires, He rakes hot embers, and renews the fires; 5385 His country gods and Vesta then adores With cakes and incense, and their aid implores. Next, for his friends and royal host he sent, Reveal’d his vision, and the gods’ intent, With his own purpose. All, without delay, 5390 The will of Jove, and his desires obey. They list with women each degenerate name, Who dares not hazard life for future fame. These they cashier: the brave remaining few, Oars, banks, and cables, half consum’d, renew. 5395 The prince designs a city with the plow; The lots their sev’ral tenements allow. This part is nam’d from Ilium, that from Troy, And the new king ascends the throne with joy; A chosen senate from the people draws; 5400 Appoints the judges, and ordains the laws. Then, on the top of Eryx, they begin A rising temple to the Paphian queen. Anchises, last, is honor’d as a god; A priest is added, annual gifts bestow’d, 5405 And groves are planted round his blest abode. Nine days they pass in feasts, their temples crown’d; And fumes of incense in the fanes abound. Then from the south arose a gentle breeze That curl’d the smoothness of the glassy seas; 5410 The rising winds a ruffling gale afford, And call the merry mariners aboard.
Now loud laments along the shores resound, Of parting friends in close embraces bound. The trembling women, the degenerate train, 5415
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Who shunn’d the frightful dangers of the main, Ev’n those desire to sail, and take their share Of the rough passage and the promis’d war: Whom good Aeneas cheers, and recommends To their new master’s care his fearful friends. 5420 On Eryx’s altars three fat calves he lays; A lamb new-fallen to the stormy seas; Then slips his haulsers, and his anchors weighs. High on the deck the godlike hero stands, With olive crown’d, a charger in his hands; 5425 Then cast the reeking entrails in the brine, And pour’d the sacrifice of purple wine. Fresh gales arise; with equal strokes they vie, And brush the buxom seas, and o’er the billows fly.
Meantime the mother goddess, full of fears, 5430 To Neptune thus address’d, with tender tears: “The pride of Jove’s imperious queen, the rage, The malice which no suff ’rings can assuage, Compel me to these pray’rs; since neither fate, Nor time, nor pity, can remove her hate: 5435 Ev’n Jove is thwarted by his haughty wife; Still vanquish’d, yet she still renews the strife. As if ‘t were little to consume the town Which aw’d the world, and wore th’ imperial crown, She prosecutes the ghost of Troy with pains, 5440 And gnaws, ev’n to the bones, the last remains. Let her the causes of her hatred tell; But you can witness its effects too well. You saw the storm she rais’d on Libyan floods, That mix’d the mounting billows with the clouds; 5445 When, bribing Aeolus, she shook the main, And mov’d rebellion in your wat’ry reign. With fury she possess’d the Dardan dames, To burn their fleet with execrable flames, And forc’d Aeneas, when his ships were lost, 5450 To leave his foll’wers on a foreign coast. For what remains, your godhead I implore, And trust my son to your protecting pow’r. If neither Jove’s nor Fate’s decree withstand, Secure his passage to the Latian land.” 5455
Then thus the mighty Ruler of the Main: “What may not Venus hope from Neptune’s reign? My kingdom claims your birth; my late defense Of your indanger’d fleet may claim your confidence. Nor less by land than sea my deeds declare 5460 How much your lov’d Aeneas is my care. Thee, Xanthus, and thee, Simois, I attest. Your Trojan troops when proud Achilles press’d, And drove before him headlong on the plain, And dash’d against the walls the trembling train; 5465 When floods were fill’d with bodies of the slain; When crimson Xanthus, doubtful of his way, Stood up on ridges to behold the sea; (New heaps came tumbling in, and chok’d his way;) When your Aeneas fought, but fought with odds 5470
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Of force unequal, and unequal gods; I spread a cloud before the victor’s sight, Sustain’d the vanquish’d, and secur’d his flight; Ev’n then secur’d him, when I sought with joy The vow’d destruction of ungrateful Troy. 5475 My will’s the same: fair goddess, fear no more, Your fleet shall safely gain the Latian shore; Their lives are giv’n; one destin’d head alone Shall perish, and for multitudes atone.” Thus having arm’d with hopes her anxious mind, 5480 His finny team Saturnian Neptune join’d, Then adds the foamy bridle to their jaws, And to the loosen’d reins permits the laws. High on the waves his azure car he guides; Its axles thunder, and the sea subsides, 5485 And the smooth ocean rolls her silent tides. The tempests fly before their father’s face, Trains of inferior gods his triumph grace, And monster whales before their master play, And choirs of Tritons crowd the wat’ry way. 5490 The marshal’d pow’rs in equal troops divide To right and left; the gods his better side Inclose, and on the worse the Nymphs and Nereids ride.
Now smiling hope, with sweet vicissitude, Within the hero’s mind his joys renew’d. 5495 He calls to raise the masts, the sheets display; The cheerful crew with diligence obey; They scud before the wind, and sail in open sea. Ahead of all the master pilot steers; And, as he leads, the following navy veers. 5500 The steeds of Night had travel’d half the sky, The drowsy rowers on their benches lie, When the soft God of Sleep, with easy flight, Descends, and draws behind a trail of light. Thou, Palinurus, art his destin’d prey; 5505 To thee alone he takes his fatal way. Dire dreams to thee, and iron sleep, he bears; And, lighting on thy prow, the form of Phorbas wears. Then thus the traitor god began his tale: “The winds, my friend, inspire a pleasing gale; 5510 The ships, without thy care, securely sail. Now steal an hour of sweet repose; and I Will take the rudder and thy room supply.” To whom the yawning pilot, half asleep: “Me dost thou bid to trust the treach’rous deep, 5515 The harlot smiles of her dissembling face, And to her faith commit the Trojan race? Shall I believe the Siren South again, And, oft betray’d, not know the monster main?” He said: his fasten’d hands the rudder keep, 5520 And, fix’d on heav’n, his eyes repel invading sleep. The god was wroth, and at his temples threw A branch in Lethe dipp’d, and drunk with Stygian dew: The pilot, vanquish’d by the pow’r divine, Soon clos’d his swimming eyes, and lay supine. 5525 Scarce were his limbs extended at their length,
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The god, insulting with superior strength, Fell heavy on him, plung’d him in the sea, And, with the stern, the rudder tore away. Headlong he fell, and, struggling in the main, 5530 Cried out for helping hands, but cried in vain. The victor daemon mounts obscure in air, While the ship sails without the pilot’s care. On Neptune’s faith the floating fleet relies; But what the man forsook, the god supplies, 5535 And o’er the dang’rous deep secure the navy flies; Glides by the Sirens’ cliffs, a shelfy coast, Long infamous for ships and sailors lost, And white with bones. Th’ impetuous ocean roars, And rocks rebellow from the sounding shores. 5540 The watchful hero felt the knocks, and found The tossing vessel sail’d on shoaly ground. Sure of his pilot’s loss, he takes himself The helm, and steers aloof, and shuns the shelf. Inly he griev’d, and, groaning from the breast, 5545 Deplor’d his death; and thus his pain express’d: “For faith repos’d on seas, and on the flatt’ring sky, Thy naked corpse is doom’d on shores unknown to lie.”
Book VI He said, and wept; then spread his sails before The winds, and reach’d at length the Cumaean shore: 5550 Their anchors dropp’d, his crew the vessels moor. They turn their heads to sea, their sterns to land, And greet with greedy joy th’ Italian strand. Some strike from clashing flints their fiery seed; Some gather sticks, the kindled flames to feed, 5555 Or search for hollow trees, and fell the woods, Or trace thro’ valleys the discover’d floods. Thus, while their sev’ral charges they fulfil, The pious prince ascends the sacred hill Where Phoebus is ador’d; and seeks the shade 5560 Which hides from sight his venerable maid. Deep in a cave the Sibyl makes abode; Thence full of fate returns, and of the god. Thro’ Trivia’s grove they walk; and now behold, And enter now, the temple roof ’d with gold. 5565 When Daedalus, to fly the Cretan shore, His heavy limbs on jointed pinions bore, (The first who sail’d in air,) ‘t is sung by Fame, To the Cumaean coast at length he came, And here alighting, built this costly frame. 5570 Inscrib’d to Phoebus, here he hung on high The steerage of his wings, that cut the sky: Then o’er the lofty gate his art emboss’d Androgeos’ death, and off ’rings to his ghost; Sev’n youths from Athens yearly sent, to meet 5575 The fate appointed by revengeful Crete. And next to those the dreadful urn was plac’d, In which the destin’d names by lots were cast: The mournful parents stand around in tears, And rising Crete against their shore appears. 5580
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There too, in living sculpture, might be seen The mad affection of the Cretan queen; Then how she cheats her bellowing lover’s eye; The rushing leap, the doubtful progeny, The lower part a beast, a man above, 5585 The monument of their polluted love. Not far from thence he grav’d the wondrous maze, A thousand doors, a thousand winding ways: Here dwells the monster, hid from human view, Not to be found, but by the faithful clew; 5590 Till the kind artist, mov’d with pious grief, Lent to the loving maid this last relief, And all those erring paths describ’d so well That Theseus conquer’d and the monster fell. Here hapless Icarus had found his part, 5595 Had not the father’s grief restrain’d his art. He twice assay’d to cast his son in gold; Twice from his hands he dropp’d the forming mold.
All this with wond’ring eyes Aeneas view’d; Each varying object his delight renew’d: 5600 Eager to read the rest—Achates came, And by his side the mad divining dame, The priestess of the god, Deiphobe her name. “Time suffers not,” she said, “to feed your eyes With empty pleasures; haste the sacrifice. 5605 Sev’n bullocks, yet unyok’d, for Phoebus choose, And for Diana sev’n unspotted ewes.” This said, the servants urge the sacred rites, While to the temple she the prince invites. A spacious cave, within its farmost part, 5610 Was hew’d and fashion’d by laborious art Thro’ the hill’s hollow sides: before the place, A hundred doors a hundred entries grace; As many voices issue, and the sound Of Sybil’s words as many times rebound. 5615 Now to the mouth they come. Aloud she cries: “This is the time; enquire your destinies. He comes; behold the god!” Thus while she said, (And shiv’ring at the sacred entry stay’d,) Her color chang’d; her face was not the same, 5620 And hollow groans from her deep spirit came. Her hair stood up; convulsive rage possess’d Her trembling limbs, and heav’d her lab’ring breast. Greater than humankind she seem’d to look, And with an accent more than mortal spoke. 5625 Her staring eyes with sparkling fury roll; When all the god came rushing on her soul. Swiftly she turn’d, and, foaming as she spoke: “Why this delay?” she cried—“the pow’rs invoke! Thy pray’rs alone can open this abode; 5630 Else vain are my demands, and dumb the god.”
She said no more. The trembling Trojans hear, O’erspread with a damp sweat and holy fear. The prince himself, with awful dread possess’d, His vows to great Apollo thus address’d: 5635
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“Indulgent god, propitious pow’r to Troy, Swift to relieve, unwilling to destroy, Directed by whose hand the Dardan dart Pierc’d the proud Grecian’s only mortal part: Thus far, by fate’s decrees and thy commands, 5640 Thro’ ambient seas and thro’ devouring sands, Our exil’d crew has sought th’ Ausonian ground; And now, at length, the flying coast is found. Thus far the fate of Troy, from place to place, With fury has pursued her wand’ring race. 5645 Here cease, ye pow’rs, and let your vengeance end: Troy is no more, and can no more offend. And thou, O sacred maid, inspir’d to see Th’ event of things in dark futurity; Give me what Heav’n has promis’d to my fate, 5650 To conquer and command the Latian state; To fix my wand’ring gods, and find a place For the long exiles of the Trojan race. Then shall my grateful hands a temple rear To the twin gods, with vows and solemn pray’r; 5655 And annual rites, and festivals, and games, Shall be perform’d to their auspicious names. Nor shalt thou want thy honors in my land; For there thy faithful oracles shall stand, Preserv’d in shrines; and ev’ry sacred lay, 5660 Which, by thy mouth, Apollo shall convey: All shall be treasur’d by a chosen train Of holy priests, and ever shall remain. But O! commit not thy prophetic mind To flitting leaves, the sport of ev’ry wind, 5665 Lest they disperse in air our empty fate; Write not, but, what the pow’rs ordain, relate.”
Struggling in vain, impatient of her load, And lab’ring underneath the pond’rous god, The more she strove to shake him from her breast, 5670 With more and far superior force he press’d; Commands his entrance, and, without control, Usurps her organs and inspires her soul. Now, with a furious blast, the hundred doors Ope of themselves; a rushing whirlwind roars 5675 Within the cave, and Sibyl’s voice restores: “Escap’d the dangers of the wat’ry reign, Yet more and greater ills by land remain. The coast, so long desir’d (nor doubt th’ event), Thy troops shall reach, but, having reach’d, repent. 5680 Wars, horrid wars, I view—a field of blood, And Tiber rolling with a purple flood. Simois nor Xanthus shall be wanting there: A new Achilles shall in arms appear, And he, too, goddess-born. Fierce Juno’s hate, 5685 Added to hostile force, shall urge thy fate. To what strange nations shalt not thou resort, Driv’n to solicit aid at ev’ry court! The cause the same which Ilium once oppress’d; A foreign mistress, and a foreign guest. 5690 But thou, secure of soul, unbent with woes,
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The more thy fortune frowns, the more oppose. The dawnings of thy safety shall be shown From whence thou least shalt hope, a Grecian town.”
Thus, from the dark recess, the Sibyl spoke, 5695 And the resisting air the thunder broke; The cave rebellow’d, and the temple shook. Th’ ambiguous god, who rul’d her lab’ring breast, In these mysterious words his mind express’d; Some truths reveal’d, in terms involv’d the rest. 5700 At length her fury fell, her foaming ceas’d, And, ebbing in her soul, the god decreas’d. Then thus the chief: “No terror to my view, No frightful face of danger can be new. Inur’d to suffer, and resolv’d to dare, 5705 The Fates, without my pow’r, shall be without my care. This let me crave, since near your grove the road To hell lies open, and the dark abode Which Acheron surrounds, th’ innavigable flood; Conduct me thro’ the regions void of light, 5710 And lead me longing to my father’s sight. For him, a thousand dangers I have sought, And, rushing where the thickest Grecians fought, Safe on my back the sacred burthen brought. He, for my sake, the raging ocean tried, 5715 And wrath of Heav’n, my still auspicious guide, And bore beyond the strength decrepid age supplied. Oft, since he breath’d his last, in dead of night His reverend image stood before my sight; Enjoin’d to seek, below, his holy shade; 5720 Conducted there by your unerring aid. But you, if pious minds by pray’rs are won, Oblige the father, and protect the son. Yours is the pow’r; nor Proserpine in vain Has made you priestess of her nightly reign. 5725 If Orpheus, arm’d with his enchanting lyre, The ruthless king with pity could inspire, And from the shades below redeem his wife; If Pollux, off ’ring his alternate life, Could free his brother, and can daily go 5730 By turns aloft, by turns descend below— Why name I Theseus, or his greater friend, Who trod the downward path, and upward could ascend? Not less than theirs from Jove my lineage came; My mother greater, my descent the same.” 5735 So pray’d the Trojan prince, and, while he pray’d, His hand upon the holy altar laid.
Then thus replied the prophetess divine: “O goddess-born of great Anchises’ line, The gates of hell are open night and day; 5740 Smooth the descent, and easy is the way: But to return, and view the cheerful skies, In this the task and mighty labor lies. To few great Jupiter imparts this grace, And those of shining worth and heav’nly race. 5745 Betwixt those regions and our upper light,
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Deep forests and impenetrable night Possess the middle space: th’ infernal bounds Cocytus, with his sable waves, surrounds. But if so dire a love your soul invades, 5750 As twice below to view the trembling shades; If you so hard a toil will undertake, As twice to pass th’ innavigable lake; Receive my counsel. In the neighb’ring grove There stands a tree; the queen of Stygian Jove 5755 Claims it her own; thick woods and gloomy night Conceal the happy plant from human sight. One bough it bears; but (wondrous to behold!) The ductile rind and leaves of radiant gold: This from the vulgar branches must be torn, 5760 And to fair Proserpine the present borne, Ere leave be giv’n to tempt the nether skies. The first thus rent a second will arise, And the same metal the same room supplies. Look round the wood, with lifted eyes, to see 5765 The lurking gold upon the fatal tree: Then rend it off, as holy rites command; The willing metal will obey thy hand, Following with ease, if favor’d by thy fate, Thou art foredoom’d to view the Stygian state: 5770 If not, no labor can the tree constrain; And strength of stubborn arms and steel are vain. Besides, you know not, while you here attend, Th’ unworthy fate of your unhappy friend: Breathless he lies; and his unburied ghost, 5775 Depriv’d of fun’ral rites, pollutes your host. Pay first his pious dues; and, for the dead, Two sable sheep around his hearse be led; Then, living turfs upon his body lay: This done, securely take the destin’d way, 5780 To find the regions destitute of day.”
She said, and held her peace. Aeneas went Sad from the cave, and full of discontent, Unknowing whom the sacred Sibyl meant. Achates, the companion of his breast, 5785 Goes grieving by his side, with equal cares oppress’d. Walking, they talk’d, and fruitlessly divin’d What friend the priestess by those words design’d. But soon they found an object to deplore: Misenus lay extended on the shore; 5790 Son of the God of Winds: none so renown’d The warrior trumpet in the field to sound; With breathing brass to kindle fierce alarms, And rouse to dare their fate in honorable arms. He serv’d great Hector, and was ever near, 5795 Not with his trumpet only, but his spear. But by Pelides’ arms when Hector fell, He chose Aeneas; and he chose as well. Swoln with applause, and aiming still at more, He now provokes the sea gods from the shore; 5800 With envy Triton heard the martial sound, And the bold champion, for his challenge, drown’d;
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Then cast his mangled carcass on the strand: The gazing crowd around the body stand. All weep; but most Aeneas mourns his fate, 5805 And hastens to perform the funeral state. In altar-wise, a stately pile they rear; The basis broad below, and top advanc’d in air. An ancient wood, fit for the work design’d, (The shady covert of the salvage kind,) 5810 The Trojans found: the sounding ax is plied; Firs, pines, and pitch trees, and the tow’ring pride Of forest ashes, feel the fatal stroke, And piercing wedges cleave the stubborn oak. Huge trunks of trees, fell’d from the steepy crown 5815 Of the bare mountains, roll with ruin down. Arm’d like the rest the Trojan prince appears, And by his pious labor urges theirs.
Thus while he wrought, revolving in his mind The ways to compass what his wish design’d, 5820 He cast his eyes upon the gloomy grove, And then with vows implor’d the Queen of Love: “O may thy pow’r, propitious still to me, Conduct my steps to find the fatal tree, In this deep forest; since the Sibyl’s breath 5825 Foretold, alas! too true, Misenus’ death.” Scarce had he said, when, full before his sight, Two doves, descending from their airy flight, Secure upon the grassy plain alight. He knew his mother’s birds; and thus he pray’d: 5830 “Be you my guides, with your auspicious aid, And lead my footsteps, till the branch be found, Whose glitt’ring shadow gilds the sacred ground. And thou, great parent, with celestial care, In this distress be present to my pray’r!” 5835 Thus having said, he stopp’d with watchful sight, Observing still the motions of their flight, What course they took, what happy signs they shew. They fed, and, flutt’ring, by degrees withdrew Still farther from the place, but still in view: 5840 Hopping and flying, thus they led him on To the slow lake, whose baleful stench to shun They wing’d their flight aloft; then, stooping low, Perch’d on the double tree that bears the golden bough. Thro’ the green leafs the glitt’ring shadows glow; 5845 As, on the sacred oak, the wintry mistletoe, Where the proud mother views her precious brood, And happier branches, which she never sow’d. Such was the glitt’ring; such the ruddy rind, And dancing leaves, that wanton’d in the wind. 5850 He seiz’d the shining bough with griping hold, And rent away, with ease, the ling’ring gold; Then to the Sibyl’s palace bore the prize. Meantime the Trojan troops, with weeping eyes, To dead Misenus pay his obsequies. 5855 First, from the ground a lofty pile they rear, Of pitch trees, oaks, and pines, and unctuous fir: The fabric’s front with cypress twigs they strew,
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And stick the sides with boughs of baleful yew. The topmost part his glitt’ring arms adorn; 5860 Warm waters, then, in brazen caldrons borne, Are pour’d to wash his body, joint by joint, And fragrant oils the stiffen’d limbs anoint. With groans and cries Misenus they deplore: Then on a bier, with purple cover’d o’er, 5865 The breathless body, thus bewail’d, they lay, And fire the pile, their faces turn’d away— Such reverend rites their fathers us’d to pay. Pure oil and incense on the fire they throw, And fat of victims, which his friends bestow. 5870 These gifts the greedy flames to dust devour; Then on the living coals red wine they pour; And, last, the relics by themselves dispose, Which in a brazen urn the priests inclose. Old Corynaeus compass’d thrice the crew, 5875 And dipp’d an olive branch in holy dew; Which thrice he sprinkled round, and thrice aloud Invok’d the dead, and then dismissed the crowd. But good Aeneas order’d on the shore A stately tomb, whose top a trumpet bore, 5880 A soldier’s fauchion, and a seaman’s oar. Thus was his friend interr’d; and deathless fame Still to the lofty cape consigns his name. These rites perform’d, the prince, without delay, Hastes to the nether world his destin’d way. 5885 Deep was the cave; and, downward as it went From the wide mouth, a rocky rough descent; And here th’ access a gloomy grove defends, And there th’ unnavigable lake extends, O’er whose unhappy waters, void of light, 5890 No bird presumes to steer his airy flight; Such deadly stenches from the depths arise, And steaming sulphur, that infects the skies. From hence the Grecian bards their legends make, And give the name Avernus to the lake. 5895 Four sable bullocks, in the yoke untaught, For sacrifice the pious hero brought. The priestess pours the wine betwixt their horns; Then cuts the curling hair; that first oblation burns, Invoking Hecate hither to repair: 5900 A pow’rful name in hell and upper air. The sacred priests with ready knives bereave The beasts of life, and in full bowls receive The streaming blood: a lamb to Hell and Night (The sable wool without a streak of white) 5905 Aeneas offers; and, by fate’s decree, A barren heifer, Proserpine, to thee, With holocausts he Pluto’s altar fills; Sev’n brawny bulls with his own hand he kills; Then on the broiling entrails oil he pours; 5910 Which, ointed thus, the raging flame devours. Late the nocturnal sacrifice begun, Nor ended till the next returning sun. Then earth began to bellow, trees to dance, And howling dogs in glimm’ring light advance, 5915
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Ere Hecate came. “Far hence be souls profane!” The Sibyl cried, “and from the grove abstain! Now, Trojan, take the way thy fates afford; Assume thy courage, and unsheathe thy sword.” She said, and pass’d along the gloomy space; 5920 The prince pursued her steps with equal pace.
Ye realms, yet unreveal’d to human sight, Ye gods who rule the regions of the night, Ye gliding ghosts, permit me to relate The mystic wonders of your silent state! 5925
Obscure they went thro’ dreary shades, that led Along the waste dominions of the dead. Thus wander travelers in woods by night, By the moon’s doubtful and malignant light, When Jove in dusky clouds involves the skies, 5930 And the faint crescent shoots by fits before their eyes.
Just in the gate and in the jaws of hell, Revengeful Cares and sullen Sorrows dwell, And pale Diseases, and repining Age, Want, Fear, and Famine’s unresisted rage; 5935 Here Toils, and Death, and Death’s half-brother, Sleep, Forms terrible to view, their sentry keep; With anxious Pleasures of a guilty mind, Deep Frauds before, and open Force behind; The Furies’ iron beds; and Strife, that shakes 5940 Her hissing tresses and unfolds her snakes. Full in the midst of this infernal road, An elm displays her dusky arms abroad: The God of Sleep there hides his heavy head, And empty dreams on ev’ry leaf are spread. 5945 Of various forms unnumber’d specters more, Centaurs, and double shapes, besiege the door. Before the passage, horrid Hydra stands, And Briareus with all his hundred hands; Gorgons, Geryon with his triple frame; 5950 And vain Chimaera vomits empty flame. The chief unsheath’d his shining steel, prepar’d, Tho’ seiz’d with sudden fear, to force the guard, Off ’ring his brandish’d weapon at their face; Had not the Sibyl stopp’d his eager pace, 5955 And told him what those empty phantoms were: Forms without bodies, and impassive air. Hence to deep Acheron they take their way, Whose troubled eddies, thick with ooze and clay, Are whirl’d aloft, and in Cocytus lost. 5960 There Charon stands, who rules the dreary coast— A sordid god: down from his hoary chin A length of beard descends, uncomb’d, unclean; His eyes, like hollow furnaces on fire; A girdle, foul with grease, binds his obscene attire. 5965 He spreads his canvas; with his pole he steers; The freights of flitting ghosts in his thin bottom bears. He look’d in years; yet in his years were seen A youthful vigor and autumnal green.
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An airy crowd came rushing where he stood, 5970 Which fill’d the margin of the fatal flood: Husbands and wives, boys and unmarried maids, And mighty heroes’ more majestic shades, And youths, intomb’d before their fathers’ eyes, With hollow groans, and shrieks, and feeble cries. 5975 Thick as the leaves in autumn strow the woods, Or fowls, by winter forc’d, forsake the floods, And wing their hasty flight to happier lands; Such, and so thick, the shiv’ring army stands, And press for passage with extended hands. 5980 Now these, now those, the surly boatman bore: The rest he drove to distance from the shore. The hero, who beheld with wond’ring eyes The tumult mix’d with shrieks, laments, and cries, Ask’d of his guide, what the rude concourse meant; 5985 Why to the shore the thronging people bent; What forms of law among the ghosts were us’d; Why some were ferried o’er, and some refus’d.
“Son of Anchises, offspring of the gods,” The Sibyl said, “you see the Stygian floods, 5990 The sacred stream which heav’n’s imperial state Attests in oaths, and fears to violate. The ghosts rejected are th’ unhappy crew Depriv’d of sepulchers and fun’ral due: The boatman, Charon; those, the buried host, 5995 He ferries over to the farther coast; Nor dares his transport vessel cross the waves With such whose bones are not compos’d in graves. A hundred years they wander on the shore; At length, their penance done, are wafted o’er.” 6000 The Trojan chief his forward pace repress’d, Revolving anxious thoughts within his breast, He saw his friends, who, whelm’d beneath the waves, Their fun’ral honors claim’d, and ask’d their quiet graves. The lost Leucaspis in the crowd he knew, 6005 And the brave leader of the Lycian crew, Whom, on the Tyrrhene seas, the tempests met; The sailors master’d, and the ship o’erset.
Amidst the spirits, Palinurus press’d, Yet fresh from life, a new-admitted guest, 6010 Who, while he steering view’d the stars, and bore His course from Afric to the Latian shore, Fell headlong down. The Trojan fix’d his view, And scarcely thro’ the gloom the sullen shadow knew. Then thus the prince: “What envious pow’r, O friend, 6015 Brought your lov’d life to this disastrous end? For Phoebus, ever true in all he said, Has in your fate alone my faith betray’d. The god foretold you should not die, before You reach’d, secure from seas, th’ Italian shore. 6020 Is this th’ unerring pow’r?” The ghost replied; “Nor Phoebus flatter’d, nor his answers lied; Nor envious gods have sent me to the deep: But, while the stars and course of heav’n I keep,
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My wearied eyes were seiz’d with fatal sleep. 6025 I fell; and, with my weight, the helm constrain’d Was drawn along, which yet my gripe retain’d. Now by the winds and raging waves I swear, Your safety, more than mine, was then my care; Lest, of the guide bereft, the rudder lost, 6030 Your ship should run against the rocky coast. Three blust’ring nights, borne by the southern blast, I floated, and discover’d land at last: High on a mounting wave my head I bore, Forcing my strength, and gath’ring to the shore. 6035 Panting, but past the danger, now I seiz’d The craggy cliffs, and my tir’d members eas’d. While, cumber’d with my dropping clothes, I lay, The cruel nation, covetous of prey, Stain’d with my blood th’ unhospitable coast; 6040 And now, by winds and waves, my lifeless limbs are toss’d: Which O avert, by yon ethereal light, Which I have lost for this eternal night! Or, if by dearer ties you may be won, By your dead sire, and by your living son, 6045 Redeem from this reproach my wand’ring ghost; Or with your navy seek the Velin coast, And in a peaceful grave my corpse compose; Or, if a nearer way your mother shows, Without whose aid you durst not undertake 6050 This frightful passage o’er the Stygian lake, Lend to this wretch your hand, and waft him o’er To the sweet banks of yon forbidden shore.” Scarce had he said, the prophetess began: “What hopes delude thee, miserable man? 6055 Think’st thou, thus unintomb’d, to cross the floods, To view the Furies and infernal gods, And visit, without leave, the dark abodes? Attend the term of long revolving years; Fate, and the dooming gods, are deaf to tears. 6060 This comfort of thy dire misfortune take: The wrath of Heav’n, inflicted for thy sake, With vengeance shall pursue th’ inhuman coast, Till they propitiate thy offended ghost, And raise a tomb, with vows and solemn pray’r; 6065 And Palinurus’ name the place shall bear.” This calm’d his cares; sooth’d with his future fame, And pleas’d to hear his propagated name.
Now nearer to the Stygian lake they draw: Whom, from the shore, the surly boatman saw; 6070 Observ’d their passage thro’ the shady wood, And mark’d their near approaches to the flood. Then thus he call’d aloud, inflam’d with wrath: “Mortal, whate’er, who this forbidden path In arms presum’st to tread, I charge thee, stand, 6075 And tell thy name, and bus’ness in the land. Know this, the realm of night—the Stygian shore: My boat conveys no living bodies o’er; Nor was I pleas’d great Theseus once to bear, Who forc’d a passage with his pointed spear, 6080
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Nor strong Alcides—men of mighty fame, And from th’ immortal gods their lineage came. In fetters one the barking porter tied, And took him trembling from his sov’reign’s side: Two sought by force to seize his beauteous bride.” 6085 To whom the Sibyl thus: “Compose thy mind; Nor frauds are here contriv’d, nor force design’d. Still may the dog the wand’ring troops constrain Of airy ghosts, and vex the guilty train, And with her grisly lord his lovely queen remain. 6090 The Trojan chief, whose lineage is from Jove, Much fam’d for arms, and more for filial love, Is sent to seek his sire in your Elysian grove. If neither piety, nor Heav’n’s command, Can gain his passage to the Stygian strand, 6095 This fatal present shall prevail at least.” Then shew’d the shining bough, conceal’d within her vest. No more was needful: for the gloomy god Stood mute with awe, to see the golden rod; Admir’d the destin’d off ’ring to his queen— 6100 A venerable gift, so rarely seen. His fury thus appeas’d, he puts to land; The ghosts forsake their seats at his command: He clears the deck, receives the mighty freight; The leaky vessel groans beneath the weight. 6105 Slowly she sails, and scarcely stems the tides; The pressing water pours within her sides. His passengers at length are wafted o’er, Expos’d, in muddy weeds, upon the miry shore.
No sooner landed, in his den they found 6110 The triple porter of the Stygian sound, Grim Cerberus, who soon began to rear His crested snakes, and arm’d his bristling hair. The prudent Sibyl had before prepar’d A sop, in honey steep’d, to charm the guard; 6115 Which, mix’d with pow’rful drugs, she cast before His greedy grinning jaws, just op’d to roar. With three enormous mouths he gapes; and straight, With hunger press’d, devours the pleasing bait. Long draughts of sleep his monstrous limbs enslave; 6120 He reels, and, falling, fills the spacious cave. The keeper charm’d, the chief without delay Pass’d on, and took th’ irremeable way. Before the gates, the cries of babes new born, Whom fate had from their tender mothers torn, 6125 Assault his ears: then those, whom form of laws Condemn’d to die, when traitors judg’d their cause. Nor want they lots, nor judges to review The wrongful sentence, and award a new. Minos, the strict inquisitor, appears; 6130 And lives and crimes, with his assessors, hears. Round in his urn the blended balls he rolls, Absolves the just, and dooms the guilty souls. The next, in place and punishment, are they Who prodigally throw their souls away; 6135 Fools, who, repining at their wretched state,
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And loathing anxious life, suborn’d their fate. With late repentance now they would retrieve The bodies they forsook, and wish to live; Their pains and poverty desire to bear, 6140 To view the light of heav’n, and breathe the vital air: But fate forbids; the Stygian floods oppose, And with circling streams the captive souls inclose.
Not far from thence, the Mournful Fields appear So call’d from lovers that inhabit there. 6145 The souls whom that unhappy flame invades, In secret solitude and myrtle shades Make endless moans, and, pining with desire, Lament too late their unextinguish’d fire. Here Procris, Eriphyle here he found, 6150 Baring her breast, yet bleeding with the wound Made by her son. He saw Pasiphae there, With Phaedra’s ghost, a foul incestuous pair. There Laodamia, with Evadne, moves, Unhappy both, but loyal in their loves: 6155 Caeneus, a woman once, and once a man, But ending in the sex she first began. Not far from these Phoenician Dido stood, Fresh from her wound, her bosom bath’d in blood; Whom when the Trojan hero hardly knew, 6160 Obscure in shades, and with a doubtful view, (Doubtful as he who sees, thro’ dusky night, Or thinks he sees, the moon’s uncertain light,) With tears he first approach’d the sullen shade; And, as his love inspir’d him, thus he said: 6165 “Unhappy queen! then is the common breath Of rumor true, in your reported death, And I, alas! the cause? By Heav’n, I vow, And all the pow’rs that rule the realms below, Unwilling I forsook your friendly state, 6170 Commanded by the gods, and forc’d by fate— Those gods, that fate, whose unresisted might Have sent me to these regions void of light, Thro’ the vast empire of eternal night. Nor dar’d I to presume, that, press’d with grief, 6175 My flight should urge you to this dire relief. Stay, stay your steps, and listen to my vows: ‘T is the last interview that fate allows!” In vain he thus attempts her mind to move With tears, and pray’rs, and late-repenting love. 6180 Disdainfully she look’d; then turning round, But fix’d her eyes unmov’d upon the ground, And what he says and swears, regards no more Than the deaf rocks, when the loud billows roar; But whirl’d away, to shun his hateful sight, 6185 Hid in the forest and the shades of night; Then sought Sichaeus thro’ the shady grove, Who answer’d all her cares, and equal’d all her love.
Some pious tears the pitying hero paid, And follow’d with his eyes the flitting shade, 6190 Then took the forward way, by fate ordain’d,
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And, with his guide, the farther fields attain’d, Where, sever’d from the rest, the warrior souls remain’d. Tydeus he met, with Meleager’s race, The pride of armies, and the soldiers’ grace; 6195 And pale Adrastus with his ghastly face. Of Trojan chiefs he view’d a num’rous train, All much lamented, all in battle slain; Glaucus and Medon, high above the rest, Antenor’s sons, and Ceres’ sacred priest. 6200 And proud Idaeus, Priam’s charioteer, Who shakes his empty reins, and aims his airy spear. The gladsome ghosts, in circling troops, attend And with unwearied eyes behold their friend; Delight to hover near, and long to know 6205 What bus’ness brought him to the realms below. But Argive chiefs, and Agamemnon’s train, When his refulgent arms flash’d thro’ the shady plain, Fled from his well-known face, with wonted fear, As when his thund’ring sword and pointed spear 6210 Drove headlong to their ships, and glean’d the routed rear. They rais’d a feeble cry, with trembling notes; But the weak voice deceiv’d their gasping throats.
Here Priam’s son, Deiphobus, he found, Whose face and limbs were one continued wound: 6215 Dishonest, with lopp’d arms, the youth appears, Spoil’d of his nose, and shorten’d of his ears. He scarcely knew him, striving to disown His blotted form, and blushing to be known; And therefore first began: “O Teucer’s race, 6220 Who durst thy faultless figure thus deface? What heart could wish, what hand inflict, this dire disgrace? ‘Twas fam’d, that in our last and fatal night Your single prowess long sustain’d the fight, Till tir’d, not forc’d, a glorious fate you chose, 6225 And fell upon a heap of slaughter’d foes. But, in remembrance of so brave a deed, A tomb and fun’ral honors I decreed; Thrice call’d your manes on the Trojan plains: The place your armor and your name retains. 6230 Your body too I sought, and, had I found, Design’d for burial in your native ground.”
The ghost replied: “Your piety has paid All needful rites, to rest my wand’ring shade; But cruel fate, and my more cruel wife, 6235 To Grecian swords betray’d my sleeping life. These are the monuments of Helen’s love: The shame I bear below, the marks I bore above. You know in what deluding joys we pass’d The night that was by Heav’n decreed our last: 6240 For, when the fatal horse, descending down, Pregnant with arms, o’erwhelm’d th’ unhappy town She feign’d nocturnal orgies; left my bed, And, mix’d with Trojan dames, the dances led Then, waving high her torch, the signal made, 6245 Which rous’d the Grecians from their ambuscade.
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With watching overworn, with cares oppress’d, Unhappy I had laid me down to rest, And heavy sleep my weary limbs possess’d. Meantime my worthy wife our arms mislaid, 6250 And from beneath my head my sword convey’d; The door unlatch’d, and, with repeated calls, Invites her former lord within my walls. Thus in her crime her confidence she plac’d, And with new treasons would redeem the past. 6255 What need I more? Into the room they ran, And meanly murther’d a defenseless man. Ulysses, basely born, first led the way. Avenging pow’rs! with justice if I pray, That fortune be their own another day! 6260 But answer you; and in your turn relate, What brought you, living, to the Stygian state: Driv’n by the winds and errors of the sea, Or did you Heav’n’s superior doom obey? Or tell what other chance conducts your way, 6265 To view with mortal eyes our dark retreats, Tumults and torments of th’ infernal seats.”
While thus in talk the flying hours they pass, The sun had finish’d more than half his race: And they, perhaps, in words and tears had spent 6270 The little time of stay which Heav’n had lent; But thus the Sibyl chides their long delay: “Night rushes down, and headlong drives the day: ‘T is here, in different paths, the way divides; The right to Pluto’s golden palace guides; 6275 The left to that unhappy region tends, Which to the depth of Tartarus descends; The seat of night profound, and punish’d fiends.” Then thus Deiphobus: “O sacred maid, Forbear to chide, and be your will obey’d! 6280 Lo! to the secret shadows I retire, To pay my penance till my years expire. Proceed, auspicious prince, with glory crown’d, And born to better fates than I have found.” He said; and, while he said, his steps he turn’d 6285 To secret shadows, and in silence mourn’d.
The hero, looking on the left, espied A lofty tow’r, and strong on ev’ry side With treble walls, which Phlegethon surrounds, Whose fiery flood the burning empire bounds; 6290 And, press’d betwixt the rocks, the bellowing noise resounds Wide is the fronting gate, and, rais’d on high With adamantine columns, threats the sky. Vain is the force of man, and Heav’n’s as vain, To crush the pillars which the pile sustain. 6295 Sublime on these a tow’r of steel is rear’d; And dire Tisiphone there keeps the ward, Girt in her sanguine gown, by night and day, Observant of the souls that pass the downward way. From hence are heard the groans of ghosts, the pains 6300 Of sounding lashes and of dragging chains.
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The Trojan stood astonish’d at their cries, And ask’d his guide from whence those yells arise; And what the crimes, and what the tortures were, And loud laments that rent the liquid air. 6305
She thus replied: “The chaste and holy race Are all forbidden this polluted place. But Hecate, when she gave to rule the woods, Then led me trembling thro’ these dire abodes, And taught the tortures of th’ avenging gods. 6310 These are the realms of unrelenting fate; And awful Rhadamanthus rules the state. He hears and judges each committed crime; Enquires into the manner, place, and time. The conscious wretch must all his acts reveal, 6315 (Loth to confess, unable to conceal), From the first moment of his vital breath, To his last hour of unrepenting death. Straight, o’er the guilty ghost, the Fury shakes The sounding whip and brandishes her snakes, 6320 And the pale sinner, with her sisters, takes. Then, of itself, unfolds th’ eternal door; With dreadful sounds the brazen hinges roar. You see, before the gate, what stalking ghost Commands the guard, what sentries keep the post. 6325 More formidable Hydra stands within, Whose jaws with iron teeth severely grin. The gaping gulf low to the center lies, And twice as deep as earth is distant from the skies. The rivals of the gods, the Titan race, 6330 Here, sing’d with lightning, roll within th’ unfathom’d space. Here lie th’ Alaean twins, (I saw them both,) Enormous bodies, of gigantic growth, Who dar’d in fight the Thund’rer to defy, Affect his heav’n, and force him from the sky. 6335 Salmoneus, suff ’ring cruel pains, I found, For emulating Jove; the rattling sound Of mimic thunder, and the glitt’ring blaze Of pointed lightnings, and their forky rays. Thro’ Elis and the Grecian towns he flew; 6340 Th’ audacious wretch four fiery coursers drew: He wav’d a torch aloft, and, madly vain, Sought godlike worship from a servile train. Ambitious fool! with horny hoofs to pass O’er hollow arches of resounding brass, 6345 To rival thunder in its rapid course, And imitate inimitable force! But he, the King of Heav’n, obscure on high, Bar’d his red arm, and, launching from the sky His writhen bolt, not shaking empty smoke, 6350 Down to the deep abyss the flaming felon strook. There Tityus was to see, who took his birth From heav’n, his nursing from the foodful earth. Here his gigantic limbs, with large embrace, Infold nine acres of infernal space. 6355 A rav’nous vulture, in his open’d side, Her crooked beak and cruel talons tried;
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Still for the growing liver digg’d his breast; The growing liver still supplied the feast; Still are his entrails fruitful to their pains: 6360 Th’ immortal hunger lasts, th’ immortal food remains. Ixion and Perithous I could name, And more Thessalian chiefs of mighty fame. High o’er their heads a mold’ring rock is plac’d, That promises a fall, and shakes at ev’ry blast. 6365 They lie below, on golden beds display’d; And genial feasts with regal pomp are made. The Queen of Furies by their sides is set, And snatches from their mouths th’ untasted meat, Which if they touch, her hissing snakes she rears, 6370 Tossing her torch, and thund’ring in their ears. Then they, who brothers’ better claim disown, Expel their parents, and usurp the throne; Defraud their clients, and, to lucre sold, Sit brooding on unprofitable gold; 6375 Who dare not give, and ev’n refuse to lend To their poor kindred, or a wanting friend. Vast is the throng of these; nor less the train Of lustful youths, for foul adult’ry slain: Hosts of deserters, who their honor sold, 6380 And basely broke their faith for bribes of gold. All these within the dungeon’s depth remain, Despairing pardon, and expecting pain. Ask not what pains; nor farther seek to know Their process, or the forms of law below. 6385 Some roll a weighty stone; some, laid along, And bound with burning wires, on spokes of wheels are hung Unhappy Theseus, doom’d for ever there, Is fix’d by fate on his eternal chair; And wretched Phlegyas warns the world with cries 6390 (Could warning make the world more just or wise): ‘Learn righteousness, and dread th’ avenging deities.’ To tyrants others have their country sold, Imposing foreign lords, for foreign gold; Some have old laws repeal’d, new statutes made, 6395 Not as the people pleas’d, but as they paid; With incest some their daughters’ bed profan’d: All dar’d the worst of ills, and, what they dar’d, attain’d. Had I a hundred mouths, a hundred tongues, And throats of brass, inspir’d with iron lungs, 6400 I could not half those horrid crimes repeat, Nor half the punishments those crimes have met. But let us haste our voyage to pursue: The walls of Pluto’s palace are in view; The gate, and iron arch above it, stands 6405 On anvils labor’d by the Cyclops’ hands. Before our farther way the Fates allow, Here must we fix on high the golden bough.”
She said: and thro’ the gloomy shades they pass’d, And chose the middle path. Arriv’d at last, 6410 The prince with living water sprinkled o’er His limbs and body; then approach’d the door, Possess’d the porch, and on the front above
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He fix’d the fatal bough requir’d by Pluto’s love. These holy rites perform’d, they took their way 6415 Where long extended plains of pleasure lay: The verdant fields with those of heav’n may vie, With ether vested, and a purple sky; The blissful seats of happy souls below. Stars of their own, and their own suns, they know; 6420 Their airy limbs in sports they exercise, And on the green contend the wrestler’s prize. Some in heroic verse divinely sing; Others in artful measures led the ring. The Thracian bard, surrounded by the rest, 6425 There stands conspicuous in his flowing vest; His flying fingers, and harmonious quill, Strikes sev’n distinguish’d notes, and sev’n at once they fill. Here found they Teucer’s old heroic race, Born better times and happier years to grace. 6430 Assaracus and Ilus here enjoy Perpetual fame, with him who founded Troy. The chief beheld their chariots from afar, Their shining arms, and coursers train’d to war: Their lances fix’d in earth, their steeds around, 6435 Free from their harness, graze the flow’ry ground. The love of horses which they had, alive, And care of chariots, after death survive. Some cheerful souls were feasting on the plain; Some did the song, and some the choir maintain, 6440 Beneath a laurel shade, where mighty Po Mounts up to woods above, and hides his head below. Here patriots live, who, for their country’s good, In fighting fields, were prodigal of blood: Priests of unblemish’d lives here make abode, 6445 And poets worthy their inspiring god; And searching wits, of more mechanic parts, Who grac’d their age with new-invented arts: Those who to worth their bounty did extend, And those who knew that bounty to commend. 6450 The heads of these with holy fillets bound, And all their temples were with garlands crown’d.
To these the Sibyl thus her speech address’d, And first to him surrounded by the rest (Tow’ring his height, and ample was his breast): 6455 “Say, happy souls, divine Musaeus, say, Where lives Anchises, and where lies our way To find the hero, for whose only sake We sought the dark abodes, and cross’d the bitter lake?” To this the sacred poet thus replied: 6460 “In no fix’d place the happy souls reside. In groves we live, and lie on mossy beds, By crystal streams, that murmur thro’ the meads: But pass yon easy hill, and thence descend; The path conducts you to your journey’s end.” 6465 This said, he led them up the mountain’s brow, And shews them all the shining fields below. They wind the hill, and thro’ the blissful meadows go.
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But old Anchises, in a flow’ry vale, Review’d his muster’d race, and took the tale: 6470 Those happy spirits, which, ordain’d by fate, For future beings and new bodies wait— With studious thought observ’d th’ illustrious throng, In nature’s order as they pass’d along: Their names, their fates, their conduct, and their care, 6475 In peaceful senates and successful war. He, when Aeneas on the plain appears, Meets him with open arms, and falling tears. “Welcome,” he said, “the gods’ undoubted race! O long expected to my dear embrace! 6480 Once more ‘t is giv’n me to behold your face! The love and pious duty which you pay Have pass’d the perils of so hard a way. ‘T is true, computing times, I now believ’d The happy day approach’d; nor are my hopes deceiv’d. 6485 What length of lands, what oceans have you pass’d; What storms sustain’d, and on what shores been cast? How have I fear’d your fate! but fear’d it most, When love assail’d you, on the Libyan coast.” To this, the filial duty thus replies: 6490 “Your sacred ghost before my sleeping eyes Appear’d, and often urg’d this painful enterprise. After long tossing on the Tyrrhene sea, My navy rides at anchor in the bay. But reach your hand, O parent shade, nor shun 6495 The dear embraces of your longing son!” He said; and falling tears his face bedew: Then thrice around his neck his arms he threw; And thrice the flitting shadow slipp’d away, Like winds, or empty dreams that fly the day. 6500
Now, in a secret vale, the Trojan sees A sep’rate grove, thro’ which a gentle breeze Plays with a passing breath, and whispers thro’ the trees; And, just before the confines of the wood, The gliding Lethe leads her silent flood. 6505 About the boughs an airy nation flew, Thick as the humming bees, that hunt the golden dew; In summer’s heat on tops of lilies feed, And creep within their bells, to suck the balmy seed: The winged army roams the fields around; 6510 The rivers and the rocks remurmur to the sound. Aeneas wond’ring stood, then ask’d the cause Which to the stream the crowding people draws. Then thus the sire: “The souls that throng the flood Are those to whom, by fate, are other bodies ow’d: 6515 In Lethe’s lake they long oblivion taste, Of future life secure, forgetful of the past. Long has my soul desir’d this time and place, To set before your sight your glorious race, That this presaging joy may fire your mind 6520 To seek the shores by destiny design’d.”— “O father, can it be, that souls sublime Return to visit our terrestrial clime,
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And that the gen’rous mind, releas’d by death, Can covet lazy limbs and mortal breath?” 6525
Anchises then, in order, thus begun To clear those wonders to his godlike son: “Know, first, that heav’n, and earth’s compacted frame, And flowing waters, and the starry flame, And both the radiant lights, one common soul 6530 Inspires and feeds, and animates the whole. This active mind, infus’d thro’ all the space, Unites and mingles with the mighty mass. Hence men and beasts the breath of life obtain, And birds of air, and monsters of the main. 6535 Th’ ethereal vigor is in all the same, And every soul is fill’d with equal flame; As much as earthy limbs, and gross allay Of mortal members, subject to decay, Blunt not the beams of heav’n and edge of day. 6540 From this coarse mixture of terrestrial parts, Desire and fear by turns possess their hearts, And grief, and joy; nor can the groveling mind, In the dark dungeon of the limbs confin’d, Assert the native skies, or own its heav’nly kind: 6545 Nor death itself can wholly wash their stains; But long-contracted filth ev’n in the soul remains. The relics of inveterate vice they wear, And spots of sin obscene in ev’ry face appear. For this are various penances enjoin’d; 6550 And some are hung to bleach upon the wind, Some plung’d in waters, others purg’d in fires, Till all the dregs are drain’d, and all the rust expires. All have their manes, and those manes bear: The few, so cleans’d, to these abodes repair, 6555 And breathe, in ample fields, the soft Elysian air. Then are they happy, when by length of time The scurf is worn away of each committed crime; No speck is left of their habitual stains, But the pure ether of the soul remains. 6560 But, when a thousand rolling years are past, (So long their punishments and penance last,) Whole droves of minds are, by the driving god, Compell’d to drink the deep Lethaean flood, In large forgetful draughts to steep the cares 6565 Of their past labors, and their irksome years, That, unrememb’ring of its former pain, The soul may suffer mortal flesh again.”
Thus having said, the father spirit leads The priestess and his son thro’ swarms of shades, 6570 And takes a rising ground, from thence to see The long procession of his progeny. “Survey,” pursued the sire, “this airy throng, As, offer’d to thy view, they pass along. These are th’ Italian names, which fate will join 6575 With ours, and graff upon the Trojan line. Observe the youth who first appears in sight, And holds the nearest station to the light,
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Already seems to snuff the vital air, And leans just forward, on a shining spear: 6580 Silvius is he, thy last-begotten race, But first in order sent, to fill thy place; An Alban name, but mix’d with Dardan blood, Born in the covert of a shady wood: Him fair Lavinia, thy surviving wife, 6585 Shall breed in groves, to lead a solitary life. In Alba he shall fix his royal seat, And, born a king, a race of kings beget. Then Procas, honor of the Trojan name, Capys, and Numitor, of endless fame. 6590 A second Silvius after these appears; Silvius Aeneas, for thy name he bears; For arms and justice equally renown’d, Who, late restor’d, in Alba shall be crown’d. How great they look! how vig’rously they wield 6595 Their weighty lances, and sustain the shield! But they, who crown’d with oaken wreaths appear, Shall Gabian walls and strong Fidena rear; Nomentum, Bola, with Pometia, found; And raise Collatian tow’rs on rocky ground. 6600 All these shall then be towns of mighty fame, Tho’ now they lie obscure, and lands without a name. See Romulus the great, born to restore The crown that once his injur’d grandsire wore. This prince a priestess of your blood shall bear, 6605 And like his sire in arms he shall appear. Two rising crests, his royal head adorn; Born from a god, himself to godhead born: His sire already signs him for the skies, And marks the seat amidst the deities. 6610 Auspicious chief ! thy race, in times to come, Shall spread the conquests of imperial Rome— Rome, whose ascending tow’rs shall heav’n invade, Involving earth and ocean in her shade; High as the Mother of the Gods in place, 6615 And proud, like her, of an immortal race. Then, when in pomp she makes the Phrygian round, With golden turrets on her temples crown’d; A hundred gods her sweeping train supply; Her offspring all, and all command the sky. 6620
“Now fix your sight, and stand intent, to see Your Roman race, and Julian progeny. The mighty Caesar waits his vital hour, Impatient for the world, and grasps his promis’d pow’r. But next behold the youth of form divine, 6625 Ceasar himself, exalted in his line; Augustus, promis’d oft, and long foretold, Sent to the realm that Saturn rul’d of old; Born to restore a better age of gold. Afric and India shall his pow’r obey; 6630 He shall extend his propagated sway Beyond the solar year, without the starry way, Where Atlas turns the rolling heav’ns around, And his broad shoulders with their lights are crown’d.
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At his foreseen approach, already quake 6635 The Caspian kingdoms and Maeotian lake: Their seers behold the tempest from afar, And threat’ning oracles denounce the war. Nile hears him knocking at his sev’nfold gates, And seeks his hidden spring, and fears his nephew’s fates. 6640 Nor Hercules more lands or labors knew, Not tho’ the brazen-footed hind he slew, Freed Erymanthus from the foaming boar, And dipp’d his arrows in Lernaean gore; Nor Bacchus, turning from his Indian war, 6645 By tigers drawn triumphant in his car, From Nisus’ top descending on the plains, With curling vines around his purple reins. And doubt we yet thro’ dangers to pursue The paths of honor, and a crown in view? 6650 But what’s the man, who from afar appears? His head with olive crown’d, his hand a censer bears, His hoary beard and holy vestments bring His lost idea back: I know the Roman king. He shall to peaceful Rome new laws ordain, 6655 Call’d from his mean abode a scepter to sustain. Him Tullus next in dignity succeeds, An active prince, and prone to martial deeds. He shall his troops for fighting fields prepare, Disus’d to toils, and triumphs of the war. 6660 By dint of sword his crown he shall increase, And scour his armor from the rust of peace. Whom Ancus follows, with a fawning air, But vain within, and proudly popular. Next view the Tarquin kings, th’ avenging sword 6665 Of Brutus, justly drawn, and Rome restor’d. He first renews the rods and ax severe, And gives the consuls royal robes to wear. His sons, who seek the tyrant to sustain, And long for arbitrary lords again, 6670 With ignominy scourg’d, in open sight, He dooms to death deserv’d, asserting public right. Unhappy man, to break the pious laws Of nature, pleading in his children’s cause! Howeer the doubtful fact is understood, 6675 ‘T is love of honor, and his country’s good: The consul, not the father, sheds the blood. Behold Torquatus the same track pursue; And, next, the two devoted Decii view: The Drusian line, Camillus loaded home 6680 With standards well redeem’d, and foreign foes o’ercome The pair you see in equal armor shine, Now, friends below, in close embraces join; But, when they leave the shady realms of night, And, cloth’d in bodies, breathe your upper light, 6685 With mortal hate each other shall pursue: What wars, what wounds, what slaughter shall ensue! From Alpine heights the father first descends; His daughter’s husband in the plain attends: His daughter’s husband arms his eastern friends. 6690 Embrace again, my sons, be foes no more;
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Nor stain your country with her children’s gore! And thou, the first, lay down thy lawless claim, Thou, of my blood, who bearist the Julian name! Another comes, who shall in triumph ride, 6695 And to the Capitol his chariot guide, From conquer’d Corinth, rich with Grecian spoils. And yet another, fam’d for warlike toils, On Argos shall impose the Roman laws, And on the Greeks revenge the Trojan cause; 6700 Shall drag in chains their Achillean race; Shall vindicate his ancestors’ disgrace, And Pallas, for her violated place. Great Cato there, for gravity renown’d, And conqu’ring Cossus goes with laurels crown’d. 6705 Who can omit the Gracchi? who declare The Scipios’ worth, those thunderbolts of war, The double bane of Carthage? Who can see Without esteem for virtuous poverty, Severe Fabricius, or can cease t’ admire 6710 The plowman consul in his coarse attire? Tir’d as I am, my praise the Fabii claim; And thou, great hero, greatest of thy name, Ordain’d in war to save the sinking state, And, by delays, to put a stop to fate! 6715 Let others better mold the running mass Of metals, and inform the breathing brass, And soften into flesh a marble face; Plead better at the bar; describe the skies, And when the stars descend, and when they rise. 6720 But, Rome, ‘t is thine alone, with awful sway, To rule mankind, and make the world obey, Disposing peace and war by thy own majestic way; To tame the proud, the fetter’d slave to free: These are imperial arts, and worthy thee.” 6725
He paus’d; and, while with wond’ring eyes they view’d The passing spirits, thus his speech renew’d: “See great Marcellus! how, untir’d in toils, He moves with manly grace, how rich with regal spoils! He, when his country, threaten’d with alarms, 6730 Requires his courage and his conqu’ring arms, Shall more than once the Punic bands affright; Shall kill the Gaulish king in single fight; Then to the Capitol in triumph move, And the third spoils shall grace Feretrian Jove.” 6735 Aeneas here beheld, of form divine, A godlike youth in glitt’ring armor shine, With great Marcellus keeping equal pace; But gloomy were his eyes, dejected was his face. He saw, and, wond’ring, ask’d his airy guide, 6740 What and of whence was he, who press’d the hero’s side: “His son, or one of his illustrious name? How like the former, and almost the same! Observe the crowds that compass him around; All gaze, and all admire, and raise a shouting sound: 6745 But hov’ring mists around his brows are spread, And night, with sable shades, involves his head.”
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“Seek not to know,” the ghost replied with tears, “The sorrows of thy sons in future years. This youth (the blissful vision of a day) 6750 Shall just be shown on earth, and snatch’d away. The gods too high had rais’d the Roman state, Were but their gifts as permanent as great. What groans of men shall fill the Martian field! How fierce a blaze his flaming pile shall yield! 6755 What fun’ral pomp shall floating Tiber see, When, rising from his bed, he views the sad solemnity! No youth shall equal hopes of glory give, No youth afford so great a cause to grieve; The Trojan honor, and the Roman boast, 6760 Admir’d when living, and ador’d when lost! Mirror of ancient faith in early youth! Undaunted worth, inviolable truth! No foe, unpunish’d, in the fighting field Shall dare thee, foot to foot, with sword and shield; 6765 Much less in arms oppose thy matchless force, When thy sharp spurs shall urge thy foaming horse. Ah! couldst thou break thro’ fate’s severe decree, A new Marcellus shall arise in thee! Full canisters of fragrant lilies bring, 6770 Mix’d with the purple roses of the spring; Let me with fun’ral flow’rs his body strow; This gift which parents to their children owe, This unavailing gift, at least, I may bestow!” Thus having said, he led the hero round 6775 The confines of the blest Elysian ground; Which when Anchises to his son had shown, And fir’d his mind to mount the promis’d throne, He tells the future wars, ordain’d by fate; The strength and customs of the Latian state; 6780 The prince, and people; and forearms his care With rules, to push his fortune, or to bear.
Two gates the silent house of Sleep adorn; Of polish’d ivory this, that of transparent horn: True visions thro’ transparent horn arise; 6785 Thro’ polish’d ivory pass deluding lies. Of various things discoursing as he pass’d, Anchises hither bends his steps at last. Then, thro’ the gate of iv’ry, he dismiss’d His valiant offspring and divining guest. 6790 Straight to the ships Aeneas his way, Embark’d his men, and skimm’d along the sea, Still coasting, till he gain’d Cajeta’s bay. At length on oozy ground his galleys moor; Their heads are turn’d to sea, their sterns to shore. 6795
Book VII And thou, O matron of immortal fame, Here dying, to the shore hast left thy name; Cajeta still the place is call’d from thee, The nurse of great Aeneas’ infancy. Here rest thy bones in rich Hesperia’s plains; 6800 Thy name (‘t is all a ghost can have) remains.
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Now, when the prince her fun’ral rites had paid, He plow’d the Tyrrhene seas with sails display’d. From land a gentle breeze arose by night, Serenely shone the stars, the moon was bright, 6805 And the sea trembled with her silver light. Now near the shelves of Circe’s shores they run, (Circe the rich, the daughter of the Sun,) A dang’rous coast: the goddess wastes her days In joyous songs; the rocks resound her lays: 6810 In spinning, or the loom, she spends the night, And cedar brands supply her father’s light. From hence were heard, rebellowing to the main, The roars of lions that refuse the chain, The grunts of bristled boars, and groans of bears, 6815 And herds of howling wolves that stun the sailors’ ears. These from their caverns, at the close of night, Fill the sad isle with horror and affright. Darkling they mourn their fate, whom Circe’s pow’r, (That watch’d the moon and planetary hour,) 6820 With words and wicked herbs from humankind Had alter’d, and in brutal shapes confin’d. Which monsters lest the Trojans’ pious host Should bear, or touch upon th’ inchanted coast, Propitious Neptune steer’d their course by night 6825 With rising gales that sped their happy flight. Supplied with these, they skim the sounding shore, And hear the swelling surges vainly roar. Now, when the rosy morn began to rise, And wav’d her saffron streamer thro’ the skies; 6830 When Thetis blush’d in purple not her own, And from her face the breathing winds were blown, A sudden silence sate upon the sea, And sweeping oars, with struggling, urge their way. The Trojan, from the main, beheld a wood, 6835 Which thick with shades and a brown horror stood: Betwixt the trees the Tiber took his course, With whirlpools dimpled; and with downward force, That drove the sand along, he took his way, And roll’d his yellow billows to the sea. 6840 About him, and above, and round the wood, The birds that haunt the borders of his flood, That bath’d within, or basked upon his side, To tuneful songs their narrow throats applied. The captain gives command; the joyful train 6845 Glide thro’ the gloomy shade, and leave the main.
Now, Erato, thy poet’s mind inspire, And fill his soul with thy celestial fire! Relate what Latium was; her ancient kings; Declare the past and state of things, 6850 When first the Trojan fleet Ausonia sought, And how the rivals lov’d, and how they fought. These are my theme, and how the war began, And how concluded by the godlike man: For I shall sing of battles, blood, and rage, 6855 Which princes and their people did engage;
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And haughty souls, that, mov’d with mutual hate, In fighting fields pursued and found their fate; That rous’d the Tyrrhene realm with loud alarms, And peaceful Italy involv’d in arms. 6860 A larger scene of action is display’d; And, rising hence, a greater work is weigh’d.
Latinus, old and mild, had long possess’d The Latin scepter, and his people blest: His father Faunus; a Laurentian dame 6865 His mother; fair Marica was her name. But Faunus came from Picus: Picus drew His birth from Saturn, if records be true. Thus King Latinus, in the third degree, Had Saturn author of his family. 6870 But this old peaceful prince, as Heav’n decreed, Was blest with no male issue to succeed: His sons in blooming youth were snatch’d by fate; One only daughter heir’d the royal state. Fir’d with her love, and with ambition led, 6875 The neighb’ring princes court her nuptial bed. Among the crowd, but far above the rest, Young Turnus to the beauteous maid address’d. Turnus, for high descent and graceful mien, Was first, and favor’d by the Latian queen; 6880 With him she strove to join Lavinia’s hand, But dire portents the purpos’d match withstand.
Deep in the palace, of long growth, there stood A laurel’s trunk, a venerable wood; Where rites divine were paid; whose holy hair 6885 Was kept and cut with superstitious care. This plant Latinus, when his town he wall’d, Then found, and from the tree Laurentum call’d; And last, in honor of his new abode, He vow’d the laurel to the laurel’s god. 6890 It happen’d once (a boding prodigy!) A swarm of bees, that cut the liquid sky, (Unknown from whence they took their airy flight,) Upon the topmost branch in clouds alight; There with their clasping feet together clung, 6895 And a long cluster from the laurel hung. An ancient augur prophesied from hence: “Behold on Latian shores a foreign prince! From the same parts of heav’n his navy stands, To the same parts on earth; his army lands; 6900 The town he conquers, and the tow’r commands.”
Yet more, when fair Lavinia fed the fire Before the gods, and stood beside her sire, (Strange to relate!) the flames, involv’d in smoke Of incense, from the sacred altar broke, 6905 Caught her dishevel’d hair and rich attire; Her crown and jewels crackled in the fire: From thence the fuming trail began to spread And lambent glories danc’d about her head. This new portent the seer with wonder views, 6910
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Then pausing, thus his prophecy renews: “The nymph, who scatters flaming fires around, Shall shine with honor, shall herself be crown’d; But, caus’d by her irrevocable fate, War shall the country waste, and change the state.” 6915
Latinus, frighted with this dire ostent, For counsel to his father Faunus went, And sought the shades renown’d for prophecy Which near Albunea’s sulph’rous fountain lie. To these the Latian and the Sabine land 6920 Fly, when distress’d, and thence relief demand. The priest on skins of off ’rings takes his ease, And nightly visions in his slumber sees; A swarm of thin aerial shapes appears, And, flutt’ring round his temples, deafs his ears: 6925 These he consults, the future fates to know, From pow’rs above, and from the fiends below. Here, for the gods’ advice, Latinus flies, Off ’ring a hundred sheep for sacrifice: Their woolly fleeces, as the rites requir’d, 6930 He laid beneath him, and to rest retir’d. No sooner were his eyes in slumber bound, When, from above, a more than mortal sound Invades his ears; and thus the vision spoke: “Seek not, my seed, in Latian bands to yoke 6935 Our fair Lavinia, nor the gods provoke. A foreign son upon thy shore descends, Whose martial fame from pole to pole extends. His race, in arms and arts of peace renown’d, Not Latium shall contain, nor Europe bound: 6940 ‘T is theirs whate’er the sun surveys around.” These answers, in the silent night receiv’d, The king himself divulg’d, the land believ’d: The fame thro’ all the neighb’ring nations flew, When now the Trojan navy was in view. 6945
Beneath a shady tree, the hero spread His table on the turf, with cakes of bread; And, with his chiefs, on forest fruits he fed. They sate; and, (not without the god’s command,) Their homely fare dispatch’d, the hungry band 6950 Invade their trenchers next, and soon devour, To mend the scanty meal, their cakes of flour. Ascanius this observ’d, and smiling said: “See, we devour the plates on which we fed.” The speech had omen, that the Trojan race 6955 Should find repose, and this the time and place. Aeneas took the word, and thus replies, Confessing fate with wonder in his eyes: “All hail, O earth! all hail, my household gods! Behold the destin’d place of your abodes! 6960 For thus Anchises prophesied of old, And this our fatal place of rest foretold: ‘When, on a foreign shore, instead of meat, By famine forc’d, your trenchers you shall eat, Then ease your weary Trojans will attend, 6965
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And the long labors of your voyage end. Remember on that happy coast to build, And with a trench inclose the fruitful field.’ This was that famine, this the fatal place Which ends the wand’ring of our exil’d race. 6970 Then, on to-morrow’s dawn, your care employ, To search the land, and where the cities lie, And what the men; but give this day to joy. Now pour to Jove; and, after Jove is blest, Call great Anchises to the genial feast: 6975 Crown high the goblets with a cheerful draught; Enjoy the present hour; adjourn the future thought.”
Thus having said, the hero bound his brows With leafy branches, then perform’d his vows; Adoring first the genius of the place, 6980 Then Earth, the mother of the heav’nly race, The nymphs, and native godheads yet unknown, And Night, and all the stars that gild her sable throne, And ancient Cybel, and Idaean Jove, And last his sire below, and mother queen above. 6985 Then heav’n’s high monarch thunder’d thrice aloud, And thrice he shook aloft a golden cloud. Soon thro’ the joyful camp a rumor flew, The time was come their city to renew. Then ev’ry brow with cheerful green is crown’d, 6990 The feasts are doubled, and the bowls go round.
When next the rosy morn disclos’d the day, The scouts to sev’ral parts divide their way, To learn the natives’ names, their towns explore, The coasts and trendings of the crooked shore: 6995 Here Tiber flows, and here Numicus stands; Here warlike Latins hold the happy lands. The pious chief, who sought by peaceful ways To found his empire, and his town to raise, A hundred youths from all his train selects, 7000 And to the Latian court their course directs, (The spacious palace where their prince resides,) And all their heads with wreaths of olive hides. They go commission’d to require a peace, And carry presents to procure access. 7005 Thus while they speed their pace, the prince designs His new-elected seat, and draws the lines. The Trojans round the place a rampire cast, And palisades about the trenches plac’d.
Meantime the train, proceeding on their way, 7010 From far the town and lofty tow’rs survey; At length approach the walls. Without the gate, They see the boys and Latian youth debate The martial prizes on the dusty plain: Some drive the cars, and some the coursers rein; 7015 Some bend the stubborn bow for victory, And some with darts their active sinews try. A posting messenger, dispatch’d from hence, Of this fair troop advis’d their aged prince,
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That foreign men of mighty stature came; 7020 Uncouth their habit, and unknown their name. The king ordains their entrance, and ascends His regal seat, surrounded by his friends.
The palace built by Picus, vast and proud, Supported by a hundred pillars stood, 7025 And round incompass’d with a rising wood. The pile o’erlook’d the town, and drew the sight; Surpris’d at once with reverence and delight. There kings receiv’d the marks of sov’reign pow’r; In state the monarchs march’d; the lictors bore 7030 Their awful axes and the rods before. Here the tribunal stood, the house of pray’r, And here the sacred senators repair; All at large tables, in long order set, A ram their off ’ring, and a ram their meat. 7035 Above the portal, carv’d in cedar wood, Plac’d in their ranks, their godlike grandsires stood; Old Saturn, with his crooked scythe, on high; And Italus, that led the colony; And ancient Janus, with his double face, 7040 And bunch of keys, the porter of the place. There good Sabinus, planter of the vines, On a short pruning hook his head reclines, And studiously surveys his gen’rous wines; Then warlike kings, who for their country fought, 7045 And honorable wounds from battle brought. Around the posts hung helmets, darts, and spears, And captive chariots, axes, shields, and bars, And broken beaks of ships, the trophies of their wars. Above the rest, as chief of all the band, 7050 Was Picus plac’d, a buckler in his hand; His other wav’d a long divining wand. Girt in his Gabin gown the hero sate, Yet could not with his art avoid his fate: For Circe long had lov’d the youth in vain, 7055 Till love, refus’d, converted to disdain: Then, mixing pow’rful herbs, with magic art, She chang’d his form, who could not change his heart; Constrain’d him in a bird, and made him fly, With party-color’d plumes, a chatt’ring pie. 7060
In this high temple, on a chair of state, The seat of audience, old Latinus sate; Then gave admission to the Trojan train; And thus with pleasing accents he began: “Tell me, ye Trojans, for that name you own, 7065 Nor is your course upon our coasts unknown— Say what you seek, and whither were you bound: Were you by stress of weather cast aground? (Such dangers as on seas are often seen, And oft befall to miserable men,) 7070 Or come, your shipping in our ports to lay, Spent and disabled in so long a way? Say what you want: the Latians you shall find Not forc’d to goodness, but by will inclin’d;
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For, since the time of Saturn’s holy reign, 7075 His hospitable customs we retain. I call to mind (but time the tale has worn) Th’ Arunci told, that Dardanus, tho’ born On Latian plains, yet sought the Phrygian shore, And Samothracia, Samos call’d before. 7080 From Tuscan Coritum he claim’d his birth; But after, when exempt from mortal earth, From thence ascended to his kindred skies, A god, and, as a god, augments their sacrifice,”
He said. Ilioneus made this reply: 7085 “O king, of Faunus’ royal family! Nor wintry winds to Latium forc’d our way, Nor did the stars our wand’ring course betray. Willing we sought your shores; and, hither bound, The port, so long desir’d, at length we found; 7090 From our sweet homes and ancient realms expell’d; Great as the greatest that the sun beheld. The god began our line, who rules above; And, as our race, our king descends from Jove: And hither are we come, by his command, 7095 To crave admission in your happy land. How dire a tempest, from Mycenae pour’d, Our plains, our temples, and our town devour’d; What was the waste of war, what fierce alarms Shook Asia’s crown with European arms; 7100 Ev’n such have heard, if any such there be, Whose earth is bounded by the frozen sea; And such as, born beneath the burning sky And sultry sun, betwixt the tropics lie. From that dire deluge, thro’ the wat’ry waste, 7105 Such length of years, such various perils past, At last escap’d, to Latium we repair, To beg what you without your want may spare: The common water, and the common air; Sheds which ourselves will build, and mean abodes, 7110 Fit to receive and serve our banish’d gods. Nor our admission shall your realm disgrace, Nor length of time our gratitude efface. Besides, what endless honor you shall gain, To save and shelter Troy’s unhappy train! 7115 Now, by my sov’reign, and his fate, I swear, Renown’d for faith in peace, for force in war; Oft our alliance other lands desir’d, And, what we seek of you, of us requir’d. Despite not then, that in our hands we bear 7120 These holy boughs, sue with words of pray’r. Fate and the gods, by their supreme command, Have doom’d our ships to seek the Latian land. To these abodes our fleet Apollo sends; Here Dardanus was born, and hither tends; 7125 Where Tuscan Tiber rolls with rapid force, And where Numicus opes his holy source. Besides, our prince presents, with his request, Some small remains of what his sire possess’d. This golden charger, snatch’d from burning Troy, 7130
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Anchises did in sacrifice employ; This royal robe and this tiara wore Old Priam, and this golden scepter bore In full assemblies, and in solemn games; These purple vests were weav’d by Dardan dames.” 7135
Thus while he spoke, Latinus roll’d around His eyes, and fix’d a while upon the ground. Intent he seem’d, and anxious in his breast; Not by the scepter mov’d, or kingly vest, But pond’ring future things of wondrous weight; 7140 Succession, empire, and his daughter’s fate. On these he mus’d within his thoughtful mind, And then revolv’d what Faunus had divin’d. This was the foreign prince, by fate decreed To share his scepter, and Lavinia’s bed; 7145 This was the race that sure portents foreshew To sway the world, and land and sea subdue. At length he rais’d his cheerful head, and spoke: “The pow’rs,” said he, “the pow’rs we both invoke, To you, and yours, and mine, propitious be, 7150 And firm our purpose with their augury! Have what you ask; your presents I receive; Land, where and when you please, with ample leave; Partake and use my kingdom as your own; All shall be yours, while I command the crown: 7155 And, if my wish’d alliance please your king, Tell him he should not send the peace, but bring. Then let him not a friend’s embraces fear; The peace is made when I behold him here. Besides this answer, tell my royal guest, 7160 I add to his commands my own request: One only daughter heirs my crown and state, Whom not our oracles, nor Heav’n, nor fate, Nor frequent prodigies, permit to join With any native of th’ Ausonian line. 7165 A foreign son-in-law shall come from far (Such is our doom), a chief renown’d in war, Whose race shall bear aloft the Latian name, And thro’ the conquer’d world diffuse our fame. Himself to be the man the fates require, 7170 I firmly judge, and, what I judge, desire.”
He said, and then on each bestow’d a steed. Three hundred horses, in high stables fed, Stood ready, shining all, and smoothly dress’d: Of these he chose the fairest and the best, 7175 To mount the Trojan troop. At his command The steeds caparison’d with purple stand, With golden trappings, glorious to behold, And champ betwixt their teeth the foaming gold. Then to his absent guest the king decreed 7180 A pair of coursers born of heav’nly breed, Who from their nostrils breath’d ethereal fire; Whom Circe stole from her celestial sire, By substituting mares produc’d on earth, Whose wombs conceiv’d a more than mortal birth. 7185
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These draw the chariot which Latinus sends, And the rich present to the prince commends. Sublime on stately steeds the Trojans borne, To their expecting lord with peace return.
But jealous Juno, from Pachynus’ height, 7190 As she from Argos took her airy flight, Beheld with envious eyes this hateful sight. She saw the Trojan and his joyful train Descend upon the shore, desert the main, Design a town, and, with unhop’d success, 7195 Th’ embassadors return with promis’d peace. Then, pierc’d with pain, she shook her haughty head, Sigh’d from her inward soul, and thus she said: “O hated offspring of my Phrygian foes! O fates of Troy, which Juno’s fates oppose! 7200 Could they not fall unpitied on the plain, But slain revive, and, taken, scape again? When execrable Troy in ashes lay, Thro’ fires and swords and seas they forc’d their way. Then vanquish’d Juno must in vain contend, 7205 Her rage disarm’d, her empire at an end. Breathless and tir’d, is all my fury spent? Or does my glutted spleen at length relent? As if ‘t were little from their town to chase, I thro’ the seas pursued their exil’d race; 7210 Ingag’d the heav’ns, oppos’d the stormy main; But billows roar’d, and tempests rag’d in vain. What have my Scyllas and my Syrtes done, When these they overpass, and those they shun? On Tiber’s shores they land, secure of fate, 7215 Triumphant o’er the storms and Juno’s hate. Mars could in mutual blood the Centaurs bathe, And Jove himself gave way to Cynthia’s wrath, Who sent the tusky boar to Calydon; (What great offense had either people done?) 7220 But I, the consort of the Thunderer, Have wag’d a long and unsuccessful war, With various arts and arms in vain have toil’d, And by a mortal man at length am foil’d. If native pow’r prevail not, shall I doubt 7225 To seek for needful succor from without? If Jove and Heav’n my just desires deny, Hell shall the pow’r of Heav’n and Jove supply. Grant that the Fates have firm’d, by their decree, The Trojan race to reign in Italy; 7230 At least I can defer the nuptial day, And with protracted wars the peace delay: With blood the dear alliance shall be bought, And both the people near destruction brought; So shall the son-in-law and father join, 7235 With ruin, war, and waste of either line. O fatal maid, thy marriage is endow’d With Phrygian, Latian, and Rutulian blood! Bellona leads thee to thy lover’s hand; Another queen brings forth another brand, 7240 To burn with foreign fires another land!
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A second Paris, diff ’ring but in name, Shall fire his country with a second flame.”
Thus having said, she sinks beneath the ground, With furious haste, and shoots the Stygian sound, 7245 To rouse Alecto from th’ infernal seat Of her dire sisters, and their dark retreat. This Fury, fit for her intent, she chose; One who delights in wars and human woes. Ev’n Pluto hates his own misshapen race; 7250 Her sister Furies fly her hideous face; So frightful are the forms the monster takes, So fierce the hissings of her speckled snakes. Her Juno finds, and thus inflames her spite: “O virgin daughter of eternal Night, 7255 Give me this once thy labor, to sustain My right, and execute my just disdain. Let not the Trojans, with a feign’d pretense Of proffer’d peace, delude the Latian prince. Expel from Italy that odious name, 7260 And let not Juno suffer in her fame. ‘T is thine to ruin realms, o’erturn a state, Betwixt the dearest friends to raise debate, And kindle kindred blood to mutual hate. Thy hand o’er towns the fun’ral torch displays, 7265 And forms a thousand ills ten thousand ways. Now shake, out thy fruitful breast, the seeds Of envy, discord, and of cruel deeds: Confound the peace establish’d, and prepare Their souls to hatred, and their hands to war.” 7270
Smear’d as she was with black Gorgonian blood, The Fury sprang above the Stygian flood; And on her wicker wings, sublime thro’ night, She to the Latian palace took her flight: There sought the queen’s apartment, stood before 7275 The peaceful threshold, and besieg’d the door. Restless Amata lay, her swelling breast Fir’d with disdain for Turnus dispossess’d, And the new nuptials of the Trojan guest. From her black bloody locks the Fury shakes 7280 Her darling plague, the fav’rite of her snakes; With her full force she threw the poisonous dart, And fix’d it deep within Amata’s heart, That, thus envenom’d, she might kindle rage, And sacrifice to strife her house husband’s age. 7285 Unseen, unfelt, the fiery serpent skims Betwixt her linen and her naked limbs; His baleful breath inspiring, as he glides, Now like a chain around her neck he rides, Now like a fillet to her head repairs, 7290 And with his circling volumes folds her hairs. At first the silent venom slid with ease, And seiz’d her cooler senses by degrees; Then, ere th’ infected mass was fir’d too far, In plaintive accents she began the war, 7295 And thus bespoke her husband: “Shall,” she said,
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“A wand’ring prince enjoy Lavinia’s bed? If nature plead not in a parent’s heart, Pity my tears, and pity her desert. I know, my dearest lord, the time will come, 7300 You in vain, reverse your cruel doom; The faithless pirate soon will set to sea, And bear the royal virgin far away! A guest like him, a Trojan guest before, In shew of friendship sought the Spartan shore, 7305 And ravish’d Helen from her husband bore. Think on a king’s inviolable word; And think on Turnus, her once plighted lord: To this false foreigner you give your throne, And wrong a friend, a kinsman, and a son. 7310 Resume your ancient care; and, if the god Your sire, and you, resolve on foreign blood, Know all are foreign, in a larger sense, Not born your subjects, or deriv’d from hence. Then, if the line of Turnus you retrace, 7315 He springs from Inachus of Argive race.”
But when she saw her reasons idly spent, And could not move him from his fix’d intent, She flew to rage; for now the snake possess’d Her vital parts, and poison’d all her breast; 7320 She raves, she runs with a distracted pace, And fills with horrid howls the public place. And, as young striplings whip the top for sport, On the smooth pavement of an empty court; The wooden engine flies and whirls about, 7325 Admir’d, with clamors, of the beardless rout; They lash aloud; each other they provoke, And lend their little souls at ev’ry stroke: Thus fares the queen; and thus her fury blows Amidst the crowd, and kindles as she goes. 7330 Nor yet content, she strains her malice more, And adds new ills to those contriv’d before: She flies the town, and, mixing with a throng Of madding matrons, bears the bride along, Wand’ring thro’ woods and wilds, and devious ways, 7335 And with these arts the Trojan match delays. She feign’d the rites of Bacchus; cried aloud, And to the buxom god the virgin vow’d. “Evoe! O Bacchus!” thus began the song; And “Evoe!” answer’d all the female throng. 7340 “O virgin! worthy thee alone!” she cried; “O worthy thee alone!” the crew replied. “For thee she feeds her hair, she leads thy dance, And with thy winding ivy wreathes her lance.” Like fury seiz’d the rest; the progress known, 7345 All seek the mountains, and forsake the town: All, clad in skins of beasts, the jav’lin bear, Give to the wanton winds their flowing hair, And shrieks and shoutings rend the suff ’ring air. The queen herself, inspir’d with rage divine, 7350 Shook high above her head a flaming pine; Then roll’d her haggard eyes around the throng,
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And sung, in Turnus’ name, the nuptial song: “Io, ye Latian dames! if any here Hold your unhappy queen, Amata, dear; 7355 If there be here,” she said, “who dare maintain My right, nor think the name of mother vain; Unbind your fillets, loose your flowing hair, And orgies and nocturnal rites prepare.”
Amata’s breast the Fury thus invades, 7360 And fires with rage, amid the sylvan shades; Then, when she found her venom spread so far, The royal house embroil’d in civil war, Rais’d on her dusky wings, she cleaves the skies, And seeks the palace where young Turnus lies. 7365 His town, as fame reports, was built of old By Danae, pregnant with almighty gold, Who fled her father’s rage, and, with a train Of following Argives, thro’ the stormy main, Driv’n by the southern blasts, was fated here to reign. 7370 ‘T was Ardua once; now Ardea’s name it bears; Once a fair city, now consum’d with years. Here, in his lofty palace, Turnus lay, Betwixt the confines of the night and day, Secure in sleep. The Fury laid aside 7375 Her looks and limbs, and with new methods tried The foulness of th’ infernal form to hide. Propp’d on a staff, she takes a trembling mien: Her face is furrow’d, and her front obscene; Deep-dinted wrinkles on her cheek she draws; 7380 Sunk are her eyes, and toothless are her jaws; Her hoary hair with holy fillets bound, Her temples with an olive wreath are crown’d. Old Chalybe, who kept the sacred fane Of Juno, now she seem’d, and thus began, 7385 Appearing in a dream, to rouse the careless man: “Shall Turnus then such endless toil sustain In fighting fields, and conquer towns in vain? Win, for a Trojan head to wear the prize, Usurp thy crown, enjoy thy victories? 7390 The bride and scepter which thy blood has bought, The king transfers; and foreign heirs are sought. Go now, deluded man, and seek again New toils, new dangers, on the dusty plain. Repel the Tuscan foes; their city seize; 7395 Protect the Latians in luxurious ease. This dream all-pow’rful Juno sends; I bear Her mighty mandates, and her words you hear. Haste; arm your Ardeans; issue to the plain; With fate to friend, assault the Trojan train: 7400 Their thoughtless chiefs, their painted ships, that lie In Tiber’s mouth, with fire and sword destroy. The Latian king, unless he shall submit, Own his old promise, and his new forget— Let him, in arms, the pow’r of Turnus prove, 7405 And learn to fear whom he disdains to love. For such is Heav’n’s command.” The youthful prince With scorn replied, and made this bold defense:
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“You tell me, mother, what I knew before: The Phrygian fleet is landed on the shore. 7410 I neither fear nor will provoke the war; My fate is Juno’s most peculiar care. But time has made you dote, and vainly tell Of arms imagin’d in your lonely cell. Go; be the temple and the gods your care; 7415 Permit to men the thought of peace and war.”
These haughty words Alecto’s rage provoke, And frighted Turnus trembled as she spoke. Her eyes grow stiffen’d, and with sulphur burn; Her hideous looks and hellish form return; 7420 Her curling snakes with hissings fill the place, And open all the furies of her face: Then, darting fire from her malignant eyes, She cast him backward as he strove to rise, And, ling’ring, sought to frame some new replies. 7425 High on her head she rears two twisted snakes, Her chains she rattles, and her whip she shakes; And, churning bloody foam, thus loudly speaks: “Behold whom time has made to dote, and tell Of arms imagin’d in her lonely cell! 7430 Behold the Fates’ infernal minister! War, death, destruction, in my hand I bear.”
Thus having said, her smold’ring torch, impress’d With her full force, she plung’d into his breast. Aghast he wak’d; and, starting from his bed, 7435 Cold sweat, in clammy drops, his limbs o’erspread. “Arms! arms!” he cries: “my sword and shield prepare!” He breathes defiance, blood, and mortal war. So, when with crackling flames a caldron fries, The bubbling waters from the bottom rise: 7440 Above the brims they force their fiery way; Black vapors climb aloft, and cloud the day.
The peace polluted thus, a chosen band He first commissions to the Latian land, In threat’ning embassy; then rais’d the rest, 7445 To meet in arms th’ intruding Trojan guest, To force the foes from the Lavinian shore, And Italy’s indanger’d peace restore. Himself alone an equal match he boasts, To fight the Phrygian and Ausonian hosts. 7450 The gods invok’d, the Rutuli prepare Their arms, and warn each other to the war. His beauty these, and those his blooming age, The rest his house and his own fame ingage.
While Turnus urges thus his enterprise, 7455 The Stygian Fury to the Trojans flies; New frauds invents, and takes a steepy stand, Which overlooks the vale with wide command; Where fair Ascanius and his youthful train, With horns and hounds, a hunting match ordain, 7460 And pitch their toils around the shady plain.
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The Fury fires the pack; they snuff, they vent, And feed their hungry nostrils with the scent. ‘Twas of a well-grown stag, whose antlers rise High o’er his front; his beams invade the skies. 7465 From this light cause th’ infernal maid prepares The country churls to mischief, hate, and wars.
The stately beast the two Tyrrhidae bred, Snatch’d from his dams, and the tame youngling fed. Their father Tyrrheus did his fodder bring, 7470 Tyrrheus, chief ranger to the Latian king: Their sister Silvia cherish’d with her care The little wanton, and did wreaths prepare To hang his budding horns, with ribbons tied His tender neck, and comb’d his silken hide, 7475 And bathed his body. Patient of command In time he grew, and, growing us’d to hand, He waited at his master’s board for food; Then sought his salvage kindred in the wood, Where grazing all the day, at night he came 7480 To his known lodgings, and his country dame.
This household beast, that us’d the woodland grounds, Was view’d at first by the young hero’s hounds, As down the stream he swam, to seek retreat In the cool waters, and to quench his heat. 7485 Ascanius young, and eager of his game, Soon bent his bow, uncertain in his aim; But the dire fiend the fatal arrow guides, Which pierc’d his bowels thro’ his panting sides. The bleeding creature issues from the floods, 7490 Possess’d with fear, and seeks his known abodes, His old familiar hearth and household gods. He falls; he fills the house with heavy groans, Implores their pity, and his pain bemoans. Young Silvia beats her breast, and cries aloud 7495 For succor from the clownish neighborhood: The churls assemble; for the fiend, who lay In the close woody covert, urg’d their way. One with a brand yet burning from the flame, Arm’d with a knotty club another came: 7500 Whate’er they catch or find, without their care, Their fury makes an instrument of war. Tyrrheus, the foster father of the beast, Then clench’d a hatchet in his horny fist, But held his hand from the descending stroke, 7505 And left his wedge within the cloven oak, To whet their courage and their rage provoke. And now the goddess, exercis’d in ill, Who watch’d an hour to work her impious will, Ascends the roof, and to her crooked horn, 7510 Such as was then by Latian shepherds borne, Adds all her breath: the rocks and woods around, And mountains, tremble at th’ infernal sound. The sacred lake of Trivia from afar, The Veline fountains, and sulphureous Nar, 7515 Shake at the baleful blast, the signal of the war.
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Young mothers wildly stare, with fear possess’d, And strain their helpless infants to their breast.
The clowns, a boist’rous, rude, ungovern’d crew, With furious haste to the loud summons flew. 7520 The pow’rs of Troy, then issuing on the plain, With fresh recruits their youthful chief sustain: Not theirs a raw and unexperienc’d train, But a firm body of embattled men. At first, while fortune favor’d neither side, 7525 The fight with clubs and burning brands was tried; But now, both parties reinforc’d, the fields Are bright with flaming swords and brazen shields. A shining harvest either host displays, And shoots against the sun with equal rays. 7530 Thus, when a black-brow’d gust begins to rise, White foam at first on the curl’d ocean fries; Then roars the main, the billows mount the skies; Till, by the fury of the storm full blown, The muddy bottom o’er the clouds is thrown. 7535 First Almon falls, old Tyrrheus’ eldest care, Pierc’d with an arrow from the distant war: Fix’d in his throat the flying weapon stood, And stopp’d his breath, and drank his vital blood Huge heaps of slain around the body rise: 7540 Among the rest, the rich Galesus lies; A good old man, while peace he preach’d in vain, Amidst the madness of th’ unruly train: Five herds, five bleating flocks, his pastures fill’d; His lands a hundred yoke of oxen till’d. 7545
Thus, while in equal scales their fortune stood The Fury bath’d them in each other’s blood; Then, having fix’d the fight, exulting flies, And bears fulfill’d her promise to the skies. To Juno thus she speaks: “Behold! It is done, 7550 The blood already drawn, the war begun; The discord is complete; nor can they cease The dire debate, nor you command the peace. Now, since the Latian and the Trojan brood Have tasted vengeance and the sweets of blood; 7555 Speak, and my pow’r shall add this office more: The neighb’ring nations of th’ Ausonian shore Shall hear the dreadful rumor, from afar, Of arm’d invasion, and embrace the war.” Then Juno thus: “The grateful work is done, 7560 The seeds of discord sow’d, the war begun; Frauds, fears, and fury have possess’d the state, And fix’d the causes of a lasting hate. A bloody Hymen shall th’ alliance join Betwixt the Trojan and Ausonian line: 7565 But thou with speed to night and hell repair; For not the gods, nor angry Jove, will bear Thy lawless wand’ring walks in upper air. Leave what remains to me.” Saturnia said: The sullen fiend her sounding wings display’d, 7570 Unwilling left the light, and sought the nether shade.
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In midst of Italy, well known to fame, There lies a lake (Amsanctus is the name) Below the lofty mounts: on either side Thick forests the forbidden entrance hide. 7575 Full in the center of the sacred wood An arm arises of the Stygian flood, Which, breaking from beneath with bellowing sound, Whirls the black waves and rattling stones around. Here Pluto pants for breath from out his cell, 7580 And opens wide the grinning jaws of hell. To this infernal lake the Fury flies; Here hides her hated head, and frees the lab’ring skies.
Saturnian Juno now, with double care, Attends the fatal process of the war. 7580 The clowns, return’d, from battle bear the slain, Implore the gods, and to their king complain. The corps of Almon and the rest are shown; Shrieks, clamors, murmurs, fill the frighted town. Ambitious Turnus in the press appears, 7585 And, aggravating crimes, augments their fears; Proclaims his private injuries aloud, A solemn promise made, and disavow’d; A foreign son is sought, and a mix’d mungril brood. Then they, whose mothers, frantic with their fear, 7590 In woods and wilds the flags of Bacchus bear, And lead his dances with dishevel’d hair, Increase the clamor, and the war demand, (Such was Amata’s interest in the land,) Against the public sanctions of the peace, 7595 Against all omens of their ill success. With fates averse, the rout in arms resort, To force their monarch, and insult the court. But, like a rock unmov’d, a rock that braves The raging tempest and the rising waves— 7600 Propp’d on himself he stands; his solid sides Wash off the seaweeds, and the sounding tides— So stood the pious prince, unmov’d, and long Sustain’d the madness of the noisy throng. But, when he found that Juno’s pow’r prevail’d, 7605 And all the methods of cool counsel fail’d, He calls the gods to witness their offense, Disclaims the war, asserts his innocence. “Hurried by fate,” he cries, “and borne before A furious wind, we have the faithful shore. 7610 O more than madmen! you yourselves shall bear The guilt of blood and sacrilegious war: Thou, Turnus, shalt atone it by thy fate, And pray to Heav’n for peace, but pray too late. For me, my stormy voyage at an end, 7615 I to the port of death securely tend. The fun’ral pomp which to your kings you pay, Is all I want, and all you take away.” He said no more, but, in his walls confin’d, Shut out the woes which he too well divin’d 7620 Nor with the rising storm would vainly strive, But left the helm, and let the vessel drive.
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A solemn custom was observ’d of old, Which Latium held, and now the Romans hold, Their standard when in fighting fields they rear 7625 Against the fierce Hyrcanians, or declare The Scythian, Indian, or Arabian war; Or from the boasting Parthians would regain Their eagles, lost in Carrhae’s bloody plain. Two gates of steel (the name of Mars they bear, 7630 And still are worship’d with religious fear) Before his temple stand: the dire abode, And the fear’d issues of the furious god, Are fenc’d with brazen bolts; without the gates, The wary guardian Janus doubly waits. 7635 Then, when the sacred senate votes the wars, The Roman consul their decree declares, And in his robes the sounding gates unbars. The youth in military shouts arise, And the loud trumpets break the yielding skies. 7640 These rites, of old by sov’reign princes us’d, Were the king’s office; but the king refus’d, Deaf to their cries, nor would the gates unbar Of sacred peace, or loose th’ imprison’d war; But hid his head, and, safe from loud alarms, 7645 Abhorr’d the wicked ministry of arms. Then heav’n’s imperious queen shot down from high: At her approach the brazen hinges fly; The gates are forc’d, and ev’ry falling bar; And, like a tempest, issues out the war. 7650
The peaceful cities of th’ Ausonian shore, Lull’d in their ease, and undisturb’d before, Are all on fire; and some, with studious care, Their restiff steeds in sandy plains prepare; Some their soft limbs in painful marches try, 7655 And war is all their wish, and arms the gen’ral cry. Part scour the rusty shields with seam; and part New grind the blunted ax, and point the dart: With joy they view the waving ensigns fly, And hear the trumpet’s clangor pierce the sky. 7660 Five cities forge their arms: th’ Atinian pow’rs, Antemnae, Tibur with her lofty tow’rs, Ardea the proud, the Crustumerian town: All these of old were places of renown. Some hammer helmets for the fighting field; 7665 Some twine young sallows to support the shield; The croslet some, and some the cuishes mold, With silver plated, and with ductile gold. The rustic honors of the scythe and share Give place to swords and plumes, the pride of war. 7670 Old fauchions are new temper’d in the fires; The sounding trumpet ev’ry soul inspires. The word is giv’n; with eager speed they lace The shining headpiece, and the shield embrace. The neighing steeds are to the chariot tied; 7675 The trusty weapon sits on ev’ry side.
And now the mighty labor is begun
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Ye Muses, open all your Helicon. Sing you the chiefs that sway’d th’ Ausonian land, Their arms, and armies under their command; 7680 What warriors in our ancient clime were bred; What soldiers follow’d, and what heroes led. For well you know, and can record alone, What fame to future times conveys but darkly down. Mezentius first appear’d upon the plain: 7685 Scorn sate upon his brows, and sour disdain, Defying earth and heav’n. Etruria lost, He brings to Turnus’ aid his baffled host. The charming Lausus, full of youthful fire, Rode in the rank, and next his sullen sire; 7690 To Turnus only second in the grace Of manly mien, and features of the face. A skilful horseman, and a huntsman bred, With fates averse a thousand men he led: His sire unworthy of so brave a son; 7695 Himself well worthy of a happier throne.
Next Aventinus drives his chariot round The Latian plains, with palms and laurels crown’d. Proud of his steeds, he smokes along the field; His father’s hydra fills his ample shield: 7700 A hundred serpents hiss about the brims; The son of Hercules he justly seems By his broad shoulders and gigantic limbs; Of heav’nly part, and part of earthly blood, A mortal woman mixing with a god. 7705 For strong Alcides, after he had slain The triple Geryon, drove from conquer’d Spain His captive herds; and, thence in triumph led, On Tuscan Tiber’s flow’ry banks they fed. Then on Mount Aventine the son of Jove 7710 The priestess Rhea found, and forc’d to love. For arms, his men long piles and jav’lins bore; And poles with pointed steel their foes in battle gore. Like Hercules himself his son appears, In salvage pomp; a lion’s hide he wears; 7720 About his shoulders hangs the shaggy skin; The teeth and gaping jaws severely grin. Thus, like the god his father, homely dress’d, He strides into the hall, a horrid guest.
Then two twin brothers from fair Tibur came, 7725 (Which from their brother Tiburs took the name,) Fierce Coras and Catillus, void of fear: Arm’d Argive horse they led, and in the front appear. Like cloud-born Centaurs, from the mountain’s height With rapid course descending to the fight; 7730 They rush along; the rattling woods give way; The branches bend before their sweepy sway.
Nor was Praeneste’s founder wanting there, Whom fame reports the son of Mulciber: Found in the fire, and foster’d in the plains, 7735 A shepherd and a king at once he reigns,
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And leads to Turnus’ aid his country swains. His own Praeneste sends a chosen band, With those who plow Saturnia’s Gabine land; Besides the succor which cold Anien yields, 7740 The rocks of Hernicus, and dewy fields, Anagnia fat, and Father Amasene— A num’rous rout, but all of naked men: Nor arms they wear, nor swords and bucklers wield, Nor drive the chariot thro’ the dusty field, 7745 But whirl from leathern slings huge balls of lead, And spoils of yellow wolves adorn their head; The left foot naked, when they march to fight, But in a bull’s raw hide they sheathe the right. Messapus next, (great Neptune was his sire,) 7750 Secure of steel, and fated from the fire, In pomp appears, and with his ardor warms A heartless train, unexercis’d in arms: The just Faliscans he to battle brings, And those who live where Lake Ciminia springs; 7755 And where Feronia’s grove and temple stands, Who till Fescennian or Flavinian lands. All these in order march, and marching sing The warlike actions of their sea-born king; Like a long team of snowy swans on high, 7760 Which clap their wings, and cleave the liquid sky, When, homeward from their wat’ry pastures borne, They sing, and Asia’s lakes their notes return. Not one who heard their music from afar, Would think these troops an army train’d to war, 7765 But flocks of fowl, that, when the tempests roar, With their hoarse gabbling seek the silent shore.
Then Clausus came, who led a num’rous band Of troops embodied from the Sabine land, And, in himself alone, an army brought. 7770 ‘T was he, the noble Claudian race begot, The Claudian race, ordain’d, in times to come, To share the greatness of imperial Rome. He led the Cures forth, of old renown, Mutuscans from their olive-bearing town, 7775 And all th’ Eretian pow’rs; besides a band That follow’d from Velinum’s dewy land, And Amiternian troops, of mighty fame, And mountaineers, that from Severus came, And from the craggy cliffs of Tetrica, 7780 And those where yellow Tiber takes his way, And where Himella’s wanton waters play. Casperia sends her arms, with those that lie By Fabaris, and fruitful Foruli: The warlike aids of Horta next appear, 7785 And the cold Nursians come to close the rear, Mix’d with the natives born of Latine blood, Whom Allia washes with her fatal flood. Not thicker billows beat the Libyan main, When pale Orion sets in wintry rain; 7790 Nor thicker harvests on rich Hermus rise, Or Lycian fields, when Phoebus burns the skies,
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Than stand these troops: their bucklers ring around; Their trampling turns the turf, and shakes the solid ground.
High in his chariot then Halesus came, 7795 A foe by birth to Troy’s unhappy name: From Agamemnon born—to Turnus’ aid A thousand men the youthful hero led, Who till the Massic soil, for wine renown’d, And fierce Auruncans from their hilly ground, 7800 And those who live by Sidicinian shores, And where with shoaly fords Vulturnus roars, Cales’ and Osca’s old inhabitants, And rough Saticulans, inur’d to wants: Light demi-lances from afar they throw, 7805 Fasten’d with leathern thongs, to gall the foe. Short crooked swords in closer fight they wear; And on their warding arm light bucklers bear.
Nor Oebalus, shalt thou be left unsung, From nymph Semethis and old Telon sprung, 7810 Who then in Teleboan Capri reign’d; But that short isle th’ ambitious youth disdain’d, And o’er Campania stretch’d his ample sway, Where swelling Sarnus seeks the Tyrrhene sea; O’er Batulum, and where Abella sees, 7815 From her high tow’rs, the harvest of her trees. And these (as was the Teuton use of old) Wield brazen swords, and brazen bucklers hold; Sling weighty stones, when from afar they fight; Their casques are cork, a covering thick and light. 7820
Next these in rank, the warlike Ufens went, And led the mountain troops that Nursia sent. The rude Equicolae his rule obey’d; Hunting their sport, and plund’ring was their trade. In arms they plow’d, to battle still prepar’d: 7825 Their soil was barren, and their hearts were hard.
Umbro the priest the proud Marrubians led, By King Archippus sent to Turnus’ aid, And peaceful olives crown’d his hoary head. His wand and holy words, the viper’s rage, 7830 And venom’d wounds of serpents could assuage. He, when he pleas’d with powerful juice to steep Their temples, shut their eyes in pleasing sleep. But vain were Marsian herbs, and magic art, To cure the wound giv’n by the Dardan dart: 7835 Yet his untimely fate th’ Angitian woods In sighs remurmur’d to the Fucine floods.
The son of fam’d Hippolytus was there, Fam’d as his sire, and, as his mother, fair; Whom in Egerian groves Aricia bore, 7840 And nurs’d his youth along the marshy shore, Where great Diana’s peaceful altars flame, In fruitful fields; and Virbius was his name. Hippolytus, as old records have said,
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Was by his stepdam sought to share her bed; 7845 But, when no female arts his mind could move, She turn’d to furious hate her impious love. Torn by wild horses on the sandy shore, Another’s crimes th’ unhappy hunter bore, Glutting his father’s eyes with guiltless gore. 7850 But chaste Diana, who his death deplor’d, With Aesculapian herbs his life restor’d. Then Jove, who saw from high, with just disdain, The dead inspir’d with vital breath again, Struck to the center, with his flaming dart, 7855 Th’ unhappy founder of the godlike art. But Trivia kept in secret shades alone Her care, Hippolytus, to fate unknown; And call’d him Virbius in th’ Egerian grove, Where then he liv’d obscure, but safe from Jove. 7860 For this, from Trivia’s temple and her wood Are coursers driv’n, who shed their master’s blood, Affrighted by the monsters of the flood. His son, the second Virbius, yet retain’d His father’s art, and warrior steeds he rein’d. 7865
Amid the troops, and like the leading god, High o’er the rest in arms the graceful Turnus rode: A triple of plumes his crest adorn’d, On which with belching flames Chimaera burn’d: The more the kindled combat rises high’r, 7870 The more with fury burns the blazing fire. Fair Io grac’d his shield; but Io now With horns exalted stands, and seems to low— A noble charge! Her keeper by her side, To watch her walks, his hundred eyes applied; 7875 And on the brims her sire, the wat’ry god, Roll’d from a silver urn his crystal flood. A cloud of foot succeeds, and fills the fields With swords, and pointed spears, and clatt’ring shields; Of Argives, and of old Sicanian bands, 7880 And those who plow the rich Rutulian lands; Auruncan youth, and those Sacrana yields, And the proud Labicans, with painted shields, And those who near Numician streams reside, And those whom Tiber’s holy forests hide, 7885 Or Circe’s hills from the main land divide; Where Ufens glides along the lowly lands, Or the black water of Pomptina stands.
Last, from the Volscians fair Camilla came, And led her warlike troops, a warrior dame; 7890 Unbred to spinning, in the loom unskill’d, She chose the nobler Pallas of the field. Mix’d with the first, the fierce virago fought, Sustain’d the toils of arms, the danger sought, Outstripp’d the winds in speed upon the plain, 7895 Flew o’er the fields, nor hurt the bearded grain: She swept the seas, and, as she skimm’d along, Her flying feet unbath’d on billows hung. Men, boys, and women, stupid with surprise,
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Where’er she passes, fix their wond’ring eyes: 7900 Longing they look, and, gaping at the sight, Devour her o’er and o’er with vast delight; Her purple habit sits with such a grace On her smooth shoulders, and so suits her face; Her head with ringlets of her hair is crown’d, 7905 And in a golden caul the curls are bound. She shakes her myrtle jav’lin; and, behind, Her Lycian quiver dances in the wind.
Book VIII When Turnus had assembled all his pow’rs, His standard planted on Laurentum’s tow’rs; 7910 When now the sprightly trumpet, from afar, Had giv’n the signal of approaching war, Had rous’d the neighing steeds to scour the fields, While the fierce riders clatter’d on their shields; Trembling with rage, the Latian youth prepare 7915 To join th’ allies, and headlong rush to war. Fierce Ufens, and Messapus, led the crowd, With bold Mezentius, who blasphem’d aloud. These thro’ the country took their wasteful course, The fields to forage, and to gather force. 7920 Then Venulus to Diomede they send, To beg his aid Ausonia to defend, Declare the common danger, and inform The Grecian leader of the growing storm: Aeneas, landed on the Latian coast, 7925 With banish’d gods, and with a baffled host, Yet now aspir’d to conquest of the state, And claim’d a title from the gods and fate; What num’rous nations in his quarrel came, And how they spread his formidable name. 7930 What he design’d, what mischief might arise, If fortune favor’d his first enterprise, Was left for him to weigh, whose equal fears, And common interest, was involv’d in theirs.
While Turnus and th’ allies thus urge the war, 7935 The Trojan, floating in a flood of care, Beholds the tempest which his foes prepare. This way and that he turns his anxious mind; Thinks, and rejects the counsels he design’d; Explores himself in vain, in ev’ry part, 7940 And gives no rest to his distracted heart. So, when the sun by day, or moon by night, Strike on the polish’d brass their trembling light, The glitt’ring species here and there divide, And cast their dubious beams from side to side; 7945 Now on the walls, now on the pavement play, And to the ceiling flash the glaring day.
‘T was night; and weary nature lull’d asleep The birds of air, and fishes of the deep, And beasts, and mortal men. The Trojan chief 7950 Was laid on Tiber’s banks, oppress’d with grief,
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And found in silent slumber late relief. Then, thro’ the shadows of the poplar wood, Arose the father of the Roman flood; An azure robe was o’er his body spread, 7955 A wreath of shady reeds adorn’d his head: Thus, manifest to sight, the god appear’d, And with these pleasing words his sorrow cheer’d: “Undoubted offspring of ethereal race, O long expected in this promis’d place! 7960 Who thro’ the foes hast borne thy banish’d gods, Restor’d them to their hearths, and old abodes; This is thy happy home, the clime where fate Ordains thee to restore the Trojan state. Fear not! The war shall end in lasting peace, 7965 And all the rage of haughty Juno cease. And that this nightly vision may not seem Th’ effect of fancy, or an idle dream, A sow beneath an oak shall lie along, All white herself, and white her thirty young. 7970 When thirty rolling years have run their race, Thy son Ascanius, on this empty space, Shall build a royal town, of lasting fame, Which from this omen shall receive the name. Time shall approve the truth. For what remains, 7975 And how with sure success to crown thy pains, With patience next attend. A banish’d band, Driv’n with Evander from th’ Arcadian land, Have planted here, and plac’d on high their walls; Their town the founder Pallanteum calls, 7980 Deriv’d from Pallas, his great-grandsire’s name: But the fierce Latians old possession claim, With war infesting the new colony. These make thy friends, and on their aid rely. To thy free passage I submit my streams. 7985 Wake, son of Venus, from thy pleasing dreams; And, when the setting stars are lost in day, To Juno’s pow’r thy just devotion pay; With sacrifice the wrathful queen appease: Her pride at length shall fall, her fury cease. 7990 When thou return’st victorious from the war, Perform thy vows to me with grateful care. The god am I, whose yellow water flows Around these fields, and fattens as it goes: Tiber my name; among the rolling floods 7995 Renown’d on earth, esteem’d among the gods. This is my certain seat. In times to come, My waves shall wash the walls of mighty Rome.”
He said, and plung’d below. While yet he spoke, His dream Aeneas and his sleep forsook. 8000 He rose, and looking up, beheld the skies With purple blushing, and the day arise. Then water in his hollow palm he took From Tiber’s flood, and thus the pow’rs bespoke: “Laurentian nymphs, by whom the streams are fed, 8005 And Father Tiber, in thy sacred bed Receive Aeneas, and from danger keep.
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Whatever fount, whatever holy deep, Conceals thy wat’ry stores; where’er they rise, And, bubbling from below, salute the skies; 8010 Thou, king of horned floods, whose plenteous urn Suffices fatness to the fruitful corn, For this thy kind compassion of our woes, Shalt share my morning song and ev’ning vows. But, O be present to thy people’s aid, 8015 And firm the gracious promise thou hast made!” Thus having said, two galleys from his stores, With care he chooses, mans, and fits with oars. Now on the shore the fatal swine is found. Wondrous to tell!—She lay along the ground: 8020 Her well-fed offspring at her udders hung; She white herself, and white her thirty young. Aeneas takes the mother and her brood, And all on Juno’s altar are bestow’d.
The foll’wing night, and the succeeding day, 8025 Propitious Tiber smooth’d his wat’ry way: He roll’d his river back, and pois’d he stood, A gentle swelling, and a peaceful flood. The Trojans mount their ships; they put from shore, Borne on the waves, and scarcely dip an oar. 8030 Shouts from the land give omen to their course, And the pitch’d vessels glide with easy force. The woods and waters wonder at the gleam Of shields, and painted ships that stem the stream. One summer’s night and one whole day they pass 8035 Betwixt the greenwood shades, and cut the liquid glass. The fiery sun had finish’d half his race, Look’d back, and doubted in the middle space, When they from far beheld the rising tow’rs, The tops of sheds, and shepherds’ lowly bow’rs, 8040 Thin as they stood, which, then of homely clay, Now rise in marble, from the Roman sway. These cots (Evander’s kingdom, mean and poor) The Trojan saw, and turn’d his ships to shore. ‘T was on a solemn day: th’ Arcadian states, 8045 The king and prince, without the city gates, Then paid their off ’rings in a sacred grove To Hercules, the warrior son of Jove. Thick clouds of rolling smoke involve the skies, And fat of entrails on his altar fries. 8050
But, when they saw the ships that stemm’d the flood, And glitter’d thro’ the covert of the wood, They rose with fear, and left th’ unfinish’d feast, Till dauntless Pallas reassur’d the rest To pay the rites. Himself without delay 8055 A jav’lin seiz’d, and singly took his way; Then gain’d a rising ground, and call’d from far: “Resolve me, strangers, whence, and what you are; Your bus’ness here; and bring you peace or war?” High on the stern Aeneas his stand, 8060 And held a branch of olive in his hand, While thus he spoke: “The Phrygians’ arms you see,
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Expell’d from Troy, provok’d in Italy By Latian foes, with war unjustly made; At first affianc’d, and at last betray’d. 8065 This message bear: The Trojans and their chief Bring holy peace, and beg the king’s relief.” Struck with so great a name, and all on fire, The youth replies: “Whatever you require, Your fame exacts. Upon our shores descend. 8070 A welcome guest, and, what you wish, a friend.” He said, and, downward hasting to the strand, Embrac’d the stranger prince, and join’d his hand.
Conducted to the grove, Aeneas broke The silence first, and thus the king bespoke: 8075 “Best of the Greeks, to whom, by fate’s command, I bear these peaceful branches in my hand, Undaunted I approach you, tho’ I know Your birth is Grecian, and your land my foe; From Atreus tho’ your ancient lineage came, 8080 And both the brother kings your kindred claim; Yet, my self-conscious worth, your high renown, Your virtue, thro’ the neighb’ring nations blown, Our fathers’ mingled blood, Apollo’s voice, Have led me hither, less by need than choice. 8085 Our founder Dardanus, as fame has sung, And Greeks acknowledge, from Electra sprung: Electra from the loins of Atlas came; Atlas, whose head sustains the starry frame. Your sire is Mercury, whom long before 8090 On cold Cyllene’s top fair Maia bore. Maia the fair, on fame if we rely, Was Atlas’ daughter, who sustains the sky. Thus from one common source our streams divide; Ours is the Trojan, yours th’ Arcadian side. 8095 Rais’d by these hopes, I sent no news before, Nor ask’d your leave, nor did your faith implore; But come, without a pledge, my own ambassador. The same Rutulians, who with arms pursue The Trojan race, are equal foes to you. 8100 Our host expell’d, what farther force can stay The victor troops from universal sway? Then will they stretch their pow’r athwart the land, And either sea from side to side command. Receive our offer’d faith, and give us thine; 8105 Ours is a gen’rous and experience’d line: We want not hearts nor bodies for the war; In council cautious, and in fields we dare.”
He said; and while spoke, with piercing eyes Evander view’d the man with vast surprise, 8110 Pleas’d with his action, ravish’d with his face: Then answer’d briefly, with a royal grace: “O valiant leader of the Trojan line, In whom the features of thy father shine, How I recall Anchises! how I see 8115 His motions, mien, and all my friend, in thee! Long tho’ it be, ‘t is fresh within my mind,
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When Priam to his sister’s court design’d A welcome visit, with a friendly stay, And thro’ th’ Arcadian kingdom took his way. 8120 Then, past a boy, the callow down began To shade my chin, and call me first a man. I saw the shining train with vast delight, And Priam’s goodly person pleas’d my sight: But great Anchises, far above the rest, 8125 With awful wonder fir’d my youthful breast. I long’d to join in friendship’s holy bands Our mutual hearts, and plight our mutual hands. I first accosted him: I sued, I sought, And, with a loving force, to Pheneus brought. 8130 He gave me, when at length constrain’d to go, A Lycian quiver and a Gnossian bow, A vest embroider’d, glorious to behold, And two rich bridles, with their bits of gold, Which my son’s coursers in obedience hold. 8135 The league you ask, I offer, as your right; And, when to-morrow’s sun reveals the light, With swift supplies you shall be sent away. Now celebrate with us this solemn day, Whose holy rites admit no long delay. 8140 Honor our annual feast; and take your seat, With friendly welcome, at a homely treat.” Thus having said, the bowls (remov’d for fear) The youths replac’d, and soon restor’d the cheer. On sods of turf he set the soldiers round: 8145 A maple throne, rais’d higher from the ground, Receiv’d the Trojan chief; and, o’er the bed, A lion’s shaggy hide for ornament they spread. The loaves were serv’d in canisters; the wine In bowls; the priest renew’d the rites divine: 8150 Broil’d entrails are their food, and beef ’s continued chine.
But when the rage of hunger was repress’d, Thus spoke Evander to his royal guest: “These rites, these altars, and this feast, O king, From no vain fears or superstition spring, 8155 Or blind devotion, or from blinder chance, Or heady zeal, or brutal ignorance; But, sav’d from danger, with a grateful sense, The labors of a god we recompense. See, from afar, yon rock that mates the sky, 8160 About whose feet such heaps of rubbish lie; Such indigested ruin; bleak and bare, How desart now it stands, expos’d in air! ‘T was once a robber’s den, inclos’d around With living stone, and deep beneath the ground. 8165 The monster Cacus, more than half a beast, This hold, impervious to the sun, possess’d. The pavement ever foul with human gore; Heads, and their mangled members, hung the door. Vulcan this plague begot; and, like his sire, 8170 Black clouds he belch’d, and flakes of livid fire. Time, long expected, eas’d us of our load, And brought the needful presence of a god.
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Th’ avenging force of Hercules, from Spain, Arriv’d in triumph, from Geryon slain: 8175 Thrice liv’d the giant, and thrice liv’d in vain. His prize, the lowing herds, Alcides drove Near Tiber’s bank, to graze the shady grove. Allur’d with hope of plunder, and intent By force to rob, by fraud to circumvent, 8180 The brutal Cacus, as by chance they stray’d, Four oxen thence, and four fair kine convey’d; And, lest the printed footsteps might be seen, He dragg’d ‘em backwards to his rocky den. The tracks averse a lying notice gave, 8185 And led the searcher backward from the cave.
“Meantime the herdsman hero shifts his place, To find fresh pasture and untrodden grass. The beasts, who miss’d their mates, fill’d all around With bellowings, and the rocks restor’d the sound. 8190 One heifer, who had heard her love complain, Roar’d from the cave, and made the project vain. Alcides found the fraud; with rage he shook, And toss’d about his head his knotted oak. Swift as the winds, or Scythian arrows’ flight, 8195 He clomb, with eager haste, th’ aerial height. Then first we saw the monster mend his pace; Fear his eyes, and paleness in his face, Confess’d the god’s approach. Trembling he springs, As terror had increas’d his feet with wings; 8200 Nor stay’d for stairs; but down the depth he threw His body, on his back the door he drew (The door, a rib of living rock; with pains His father hew’d it out, and bound with iron chains): He broke the heavy links, the mountain clos’d, 8205 And bars and levers to his foe oppos’d. The wretch had hardly made his dungeon fast; The fierce avenger came with bounding haste; Survey’d the mouth of the forbidden hold, And here and there his raging eyes he roll’d. 8210 He gnash’d his teeth; and thrice he compass’d round With winged speed the circuit of the ground. Thrice at the cavern’s mouth he pull’d in vain, And, panting, thrice desisted from his pain. A pointed flinty rock, all bare and black, 8215 Grew gibbous from behind the mountain’s back; Owls, ravens, all ill omens of the night, Here built their nests, and hither wing’d their flight. The leaning head hung threat’ning o’er the flood, And nodded to the left. The hero stood 8220 Adverse, with planted feet, and, from the right, Tugg’d at the solid stone with all his might. Thus heav’d, the fix’d foundations of the rock Gave way; heav’n echo’d at the rattling shock. Tumbling, it chok’d the flood: on either side 8225 The banks leap backward, and the streams divide; The sky shrunk upward with unusual dread, And trembling Tiber div’d beneath his bed. The court of Cacus stands reveal’d to sight;
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The cavern glares with new-admitted light. 8230 So the pent vapors, with a rumbling sound, Heave from below, and rend the hollow ground; A sounding flaw succeeds; and, from on high, The gods with hate beheld the nether sky: The ghosts repine at violated night, 8235 And curse th’ invading sun, and sicken at the sight. The graceless monster, caught in open day, Inclos’d, and in despair to fly away, Howls horrible from underneath, and fills His hollow palace with unmanly yells. 8240 The hero stands above, and from afar Plies him with darts, and stones, and distant war. He, from his nostrils huge mouth, expires Black clouds of smoke, amidst his father’s fires, Gath’ring, with each repeated blast, the night, 8245 To make uncertain aim, and erring sight. The wrathful god then plunges from above, And, where in thickest waves the sparkles drove, There lights; and wades thro’ fumes, and gropes his way, Half sing’d, half stifled, till he grasps his prey. 8250 The monster, spewing fruitless flames, he found; He squeez’d his throat; he writh’d his neck around, And in a knot his crippled members bound; Then from their sockets tore his burning eyes: Roll’d on a heap, the breathless robber lies. 8255 The doors, unbarr’d, receive the rushing day, And thoro’ lights disclose the ravish’d prey. The bulls, redeem’d, breathe open air again. Next, by the feet, they drag him from his den. The wond’ring neighborhood, with glad surprise, 8260 Behold his shagged breast, his giant size, His mouth that flames no more, and his extinguish’d eyes. From that auspicious day, with rites divine, We worship at the hero’s holy shrine. Potitius first ordain’d these annual vows: 8265 As priests, were added the Pinarian house, Who rais’d this altar in the sacred shade, Where honors, ever due, for ever shall be paid. For these deserts, and this high virtue shown, Ye warlike youths, your heads with garlands crown: 8270 Fill high the goblets with a sparkling flood, And with deep draughts invoke our common god.”
This said, a double wreath Evander twin’d, And poplars black and white his temples bind. Then brims his ample bowl. With like design 8275 The rest invoke the gods, with sprinkled wine. Meantime the sun descended from the skies, And the bright evening star began to rise. And now the priests, Potitius at their head, In skins of beasts involv’d, the long procession led; 8280 Held high the flaming tapers in their hands, As custom had prescrib’d their holy bands; Then with a second course the tables load, And with full chargers offer to the god. The Salii sing, and cense his altars round 8285
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With Saban smoke, their heads with poplar bound— One choir of old, another of the young, To dance, and bear the burthen of the song. The lay records the labors, and the praise, And all th’ immortal acts of Hercules: 8290 First, how the mighty babe, when swath’d in bands, The serpents strangled with his infant hands; Then, as in years and matchless force he grew, Th’ Oechalian walls, and Trojan, overthrew. Besides, a thousand hazards they relate, 8295 Procur’d by Juno’s and Eurystheus’ hate: “Thy hands, unconquer’d hero, could subdue The cloud-born Centaurs, and the monster crew: Nor thy resistless arm the bull withstood, Nor he, the roaring terror of the wood. 8300 The triple porter of the Stygian seat, With lolling tongue, lay fawning at thy feet, And, seiz’d with fear, forgot his mangled meat. Th’ infernal waters trembled at thy sight; Thee, god, no face of danger could affright; 8305 Not huge Typhoeus, nor th’ unnumber’d snake, Increas’d with hissing heads, in Lerna’s lake. Hail, Jove’s undoubted son! an added grace To heav’n and the great author of thy race! Receive the grateful off ’rings which we pay, 8310 And smile propitious on thy solemn day!” In numbers thus they sung; above the rest, The den and death of Cacus crown the feast. The woods to hollow vales convey the sound, The vales to hills, and hills the notes rebound. 8315 The rites perform’d, the cheerful train retire.
Betwixt young Pallas and his aged sire, The Trojan pass’d, the city to survey, And pleasing talk beguil’d the tedious way. The stranger cast around his curious eyes, 8320 New objects viewing still, with new surprise; With greedy joy enquires of various things, And acts and monuments of ancient kings. Then thus the founder of the Roman tow’rs: “These woods were first the seat of sylvan pow’rs, 8325 Of Nymphs and Fauns, and salvage men, who took Their birth from trunks of trees and stubborn oak. Nor laws they knew, nor manners, nor the care Of lab’ring oxen, or the shining share, Nor arts of gain, nor what they gain’d to spare. 8330 Their exercise the chase; the running flood Supplied their thirst, the trees supplied their food. Then Saturn came, who fled the pow’r of Jove, Robb’d of his realms, and banish’d from above. The men, dispers’d on hills, to towns he brought, 8335 And laws ordain’d, and civil customs taught, And Latium call’d the land where safe he lay From his unduteous son, and his usurping sway. With his mild empire, peace and plenty came; And hence the golden times deriv’d their name. 8340 A more degenerate and discolor’d age
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Succeeded this, with avarice and rage. Th’ Ausonians then, and bold Sicanians came; And Saturn’s empire often chang’d the name. Then kings, gigantic Tybris, and the rest, 8345 With arbitrary sway the land oppress’d: For Tiber’s flood was Albula before, Till, from the tyrant’s fate, his name it bore. I last arriv’d, driv’n from my native home By fortune’s pow’r, and fate’s resistless doom. 8350 Long toss’d on seas, I sought this happy land, Warn’d by my mother nymph, and call’d by Heav’n’s command.”
Thus, walking on, he spoke, and shew’d the gate, Since call’d Carmental by the Roman state; Where stood an altar, sacred to the name 8355 Of old Carmenta, the prophetic dame, Who to her son foretold th’ Aenean race, Sublime in fame, and Rome’s imperial place: Then shews the forest, which, in after times, Fierce Romulus for perpetrated crimes 8360 A sacred refuge made; with this, the shrine Where Pan below the rock had rites divine: Then tells of Argus’ death, his murder’d guest, Whose grave and tomb his innocence attest. Thence, to the steep Tarpeian rock he leads; 8365 Now roof ’d with gold, then thatch’d with homely reeds. A reverent fear (such superstition reigns Among the rude) ev’n then possess’d the swains. Some god, they knew—what god, they could not tell— Did there amidst the sacred horror dwell. 8370 Th’ Arcadians thought him Jove; and said they saw The mighty Thund’rer with majestic awe, Who took his shield, and dealt his bolts around, And scatter’d tempests on the teeming ground. Then saw two heaps of ruins, (once they stood 8375 Two stately towns, on either side the flood,) Saturnia’s and Janicula’s remains; And either place the founder’s name retains. Discoursing thus together, they resort Where poor Evander kept his country court. 8380 They view’d the ground of Rome’s litigious hall; (Once oxen low’d, where now the lawyers bawl;) Then, stooping, thro’ the narrow gate they press’d, When thus the king bespoke his Trojan guest: “Mean as it is, this palace, and this door, 8385 Receiv’d Alcides, then a conqueror. Dare to be poor; accept our homely food, Which feasted him, and emulate a god.” Then underneath a lowly roof he led The weary prince, and laid him on a bed; 8390 The stuffing leaves, with hides of bears o’erspread. Now Night had shed her silver dews around, And with her sable wings embrac’d the ground, When love’s fair goddess, anxious for her son, (New tumults rising, and new wars begun,) 8395 Couch’d with her husband in his golden bed, With these alluring words invokes his aid;
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And, that her pleasing speech his mind may move, Inspires each accent with the charms of love: “While cruel fate conspir’d with Grecian pow’rs, 8400 To level with the ground the Trojan tow’rs, I ask’d not aid th’ unhappy to restore, Nor did the succor of thy skill implore; Nor urg’d the labors of my lord in vain, A sinking empire longer to sustain, 8405 Tho’ much I ow’d to Priam’s house, and more The dangers of Aeneas did deplore. But now, by Jove’s command, and fate’s decree, His race is doom’d to reign in Italy: With humble suit I beg thy needful art, 8410 O still propitious pow’r, that rules my heart! A mother kneels a suppliant for her son. By Thetis and Aurora thou wert won To forge impenetrable shields, and grace With fated arms a less illustrious race. 8415 Behold, what haughty nations are combin’d Against the relics of the Phrygian kind, With fire and sword my people to destroy, And conquer Venus twice, in conqu’ring Troy.” She said; and straight her arms, of snowy hue, 8420 About her unresolving husband threw. Her soft embraces soon infuse desire; His bones and marrow sudden warmth inspire; And all the godhead feels the wonted fire. Not half so swift the rattling thunder flies, 8425 Or forky lightnings flash along the skies. The goddess, proud of her successful wiles, And conscious of her form, in secret smiles.
Then thus the pow’r, obnoxious to her charms, Panting, and half dissolving in her arms: 8430 “Why seek you reasons for a cause so just, Or your own beauties or my love distrust? Long since, had you requir’d my helpful hand, Th’ artificer and art you might command, To labor arms for Troy: nor Jove, nor fate, 8435 Confin’d their empire to so short a date. And, if you now desire new wars to wage, My skill I promise, and my pains engage. Whatever melting metals can conspire, Or breathing bellows, or the forming fire, 8440 Is freely yours: your anxious fears remove, And think no task is difficult to love.” Trembling he spoke; and, eager of her charms, He snatch’d the willing goddess to his arms; Till in her lap infus’d, he lay possess’d 8445 Of full desire, and sunk to pleasing rest. Now when the Night her middle race had rode, And his first slumber had refresh’d the god— The time when early housewives leave the bed; When living embers on the hearth they spread, 8450 Supply the lamp, and call the maids to rise— With yawning mouths, and with half-open’d eyes, They ply the distaff by the winking light,
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And to their daily labor add the night: Thus frugally they earn their children’s bread, 8455 And uncorrupted keep the nuptial bed— Not less concern’d, nor at a later hour, Rose from his downy couch the forging pow’r.
Sacred to Vulcan’s name, an isle there lay, Betwixt Sicilia’s coasts and Lipare, 8460 Rais’d high on smoking rocks; and, deep below, In hollow caves the fires of Aetna glow. The Cyclops here their heavy hammers deal; Loud strokes, and hissings of tormented steel, Are heard around; the boiling waters roar, 8465 And smoky flames thro’ fuming tunnels soar. Hether the Father of the Fire, by night, Thro’ the brown air precipitates his flight. On their eternal anvils here he found The brethren beating, and the blows go round. 8470 A load of pointless thunder now there lies Before their hands, to ripen for the skies: These darts, for angry Jove, they daily cast; Consum’d on mortals with prodigious waste. Three rays of writhen rain, of fire three more, 8475 Of winged southern winds and cloudy store As many parts, the dreadful mixture frame; And fears are added, and avenging flame. Inferior ministers, for Mars, repair His broken axletrees and blunted war, 8480 And send him forth again with furbish’d arms, To wake the lazy war with trumpets’ loud alarms. The rest refresh the scaly snakes that fold The shield of Pallas, and renew their gold. Full on the crest the Gorgon’s head they place, 8485 With eyes that roll in death, and with distorted face.
“My sons,” said Vulcan, “set your tasks aside; Your strength and master-skill must now be tried. Arms for a hero forge; arms that require Your force, your speed, and all your forming fire.” 8490 He said. They set their former work aside, And their new toils with eager haste divide. A flood of molten silver, brass, and gold, And deadly steel, in the large furnace roll’d; Of this, their artful hands a shield prepare, 8495 Alone sufficient to sustain the war. Sev’n orbs within a spacious round they close: One stirs the fire, and one the bellows blows. The hissing steel is in the smithy drown’d; The grot with beaten anvils groans around. 8500 By turns their arms advance, in equal time; By turns their hands descend, and hammers chime. They turn the glowing mass with crooked tongs; The fiery work proceeds, with rustic songs.
While, at the Lemnian god’s command, they urge 8505 Their labors thus, and ply th’ Aeolian forge, The cheerful morn salutes Evander’s eyes,
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And songs of chirping birds invite to rise. He leaves his lowly bed: his buskins meet Above his ankles; sandals sheathe his feet: 8510 He sets his trusty sword upon his side, And o’er his shoulder throws a panther’s hide. Two menial dogs before their master press’d. Thus clad, and guarded thus, he seeks his kingly guest. Mindful of promis’d aid, he mends his pace, 8520 But meets Aeneas in the middle space. Young Pallas did his father’s steps attend, And true Achates waited on his friend. They join their hands; a secret seat they choose; Th’ Arcadian first their former talk renews: 8525 “Undaunted prince, I never can believe The Trojan empire lost, while you survive. Command th’ assistance of a faithful friend; But feeble are the succors I can send. Our narrow kingdom here the Tiber bounds; 8530 That other side the Latian state surrounds, Insults our walls, and wastes our fruitful grounds. But mighty nations I prepare, to join Their arms with yours, and aid your just design. You come, as by your better genius sent, 8535 And fortune seems to favor your intent. Not far from hence there stands a hilly town, Of ancient building, and of high renown, Torn from the Tuscans by the Lydian race, Who gave the name of Caere to the place, 8540 Once Agyllina call’d. It flourish’d long, In pride of wealth and warlike people strong, Till curs’d Mezentius, in a fatal hour, Assum’d the crown, with arbitrary pow’r. What words can paint those execrable times, 8545 The subjects’ suff ’rings, and the tyrant’s crimes! That blood, those murthers, O ye gods, replace On his own head, and on his impious race! The living and the dead at his command Were coupled, face to face, and hand to hand, 8550 Till, chok’d with stench, in loath’d embraces tied, The ling’ring wretches pin’d away and died. Thus plung’d in ills, and meditating more— The people’s patience, tir’d, no longer bore The raging monster; but with arms beset 8555 His house, and vengeance and destruction threat. They fire his palace: while the flame ascends, They force his guards, and execute his friends. He cleaves the crowd, and, favor’d by the night, To Turnus’ friendly court directs his flight. 8560 By just revenge the Tuscans set on fire, With arms, their king to punishment require: Their num’rous troops, now muster’d on the strand, My counsel shall submit to your command. Their navy swarms upon the coasts; they cry 8565 To hoist their anchors, but the gods deny. An ancient augur, skill’d in future fate, With these foreboding words restrains their hate: ‘Ye brave in arms, ye Lydian blood, the flow’r
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Of Tuscan youth, and choice of all their pow’r, 8570 Whom just revenge against Mezentius arms, To seek your tyrant’s death by lawful arms; Know this: no native of our land may lead This pow’rful people; seek a foreign head.’ Aw’d with these words, in camps they still abide, 8575 And wait with longing looks their promis’d guide. Tarchon, the Tuscan chief, to me has sent Their crown, and ev’ry regal ornament: The people join their own with his desire; And all my conduct, as their king, require. 8580 But the chill blood that creeps within my veins, And age, and listless limbs unfit for pains, And a soul conscious of its own decay, Have forc’d me to refuse imperial sway. My Pallas were more fit to mount the throne, 8585 And should, but he’s a Sabine mother’s son, And half a native; but, in you, combine A manly vigor, and a foreign line. Where Fate and smiling Fortune shew the way, Pursue the ready path to sov’reign sway. 8590 The staff of my declining days, my son, Shall make your good or ill success his own; In fighting fields from you shall learn to dare, And serve the hard apprenticeship of war; Your matchless courage and your conduct view, 8595 And early shall begin t’ admire and copy you. Besides, two hundred horse he shall command; Tho’ few, a warlike and well-chosen band. These in my name are listed; and my son As many more has added in his own.” 8600
Scarce had he said; Achates and his guest, With downcast eyes, their silent grief express’d; Who, short of succors, and in deep despair, Shook at the dismal prospect of the war. But his bright mother, from a breaking cloud, 8605 To cheer her issue, thunder’d thrice aloud; Thrice forky lightning flash’d along the sky, And Tyrrhene trumpets thrice were heard on high. Then, gazing up, repeated peals they hear; And, in a heav’n serene, refulgent arms appear: 8610 Redd’ning the skies, and glitt’ring all around, The temper’d metals clash, and yield a silver sound. The rest stood trembling, struck with awe divine; Aeneas only, conscious to the sign, Presag’d th’ event, and joyful view’d, above, 8615 Th’ accomplish’d promise of the Queen of Love. Then, to th’ Arcadian king: “This prodigy (Dismiss your fear) belongs alone to me. Heav’n calls me to the war: th’ expected sign Is giv’n of promis’d aid, and arms divine. 8620 My goddess mother, whose indulgent care Foresaw the dangers of the growing war, This omen gave, when bright Vulcanian arms, Fated from force of steel by Stygian charms, Suspended, shone on high: she then foreshow’d 8625
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Approaching fights, and fields to float in blood. Turnus shall dearly pay for faith forsworn; And corps, and swords, and shields, on Tiber borne, Shall choke his flood: now sound the loud alarms; And, Latian troops, prepare your perjur’d arms.” 8630
He said, and, rising from his homely throne, The solemn rites of Hercules begun, And on his altars wak’d the sleeping fires; Then cheerful to his household gods retires; There offers chosen sheep. Th’ Arcadian king 8635 And Trojan youth the same oblations bring. Next, of his men and ships he makes review; Draws out the best and ablest of the crew. Down with the falling stream the refuse run, To raise with joyful news his drooping son. 8640 Steeds are prepar’d to mount the Trojan band, Who wait their leader to the Tyrrhene land. A sprightly courser, fairer than the rest, The king himself presents his royal guest: A lion’s hide his back and limbs infold, 8645 Precious with studded work, and paws of gold. Fame thro’ the little city spreads aloud Th’ intended march, amid the fearful crowd: The matrons beat their breasts, dissolve in tears, And double their devotion in their fears. 8650 The war at hand appears with more affright, And rises ev’ry moment to the sight.
Then old Evander, with a close embrace, Strain’d his departing friend; and tears o’erflow his face. “Would Heav’n,” said he, “my strength and youth recall, 8655 Such as I was beneath Praeneste’s wall; Then when I made the foremost foes retire, And set whole heaps of conquer’d shields on fire; When Herilus in single fight I slew, Whom with three lives Feronia did endue; 8660 And thrice I sent him to the Stygian shore, Till the last ebbing soul return’d no more— Such if I stood renew’d, not these alarms, Nor death, should rend me from my Pallas’ arms; Nor proud Mezentius, thus unpunish’d, boast 8665 His rapes and murthers on the Tuscan coast. Ye gods, and mighty Jove, in pity bring Relief, and hear a father and a king! If fate and you reserve these eyes, to see My son return with peace and victory; 8670 If the lov’d boy shall bless his father’s sight; If we shall meet again with more delight; Then draw my life in length; let me sustain, In hopes of his embrace, the worst of pain. But if your hard decrees—which, O! I dread— 8675 Have doom’d to death his undeserving head; This, O this very moment, let me die! While hopes and fears in equal balance lie; While, yet possess’d of all his youthful charms, I strain him close within these aged arms; 8680
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Before that fatal news my soul shall wound!” He said, and, swooning, sunk upon the ground. His servants bore him off, and softly laid His languish’d limbs upon his homely bed.
The horsemen march; the gates are open’d wide; 8685 Aeneas at their head, Achates by his side. Next these, the Trojan leaders rode along; Last follows in the rear th’ Arcadian throng. Young Pallas shone conspicuous o’er the rest; Gilded his arms, embroider’d was his vest. 8690 So, from the seas, exerts his radiant head The star by whom the lights of heav’n are led; Shakes from his rosy locks the pearly dews, Dispels the darkness, and the day renews. The trembling wives the walls and turrets crowd, 8695 And follow, with their eyes, the dusty cloud, Which winds disperse by fits, and shew from far The blaze of arms, and shields, and shining war. The troops, drawn up in beautiful array, O’er heathy plains pursue the ready way. 8700 Repeated peals of shouts are heard around; The neighing coursers answer to the sound, And shake with horny hoofs the solid ground.
A greenwood shade, for long religion known, Stands by the streams that wash the Tuscan town, 8705 Incompass’d round with gloomy hills above, Which add a holy horror to the grove. The first inhabitants of Grecian blood, That sacred forest to Silvanus vow’d, The guardian of their flocks and fields; and pay 8710 Their due devotions on his annual day. Not far from hence, along the river’s side, In tents secure, the Tuscan troops abide, By Tarchon led. Now, from a rising ground, Aeneas cast his wond’ring eyes around, 8715 And all the Tyrrhene army had in sight, Stretch’d on the spacious plain from left to right. Thether his warlike train the Trojan led, Refresh’d his men, and wearied horses fed.
Meantime the mother goddess, crown’d with charms, 8720 Breaks thro’ the clouds, and brings the fated arms. Within a winding vale she finds her son, On the cool river’s banks, retir’d alone. She shews her heav’nly form without disguise, And gives herself to his desiring eyes. 8725 “Behold,” she said, “perform’d in ev’ry part, My promise made, and Vulcan’s labor’d art. Now seek, secure, the Latian enemy, And haughty Turnus to the field defy.” She said; and, having first her son embrac’d, 8730 The radiant arms beneath an oak she plac’d, Proud of the gift, he roll’d his greedy sight Around the work, and gaz’d with vast delight. He lifts, he turns, he poises, and admires
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The crested helm, that vomits radiant fires: 8735 His hands the fatal sword and corslet hold, One keen with temper’d steel, one stiff with gold: Both ample, flaming both, and beamy bright; So shines a cloud, when edg’d with adverse light. He shakes the pointed spear, and longs to try 8740 The plated cuishes on his manly thigh; But most admires the shield’s mysterious mold, And Roman triumphs rising on the gold: For these, emboss’d, the heav’nly smith had wrought (Not in the rolls of future fate untaught) 8745 The wars in order, and the race divine Of warriors issuing from the Julian line. The cave of Mars was dress’d with mossy greens: There, by the wolf, were laid the martial twins. Intrepid on her swelling dugs they hung; 8750 The foster dam loll’d out her fawning tongue: They suck’d secure, while, bending back her head, She lick’d their tender limbs, and form’d them as they fed. Not far from thence new Rome appears, with games Projected for the rape of Sabine dames. 8755 The pit resounds with shrieks; a war succeeds, For breach of public faith, and unexampled deeds. Here for revenge the Sabine troops contend; The Romans there with arms the prey defend. Wearied with tedious war, at length they cease; 8760 And both the kings and kingdoms plight the peace. The friendly chiefs before Jove’s altar stand, Both arm’d, with each a charger in his hand: A fatted sow for sacrifice is led, With imprecations on the perjur’d head. 8765 Near this, the traitor Metius, stretch’d between Four fiery steeds, is dragg’d along the green, By Tullus’ doom: the brambles drink his blood, And his torn limbs are left the vulture’s food. There, Porsena to Rome proud Tarquin brings, 8770 And would by force restore the banish’d kings. One tyrant for his fellow-tyrant fights; The Roman youth assert their native rights. Before the town the Tuscan army lies, To win by famine, or by fraud surprise. 8775 Their king, half-threat’ning, half-disdaining stood, While Cocles broke the bridge, and stemm’d the flood. The captive maids there tempt the raging tide, Scap’d from their chains, with Cloelia for their guide. High on a rock heroic Manlius stood, 8780 To guard the temple, and the temple’s god. Then Rome was poor; and there you might behold The palace thatch’d with straw, now roof ’d with gold. The silver goose before the shining gate There flew, and, by her cackle, sav’d the state. 8785 She told the Gauls’ approach; th’ approaching Gauls, Obscure in night, ascend, and seize the walls. The gold dissembled well their yellow hair, And golden chains on their white necks they wear. Gold are their vests; long Alpine spears they wield, 8790 And their left arm sustains a length of shield.
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Hard by, the leaping Salian priests advance; And naked thro’ the streets the mad Luperci dance, In caps of wool; the targets dropp’d from heav’n. Here modest matrons, in soft litters driv’n, 8795 To pay their vows in solemn pomp appear, And odorous gums in their chaste hands they bear. Far hence remov’d, the Stygian seats are seen; Pains of the damn’d, and punish’d Catiline Hung on a rock—the traitor; and, around, 8800 The Furies hissing from the nether ground. Apart from these, the happy souls he draws, And Cato’s holy ghost dispensing laws.
Betwixt the quarters flows a golden sea; But foaming surges there in silver play. 8805 The dancing dolphins with their tails divide The glitt’ring waves, and cut the precious tide. Amid the main, two mighty fleets engage Their brazen beaks, oppos’d with equal rage. Actium surveys the well-disputed prize; 8810 Leucate’s wat’ry plain with foamy billows fries. Young Caesar, on the stern, in armor bright, Here leads the Romans and their gods to fight: His beamy temples shoot their flames afar, And o’er his head is hung the Julian star. 8815 Agrippa seconds him, with prosp’rous gales, And, with propitious gods, his foes assails: A naval crown, that binds his manly brows, The happy fortune of the fight foreshows. Rang’d on the line oppos’d, Antonius brings 8820 Barbarian aids, and troops of Eastern kings; Th’ Arabians near, and Bactrians from afar, Of tongues discordant, and a mingled war: And, rich in gaudy robes, amidst the strife, His ill fate follows him—th’ Egyptian wife. 8825 Moving they fight; with oars and forky prows The froth is gather’d, and the water glows. It seems, as if the Cyclades again Were rooted up, and justled in the main; Or floating mountains floating mountains meet; 8830 Such is the fierce encounter of the fleet. Fireballs are thrown, and pointed jav’lins fly; The fields of Neptune take a purple dye. The queen herself, amidst the loud alarms, With cymbals toss’d her fainting soldiers warms— 8835 Fool as she was! who had not yet divin’d Her cruel fate, nor saw the snakes behind. Her country gods, the monsters of the sky, Great Neptune, Pallas, and Love’s Queen defy: The dog Anubis barks, but barks in vain, 8840 Nor longer dares oppose th’ ethereal train. Mars in the middle of the shining shield Is grav’d, and strides along the liquid field. The Dirae souse from heav’n with swift descent; And Discord, dyed in blood, with garments rent, 8845 Divides the prease: her steps Bellona treads, And shakes her iron rod above their heads.
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This seen, Apollo, from his Actian height, Pours down his arrows; at whose winged flight The trembling Indians and Egyptians yield, 8850 And soft Sabaeans quit the wat’ry field. The fatal mistress hoists her silken sails, And, shrinking from the fight, invokes the gales. Aghast she looks, and heaves her breast for breath, Panting, and pale with fear of future death. 8855 The god had figur’d her as driv’n along By winds and waves, and scudding thro’ the throng. Just opposite, sad Nilus opens wide His arms and ample bosom to the tide, And spreads his mantle o’er the winding coast, 8860 In which he wraps his queen, and hides the flying host. The victor to the gods his thanks express’d, And Rome, triumphant, with his presence bless’d. Three hundred temples in the town he plac’d; With spoils and altars ev’ry temple grac’d. 8865 Three shining nights, and three succeeding days, The fields resound with shouts, the streets with praise, The domes with songs, the theaters with plays. All altars flame: before each altar lies, Drench’d in his gore, the destin’d sacrifice. 8870 Great Caesar sits sublime upon his throne, Before Apollo’s porch of Parian stone; Accepts the presents vow’d for victory, And hangs the monumental crowns on high. Vast crowds of vanquish’d nations march along, 8875 Various in arms, in habit, and in tongue. Here, Mulciber assigns the proper place For Carians, and th’ ungirt Numidian race; Then ranks the Thracians in the second row, With Scythians, expert in the dart and bow. 8880 And here the tam’d Euphrates humbly glides, And there the Rhine submits her swelling tides, And proud Araxes, whom no bridge could bind; The Danes’ unconquer’d offspring march behind, And Morini, the last of humankind. 8885
These figures, on the shield divinely wrought, By Vulcan labor’d, and by Venus brought, With joy and wonder fill the hero’s thought. Unknown the names, he yet admires the grace, And bears aloft the fame and fortune of his race. 8890
Book IX While these affairs in distant places pass’d, The various Iris Juno sends with haste, To find bold Turnus, who, with anxious thought, The secret shade of his great grandsire sought. Retir’d alone she found the daring man, 8895 And op’d her rosy lips, and thus began: “What none of all the gods could grant thy vows, That, Turnus, this auspicious day bestows. Aeneas, gone to seek th’ Arcadian prince, Has left the Trojan camp without defense; 8900
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And, short of succors there, employs his pains In parts remote to raise the Tuscan swains. Now snatch an hour that favors thy designs; Unite thy forces, and attack their lines.” This said, on equal wings she pois’d her weight, 8905 And form’d a radiant rainbow in her flight.
The Daunian hero lifts his hands and eyes, And thus invokes the goddess as she flies: “Iris, the grace of heav’n, what pow’r divine Has sent thee down, thro’ dusky clouds to shine? 8910 See, they divide; immortal day appears, And glitt’ring planets dancing in their spheres! With joy, these happy omens I obey, And follow to the war the god that leads the way.” Thus having said, as by the brook he stood, 8915 He scoop’d the water from the crystal flood; Then with his hands the drops to heav’n he throws, And loads the pow’rs above with offer’d vows.
Now march the bold confed’rates thro’ the plain, Well hors’d, well clad; a rich and shining train. 8920 Messapus leads the van; and, in the rear, The sons of Tyrrheus in bright arms appear. In the main battle, with his flaming crest, The mighty Turnus tow’rs above the rest. Silent they move, majestically slow, 8925 Like ebbing Nile, or Ganges in his flow. The Trojans view the dusty cloud from far, And the dark menace of the distant war. Caicus from the rampire saw it rise, Black’ning the fields, and thick’ning thro’ the skies. 8930 Then to his fellows thus aloud he calls: “What rolling clouds, my friends, approach the walls? Arm! arm! and man the works! prepare your spears And pointed darts! the Latian host appears.”
Thus warn’d, they shut their gates; with shouts ascend 8935 The bulwarks, and, secure, their foes attend: For their wise gen’ral, with foreseeing care, Had charg’d them not to tempt the doubtful war, Nor, tho’ provok’d, in open fields advance, But close within their lines attend their chance. 8940 Unwilling, yet they keep the strict command, And sourly wait in arms the hostile band. The fiery Turnus flew before the rest: A piebald steed of Thracian strain he press’d; His helm of massy gold, and crimson was his crest. 8945 With twenty horse to second his designs, An unexpected foe, he fac’d the lines. “Is there,” he said, “in arms, who bravely dare His leader’s honor and his danger share?” Then spurring on, his brandish’d dart he threw, 8950 In sign of war: applauding shouts ensue.
Amaz’d to find a dastard race, that run Behind the rampires and the battle shun,
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He rides around the camp, with rolling eyes, And stops at ev’ry post, and ev’ry passage tries. 8955 So roams the nightly wolf about the fold: Wet with descending show’rs, and stiff with cold, He howls for hunger, and he grins for pain, (His gnashing teeth are exercis’d in vain,) And, impotent of anger, finds no way 8960 In his distended paws to grasp the prey. The mothers listen; but the bleating lambs Securely swig the dug, beneath the dams. Thus ranges eager Turnus o’er the plain. Sharp with desire, and furious with disdain; 8965 Surveys each passage with a piercing sight, To force his foes in equal field to fight. Thus while he gazes round, at length he spies, Where, fenc’d with strong redoubts, their navy lies, Close underneath the walls; the washing tide 8970 Secures from all approach this weaker side. He takes the wish’d occasion, fills his hand With ready fires, and shakes a flaming brand. Urg’d by his presence, ev’ry soul is warm’d, And ev’ry hand with kindled firs is arm’d. 8975 From the fir’d pines the scatt’ring sparkles fly; Fat vapors, mix’d with flames, involve the sky. What pow’r, O Muses, could avert the flame Which threaten’d, in the fleet, the Trojan name? Tell: for the fact, thro’ length of time obscure, 8980 Is hard to faith; yet shall the fame endure.
‘T is said that, when the chief prepar’d his flight, And fell’d his timber from Mount Ida’s height, The grandam goddess then approach’d her son, And with a mother’s majesty begun: 8985 “Grant me,” she said, “the sole request I bring, Since conquer’d heav’n has own’d you for its king. On Ida’s brows, for ages past, there stood, With firs and maples fill’d, a shady wood; And on the summit rose a sacred grove, 8990 Where I was worship’d with religious love. Those woods, that holy grove, my long delight, I gave the Trojan prince, to speed his flight. Now, fill’d with fear, on their behalf I come; Let neither winds o’erset, nor waves intomb 8995 The floating forests of the sacred pine; But let it be their safety to be mine.” Then thus replied her awful son, who rolls The radiant stars, and heav’n and earth controls: “How dare you, mother, endless date demand 9000 For vessels molded by a mortal hand? What then is fate? Shall bold Aeneas ride, Of safety certain, on th’ uncertain tide? Yet, what I can, I grant; when, wafted o’er, The chief is landed on the Latian shore, 9005 Whatever ships escape the raging storms, At my command shall change their fading forms To nymphs divine, and plow the wat’ry way, Like Dotis and the daughters of the sea.”
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To seal his sacred vow, by Styx he swore, 9010 The lake of liquid pitch, the dreary shore, And Phlegethon’s innavigable flood, And the black regions of his brother god. He said; and shook the skies with his imperial nod.
And now at length the number’d hours were come, 9015 Prefix’d by fate’s irrevocable doom, When the great Mother of the Gods was free To save her ships, and finish Jove’s decree. First, from the quarter of the morn, there sprung A light that sign’d the heav’ns, and shot along; 9020 Then from a cloud, fring’d round with golden fires, Were timbrels heard, and Berecynthian choirs; And, last, a voice, with more than mortal sounds, Both hosts, in arms oppos’d, with equal horror wounds: “O Trojan race, your needless aid forbear, 9025 And know, my ships are my peculiar care. With greater ease the bold Rutulian may, With hissing brands, attempt to burn the sea, Than singe my sacred pines. But you, my charge, Loos’d from your crooked anchors, launch at large, 9030 Exalted each a nymph: forsake the sand, And swim the seas, at Cybele’s command.” No sooner had the goddess ceas’d to speak, When, lo! th’ obedient ships their haulsers break; And, strange to tell, like dolphins, in the main 9035 They plunge their prows, and dive, and spring again: As many beauteous maids the billows sweep, As rode before tall vessels on the deep.
The foes, surpris’d with wonder, stood aghast; Messapus curb’d his fiery courser’s haste; 9040 Old Tiber roar’d, and, raising up his head, Call’d back his waters to their oozy bed. Turnus alone, undaunted, bore the shock, And with these words his trembling troops bespoke: “These monsters for the Trojans’ fate are meant, 9045 And are by Jove for black presages sent. He takes the cowards’ last relief away; For fly they cannot, and, constrain’d to stay, Must yield unfought, a base inglorious prey. The liquid half of all the globe is lost; 9050 Heav’n shuts the seas, and we secure the coast. Theirs is no more than that small spot of ground Which myriads of our martial men surround. Their fates I fear not, or vain oracles. ‘T was giv’n to Venus they should cross the seas, 9055 And land secure upon the Latian plains: Their promis’d hour is pass’d, and mine remains. ‘T is in the fate of Turnus to destroy, With sword and fire, the faithless race of Troy. Shall such affronts as these alone inflame 9060 The Grecian brothers, and the Grecian name? My cause and theirs is one; a fatal strife, And final ruin, for a ravish’d wife. Was ‘t not enough, that, punish’d for the crime,
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They fell; but will they fall a second time? 9065 One would have thought they paid enough before, To curse the costly sex, and durst offend no more. Can they securely trust their feeble wall, A slight partition, a thin interval, Betwixt their fate and them; when Troy, tho’ built 9070 By hands divine, yet perish’d by their guilt? Lend me, for once, my friends, your valiant hands, To force from out their lines these dastard bands. Less than a thousand ships will end this war, Nor Vulcan needs his fated arms prepare. 9075 Let all the Tuscans, all th’ Arcadians, join! Nor these, nor those, shall frustrate my design. Let them not fear the treasons of the night, The robb’d Palladium, the pretended flight: Our onset shall be made in open light. 9080 No wooden engine shall their town betray; Fires they shall have around, but fires by day. No Grecian babes before their camp appear, Whom Hector’s arms detain’d to the tenth tardy year. Now, since the sun is rolling to the west, 9085 Give we the silent night to needful rest: Refresh your bodies, and your arms prepare; The morn shall end the small remains of war.”
The post of honor to Messapus falls, To keep the nightly guard, to watch the walls, 9090 To pitch the fires at distances around, And close the Trojans in their scanty ground. Twice seven Rutulian captains ready stand, And twice seven hundred horse these chiefs command; All clad in shining arms the works invest, 9095 Each with a radiant helm and waving crest. Stretch’d at their length, they press the grassy ground; They laugh, they sing, (the jolly bowls go round,) With lights and cheerful fires renew the day, And pass the wakeful night in feasts and play. 9100
The Trojans, from above, their foes beheld, And with arm’d legions all the rampires fill’d. Seiz’d with affright, their gates they first explore; Join works to works with bridges, tow’r to tow’r: Thus all things needful for defense abound. 9105 Mnestheus and brave Seresthus walk the round, Commission’d by their absent prince to share The common danger, and divide the care. The soldiers draw their lots, and, as they fall, By turns relieve each other on the wall. 9110
Nigh where the foes their utmost guards advance, To watch the gate was warlike Nisus’ chance. His father Hyrtacus of noble blood; His mother was a huntress of the wood, And sent him to the wars. Well could he bear 9115 His lance in fight, and dart the flying spear, But better skill’d unerring shafts to send. Beside him stood Euryalus, his friend:
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Euryalus, than whom the Trojan host No fairer face, or sweeter air, could boast— 9120 Scarce had the down to shade his cheeks begun. One was their care, and their delight was one: One common hazard in the war they shar’d, And now were both by choice upon the guard.
Then Nisus thus: “Or do the gods inspire 9125 This warmth, or make we gods of our desire? A gen’rous ardor boils within my breast, Eager of action, enemy to rest: This urges me to fight, and fires my mind To leave a memorable name behind. 9130 Thou see’st the foe secure; how faintly shine Their scatter’d fires! the most, in sleep supine Along the ground, an easy conquest lie: The wakeful few the fuming flagon ply; All hush’d around. Now hear what I revolve— 9135 A thought unripe—and scarcely yet resolve. Our absent prince both camp and council mourn; By message both would hasten his return: If they confer what I demand on thee, (For fame is recompense enough for me,) 9140 Methinks, beneath yon hill, I have espied A way that safely will my passage guide.”
Euryalus stood list’ning while he spoke, With love of praise and noble envy struck; Then to his ardent friend expos’d his mind: 9145 “All this, alone, and leaving me behind! Am I unworthy, Nisus, to be join’d? Thinkist thou I can my share of glory yield, Or send thee unassisted to the field? Not so my father taught my childhood arms; 9150 Born in a siege, and bred among alarms! Nor is my youth unworthy of my friend, Nor of the heav’n-born hero I attend. The thing call’d life, with ease I can disclaim, And think it over-sold to purchase fame.” 9155
Then Nisus thus: “Alas! thy tender years Would minister new matter to my fears. So may the gods, who view this friendly strife, Restore me to thy lov’d embrace with life, Condemn’d to pay my vows, (as sure I trust,) 9160 This thy request is cruel and unjust. But if some chance—as many chances are, And doubtful hazards, in the deeds of war— If one should reach my head, there let it fall, And spare thy life; I would not perish all. 9165 Thy bloomy youth deserves a longer date: Live thou to mourn thy love’s unhappy fate; To bear my mangled body from the foe, Or buy it back, and fun’ral rites bestow. Or, if hard fortune shall those dues deny, 9170 Thou canst at least an empty tomb supply. O let not me the widow’s tears renew!
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Nor let a mother’s curse my name pursue: Thy pious parent, who, for love of thee, Forsook the coasts of friendly Sicily, 9175 Her age committing to the seas and wind, When ev’ry weary matron stay’d behind.” To this, Euryalus: “You plead in vain, And but protract the cause you cannot gain. No more delays, but haste!” With that, he wakes 9180 The nodding watch; each to his office takes. The guard reliev’d, the gen’rous couple went To find the council at the royal tent.
All creatures else forgot their daily care, And sleep, the common gift of nature, share; 9185 Except the Trojan peers, who wakeful sate In nightly council for th’ indanger’d state. They vote a message to their absent chief, Shew their distress, and beg a swift relief. Amid the camp a silent seat they chose, 9190 Remote from clamor, and secure from foes. On their left arms their ample shields they bear, The right reclin’d upon the bending spear. Now Nisus and his friend approach the guard, And beg admission, eager to be heard: 9195 Th’ affair important, not to be deferr’d. Ascanius bids ‘em be conducted in, Ord’ring the more experience’d to begin. Then Nisus thus: “Ye fathers, lend your ears; Nor judge our bold attempt beyond our years. 9200 The foe, securely drench’d in sleep and wine, Neglect their watch; the fires but thinly shine; And where the smoke in cloudy vapors flies, Cov’ring the plain, and curling to the skies, Betwixt two paths, which at the gate divide, 9205 Close by the sea, a passage we have spied, Which will our way to great Aeneas guide. Expect each hour to see him safe again, Loaded with spoils of foes in battle slain. Snatch we the lucky minute while we may; 9210 Nor can we be mistaken in the way; For, hunting in the vale, we both have seen The rising turrets, and the stream between, And know the winding course, with ev’ry ford.”
He ceas’d; and old Alethes took the word: 9215 “Our country gods, in whom our trust we place, Will yet from ruin save the Trojan race, While we behold such dauntless worth appear In dawning youth, and souls so void of fear.” Then into tears of joy the father broke; 9220 Each in his longing arms by turns he took; Panted and paus’d; and thus again he spoke: “Ye brave young men, what equal gifts can we, In recompense of such desert, decree? The greatest, sure, and best you can receive, 9225 The gods and your own conscious worth will give.
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The rest our grateful gen’ral will bestow, And young Ascanius till his manhood owe.”
“And I, whose welfare in my father lies,” Ascanius adds, “by the great deities, 9230 By my dear country, by my household gods, By hoary Vesta’s rites and dark abodes, Adjure you both, (on you my fortune stands; That and my faith I plight into your hands,) Make me but happy in his safe return, 9235 Whose wanted presence I can only mourn; Your common gift shall two large goblets be Of silver, wrought with curious imagery, And high emboss’d, which, when old Priam reign’d, My conqu’ring sire at sack’d Arisba gain’d; 9240 And more, two tripods cast in antic mold, With two great talents of the finest gold; Beside a costly bowl, ingrav’d with art, Which Dido gave, when first she gave her heart. But, if in conquer’d Italy we reign, 9245 When spoils by lot the victor shall obtain— Thou saw’st the courser by proud Turnus press’d: That, Nisus, and his arms, and nodding crest, And shield, from chance exempt, shall be thy share: Twelve lab’ring slaves, twelve handmaids young and fair 9250 All clad in rich attire, and train’d with care; And, last, a Latian field with fruitful plains, And a large portion of the king’s domains. But thou, whose years are more to mine allied— No fate my vow’d affection shall divide 9255 From thee, heroic youth! Be wholly mine; Take full possession; all my soul is thine. One faith, one fame, one fate, shall both attend; My life’s companion, and my bosom friend: My peace shall be committed to thy care, 9260 And to thy conduct my concerns in war.”
Then thus the young Euryalus replied: “Whatever fortune, good or bad, betide, The same shall be my age, as now my youth; No time shall find me wanting to my truth. 9265 This only from your goodness let me gain (And, this ungranted, all rewards are vain) Of Priam’s royal race my mother came— And sure the best that ever bore the name— Whom neither Troy nor Sicily could hold 9270 From me departing, but, o’erspent and old, My fate she follow’d. Ignorant of this Whatever danger, neither parting kiss, Nor pious blessing taken, her I leave, And in this only act of all my life deceive. 9275 By this right hand and conscious Night I swear, My soul so sad a farewell could not bear. Be you her comfort; fill my vacant place (Permit me to presume so great a grace) Support her age, forsaken and distress’d. 9280
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That hope alone will fortify my breast Against the worst of fortunes, and of fears.” He said. The mov’d assistants melt in tears.
Then thus Ascanius, wonderstruck to see That image of his filial piety: 9285 “So great beginnings, in so green an age, Exact the faith which I again ingage. Thy mother all the dues shall justly claim, Creusa had, and only want the name. Whate’er event thy bold attempt shall have, 9290 ‘T is merit to have borne a son so brave. Now by my head, a sacred oath, I swear, (My father us’d it,) what, returning here Crown’d with success, I for thyself prepare, That, if thou fail, shall thy lov’d mother share.” 9295
He said, and weeping, while he spoke the word, From his broad belt he drew a shining sword, Magnificent with gold. Lycaon made, And in an ivory scabbard sheath’d the blade. This was his gift. Great Mnestheus gave his friend 9300 A lion’s hide, his body to defend; And good Alethes furnish’d him, beside, With his own trusty helm, of temper tried.
Thus arm’d they went. The noble Trojans wait Their issuing forth, and follow to the gate 9305 With prayers and vows. Above the rest appears Ascanius, manly far beyond his years, And messages committed to their care, Which all in winds were lost, and flitting air.
The trenches first they pass’d; then took their way 9310 Where their proud foes in pitch’d pavilions lay; To many fatal, ere themselves were slain. They found the careless host dispers’d upon the plain, Who, gorg’d, and drunk with wine, supinely snore. Unharness’d chariots stand along the shore: 9315 Amidst the wheels and reins, the goblet by, A medley of debauch and war, they lie. Observing Nisus shew’d his friend the sight: “Behold a conquest gain’d without a fight. Occasion offers, and I stand prepar’d; 9320 There lies our way; be thou upon the guard, And look around, while I securely go, And hew a passage thro’ the sleeping foe.” Softly he spoke; then striding took his way, With his drawn sword, where haughty Rhamnes lay; 9325 His head rais’d high on tapestry beneath, And heaving from his breast, he drew his breath; A king and prophet, by King Turnus lov’d: But fate by prescience cannot be remov’d. Him and his sleeping slaves he slew; then spies 9330 Where Remus, with his rich retinue, lies. His armor-bearer first, and next he kills His charioteer, intrench’d betwixt the wheels
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And his lov’d horses; last invades their lord; Full on his neck he drives the fatal sword: 9335 The gasping head flies off; a purple flood Flows from the trunk, that welters in the blood, Which, by the spurning heels dispers’d around, The bed besprinkles and bedews the ground. Lamus the bold, and Lamyrus the strong, 9340 He slew, and then Serranus fair and young. From dice and wine the youth retir’d to rest, And puff ’d the fumy god from out his breast: Ev’n then he dreamt of drink and lucky play— More lucky, had it lasted till the day. 9345 The famish’d lion thus, with hunger bold, O’erleaps the fences of the nightly fold, And tears the peaceful flocks: with silent awe Trembling they lie, and pant beneath his paw.
Nor with less rage Euryalus employs 9350 The wrathful sword, or fewer foes destroys; But on th’ ignoble crowd his fury flew; He Fadus, Hebesus, and Rhoetus slew. Oppress’d with heavy sleep the former fell, But Rhoetus wakeful, and observing all: 9355 Behind a spacious jar he slink’d for fear; The fatal iron found and reach’d him there; For, as he rose, it pierc’d his naked side, And, reeking, thence return’d in crimson dyed. The wound pours out a stream of wine and blood; 9360 The purple soul comes floating in the flood.
Now, where Messapus quarter’d, they arrive. The fires were fainting there, and just alive; The warrior-horses, tied in order, fed. Nisus observ’d the discipline, and said: 9365 “Our eager thirst of blood may both betray; And see the scatter’d streaks of dawning day, Foe to nocturnal thefts. No more, my friend; Here let our glutted execution end. A lane thro’ slaughter’d bodies we have made.” 9370 The bold Euryalus, tho’ loth, obey’d. Of arms, and arras, and of plate, they find A precious load; but these they leave behind. Yet, fond of gaudy spoils, the boy would stay To make the rich caparison his prey, 9375 Which on the steed of conquer’d Rhamnes lay. Nor did his eyes less longingly behold The girdle-belt, with nails of burnish’d gold. This present Caedicus the rich bestow’d On Remulus, when friendship first they vow’d, 9380 And, absent, join’d in hospitable ties: He, dying, to his heir bequeath’d the prize; Till, by the conqu’ring Ardean troops oppress’d, He fell; and they the glorious gift possess’d. These glitt’ring spoils (now made the victor’s gain) 9385 He to his body suits, but suits in vain: Messapus’ helm he finds among the rest, And laces on, and wears the waving crest.
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Proud of their conquest, prouder of their prey, They leave the camp, and take the ready way. 9390
But far they had not pass’d, before they spied Three hundred horse, with Volscens for their guide. The queen a legion to King Turnus sent; But the swift horse the slower foot prevent, And now, advancing, sought the leader’s tent. 9395 They saw the pair; for, thro’ the doubtful shade, His shining helm Euryalus betray’d, On which the moon with full reflection play’d. “‘T is not for naught,” cried Volscens from the crowd, “These men go there;” then rais’d his voice aloud: 9400 “Stand! stand! why thus in arms? And whither bent? From whence, to whom, and on what errand sent?” Silent they scud away, and haste their flight To neighb’ring woods, and trust themselves to night. The speedy horse all passages belay, 9405 And spur their smoking steeds to cross their way, And watch each entrance of the winding wood. Black was the forest: thick with beech it stood, Horrid with fern, and intricate with thorn; Few paths of human feet, or tracks of beasts, were worn. 9410 The darkness of the shades, his heavy prey, And fear, misled the younger from his way. But Nisus hit the turns with happier haste, And, thoughtless of his friend, the forest pass’d, And Alban plains, from Alba’s name so call’d, 9415 Where King Latinus then his oxen stall’d; Till, turning at the length, he stood his ground, And miss’d his friend, and cast his eyes around: “Ah wretch!” he cried, “where have I left behind Th’ unhappy youth? where shall I hope to find? 9420 Or what way take?” Again he ventures back, And treads the mazes of his former track. He winds the wood, and, list’ning, hears the noise Of tramping coursers, and the riders’ voice. The sound approach’d; and suddenly he view’d 9425 The foes inclosing, and his friend pursued, Forelaid and taken, while he strove in vain The shelter of the friendly shades to gain. What should he next attempt? what arms employ, What fruitless force, to free the captive boy? 9430 Or desperate should he rush and lose his life, With odds oppress’d, in such unequal strife?
Resolv’d at length, his pointed spear he shook; And, casting on the moon a mournful look: “Guardian of groves, and goddess of the night, 9435 Fair queen,” he said, “direct my dart aright. If e’er my pious father, for my sake, Did grateful off ’rings on thy altars make, Or I increas’d them with my sylvan toils, And hung thy holy roofs with savage spoils, 9440 Give me to scatter these.” Then from his ear He pois’d, and aim’d, and launch’d the trembling spear. The deadly weapon, hissing from the grove,
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Impetuous on the back of Sulmo drove; Pierc’d his thin armor, drank his vital blood, 9445 And in his body left the broken wood. He staggers round; his eyeballs roll in death, And with short sobs he gasps away his breath. All stand amaz’d—a second jav’lin flies With equal strength, and quivers thro’ the skies. 9450 This thro’ thy temples, Tagus, forc’d the way, And in the brainpan warmly buried lay. Fierce Volscens foams with rage, and, gazing round, Descried not him who gave the fatal wound, Nor knew to fix revenge: “But thou,” he cries, 9455 “Shalt pay for both,” and at the pris’ner flies With his drawn sword. Then, struck with deep despair, That cruel sight the lover could not bear; But from his covert rush’d in open view, And sent his voice before him as he flew: 9460 “Me! me!” he cried—“turn all your swords alone On me—the fact confess’d, the fault my own. He neither could nor durst, the guiltless youth: Ye moon and stars, bear witness to the truth! His only crime (if friendship can offend) 9465 Is too much love to his unhappy friend.” Too late he speaks: the sword, which fury guides, Driv’n with full force, had pierc’d his tender sides. Down fell the beauteous youth: the yawning wound Gush’d out a purple stream, and stain’d the ground. 9470 His snowy neck reclines upon his breast, Like a fair flow’r by the keen share oppress’d; Like a white poppy sinking on the plain, Whose heavy head is overcharg’d with rain. Despair, and rage, and vengeance justly vow’d, 9475 Drove Nisus headlong on the hostile crowd. Volscens he seeks; on him alone he bends: Borne back and bor’d by his surrounding friends, Onward he press’d, and kept him still in sight; Then whirl’d aloft his sword with all his might: 9480 Th’ unerring steel descended while he spoke, Piered his wide mouth, and thro’ his weazon broke. Dying, he slew; and, stagg’ring on the plain, With swimming eyes he sought his lover slain; Then quiet on his bleeding bosom fell, 9485 Content, in death, to be reveng’d so well.
O happy friends! for, if my verse can give Immortal life, your fame shall ever live, Fix’d as the Capitol’s foundation lies, And spread, where’er the Roman eagle flies! 9490
The conqu’ring party first divide the prey, Then their slain leader to the camp convey. With wonder, as they went, the troops were fill’d, To see such numbers whom so few had kill’d. Serranus, Rhamnes, and the rest, they found: 9495 Vast crowds the dying and the dead surround; And the yet reeking blood o’erflows the ground. All knew the helmet which Messapus lost,
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But mourn’d a purchase that so dear had cost. Now rose the ruddy morn from Tithon’s bed, 9500 And with the dawn of day the skies o’erspread; Nor long the sun his daily course withheld, But added colors to the world reveal’d: When early Turnus, wak’ning with the light, All clad in armor, calls his troops to fight. 9505 His martial men with fierce harangue he fir’d, And his own ardor in their souls inspir’d. This done—to give new terror to his foes, The heads of Nisus and his friend he shows, Rais’d high on pointed spears—a ghastly sight: 9510 Loud peals of shouts ensue, and barbarous delight.
Meantime the Trojans run, where danger calls; They line their trenches, and they man their walls. In front extended to the left they stood; Safe was the right, surrounded by the flood. 9515 But, casting from their tow’rs a frightful view, They saw the faces, which too well they knew, Tho’ then disguis’d in death, and smear’d all o’er With filth obscene, and dropping putrid gore. Soon hasty fame thro’ the sad city bears 9520 The mournful message to the mother’s ears. An icy cold benumbs her limbs; she shakes; Her cheeks the blood, her hand the web forsakes. She runs the rampires round amidst the war, Nor fears the flying darts; she rends her hair, 9525 And fills with loud laments the liquid air. “Thus, then, my lov’d Euryalus appears! Thus looks the prop my declining years! Was’t on this face my famish’d eyes I fed? Ah! how unlike the living is the dead! 9530 And could’st thou leave me, cruel, thus alone? Not one kind kiss from a departing son! No look, no last adieu before he went, In an ill-boding hour to slaughter sent! Cold on the ground, and pressing foreign clay, 9535 To Latian dogs and fowls he lies a prey! Nor was I near to close his dying eyes, To wash his wounds, to weep his obsequies, To call about his corpse his crying friends, Or spread the mantle (made for other ends) 9540 On his dear body, which I wove with care, Nor did my daily pains or nightly labor spare. Where shall I find his corpse? what earth sustains His trunk dismember’d, and his cold remains? For this, alas! I left my needful ease, 9545 Expos’d my life to winds and winter seas! If any pity touch Rutulian hearts, Here empty all your quivers, all your darts; Or, if they fail, thou, Jove, conclude my woe, And send me thunderstruck to shades below!” 9550 Her shrieks and clamors pierce the Trojans’ ears, Unman their courage, and augment their fears; Nor young Ascanius could the sight sustain, Nor old Ilioneus his tears restrain,
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But Actor and Idaeus jointly sent, 9555 To bear the madding mother to her tent.
And now the trumpets terribly, from far, With rattling clangor, rouse the sleepy war. The soldiers’ shouts succeed the brazen sounds; And heav’n, from pole to pole, the noise rebounds. 9560 The Volscians bear their shields upon their head, And, rushing forward, form a moving shed. These fill the ditch; those pull the bulwarks down: Some raise the ladders; others scale the town. But, where void spaces on the walls appear, 9565 Or thin defense, they pour their forces there. With poles and missive weapons, from afar, The Trojans keep aloof the rising war. Taught, by their ten years’ siege, defensive fight, They roll down ribs of rocks, an unresisted weight, 9570 To break the penthouse with the pond’rous blow, Which yet the patient Volscians undergo: But could not bear th’ unequal combat long; For, where the Trojans find the thickest throng, The ruin falls: their shatter’d shields give way, 9575 And their crush’d heads become an easy prey. They shrink for fear, abated of their rage, Nor longer dare in a blind fight engage; Contented now to gall them from below With darts and slings, and with the distant bow. 9580
Elsewhere Mezentius, terrible to view, A blazing pine within the trenches threw. But brave Messapus, Neptune’s warlike son, Broke down the palisades, the trenches won, And loud for ladders calls, to scale the town. 9585
Calliope, begin! Ye sacred Nine, Inspire your poet in his high design, To sing what slaughter manly Turnus made, What souls he sent below the Stygian shade, What fame the soldiers with their captain share, 9590 And the vast circuit of the fatal war; For you in singing martial facts excel; You best remember, and alone can tell.
There stood a tow’r, amazing to the sight, Built up of beams, and of stupendous height: 9595 Art, and the nature of the place, conspir’d To furnish all the strength that war requir’d. To level this, the bold Italians join; The wary Trojans obviate their design; With weighty stones o’erwhelm their troops below, 9600 Shoot thro’ the loopholes, and sharp jav’lins throw. Turnus, the chief, toss’d from his thund’ring hand Against the wooden walls, a flaming brand: It stuck, the fiery plague; the winds were high; The planks were season’d, and the timber dry. 9605 Contagion caught the posts; it spread along, Scorch’d, and to distance drove the scatter’d throng.
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The Trojans fled; the fire pursued amain, Still gath’ring fast upon the trembling train; Till, crowding to the corners of the wall, 9610 Down the defense and the defenders fall. The mighty flaw makes heav’n itself resound: The dead and dying Trojans strew the ground. The tow’r, that follow’d on the fallen crew, Whelm’d o’er their heads, and buried whom it slew: 9615 Some stuck upon the darts themselves had sent; All the same equal ruin underwent.
Young Lycus and Helenor only scape; Sav’d—how, they know not—from the steepy leap. Helenor, elder of the two: by birth, 9620 On one side royal, one a son of earth, Whom to the Lydian king Licymnia bare, And sent her boasted bastard to the war (A privilege which none but freemen share). Slight were his arms, a sword and silver shield: 9625 No marks of honor charg’d its empty field. Light as he fell, so light the youth arose, And rising, found himself amidst his foes; Nor flight was left, nor hopes to force his way. Embolden’d by despair, he stood at bay; 9630 And—like a stag, whom all the troop surrounds Of eager huntsmen and invading hounds— Resolv’d on death, he dissipates his fears, And bounds aloft against the pointed spears: So dares the youth, secure of death; and throws 9635 His dying body on his thickest foes. But Lycus, swifter of his feet by far, Runs, doubles, winds and turns, amidst the war; Springs to the walls, and leaves his foes behind, And snatches at the beam he first can find; 9640 Looks up, and leaps aloft at all the stretch, In hopes the helping hand of some kind friend to reach. But Turnus follow’d hard his hunted prey (His spear had almost reach’d him in the way, Short of his reins, and scarce a span behind) 9645 “Fool!” said the chief, “tho’ fleeter than the wind, Couldst thou presume to scape, when I pursue?” He said, and downward by the feet he drew The trembling dastard; at the tug he falls; Vast ruins come along, rent from the smoking walls. 9650 Thus on some silver swan, or tim’rous hare, Jove’s bird comes sousing down from upper air; Her crooked talons truss the fearful prey: Then out of sight she soars, and wings her way. So seizes the grim wolf the tender lamb, 9655 In vain lamented by the bleating dam.
Then rushing onward with a barb’rous cry, The troops of Turnus to the combat fly. The ditch with fagots fill’d, the daring foe Toss’d firebrands to the steepy turrets throw. 9660
Ilioneus, as bold Lucetius came To force the gate, and feed the kindling flame,
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Roll’d down the fragment of a rock so right, It crush’d him double underneath the weight. Two more young Liger and Asylas slew: 9665 To bend the bow young Liger better knew; Asylas best the pointed jav’lin threw. Brave Caeneus laid Ortygius on the plain; The victor Caeneus was by Turnus slain. By the same hand, Clonius and Itys fall, 9670 Sagar, and Ida, standing on the wall. From Capys’ arms his fate Privernus found: Hurt by Themilla first-but slight the wound— His shield thrown by, to mitigate the smart, He clapp’d his hand upon the wounded part: 9675 The second shaft came swift and unespied, And pierc’d his hand, and nail’d it to his side, Transfix’d his breathing lungs and beating heart: The soul came issuing out, and hiss’d against the dart.
The son of Arcens shone amid the rest, 9680 In glitt’ring armor and a purple vest, (Fair was his face, his eyes inspiring love,) Bred by his father in the Martian grove, Where the fat altars of Palicus flame, And send in arms to purchase early fame. 9685 Him when he spied from far, the Tuscan king Laid by the lance, and took him to the sling, Thrice whirl’d the thong around his head, and threw: The heated lead half melted as it flew; It pierc’d his hollow temples and his brain; 9690 The youth came tumbling down, and spurn’d the plain.
Then young Ascanius, who, before this day, Was wont in woods to shoot the savage prey, First bent in martial strife the twanging bow, And exercis’d against a human foe— 9695 With this bereft Numanus of his life, Who Turnus’ younger sister took to wife. Proud of his realm, and of his royal bride, Vaunting before his troops, and lengthen’d with a stride, In these insulting terms the Trojans he defied: 9700
“Twice-conquer’d cowards, now your shame is shown— Coop’d up a second time within your town! Who dare not issue forth in open field, But hold your walls before you for a shield. Thus threat you war? thus our alliance force? 9705 What gods, what madness, hether steer’d your course? You shall not find the sons of Atreus here, Nor need the frauds of sly Ulysses fear. Strong from the cradle, of a sturdy brood, We bear our newborn infants to the flood; 9710 There bath’d amid the stream, our boys we hold, With winter harden’d, and inur’d to cold. They wake before the day to range the wood, Kill ere they eat, nor taste unconquer’d food. No sports, but what belong to war, they know: 9715 To break the stubborn colt, to bend the bow. Our youth, of labor patient, earn their bread;
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Hardly they work, with frugal diet fed. From plows and harrows sent to seek renown, They fight in fields, and storm the shaken town. 9720 No part of life from toils of war is free, No change in age, or diff ’rence in degree. We plow and till in arms; our oxen feel, Instead of goads, the spur and pointed steel; Th’ inverted lance makes furrows in the plain. 9725 Ev’n time, that changes all, yet changes us in vain: The body, not the mind; nor can control Th’ immortal vigor, or abate the soul. Our helms defend the young, disguise the gray: We live by plunder, and delight in prey. 9730 Your vests embroider’d with rich purple shine; In sloth you glory, and in dances join. Your vests have sweeping sleeves; with female pride Your turbants underneath your chins are tied. Go, Phrygians, to your Dindymus again! 9735 Go, less than women, in the shapes of men! Go, mix’d with eunuchs, in the Mother’s rites, Where with unequal sound the flute invites; Sing, dance, and howl, by turns, in Ida’s shade: Resign the war to men, who know the martial trade!” 9740
This foul reproach Ascanius could not hear With patience, or a vow’d revenge forbear. At the full stretch of both his hands he drew, And almost join’d the horns of the tough yew. But, first, before the throne of Jove he stood, 9745 And thus with lifted hands invok’d the god: “My first attempt, great Jupiter, succeed! An annual off ’ring in thy grove shall bleed; A snow-white steer, before thy altar led, Who, like his mother, bears aloft his head, 9750 Butts with his threat’ning brows, and bellowing stands, And dares the fight, and spurns the yellow sands.”
Jove bow’d the heav’ns, and lent a gracious ear, And thunder’d on the left, amidst the clear. Sounded at once the bow; and swiftly flies 9755 The feather’d death, and hisses thro’ the skies. The steel thro’ both his temples forc’d the way: Extended on the ground, Numanus lay. “Go now, vain boaster, and true valor scorn! The Phrygians, twice subdued, yet make this third return.” 9760 Ascanius said no more. The Trojans shake The heav’ns with shouting, and new vigor take.
Apollo then bestrode a golden cloud, To view the feats of arms, and fighting crowd; And thus the beardless victor he bespoke aloud: 9765 “Advance, illustrious youth, increase in fame, And wide from east to west extend thy name; Offspring of gods thyself; and Rome shall owe To thee a race of demigods below. This is the way to heav’n: the pow’rs divine 9770 From this beginning date the Julian line.
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To thee, to them, and their victorious heirs, The conquer’d war is due, and the vast world is theirs. Troy is too narrow for thy name.” He said, And plunging downward shot his radiant head; 9775 Dispell’d the breathing air, that broke his flight: Shorn of his beams, a man to mortal sight. Old Butes’ form he took, Anchises’ squire, Now left, to rule Ascanius, by his sire: His wrinkled visage, and his hoary hairs, 9780 His mien, his habit, and his arms, he wears, And thus salutes the boy, too forward for his years: “Suffice it thee, thy father’s worthy son, The warlike prize thou hast already won. The god of archers gives thy youth a part 9785 Of his own praise, nor envies equal art. Now tempt the war no more.” He said, and flew Obscure in air, and vanish’d from their view. The Trojans, by his arms, their patron know, And hear the twanging of his heav’nly bow. 9790 Then duteous force they use, and Phoebus’ name, To keep from fight the youth too fond of fame. Undaunted, they themselves no danger shun; From wall to wall the shouts and clamors run. They bend their bows; they whirl their slings around; 9795 Heaps of spent arrows fall, and strew the ground; And helms, and shields, and rattling arms resound. The combat thickens, like the storm that flies From westward, when the show’ry Kids arise; Or patt’ring hail comes pouring on the main, 9800 When Jupiter descends in harden’d rain, Or bellowing clouds burst with a stormy sound, And with an armed winter strew the ground.
Pand’rus and Bitias, thunderbolts of war, Whom Hiera to bold Alcanor bare 9805 On Ida’s top, two youths of height and size Like firs that on their mother mountain rise, Presuming on their force, the gates unbar, And of their own accord invite the war. With fates averse, against their king’s command, 9810 Arm’d, on the right and on the left they stand, And flank the passage: shining steel they wear, And waving crests above their heads appear. Thus two tall oaks, that Padus’ banks adorn, Lift up to heav’n their leafy heads unshorn, 9815 And, overpress’d with nature’s heavy load, Dance to the whistling winds, and at each other nod. In flows a tide of Latians, when they see The gate set open, and the passage free; Bold Quercens, with rash Tmarus, rushing on, 9820 Equicolus, that in bright armor shone, And Haemon first; but soon repuls’d they fly, Or in the well-defended pass they die. These with success are fir’d, and those with rage, And each on equal terms at length ingage. 9825 Drawn from their lines, and issuing on the plain, The Trojans hand to hand the fight maintain.
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Fierce Turnus in another quarter fought, When suddenly th’ unhop’d-for news was brought, The foes had left the fastness of their place, 9830 Prevail’d in fight, and had his men in chase. He quits th’ attack, and, to prevent their fate, Runs where the giant brothers guard the gate. The first he met, Antiphates the brave, But base-begotten on a Theban slave, 9835 Sarpedon’s son, he slew: the deadly dart Found passage thro’ his breast, and pierc’d his heart. Fix’d in the wound th’ Italian cornel stood, Warm’d in his lungs, and in his vital blood. Aphidnus next, and Erymanthus dies, 9840 And Meropes, and the gigantic size Of Bitias, threat’ning with his ardent eyes. Not by the feeble dart he fell oppress’d (A dart were lost within that roomy breast), But from a knotted lance, large, heavy, strong, 9845 Which roar’d like thunder as it whirl’d along: Not two bull hides th’ impetuous force withhold, Nor coat of double mail, with scales of gold. Down sunk the monster bulk and press’d the ground; His arms and clatt’ring shield on the vast body sound, 9850 Not with less ruin than the Bajan mole, Rais’d on the seas, the surges to control— At once comes tumbling down the rocky wall; Prone to the deep, the stones disjointed fall Of the vast pile; the scatter’d ocean flies; 9855 Black sands, discolor’d froth, and mingled mud arise: The frighted billows roll, and seek the shores; Then trembles Prochyta, then Ischia roars: Typhoeus, thrown beneath, by Jove’s command, Astonish’d at the flaw that shakes the land, 9860 Soon shifts his weary side, and, scarce awake, With wonder feels the weight press lighter on his back.
The warrior god the Latian troops inspir’d, New strung their sinews, and their courage fir’d, But chills the Trojan hearts with cold affright: 9865 Then black despair precipitates their flight.
When Pandarus beheld his brother kill’d, The town with fear and wild confusion fill’d, He turns the hinges of the heavy gate With both his hands, and adds his shoulders to the weight 9870 Some happier friends within the walls inclos’d; The rest shut out, to certain death expos’d: Fool as he was, and frantic in his care, T’ admit young Turnus, and include the war! He thrust amid the crowd, securely bold, 9875 Like a fierce tiger pent amid the fold. Too late his blazing buckler they descry, And sparkling fires that shot from either eye, His mighty members, and his ample breast, His rattling armor, and his crimson crest. 9880
Image 4.2: Mural in pompeii | This mural depicts a famous scene from the Fall of Troy as Ajax the Lesser drags Cassandra from Athena’s temple.
Author: User “Ken and Nyetta” Source: Flickr License: CC BY-NC 2.0
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Far from that hated face the Trojans fly, All but the fool who sought his destiny. Mad Pandarus steps forth, with vengeance vow’d For Bitias’ death, and threatens thus aloud: “These are not Ardea’s walls, nor this the town 9885 Amata proffers with Lavinia’s crown: ‘T is hostile earth you tread. Of hope bereft, No means of safe return by flight are left.” To whom, with count’nance calm, and soul sedate, Thus Turnus: “Then begin, and try thy fate: 9890 My message to the ghost of Priam bear; Tell him a new Achilles sent thee there.”
A lance of tough ground ash the Trojan threw, Rough in the rind, and knotted as it grew: With his full force he whirl’d it first around; 9895 But the soft yielding air receiv’d the wound:
Fierce Turnus in another quarter fought, When suddenly th’ unhop’d-for news was brought, The foes had left the fastness of their place, 9830 Prevail’d in fight, and had his men in chase. He quits th’ attack, and, to prevent their fate, Runs where the giant brothers guard the gate. The first he met, Antiphates the brave, But base-begotten on a Theban slave, 9835 Sarpedon’s son, he slew: the deadly dart Found passage thro’ his breast, and pierc’d his heart. Fix’d in the wound th’ Italian cornel stood, Warm’d in his lungs, and in his vital blood. Aphidnus next, and Erymanthus dies, 9840 And Meropes, and the gigantic size Of Bitias, threat’ning with his ardent eyes. Not by the feeble dart he fell oppress’d (A dart were lost within that roomy breast), But from a knotted lance, large, heavy, strong, 9845 Which roar’d like thunder as it whirl’d along: Not two bull hides th’ impetuous force withhold, Nor coat of double mail, with scales of gold. Down sunk the monster bulk and press’d the ground; His arms and clatt’ring shield on the vast body sound, 9850 Not with less ruin than the Bajan mole, Rais’d on the seas, the surges to control— At once comes tumbling down the rocky wall; Prone to the deep, the stones disjointed fall Of the vast pile; the scatter’d ocean flies; 9855 Black sands, discolor’d froth, and mingled mud arise: The frighted billows roll, and seek the shores; Then trembles Prochyta, then Ischia roars: Typhoeus, thrown beneath, by Jove’s command, Astonish’d at the flaw that shakes the land, 9860 Soon shifts his weary side, and, scarce awake, With wonder feels the weight press lighter on his back.
The warrior god the Latian troops inspir’d, New strung their sinews, and their courage fir’d, But chills the Trojan hearts with cold affright: 9865 Then black despair precipitates their flight.
When Pandarus beheld his brother kill’d, The town with fear and wild confusion fill’d, He turns the hinges of the heavy gate With both his hands, and adds his shoulders to the weight 9870 Some happier friends within the walls inclos’d; The rest shut out, to certain death expos’d: Fool as he was, and frantic in his care, T’ admit young Turnus, and include the war! He thrust amid the crowd, securely bold, 9875 Like a fierce tiger pent amid the fold. Too late his blazing buckler they descry, And sparkling fires that shot from either eye, His mighty members, and his ample breast, His rattling armor, and his crimson crest. 9880
Image 4.2: Mural in pompeii | This mural depicts a famous scene from the Fall of Troy as Ajax the Lesser drags Cassandra from Athena’s temple.
Author: User “Ken and Nyetta” Source: Flickr License: CC BY-NC 2.0
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Imperial Juno turn’d the course before, And fix’d the wand’ring weapon in the door.
“But hope not thou,” said Turnus, “when I strike, To shun thy fate: our force is not alike, 9900 Nor thy steel temper’d by the Lemnian god.” Then rising, on his utmost stretch he stood, And aim’d from high: the full descending blow Cleaves the broad front and beardless cheeks in two. Down sinks the giant with a thund’ring sound: 9905 His pond’rous limbs oppress the trembling ground; Blood, brains, and foam gush from the gaping wound: Scalp, face, and shoulders the keen steel divides, And the shar’d visage hangs on equal sides. The Trojans fly from their approaching fate; 9910 And, had the victor then secur’d the gate, And to his troops without unclos’d the bars, One lucky day had ended all his wars. But boiling youth, and blind desire of blood, Push’d on his fury, to pursue the crowd. 9915 Hamstring’d behind, unhappy Gyges died; Then Phalaris is added to his side. The pointed jav’lins from the dead he drew, And their friends’ arms against their fellows threw. Strong Halys stands in vain; weak Phlegys flies; 9920 Saturnia, still at hand, new force and fire supplies. Then Halius, Prytanis, Alcander fall— Ingag’d against the foes who scal’d the wall: But, whom they fear’d without, they found within. At last, tho’ late, by Lynceus he was seen. 9925 He calls new succors, and assaults the prince: But weak his force, and vain is their defense. Turn’d to the right, his sword the hero drew, And at one blow the bold aggressor slew. He joints the neck; and, with a stroke so strong, 9930 The helm flies off, and bears the head along. Next him, the huntsman Amycus he kill’d, In darts invenom’d and in poison skill’d. Then Clytius fell beneath his fatal spear, And Creteus, whom the Muses held so dear: 9935 He fought with courage, and he sung the fight; Arms were his bus’ness, verses his delight.
The Trojan chiefs behold, with rage and grief, Their slaughter’d friends, and hasten their relief. Bold Mnestheus rallies first the broken train, 9940 Whom brave Seresthus and his troop sustain. To save the living, and revenge the dead, Against one warrior’s arms all Troy they led. “O, void of sense and courage!” Mnestheus cried, “Where can you hope your coward heads to hide? 9945 Ah! where beyond these rampires can you run? One man, and in your camp inclos’d, you shun! Shall then a single sword such slaughter boast, And pass unpunish’d from a num’rous host? Forsaking honor, and renouncing fame, 9945 Your gods, your country, and your king you shame!”
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This just reproach their virtue does excite: They stand, they join, they thicken to the fight.
Now Turnus doubts, and yet disdains to yield, But with slow paces measures back the field, 9950 And inches to the walls, where Tiber’s tide, Washing the camp, defends the weaker side. The more he loses, they advance the more, And tread in ev’ry step he trod before. They shout: they bear him back; and, whom by might 9955 They cannot conquer, they oppress with weight.
As, compass’d with a wood of spears around, The lordly lion still maintains his ground; Grins horrible, retires, and turns again; Threats his distended paws, and shakes his mane; 9960 He loses while in vain he presses on, Nor will his courage let him dare to run: So Turnus fares, and, unresolved of flight, Moves tardy back, and just recedes from fight. Yet twice, inrag’d, the combat he renews, 9965 Twice breaks, and twice his broken foes pursues. But now they swarm, and, with fresh troops supplied, Come rolling on, and rush from ev’ry side: Nor Juno, who sustain’d his arms before, Dares with new strength suffice th’ exhausted store; 9970 For Jove, with sour commands, sent Iris down, To force th’ invader from the frighted town.
With labor spent, no longer can he wield The heavy fanchion, or sustain the shield, O’erwhelm’d with darts, which from afar they fling: 9975 The weapons round his hollow temples ring; His golden helm gives way, with stony blows Batter’d, and flat, and beaten to his brows. His crest is rash’d away; his ample shield Is falsified, and round with jav’lins fill’d. 9980
The foe, now faint, the Trojans overwhelm; And Mnestheus lays hard load upon his helm. Sick sweat succeeds; he drops at ev’ry pore; With driving dust his cheeks are pasted o’er; Shorter and shorter ev’ry gasp he takes; 9985 And vain efforts and hurtless blows he makes. Plung’d in the flood, and made the waters fly. The yellow god the welcome burthen bore, And wip’d the sweat, and wash’d away the gore; Then gently wafts him to the farther coast, 9990 And sends him safe to cheer his anxious host.
Book X The gates of heav’n unfold: Jove summons all The gods to council in the common hall. Sublimely seated, he surveys from far The fields, the camp, the fortune of the war, 9995 And all th’ inferior world. From first to last, The sov’reign senate in degrees are plac’d.
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Then thus th’ almighty sire began: “Ye gods, Natives or denizens of blest abodes, From whence these murmurs, and this change of mind, 10000 This backward fate from what was first design’d? Why this protracted war, when my commands Pronounc’d a peace, and gave the Latian lands? What fear or hope on either part divides Our heav’ns, and arms our powers on diff ’rent sides? 10005 A lawful time of war at length will come, (Nor need your haste anticipate the doom), When Carthage shall contend the world with Rome, Shall force the rigid rocks and Alpine chains, And, like a flood, come pouring on the plains. 10010 Then is your time for faction and debate, For partial favor, and permitted hate. Let now your immature dissension cease; Sit quiet, and compose your souls to peace.”
Thus Jupiter in few unfolds the charge; 10015 But lovely Venus thus replies at large: “O pow’r immense, eternal energy, (For to what else protection can we fly?) Seest thou the proud Rutulians, how they dare In fields, unpunish’d, and insult my care? 10020 How lofty Turnus vaunts amidst his train, In shining arms, triumphant on the plain? Ev’n in their lines and trenches they contend, And scarce their walls the Trojan troops defend: The town is fill’d with slaughter, and o’erfloats, 10025 With a red deluge, their increasing moats. Aeneas, ignorant, and far from thence, Has left a camp expos’d, without defense. This endless outrage shall they still sustain? Shall Troy renew’d be forc’d and fir’d again? 10030 A second siege my banish’d issue fears, And a new Diomede in arms appears. One more audacious mortal will be found; And I, thy daughter, wait another wound. Yet, if with fates averse, without thy leave, 10035 The Latian lands my progeny receive, Bear they the pains of violated law, And thy protection from their aid withdraw. But, if the gods their sure success foretell; If those of heav’n consent with those of hell, 10040 To promise Italy; who dare debate The pow’r of Jove, or fix another fate? What should I tell of tempests on the main, Of Aeolus usurping Neptune’s reign? Of Iris sent, with Bacchanalian heat 10045 T’ inspire the matrons, and destroy the fleet? Now Juno to the Stygian sky descends, Solicits hell for aid, and arms the fiends. That new example wanted yet above: An act that well became the wife of Jove! 10050 Alecto, rais’d by her, with rage inflames The peaceful bosoms of the Latian dames. Imperial sway no more exalts my mind;
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(Such hopes I had indeed, while Heav’n was kind;) Now let my happier foes possess my place, 10055 Whom Jove prefers before the Trojan race; And conquer they, whom you with conquest grace. Since you can spare, from all your wide command, No spot of earth, no hospitable land, Which may my wand’ring fugitives receive; 10060 (Since haughty Juno will not give you leave;) Then, father, (if I still may use that name,) By ruin’d Troy, yet smoking from the flame, I beg you, let Ascanius, by my care, Be freed from danger, and dismiss’d the war: 10065 Inglorious let him live, without a crown. The father may be cast on coasts unknown, Struggling with fate; but let me save the son. Mine is Cythera, mine the Cyprian tow’rs: In those recesses, and those sacred bow’rs, 10070 Obscurely let him rest; his right resign To promis’d empire, and his Julian line. Then Carthage may th’ Ausonian towns destroy, Nor fear the race of a rejected boy. What profits it my son to scape the fire, 10075 Arm’d with his gods, and loaded with his sire; To pass the perils of the seas and wind; Evade the Greeks, and leave the war behind; To reach th’ Italian shores; if, after all, Our second Pergamus is doom’d to fall? 10080 Much better had he curb’d his high desires, And hover’d o’er his ill-extinguish’d fires. To Simois’ banks the fugitives restore, And give them back to war, and all the woes before.”
Deep indignation swell’d Saturnia’s heart: 10085 “And must I own,” she said, “my secret smart— What with more decence were in silence kept, And, but for this unjust reproach, had slept? Did god or man your fav’rite son advise, With war unhop’d the Latians to surprise? 10090 By fate, you boast, and by the gods’ decree, He left his native land for Italy! Confess the truth; by mad Cassandra, more Than Heav’n inspir’d, he sought a foreign shore! Did I persuade to trust his second Troy 10095 To the raw conduct of a beardless boy, With walls unfinish’d, which himself forsakes, And thro’ the waves a wand’ring voyage takes? When have I urg’d him meanly to demand The Tuscan aid, and arm a quiet land? 10100 Did I or Iris give this mad advice, Or made the fool himself the fatal choice? You think it hard, the Latians should destroy With swords your Trojans, and with fires your Troy! Hard and unjust indeed, for men to draw 10105 Their native air, nor take a foreign law! That Turnus is permitted still to live, To whom his birth a god and goddess give! But yet is just and lawful for your line
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To drive their fields, and force with fraud to join; 10110 Realms, not your own, among your clans divide, And from the bridegroom tear the promis’d bride; Petition, while you public arms prepare; Pretend a peace, and yet provoke a war! ‘T was giv’n to you, your darling son to shroud, 10115 To draw the dastard from the fighting crowd, And, for a man, obtend an empty cloud. From flaming fleets you turn’d the fire away, And chang’d the ships to daughters of the sea. But is my crime—the Queen of Heav’n offends, 10120 If she presume to save her suff ’ring friends! Your son, not knowing what his foes decree, You say, is absent: absent let him be. Yours is Cythera, yours the Cyprian tow’rs, The soft recesses, and the sacred bow’rs. 10125 Why do you then these needless arms prepare, And thus provoke a people prone to war? Did I with fire the Trojan town deface, Or hinder from return your exil’d race? Was I the cause of mischief, or the man 10130 Whose lawless lust the fatal war began? Think on whose faith th’ adult’rous youth relied; Who promis’d, who procur’d, the Spartan bride? When all th’ united states of Greece combin’d, To purge the world of the perfidious kind, 10135 Then was your time to fear the Trojan fate: Your quarrels and complaints are now too late.”
Thus Juno. Murmurs rise, with mix’d applause, Just as they favor or dislike the cause. So winds, when yet unfledg’d in woods they lie, 10140 In whispers first their tender voices try, Then issue on the main with bellowing rage, And storms to trembling mariners presage.
Then thus to both replied th’ imperial god, Who shakes heav’n’s axles with his awful nod. 10145 (When he begins, the silent senate stand With rev’rence, list’ning to the dread command: The clouds dispel; the winds their breath restrain; And the hush’d waves lie flatted on the main.) “Celestials, your attentive ears incline! 10150 Since,” said the god, “the Trojans must not join In wish’d alliance with the Latian line; Since endless jarrings and immortal hate Tend but to discompose our happy state; The war henceforward be resign’d to fate: 10155 Each to his proper fortune stand or fall; Equal and unconcern’d I look on all. Rutulians, Trojans, are the same to me; And both shall draw the lots their fates decree. Let these assault, if Fortune be their friend; 10160 And, if she favors those, let those defend: The Fates will find their way.” The Thund’rer said, And shook the sacred honors of his head, Attesting Styx, th’ inviolable flood,
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And the black regions of his brother god. 10165 Trembled the poles of heav’n, and earth confess’d the nod. This end the sessions had: the senate rise, And to his palace wait their sov’reign thro’ the skies.
Meantime, intent upon their siege, the foes Within their walls the Trojan host inclose: 10170 They wound, they kill, they watch at ev’ry gate; Renew the fires, and urge their happy fate.
Th’ Aeneans wish in vain their wanted chief, Hopeless of flight, more hopeless of relief. Thin on the tow’rs they stand; and ev’n those few 10175 A feeble, fainting, and dejected crew. Yet in the face of danger some there stood: The two bold brothers of Sarpedon’s blood, Asius and Acmon; both th’ Assaraci; Young Haemon, and tho’ young, resolv’d to die. 10180 With these were Clarus and Thymoetes join’d; Tibris and Castor, both of Lycian kind. From Acmon’s hands a rolling stone there came, So large, it half deserv’d a mountain’s name: Strong-sinew’d was the youth, and big of bone; 10185 His brother Mnestheus could not more have done, Or the great father of th’ intrepid son. Some firebrands throw, some flights of arrows send; And some with darts, and some with stones defend.
Amid the press appears the beauteous boy, 10190 The care of Venus, and the hope of Troy. His lovely face unarm’d, his head was bare; In ringlets o’er his shoulders hung his hair. His forehead circled with a diadem; Distinguish’d from the crowd, he shines a gem, 10195 Enchas’d in gold, or polish’d iv’ry set, Amidst the meaner foil of sable jet.
Nor Ismarus was wanting to the war, Directing pointed arrows from afar, And death with poison arm’d—in Lydia born, 10200 Where plenteous harvests the fat fields adorn; Where proud Pactolus floats the fruitful lands, And leaves a rich manure of golden sands. There Capys, author of the Capuan name, And there was Mnestheus too, increas’d in fame, 10205 Since Turnus from the camp he cast with shame.
Thus mortal war was wag’d on either side. Meantime the hero cuts the nightly tide: For, anxious, from Evander when he went, He sought the Tyrrhene camp, and Tarchon’s tent; 10210 Expos’d the cause of coming to the chief; His name and country told, and ask’d relief; Propos’d the terms; his own small strength declar’d; What vengeance proud Mezentius had prepar’d: What Turnus, bold and violent, design’d; 10215 Then shew’d the slipp’ry state of humankind,
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And fickle fortune; warn’d him to beware, And to his wholesome counsel added pray’r. Tarchon, without delay, the treaty signs, And to the Trojan troops the Tuscan joins. 10220
They soon set sail; nor now the fates withstand; Their forces trusted with a foreign hand. Aeneas leads; upon his stern appear Two lions carv’d, which rising Ida bear— Ida, to wand’ring Trojans ever dear. 10225 Under their grateful shade Aeneas sate, Revolving war’s events, and various fate. His left young Pallas kept, fix’d to his side, And oft of winds enquir’d, and of the tide; Oft of the stars, and of their wat’ry way; 10230 And what he suffer’d both by land and sea.
Now, sacred sisters, open all your spring! The Tuscan leaders, and their army sing, Which follow’d great Aeneas to the war: Their arms, their numbers, and their names declare. 10235
A thousand youths brave Massicus obey, Borne in the Tiger thro’ the foaming sea; From Asium brought, and Cosa, by his care: For arms, light quivers, bows and shafts, they bear. Fierce Abas next: his men bright armor wore; 10240 His stern Apollo’s golden statue bore. Six hundred Populonia sent along, All skill’d in martial exercise, and strong. Three hundred more for battle Ilva joins, An isle renown’d for steel, and unexhausted mines. 10245 Asylas on his prow the third appears, Who heav’n interprets, and the wand’ring stars; From offer’d entrails prodigies expounds, And peals of thunder, with presaging sounds. A thousand spears in warlike order stand, 10250 Sent by the Pisans under his command.
Fair Astur follows in the wat’ry field, Proud of his manag’d horse and painted shield. Gravisca, noisome from the neighb’ring fen, And his own Caere, sent three hundred men; 10255 With those which Minio’s fields and Pyrgi gave, All bred in arms, unanimous, and brave.
Thou, Muse, the name of Cinyras renew, And brave Cupavo follow’d but by few; Whose helm confess’d the lineage of the man, 10260 And bore, with wings display’d, a silver swan. Love was the fault of his fam’d ancestry, Whose forms and fortunes in his ensigns fly. For Cycnus lov’d unhappy Phaeton, And sung his loss in poplar groves, alone, 10265 Beneath the sister shades, to soothe his grief. Heav’n heard his song, and hasten’d his relief, And chang’d to snowy plumes his hoary hair,
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And wing’d his flight, to chant aloft in air. His son Cupavo brush’d the briny flood: 10270 Upon his stern a brawny Centaur stood, Who heav’d a rock, and, threat’ning still to throw, With lifted hands alarm’d the seas below: They seem’d to fear the formidable sight, And roll’d their billows on, to speed his flight. 10275
Ocnus was next, who led his native train Of hardy warriors thro’ the wat’ry plain: The son of Manto by the Tuscan stream, From whence the Mantuan town derives the name— An ancient city, but of mix’d descent: 10280 Three sev’ral tribes compose the government; Four towns are under each; but all obey The Mantuan laws, and own the Tuscan sway.
Hate to Mezentius arm’d five hundred more, Whom Mincius from his sire Benacus bore: 10285 Mincius, with wreaths of reeds his forehead cover’d o’er. These grave Auletes leads: a hundred sweep With stretching oars at once the glassy deep. Him and his martial train the Triton bears; High on his poop the sea-green god appears: 10290 Frowning he seems his crooked shell to sound, And at the blast the billows dance around. A hairy man above the waist he shows; A porpoise tail beneath his belly grows; And ends a fish: his breast the waves divides, 10295 And froth and foam augment the murm’ring tides.
Full thirty ships transport the chosen train For Troy’s relief, and scour the briny main.
Now was the world forsaken by the sun, And Phoebe half her nightly race had run. 10300 The careful chief, who never clos’d his eyes, Himself the rudder holds, the sails supplies. A choir of Nereids meet him on the flood, Once his own galleys, hewn from Ida’s wood; But now, as many nymphs, the sea they sweep, 10305 As rode, before, tall vessels on the deep. They know him from afar; and in a ring Inclose the ship that bore the Trojan king. Cymodoce, whose voice excell’d the rest, Above the waves advanc’d her snowy breast; 10310 Her right hand stops the stern; her left divides The curling ocean, and corrects the tides. She spoke for all the choir, and thus began With pleasing words to warn th’ unknowing man: “Sleeps our lov’d lord? O goddess-born, awake! 10315 Spread ev’ry sail, pursue your wat’ry track, And haste your course. Your navy once were we, From Ida’s height descending to the sea; Till Turnus, as at anchor fix’d we stood, Presum’d to violate our holy wood. 10320 Then, loos’d from shore, we fled his fires profane
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(Unwillingly we broke our master’s chain), And since have sought you thro’ the Tuscan main. The mighty Mother chang’d our forms to these, And gave us life immortal in the seas. 10325 But young Ascanius, in his camp distress’d, By your insulting foes is hardly press’d. Th’ Arcadian horsemen, and Etrurian host, Advance in order on the Latian coast: To cut their way the Daunian chief designs, 10330 Before their troops can reach the Trojan lines. Thou, when the rosy morn restores the light, First arm thy soldiers for th’ ensuing fight: Thyself the fated sword of Vulcan wield, And bear aloft th’ impenetrable shield. 10335 To-morrow’s sun, unless my skill be vain, Shall see huge heaps of foes in battle slain.” Parting, she spoke; and with immortal force Push’d on the vessel in her wat’ry course; For well she knew the way. Impell’d behind, 10340 The ship flew forward, and outstripp’d the wind. The rest make up. Unknowing of the cause, The chief admires their speed, and happy omens draws.
Then thus he pray’d, and fix’d on heav’n his eyes: “Hear thou, great Mother of the deities. 10345 With turrets crown’d! (on Ida’s holy hill Fierce tigers, rein’d and curb’d, obey thy will.) Firm thy own omens; lead us on to fight; And let thy Phrygians conquer in thy right.”
He said no more. And now renewing day 10350 Had chas’d the shadows of the night away. He charg’d the soldiers, with preventing care, Their flags to follow, and their arms prepare; Warn’d of th’ ensuing fight, and bade ‘em hope the war. Now, his lofty poop, he view’d below 10355 His camp incompass’d, and th’ inclosing foe. His blazing shield, imbrac’d, he held on high; The camp receive the sign, and with loud shouts reply. Hope arms their courage: from their tow’rs they throw Their darts with double force, and drive the foe. 10360 Thus, at the signal giv’n, the cranes arise Before the stormy south, and blacken all the skies.
King Turnus wonder’d at the fight renew’d, Till, looking back, the Trojan fleet he view’d, The seas with swelling canvas cover’d o’er, 10365 And the swift ships descending on the shore. The Latians saw from far, with dazzled eyes, The radiant crest that seem’d in flames to rise, And dart diffusive fires around the field, And the keen glitt’ring of the golden shield. 10370 Thus threat’ning comets, when by night they rise, Shoot sanguine streams, and sadden all the skies: So Sirius, flashing forth sinister lights, Pale humankind with plagues and with dry famine fright:
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Yet Turnus with undaunted mind is bent 10375 To man the shores, and hinder their descent, And thus awakes the courage of his friends: “What you so long have wish’d, kind Fortune sends; In ardent arms to meet th’ invading foe: You find, and find him at advantage now. 10380 Yours is the day: you need but only dare; Your swords will make you masters of the war. Your sires, your sons, your houses, and your lands, And dearest wifes, are all within your hands. Be mindful of the race from whence you came, 10385 And emulate in arms your fathers’ fame. Now take the time, while stagg’ring yet they stand With feet unfirm, and prepossess the strand: Fortune befriends the bold.” Nor more he said, But balanc’d whom to leave, and whom to lead; 10390 Then these elects, the landing to prevent; And those he leaves, to keep the city pent.
Meantime the Trojan sends his troops ashore: Some are by boats expos’d, by bridges more. With lab’ring oars they bear along the strand, 10395 Where the tide languishes, and leap aland. Tarchon observes the coast with careful eyes, And, where no ford he finds, no water fries, Nor billows with unequal murmurs roar, But smoothly slide along, and swell the shore, 10400 That course he steer’d, and thus he gave command: “Here ply your oars, and at all hazard land: Force on the vessel, that her keel may wound This hated soil, and furrow hostile ground. Let me securely land—I ask no more; 10405 Then sink my ships, or shatter on the shore.”
This fiery speech inflames his fearful friends: They tug at ev’ry oar, and ev’ry stretcher bends; They run their ships aground; the vessels knock, (Thus forc’d ashore,) and tremble with the shock. 10410 Tarchon’s alone was lost, that stranded stood, Stuck on a bank, and beaten by the flood: She breaks her back; the loosen’d sides give way, And plunge the Tuscan soldiers in the sea. Their broken oars and floating planks withstand 10415 Their passage, while they labor to the land, And ebbing tides bear back upon th’ uncertain sand.
Now Turnus leads his troops without delay, Advancing to the margin of the sea. The trumpets sound: Aeneas first assail’d 10420 The clowns new-rais’d and raw, and soon prevail’d. Great Theron fell, an omen of the fight; Great Theron, large of limbs, of giant height. He first in open field defied the prince: But armor scal’d with gold was no defense 10425 Against the fated sword, which open’d wide His plated shield, and pierc’d his naked side. Next, Lichas fell, who, not like others born,
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Was from his wretched mother ripp’d and torn; Sacred, O Phoebus, from his birth to thee; 10430 For his beginning life from biting steel was free. Not far from him was Gyas laid along, Of monstrous bulk; with Cisseus fierce and strong: Vain bulk and strength! for, when the chief assail’d, Nor valor nor Herculean arms avail’d, 10435 Nor their fam’d father, wont in war to go With great Alcides, while he toil’d below. The noisy Pharos next receiv’d his death: Aeneas writh’d his dart, and stopp’d his bawling breath. Then wretched Cydon had receiv’d his doom, 10440 Who courted Clytius in his beardless bloom, And sought with lust obscene polluted joys: The Trojan sword had curd his love of boys, Had not his sev’n bold brethren stopp’d the course Of the fierce champions, with united force. 10445 Sev’n darts were thrown at once; and some rebound From his bright shield, some on his helmet sound: The rest had reach’d him; but his mother’s care Prevented those, and turn’d aside in air.
The prince then call’d Achates, to supply 10450 The spears that knew the way to victory— “Those fatal weapons, which, inur’d to blood, In Grecian bodies under Ilium stood: Not one of those my hand shall toss in vain Against our foes, on this contended plain.” 10455 He said; then seiz’d a mighty spear, and threw; Which, wing’d with fate, thro’ Maeon’s buckler flew, Pierc’d all the brazen plates, and reach’d his heart: He stagger’d with intolerable smart. Alcanor saw; and reach’d, but reach’d in vain, 10460 His helping hand, his brother to sustain. A second spear, which kept the former course, From the same hand, and sent with equal force, His right arm pierc’d, and holding on, bereft His use of both, and pinion’d down his left. 10465 Then Numitor from his dead brother drew Th’ ill-omen’d spear, and at the Trojan threw: Preventing fate directs the lance awry, Which, glancing, only mark’d Achates’ thigh.
In pride of youth the Sabine Clausus came, 10470 And, from afar, at Dryops took his aim. The spear flew hissing thro’ the middle space, And pierc’d his throat, directed at his face; It stopp’d at once the passage of his wind, And the free soul to flitting air resign’d: 10475 His forehead was the first that struck the ground; Lifeblood and life rush’d mingled thro’ the wound. He slew three brothers of the Borean race, And three, whom Ismarus, their native place, Had sent to war, but all the sons of Thrace. 10480 Halesus, next, the bold Aurunci leads: The son of Neptune to his aid succeeds, Conspicuous on his horse. On either hand,
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These fight to keep, and those to win, the land. With mutual blood th’ Ausonian soil is dyed, 10485 While on its borders each their claim decide. As wintry winds, contending in the sky, With equal force of lungs their titles try: They rage, they roar; the doubtful rack of heav’n Stands without motion, and the tide undriv’n: 10490 Each bent to conquer, neither side to yield, They long suspend the fortune of the field. Both armies thus perform what courage can; Foot set to foot, and mingled man to man.
But, in another part, th’ Arcadian horse 10495 With ill success ingage the Latin force: For, where th’ impetuous torrent, rushing down, Huge craggy stones and rooted trees had thrown, They left their coursers, and, unus’d to fight On foot, were scatter’d in a shameful flight. 10500 Pallas, who with disdain and grief had view’d His foes pursuing, and his friends pursued, Us’d threat’nings mix’d with pray’rs, his last resource, With these to move their minds, with those to fire their force “Which way, companions? whether would you run? 10505 By you yourselves, and mighty battles won, By my great sire, by his establish’d name, And early promise of my future fame; By my youth, emulous of equal right To share his honors—shun ignoble flight! 10510 Trust not your feet: your hands must hew way Thro’ yon black body, and that thick array: ‘T is thro’ that forward path that we must come; There lies our way, and that our passage home. Nor pow’rs above, nor destinies below 10515 Oppress our arms: with equal strength we go, With mortal hands to meet a mortal foe. See on what foot we stand: a scanty shore, The sea behind, our enemies before; No passage left, unless we swim the main; 10520 Or, forcing these, the Trojan trenches gain.” This said, he strode with eager haste along, And bore amidst the thickest of the throng. Lagus, the first he met, with fate to foe, Had heav’d a stone of mighty weight, to throw: 10525 Stooping, the spear descended on his chine, Just where the bone distinguished either loin: It stuck so fast, so deeply buried lay, That scarce the victor forc’d the steel away. Hisbon came on: but, while he mov’d too slow 10530 To wish’d revenge, the prince prevents his blow; For, warding his at once, at once he press’d, And plung’d the fatal weapon in his breast. Then lewd Anchemolus he laid in dust, Who stain’d his stepdam’s bed with impious lust. 10535 And, after him, the Daucian twins were slain, Laris and Thymbrus, on the Latian plain; So wondrous like in feature, shape, and size, As caus’d an error in their parents’ eyes—
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Grateful mistake! but soon the sword decides 10540 The nice distinction, and their fate divides: For Thymbrus’ head was lopp’d; and Laris’ hand, Dismember’d, sought its owner on the strand: The trembling fingers yet the fauchion strain, And threaten still th’ intended stroke in vain. 10545
Now, to renew the charge, th’ Arcadians came: Sight of such acts, and sense of honest shame, And grief, with anger mix’d, their minds inflame. Then, with a casual blow was Rhoeteus slain, Who chanc’d, as Pallas threw, to cross the plain: 10550 The flying spear was after Ilus sent; But Rhoeteus happen’d on a death unmeant: From Teuthras and from Tyres while he fled, The lance, athwart his body, laid him dead: Roll’d from his chariot with a mortal wound, 10555 And intercepted fate, he spurn’d the ground. As when, in summer, welcome winds arise, The watchful shepherd to the forest flies, And fires the midmost plants; contagion spreads, And catching flames infect the neighb’ring heads; 10560 Around the forest flies the furious blast, And all the leafy nation sinks at last, And Vulcan rides in triumph o’er the waste; The pastor, pleas’d with his dire victory, Beholds the satiate flames in sheets ascend the sky: 10565 So Pallas’ troops their scatter’d strength unite, And, pouring on their foes, their prince delight.
Halesus came, fierce with desire of blood; But first collected in his arms he stood: Advancing then, he plied the spear so well, 10570 Ladon, Demodocus, and Pheres fell. Around his head he toss’d his glitt’ring brand, And from Strymonius hew’d his better hand, Held up to guard his throat; then hurl’d a stone At Thoas’ ample front, and pierc’d the bone: 10575 It struck beneath the space of either eye; And blood, and mingled brains, together fly. Deep skill’d in future fates, Halesus’ sire Did with the youth to lonely groves retire: But, when the father’s mortal race was run, 10580 Dire destiny laid hold upon the son, And haul’d him to the war, to find, beneath Th’ Evandrian spear, a memorable death. Pallas th’ encounter seeks, but, ere he throws, To Tuscan Tiber thus address’d his vows: 10585 “O sacred stream, direct my flying dart, And give to pass the proud Halesus’ heart! His arms and spoils thy holy oak shall bear.” Pleas’d with the bribe, the god receiv’d his pray’r: For, while his shield protects a friend distress’d, 10590 The dart came driving on, and pierc’d his breast.
But Lausus, no small portion of the war, Permits not panic fear to reign too far,
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Caus’d by the death of so renown’d a knight; But by his own example cheers the fight. 10595 Fierce Abas first he slew; Abas, the stay Of Trojan hopes, and hindrance of the day. The Phrygian troops escap’d the Greeks in vain: They, and their mix’d allies, now load the plain. To the rude shock of war both armies came; 10600 Their leaders equal, and their strength the same. The rear so press’d the front, they could not wield Their angry weapons, to dispute the field. Here Pallas urges on, and Lausus there: Of equal youth and beauty both appear, 10605 But both by fate forbid to breathe their native air. Their congress in the field great Jove withstands: Both doom’d to fall, but fall by greater hands.
Meantime Juturna warns the Daunian chief Of Lausus’ danger, urging swift relief. 10610 With his driv’n chariot he divides the crowd, And, making to his friends, thus calls aloud: “Let none presume his needless aid to join; Retire, and clear the field; the fight is mine: To this right hand is Pallas only due; 10615 O were his father here, my just revenge to view!” From the forbidden space his men retir’d. Pallas their awe, and his stern words, admir’d; Survey’d him o’er and o’er with wond’ring sight, Struck with his haughty mien, and tow’ring height. 10620 Then to the king: “Your empty vaunts forbear; Success I hope, and fate I cannot fear; Alive or dead, I shall deserve a name; Jove is impartial, and to both the same.” He said, and to the void advanc’d his pace: 10625 Pale horror sate on each Arcadian face. Then Turnus, from his chariot leaping light, Address’d himself on foot to single fight. And, as a lion—when he spies from far A bull that seems to meditate the war, 10630 Bending his neck, and spurning back the sand— Runs roaring downward from his hilly stand: Imagine eager Turnus not more slow, To rush from high on his unequal foe.
Young Pallas, when he saw the chief advance 10635 Within due distance of his flying lance, Prepares to charge him first, resolv’d to try If fortune would his want of force supply; And thus to Heav’n and Hercules address’d: “Alcides, once on earth Evander’s guest, 10640 His son adjures you by those holy rites, That hospitable board, those genial nights; Assist my great attempt to gain this prize, And let proud Turnus view, with dying eyes, His ravish’d spoils.” ‘T was heard, the vain request; 10645 Alcides mourn’d, and stifled sighs within his breast. Then Jove, to soothe his sorrow, thus began: “Short bounds of life are set to mortal man.
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‘T is virtue’s work alone to stretch the narrow span. So many sons of gods, in bloody fight, 10650 Around the walls of Troy, have lost the light: My own Sarpedon fell beneath his foe; Nor I, his mighty sire, could ward the blow. Ev’n Turnus shortly shall resign his breath, And stands already on the verge of death.” 10655 This said, the god permits the fatal fight, But from the Latian fields averts his sight.
Now with full force his spear young Pallas threw, And, having thrown, his shining fauchion drew The steel just graz’d along the shoulder joint, 10660 And mark’d it slightly with the glancing point, Fierce Turnus first to nearer distance drew, And pois’d his pointed spear, before he threw: Then, as the winged weapon whizz’d along, “See now,” said he, “whose arm is better strung.” 10665 The spear kept on the fatal course, unstay’d By plates of ir’n, which o’er the shield were laid: Thro’ folded brass and tough bull hides it pass’d, His corslet pierc’d, and reach’d his heart at last. In vain the youth tugs at the broken wood; 10670 The soul comes issuing with the vital blood: He falls; his arms upon his body sound; And with his bloody teeth he bites the ground.
Turnus bestrode the corpse: “Arcadians, hear,” Said he; “my message to your master bear: 10675 Such as the sire deserv’d, the son I send; It costs him dear to be the Phrygians’ friend. The lifeless body, tell him, I bestow, Unask’d, to rest his wand’ring ghost below.” He said, and trampled down with all the force 10680 Of his left foot, and spurn’d the wretched corse; Then snatch’d the shining belt, with gold inlaid; The belt Eurytion’s artful hands had made, Where fifty fatal brides, express’d to sight, All in the compass of one mournful night, 10685 Depriv’d their bridegrooms of returning light.
In an ill hour insulting Turnus tore Those golden spoils, and in a worse he wore. O mortals, blind in fate, who never know To bear high fortune, or endure the low! 10690 The time shall come, when Turnus, but in vain, Shall wish untouch’d the trophies of the slain; Shall wish the fatal belt were far away, And curse the dire remembrance of the day.
The sad Arcadians, from th’ unhappy field, 10695 Bear back the breathless body on a shield. O grace and grief of war! at once restor’d, With praises, to thy sire, at once deplor’d! One day first sent thee to the fighting field, Beheld whole heaps of foes in battle kill’d; 10700 One day beheld thee dead, and borne upon thy shield.
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This dismal news, not from uncertain fame, But sad spectators, to the hero came: His friends upon the brink of ruin stand, Unless reliev’d by his victorious hand. 10705 He whirls his sword around, without delay, And hews thro’ adverse foes an ample way, To find fierce Turnus, of his conquest proud: Evander, Pallas, all that friendship ow’d To large deserts, are present to his eyes; 10710 His plighted hand, and hospitable ties.
Four sons of Sulmo, four whom Ufens bred, He took in fight, and living victims led, To please the ghost of Pallas, and expire, In sacrifice, before his fun’ral fire. 10715 At Magus next he threw: he stoop’d below The flying spear, and shunn’d the promis’d blow; Then, creeping, clasp’d the hero’s knees, and pray’d: “By young Iulus, by thy father’s shade, O spare my life, and send me back to see 10720 My longing sire, and tender progeny! A lofty house I have, and wealth untold, In silver ingots, and in bars of gold: All these, and sums besides, which see no day, The ransom of this one poor life shall pay. 10725 If I survive, will Troy the less prevail? A single soul’s too light to turn the scale.” He said. The hero sternly thus replied: “Thy bars and ingots, and the sums beside, Leave for thy children’s lot. Thy Turnus broke 10730 All rules of war by one relentless stroke, When Pallas fell: so deems, nor deems alone My father’s shadow, but my living son.” Thus having said, of kind remorse bereft, He seiz’d his helm, and dragg’d him with his left; 10735 Then with his right hand, while his neck he wreath’d, Up to the hilts his shining fauchion sheath’d.
Apollo’s priest, Emonides, was near; His holy fillets on his front appear; Glitt’ring in arms, he shone amidst the crowd; 10740 Much of his god, more of his purple, proud. Him the fierce Trojan follow’d thro’ the field: The holy coward fell; and, forc’d to yield, The prince stood o’er the priest, and, at one blow, Sent him an off ’ring to the shades below. 10745 His arms Seresthus on his shoulders bears, Design’d a trophy to the God of Wars.
Vulcanian Caeculus renews the fight, And Umbro, born upon the mountains’ height. The champion cheers his troops t’ encounter those, 10750 And seeks revenge himself on other foes. At Anxur’s shield he drove; and, at the blow, Both shield and arm to ground together go. Anxur had boasted much of magic charms, And thought he wore impenetrable arms, 10755
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So made by mutter’d spells; and, from the spheres, Had life secur’d, in vain, for length of years. Then Tarquitus the field in triumph trod; A nymph his mother, his sire a god. Exulting in bright arms, he braves the prince: 10760 With his protended lance he makes defense; Bears back his feeble foe; then, pressing on, Arrests his better hand, and drags him down; Stands o’er the prostrate wretch, and, as he lay, Vain tales inventing, and prepar’d to pray, 10765 Mows off his head: the trunk a moment stood, Then sunk, and roll’d along the sand in blood. The vengeful victor thus upbraids the slain: “Lie there, proud man, unpitied, on the plain; Lie there, inglorious, and without a tomb, 10770 Far from thy mother and thy native home, Exposed to savage beasts, and birds of prey, Or thrown for food to monsters of the sea.”
On Lycas and Antaeus next he ran, Two chiefs of Turnus, and who led his van. 10775 They fled for fear; with these, he chas’d along Camers the yellow-lock’d, and Numa strong; Both great in arms, and both were fair and young. Camers was son to Volscens lately slain, In wealth surpassing all the Latian train, 10780 And in Amycla fix’d his silent easy reign. And, as Aegaeon, when with heav’n he strove, Stood opposite in arms to mighty Jove; Mov’d all his hundred hands, provok’d the war, Defied the forky lightning from afar; 10785 At fifty mouths his flaming breath expires, And flash for flash returns, and fires for fires; In his right hand as many swords he wields, And takes the thunder on as many shields: With strength like his, the Trojan hero stood; 10790 And soon the fields with falling corps were strow’d, When once his fauchion found the taste of blood. With fury scarce to be conceiv’d, he flew Against Niphaeus, whom four coursers drew. They, when they see the fiery chief advance, 10795 And pushing at their chests his pointed lance, Wheel’d with so swift a motion, mad with fear, They threw their master headlong from the chair. They stare, they start, nor stop their course, before They bear the bounding chariot to the shore. 10800
Now Lucagus and Liger scour the plains, With two white steeds; but Liger holds the reins, And Lucagus the lofty seat maintains: Bold brethren both. The former wav’d in air His flaming sword: Aeneas couch’d his spear, 10805 Unus’d to threats, and more unus’d to fear. Then Liger thus: “Thy confidence is vain To scape from hence, as from the Trojan plain: Nor these the steeds which Diomede bestrode, Nor this the chariot where Achilles rode; 10810
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Nor Venus’ veil is here, near Neptune’s shield; Thy fatal hour is come, and this the field.” Thus Liger vainly vaunts: the Trojan peer Return’d his answer with his flying spear. As Lucagus, to lash his horses, bends, 10815 Prone to the wheels, and his left foot protends, Prepar’d for fight; the fatal dart arrives, And thro’ the borders of his buckler drives; Pass’d thro’ and pierc’d his groin: the deadly wound, Cast from his chariot, roll’d him on the ground. 10820 Whom thus the chief upbraids with scornful spite: “Blame not the slowness of your steeds in flight; Vain shadows did not force their swift retreat; But you yourself forsake your empty seat.” He said, and seiz’d at once the loosen’d rein; 10825 For Liger lay already on the plain, By the same shock: then, stretching out his hands, The recreant thus his wretched life demands: “Now, by thyself, O more than mortal man! By her and him from whom thy breath began, 10830 Who form’d thee thus divine, I beg thee, spare This forfeit life, and hear thy suppliant’s pray’r.” Thus much he spoke, and more he would have said; But the stern hero turn’d aside his head, And cut him short: “I hear another man; 10835 You talk’d not thus before the fight began. Now take your turn; and, as a brother should, Attend your brother to the Stygian flood.” Then thro’ his breast his fatal sword he sent, And the soul issued at the gaping vent. 10840
As storms the skies, and torrents tear the ground, Thus rag’d the prince, and scatter’d deaths around. At length Ascanius and the Trojan train Broke from the camp, so long besieg’d in vain.
Meantime the King of Gods and Mortal Man 10845 Held conference with his queen, and thus began: “My sister goddess, and well-pleasing wife, Still think you Venus’ aid supports the strife— Sustains her Trojans—or themselves, alone, With inborn valor force their fortune on? 10850 How fierce in fight, with courage undecay’d! Judge if such warriors want immortal aid.” To whom the goddess with the charming eyes, Soft in her tone, submissively replies: “Why, O my sov’reign lord, whose frown I fear, 10855 And cannot, unconcern’d, your anger bear; Why urge you thus my grief ? when, if I still (As once I was) were mistress of your will, From your almighty pow’r your pleasing wife Might gain the grace of length’ning Turnus’ life, 10860 Securely snatch him from the fatal fight, And give him to his aged father’s sight. Now let him perish, since you hold it good, And glut the Trojans with his pious blood. Yet from our lineage he derives his name, 10865
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And, in the fourth degree, from god Pilumnus came; Yet he devoutly pays you rites divine, And offers daily incense at your shrine.”
Then shortly thus the sov’reign god replied: “Since in my pow’r and goodness you confide, 10870 If for a little space, a lengthen’d span, You beg reprieve for this expiring man, I grant you leave to take your Turnus hence From instant fate, and can so far dispense. But, if some secret meaning lies beneath, 10875 To save the short-liv’d youth from destin’d death, Or if a farther thought you entertain, To change the fates; you feed your hopes in vain.” To whom the goddess thus, with weeping eyes: “And what if that request, your tongue denies, 10880 Your heart should grant; and not a short reprieve, But length of certain life, to Turnus give? Now speedy death attends the guiltless youth, If my presaging soul divines with truth; Which, O! I wish, might err thro’ causeless fears, 10885 And you (for you have pow’r) prolong his years!”
Thus having said, involv’d in clouds, she flies, And drives a storm before her thro’ the skies. Swift she descends, alighting on the plain, Where the fierce foes a dubious fight maintain. 10890 Of air condens’d a specter soon she made; And, what Aeneas was, such seem’d the shade. Adorn’d with Dardan arms, the phantom bore His head aloft; a plumy crest he wore; This hand appear’d a shining sword to wield, 10895 And that sustain’d an imitated shield. With manly mien he stalk’d along the ground, Nor wanted voice belied, nor vaunting sound. (Thus haunting ghosts appear to waking sight, Or dreadful visions in our dreams by night.) 10900 The specter seems the Daunian chief to dare, And flourishes his empty sword in air. At this, advancing, Turnus hurl’d his spear: The phantom wheel’d, and seem’d to fly for fear. Deluded Turnus thought the Trojan fled, 10905 And with vain hopes his haughty fancy fed. “Whether, O coward?” (thus he calls aloud, Nor found he spoke to wind, and chas’d a cloud,) “Why thus forsake your bride! Receive from me The fated land you sought so long by sea.” 10910 He said, and, brandishing at once his blade, With eager pace pursued the flying shade. By chance a ship was fasten’d to the shore, Which from old Clusium King Osinius bore: The plank was ready laid for safe ascent; 10915 For shelter there the trembling shadow bent, And skipp’t and skulk’d, and under hatches went. Exulting Turnus, with regardless haste, Ascends the plank, and to the galley pass’d. Scarce had he reach’d the prow: Saturnia’s hand 10920
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The haulsers cuts, and shoots the ship from land. With wind in poop, the vessel plows the sea, And measures back with speed her former way. Meantime Aeneas seeks his absent foe, And sends his slaughter’d troops to shades below. 10925
The guileful phantom now forsook the shroud, And flew sublime, and vanish’d in a cloud. Too late young Turnus the delusion found, Far on the sea, still making from the ground. Then, thankless for a life redeem’d by shame, 10930 With sense of honor stung, and forfeit fame, Fearful besides of what in fight had pass’d, His hands and haggard eyes to heav’n he cast; “O Jove!” he cried, “for what offense have Deserv’d to bear this endless infamy? 10935 Whence am I forc’d, and whether am I borne? How, and with what reproach, shall I return? Shall ever I behold the Latian plain, Or see Laurentum’s lofty tow’rs again? What will they say of their deserting chief 10940 The war was mine: I fly from their relief; I led to slaughter, and in slaughter leave; And ev’n from hence their dying groans receive. Here, overmatch’d in fight, in heaps they lie; There, scatter’d o’er the fields, ignobly fly. 10945 Gape wide, O earth, and draw me down alive! Or, O ye pitying winds, a wretch relieve! On sands or shelves the splitting vessel drive; Or set me shipwrack’d on some desart shore, Where no Rutulian eyes may see me more, 10950 Unknown to friends, or foes, or conscious Fame, Lest she should follow, and my flight proclaim.”
Thus Turnus rav’d, and various fates revolv’d: The choice was doubtful, but the death resolv’d. And now the sword, and now the sea took place, 10955 That to revenge, and this to purge disgrace. Sometimes he thought to swim the stormy main, By stretch of arms the distant shore to gain. Thrice he the sword assay’d, and thrice the flood; But Juno, mov’d with pity, both withstood. 10960 And thrice repress’d his rage; strong gales supplied, And push’d the vessel o’er the swelling tide. At length she lands him on his native shores, And to his father’s longing arms restores.
Meantime, by Jove’s impulse, Mezentius arm’d, 10965 Succeeding Turnus, with his ardor warm’d His fainting friends, reproach’d their shameful flight, Repell’d the victors, and renew’d the fight. Against their king the Tuscan troops conspire; Such is their hate, and such their fierce desire 10970 Of wish’d revenge: on him, and him alone, All hands employ’d, and all their darts are thrown. He, like a solid rock by seas inclos’d, To raging winds and roaring waves oppos’d,
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From his proud summit looking down, disdains 10975 Their empty menace, and unmov’d remains.
Beneath his feet fell haughty Hebrus dead, Then Latagus, and Palmus as he fled. At Latagus a weighty stone he flung: His face was flatted, and his helmet rung. 10980 But Palmus from behind receives his wound; Hamstring’d he falls, and grovels on the ground: His crest and armor, from his body torn, Thy shoulders, Lausus, and thy head adorn. Evas and Mimas, both of Troy, he slew. 10985 Mimas his birth from fair Theano drew, Born on that fatal night, when, big with fire, The queen produc’d young Paris to his sire: But Paris in the Phrygian fields was slain, Unthinking Mimas on the Latian plain. 10990
And, as a savage boar, on mountains bred, With forest mast and fatt’ning marshes fed, When once he sees himself in toils inclos’d, By huntsmen and their eager hounds oppos’d— He whets his tusks, and turns, and dares the war; 10995 Th’ invaders dart their jav’lins from afar: All keep aloof, and safely shout around; But none presumes to give a nearer wound: He frets and froths, erects his bristled hide, And shakes a grove of lances from his side: 11000 Not otherwise the troops, with hate inspir’d, And just revenge against the tyrant fir’d, Their darts with clamor at a distance drive, And only keep the languish’d war alive.
From Coritus came Acron to the fight, 11005 Who left his spouse betroth’d, and unconsummate night. Mezentius sees him thro’ the squadrons ride, Proud of the purple favors of his bride. Then, as a hungry lion, who beholds A gamesome goat, who frisks about the folds, 11010 Or beamy stag, that grazes on the plain— He runs, he roars, he shakes his rising mane, He grins, and opens wide his greedy jaws; The prey lies panting underneath his paws: He fills his famish’d maw; his mouth runs o’er 11015 With unchew’d morsels, while he churns the gore: So proud Mezentius rushes on his foes, And first unhappy Acron overthrows: Stretch’d at his length, he spurns the swarthy ground; The lance, besmear’d with blood, lies broken in the wound. 11020 Then with disdain the haughty victor view’d Orodes flying, nor the wretch pursued, Nor thought the dastard’s back deserv’d a wound, But, running, gain’d th’ advantage of the ground: Then turning short, he met him face to face, 11025 To give his victor the better grace. Orodes falls, in equal fight oppress’d: Mezentius fix’d his foot upon his breast,
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And rested lance; and thus aloud he cries: “Lo! here the champion of my rebels lies!” 11030 The fields around with Io Paean! ring; And peals of shouts applaud the conqu’ring king. At this the vanquish’d, with his dying breath, Thus faintly spoke, and prophesied in death: “Nor thou, proud man, unpunish’d shalt remain: 11035 Like death attends thee on this fatal plain.” Then, sourly smiling, thus the king replied: “For what belongs to me, let Jove provide; But die thou first, whatever chance ensue.” He said, and from the wound the weapon drew. 11040 A hov’ring mist came swimming o’er his sight, And seal’d his eyes in everlasting night.
By Caedicus, Alcathous was slain; Sacrator laid Hydaspes on the plain; Orses the strong to greater strength must yield; 11045 He, with Parthenius, were by Rapo kill’d. Then brave Messapus Ericetes slew, Who from Lycaon’s blood his lineage drew. But from his headstrong horse his fate he found, Who threw his master, as he made a bound: 11050 The chief, alighting, stuck him to the ground; Then Clonius, hand to hand, on foot assails: The Trojan sinks, and Neptune’s son prevails. Agis the Lycian, stepping forth with pride, To single fight the boldest foe defied; 11055 Whom Tuscan Valerus by force o’ercame, And not belied his mighty father’s fame. Salius to death the great Antronius sent: But the same fate the victor underwent, Slain by Nealces’ hand, well-skill’d to throw 11060 The flying dart, and draw the far-deceiving bow.
Thus equal deaths are dealt with equal chance; By turns they quit their ground, by turns advance: Victors and vanquish’d, in the various field, Nor wholly overcome, nor wholly yield. 11065 The gods from heav’n survey the fatal strife, And mourn the miseries of human life. Above the rest, two goddesses appear Concern’d for each: here Venus, Juno there. Amidst the crowd, infernal Ate shakes 11070 Her scourge aloft, and crest of hissing snakes.
Once more the proud Mezentius, with disdain, Brandish’d his spear, and rush’d into the plain, Where tow’ring in the midmost rank she stood, Like tall Orion stalking o’er the flood. 11075 (When with his brawny breast he cuts the waves, His shoulders scarce the topmost billow laves), Or like a mountain ash, whose roots are spread, Deep fix’d in earth; in clouds he hides his head.
The Trojan prince beheld him from afar, 11080 And dauntless undertook the doubtful war.
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Collected in his strength, and like a rock, Pois’d on his base, Mezentius stood the shock. He stood, and, measuring first with careful eyes The space his spear could reach, aloud he cries: 11085 “My strong right hand, and sword, assist my stroke! (Those only gods Mezentius will invoke.) His armor, from the Trojan pirate torn, By my triumphant Lausus shall be worn.” He said; and with his utmost force he threw 11090 The massy spear, which, hissing as it flew, Reach’d the celestial shield, that stopp’d the course; But, glancing thence, the yet unbroken force Took a new bent obliquely, and betwixt The side and bowels fam’d Anthores fix’d. 11095 Anthores had from Argos travel’d far, Alcides’ friend, and brother of the war; Till, tir’d with toils, fair Italy he chose, And in Evander’s palace sought repose. Now, falling by another’s wound, his eyes 11100 He cast to heav’n, on Argos thinks, and dies.
The pious Trojan then his jav’lin sent; The shield gave way; thro’ treble plates it went Of solid brass, of linen trebly roll’d, And three bull hides which round the buckler fold. 11105 All these it pass’d, resistless in the course, Transpierc’d his thigh, and spent its dying force. The gaping wound gush’d out a crimson flood. The Trojan, glad with sight of hostile blood, His faunchion drew, to closer fight address’d, 11110 And with new force his fainting foe oppress’d.
His father’s peril Lausus view’d with grief; He sigh’d, he wept, he ran to his relief. And here, heroic youth, ‘t is here I must To thy immortal memory be just, 11115 And sing an act so noble and so new, Posterity will scarce believe ‘t is true. Pain’d with his wound, and useless for the fight, The father sought to save himself by flight: Incumber’d, slow he dragg’d the spear along, 11120 Which pierc’d his thigh, and in his buckler hung. The pious youth, resolv’d on death, below The lifted sword springs forth to face the foe; Protects his parent, and prevents the blow. Shouts of applause ran ringing thro’ the field, 11125 To see the son the vanquish’d father shield. All, fir’d with gen’rous indignation, strive, And with a storm of darts to distance drive The Trojan chief, who, held at bay from far, On his Vulcanian orb sustain’d the war. 11130
As, when thick hail comes rattling in the wind, The plowman, passenger, and lab’ring hind For shelter to the neighb’ring covert fly, Or hous’d, or safe in hollow caverns lie;
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But, that o’erblown, when heav’n above ‘em smiles, 11135 Return to travel, and renew their toils: Aeneas thus, o’erwhelmed on ev’ry side, The storm of darts, undaunted, did abide; And thus to Lausus loud with friendly threat’ning cried: “Why wilt thou rush to certain death, and rage 11140 In rash attempts, beyond thy tender age, Betray’d by pious love?” Nor, thus forborne, The youth desists, but with insulting scorn Provokes the ling’ring prince, whose patience, tir’d, Gave place; and all his breast with fury fir’d. 11145 For now the Fates prepar’d their sharpen’d shears; And lifted high the flaming sword appears, Which, full descending with a frightful sway, Thro’ shield and corslet forc’d th’ impetuous way, And buried deep in his fair bosom lay. 11150 The purple streams thro’ the thin armor strove, And drench’d th’ imbroider’d coat his mother wove; And life at length forsook his heaving heart, Loth from so sweet a mansion to depart.
But when, with blood and paleness all o’erspread, 11155 The pious prince beheld young Lausus dead, He griev’d; he wept; the sight an image brought Of his own filial love, a sadly pleasing thought: Then stretch’d his hand to hold him up, and said: “Poor hapless youth! what praises can be paid 11160 To love so great, to such transcendent store Of early worth, and sure presage of more? Accept whate’er Aeneas can afford; Untouch’d thy arms, untaken be thy sword; And all that pleas’d thee living, still remain 11165 Inviolate, and sacred to the slain. Thy body on thy parents I bestow, To rest thy soul, at least, if shadows know, Or have a sense of human things below. There to thy fellow ghosts with glory tell: 11170 ‘‘T was by the great Aeneas hand I fell.’” With this, his distant friends he beckons near, Provokes their duty, and prevents their fear: Himself assists to lift him from the ground, With clotted locks, and blood that well’d from out the wound. 11175
Meantime, his father, now no father, stood, And wash’d his wounds by Tiber’s yellow flood: Oppress’d with anguish, panting, and o’erspent, His fainting limbs against an oak he leant. A bough his brazen helmet did sustain; 11180 His heavier arms lay scatter’d on the plain: A chosen train of youth around him stand; His drooping head was rested on his hand: His grisly beard his pensive bosom sought; And all on Lausus ran his restless thought. 11185 Careful, concern’d his danger to prevent, He much enquir’d, and many a message sent To warn him from the field—alas! in vain!
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Behold, his mournful followers bear him slain! O’er his broad shield still gush’d the yawning wound, 11190 And drew a bloody trail along the ground. Far off he heard their cries, far off divin’d The dire event, with a foreboding mind. With dust he sprinkled first his hoary head; Then both his lifted hands to heav’n he spread; 11195 Last, the dear corpse embracing, thus he said: “What joys, alas! could this frail being give, That I have been so covetous to live? To see my son, and such a son, resign His life, a ransom for preserving mine! 11200 And am I then preserv’d, and art thou lost? How much too dear has that redemption cost! ‘T is now my bitter banishment I feel: This is a wound too deep for time to heal. My guilt thy growing virtues did defame; 11205 My blackness blotted thy unblemish’d name. Chas’d from a throne, abandon’d, and exil’d For foul misdeeds, were punishments too mild: I ow’d my people these, and, from their hate, With less resentment could have borne my fate. 11210 And yet I live, and yet sustain the sight Of hated men, and of more hated light: But will not long.” With that he rais’d from ground His fainting limbs, that stagger’d with his wound; Yet, with a mind resolv’d, and unappall’d 11215 With pains or perils, for his courser call’d Well-mouth’d, well-manag’d, whom himself did dress With daily care, and mounted with success; His aid in arms, his ornament in peace.
Soothing his courage with a gentle stroke, 11220 The steed seem’d sensible, while thus he spoke: “O Rhoebus, we have liv’d too long for me— If life and long were terms that could agree! This day thou either shalt bring back the head And bloody trophies of the Trojan dead; 11225 This day thou either shalt revenge my woe, For murther’d Lausus, on his cruel foe; Or, if inexorable fate deny Our conquest, with thy conquer’d master die: For, after such a lord, I rest secure, 11230 Thou wilt no foreign reins, or Trojan load endure.” He said; and straight th’ officious courser kneels, To take his wonted weight. His hands he fills With pointed jav’lins; on his head he lac’d His glitt’ring helm, which terribly was grac’d 11235 With waving horsehair, nodding from afar; Then spurr’d his thund’ring steed amidst the war. Love, anguish, wrath, and grief, to madness wrought, Despair, and secret shame, and conscious thought Of inborn worth, his lab’ring soul oppress’d, 11240 Roll’d in his eyes, and rag’d within his breast. Then loud he call’d Aeneas thrice by name: The loud repeated voice to glad Aeneas came. “Great Jove,” he said, “and the far-shooting god,
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Inspire thy mind to make thy challenge good!” 11245 He spoke no more; but hasten’d, void of fear, And threaten’d with his long protended spear.
To whom Mezentius thus: “Thy vaunts are vain. My Lausus lies extended on the plain: He’s lost! thy conquest is already won; 11250 The wretched sire is murther’d in the son. Nor fate I fear, but all the gods defy. Forbear thy threats: my bus’ness is to die; But first receive this parting legacy.” He said; and straight a whirling dart he sent; 11255 Another after, and another went. Round in a spacious ring he rides the field, And vainly plies th’ impenetrable shield. Thrice rode he round; and thrice Aeneas wheel’d, Turn’d as he turn’d: the golden orb withstood 11260 The strokes, and bore about an iron wood. Impatient of delay, and weary grown, Still to defend, and to defend alone, To wrench the darts which in his buckler light, Urg’d and o’er-labor’d in unequal fight; 11265 At length resolv’d, he throws with all his force Full at the temples of the warrior horse. Just where the stroke was aim’d, th’ unerring spear Made way, and stood transfix’d thro’ either ear. Seiz’d with unwonted pain, surpris’d with fright, 11270 The wounded steed curvets, and, rais’d upright, Lights on his feet before; his hoofs behind Spring up in air aloft, and lash the wind. Down comes the rider headlong from his height: His horse came after with unwieldy weight, 11275 And, flound’ring forward, pitching on his head, His lord’s incumber’d shoulder overlaid.
From either host, the mingled shouts and cries Of Trojans and Rutulians rend the skies. Aeneas, hast’ning, wav’d his fatal sword 11280 High o’er his head, with this reproachful word: “Now; where are now thy vaunts, the fierce disdain Of proud Mezentius, and the lofty strain?”
Struggling, and wildly staring on the skies, With scarce recover’d sight he thus replies: 11285 “Why these insulting words, this waste of breath, To souls undaunted, and secure of death? ‘T is no dishonor for the brave to die, Nor came I here with hope victory; Nor ask I life, nor fought with that design: 11290 As I had us’d my fortune, use thou thine. My dying son contracted no such band; The gift is hateful from his murd’rer’s hand. For this, this only favor let me sue, If pity can to conquer’d foes be due: 11295 Refuse it not; but let my body have The last retreat of humankind, a grave. Too well I know th’ insulting people’s hate;
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Protect me from their vengeance after fate: This refuge for my poor remains provide, 11300 And lay my much-lov’d Lausus by my side.” He said, and to the sword his throat applied. The crimson stream distain’d his arms around, And the disdainful soul came rushing thro’ the wound.
Book XI Scarce had the rosy Morning rais’d her head 11305 Above the waves, and left her wat’ry bed; The pious chief, whom double cares attend For his unburied soldiers and his friend, Yet first to Heav’n perform’d a victor’s vows: He bar’d an ancient oak of all her boughs; 11310 Then on a rising ground the trunk he plac’d, Which with the spoils of his dead foe he grac’d. The coat of arms by proud Mezentius worn, Now on a naked snag in triumph borne, Was hung on high, and glitter’d from afar, 11315 A trophy sacred to the God of War. Above his arms, fix’d on the leafless wood, Appear’d his plumy crest, besmear’d with blood: His brazen buckler on the left was seen; Truncheons of shiver’d lances hung between; 11320 And on the right was placed his corslet, bor’d; And to the neck was tied his unavailing sword.
A crowd of chiefs inclose the godlike man, Who thus, conspicuous in the midst, began: “Our toils, my friends, are crown’d with sure success; 11325 The greater part perform’d, achieve the less. Now follow cheerful to the trembling town; Press but an entrance, and presume it won. Fear is no more, for fierce Mezentius lies, As the first fruits of war, a sacrifice. 11330 Turnus shall fall extended on the plain, And, in this omen, is already slain. Prepar’d in arms, pursue your happy chance; That none unwarn’d may plead his ignorance, And I, at Heav’n’s appointed hour, may find 11335 Your warlike ensigns waving in the wind. Meantime the rites and fun’ral pomps prepare, Due to your dead companions of the war: The last respect the living can bestow, To shield their shadows from contempt below. 11340 That conquer’d earth be theirs, for which they fought, And which for us with their own blood they bought; But first the corpse of our unhappy friend To the sad city of Evander send, Who, not inglorious, in his age’s bloom, 11345 Was hurried hence by too severe a doom.”
Thus, weeping while he spoke, he took his way, Where, new in death, lamented Pallas lay. Acoetes watch’d the corpse; whose youth deserv’d The father’s trust; and now the son he serv’d 11350 With equal faith, but less auspicious care.
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Th’ attendants of the slain his sorrow share. A troop of Trojans mix’d with these appear, And mourning matrons with dishevel’d hair. Soon as the prince appears, they raise a cry; 11355 All beat their breasts, and echoes rend the sky. They rear his drooping forehead from the ground; But, when Aeneas view’d the grisly wound Which Pallas in his manly bosom bore, And the fair flesh distain’d with purple gore; 11360 First, melting into tears, the pious man Deplor’d so sad a sight, then thus began: “Unhappy youth! when Fortune gave the rest Of my full wishes, she refus’d the best! She came; but brought not thee along, to bless 11365 My longing eyes, and share in my success: She grudg’d thy safe return, the triumphs due To prosp’rous valor, in the public view. Not thus I promis’d, when thy father lent Thy needless succor with a sad consent; 11370 Embrac’d me, parting for th’ Etrurian land, And sent me to possess a large command. He warn’d, and from his own experience told, Our foes were warlike, disciplin’d, and bold. And now perhaps, in hopes of thy return, 11375 Rich odors on his loaded altars burn, While we, with vain officious pomp, prepare To send him back his portion of the war, A bloody breathless body, which can owe No farther debt, but to the pow’rs below. 11380 The wretched father, ere his race is run, Shall view the fun’ral honors of his son. These are my triumphs of the Latian war, Fruits of my plighted faith and boasted care! And yet, unhappy sire, thou shalt not see 11385 A son whose death disgrac’d his ancestry; Thou shalt not blush, old man, however griev’d: Thy Pallas no dishonest wound receiv’d. He died no death to make thee wish, too late, Thou hadst not liv’d to see his shameful fate: 11390 But what a champion has th’ Ausonian coast, And what a friend hast thou, Ascanius, lost!”
Thus having mourn’d, he gave the word around, To raise the breathless body from the ground; And chose a thousand horse, the flow’r of all 11395 His warlike troops, to wait the funeral, To bear him back and share Evander’s grief: A well-becoming, but a weak relief. Of oaken twigs they twist an easy bier, Then on their shoulders the sad burden rear. 11400 The body on this rural hearse is borne: Strew’d leaves and funeral greens the bier adorn. All pale he lies, and looks a lovely flow’r, New cropp’d by virgin hands, to dress the bow’r: Unfaded yet, but yet unfed below, 11405 No more to mother earth or the green stern shall owe. Then two fair vests, of wondrous work and cost, Of purple woven, and with gold emboss’d,
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For ornament the Trojan hero brought, Which with her hands Sidonian Dido wrought. 11410 One vest array’d the corpse; and one they spread O’er his clos’d eyes, and wrapp’d around his head, That, when the yellow hair in flame should fall, The catching fire might burn the golden caul. Besides, the spoils of foes in battle slain, 11415 When he descended on the Latian plain; Arms, trappings, horses, by the hearse are led In long array—th’ achievements of the dead. Then, pinion’d with their hands behind, appear Th’ unhappy captives, marching in the rear, 11420 Appointed off ’rings in the victor’s name, To sprinkle with their blood the fun’ral flame. Inferior trophies by the chiefs are borne; Gauntlets and helms their loaded hands adorn; And fair inscriptions fix’d, and titles read 11425 Of Latian leaders conquer’d by the dead.
Acoetes on his pupil’s corpse attends, With feeble steps, supported by his friends. Pausing at ev’ry pace, in sorrow drown’d, Betwixt their arms he sinks upon the ground; 11430 Where grov’ling while he lies in deep despair, He beats his breast, and rends his hoary hair. The champion’s chariot next is seen to roll, Besmear’d with hostile blood, and honorably foul. To close the pomp, Aethon, the steed of state, 11435 Is led, the fun’rals of his lord to wait. Stripp’d of his trappings, with a sullen pace He walks; and the big tears run rolling down his face. The lance of Pallas, and the crimson crest, Are borne behind: the victor seiz’d the rest. 11440 The march begins: the trumpets hoarsely sound; The pikes and lances trail along the ground. Thus while the Trojan and Arcadian horse To Pallantean tow’rs direct their course, In long procession rank’d, the pious chief 11445 Stopp’d in the rear, and gave a vent to grief: “The public care,” he said, “which war attends, Diverts our present woes, at least suspends. Peace with the manes of great Pallas dwell! Hail, holy relics! and a last farewell!” 11450 He said no more, but, inly thro’ he mourn’d, Restrained his tears, and to the camp return’d.
Now suppliants, from Laurentum sent, demand A truce, with olive branches in their hand; Obtest his clemency, and from the plain 11455 Beg leave to draw the bodies of their slain. They plead, that none those common rites deny To conquer’d foes that in fair battle die. All cause of hate was ended in their death; Nor could he war with bodies void of breath. 11460 A king, they hop’d, would hear a king’s request, Whose son he once was call’d, and once his guest.
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Their suit, which was too just to be denied, The hero grants, and farther thus replied: “O Latian princes, how severe a fate 11465 In causeless quarrels has involv’d your state, And arm’d against an unoffending man, Who sought your friendship ere the war began! You beg a truce, which I would gladly give, Not only for the slain, but those who live. 11470 I came not hither but by Heav’n’s command, And sent by fate to share the Latian land. Nor wage I wars unjust: your king denied My proffer’d friendship, and my promis’d bride; Left me for Turnus. Turnus then should try 11475 His cause in arms, to conquer or to die. My right and his are in dispute: the slain Fell without fault, our quarrel to maintain. In equal arms let us alone contend; And let him vanquish, whom his fates befriend. 11480 This is the way (so tell him) to possess The royal virgin, and restore the peace. Bear this message back, with ample leave, That your slain friends may fun’ral rites receive.”
Thus having said—th’ embassadors, amaz’d, 11485 Stood mute a while, and on each other gaz’d. Drances, their chief, who harbor’d in his breast Long hate to Turnus, as his foe profess’d, Broke silence first, and to the godlike man, With graceful action bowing, thus began: 11490 “Auspicious prince, in arms a mighty name, But yet whose actions far transcend your fame; Would I your justice or your force express, Thought can but equal; and all words are less. Your answer we shall thankfully relate, 11495 And favors granted to the Latian state. If wish’d success our labor shall attend, Think peace concluded, and the king your friend: Let Turnus leave the realm to your command, And seek alliance in some other land: 11500 Build you the city which your fates assign; We shall be proud in the great work to join.”
Thus Drances; and his words so well persuade The rest impower’d, that soon a truce is made. Twelve days the term allow’d: and, during those, 11505 Latians and Trojans, now no longer foes, Mix’d in the woods, for fun’ral piles prepare To fell the timber, and forget the war. Loud axes thro’ the groaning groves resound; Oak, mountain ash, and poplar spread the ground; 11510 First fall from high; and some the trunks receive In loaden wains; with wedges some they cleave.
And now the fatal news by Fame is blown Thro’ the short circuit of th’ Arcadian town, Of Pallas slain—by Fame, which just before 11515 His triumphs on distended pinions bore.
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Rushing from out the gate, the people stand, Each with a fun’ral flambeau in his hand. Wildly they stare, distracted with amaze: The fields are lighten’d with a fiery blaze, 11520 That cast a sullen splendor on their friends, The marching troop which their dead prince attends. Both parties meet: they raise a doleful cry; The matrons from the walls with shrieks reply, And their mix’d mourning rends the vaulted sky. 11525 The town is fill’d with tumult and with tears, Till the loud clamors reach Evander’s ears: Forgetful of his state, he runs along, With a disorder’d pace, and cleaves the throng; Falls on the corpse; and groaning there he lies, 11530 With silent grief, that speaks but at his eyes. Short sighs and sobs succeed; till sorrow breaks A passage, and at once he weeps and speaks:
“O Pallas! thou hast fail’d thy plighted word, To fight with caution, not to tempt the sword! 11535 I warn’d thee, but in vain; for well I knew What perils youthful ardor would pursue, That boiling blood would carry thee too far, Young as thou wert in dangers, raw to war! O curst essay of arms, disastrous doom, 11540 Prelude of bloody fields, and fights to come! Hard elements of unauspicious war, Vain vows to Heav’n, and unavailing care! Thrice happy thou, dear partner of my bed, Whose holy soul the stroke of Fortune fled, 11545 Praescious of ills, and leaving me behind, To drink the dregs of life by fate assign’d! Beyond the goal of nature I have gone: My Pallas late set out, but reach’d too soon. If, for my league against th’ Ausonian state, 11550 Amidst their weapons I had found my fate, (Deserv’d from them,) then I had been return’d A breathless victor, and my son had mourn’d. Yet will I not my Trojan friend upbraid, Nor grudge th’ alliance I so gladly made. 11555 ‘T was not his fault, my Pallas fell so young, But my own crime, for having liv’d too long. Yet, since the gods had destin’d him to die, At least he led the way to victory: First for his friends he won the fatal shore, 11560 And sent whole herds of slaughter’d foes before; A death too great, too glorious to deplore. Nor will I add new honors to thy grave, Content with those the Trojan hero gave: That funeral pomp thy Phrygian friends design’d, 11565 In which the Tuscan chiefs and army join’d. Great spoils and trophies, gain’d by thee, they bear: Then let thy own achievements be thy share. Even thou, O Turnus, hadst a trophy stood, Whose mighty trunk had better grac’d the wood, 11570 If Pallas had arriv’d, with equal length Of years, to match thy bulk with equal strength.
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But why, unhappy man, dost thou detain These troops, to view the tears thou shedd’st in vain? Go, friends, this message to your lord relate: 11575 Tell him, that, if I bear my bitter fate, And, after Pallas’ death, live ling’ring on, ‘T is to behold his vengeance for my son. I stay for Turnus, whose devoted head Is owing to the living and the dead. 11580 My son and I expect it from his hand; ‘T is all that he can give, or we demand. Joy is no more; but I would gladly go, To greet my Pallas with such news below.”
The morn had now dispell’d the shades of night, 11585 Restoring toils, when she restor’d the light. The Trojan king and Tuscan chief command To raise the piles along the winding strand. Their friends convey the dead fun’ral fires; Black smold’ring smoke from the green wood expires; 11590 The light of heav’n is chok’d, and the new day retires. Then thrice around the kindled piles they go (For ancient custom had ordain’d it so) Thrice horse and foot about the fires are led; And thrice, with loud laments, they hail the dead. 11595 Tears, trickling down their breasts, bedew the ground, And drums and trumpets mix their mournful sound. Amid the blaze, their pious brethren throw The spoils, in battle taken from the foe: Helms, bits emboss’d, and swords of shining steel; 11600 One casts a target, one a chariot wheel; Some to their fellows their own arms restore: The fauchions which in luckless fight they bore, Their bucklers pierc’d, their darts bestow’d in vain, And shiver’d lances gather’d from the plain. 11605 Whole herds of offer’d bulls, about the fire, And bristled boars, and woolly sheep expire. Around the piles a careful troop attends, To watch the wasting flames, and weep their burning friends; Ling’ring along the shore, till dewy night 11610 New decks the face of heav’n with starry light.
The conquer’d Latians, with like pious care, Piles without number for their dead prepare. Part in the places where they fell are laid; And part are to the neighb’ring fields convey’d. 11615 The corps of kings, and captains of renown, Borne off in state, are buried in the town; The rest, unhonor’d, and without a name, Are cast a common heap to feed the flame. Trojans and Latians vie with like desires 11620 To make the field of battle shine with fires, And the promiscuous blaze to heav’n aspires.
Now had the morning thrice renew’d the light, And thrice dispell’d the shadows of the night, When those who round the wasted fires remain, 11625 Perform the last sad office to the slain.
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They rake the yet warm ashes from below; These, and the bones unburn’d, in earth bestow; These relics with their country rites they grace, And raise a mount of turf to mark the place. 11630
But, in the palace of the king, appears A scene more solemn, and a pomp of tears. Maids, matrons, widows, mix their common moans; Orphans their sires, and sires lament their sons. All in that universal sorrow share, 11635 And curse the cause of this unhappy war: A broken league, a bride unjustly sought, A crown usurp’d, which with their blood is bought! These are the crimes with which they load the name Of Turnus, and on him alone exclaim: 11640 “Let him who lords it o’er th’ Ausonian land Engage the Trojan hero hand to hand: His is the gain; our lot is but to serve; ‘T is just, the sway he seeks, he should deserve.” This Drances aggravates; and adds, with spite: 11645 “His foe expects, and dares him to the fight.” Nor Turnus wants a party, to support His cause and credit in the Latian court. His former acts secure his present fame, And the queen shades him with her mighty name. 11650
While thus their factious minds with fury burn, The legates from th’ Aetolian prince return: Sad news they bring, that, after all the cost And care employ’d, their embassy is lost; That Diomedes refus’d his aid in war, 11655 Unmov’d with presents, and as deaf to pray’r. Some new alliance must elsewhere be sought, Or peace with Troy on hard conditions bought.
Latinus, sunk in sorrow, finds too late, A foreign son is pointed out by fate; 11660 And, till Aeneas shall Lavinia wed, The wrath of Heav’n is hov’ring o’er his head. The gods, he saw, espous’d the juster side, When late their titles in the field were tried: Witness the fresh laments, and fun’ral tears undried. 11665 Thus, full of anxious thought, he summons all The Latian senate to the council hall. The princes come, commanded by their head, And crowd the paths that to the palace lead. Supreme in pow’r, and reverenc’d for his years, 11670 He takes the throne, and in the midst appears. Majestically sad, he sits in state, And bids his envoys their success relate.
When Venulus began, the murmuring sound Was hush’d, and sacred silence reign’d around. 11675 “We have,” said he, “perform’d your high command, And pass’d with peril a long tract of land: We reach’d the place desir’d; with wonder fill’d, The Grecian tents and rising tow’rs beheld.
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Great Diomede has compass’d round with walls 11680 The city, which Argyripa he calls, From his own Argos nam’d. We touch’d, with joy, The royal hand that raz’d unhappy Troy. When introduc’d, our presents first we bring, Then crave an instant audience from the king. 11685 His leave obtain’d, our native soil we name, And tell th’ important cause for which we came. Attentively he heard us, while we spoke; Then, with soft accents, and a pleasing look, Made this return: ‘Ausonian race, of old 11690 Renown’d for peace, and for an age of gold, What madness has your alter’d minds possess’d, To change for war hereditary rest, Solicit arms unknown, and tempt the sword, A needless ill your ancestors abhorr’d? 11695 We—for myself I speak, and all the name Of Grecians, who to Troy’s destruction came, Omitting those who were in battle slain, Or borne by rolling Simois to the main— Not one but suffer’d, and too dearly bought 11700 The prize of honor which in arms he sought; Some doom’d to death, and some in exile driv’n. Outcasts, abandon’d by the care of Heav’n; So worn, so wretched, so despis’d a crew, As ev’n old Priam might with pity view. 11705 Witness the vessels by Minerva toss’d In storms; the vengeful Capharean coast; Th’ Euboean rocks! the prince, whose brother led Our armies to revenge his injur’d bed, In Egypt lost! Ulysses with his men 11710 Have seen Charybdis and the Cyclops’ den. Why should I name Idomeneus, in vain Restor’d to scepters, and expell’d again? Or young Achilles, by his rival slain? Ev’n he, the King of Men, the foremost name 11715 Of all the Greeks, and most renown’d by fame, The proud revenger of another’s wife, Yet by his own adult’ress lost his life; Fell at his threshold; and the spoils of Troy The foul polluters of his bed enjoy. 11720 The gods have envied me the sweets of life, My much lov’d country, and my more lov’d wife: Banish’d from both, I mourn; while in the sky, Transform’d to birds, my lost companions fly: Hov’ring about the coasts, they make their moan, 11725 And cuff the cliffs with pinions not their own. What squalid specters, in the dead of night, Break my short sleep, and skim before my sight! I might have promis’d to myself those harms, Mad as I was, when I, with mortal arms, 11730 Presum’d against immortal pow’rs to move, And violate with wounds the Queen of Love. Such arms this hand shall never more employ; No hate remains with me to ruin’d Troy. I war not with its dust; nor am I glad 11735 To think of past events, or good or bad.
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Your presents I return: whate’er you bring To buy my friendship, send the Trojan king. We met in fight; I know him, to my cost: With what a whirling force his lance he toss’d! 11740 Heav’ns! what a spring was in his arm, to throw! How high he held his shield, and rose at ev’ry blow! Had Troy produc’d two more his match in might, They would have chang’d the fortune of the fight: Th’ invasion of the Greeks had been return’d, 11745 Our empire wasted, and our cities burn’d. The long defense the Trojan people made, The war protracted, and the siege delay’d, Were due to Hector’s and this hero’s hand: Both brave alike, and equal in command; 11750 Aeneas, not inferior in the field, In pious reverence to the gods excell’d. Make peace, ye Latians, and avoid with care Th’ impending dangers of a fatal war.’ He said no more; but, with this cold excuse, 11755 Refus’d th’ alliance, and advis’d a truce.”
Thus Venulus concluded his report. A jarring murmur fill’d the factious court: As, when a torrent rolls with rapid force, And dashes o’er the stones that stop the course, 11760 The flood, constrain’d within a scanty space, Roars horrible along th’ uneasy race; White foam in gath’ring eddies floats around; The rocky shores rebellow to the sound.
The murmur ceas’d: then from his lofty throne 11765 The king invok’d the gods, and thus begun: “I wish, ye Latins, what we now debate Had been resolv’d before it was too late. Much better had it been for you and me, Unforc’d by this our last necessity, 11770 To have been earlier wise, than now to call A council, when the foe surrounds the wall. O citizens, we wage unequal war, With men not only Heav’n’s peculiar care, But Heav’n’s own race; unconquer’d in the field, 11775 Or, conquer’d, yet unknowing how to yield. What hopes you had in Diomedes, lay down: Our hopes must center on ourselves alone. Yet those how feeble, and, indeed, how vain, You see too well; nor need my words explain. 11780 Vanquish’d without resource; laid flat by fate; Factions within, a foe without the gate! Not but I grant that all perform’d their parts With manly force, and with undaunted hearts: With our united strength the war we wag’d; 11785 With equal numbers, equal arms, engag’d. You see th’ event.—Now hear what I propose, To save our friends, and satisfy our foes. A tract of land the Latins have possess’d Along the Tiber, stretching to the west, 11790 Which now Rutulians and Auruncans till, And their mix’d cattle graze the fruitful hill.
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Those mountains fill’d with firs, that lower land, If you consent, the Trojan shall command, Call’d into part of what is ours; and there, 11795 On terms agreed, the common country share. There let’em build and settle, if they please; Unless they choose once more to cross the seas, In search of seats remote from Italy, And from unwelcome inmates set us free. 11800 Then twice ten galleys let us build with speed, Or twice as many more, if more they need. Materials are at hand; a well-grown wood Runs equal with the margin of the flood: Let them the number and the form assign; 11805 The care and cost of all the stores be mine. To treat the peace, a hundred senators Shall be commission’d hence with ample pow’rs, With olive the presents they shall bear, A purple robe, a royal iv’ry chair, 11810 And all the marks of sway that Latian monarchs wear, And sums of gold. Among yourselves debate This great affair, and save the sinking state.”
Then Drances took the word, who grudg’d, long since, The rising glories of the Daunian prince. 11815 Factious and rich, bold at the council board, But cautious in the field, he shunn’d the sword; A close caballer, and tongue-valiant lord. Noble his mother was, and near the throne; But, what his father’s parentage, unknown. 11820 He rose, and took th’ advantage of the times, To load young Turnus with invidious crimes. “Such truths, O king,” said he, “your words contain, As strike the sense, and all replies are vain; Nor are your loyal subjects now to seek 11825 What common needs require, but fear to speak. Let him give leave of speech, that haughty man, Whose pride this unauspicious war began; For whose ambition (let me dare to say, Fear set apart, tho’ death is in my way) 11830 The plains of Latium run with blood around. So many valiant heroes bite the ground; Dejected grief in ev’ry face appears; A town in mourning, and a land in tears; While he, th’ undoubted author of our harms, 11835 The man who menaces the gods with arms, Yet, after all his boasts, forsook the fight, And sought his safety in ignoble flight. Now, best of kings, since you propose to send Such bounteous presents to your Trojan friend; 11840 Add yet a greater at our joint request, One which he values more than all the rest: Give him the fair Lavinia for his bride; With that alliance let the league be tied, And for the bleeding land a lasting peace provide. 11845 Let insolence no longer awe the throne; But, with a father’s right, bestow your own. For this maligner of the general good, If still we fear his force, he must be woo’d;
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His haughty godhead we with pray’rs implore, 11850 Your scepter to release, and our just rights restore. O cursed cause of all our ills, must we Wage wars unjust, and fall in fight, for thee! What right hast thou to rule the Latian state, And send us out to meet our certain fate? 11855 ‘T is a destructive war: from Turnus’ hand Our peace and public safety we demand. Let the fair bride to the brave chief remain; If not, the peace, without the pledge, is vain. Turnus, I know you think me not your friend, 11860 Nor will I much with your belief contend: I beg your greatness not to give the law In others’ realms, but, beaten, to withdraw. Pity your own, or pity our estate; Nor twist our fortunes with your sinking fate. 11865 Your interest is, the war should never cease; But we have felt enough to wish the peace: A land exhausted to the last remains, Depopulated towns, and driven plains. Yet, if desire of fame, and thirst of pow’r, 11870 A beauteous princess, with a crown in dow’r, So fire your mind, in arms assert your right, And meet your foe, who dares you to the fight. Mankind, it seems, is made for you alone; We, but the slaves who mount you to the throne: 11875 A base ignoble crowd, without a name, Unwept, unworthy, of the fun’ral flame, By duty bound to forfeit each his life, That Turnus may possess a royal wife. Permit not, mighty man, so mean a crew 11880 Should share such triumphs, and detain from you The post of honor, your undoubted due. Rather alone your matchless force employ, To merit what alone you must enjoy.”
These words, so full of malice mix’d with art, 11885 Inflam’d with rage the youthful hero’s heart. Then, groaning from the bottom of his breast, He heav’d for wind, and thus his wrath express’d: “You, Drances, never want a stream of words, Then, when the public need requires our swords. 11890 First in the council hall to steer the state, And ever foremost in a tongue-debate, While our strong walls secure us from the foe, Ere yet with blood our ditches overflow: But let the potent orator declaim, 11895 And with the brand of coward blot my name; Free leave is giv’n him, when his fatal hand Has cover’d with more corps the sanguine strand, And high as mine his tow’ring trophies stand. If any doubt remains, who dares the most, 11900 Let us decide it at the Trojan’s cost, And issue both abreast, where honor calls— Foes are not far to seek without the walls— Unless his noisy tongue can only fight, And feet were giv’n him but to speed his flight. 11905 I beaten from the field? I forc’d away?
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Who, but so known a dastard, dares to say? Had he but ev’n beheld the fight, his eyes Had witness’d for me what his tongue denies: What heaps of Trojans by this hand were slain, 11910 And how the bloody Tiber swell’d the main. All saw, but he, th’ Arcadian troops retire In scatter’d squadrons, and their prince expire. The giant brothers, in their camp, have found, I was not forc’d with ease to quit my ground. 11915 Not such the Trojans tried me, when, inclos’d, I singly their united arms oppos’d: First forc’d an entrance thro’ their thick array; Then, glutted with their slaughter, freed my way. ‘T is a destructive war? So let it be, 11920 But to the Phrygian pirate, and to thee! Meantime proceed to fill the people’s ears With false reports, their minds with panic fears: Extol the strength of a twice-conquer’d race; Our foes encourage, and our friends debase. 11925 Believe thy fables, and the Trojan town Triumphant stands; the Grecians are o’erthrown; Suppliant at Hector’s feet Achilles lies, And Diomede from fierce Aeneas flies. Say rapid Aufidus with awful dread 11930 Runs backward from the sea, and hides his head, When the great Trojan on his bank appears; For that’s as true as thy dissembled fears Of my revenge. Dismiss that vanity: Thou, Drances, art below a death from me. 11935 Let that vile soul in that vile body rest; The lodging is well worthy of the guest.
“Now, royal father, to the present state Of our affairs, and of this high debate: If in your arms thus early you diffide, 11940 And think your fortune is already tried; If one defeat has brought us down so low, As never more in fields to meet the foe; Then I conclude for peace: ‘t is time to treat, And lie like vassals at the victor’s feet. 11945 But, O! if any ancient blood remains, One drop of all our fathers’, in our veins, That man would I prefer before the rest, Who dar’d his death with an undaunted breast; Who comely fell, by no dishonest wound, 11950 To shun that sight, and, dying, gnaw’d the ground. But, if we still have fresh recruits in store, If our confederates can afford us more; If the contended field we bravely fought, And not a bloodless victory was bought; 11955 Their losses equal’d ours; and, for their slain, With equal fires they fill’d the shining plain; Why thus, unforc’d, should we so tamely yield, And, ere the trumpet sounds, resign the field? Good unexpected, evils unforeseen, 11960 Appear by turns, as fortune shifts the scene: Some, rais’d aloft, come tumbling down amain; Then fall so hard, they bound and rise again.
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If Diomede refuse his aid to lend, The great Messapus yet remains our friend: 11965 Tolumnius, who foretells events, is ours; Th’ Italian chiefs and princes join their pow’rs: Nor least in number, nor in name the last, Your own brave subjects have your cause embrac’d Above the rest, the Volscian Amazon 11970 Contains an army in herself alone, And heads a squadron, terrible to sight, With glitt’ring shields, in brazen armor bright. Yet, if the foe a single fight demand, And I alone the public peace withstand; 11975 If you consent, he shall not be refus’d, Nor find a hand to victory unus’d. This new Achilles, let him take the field, With fated armor, and Vulcanian shield! For you, my royal father, and my fame, 11980 I, Turnus, not the least of all my name, Devote my soul. He calls me hand to hand, And I alone will answer his demand. Drances shall rest secure, and neither share The danger, nor divide the prize of war.” 11985
While they debate, nor these nor those will yield, Aeneas draws his forces to the field, And moves his camp. The scouts with flying speed Return, and thro’ the frighted city spread Th’ unpleasing news, the Trojans are descried, 11990 In battle marching by the river side, And bending to the town. They take th’ alarm: Some tremble, some are bold; all in confusion arm. Th’ impetuous youth press forward to the field; They clash the sword, and clatter on the shield: 11995 The fearful matrons raise a screaming cry; Old feeble men with fainter groans reply; A jarring sound results, and mingles in the sky, Like that of swans remurm’ring to the floods, Or birds of diff ’ring kinds in hollow woods. 12000
Turnus th’ occasion takes, and cries aloud: “Talk on, ye quaint haranguers of the crowd: Declaim in praise of peace, when danger calls, And the fierce foes in arms approach the walls.” He said, and, turning short, with speedy pace, 12005 Casts back a scornful glance, and quits the place: “Thou, Volusus, the Volscian troops command To mount; and lead thyself our Ardean band. Messapus and Catillus, post your force Along the fields, to charge the Trojan horse. 12010 Some guard the passes, others man the wall; Drawn up in arms, the rest attend my call.”
They swarm from ev’ry quarter of the town, And with disorder’d haste the rampires crown. Good old Latinus, when he saw, too late, 12015 The gath’ring storm just breaking on the state, Dismiss’d the council till a fitter time,
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And own’d his easy temper as his crime, Who, forc’d against his reason, had complied To break the treaty for the promis’d bride. 12020
Some help to sink new trenches; others aid To ram the stones, or raise the palisade. Hoarse trumpets sound th’ alarm; around the walls Runs a distracted crew, whom their last labor calls. A sad procession in the streets is seen, 12025 Of matrons, that attend the mother queen: High in her chair she sits, and, at her side, With downcast eyes, appears the fatal bride. They mount the cliff, where Pallas’ temple stands; Pray’rs in their mouths, and presents in their hands, 12030 With censers first they fume the sacred shrine, Then in this common supplication join: “O patroness of arms, unspotted maid, Propitious hear, and lend thy Latins aid! Break short the pirate’s lance; pronounce his fate, 12045 And lay the Phrygian low before the gate.”
Now Turnus arms for fight. His back and breast Well-temper’d steel and scaly brass invest: The cuishes which his brawny thighs infold Are mingled metal damask’d o’er with gold. 12050 His faithful fauchion sits upon his side; Nor casque, nor crest, his manly features hide: But, bare to view, amid surrounding friends, With godlike grace, he from the tow’r descends. Exulting in his strength, he seems to dare 12055 His absent rival, and to promise war. Freed from his keepers, thus, with broken reins, The wanton courser prances o’er the plains, Or in the pride of youth o’erleaps the mounds, And snuffs the females in forbidden grounds. 12060 Or seeks his wat’ring in the well-known flood, To quench his thirst, and cool his fiery blood: He swims luxuriant in the liquid plain, And o’er his shoulder flows his waving mane: He neighs, he snorts, he bears his head on high; 12065 Before his ample chest the frothy waters fly.
Soon as the prince appears without the gate, The Volscians, with their virgin leader, wait His last commands. Then, with a graceful mien, Lights from her lofty steed the warrior queen: 12070 Her squadron imitates, and each descends; Whose common suit Camilla thus commends: “If sense of honor, if a soul secure Of inborn worth, that can all tests endure, Can promise aught, or on itself rely 12075 Greatly to dare, to conquer or to die; Then, I alone, sustain’d by these, will meet The Tyrrhene troops, and promise their defeat. Ours be the danger, ours the sole renown: You, gen’ral, stay behind, and guard the town.” 12080
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Turnus a while stood mute, with glad surprise, And on the fierce virago fix’d his eyes; Then thus return’d: “O grace of Italy, With what becoming thanks can I reply? Not only words lie lab’ring in my breast, 12085 But thought itself is by thy praise oppress’d. Yet rob me not of all; but let me join My toils, my hazard, and my fame, with thine. The Trojan, not in stratagem unskill’d, Sends his light horse before to scour the field: 12090 Himself, thro’ steep ascents and thorny brakes, A larger compass to the city takes. This news my scouts confirm, and I prepare To foil his cunning, and his force to dare; With chosen foot his passage to forelay, 12095 And place an ambush in the winding way. Thou, with thy Volscians, face the Tuscan horse; The brave Messapus shall thy troops inforce With those of Tibur, and the Latian band, Subjected all to thy supreme command.” 12100 This said, he warns Messapus to the war, Then ev’ry chief exhorts with equal care. All thus encourag’d, his own troops he joins, And hastes to prosecute his deep designs.
Inclos’d with hills, a winding valley lies, 12105 By nature form’d for fraud, and fitted for surprise. A narrow track, by human steps untrode, Leads, thro’ perplexing thorns, to this obscure abode. High o’er the vale a steepy mountain stands, Whence the surveying sight the nether ground commands. 12110 The top is level, an offensive seat Of war; and from the war a safe retreat: For, on the right and left, is room to press The foes at hand, or from afar distress; To drive ‘em headlong downward, and to pour 12115 On their descending backs a stony show’r. Thither young Turnus took the well-known way, Possess’d the pass, and in blind ambush lay.
Meantime Latonian Phoebe, from the skies, Beheld th’ approaching war with hateful eyes, 12120 And call’d the light-foot Opis to her aid, Her most belov’d and ever-trusty maid; Then with a sigh began: “Camilla goes To meet her death amidst her fatal foes: The nymphs I lov’d of all my mortal train, 12125 Invested with Diana’s arms, in vain. Nor is my kindness for the virgin new: ‘T was born with her; and with her years it grew. Her father Metabus, when forc’d away From old Privernum, for tyrannic sway, 12130 Snatch’d up, and sav’d from his prevailing foes, This tender babe, companion of his woes. Casmilla was her mother; but he drown’d One hissing letter in a softer sound, And call’d Camilla. Thro’ the woods he flies; 12135
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Wrapp’d in his robe the royal infant lies. His foes in sight, he mends his weary pace; With shout and clamors they pursue the chase. The banks of Amasene at length he gains:
The raging flood his farther flight restrains, 12140 Rais’d o’er the borders with unusual rains. Prepar’d to plunge into the stream, he fears, Not for himself, but for the charge he bears. Anxious, he stops a while, and thinks in haste; Then, desp’rate in distress, resolves at last. 12145 A knotty lance of well-boil’d oak he bore; The middle part with cork he cover’d o’er: He clos’d the child within the hollow space; With twigs of bending osier bound the case; Then pois’d the spear, heavy with human weight, 12150 And thus invok’d my favor for the freight: ‘Accept, great goddess of the woods,’ he said, ‘Sent by her sire, this dedicated maid! Thro’ air she flies a suppliant to thy shrine; And the first weapons that she knows, are thine.’ 12155 He said; and with full force the spear he threw: Above the sounding waves Camilla flew. Then, press’d by foes, he stemm’d the stormy tide, And gain’d, by stress of arms, the farther side. His fasten’d spear he pull’d from out the ground, 12160 And, victor of his vows, his infant nymph unbound; Nor, after that, in towns which walls inclose, Would trust his hunted life amidst his foes; But, rough, in open air he chose to lie; Earth was his couch, his cov’ring was the sky. 12165 On hills unshorn, or in a desart den, He shunn’d the dire society of men. A shepherd’s solitary life he led; His daughter with the milk of mares he fed. The dugs of bears, and ev’ry salvage beast, 12170 He drew, and thro’ her lips the liquor press’d. The little Amazon could scarcely go: He loads her with a quiver and a bow; And, that she might her stagg’ring steps command, He with a slender jav’lin fills her hand. 12175 Her flowing hair no golden fillet bound; Nor swept her trailing robe the dusty ground. Instead of these, a tiger’s hide o’erspread Her back and shoulders, fasten’d to her head. The flying dart she first attempts to fling, 12180 And round her tender temples toss’d the sling; Then, as her strength with years increas’d, began To pierce aloft in air the soaring swan, And from the clouds to fetch the heron and the crane. The Tuscan matrons with each other vied, 12185 To bless their rival sons with such a bride; But she disdains their love, to share with me The sylvan shades and vow’d virginity. And, O! I wish, contented with my cares Of salvage spoils, she had not sought the wars! 12190 Then had she been of my celestial train,
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And shunn’d the fate that dooms her to be slain. But since, opposing Heav’n’s decree, she goes To find her death among forbidden foes, Haste with these arms, and take thy steepy flight. 12195 Where, with the gods, averse, the Latins fight. This bow to thee, this quiver I bequeath, This chosen arrow, to revenge her death: By whate’er hand Camilla shall be slain, Or of the Trojan or Italian train, 12200 Let him not pass unpunish’d from the plain. Then, in a hollow cloud, myself will aid To bear the breathless body of my maid: Unspoil’d shall be her arms, and unprofan’d Her holy limbs with any human hand, 12205 And in a marble tomb laid in her native land.”
She said. The faithful nymph descends from high With rapid flight, and cuts the sounding sky: Black clouds and stormy winds around her body fly.
By this, the Trojan and the Tuscan horse, 12210 Drawn up in squadrons, with united force, Approach the walls: the sprightly coursers bound, Press forward on their bits, and shift their ground. Shields, arms, and spears flash horribly from far; And the fields glitter with a waving war. 12215 Oppos’d to these, come on with furious force Messapus, Coras, and the Latian horse; These in the body plac’d, on either hand Sustain’d and clos’d by fair Camilla’s band. Advancing in a line, they couch their spears; 12220 And less and less the middle space appears. Thick smoke obscures the field; and scarce are seen The neighing coursers, and the shouting men. In distance of their darts they stop their course; Then man to man they rush, and horse to horse. 12225 The face of heav’n their flying jav’lins hide, And deaths unseen are dealt on either side. Tyrrhenus, and Aconteus, void of fear, By mettled coursers borne in full career, Meet first oppos’d; and, with a mighty shock, 12230 Their horses’ heads against each other knock. Far from his steed is fierce Aconteus cast, As with an engine’s force, or lightning’s blast: He rolls along in blood, and breathes his last. The Latin squadrons take a sudden fright, 12235 And sling their shields behind, to save their backs in flight Spurring at speed to their own walls they drew; Close in the rear the Tuscan troops pursue, And urge their flight: Asylas leads the chase; Till, seiz’d, with shame, they wheel about and face, 12240 Receive their foes, and raise a threat’ning cry. The Tuscans take their turn to fear and fly. So swelling surges, with a thund’ring roar, Driv’n on each other’s backs, insult the shore, Bound o’er the rocks, incroach upon the land, 12245 And far upon the beach eject the sand;
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Then backward, with a swing, they take their way, Repuls’d from upper ground, and seek their mother sea; With equal hurry quit th’ invaded shore, And swallow back the sand and stones they spew’d before. 12250
Twice were the Tuscans masters of the field, Twice by the Latins, in their turn, repell’d. Asham’d at length, to the third charge they ran; Both hosts resolv’d, and mingled man to man. Now dying groans are heard; the fields are strow’d 12255 With falling bodies, and are drunk with blood. Arms, horses, men, on heaps together lie: Confus’d the fight, and more confus’d the cry. Orsilochus, who durst not press too near Strong Remulus, at distance drove his spear, 12260 And stuck the steel beneath his horse’s ear. The fiery steed, impatient of the wound, Curvets, and, springing upward with a bound, His helpless lord cast backward on the ground. Catillus pierc’d Iolas first; then drew 12265 His reeking lance, and at Herminius threw, The mighty champion of the Tuscan crew. His neck and throat unarm’d, his head was bare, But shaded with a length of yellow hair: Secure, he fought, expos’d on ev’ry part, 12270 A spacious mark for swords, and for the flying dart. Across the shoulders came the feather’d wound; Transfix’d he fell, and doubled to the ground. The sands with streaming blood are sanguine dyed, And death with honor sought on either side. 12275
Resistless thro’ the war Camilla rode, In danger unappall’d, and pleas’d with blood. One side was bare for her exerted breast; One shoulder with her painted quiver press’d. Now from afar her fatal jav’lins play; 12280 Now with her ax’s edge she hews her way: Diana’s arms upon her shoulder sound; And when, too closely press’d, she quits the ground, From her bent bow she sends a backward wound. Her maids, in martial pomp, on either side, 12285 Larina, Tulla, fierce Tarpeia, ride: Italians all; in peace, their queen’s delight; In war, the bold companions of the fight. So march’d the Tracian Amazons of old, When Thermodon with bloody billows roll’d: 12290 Such troops as these in shining arms were seen, When Theseus met in fight their maiden queen: Such to the field Penthisilea led, From the fierce virgin when the Grecians fled; With such, return’d triumphant from the war, 12295 Her maids with cries attend the lofty car; They clash with manly force their moony shields; With female shouts resound the Phrygian fields.
Who foremost, and who last, heroic maid, On the cold earth were by thy courage laid? 12300
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Thy spear, of mountain ash, Eumenius first, With fury driv’n, from side to side transpierc’d: A purple stream came spouting from the wound; Bath’d in his blood he lies, and bites the ground. Liris and Pegasus at once she slew: 12305 The former, as the slacken’d reins he drew Of his faint steed; the latter, as he stretch’d His arm to prop his friend, the jav’lin reach’d. By the same weapon, sent from the same hand, Both fall together, and both spurn the sand. 12310 Amastrus next is added to the slain: The rest in rout she follows o’er the plain: Tereus, Harpalycus, Demophoon, And Chromis, at full speed her fury shun. Of all her deadly darts, not one she lost; 12315 Each was attended with a Trojan ghost. Young Ornithus bestrode a hunter steed, Swift for the chase, and of Apulian breed. Him from afar she spied, in arms unknown: O’er his broad back an ox’s hide was thrown; 12320 His helm a wolf, whose gaping jaws were spread A cov’ring for his cheeks, and grinn’d around his head, He clench’d within his hand an iron prong, And tower’d above the rest, conspicuous in the throng. Him soon she singled from the flying train, 12325 And slew with ease; then thus insults the slain: “Vain hunter, didst thou think thro’ woods to chase The savage herd, a vile and trembling race? Here cease thy vaunts, and own my victory: A woman warrior was too strong for thee. 12330 Yet, if the ghosts demand the conqu’ror’s name, Confessing great Camilla, save thy shame.” Then Butes and Orsilochus she slew, The bulkiest bodies of the Trojan crew; But Butes breast to breast: the spear descends 12335 Above the gorget, where his helmet ends, And o’er the shield which his left side defends. Orsilochus and she their courses ply: He seems to follow, and she seems to fly; But in a narrower ring she makes the race; 12340 And then he flies, and she pursues the chase. Gath’ring at length on her deluded foe, She swings her ax, and rises to the blow Full on the helm behind, with such a sway The weapon falls, the riven steel gives way: 12345 He groans, he roars, he sues in vain for grace; Brains, mingled with his blood, besmear his face.
Astonish’d Aunus just arrives by chance, To see his fall; nor farther dares advance; But, fixing on the horrid maid his eye, 12350 He stares, and shakes, and finds it vain to fly; Yet, like a true Ligurian, born to cheat, (At least while fortune favor’d his deceit,) Cries out aloud: “What courage have you shown, Who trust your courser’s strength, and not your own? 12355
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Forego the vantage of your horse, alight, And then on equal terms begin the fight: It shall be seen, weak woman, what you can, When, foot to foot, you combat with a man,” He said. She glows with anger and disdain, 12360 Dismounts with speed to dare him on the plain, And leaves her horse at large among her train; With her drawn sword defies him to the field, And, marching, lifts aloft her maiden shield. The youth, who thought his cunning did succeed, 12365 Reins round his horse, and urges all his speed; Adds the remembrance of the spur, and hides The goring rowels in his bleeding sides. “Vain fool, and coward!” cries the lofty maid, “Caught in the train which thou thyself hast laid! 12370 On others practice thy Ligurian arts; Thin stratagems and tricks of little hearts Are lost on me: nor shalt thou safe retire, With vaunting lies, to thy fallacious sire.” At this, so fast her flying feet she sped, 12375 That soon she strain’d beyond his horse’s head: Then turning short, at once she seiz’d the rein, And laid the boaster grov’ling on the plain. Not with more ease the falcon, from above, Trusses in middle air the trembling dove, 12380 Then plumes the prey, in her strong pounces bound: The feathers, foul with blood, come tumbling to the ground.
Now mighty Jove, from his superior height, With his broad eye surveys th’ unequal fight. He fires the breast of Tarchon with disdain, 12385 And sends him to redeem th’ abandon’d plain. Betwixt the broken ranks the Tuscan rides, And these encourages, and those he chides; Recalls each leader, by his name, from flight; Renews their ardor, and restores the fight. 12390 “What panic fear has seiz’d your souls? O shame, O brand perpetual of th’ Etrurian name! Cowards incurable, a woman’s hand Drives, breaks, and scatters your ignoble band! Now cast away the sword, and quit the shield! 12395 What use of weapons which you dare not wield? Not thus you fly your female foes by night, Nor shun the feast, when the full bowls invite; When to fat off ’rings the glad augur calls, And the shrill hornpipe sounds to bacchanals. 12400 These are your studied cares, your lewd delight: Swift to debauch, but slow to manly fight.” Thus having said, he spurs amid the foes, Not managing the life he meant to lose. The first he found he seiz’d with headlong haste, 12405 In his strong gripe, and clasp’d around the waist; ‘T was Venulus, whom from his horse he tore, And, laid athwart his own, in triumph bore. Loud shouts ensue; the Latins turn their eyes, And view th’ unusual sight with vast surprise. 12410
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The fiery Tarchon, flying o’er the plains, Press’d in his arms the pond’rous prey sustains; Then, with his shorten’d spear, explores around His jointed arms, to fix a deadly wound. Nor less the captive struggles for his life: 12415 He writhes his body to prolong the strife, And, fencing for his naked throat, exerts His utmost vigor, and the point averts. So stoops the yellow eagle from on high, And bears a speckled serpent thro’ the sky, 12420 Fast’ning his crooked talons on the prey: The pris’ner hisses thro’ the liquid way; Resists the royal hawk; and, tho’ oppress’d, She fights in volumes, and erects her crest: Turn’d to her foe, she stiffens ev’ry scale, 12425 And shoots her forky tongue, and whisks her threat’ning tail. Against the victor, all defense is weak: Th’ imperial bird still plies her with his beak; He tears her bowels, and her breast he gores; Then claps his pinions, and securely soars. 12430 Thus, thro’ the midst of circling enemies, Strong Tarchon snatch’d and bore away his prize. The Tyrrhene troops, that shrunk before, now press The Latins, and presume the like success.
Then Aruns, doom’d to death, his arts assay’d, 12435 To murther, unespied, the Volscian maid: This way and that his winding course he bends, And, whereso’er she turns, her steps attends. When she retires victorious from the chase, He wheels about with care, and shifts his place; 12440 When, rushing on, she seeks her foes flight, He keeps aloof, but keeps her still in sight: He threats, and trembles, trying ev’ry way, Unseen to kill, and safely to betray. Chloreus, the priest of Cybele, from far, 12445 Glitt’ring in Phrygian arms amidst the war, Was by the virgin view’d. The steed he press’d Was proud with trappings, and his brawny chest With scales of gilded brass was cover’d o’er; A robe of Tyrian dye the rider wore. 12450 With deadly wounds he gall’d the distant foe; Gnossian his shafts, and Lycian was his bow: A golden helm his front and head surrounds A gilded quiver from his shoulder sounds. Gold, weav’d with linen, on his thighs he wore, 12455 With flowers of needlework distinguish’d o’er, With golden buckles bound, and gather’d up before. Him the fierce maid beheld with ardent eyes, Fond and ambitious of so rich a prize, Or that the temple might his trophies hold, 12460 Or else to shine herself in Trojan gold. Blind in her haste, she chases him alone. And seeks his life, regardless of her own.
This lucky moment the sly traitor chose: Then, starting from his ambush, up he rose, 12465
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And threw, but first to Heav’n address’d his vows: “O patron of Socrates’ high abodes, Phoebus, the ruling pow’r among the gods, Whom first we serve, whole woods of unctuous pine Are fell’d for thee, and to thy glory shine; 12470 By thee protected with our naked soles, Thro’ flames unsing’d we march, and tread the kindled coals Give me, propitious pow’r, to wash away The stains of this dishonorable day: Nor spoils, nor triumph, from the fact I claim, 12475 But with my future actions trust my fame. Let me, by stealth, this female plague o’ercome, And from the field return inglorious home.” Apollo heard, and, granting half his pray’r, Shuffled in winds the rest, and toss’d in empty air. 12480 He gives the death desir’d; his safe return By southern tempests to the seas is borne.
Now, when the jav’lin whizz’d along the skies, Both armies on Camilla turn’d their eyes, Directed by the sound. Of either host, 12485 Th’ unhappy virgin, tho’ concern’d the most, Was only deaf; so greedy was she bent On golden spoils, and on her prey intent; Till in her pap the winged weapon stood Infix’d, and deeply drunk the purple blood. 12490 Her sad attendants hasten to sustain Their dying lady, drooping on the plain. Far from their sight the trembling Aruns flies, With beating heart, and fear confus’d with joys; Nor dares he farther to pursue his blow, 12495 Or ev’n to bear the sight of his expiring foe. As, when the wolf has torn a bullock’s hide At unawares, or ranch’d a shepherd’s side, Conscious of his audacious deed, he flies, And claps his quiv’ring tail between his thighs: 12500 So, speeding once, the wretch no more attends, But, spurring forward, herds among his friends.
She wrench’d the jav’lin with her dying hands, But wedg’d within her breast the weapon stands; The wood she draws, the steely point remains; 12505 She staggers in her seat with agonizing pains: (A gath’ring mist o’erclouds her cheerful eyes, And from her cheeks the rosy color flies:) Then turns to her, whom of her female train She trusted most, and thus she speaks with pain: 12510 “Acca, ‘t is past! he swims before my sight, Inexorable Death; and claims his right. Bear my last words to Turnus; fly with speed, And bid him timely to my charge succeed, Repel the Trojans, and the town relieve: 12515 Farewell! and in this kiss my parting breath receive.” She said, and, sliding, sunk upon the plain: Dying, her open’d hand forsakes the rein; Short, and more short, she pants; by slow degrees Her mind the passage from her body frees. 12520
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She drops her sword; she nods her plumy crest, Her drooping head declining on her breast: In the last sigh her struggling soul expires, And, murm’ring with disdain, to Stygian sounds retires.
A shout, that struck the golden stars, ensued; 12525 Despair and rage the languish’d fight renew’d. The Trojan troops and Tuscans, in a line, Advance to charge; the mix’d Arcadians join.
But Cynthia’s maid, high seated, from afar Surveys the field, and fortune of the war, 12530 Unmov’d a while, till, prostrate on the plain, Welt’ring in blood, she sees Camilla slain, And, round her corpse, of friends and foes a fighting train. Then, from the bottom of her breast, she drew A mournful sigh, and these sad words ensue: 12535 “Too dear a fine, ah much lamented maid, For warring with the Trojans, thou hast paid! Nor aught avail’d, in this unhappy strife, Diana’s sacred arms, to save thy life. Yet unreveng’d thy goddess will not leave 12540 Her vot’ry’s death, nor; with vain sorrow grieve. Branded the wretch, and be his name abhorr’d; But after ages shall thy praise record. Th’ inglorious coward soon shall press the plain: Thus vows thy queen, and thus the Fates ordain.” 12545
High o’er the field there stood a hilly mound, Sacred the place, and spread with oaks around, Where, in a marble tomb, Dercennus lay, A king that once in Latium bore the sway. The beauteous Opis thither bent her flight, 12550 To mark the traitor Aruns from the height. Him in refulgent arms she soon espied, Swoln with success; and loudly thus she cried: “Thy backward steps, vain boaster, are too late; Turn like a man, at length, and meet thy fate. 12555 Charg’d with my message, to Camilla go, And say I sent thee to the shades below, An honor undeserv’d from Cynthia’s bow.”
She said, and from her quiver chose with speed The winged shaft, predestin’d for the deed; 12560 Then to the stubborn yew her strength applied, Till the far distant horns approach’d on either side. The bowstring touch’d her breast, so strong she drew; Whizzing in air the fatal arrow flew. At once the twanging bow and sounding dart 12565 The traitor heard, and felt the point within his heart. Him, beating with his heels in pangs of death, His flying friends to foreign fields bequeath. The conqu’ring damsel, with expanded wings, The welcome message to her mistress brings. 12570
Their leader lost, the Volscians quit the field, And, unsustain’d, the chiefs of Turnus yield.
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The frighted soldiers, when their captains fly, More on their speed than on their strength rely. Confus’d in flight, they bear each other down, 12575 And spur their horses headlong to the town. Driv’n by their foes, and to their fears resign’d, Not once they turn, but take their wounds behind. These drop the shield, and those the lance forego, Or on their shoulders bear the slacken’d bow. 12580 The hoofs of horses, with a rattling sound, Beat short and thick, and shake the rotten ground. Black clouds of dust come rolling in the sky, And o’er the darken’d walls and rampires fly. The trembling matrons, from their lofty stands, 12585 Rend heav’n with female shrieks, and wring their hands. All pressing on, pursuers and pursued, Are crush’d in crowds, a mingled multitude. Some happy few escape: the throng too late Rush on for entrance, till they choke the gate. 12590 Ev’n in the sight of home, the wretched sire Looks on, and sees his helpless son expire. Then, in a fright, the folding gates they close, But leave their friends excluded with their foes. The vanquish’d cry; the victors loudly shout; 12595 ‘T is terror all within, and slaughter all without. Blind in their fear, they bounce against the wall, Or, to the moats pursued, precipitate their fall.
The Latian virgins, valiant with despair, Arm’d on the tow’rs, the common danger share: 12600 So much of zeal their country’s cause inspir’d; So much Camilla’s great example fir’d. Poles, sharpen’d in the flames, from high they throw, With imitated darts, to gall the foe. Their lives for godlike freedom they bequeath, 12605 And crowd each other to be first in death. Meantime to Turnus, ambush’d in the shade, With heavy tidings came th’ unhappy maid: “The Volscians overthrown, Camilla kill’d; The foes, entirely masters of the field, 12610 Like a resistless flood, come rolling on: The cry goes off the plain, and thickens to the town.”
Inflam’d with rage, (for so the Furies fire The Daunian’s breast, and so the Fates require,) He leaves the hilly pass, the woods in vain 12615 Possess’d, and downward issues on the plain. Scarce was he gone, when to the straits, now freed From secret foes, the Trojan troops succeed. Thro’ the black forest and the ferny brake, Unknowingly secure, their way they take; 12620 From the rough mountains to the plain descend, And there, in order drawn, their line extend. Both armies now in open fields are seen; Nor far the distance of the space between. Both to the city bend. Aeneas sees, 12625 Thro’ smoking fields, his hast’ning enemies; And Turnus views the Trojans in array,
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And hears th’ approaching horses proudly neigh. Soon had their hosts in bloody battle join’d; But westward to the sea the sun declin’d. 12630 Intrench’d before the town both armies lie, While Night with sable wings involves the sky.
Book XII When Turnus saw the Latins leave the field, Their armies broken, and their courage quell’d, Himself become the mark of public spite, 12635 His honor question’d for the promis’d fight; The more he was with vulgar hate oppress’d, The more his fury boil’d within his breast: He rous’d his vigor for the last debate, And rais’d his haughty soul to meet his fate. 12640
As, when the swains the Libyan lion chase, He makes a sour retreat, nor mends his pace; But, if the pointed jav’lin pierce his side, The lordly beast returns with double pride: He wrenches out the steel, he roars for pain; 12645 His sides he lashes, and erects his mane: So Turnus fares; his eyeballs flash with fire, Thro’ his wide nostrils clouds of smoke expire.
Trembling with rage, around the court he ran, At length approach’d the king, and thus began: 12650 “No more excuses or delays: I stand In arms prepar’d to combat, hand to hand, This base deserter of his native land. The Trojan, by his word, is bound to take The same conditions which himself did make. 12655 Renew the truce; the solemn rites prepare, And to my single virtue trust the war. The Latians unconcern’d shall see the fight; This arm unaided shall assert your right: Then, if my prostrate body press the plain, 12660 To him the crown and beauteous bride remain.”
To whom the king sedately thus replied: “Brave youth, the more your valor has been tried, The more becomes it us, with due respect, To weigh the chance of war, which you neglect. 12665 You want not wealth, or a successive throne, Or cities which your arms have made your own: My towns and treasures are at your command, And stor’d with blooming beauties is my land; Laurentum more than one Lavinia sees, 12670 Unmarried, fair, of noble families. Now let me speak, and you with patience hear, Things which perhaps may grate a lover’s ear, But sound advice, proceeding from a heart Sincerely yours, and free from fraudful art. 12675 The gods, by signs, have manifestly shown, No prince Italian born should heir my throne:
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Oft have our augurs, in prediction skill’d, And oft our priests, foreign son reveal’d. Yet, won by worth that cannot be withstood, 12680 Brib’d by my kindness to my kindred blood, Urg’d by my wife, who would not be denied, I promis’d my Lavinia for your bride: Her from her plighted lord by force I took; All ties of treaties, and of honor, broke: 12685 On your account I wag’d an impious war— With what success, ‘t is needless to declare; I and my subjects feel, and you have had your share. Twice vanquish’d while in bloody fields we strive, Scarce in our walls we keep our hopes alive: 12690 The rolling flood runs warm with human gore; The bones of Latians blanch the neighb’ring shore. Why put I not an end to this debate, Still unresolv’d, and still a slave to fate? If Turnus’ death a lasting peace can give, 12695 Why should I not procure it whilst you live? Should I to doubtful arms your youth betray, What would my kinsmen the Rutulians say? And, should you fall in fight, (which Heav’n defend!) How curse the cause which hasten’d to his end 12700 The daughter’s lover and the father’s friend? Weigh in your mind the various chance of war; Pity your parent’s age, and ease his care.”
Such balmy words he pour’d, but all in vain: The proffer’d med’cine but provok’d the pain. 12705 The wrathful youth, disdaining the relief, With intermitting sobs thus vents his grief: “The care, O best of fathers, which you take For my concerns, at my desire forsake. Permit me not to languish out my days, 12710 But make the best exchange of life for praise. This arm, this lance, can well dispute the prize; And the blood follows, where the weapon flies. His goddess mother is not near, to shroud The flying coward with an empty cloud.” 12715
But now the queen, who fear’d for Turnus’ life, And loath’d the hard conditions of the strife, Held him by force; and, dying in his death, In these sad accents gave her sorrow breath: “O Turnus, I adjure thee by these tears, 12720 And whate’er price Amata’s honor bears Within thy breast, since thou art all my hope, My sickly mind’s repose, my sinking age’s prop; Since on the safety of thy life alone Depends Latinus, and the Latian throne: 12725 Refuse me not this one, this only pray’r, To waive the combat, and pursue the war. Whatever chance attends this fatal strife, Think it includes, in thine, Amata’s life. I cannot live a slave, or see my throne 12730 Usurp’d by strangers or a Trojan son.”
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At this, a flood of tears Lavinia shed; A crimson blush her beauteous face o’erspread, Varying her cheeks by turns with white and red. The driving colors, never at a stay, 12735 Run here and there, and flush, and fade away. Delightful change! Thus Indian iv’ry shows, Which with the bord’ring paint of purple glows; Or lilies damask’d by the neighb’ring rose.
The lover gaz’d, and, burning with desire, 12740 The more he look’d, the more he fed the fire: Revenge, and jealous rage, and secret spite, Roll in his breast, and rouse him to the fight. Then fixing on the queen his ardent eyes, Firm to his first intent, he thus replies: 12745 “O mother, do not by your tears prepare Such boding omens, and prejudge the war. Resolv’d on fight, I am no longer free To shun my death, if Heav’n my death decree.” Then turning to the herald, thus pursues: 12750 “Go, greet the Trojan with ungrateful news; Denounce from me, that, when to-morrow’s light Shall gild the heav’ns, he need not urge the fight; The Trojan and Rutulian troops no more Shall dye, with mutual blood, the Latian shore: 12755 Our single swords the quarrel shall decide, And to the victor be the beauteous bride.”
He said, and striding on, with speedy pace, He sought his coursers of the Thracian race. At his approach they toss their heads on high, 12760 And, proudly neighing, promise victory. The sires of these Orythia sent from far, To grace Pilumnus, when he went to war. The drifts of Thracian snows were scarce so white, Nor northern winds in fleetness match’d their flight. 12765 Officious grooms stand ready by his side; And some with combs their flowing manes divide, And others stroke their chests and gently soothe their pride.
He sheath’d his limbs in arms; a temper’d mass Of golden metal those, and mountain brass. 12770 Then to his head his glitt’ring helm he tied, And girt his faithful fauchion to his side. In his Aetnaean forge, the God of Fire That fauchion labor’d for the hero’s sire; Immortal keenness on the blade bestow’d, 12775 And plung’d it hissing in the Stygian flood. Propp’d on a pillar, which the ceiling bore, Was plac’d the lance Auruncan Actor wore; Which with such force he brandish’d in his hand, The tough ash trembled like an osier wand: 12780 Then cried: “O pond’rous spoil of Actor slain, And never yet by Turnus toss’d in vain, Fail not this day thy wonted force; but go, Sent by this hand, to pierce the Trojan foe! Give me to tear his corslet from his breast, 12785
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And from that eunuch head to rend the crest; Dragg’d in the dust, his frizzled hair to soil, Hot from the vexing ir’n, and smear’d with fragrant oil!”
Thus while he raves, from his wide nostrils flies A fiery steam, and sparkles from his eyes. 12790 So fares the bull in his lov’d female’s sight: Proudly he bellows, and preludes the fight; He tries his goring horns against a tree, And meditates his absent enemy; He pushes at the winds; he digs the strand 12795 With his black hoofs, and spurns the yellow sand.
Nor less the Trojan, in his Lemnian arms, To future fight his manly courage warms: He whets his fury, and with joy prepares To terminate at once the ling’ring wars; 12800 To cheer his chiefs and tender son, relates What Heav’n had promis’d, and expounds the fates. Then to the Latian king he sends, to cease The rage of arms, and ratify the peace.
The morn ensuing, from the mountain’s height, 12805 Had scarcely spread the skies with rosy light; Th’ ethereal coursers, bounding from the sea, From out their flaming nostrils breath’d the day; When now the Trojan and Rutulian guard, In friendly labor join’d, the list prepar’d. 12810 Beneath the walls they measure out the space; Then sacred altars rear, on sods of grass, Where, with religious their common gods they place. In purest white the priests their heads attire; And living waters bear, and holy fire; 12815 And, o’er their linen hoods and shaded hair, Long twisted wreaths of sacred veryain wear.
In order issuing from the town appears The Latin legion, arm’d with pointed spears; And from the fields, advancing on a line, 12820 The Trojan and the Tuscan forces join: Their various arms afford a pleasing sight; A peaceful train they seem, in peace prepar’d for fight. Betwixt the ranks the proud commanders ride, Glitt’ring with gold, and vests in purple dyed; 12825 Here Mnestheus, author of the Memmian line, And there Messapus, born of seed divine. The sign is giv’n; and, round the listed space, Each man in order fills his proper place. Reclining on their ample shields, they stand, 12830 And fix their pointed lances in the sand. Now, studious of the sight, a num’rous throng Of either sex promiscuous, old and young, Swarm the town: by those who rest behind, The gates and walls and houses’ tops are lin’d. 12835 Meantime the Queen of Heav’n beheld the sight, With eyes unpleas’d, from Mount Albano’s height (Since call’d Albano by succeeding fame,
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But then an empty hill, without a name). She thence survey’d the field, the Trojan pow’rs, 12840 The Latian squadrons, and Laurentine tow’rs. Then thus the goddess of the skies bespoke, With sighs and tears, the goddess of the lake, King Turnus’ sister, once a lovely maid, Ere to the lust of lawless Jove betray’d: 12845 Compress’d by force, but, by the grateful god, Now made the Nais of the neighb’ring flood. “O nymph, the pride of living lakes,” said she, “O most renown’d, and most belov’d by me, Long hast thou known, nor need I to record, 12850 The wanton sallies of my wand’ring lord. Of ev’ry Latian fair whom Jove misled To mount by stealth my violated bed, To thee alone I grudg’d not his embrace, But gave a part of heav’n, and an unenvied place. 12855 Now learn from me thy near approaching grief, Nor think my wishes want to thy relief. While fortune favor’d, nor Heav’n’s King denied To lend my succor to the Latian side, I sav’d thy brother, and the sinking state: 12860 But now he struggles with unequal fate, And goes, with gods averse, o’ermatch’d in might, To meet inevitable death in fight; Nor must I break the truce, nor can sustain the sight. Thou, if thou dar’st thy present aid supply; 12865 It well becomes a sister’s care to try.”
At this the lovely nymph, with grief oppress’d, Thrice tore her hair, and beat her comely breast. To whom Saturnia thus: “Thy tears are late: Haste, snatch him, if he can be snatch’d from fate: 12870 New tumults kindle; violate the truce: Who knows what changeful fortune may produce? ‘T is not a crime t’ attempt what I decree; Or, if it were, discharge the crime on me.” She said, and, sailing on the winged wind, 12875 Left the sad nymph suspended in her mind.
And now pomp the peaceful kings appear: Four steeds the chariot of Latinus bear; Twelve golden beams around his temples play, To mark his lineage from the God of Day. 12880 Two snowy coursers Turnus’ chariot yoke, And in his hand two massy spears he shook: Then issued from the camp, in arms divine, Aeneas, author of the Roman line; And by his side Ascanius took his place, 12885 The second hope of Rome’s immortal race. Adorn’d in white, a rev’rend priest appears, And off ’rings to the flaming altars bears; A porket, and a lamb that never suffer’d shears. Then to the rising sun he turns his eyes, 12890 And strews the beasts, design’d for sacrifice, With salt and meal: with like officious care He marks their foreheads, and he clips their hair.
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Betwixt their horns the purple wine he sheds; With the same gen’rous juice the flame he feeds. 12895
Aeneas then unsheath’d his shining sword, And thus with pious pray’rs the gods ador’d: “All-seeing sun, and thou, Ausonian soil, For which I have sustain’d so long a toil, Thou, King of Heav’n, and thou, the Queen of Air, 12900 Propitious now, and reconcil’d by pray’r; Thou, God of War, whose unresisted sway The labors and events of arms obey; Ye living fountains, and ye running floods, All pow’rs of ocean, all ethereal gods, 12905 Hear, and bear record: if I fall in field, Or, recreant in the fight, to Turnus yield, My Trojans shall encrease Evander’s town; Ascanius shall renounce th’ Ausonian crown: All claims, all questions of debate, shall cease; 12910 Nor he, nor they, with force infringe the peace. But, if my juster arms prevail in fight, (As sure they shall, if I divine aright,) My Trojans shall not o’er th’ Italians reign: Both equal, both unconquer’d shall remain, 12915 Join’d in their laws, their lands, and their abodes; I ask but altars for my weary gods. The care of those religious rites be mine; The crown to King Latinus I resign: His be the sov’reign sway. Nor will I share 12920 His pow’r in peace, or his command in war. For me, my friends another town shall frame, And bless the rising tow’rs with fair Lavinia’s name.”
Thus he. Then, with erected eyes and hands, The Latian king before his altar stands. 12925 “By the same heav’n,” said he, “and earth, and main, And all the pow’rs that all the three contain; By hell below, and by that upper god Whose thunder signs the peace, who seals it with his nod; So let Latona’s double offspring hear, 12930 And double-fronted Janus, what I swear: I touch the sacred altars, touch the flames, And all those pow’rs attest, and all their names; Whatever chance befall on either side, No term of time this union shall divide: 12935 No force, no fortune, shall my vows unbind, Or shake the steadfast tenor of my mind; Not tho’ the circling seas should break their bound, O’erflow the shores, or sap the solid ground; Not tho’ the lamps of heav’n their spheres forsake, 12940 Hurl’d down, and hissing in the nether lake: Ev’n as this royal scepter” (for he bore A scepter in his hand) “shall never more Shoot out in branches, or renew the birth: An orphan now, cut from the mother earth 12945 By the keen ax, dishonor’d of its hair, And cas’d in brass, for Latian kings to bear.”
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When thus in public view the peace was tied With solemn vows, and sworn on either side, All dues perform’d which holy rites require; 12950 The victim beasts are slain before the fire, The trembling entrails from their bodies torn, And to the fatten’d flames in chargers borne.
Already the Rutulians deem their man O’ermatch’d in arms, before the fight began. 12955 First rising fears are whisper’d thro’ the crowd; Then, gath’ring sound, they murmur more aloud. Now, side to side, they measure with their eyes The champions’ bulk, their sinews, and their size: The nearer they approach, the more is known 12960 Th’ apparent disadvantage of their own. Turnus himself appears in public sight Conscious of fate, desponding of the fight. Slowly he moves, and at his altar stands With eyes dejected, and with trembling hands; 12965 And, while he mutters undistinguish’d pray’rs, A livid deadness in his cheeks appears.
With anxious pleasure when Juturna view’d Th’ increasing fright of the mad multitude, When their short sighs and thick’ning sobs she heard, 12970 And found their ready minds for change prepar’d; Dissembling her immortal form, she took Camertus’ mien, his habit, and his look; A chief of ancient blood; in arms well known Was his great sire, and he his greater son. 12975 His shape assum’d, amid the ranks she ran, And humoring their first motions, thus began: “For shame, Rutulians, can you bear the sight Of one expos’d for all, in single fight? Can we, before the face of heav’n, confess 12980 Our courage colder, or our numbers less? View all the Trojan host, th’ Arcadian band, And Tuscan army; count ‘em as they stand: Undaunted to the battle if we go, Scarce ev’ry second man will share a foe. 12985 Turnus, ‘t is true, in this unequal strife, Shall lose, with honor, his devoted life, Or change it rather for immortal fame, Succeeding to the gods, from whence he came: But you, a servile and inglorious band, 12990 For foreign lords shall sow your native land, Those fruitful fields your fighting fathers gain’d, Which have so long their lazy sons sustain’d.” With words like these, she carried her design: A rising murmur runs along the line. 12995 Then ev’n the city troops, and Latians, tir’d With tedious war, seem with new souls inspir’d: Their champion’s fate with pity they lament, And of the league, so lately sworn, repent.
Nor fails the goddess to foment the rage 13000 With lying wonders, and a false presage;
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But adds a sign, which, present to their eyes, Inspires new courage, and a glad surprise. For, sudden, in the fiery tracts above, Appears in pomp th’ imperial bird of Jove: 13005 A plump of fowl he spies, that swim the lakes, And o’er their heads his sounding pinions shakes; Then, stooping on the fairest of the train, In his strong talons truss’d a silver swan. Th’ Italians wonder at th’ unusual sight; 13010 But, while he lags, and labors in his flight, Behold, the dastard fowl return anew, And with united force the foe pursue: Clam’rous around the royal hawk they fly, And, thick’ning in a cloud, o’ershade the sky. 13015 They cuff, they scratch, they cross his airy course; Nor can th’ incumber’d bird sustain their force; But vex’d, not vanquish’d, drops the pond’rous prey, And, lighten’d of his burthen, wings his way.
Th’ Ausonian bands with shouts salute the sight, 13020 Eager of action, and demand the fight. Then King Tolumnius, vers’d in augurs’ arts, Cries out, and thus his boasted skill imparts: “At length ‘t is granted, what I long desir’d! This, this is what my frequent vows requir’d. 13025 Ye gods, I take your omen, and obey. Advance, my friends, and charge! I lead the way. These are the foreign foes, whose impious band, Like that rapacious bird, infest our land: But soon, like him, they shall be forc’d to sea 13030 By strength united, and forego the prey. Your timely succor to your country bring, Haste to the rescue, and redeem your king.”
He said; and, pressing onward thro’ the crew, Pois’d in his lifted arm, his lance he threw. 13035 The winged weapon, whistling in the wind, Came driving on, nor miss’d the mark design’d. At once the cornel rattled in the skies; At once tumultuous shouts and clamors rise. Nine brothers in a goodly band there stood, 13040 Born of Arcadian mix’d with Tuscan blood, Gylippus’ sons: the fatal jav’lin flew, Aim’d at the midmost of the friendly crew. A passage thro’ the jointed arms it found, Just where the belt was to the body bound, 13045 And struck the gentle youth extended on the ground. Then, fir’d with pious rage, the gen’rous train Run madly forward to revenge the slain. And some with eager haste their jav’lins throw; And some with sword in hand assault the foe. 13050
The wish’d insult the Latine troops embrace, And meet their ardor in the middle space. The Trojans, Tuscans, and Arcadian line, With equal courage obviate their design. Peace leaves the violated fields, and hate 13055
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Both armies urges to their mutual fate. With impious haste their altars are o’erturn’d, The sacrifice half-broil’d, and half-unburn’d. Thick storms of steel from either army fly, And clouds of clashing darts obscure the sky; 13060 Brands from the fire are missive weapons made, With chargers, bowls, and all the priestly trade. Latinus, frighted, hastens from the fray, And bears his unregarded gods away. These on their horses vault; those yoke the car; 13065 The rest, with swords on high, run headlong to the war.
Messapus, eager to confound the peace, Spurr’d his hot courser thro’ the fighting prease, At King Aulestes, by his purple known A Tuscan prince, and by his regal crown; 13070 And, with a shock encount’ring, bore him down. Backward he fell; and, as his fate design’d, The ruins of an altar were behind: There, pitching on his shoulders and his head, Amid the scatt’ring fires he lay supinely spread. 13075 The beamy spear, descending from above, His cuirass pierc’d, and thro’ his body drove. Then, with a scornful smile, the victor cries: “The gods have found a fitter sacrifice.” Greedy of spoils, th’ Italians strip the dead 13080 Of his rich armor, and uncrown his head.
Priest Corynaeus, arm’d his better hand, From his own altar, with a blazing brand; And, as Ebusus with a thund’ring pace Advanc’d to battle, dash’d it on his face: 13085 His bristly beard shines out with sudden fires; The crackling crop a noisome scent expires. Following the blow, he seiz’d his curling crown With his left hand; his other cast him down. The prostrate body with his knees he press’d, 13090 And plung’d his holy poniard in his breast.
While Podalirius, with his sword, pursued The shepherd Alsus thro’ the flying crowd, Swiftly he turns, and aims a deadly blow Full on the front of his unwary foe. 13095 The broad ax enters with a crashing sound, And cleaves the chin with one continued wound; Warm blood, and mingled brains, besmear his arms around An iron sleep his stupid eyes oppress’d, And seal’d their heavy lids in endless rest. 13100
But good Aeneas rush’d amid the bands; Bare was his head, and naked were his hands, In sign of truce: then thus he cries aloud: “What sudden rage, what new desire of blood, Inflames your alter’d minds? O Trojans, cease 13105 From impious arms, nor violate the peace! By human sanctions, and by laws divine,
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The terms are all agreed; the war is mine. Dismiss your fears, and let the fight ensue; This hand alone shall right the gods and you: 13110 Our injur’d altars, and their broken vow, To this avenging sword the faithless Turnus owe.”
Thus while he spoke, unmindful of defense, A winged arrow struck the pious prince. But, whether from some human hand it came, 13115 Or hostile god, is left unknown by fame: No human hand or hostile god was found, To boast the triumph of so base a wound.
When Turnus saw the Trojan quit the plain, His chiefs dismay’d, his troops a fainting train, 13120 Th’ unhop’d event his heighten’d soul inspires: At once his arms and coursers he requires; Then, with a leap, his lofty chariot gains, And with a ready hand assumes the reins. He drives impetuous, and, where’er he goes, 13125 He leaves behind a lane of slaughter’d foes. These his lance reaches; over those he rolls His rapid car, and crushes out their souls: In vain the vanquish’d fly; the victor sends The dead men’s weapons at their living friends. 13130 Thus, on the banks of Hebrus’ freezing flood, The God of Battles, in his angry mood, Clashing his sword against his brazen shield, Let loose the reins, and scours along the field: Before the wind his fiery coursers fly; 13135 Groans the sad earth, resounds the rattling sky. Wrath, Terror, Treason, Tumult, and Despair (Dire faces, and deform’d) surround the car; Friends of the god, and followers of the war. With fury not unlike, nor less disdain, 13140 Exulting Turnus flies along the plain: His smoking horses, at their utmost speed, He lashes on, and urges o’er the dead. Their fetlocks run with blood; and, when they bound, The gore and gath’ring dust are dash’d around. 13145 Thamyris and Pholus, masters of the war, He kill’d at hand, but Sthenelus afar: From far the sons of Imbracus he slew, Glaucus and Lades, of the Lycian crew; Both taught to fight on foot, in battle join’d, 13150 Or mount the courser that outstrips the wind.
Meantime Eumedes, vaunting in the field, New fir’d the Trojans, and their foes repell’d. This son of Dolon bore his grandsire’s name, But emulated more his father’s fame; 13155 His guileful father, sent a nightly spy, The Grecian camp and order to descry: Hard enterprise! and well he might require Achilles’ car and horses, for his hire: But, met upon the scout, th’ Aetolian prince 13160
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In death bestow’d a juster recompense. Fierce Turnus view’d the Trojan from afar, And launch’d his jav’lin from his lofty car; Then lightly leaping down, pursued the blow, And, pressing with his foot his prostrate foe, 13165 Wrench’d from his feeble hold the shining sword, And plung’d it in the bosom of its lord. “Possess,” said he, “the fruit of all thy pains, And measure, at thy length, our Latian plains. Thus are my foes rewarded by my hand; 13170 Thus may they build their town, and thus enjoy the land!”
Then Dares, Butes, Sybaris he slew, Whom o’er his neck his flound’ring courser threw. As when loud Boreas, with his blust’ring train, Stoops from above, incumbent on the main; 13175 Where’er he flies, he drives the rack before, And rolls the billows on th’ Aegaean shore: So, where resistless Turnus takes his course, The scatter’d squadrons bend before his force; His crest of horses’ hair is blown behind 13180 By adverse air, and rustles in the wind.
This haughty Phegeus saw with high disdain, And, as the chariot roll’d along the plain, Light from the ground he leapt, and seiz’d the rein. Thus hung in air, he still retain’d his hold, 13185 The coursers frighted, and their course controll’d. The lance of Turnus reach’d him as he hung, And pierc’d his plated arms, but pass’d along, And only raz’d the skin. He turn’d, and held Against his threat’ning foe his ample shield; 13190 Then call’d for aid: but, while he cried in vain, The chariot bore him backward on the plain. He lies revers’d; the victor king descends, And strikes so justly where his helmet ends, He lops the head. The Latian fields are drunk 13195 With streams that issue from the bleeding trunk.
While he triumphs, and while the Trojans yield, The wounded prince is forc’d to leave the field: Strong Mnestheus, and Achates often tried, And young Ascanius, weeping by his side, 13200 Conduct him to his tent. Scarce can he rear His limbs from earth, supported on his spear. Resolv’d in mind, regardless of the smart, He tugs with both his hands, and breaks the dart. The steel remains. No readier way he found 13205 To draw the weapon, than t’ inlarge the wound. Eager of fight, impatient of delay, He begs; and his unwilling friends obey.
Iapis was at hand to prove his art, Whose blooming youth so fir’d Apollo’s heart, 13210 That, for his love, he proffer’d to bestow His tuneful harp and his unerring bow. The pious youth, more studious how to save
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His aged sire, now sinking to the grave, Preferr’d the pow’r of plants, and silent praise 13215 Of healing arts, before Phoebean bays.
Propp’d on his lance the pensive hero stood, And heard and saw, unmov’d, the mourning crowd. The fam’d physician tucks his robes around With ready hands, and hastens to the wound. 13220 With gentle touches he performs his part, This way and that, soliciting the dart, And exercises all his heav’nly art. All soft’ning simples, known of sov’reign use, He presses out, and pours their noble juice. 13225 These first infus’d, to lenify the pain, He tugs with pincers, but he tugs in vain. Then to the patron of his art he pray’d: The patron of his art refus’d his aid.
Meantime the war approaches to the tents; 13230 Th’ alarm grows hotter, and the noise augments: The driving dust proclaims the danger near; And first their friends, and then their foes appear: Their friends retreat; their foes pursue the rear. The camp is fill’d with terror and affright: 13235 The hissing shafts within the trench alight; An undistinguish’d noise ascends the sky, The shouts of those who kill, and groans of those who die.
But now the goddess mother, mov’d with grief, And pierc’d with pity, hastens her relief. 13240 A branch of healing dittany she brought, Which in the Cretan fields with care she sought: Rough is the stern, which woolly leafs surround; The leafs with flow’rs, the flow’rs with purple crown’d, Well known to wounded goats; a sure relief 13245 To draw the pointed steel, and ease the grief. This Venus brings, in clouds involv’d, and brews Th’ extracted liquor with ambrosian dews, And odorous panacee. Unseen she stands, Temp’ring the mixture with her heav’nly hands, 13250 And pours it in a bowl, already crown’d With juice of med’c’nal herbs prepar’d to bathe the wound. The leech, unknowing of superior art Which aids the cure, with this foments the part; And in a moment ceas’d the raging smart. 13255 Stanch’d is the blood, and in the bottom stands: The steel, but scarcely touch’d with tender hands, Moves up, and follows of its own accord, And health and vigor are at once restor’d. Iapis first perceiv’d the closing wound, 13260 And first the footsteps of a god he found. “Arms! arms!” he cries; “the sword and shield prepare, And send the willing chief, renew’d, to war. This is no mortal work, no cure of mine, Nor art’s effect, but done by hands divine. 13265 Some god our general to the battle sends; Some god preserves his life for greater ends.”
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The hero arms in haste; his hands infold His thighs with cuishes of refulgent gold: Inflam’d to fight, and rushing to the field, 13270 That hand sustaining the celestial shield, This gripes the lance, and with such vigor shakes, That to the rest the beamy weapon quakes. Then with a close embrace he strain’d his son, And, kissing thro’ his helmet, thus begun: 13275 “My son, from my example learn the war, In camps to suffer, and in fields to dare; But happier chance than mine attend thy care! This day my hand thy tender age shall shield, And crown with honors of the conquer’d field: 13280 Thou, when thy riper years shall send thee forth To toils of war, be mindful of my worth; Assert thy birthright, and in arms be known, For Hector’s nephew, and Aeneas’ son.” He said; and, striding, issued on the plain. 13285 Anteus and Mnestheus, and a num’rous train, Attend his steps; the rest their weapons take, And, crowding to the field, the camp forsake. A cloud of blinding dust is rais’d around, Labors beneath their feet the trembling ground. 13290
Now Turnus, posted on a hill, from far Beheld the progress of the moving war: With him the Latins view’d the cover’d plains, And the chill blood ran backward in their veins. Juturna saw th’ advancing troops appear, 13295 And heard the hostile sound, and fled for fear. Aeneas leads; and draws a sweeping train, Clos’d in their ranks, and pouring on the plain. As when a whirlwind, rushing to the shore From the mid ocean, drives the waves before; 13300 The painful hind with heavy heart foresees The flatted fields, and slaughter of the trees; With like impetuous rage the prince appears Before his doubled front, nor less destruction bears. And now both armies shock in open field; 13305 Osiris is by strong Thymbraeus kill’d. Archetius, Ufens, Epulon, are slain (All fam’d in arms, and of the Latian train) By Gyas’, Mnestheus’, and Achates’ hand. The fatal augur falls, by whose command 13310 The truce was broken, and whose lance, embrued With Trojan blood, th’ unhappy fight renew’d. Loud shouts and clamors rend the liquid sky, And o’er the field the frighted Latins fly. The prince disdains the dastards to pursue, 13315 Nor moves to meet in arms the fighting few; Turnus alone, amid the dusky plain, He seeks, and to the combat calls in vain. Juturna heard, and, seiz’d with mortal fear, Forc’d from the beam her brother’s charioteer; 13320 Assumes his shape, his armor, and his mien, And, like Metiscus, in his seat is seen.
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As the black swallow near the palace plies; O’er empty courts, and under arches, flies; Now hawks aloft, now skims along the flood, 13325 To furnish her loquacious nest with food: So drives the rapid goddess o’er the plains; The smoking horses run with loosen’d reins. She steers a various course among the foes; Now here, now there, her conqu’ring brother shows; 13330 Now with a straight, now with a wheeling flight, She turns, and bends, but shuns the single fight. Aeneas, fir’d with fury, breaks the crowd, And seeks his foe, and calls by name aloud: He runs within a narrower ring, and tries 13335 To stop the chariot; but the chariot flies. If he but gain a glimpse, Juturna fears, And far away the Daunian hero bears.
What should he do! Nor arts nor arms avail; And various cares in vain his mind assail. 13340 The great Messapus, thund’ring thro’ the field, In his left hand two pointed jav’lins held: Encount’ring on the prince, one dart he drew, And with unerring aim and utmost vigor threw. Aeneas saw it come, and, stooping low 13345 Beneath his buckler, shunn’d the threat’ning blow. The weapon hiss’d above his head, and tore The waving plume which on his helm he wore. Forced by this hostile act, and fir’d with spite, That flying Turnus still declin’d the fight, 13350 The Prince, whose piety had long repell’d His inborn ardor, now invades the field; Invokes the pow’rs of violated peace, Their rites and injur’d altars to redress; Then, to his rage abandoning the rein, 13355 With blood and slaughter’d bodies fills the plain.
What god can tell, what numbers can display, The various labors of that fatal day; What chiefs and champions fell on either side, In combat slain, or by what deaths they died; 13360 Whom Turnus, whom the Trojan hero kill’d; Who shar’d the fame and fortune of the field! Jove, could’st thou view, and not avert thy sight, Two jarring nations join’d in cruel fight, Whom leagues of lasting love so shortly shall unite! 13365
Aeneas first Rutulian Sucro found, Whose valor made the Trojans quit their ground; Betwixt his ribs the jav’lin drove so just, It reach’d his heart, nor needs a second thrust. Now Turnus, at two blows, two brethren slew; 13370 First from his horse fierce Amycus he threw: Then, leaping on the ground, on foot assail’d Diores, and in equal fight prevail’d. Their lifeless trunks he leaves upon the place; Their heads, distilling gore, his chariot grace. 13375
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Three cold on earth the Trojan hero threw, Whom without respite at one charge he slew: Cethegus, Tanais, Tagus, fell oppress’d, And sad Onythes, added to the rest, Of Theban blood, whom Peridia bore. 13380
Turnus two brothers from the Lycian shore, And from Apollo’s fane to battle sent, O’erthrew; nor Phoebus could their fate prevent. Peaceful Menoetes after these he kill’d, Who long had shunn’d the dangers of the field: 13385 On Lerna’s lake a silent life he led, And with his nets and angle earn’d his bread; Nor pompous cares, nor palaces, he knew, But wisely from th’ infectious world withdrew: Poor was his house; his father’s painful hand 13390 Discharg’d his rent, and plow’d another’s land.
As flames among the lofty woods are thrown On diff ’rent sides, and both by winds are blown; The laurels crackle in the sputt’ring fire; The frighted sylvans from their shades retire: 13395 Or as two neighb’ring torrents fall from high; Rapid they run; the foamy waters fry; They roll to sea with unresisted force, And down the rocks precipitate their course: Not with less rage the rival heroes take 13400 Their diff ’rent ways, nor less destruction make. With spears afar, with swords at hand, they strike; And zeal of slaughter fires their souls alike. Like them, their dauntless men maintain the field; And hearts are pierc’d, unknowing how to yield: 13405 They blow for blow return, and wound for wound; And heaps of bodies raise the level ground.
Murranus, boasting of his blood, that springs From a long royal race of Latian kings, Is by the Trojan from his chariot thrown, 13410 Crush’d with the weight of an unwieldy stone: Betwixt the wheels he fell; the wheels, that bore His living load, his dying body tore. His starting steeds, to shun the glitt’ring sword, Paw down his trampled limbs, forgetful of their lord. 13415
Fierce Hyllus threaten’d high, and, face to face, Affronted Turnus in the middle space: The prince encounter’d him in full career, And at his temples aim’d the deadly spear; So fatally the flying weapon sped, 13420 That thro’ his helm it pierc’d his head. Nor, Cisseus, couldst thou scape from Turnus’ hand, In vain the strongest of th’ Arcadian band: Nor to Cupentus could his gods afford Availing aid against th’ Aenean sword, 13425 Which to his naked heart pursued the course; Nor could his plated shield sustain the force.
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Iolas fell, whom not the Grecian pow’rs, Nor great subverter of the Trojan tow’rs, Were doom’d to kill, while Heav’n prolong’d his date; 13430 But who can pass the bounds, prefix’d by fate? In high Lyrnessus, and in Troy, he held Two palaces, and was from each expell’d: Of all the mighty man, the last remains A little spot of foreign earth contains. 13435
And now both hosts their broken troops unite In equal ranks, and mix in mortal fight. Seresthus and undaunted Mnestheus join The Trojan, Tuscan, and Arcadian line: Sea-born Messapus, with Atinas, heads 13440 The Latin squadrons, and to battle leads. They strike, they push, they throng the scanty space, Resolv’d on death, impatient of disgrace; And, where one falls, another fills his place.
The Cyprian goddess now inspires her son 13445 To leave th’ unfinish’d fight, and storm the town: For, while he rolls his eyes around the plain In quest of Turnus, whom he seeks in vain, He views th’ unguarded city from afar, In careless quiet, and secure of war. 13450 Occasion offers, and excites his mind To dare beyond the task he first design’d. Resolv’d, he calls his chiefs; they leave the fight: Attended thus, he takes a neighb’ring height; The crowding troops about their gen’ral stand, 13455 All under arms, and wait his high command. Then thus the lofty prince: “Hear and obey, Ye Trojan bands, without the least delay Jove is with us; and what I have decreed Requires our utmost vigor, and our speed. 13460 Your instant arms against the town prepare, The source of mischief, and the seat of war. This day the Latian tow’rs, that mate the sky, Shall level with the plain in ashes lie: The people shall be slaves, unless in time 13465 They kneel for pardon, and repent their crime. Twice have our foes been vanquish’d on the plain: Then shall I wait till Turnus will be slain? Your force against the perjur’d city bend. There it began, and there the war shall end. 13470 The peace profan’d our rightful arms requires; Cleanse the polluted place with purging fires.”
He finish’d; and, one soul inspiring all, Form’d in a wedge, the foot approach the wall. Without the town, an unprovided train 13475 Of gaping, gazing citizens are slain. Some firebrands, others scaling ladders bear, And those they toss aloft, and these they rear: The flames now launch’d, the feather’d arrows fly, And clouds of missive arms obscure the sky. 13480 Advancing to the front, the hero stands,
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And, stretching out to heav’n his pious hands, Attests the gods, asserts his innocence, Upbraids with breach of faith th’ Ausonian prince; Declares the royal honor doubly stain’d, 13485 And twice the rites of holy peace profan’d.
Dissenting clamors in the town arise; Each will be heard, and all at once advise. One part for peace, and one for war contends; Some would exclude their foes, and some admit their friends. 13490 The helpless king is hurried in the throng, And, whate’er tide prevails, is borne along. Thus, when the swain, within a hollow rock, Invades the bees with suffocating smoke, They run around, or labor on their wings, 13495 Disus’d to flight, and shoot their sleepy stings; To shun the bitter fumes in vain they try; Black vapors, issuing from the vent, involve the sky.
But fate and envious fortune now prepare To plunge the Latins in the last despair. 13500 The queen, who saw the foes invade the town, And brands on tops of burning houses thrown, Cast round her eyes, distracted with her fear— No troops of Turnus in the field appear. Once more she stares abroad, but still in vain, 13505 And then concludes the royal youth is slain. Mad with her anguish, impotent to bear The mighty grief, she loathes the vital air. She calls herself the cause of all this ill, And owns the dire effects of her ungovern’d will; 13510 She raves against the gods; she beats her breast; She tears with both her hands her purple vest: Then round a beam a running noose she tied, And, fasten’d by the neck, obscenely died.
Soon as the fatal news by Fame was blown, 13515 And to her dames and to her daughter known, The sad Lavinia rends her yellow hair And rosy cheeks; the rest her sorrow share: With shrieks the palace rings, and madness of despair. The spreading rumor fills the public place: 13520 Confusion, fear, distraction, and disgrace, And silent shame, are seen in ev’ry face. Latinus tears his garments as he goes, Both for his public and his private woes; With filth his venerable beard besmears, 13525 And sordid dust deforms his silver hairs. And much he blames the softness of his mind, Obnoxious to the charms of womankind, And soon seduc’d to change what he so well design’d; To break the solemn league so long desir’d, 13530 Nor finish what his fates, and those of Troy, requir’d.
Now Turnus rolls aloof o’er empty plains, And here and there some straggling foes he gleans.
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His flying coursers please him less and less, Asham’d of easy fight and cheap success. 13535 Thus half-contented, anxious in his mind, The distant cries come driving in the wind, Shouts from the walls, but shouts in murmurs drown’d; A jarring mixture, and a boding sound. “Alas!” said he, “what mean these dismal cries? 13540 What doleful clamors from the town arise?” Confus’d, he stops, and backward pulls the reins. She who the driver’s office now sustains, Replies: “Neglect, my lord, these new alarms; Here fight, and urge the fortune of your arms: 13545 There want not others to defend the wall. If by your rival’s hand th’ Italians fall, So shall your fatal sword his friends oppress, In honor equal, equal in success.”
To this, the prince: “O sister—for I knew 13550 The peace infring’d proceeded first from you; I knew you, when you mingled first in fight; And now in vain you would deceive my sight— Why, goddess, this unprofitable care? Who sent you down from heav’n, involv’d in air, 13555 Your share of mortal sorrows to sustain, And see your brother bleeding on the plain? For to what pow’r can Turnus have recourse, Or how resist his fate’s prevailing force? These eyes beheld Murranus bite the ground: 13560 Mighty the man, and mighty was the wound. I heard my dearest friend, with dying breath, My name invoking to revenge his death. Brave Ufens fell with honor on the place, To shun the shameful sight of my disgrace. 13565 On earth supine, a manly corpse he lies; His vest and armor are the victor’s prize. Then, shall I see Laurentum in a flame, Which only wanted, to complete my shame? How will the Latins hoot their champion’s flight! 13570 How Drances will insult and point them to the sight! Is death so hard to bear? Ye gods below, (Since those above so small compassion show,) Receive a soul unsullied yet with shame, Which not belies my great forefather’s name!” 13575
He said; and while he spoke, with flying speed Came Sages urging on his foamy steed: Fix’d on his wounded face a shaft he bore, And, seeking Turnus, sent his voice before: “Turnus, on you, on you alone, depends 13580 Our last relief: compassionate your friends! Like lightning, fierce Aeneas, rolling on, With arms invests, with flames invades the town: The brands are toss’d on high; the winds conspire To drive along the deluge of the fire. 13585 All eyes are fix’d on you: your foes rejoice; Ev’n the king staggers, and suspends his choice;
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Doubts to deliver or defend the town, Whom to reject, or whom to call his son. The queen, on whom your utmost hopes were plac’d, 13590 Herself suborning death, has breath’d her last. ‘T is true, Messapus, fearless of his fate, With fierce Atinas’ aid, defends the gate: On ev’ry side surrounded by the foe, The more they kill, the greater numbers grow; 13595 An iron harvest mounts, and still remains to mow. You, far aloof from your forsaken bands, Your rolling chariot drive o’er empty sands.
Stupid he sate, his eyes on earth declin’d, And various cares revolving in his mind: 13600 Rage, boiling from the bottom of his breast, And sorrow mix’d with shame, his soul oppress’d; And conscious worth lay lab’ring in his thought, And love by jealousy to madness wrought. By slow degrees his reason drove away 13605 The mists of passion, and resum’d her sway. Then, rising on his car, he turn’d his look, And saw the town involv’d in fire and smoke. A wooden tow’r with flames already blaz’d, Which his own hands on beams and rafters rais’d; 13610 And bridges laid above to join the space, And wheels below to roll from place to place. “Sister, the Fates have vanquish’d: let us go The way which Heav’n and my hard fortune show. The fight is fix’d; nor shall the branded name 13615 Of a base coward blot your brother’s fame. Death is my choice; but suffer me to try My force, and vent my rage before I die.” He said; and, leaping down without delay, Thro’ crowds of scatter’d foes he freed his way. 13620 Striding he pass’d, impetuous as the wind, And left the grieving goddess far behind. As when a fragment, from a mountain torn By raging tempests, or by torrents borne, Or sapp’d by time, or loosen’d from the roots— 13625 Prone thro’ the void the rocky ruin shoots, Rolling from crag to crag, from steep to steep; Down sink, at once, the shepherds and their sheep: Involv’d alike, they rush to nether ground; Stunn’d with the shock they fall, and stunn’d from earth rebound: 13630 So Turnus, hasting headlong to the town, Should’ring and shoving, bore the squadrons down. Still pressing onward, to the walls he drew, Where shafts, and spears, and darts promiscuous flew, And sanguine streams the slipp’ry ground embrue. 13635 First stretching out his arm, in sign of peace, He cries aloud, to make the combat cease: “Rutulians, hold; and Latin troops, retire! The fight is mine; and me the gods require. ‘T is just that I should vindicate alone 13640 The broken truce, or for the breach atone. This day shall free from wars th’ Ausonian state,
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Or finish my misfortunes in my fate.”
Both armies from their bloody work desist, And, bearing backward, form a spacious list. 13645 The Trojan hero, who receiv’d from fame The welcome sound, and heard the champion’s name, Soon leaves the taken works and mounted walls, Greedy of war where greater glory calls. He springs to fight, exulting in his force 13650 His jointed armor rattles in the course. Like Eryx, or like Athos, great he shows, Or Father Apennine, when, white with snows, His head divine obscure in clouds he hides, And shakes the sounding forest on his sides. 13655 The nations, overaw’d, surcease the fight; Immovable their bodies, fix’d their sight. Ev’n death stands still; nor from above they throw Their darts, nor drive their batt’ring-rams below. In silent order either army stands, 13660 And drop their swords, unknowing, from their hands. Th’ Ausonian king beholds, with wond’ring sight, Two mighty champions match’d in single fight, Born under climes remote, and brought by fate, With swords to try their titles to the state. 13665
Now, in clos’d field, each other from afar They view; and, rushing on, begin the war. They launch their spears; then hand to hand they meet; The trembling soil resounds beneath their feet: Their bucklers clash; thick blows descend from high, 13670 And flakes of fire from their hard helmets fly. Courage conspires with chance, and both ingage With equal fortune yet, and mutual rage. As when two bulls for their fair female fight In Sila’s shades, or on Taburnus’ height; 13675 With horns adverse they meet; the keeper flies; Mute stands the herd; the heifers roll their eyes, And wait th’ event; which victor they shall bear, And who shall be the lord, to rule the lusty year: With rage of love the jealous rivals burn, 13680 And push for push, and wound for wound return; Their dewlaps gor’d, their sides are lav’d in blood; Loud cries and roaring sounds rebellow thro’ the wood: Such was the combat in the listed ground; So clash their swords, and so their shields resound. 13685
Jove sets the beam; in either scale he lays The champions’ fate, and each exactly weighs. On this side, life and lucky chance ascends; Loaded with death, that other scale descends. Rais’d on the stretch, young Turnus aims a blow 13690 Full on the helm of his unguarded foe: Shrill shouts and clamors ring on either side, As hopes and fears their panting hearts divide. But all in pieces flies the traitor sword, And, in the middle stroke, deserts his lord. 13695
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Now is but death, or flight; disarm’d he flies, When in his hand an unknown hilt he spies. Fame says that Turnus, when his steeds he join’d, Hurrying to war, disorder’d in his mind, Snatch’d the first weapon which his haste could find. 13700 ‘T was not the fated sword his father bore, But that his charioteer Metiscus wore. This, while the Trojans fled, the toughness held; But, vain against the great Vulcanian shield, The mortal-temper’d steel deceiv’d his hand: 13705 The shiver’d fragments shone amid the sand.
Surpris’d with fear, he fled along the field, And now forthright, and now in orbits wheel’d; For here the Trojan troops the list surround, And there the pass is clos’d with pools and marshy ground. 13710 Aeneas hastens, tho’ with heavier pace— His wound, so newly knit, retards the chase, And oft his trembling knees their aid refuse— Yet, pressing foot by foot, his foe pursues.
Thus, when a fearful stag is clos’d around 13715 With crimson toils, or in a river found, High on the bank the deep-mouth’d hound appears, Still opening, following still, where’er he steers; The persecuted creature, to and fro, Turns here and there, to scape his Umbrian foe: 13720 Steep is th’ ascent, and, if he gains the land, The purple death is pitch’d along the strand. His eager foe, determin’d to the chase, Stretch’d at his length, gains ground at ev’ry pace; Now to his beamy head he makes his way, 13725 And now he holds, or thinks he holds, his prey: Just at the pinch, the stag springs out with fear; He bites the wind, and fills his sounding jaws with air: The rocks, the lakes, the meadows ring with cries; The mortal tumult mounts, and thunders in the skies. 13730 Thus flies the Daunian prince, and, flying, blames His tardy troops, and, calling by their names, Demands his trusty sword. The Trojan threats The realm with ruin, and their ancient seats To lay in ashes, if they dare supply 13735 With arms or aid his vanquish’d enemy: Thus menacing, he still pursues the course, With vigor, tho’ diminish’d of his force. Ten times already round the listed place One chief had fled, and t’ other giv’n the chase: 13740 No trivial prize is play’d; for on the life Or death of Turnus now depends the strife.
Within the space, an olive tree had stood, A sacred shade, a venerable wood, For vows to Faunus paid, the Latins’ guardian god. 13745 Here hung the vests, and tablets were ingrav’d, Of sinking mariners from shipwrack sav’d. With heedless hands the Trojans fell’d the tree,
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To make the ground inclos’d for combat free. Deep in the root, whether by fate, or chance, 13750 Or erring haste, the Trojan drove his lance; Then stoop’d, and tugg’d with force immense, to free Th’ incumber’d spear from the tenacious tree; That, whom his fainting limbs pursued in vain, His flying weapon might from far attain. 13755
Confus’d with fear, bereft of human aid, Then Turnus to the gods, and first to Faunus pray’d: “O Faunus, pity! and thou Mother Earth, Where I thy foster son receiv’d my birth, Hold fast the steel! If my religious hand 13760 Your plant has honor’d, which your foes profan’d, Propitious hear my pious pray’r!” He said, Nor with successless vows invok’d their aid. Th’ incumbent hero wrench’d, and pull’d, and strain’d; But still the stubborn earth the steel detain’d. 13765 Juturna took her time; and, while in vain He strove, assum’d Meticus’ form again, And, in that imitated shape, restor’d To the despairing prince his Daunian sword. The Queen of Love, who, with disdain and grief, 13770 Saw the bold nymph afford this prompt relief, T’ assert her offspring with a greater deed, From the tough root the ling’ring weapon freed.
Once more erect, the rival chiefs advance: One trusts the sword, and one the pointed lance; 13775 And both resolv’d alike to try their fatal chance.
Meantime imperial Jove to Juno spoke, Who from a shining cloud beheld the shock: “What new arrest, O Queen of Heav’n, is sent To stop the Fates now lab’ring in th’ event? 13780 What farther hopes are left thee to pursue? Divine Aeneas, (and thou know’st it too,) Foredoom’d, to these celestial seats are due. What more attempts for Turnus can be made, That thus thou ling’rest in this lonely shade? 13785 Is it becoming of the due respect And awful honor of a god elect, A wound unworthy of our state to feel, Patient of human hands and earthly steel? Or seems it just, the sister should restore 13790 A second sword, when one was lost before, And arm a conquer’d wretch against his conqueror? For what, without thy knowledge and avow, Nay more, thy dictate, durst Juturna do? At last, in deference to my love, forbear 13795 To lodge within thy soul this anxious care; Reclin’d upon my breast, thy grief unload: Who should relieve the goddess, but the god? Now all things to their utmost issue tend, Push’d by the Fates to their appointed 13800 While leave was giv’n thee, and a lawful hour
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For vengeance, wrath, and unresisted pow’r, Toss’d on the seas, thou couldst thy foes distress, And, driv’n ashore, with hostile arms oppress; Deform the royal house; and, from the side 13805 Of the just bridegroom, tear the plighted bride: Now cease at my command.” The Thund’rer said; And, with dejected eyes, this answer Juno made: “Because your dread decree too well I knew, From Turnus and from earth unwilling I withdrew. 13810 Else should you not behold me here, alone, Involv’d in empty clouds, my friends bemoan, But, girt with vengeful flames, in open sight Engag’d against my foes in mortal fight. ‘T is true, Juturna mingled in the strife 13815 By my command, to save her brother’s life— At least to try; but, by the Stygian lake, (The most religious oath the gods can take,) With this restriction, not to bend the bow, Or toss the spear, or trembling dart to throw. 13820 And now, resign’d to your superior might, And tir’d with fruitless toils, I loathe the fight. This let me beg (and this no fates withstand) Both for myself and for your father’s land, That, when the nuptial bed shall bind the peace, 13825 (Which I, since you ordain, consent to bless,) The laws of either nation be the same; But let the Latins still retain their name, Speak the same language which they spoke before, Wear the same habits which their grandsires wore. 13830 Call them not Trojans: perish the renown And name of Troy, with that detested town. Latium be Latium still; let Alba reign And Rome’s immortal majesty remain.”
Then thus the founder of mankind replies 13835 (Unruffled was his front, serene his eyes) “Can Saturn’s issue, and heav’n’s other heir, Such endless anger in her bosom bear? Be mistress, and your full desires obtain; But quench the choler you foment in vain. 13840 From ancient blood th’ Ausonian people sprung, Shall keep their name, their habit, and their tongue. The Trojans to their customs shall be tied: I will, myself, their common rites provide; The natives shall command, the foreigners subside. 13845 All shall be Latium; Troy without a name; And her lost sons forget from whence they came. From blood so mix’d, a pious race shall flow, Equal to gods, excelling all below. No nation more respect to you shall pay, 13850 Or greater off ’rings on your altars lay.” Juno consents, well pleas’d that her desires Had found success, and from the cloud retires.
The peace thus made, the Thund’rer next prepares To force the wat’ry goddess from the wars. 13855
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Deep in the dismal regions void of light, Three daughters at a birth were born to Night: These their brown mother, brooding on her care, Indued with windy wings to flit in air, With serpents girt alike, and crown’d with hissing hair. 13860 In heav’n the Dirae call’d, and still at hand, Before the throne of angry Jove they stand, His ministers of wrath, and ready still The minds of mortal men with fears to fill, Whene’er the moody sire, to wreak his hate 13865 On realms or towns deserving of their fate, Hurls down diseases, death and deadly care, And terrifies the guilty world with war. One sister plague if these from heav’n he sent, To fright Juturna with a dire portent. 13870 The pest comes whirling down: by far more slow Springs the swift arrow from the Parthian bow, Or Cydon yew, when, traversing the skies, And drench’d in pois’nous juice, the sure destruction flies. With such a sudden and unseen a flight 13875 Shot thro’ the clouds the daughter of the night. Soon as the field inclos’d she had in view, And from afar her destin’d quarry knew, Contracted, to the boding bird she turns, Which haunts the ruin’d piles and hallow’d urns, 13880 And beats about the tombs with nightly wings, Where songs obscene on sepulchers she sings. Thus lessen’d in her form, with frightful cries The Fury round unhappy Turnus flies, Flaps on his shield, and flutters o’er his eyes. 13885
A lazy chillness crept along his blood; Chok’d was his voice; his hair with horror stood. Juturna from afar beheld her fly, And knew th’ ill omen, by her screaming cry And stridor of her wings. Amaz’d with fear, 13890 Her beauteous breast she beat, and rent her flowing hair.
“Ah me!” she cries, “in this unequal strife What can thy sister more to save thy life? Weak as I am, can I, alas! contend In arms with that inexorable fiend? 13895 Now, now, I quit the field! forbear to fright My tender soul, ye baleful birds of night; The lashing of your wings I know too well, The sounding flight, and fun’ral screams of hell! These are the gifts you bring from haughty Jove, 13900 The worthy recompense of ravish’d love! Did he for this exempt my life from fate? O hard conditions of immortal state, Tho’ born to death, not privileg’d to die, But forc’d to bear impos’d eternity! 13905 Take back your envious bribes, and let me go Companion to my brother’s ghost below! The joys are vanish’d: nothing now remains, Of life immortal, but immortal pains.
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What earth will open her devouring womb, 13910 To rest a weary goddess in the tomb!” She drew a length of sighs; nor more she said, But in her azure mantle wrapp’d her head, Then plung’d into her stream, with deep despair, And her last sobs came bubbling up in air. 13915
Now stern Aeneas his weighty spear Against his foe, and thus upbraids his fear: “What farther subterfuge can Turnus find? What empty hopes are harbor’d in his mind? ‘T is not thy swiftness can secure thy flight; 13920 Not with their feet, but hands, the valiant fight. Vary thy shape in thousand forms, and dare What skill and courage can attempt in war; Wish for the wings of winds, to mount the sky; Or hid, within the hollow earth to lie!” 13925 The champion shook his head, and made this short reply: “No threats of thine my manly mind can move; ‘T is hostile heav’n I dread, and partial Jove.” He said no more, but, with a sigh, repress’d The mighty sorrow in his swelling breast. 13930
Then, as he roll’d his troubled eyes around, An antique stone he saw, the common bound Of neighb’ring fields, and barrier of the ground; So vast, that twelve strong men of modern days Th’ enormous weight from earth could hardly raise. 13935 He heav’d it at a lift, and, pois’d on high, Ran stagg’ring on against his enemy, But so disorder’d, that he scarcely knew His way, or what unwieldly weight he threw. His knocking knees are bent beneath the load, 13940 And shiv’ring cold congeals his vital blood. The stone drops from his arms, and, falling short For want of vigor, mocks his vain effort. And as, when heavy sleep has clos’d the sight, The sickly fancy labors in the night; 13945 We seem to run; and, destitute of force, Our sinking limbs forsake us in the course: In vain we heave for breath; in vain we cry; The nerves, unbrac’d, their usual strength deny; And on the tongue the falt’ring accents die: 13950 So Turnus far’d; whatever means he tried, All force of arms and points of art employ’d, The Fury flew athwart, and made th’ endeavor void.
A thousand various thoughts his soul confound; He star’d about, nor aid nor issue found; 13955 His own men stop the pass, and his own walls surround. Once more he pauses, and looks out again, And seeks the goddess charioteer in vain. Trembling he views the thund’ring chief advance, And brandishing aloft the deadly lance: 13960 Amaz’d he cow’rs beneath his conqu’ring foe, Forgets to ward, and waits the coming blow.
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Astonish’d while he stands, and fix’d with fear, Aim’d at his shield he sees th’ impending spear.
The hero measur’d first, with narrow view, 13965 The destin’d mark; and, rising as he threw, With its full swing the fatal weapon flew. Not with less rage the rattling thunder falls, Or stones from batt’ring-engines break the walls: Swift as a whirlwind, from an arm so strong, 13970 The lance drove on, and bore the death along. Naught could his sev’nfold shield the prince avail, Nor aught, beneath his arms, the coat of mail: It pierc’d thro’ all, and with a grisly wound Transfix’d his thigh, and doubled him to ground. 13975 With groans the Latins rend the vaulted sky: Woods, hills, and valleys, to the voice reply.
Now low on earth the lofty chief is laid, With eyes cast upward, and with arms display’d, And, recreant, thus to the proud victor pray’d: 13980 “I know my death deserv’d, nor hope to live: Use what the gods and thy good fortune give. Yet think, O think, if mercy may be shown— Thou hadst a father once, and hast a son— Pity my sire, now sinking to the grave; 13985 And for Anchises’ sake old Daunus save! Or, if thy vow’d revenge pursue my death, Give to my friends my body void of breath! The Latian chiefs have seen me beg my life; Thine is the conquest, thine the royal wife: 13990 Against a yielded man, ‘t is mean ignoble strife.”
In deep suspense the Trojan seem’d to stand, And, just prepar’d to strike, repress’d his hand. He roll’d his eyes, and ev’ry moment felt His manly soul with more compassion melt; 13995 When, casting down a casual glance, he spied The golden belt that glitter’d on his side, The fatal spoils which haughty Turnus tore From dying Pallas, and in triumph wore. Then, rous’d anew to wrath, he loudly cries 14000 (Flames, while he spoke, came flashing from his eyes) “Traitor, dost thou, dost thou to grace pretend, Clad, as thou art, in trophies of my friend? To his sad soul a grateful off ’ring go! ‘T is Pallas, Pallas gives this deadly blow.” 14005 He rais’d his arm aloft, and, at the word, Deep in his bosom drove the shining sword. The streaming blood distain’d his arms around, And the disdainful soul came rushing thro’ the wound.
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METAMorpHoSES
Ovid (43 B.C.E.-17 C.E.)
Published 8 C.E. Rome
Ovid’s Metamorphoses, a collection of many Greek and Roman myths, is written by a master poet of the ancient world. From the creation of the world to the apotheosis of Julius Caesar, Ovid traces the course of mythological history, putting together a narrative based on previous written and oral sources. In the Aeneid of Virgil, Ovid’s older contemporary epic poet, the gods were portrayed as guiding history toward an end goal (the creation of Rome) with foresight and planning. In the Metamorphoses, Ovid demonstrates how the traditional stories reveal that there is very little planning in the actions of the gods, who often are motivated by lust or pride. His irreverent view of the world, combined with his previous (sometimes risqué) love poetry, probably led to his exile by Emperor Augustus in the same year that his Metamorphoses was published. In the Middle Ages, Ovid’s Metamorphoses was widely translated, although often with “moralized” notes alongside the text that imposed allegorical interpretations on the stories. For most subsequent authors, the Metamorphoses became the source book on Greek and Roman mythology.
Written by Laura J. Getty
Image 4.3: Deification of Caesar | Woodcut by Virgil Solis depicting Julius Caesar rising to godhood.
Author: Paul Barlow Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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Metamorphoses
Ovid, Translated by Brookes More
Book 1 Invocatio. Invocation
My soul is wrought to sing of forms transformed to bodies new and strange! Immortal Gods inspire my heart, for ye have changed yourselves and all things you have changed! Oh lead my song in smooth and measured strains, from olden days when earth began to this completed time!
The Creation Mundi origo.
Before the ocean and the earth appeared— before the skies had overspread them all— the face of Nature in a vast expanse was naught but Chaos uniformly waste. It was a rude and undeveloped mass, that nothing made except a ponderous weight; and all discordant elements confused, were there congested in a shapeless heap.
As yet the sun afforded earth no light, nor did the moon renew her crescent horns; the earth was not suspended in the air exactly balanced by her heavy weight. Not far along the margin of the shores had Am- phitrite stretched her lengthened arms,— for all the land was mixed with sea and air. The land was soft, the sea unfit to sail, the atmosphere opaque, to naught was given a proper form, in everything was strife, and all was mingled in a seething mass— with hot the cold parts strove, and wet with dry and soft with hard, and weight with empty void.
But God, or kindly Nature, ended strife— he cut the land from skies, the sea from land, the heavens ethereal from material air; and when were all evolved from that dark mass he bound the fractious parts in tranquil peace. The fiery element of convex heaven leaped from the mass devoid of dragging weight, and chose the summit arch to which the air as next in quality was next in place. The earth more dense attracted grosser parts and moved by gravity sank underneath; and last of all the wide surrounding waves in deeper channels rolled around the globe.
And when this God —which one is yet un- known— had carved asunder that discordant mass, had thus reduced it to its elements, that every part should equally combine, when time began He rounded out the earth and moulded it to form a mighty globe. Then poured He forth the deeps and gave command that they should billow in the rapid winds, that they should compass every shore of earth. he also added fountains, pools and lakes, and bound with shelving banks the slant- ing streams, which partly are absorbed and partly join the boundless ocean. Thus received amid the wide expanse of uncontrolled waves, they beat the shores instead of crooked banks.
At His command the boundless plains extend, the valleys are depressed, the woods are clothed in green, the stony mountains rise. And as the heav-
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ens are intersected on the right by two broad zones, by two that cut the left, and by a fifth consumed with ardent heat, with such a number did the careful God mark off the compassed weight, and thus the earth received as many climes.—Such heat consumes the middle zone that none may dwell therein; and two extremes are covered with deep snow; and two are placed betwixt the hot and cold, which mixed together give a temperate clime; and over all the atmosphere suspends with weight proportioned to the fiery sky, exactly as the weight of earth compares with weight of water.
And He ordered mist to gather in the air and spread the clouds. He fixed the thunders that disturb our souls, and brought the lightning on destructive winds that also waft the cold. Nor did the great Artificer permit these mighty winds to blow unbounded in the pathless skies, but each discordant brother fixed in space, although His power can scarce restrain their rage to rend the universe. At His command to far Aurora, Eurus took his way, to Nabath, Persia, and that mountain range first gilded by the dawn; and Zephyr’s flight was towards the evening star and peaceful shores, warm with the setting sun; and Boreas invaded Scythia and the northern snows; and Auster wafted to the distant south where clouds and rain encompass his abode.— and over these He fixed the liquid sky, devoid of weight and free from earthly dross.
And scarcely had He separated these and fixed their certain bounds, when all the stars, which long were pressed and hidden in the mass, began to gleam out from the plains of heaven, and traversed, with the Gods, bright ether fields: and lest some part might be bereft of life the gleaming waves were filled with twinkling fish; the earth was covered with wild animals; the agitated air was filled with birds.
But one more perfect and more sanctified, a being capable of lofty thought, intelligent to rule, was wanting still man was created! Did the Unknown God designing then a better world make man of seed divine? or did Pro- metheus take the new soil of earth (that still contained some godly element of Heaven’s Life) and use it to create the race of man; first mingling it with water of new streams; so that his new creation, upright man, was made in image of commanding Gods? On earth the brute creation bends its gaze, but man was given a lofty countenance and was commanded to behold the skies; and with an upright face may view the stars:— and so it was that shapeless clay put on the form of man till then unknown to earth.
Quattuor aetates. Gigantes. The Four Ages
First was the Golden Age. Then rectitude spontaneous in the heart prevailed, and faith. Avengers were not seen, for laws unframed were all unknown and needless. Punishment and fear of penalties existed not. No harsh decrees were fixed on brazen plates. No suppliant multitude the countenance of Justice feared, averting, for they dwelt with- out a judge in peace. Descended not the steeps, shorn from its height, the lofty pine, cleaving the trackless waves of alien shores, nor distant realms were known to wandering men. The towns were not entrenched for time of war; they had no brazen trumpets, straight, nor horns of curving brass, nor helmets, shields nor swords. There was no thought of martial pomp —secure a happy multitude enjoyed repose.
Then of her own accord the earth produced a store of every fruit. The harrow touched her not, nor did the plowshare wound her fields. And man content with given food, and none compelling, gathered arbute fruits and wild strawberries on the mountain sides, and ripe blackberries clinging to the bush, and corners and sweet acorns on the ground, down fallen from the spreading tree of Jove. Eternal Spring! Soft breathing zephyrs soothed and warmly cherished buds and blooms, produced without a seed. The valleys though unplowed gave many fruits; the fields though not renewed white glistened with the heavy bearded wheat: rivers flowed milk and nectar, and the trees, the very oak trees, then gave honey of themselves.
When Saturn had been banished into night and all the world was ruled by Jove supreme, the Silver Age, though not so good as gold but still surpassing yellow brass, prevailed.
Jove first reduced to years the Primal Spring, by him divided into periods four, unequal,—summer, autumn, winter, spring.— then glowed with tawny heat the parched air, or pendent icicles in winter froze and man stopped crouching in crude caverns, while he built his homes of tree rods, bark entwined. Then were the cereals planted in long rows, and bullocks groaned beneath the heavy yoke.
The third Age followed, called The Age of Bronze, when cruel people were inclined to arms but not to impious crimes. And last of all the ruthless and hard Age of Iron prevailed, from which malignant vein great evil sprung; and modesty and faith and truth took flight, and in their stead deceits and snares and frauds and violence and wicked love of gain, succeeded.—Then the sailor spread his sails to winds unknown, and keels that long had stood on lofty mountains pierced uncharted waves. Surveyors anxious marked with metes and bounds the lands, created free as light and air: nor need the rich ground furnish only crops, and give due nourishment by right required,— they penetrated to the bowels of earth and dug up wealth, bad cause of all our ills,— rich ores which long ago the earth had hid and deep removed to gloomy Stygian caves: and soon destructive iron and harmful gold were brought
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to light; and War, which uses both, came forth and shook with sanguinary grip his clashing arms. Rapacity broke forth— the guest was not protected from his host, the father in law from his own son in law; even brothers seldom could abide in peace. The husband threatened to destroy his wife, and she her husband: horrid step dames mixed the deadly henbane: eager sons inquired their fathers, ages. Piety was slain: and last of all the virgin deity, Astraea vanished from the blood-stained earth.
Giants And lest ethereal heights should long remain less troubled than the earth, the throne of Heaven was threatened
by the Giants; and they piled mountain on mountain to the lofty stars. But Jove, omnipotent, shot thunderbolts through Mount Olympus, and he overturned from Ossa huge, enormous Pelion. And while these dreadful bodies lay overwhelmed in their tremendous bulk, (so fame reports) the Earth was reeking with the copious blood of her gigantic sons; and thus replete with moisture she infused the steaming gore with life renewed. So that a monument of such ferocious stock should be retained, she made that offspring in the shape of man; but this new race alike despised the Gods, and by the greed of savage slaughter proved a sanguinary birth.
Lycaon. Lycaon Changed to a Wolf
When, from his throne supreme, the Son of Saturn viewed their deeds, he deeply groaned: and calling to his mind the loathsome feast Lycaon had prepared, a recent deed not common to report, his soul conceived great anger —worthy Jove— and he convened a council. No delay detained the chosen Gods.
When skies are clear a path is well defined on high, which men, because so white, have named the Milky Way. It makes a passage for the deities and leads to mansions of the Thunder God, to Jove’s imperial home. On either side of its wide way the noble Gods are seen,
inferior Gods in other parts abide, but there the potent and renowned of Heaven have fixed their homes.—It is a glorious place, our most audacious verse might designate the “Palace of High Heaven.” When the Gods were seat- ed, therefore, in its marble halls the King of all above the throng sat high, and leaning on his ivory scepter, thrice, and once again he shook his awful locks, wherewith he moved the earth, and seas and stars,— and thus indignantly began to speak; “The time when serpent footed giants strove to fix their hundred arms on captive Heaven, not more than this event could cause alarm for my dominion of the universe. Although it was a savage enemy, yet warred we with a single source derived of one. Now must I utterly destroy this mortal race wherever Nereus roars around the world. Yea, by the Infernal Streams that glide through Stygian groves beneath the world, I swear it. Every method has been tried. The knife must cut immedicable wounds, lest maladies infect untainted parts. “Beneath my sway are demi gods and fauns, nymphs, rustic deities, sylvans of the hills, satyrs;—all these, unworthy Heaven’s abodes, we should at least permit to dwell on earth which we to them bequeathed. What think ye, Gods, is safety theirs when I, your sovereign lord, the Thunder-bolt Controller, am ensnared by fierce Lycaon?” Ardent in their wrath, the astonished Gods demand revenge overtake this miscreant; he who dared commit such crimes. ‘Twas even thus when raged that impious band to blot the Roman name in sacred blood of Caesar, sudden apprehensive fears of ruin absolute astonished man, and all the world convulsed. Nor is the love thy people bear to thee, Augustus, less than these displayed to Jupiter whose voice and gesture all the murmuring host restrained: and as indignant clam- our ceased, suppressed by regnant majesty, Jove once again broke the deep silence with imperial words; “Dismiss your cares; he paid the penalty however all the crime and punishment now learn from this:—An infamous report of this unholy age had reached my ears, and wishing it were false, I sloped my course from high Olympus, and—al- though a God— disguised in human form I viewed the world. It would delay us to recount the crimes unnumbered, for reports were less than truth. “I traversed Maenalus where fearful dens abound, over Lycaeus, wintry slopes of pine tree groves, across Cyllene steep; and as the twilight warned of night’s approach, I stopped in that Arcadian tyrant’s realms and entered his inhospitable home:— and when I showed his people that a God had come, the lowly prayed and worshiped me, but this Lycaon mocked their pious vows and scoffing said; ‘A fair experiment will prove the truth if this be god or man.’ and he prepared to slay me in the night,— to end my slumbers in the sleep of death. So made he merry with his impious proof; but not content with this he cut the throat of a Molossian hostage sent to him, and partly softened his still quivering limbs in boiling water, partly roasted them on fires that burned beneath. And when this flesh was served to me on tables, I destroyed his dwelling and his worthless Household Gods, with thunder bolts avenging. Terror struck he took to flight, and on the silent plains is howling in his vain attempts to speak; he raves and rages and his greedy jaws, desiring their accustomed slaughter, turn against the sheep—still ea- ger for their blood. His vesture separates in shaggy hair, his arms are changed to legs; and as a wolf he has the same grey locks, the same hard face, the same bright eyes, the same ferocious look.
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The Deluge “Thus fell one house, but not one house alone deserved to perish; over all the earth ferocious deeds prevail,—all
men conspire in evil. Let them therefore feel the weight of dreadful penalties so justly earned, for such hath my unchanging will ordained.”
with exclamations some approved the words of Jove and added fuel to his wrath, while others gave assent: but all deplored and questioned the estate of earth deprived of mortals. Who could offer frankincense upon the altars? Would he suffer earth to be despoiled by hungry beasts of prey? Such idle questions of the state of man the King of Gods forbade, but granted soon to people earth with race miraculous, unlike the first.
Diluvium. Deucalion et Pyrrha. And now his thunder bolts would Jove wide scatter, but he feared the flames, unnumbered, sacred ether might
ignite and burn the axle of the universe: and he remembered in the scroll of fate, there is a time appointed when the sea and earth and Heavens shall melt, and fire destroy the universe of mighty labour wrought. Such weapons by the skill of Cyclops forged, for different punishment he laid aside— for straightway he preferred to overwhelm the mortal race beneath deep waves and storms from every raining sky. And instantly he shut the Northwind in Aeolian caves, and every other wind that might dispel the gathering clouds. He bade the Southwind blow:—
the Southwind flies abroad with dripping wings, concealing in the gloom his awful face: the drenching rain de- scends from his wet beard and hoary locks; dark clouds are on his brows and from his wings and garments drip the dews: his great hands press the overhanging clouds; loudly the thunders roll; the torrents pour; Iris, the messenger of Juno, clad in many coloured raiment, upward draws the steaming moisture to renew the clouds.
The standing grain is beaten to the ground, the rustic’s crops are scattered in the mire, and he bewails the long year’s fruitless toil.
The wrath of Jove was not content with powers that emanate from Heaven; he brought to aid his azure brother, lord of flowing waves, who called upon the Rivers and the Streams: and when they entered his impearled abode, Neptune, their ancient ruler, thus began; “A long appeal is needless; pour ye forth in rage of power; open up your fountains; rush over obstacles; let every stream pour forth in boundless floods.” Thus he commands, and none dis- senting all the River Gods return, and opening up their fountains roll tumultuous to the deep unfruitful sea.
And Neptune with his trident smote the Earth, which trembling with unwonted throes heaved up the sources of her waters bare; and through her open plains the rapid rivers rushed resistless, onward bearing the waving grain,
the budding groves, the houses, sheep and men,— and holy temples, and their sacred urns. The mansions that remained, resisting vast and total ruin, deepening waves concealed and whelmed their tottering turrets in the flood and whirling gulf. And now one vast expanse, the land and sea were mingled in the waste of endless waves—a sea without a shore.
One desperate man seized on the nearest hill; another sitting in his curved boat, plied the long oar where he was wont to plow; another sailed above his grain, above his hidden dwelling; and another hooked a fish that sport- ed in a leafy elm. Perchance an anchor dropped in verdant fields, or curving keels were pushed through tangled vines; and where the gracile goat enjoyed the green, unsightly seals reposed. Beneath the waves were wondering Nereids, viewing cities, groves and houses. Dolphins darting mid the trees, meshed in the twisted branches, beat against the shaken oak trees. There the sheep, affrayed, swim with the frightened wolf, the surging waves float tigers and lions: availeth naught his lightning shock the wild boar, nor avails the stag’s fleet footed speed. The wandering bird, seeking umbrageous groves and hidden vales, with wearied pinion droops into the sea. The waves increasing surge above the hills, and rising waters dash on mountain tops. Myriads by the waves are swept away, and those the waters spare, for lack of food, starvation slowly overcomes at last.
A fruitful land and fair but now submerged beneath a wilderness of rising waves, ‘Twixt Oeta and Aonia, Phocis lies, where through the clouds Parnassus’ summits twain point upward to the stars, unmeasured height, save which the rolling billows covered all: there in a small and fragile boat, arrived, Deucalion and the consort of his couch, prepared to worship the Corycian Nymphs, the mountain deities, and Themis kind, who in that age revealed in oracles the voice of fate. As he no other lived so good and just, as she no other feared the Gods.
When Jupiter beheld the globe in ruin covered, swept with wasting waves, and when he saw one man of myr- iads left, one helpless woman left of myriads lone, both innocent and worshiping the Gods, he scattered all the clouds; he blew away the great storms by the cold northwind.
Once more the earth appeared to heaven and the skies appeared to earth. The fury of the main abated, for the Ocean ruler laid his trident down and pacified the waves, and called on azure Triton.—Triton arose above the wav- ing seas, his shoulders mailed in purple shells.—He bade the Triton blow, blow in his sounding shell, the wandering streams and rivers to recall with signal known: a hollow wreathed trumpet, tapering wide and slender stemmed, the Triton took amain and wound the pearly shell at midmost sea. Betwixt the rising and the setting suns the wildered
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notes resounded shore to shore, and as it touched his lips, wet with the brine beneath his dripping beard, sounded retreat: and all the waters of the land and sea obeyed. Their fountains heard and ceased to flow; their waves subsid- ed; hidden hills uprose; emerged the shores of ocean; channels filled with flowing streams; the soil appeared; the land increased its surface as the waves decreased: and after length of days the trees put forth, with ooze on bending boughs, their naked tops.
And all the wasted globe was now restored, but as he viewed the vast and silent world Deucalion wept and thus to Pyrrha spoke; “O sister! wife! alone of woman left! My kindred in descent and origin! Dearest companion of my marriage bed, doubly endeared by deepening dangers borne,— of all the dawn and eve behold of earth, but you and I are left—for the deep sea has kept the rest! And what prevents the tide from overwhelming us? Remaining clouds affright us. How could you endure your fears if you alone were rescued by this fate, and who would then console your bitter grief ? Oh be assured, if you were buried in the waves, that I would follow you and be with you! Oh would that by my father’s art I might restore the people, and inspire this clay to take the form of man. Alas, the Gods decreed and only we are living!”, Thus Deucalion’s plaint to Pyrrha;—and they wept.
And after he had spoken, they resolved to ask the aid of sacred oracles,— and so they hastened to Cephissian waves which rolled a turbid flood in channels known. Thence when their robes and brows were sprinkled well, they turned their footsteps to the goddess’ fane: its gables were befouled with reeking moss and on its altars every fire was cold. But when the twain had reached the temple steps they fell upon the earth, inspired with awe, and kissed the cold stone with their trembling lips, and said; “If righteous prayers appease the Gods, and if the wrath of high celestial powers may thus be turned, declare, O Themis! whence and what the art may raise humanity? O gentle goddess help the dying world!”
Moved by their supplications, she replied; “Depart from me and veil your brows; ungird your robes, and cast behind you as you go, the bones of your great mother.” Long they stood in dumb amazement: Pyrrha, first of voice, refused the mandate and with trembling lips implored the goddess to forgive—she feared to violate her mother’s bones and vex her sacred spirit. Often pondered they the words involved in such obscurity, repeating oft: and thus Deucalion to Epimetheus’ daughter uttered speech of soothing import; “ Oracles are just and urge not evil deeds, or naught avails the skill of thought. Our mother is the Earth, and I may judge the stones of earth are bones that we should cast behind us as we go.”
And although Pyrrha by his words was moved she hesitated to comply; and both amazed doubted the purpose of the oracle, but deemed no harm to come of trial. They, descending from the temple, veiled their heads and loosed their robes and threw some stones behind them. It is much beyond belief, were not receding ages witness, hard and rigid stones assumed a softer form, enlarging as their brittle nature changed to milder substance,—till the shape of man appeared, imperfect, faintly outlined first, as marble statue chiseled in the rough. The soft moist parts were changed to softer flesh, the hard and brittle substance into bones, the veins retained their ancient name. And now the Gods supreme ordained that every stone Deucalion threw should take the form of man, and those by Pyrrha cast should woman’s form assume: so are we hardy to endure and prove by toil and deeds from what we sprung.
Python. The Pythian Games
And after this the Earth spontaneous produced the world of animals, when all remaining moistures of the mirey fens fermented in the sun, and fruitful seeds in soils nutritious grew to shapes ordained. So when the seven streamed Nile from oozy fields returneth duly to her ancient bed, the sun’s ethereal rays impregn the slime, that haply as the peasants turn the soil they find strange animals unknown before: some in the moment of their birth, and some deprived of limbs, imperfect; often part alive and part of slime inanimate are fashioned in one body. Heat combined with moisture so conceives and life results from these two things. For though the flames may be the foes of water, everything that lives begins in humid vapour, and it seems discordant concord is the means of life.
When Earth, spread over with diluvian ooze, felt heat ethereal from the glowing sun, unnumbered species to the light she gave, and gave to being many an ancient form, or monster new created. Unwilling she created thus enormous Python.—Thou unheard of serpent spread so far athwart the side of a vast mountain, didst fill with fear the race of new created man. The God that bears the bow (a weapon used till then only to hunt the deer and agile goat) destroyed the monster with a myriad darts, and almost emptied all his quiver, till envenomed gore oozed forth from livid wounds.
Lest in a dark oblivion time should hide the fame of this achievement, sacred sports he instituted, from the Py- thon called “The Pythian Games.” In these the happy youth who proved victorious in the chariot race, running and boxing, with an honoured crown of oak leaves was enwreathed. The laurel then was not created, wherefore Phoe- bus, bright and godlike, beauteous with his flowing hair, was wont to wreathe his brows with various leaves.
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Daphne. Daphne and Phoebus
Daphne, the daughter of a River God was first beloved by Phoebus, the great God of glorious light. ‘Twas not a cause of chance but out of Cupid’s vengeful spite that she was fated to torment the lord of light. For Phoebus, proud of Python’s death, beheld that impish god of Love upon a time when he was bending his diminished bow, and voicing his contempt in anger said; “What, wanton boy, are mighty arms to thee, great weapons suited to the needs of war? The bow is only for the use of those large deities of heaven whose strength may deal wounds, mortal, to the savage beasts of prey; and who courageous overcome their foes.— it is a proper weapon to the use of such as slew with arrows Python, huge, whose pestilential carcase vast extent covered. Content thee with the flames thy torch enkindles (fires too subtle for my thought) and leave to me the glory that is mine.”
To him, undaunted, Venus, son replied; “O Phoebus, thou canst conquer all the world with thy strong bow and arrows, but with this small arrow I shall pierce thy vaunting breast! And by the measure that thy might ex- ceeds the broken powers of thy defeated foes, so is thy glory less than mine.” No more he said, but with his wings expanded thence flew lightly to Parnassus, lofty peak. There, from his quiver he plucked arrows twain, most curi- ously wrought of different art; one love exciting, one repelling love. The dart of love was glittering, gold and sharp, the other had a blunted tip of lead; and with that dull lead dart he shot the Nymph, but with the keen point of the
golden dart he pierced the bone and marrow of the God.
Immediately the one with love was filled, the other, scouting at the thought of love, rejoiced in the deep shadow of the woods, and as the virgin Phoebe (who denies the joys of love and loves the joys of chase) a maiden’s fillet bound her flowing hair,— and her pure mind denied the love of man. Beloved and wooed she wandered silent paths, for never could her modesty endure the glance of man or listen to his love.
Her grieving father spoke to her, “Alas, my daughter, I have wished a son in law, and now you owe a grandchild to the joy of my old age.” But Daphne only hung her head to hide her shame. The nuptial torch seemed criminal to her. She even clung, caressing, with her arms around his neck, and pled, “My dearest father let me live a virgin always, for remember Jove did grant it to Diana at her birth.”
But though her father promised her desire, her loveliness prevailed against their will; for, Phoebus when he saw her waxed distraught, and filled with wonder his sick fancy raised delusive hopes, and his own oracles deceived him.—As the stubble in the field flares up, or as the stacked wheat is consumed by flames, enkindled from a spark or torch the chance pedestrian may neglect at dawn; so was the bosom of the god consumed, and so desire flamed in his stricken heart.
He saw her bright hair waving on her neck;— “How beautiful if properly arranged! ” He saw her eyes like stars of sparkling fire, her lips for kissing sweetest, and her hands and fingers and her arms; her shoulders white as ivory;—and whatever was not seen more beautiful must be.
Swift as the wind from his pursuing feet the virgin fled, and neither stopped nor heeded as he called; “O Nymph! O Daphne! I entreat thee stay, it is no enemy that follows thee— why, so the
Image 4.5: Apollo and Daphne | This oil painting by Antonio del Pollaiuolo shows the god Apollo pursuing the naiad Daphne.
Author: Antonio del Pollaiolo Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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lamb leaps from the raging wolf, and from the lion runs the timid faun, and from the eagle flies the trembling dove, all hasten from their natural enemy but I alone pursue for my dear love. Alas, if thou shouldst fall and mar thy face, or tear upon the bramble thy soft thighs, or should I prove unwilling cause of pain! “The wilderness is rough and dangerous, and I beseech thee be more careful—I will follow slowly.—Ask of whom thou wilt, and thou shalt learn that I am not a churl— I am no mountain dweller of rude caves, nor clown compelled to watch the sheep and goats; and neither canst thou know from whom thy feet fly fearful, or thou wouldst not leave me thus. “The Delphic Land, the Pataraean Realm, Claros and Tenedos revere my name, and my immortal sire is Jupiter. The present, past and future are through me in sacred oracles revealed to man, and from my harp the harmonies of sound are borrowed by their bards to praise the Gods. My bow is certain, but a flaming shaft surpassing mine has pierced my heart— untouched before. The art of medicine is my invention, and the power of herbs; but though the world declare my useful works there is no herb to medicate my wound, and all the arts that save have failed their lord.,”
But even as he made his plaint, the Nymph with timid footsteps fled from his approach, and left him to his murmurs and his pain.
Lovely the virgin seemed as the soft wind exposed her limbs, and as the zephyrs fond fluttered amid her gar- ments, and the breeze fanned lightly in her flowing hair. She seemed most lovely to his fancy in her flight; and mad with love he followed in her steps, and silent hastened his increasing speed.
As when the greyhound sees the frightened hare flit over the plain:—With eager nose outstretched, impetuous, he rushes on his prey, and gains upon her till he treads her feet, and almost fastens in her side his fangs;
but she, whilst dreading that her end is near, is suddenly delivered from her fright; so was it with the god and virgin: one with hope pursued, the other fled in fear; and he who followed, borne on wings of love, permitted her no rest and gained on her, until his warm breath mingled in her hair.
Her strength spent, pale and faint, with pleading eyes she gazed upon her father’s waves and prayed, “Help me my father, if thy flowing streams have virtue! Cover me, O mother Earth! Destroy the beauty that has injured me, or change the body that destroys my life.”
Before her prayer was ended, torpor seized on all her body, and a thin bark closed around her gentle bosom, and her hair became as moving leaves; her arms were changed to waving branches, and her active feet as clinging roots were fastened to the ground— her face was hidden with encircling leaves.—
Phoebus admired and loved the graceful tree, (For still, though changed, her slender form remained) and with his right hand lingering on the trunk he felt her bosom throbbing in the bark. He clung to trunk and branch as though to twine. His form with hers, and fondly kissed the wood that shrank from every kiss.
And thus the God; “Although thou canst not be my bride, thou shalt be called my chosen tree, and thy green leaves, O Laurel! shall forever crown my brows, be wreathed around my quiver and my lyre; the Roman heroes shall be crowned with thee, as long processions climb the Capitol and chanting throngs proclaim their victories; and as a faithful warden thou shalt guard the civic crown of oak leaves fixed between thy branches, and before Augustan gates. And as my youthful head is never shorn, so, also, shalt thou ever bear thy leaves unchanging to thy glory.,”
Here the God, Phoebus Apollo, ended his lament, and unto him the Laurel bent her boughs, so lately fashioned; and it seemed to him her graceful nod gave answer to his love.
Io. Argus. Syrinx. Io and Jupiter
There is a grove in Thessaly, enclosed on every side with crags, precipitous,— on which a forest grows—and this is called the Vale of Tempe—through this valley flows the River Peneus, white with foaming waves, that issue from the foot of Pindus, whence with sudden fall up gather steamy clouds that sprinkle mist upon the circling trees, and far away with mighty roar resound. It is the abode, the solitary home, that mighty River loves, where deep in gloom of rocky cavern, he resides and rules the flowing waters and the water nymphs abiding there. All rivers of that land now hasten thither, doubtful to console or flatter Daphne’s parent: poplar crowned Sperchios, swift Enipeus and the wild Amphrysos, old Apidanus and Aeas, with all their kindred streams that wandering maze and wearied seek the ocean. Inachus alone is absent, hidden in his cave obscure, deepening his waters with his tears— most wretchedly bewailing, for he deems his daughter Io lost. If she may live or roam a spirit in the nether shades he dares not even guess but dreads
for Jove not long before had seen her while returning from her father’s stream, and said; “O virgin, worthy of immortal Jove, although some happy mortal’s chosen bride,— behold these shades of overhanging trees, and seek their cool recesses while the sun is glowing in the height of middle skies—” and as he spoke he pointed out the groves— “But should the dens of wild beasts frighten you, with safety you may enter the deep woods, conducted by a God—not with a God of small repute, but in the care of him who holds the heavenly scepter in his hand and fulminates the trackless thunder bolts.— forsake me not! ” For while he spoke she fled, and swiftly left behind the
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pasture fields of Lerna, and Lyrcea’s arbours, where the trees are planted thickly. But the God called forth a heavy shadow which involved the wide extended earth, and stopped her flight and ravished in that cloud her chastity.
Meanwhile, the goddess Juno gazing down on earth’s expanse, with wonder saw the clouds as dark as night enfold those middle fields while day was bright above. She was convinced the clouds were none composed of river mist nor raised from marshy fens. Suspicious now, from oft detected amours of her spouse, she glanced around to find her absent lord, and quite convinced that he was far from heaven, she thus exclaimed; “This cloud deceives my mind, or Jove has wronged me.” From the dome of heaven she glided down and stood upon the earth, and bade the clouds recede. But Jove had known the coming of his queen. He had transformed the lovely Io, so that she appeared a milk white heifer—formed so beautiful and fair that envious Juno gazed on her. She queried: “Whose? what herd? what pasture fields?” As if she guessed no knowledge of the truth. And Jupiter, false hearted, said the cow was earth begotten, for he feared his queen might make inquiry of the owner’s name. Juno implored the heifer as a gift.— what then was left the Father of the Gods? ‘Twould be a cruel thing to sacrifice his own beloved to a rival’s wrath. Although refusal must imply his guilt the shame and love of her almost prevailed; but if a present of such little worth were now denied the sharer of his couch, the partner of his birth, ‘twould prove indeed the earth born heifer other than she seemed— and so he gave his mistress up to her.
Juno regardful of Jove’s cunning art, lest he might change her to her human form, gave the unhappy heifer to the charge of Argus, Aristorides, whose head was circled with a hundred glowing eyes; of which but two did slum- ber in their turn whilst all the others kept on watch and guard.
Whichever way he stood his gaze was fixed on Io—even if he turned away his watchful eyes on Io still re- mained. He let her feed by day; but when the sun was under the deep world he shut her up, and tied a rope around her tender neck.
She fed upon green leaves and bitter herbs and on the cold ground slept—too often bare, she could not rest upon a cushioned couch. She drank the troubled waters. Hoping aid she tried to stretch imploring arms to Argus, but all in vain for now no arms remained; the sound of bellowing was all she heard, and she was frightened with her proper voice.
Where former days she loved to roam and sport, she wandered by the banks of Inachus: there imaged in the stream she saw her horns and, startled, turned and fled. And Inachus and all her sister Naiads knew her not, al- though she followed them, they knew her not, although she suffered them to touch her sides and praise her.
When the ancient Inachus gathered sweet herbs and offered them to her, she licked his hands, kissing her father’s palms, nor could she more restrain her falling tears. If only words as well as tears would flow, she might implore his aid and tell her name and all her sad misfortune; but, instead, she traced in dust the letters of her name with cloven hoof; and thus her sad estate was known. “Ah wretched me! ” her father cried; and as he clung around her horns and neck repeated while she groaned, “Ah wretched me! Art thou my daughter sought in every clime? When lost I could not grieve for thee as now that thou art found; thy sighs instead of words heave up from thy deep breast, thy longings give me answer. I prepared the nuptial torch and bridal chamber, in my ignorance, since my first hope was for a son in law; and then I dreamed of children from the match: but now the herd may furnish thee a mate, and all thy issue of the herd must be. Oh that a righteous death would end my grief !— it is a dreadful thing to be a God! Behold the lethal gate of death is shut against me, and my growing grief must last throughout eternity.”
While thus he moaned came starry Argus there, and Io bore from her lamenting father. Thence he led his charge to other pastures; and removed from her, upon a lofty mountain sat, whence he could always watch her, undisturbed.
The sovereign god no longer could endure to witness Io’s woes. He called his son, whom Maia brightest of the Pleiades brought forth, and bade him slay the star eyed guard, argus. He seized his sleep compelling wand and fastened waving wings on his swift feet, and deftly fixed his brimmed hat on his head:— lo, Mercury, the favoured son of Jove, descending to the earth from heaven’s plains, put off his cap and wings,— though still retained his wand with which he drove through pathless wilds some stray she goats, and as a shepherd fared, piping on oaten reeds melodious tunes.
Argus, delighted with the charming sound of this new art began; “Whoever thou art, sit with me on this stone beneath the trees in cooling shade, whilst browse the tended flock abundant herbs; for thou canst see the shade is fit for shepherds.” Wherefore, Mercury sat down beside the keeper and conversed of various things—passing the laggard hours.—
then soothly piped he on the joined reeds to lull those ever watchful eyes asleep; but Argus strove his languor to subdue, and though some drowsy eyes might slumber, still were some that vigil kept. Again he spoke, (for the pipes were yet a recent art) “I pray thee tell what chance discovered these.”
To him the God, “ A famous Naiad dwelt among the Hamadryads, on the cold Arcadian summit Nonacris, whose name was Syrinx. Often she escaped the Gods, that wandered in the groves of sylvan shades, and often fled from Satyrs that pursued. Vowing virginity, in all pursuits she strove to emulate Diana’s ways: and as that graceful
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goddess wears her robe, so Syrinx girded hers that one might well believe Diana there. Even though her bow were made of horn, Diana’s wrought of gold, vet might she well deceive. “Now chanced it Pan. Whose head was girt with prickly pines, espied the Nymph returning from the Lycian Hill, and these words uttered he: ”—But Mercury refrained from further speech, and Pan’s appeal remains untold. If he had told it all, the tale of Syrinx would have followed thus:—
but she despised the prayers of Pan, and fled through pathless wilds until she had arrived the placid Ladon’s sandy stream, whose waves prevented her escape. There she implored her sister Nymphs to change her form: and Pan, believing he had caught her, held instead some marsh reeds for the body of the Nymph; and while he sighed the moving winds began to utter plaintive music in the reeds, so sweet and voice like that poor Pan exclaimed; “For- ever this discovery shall remain a sweet communion binding thee to me.”— and this explains why reeds of different length, when joined together by cementing wax, derive the name of Syrinx from the maid.
Such words the bright god Mercury would say; but now perceiving Argus’ eyes were dimmed in languor- ous doze, he hushed his voice and touched the drooping eyelids with his magic wand, compelling slumber. Then without delay he struck the sleeper with his crescent sword, where neck and head unite, and hurled his head, blood dripping, down the rocks and rugged cliff.
Low lies Argus: dark is the light of all his hundred eyes, his many orbed lights extinguished in the universal gloom that night surrounds; but Saturn’s daughter spread their glister on the feathers of her bird, emblazoning its tail with starry gems.
Juno made haste, inflamed with towering rage, to vent her wrath on Io; and she raised in thought and vision of the Grecian girl a dreadful Fury. Stings invisible, and pitiless, she planted in her breast, and drove her wandering throughout the globe.
The utmost limit of her laboured way, O Nile, thou didst remain. Which, having reached, and placed her tired knees on that river’s edge, she laid her there, and as she raised her neck looked upward to the stars, and groaned and wept and mournfully bellowed: trying thus to plead, by all the means she had, that Jupiter might end her miseries. Repentant Jove embraced his consort, and entreated her to end the punishment: “Fear not,” he said, “For she shall trouble thee no more.” He spoke, and called on bitter Styx to hear his oath.
And now imperial Juno, pacified, permitted Io to resume her form,— at once the hair fell from her snowy sides; the horns absorbed, her dilate orbs decreased; the opening of her jaws contracted; hands appeared and shoulders; and each transformed hoof became five nails. And every mark or form that gave the semblance of a heifer changed, except her fair white skin; and the glad Nymph was raised erect and stood upon her feet. But long the very thought of speech, that she might bellow as a heifer, filled her mind with terror, till the words so long forgot for some suffi- cient cause were tried once more.
Phaethon. and since that time, the linen wearing throng of Egypt have adored her as a God; for they believe the seed of
Jove prevailed; and when her time was due she bore to him a son called Epaphus; who also dwells in temples with his mother in that land.
Now Phaethon, whose father was the Sun, was equal to his rival, Epaphus, in mind and years; and he was glad to boast of wonders, nor would yield to Epaphus for pride of Phoebus, his reputed sire. Unable to endure it, Io’s son thus mocked him; “Poor, demented fellow, what will you not credit if your mother speaks, you are so puffed up with the fond conceit of your imagined sire, the Lord of Day.”
shame crimsoned in his cheeks, but Phaethon withholding rage, reported all the taunts of Epaphus to Cly- mene his mother: “‘Twill grieve you, mother, I, the bold and free, was silent; and it shames me to report this dark reproach remains unchallenged. Oh, if I am born of race divine, give proof of that illustrious descent and claim my right to Heaven.” Around his mother’s neck he drew his arms, and by the head of Merops, and by his own, and by the nuptial torch of his beloved sisters, he implored for some true token of his origin.
Or moved by Phaethon’s importuned words, or by the grievous charge, who might declare? She raised her arms to Heaven, and gazing full upon the broad sun said; “I swear to you by yonder orb, so radiant and bright, which both beholds and hears us while we speak, that you are his begotten son.—You are the child of that great light which sways the world: and if I have not spoken what is true, let not mine eyes behold his countenance, and let this fatal moment be the last that I shall look upon the light of day! Nor will it weary you, my son, to reach your father’s dwelling; for the very place where he appears at dawn is near our land. Go, if it please you, and the very truth learn from your father.” Instantly sprang forth exultant Phaethon. Overjoyed with words so welcome, he imagined he could leap and touch the skies. And so he passed his land of Ethiopia, and the Indies, hot beneath the tawny sun, and there he turned his footsteps to his father’s Land of Dawn.
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Book 2 Section 7 Europa.
So from the land of Pallas went the God, his great revenge accomplished on the head of impious Aglauros; and he soared on waving wings into the opened skies: and there his father called him to his side, and said,—with words to hide his passion;—Son,— thou faithful minister of my commands.— let naught delay thee—swiftly take the way, accustomed, to the land of Sidon (which adores thy mother’s star upon the left) when there, drive over to the sound- ing shore that royal herd, which far away is fed on mountain grass. He spoke, and instantly the herd was driven from the mountain side; then headed for the shore, as Jove desired,—to where the great king’s daughter often went in play, attended by the maids of Tyre. Can love abide the majesty of kings? Love cannot always dwell upon a throne.
Europa and Jupiter: The House of Cadmus Jove laid aside his glorious dignity, for he assumed the semblance of a bull and mingled with the bullocks in the
groves, his colour white as virgin snow, untrod, unmelted by the watery Southern Wind. His neck was thick with muscles, dewlaps hung between his shoulders; and his polished horns, so small and
beautifully set, appeared the artifice of man; fashioned as fair and more transparent than a lucent gem. His forehead was not lowered for attack, nor was there fury in his open eyes; the love of peace was in his countenance.
When she beheld his beauty and mild eyes, the daughter of Agenor was amazed; but, daring not to touch him, stood apart until her virgin fears were quieted; then, near him, fragrant flowers in her hand she offered,—tempting, to his gentle mouth: and then the loving god in his great joy kissed her sweet hands, and could not wait her will.
Jove then began to frisk upon the grass, or laid his snow-white side on the smooth sand, yellow and golden. As her courage grew he gave his breast one moment for caress, or bent his head for garlands newly made, wreathed for his polished horns.
The royal maid, unwitting what she did, at length sat down upon the bull’s broad back. Then by degrees the god moved from the land and from the shore, and placed his feet, that seemed but shining hoofs, in shallow wa- ter by the sandy merge; and not a moment resting bore her thence, across the surface of the Middle Sea, while she affrighted gazed upon the shore—so fast receding. And she held his horn with her right hand, and, steadied by the left, held on his ample back—and in the breeze her waving garments fluttered as they went.
Book 4 Section 2
Pyramus et Thisbe. Pyramus and Thisbe
When Pyramus and Thisbe, who were known the one most handsome of all youthful men, the other loveliest of all eastern girls,— lived in adjoining houses, near the walls that Queen Semiramis had built of brick around her famous city, they grew fond, and loved each other—meeting often there— and as the days went by their love increased.
They wished to join in marriage, but that joy their fathers had forbidden them to hope; and yet the passion that with equal strength inflamed their minds no parents could forbid. No relatives had guessed their secret love, for all their con- verse was by nods and signs; and as a smoldering fire may gather heat, the more ‘tis smothered, so their love increased.
Now, it so happened, a partition built between their houses, many years ago, was made defective with a little chink; a small defect observed by none, although for ages there; but what is hid from love? Our lovers found the secret opening, and used its passage to convey the sounds of gentle, murmured words, whose tuneful note passed oft in safety through that hidden way.
There, many a time, they stood on either side, thisbe on one and Pyramus the other, and when their warm breath touched from lip to lip, their sighs were such as this: “Thou envious wall why art thou standing in the way of those who die for love? What harm could happen thee shouldst thou permit us to enjoy our love? But if we ask too much, let us persuade that thou wilt open while we kiss but once: for, we are not ungrateful; unto thee we own our debt; here thou hast left a way that breathed words may enter loving ears.,” so vainly whispered they, and when the night began to darken they exchanged farewells; made presence that they kissed a fond farewell vain kisses that to love might none avail.
When dawn removed the glimmering lamps of night, and the bright sun had dried the dewy grass again they met where they had told their love; and now complaining of their hapless fate, in murmurs gentle, they at last resolved, away to slip upon the quiet night, elude their parents, and, as soon as free, quit the great builded city and their homes.
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Fearful to wander in the pathless fields, they chose a trysting place, the tomb of Ninus, where safely they might hide unseen, beneath the shadow of a tall mulberry tree, covered with snow-white fruit, close by a spring.
All is arranged according to their hopes: and now the daylight, seeming slowly moved, sinks in the deep waves, and the tardy night arises from the spot where day declines.
Quickly, the clever Thisbe having first deceived her parents, opened the closed door. She flitted in the silent night away; and, having veiled her face, reached the great tomb, and sat beneath the tree; love made her bold.
There, as she waited, a great lioness approached the nearby spring to quench her thirst: her frothing jaws incarnadined with blood of slaughtered oxen. As the moon was bright, Thisbe could see her, and affrighted fled with trembling footstep to a gloomy cave; and as she ran she slipped and dropped her veil, which fluttered to the ground. She did not dare to save it. Wherefore, when the savage beast had taken a great draft and slaked her thirst, and thence had turned to seek her forest lair, she found it on her way, and full of rage, tore it and stained it with her bloody jaws: but Thisbe, fortunate, escaped unseen.
Now Pyramus had not gone out so soon as Thisbe to the tryst; and, when he saw the certain traces of that savage beast, imprinted in the yielding dust, his face went white with fear; but when he found the veil covered with blood, he cried; “Alas, one night has caused the ruin of two lovers! Thou wert most deserving of completed days, but as for me, my heart is guilty! I destroyed thee! O my love! I bade thee come out in the dark night to a lonely haunt, and failed to go before. Oh! whatever lurks beneath this rock, though ravenous lion, tear my guilty flesh, and with most cruel jaws devour my cursed entrails! What? Not so; it is a craven’s part to wish for death!”
So he stopped briefly; and took up the veil; went straightway to the shadow of the tree; and as his tears bedewed the well-known veil, he kissed it oft and sighing said, “Kisses and tears are thine, receive my blood as well.”
And he imbrued the steel, girt at his side, deep in his bowels; and plucked it from the wound, a-faint with death. As he fell back to earth, his spurting blood shot upward in the air; so, when decay has rift a leaden pipe a hissing jet of water spurts on high.—
By that dark tide the berries on the tree assumed a deeper tint, for as the roots soaked up the blood the pendent mulberries were dyed a purple tint.
Thisbe returned, though trembling still with fright, for now she thought her lover must await her at the tree, and she should haste before he feared for her. Longing to tell him of her great escape she sadly looked for him with faithful eyes; but when she saw the spot and the changed tree, she doubted could they be the same, for so the colour of the hanging fruit deceived.
While doubt dismayed her, on the ground she saw the wounded body covered with its blood;— she started backward, and her face grew pale and ashen; and she shuddered like the sea, which trembles when its face is lightly skimmed by the chill breezes;—and she paused a space;— but when she knew it was the one she loved, she struck her tender breast and tore her hair. Then wreathing in her arms his loved form, she bathed the wound with tears, mingling her grief in his unquenched blood; and as she kissed his death-cold features wailed; “Ah Pyramus, what cruel fate has taken thy life away? Pyramus! Pyramus! awake! awake! It is thy dearest Thisbe calls thee! Lift thy drooping head! Alas,”—At Thisbe’s name he raised his eyes, though languorous in death, and darkness gathered round him as he gazed.
And then she saw her veil; and near it lay his ivory sheath—but not the trusty sword and once again she wailed; “Thy own right hand, and thy great passion have destroyed thee!— And I? my hand shall be as bold as thine— my love shall nerve me to the fatal deed— thee, I will follow to eternity— though I be censured for the wretched cause, so surely I shall share thy wretched fate:— alas, whom death could me alone bereave, thou shalt not from my love be reft by death! And, O ye wretched parents, mine and his, let our misfortunes and our pleadings melt your hearts, that ye no more deny to those whom constant love and lasting death unite— entomb us in a single sepulchre.
“And, O thou tree of many-branching boughs, spreading dark shadows on the corpse of one, destined to cover twain, take thou our fate upon thy head; mourn our untimely deaths; let thy fruit darken for a memory, an emblem of our blood.” No more she said; and having fixed the point below her breast, she fell on the keen sword, still warm with his red blood.
But though her death was out of Nature’s law her prayer was answered, for it moved the Gods and moved their parents. Now the Gods have changed the ripened fruit which darkens on the branch: and from the funeral pile their parents sealed their gathered ashes in a single urn.
Book 7 Section 1
Iason et Medea. Jason and Medea
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Over the storm-tossed waves, the Argonauts had sailed in Argo, their long ship to where King Phineus, needy in his old age, reigned— deprived of sight and feeble. When the sons of Boreas had landed on the shore, and seen the Harpies snatching from the king his nourishment, befouling it with beaks obscene, they drove those hu- man-vultures thence.
And having suffered hardships and great toils, after the day they rescued the sad king from the vile Harpies, those twin valiant youths, Zetes and Calais came with their chief, the mighty Jason, where the Phasis flows.
From the green margin of that river, all the crew of Argonauts, by Jason led, went to the king Aeetes and required the Golden Fleece, that he received from Phryxus. When they had bargained with him, full of wiles he of- fered to restore the Golden Fleece only to those who might to him return, victorious from hard labors of great risk.
Medea, the king’s daughter, near his throne, saw Jason, leader of the Argonauts, as he was pressing to secure a prize— and loved at sight with a consuming flame.
Although she struggled to suppress her love, unable to restrain herself, she said, “In vain I’ve striven to subdue my heart: some god it must be, which I cannot tell, is working to destroy my hapless life; or else it is the burning flame of love that in me rages. If it is not love, why do the mandates of my father seem too harsh? They surely are too harsh. Why do I fear that he may perish whom I have seen only once? What is the secret cause that I am agitat- ed by such fears?— It is no other than the god of Love.
“Thrust from your virgin breast such burning flames and overcome their hot unhappiness— if I could do so, I should be myself: but some deluding power is holding me helpless against my will. Desire persuades me one way, but my reason still persuades another way. I see a better course and I approve, but follow its defeat. —
“O royal maiden, why are you consumed with love for this strange man, and why are you so willing to be car- ried by the nuptial ties so far from your own country, where, indeed, are many brave men worthy of your love?
“Whether for life or death his numbered hours are in the mercy of the living Gods, and that he may not suffer risk of death, too well foreseen, now let my prayers prevail— righteously uttered of a generous heart without the stress of love. What wicked thing has Jason done? His handsome person, youth, and noble ways, would move a heart of stone.
“Have I a heart of flint, or was I born a tigress to deny him timely aid?— Unless I interpose, he will be slain by the hot breath of brazen-footed bulls, or will be slaughtered by the warriors, sprung miraculous from earth, or will be given to satisfy the ravenous appetite of a huge dragon.
“Let my gloating eyes be satiate with his dying agonies! Let me incite the fury of these bulls! Stir to their blood- lust mad-born sons of Earth! Rouse up the never-sleeping dragon’s rage!— “Avert it Gods!—
“But why should I cry out upon the Gods to save him from such wrong, when, by my actions and my power, myself may shield him from all evils?
“Such a course would wreck the kingdom of my father—and by me the wily stranger would escape from him; and spreading to the wind his ready sails he would forget and leave me to my fate.— Oh, if he should forget my sacrifice, and so prefer those who neglected him, let him then perish in his treachery.—
“But these are idle thoughts: his countenance, reveals innate nobility and grace, that should dispel all fear of treachery, and guarantee his ever-faithful heart. The Gods will witness our united souls, and he shall pledge his faith. Secure of it my fear will be removed. Be ready, then— and make a virtue of necessity: your Jason owes himself to you; and he must join you in true wedlock. Then you shall be celebrated through the land of Greece, by throngs of women, for the man you saved.
“Shall I then sail away, and so forsake my sister, brother, father, Gods, and land that gave me birth? My father is indeed a stern man, and my native land is all too barbarous; my brother is a child,— my sister’s goodwill is good help for me; and heaven’s supreme god is within my breast.
“I shall not so be leaving valued hopes, but will be going surely to great things. And I should gain applause from all the world, as having saved the threatened Argonauts, most noble of the Greeks; and in their land, which certain- ly is better than my own, become the bride of Jason, for whose love I should not hesitate to give the world— and in whose love the living Gods rejoice so greatly; for his sake they would bestow their favors on my head, and make the stars my habitation.
“Should I hesitate because the wreck-strewn mountains bar the way, and clash together in the Euxine waves; or fear Charybdis, fatal to large ships, that sucks the deep sea in its whirling gulf and spouts far upward, with alternate force, or Scylla, circled with infuriate hounds howling in rage from deep Sicilian waves?
“Safe in the shielding arms of him I love, on Jason’s bosom leaning, I shall be borne safely over wide and hostile seas; and in his dear embrace forget my fears— or if for anything I suffer dread, it will be only for the one I love.—
“Alas, Medea, this vain argument has only furnished plausible excuse for criminal desires, and desecrates the marriage rite. It is a wicked thing to think upon. Before it is too late forget your passion and deny this guilt.”
And after she had said these words, her eyes were opened to the prize of modesty, chaste virtue, and a pure affection: and Cupid, vanquished, turned away and fled.
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Then, to an ancient altar of the goddess named Hecate, Perse’s daughter took her way in the deep shadows of a forest. She was strong of purpose now, and all the flames of vanquished passion had died down; but when she saw the son of Aeson, dying flames leaped up again. Her cheeks grew red, then all her face went pale again; as a small spark when hid beneath the ashes, if fed by a breath of wind grows and regains its strength, as it is fanned to life; so now her love that had been smoldering, and which you would have thought was almost dead, when she had see again his manly youth, blazed up once more.
For on that day his graceful person seemed as glorious as a God;—and as she gazed, and fixed her eyes upon his countenance, her frenzy so prevailed, she was convinced that he was not a mortal. And her eyes were fascinated; and she could not turn away from him. But when he spoke to her, and promised marriage, grasping her right hand: she answered, as her eyes suffused with tears; “I see what I will do, and ignorance of truth will not be my undoing now, but love itself. By my assistance you shall be preserved; but when preserved fulfill your promise.”
He swore that she could trust in him. Then by the goddess of the triple form, Diana, Trivia, or Luna called, and by her sacred groves and fanes, he vowed, and by the hallowed Sun that sees all things, and by his own adventures, and his life,— on these the youthful Jason took his oath.— With this she was assured and quickly gave to him the magic herbs: he learnt their use and full of joy withdrew into his house.
Now when the dawn had dimmed the glittering stars, the people hastened to the sacred field of Mars, and on the hills expectant stood.— Arrayed in purple, and in majesty distinguished by his ivory sceptre, sat the king, sur- rounded by a multitude. Below them on the visioned Field of Mars, huge brazen-footed bulls were breathing forth from adamantine nostrils living flames, blasting the verdant herbage in their path!
As forges glowing with hot flames resound, or as much quick-lime, burnt in earthen kilns, crackles and hisses as if mad with rage, sprinkled with water, liberating heat; so their hot throats and triple-heated sides, resounding told of pent-up fires within.
The son of Aeson went to meet them. As he came to meet them the fierce animals turned on him faces terrible, and sharp horns tipped with iron, and they pawed the dusty earth with cloven feet, and filled the place with fiery bellowings. The Minyans were stark with fear; he went up to the bulls not feeling their hot breath at all, so great the power of his charmed drugs; and while he was stroking their down-hanging dewlaps with a fearless hand, he placed the yoke down on their necks and made them draw the heavy plow, and cut through fields that never felt the steel before. The Colchians were amazed and silent; but the loud shouting of the Minyans increased their hero’s courage. Taking then the serpent’s teeth out of a brazen helmet he sowed them broadcast in the new-plowed field.
The moist earth softened these seeds that were steeped in virulent poison and the teeth swelled up and took new forms. And just as in its mother an infant gradually assumes the form of man, and is perfected through all parts within, and does not come forth to the light till fully formed; so, when the forms of men had been completed in the womb of earth made pregnant, they rose up from it, and what is yet more wonderful, each one clashed weap- ons that had been brought forth with him.
When his companions saw the warriors turn as if with one accord, to hurl their spears, sharp-pointed, at the head of Jason, fear unnerved the boldest and their courage failed. So, too, the maid whose sorcery had saved him from much danger, when she saw the youth encompassed by those raging enemies, and he alone against so many— struck with sudden panic, she turned ashen white, her bloodless cheeks were blanched; and chilled with fear she wilted to the ground; and lest the herbs, so lately given him, might fail his need she added incantations and invoked mysterious arts. While she protected him
He seized upon a heavy stone, and hurled it in the midst of his new enemies— distracted by this cast, and mur- derous, they turned from him, and clashing their new arms, those earth-born brothers fought among themselves till all were slaughtered in blood-thirsty strife.
Gladly the Greeks acclaimed him conqueror, and pressed around him for the first embrace. Then, too, Medea, barbarous Colchian maid, although her modesty restrained her heart, eagerly longed to fold him in her arms, but careful of her good name, held aloof,— rejoicing in deep, silent love; and she acknowledged to the Gods her mighty gift of incantations.
But the dragon, still alert,—magnificent and terrible with gorgeous crest and triple tongue, and fangs barbed as a javelin, guards the Golden Fleece: and Jason can obtain that quest only if slumber may seal up the monster’s eyes.—
Jason, successful, sprinkled on his crest Lethean juices of a magic herb, and then recited thrice the words which bring deep slumber, potent words which would becalm the storm-tossed ocean, and would stop the flow of the most rapid rivers of our earth: and slowly slumber sealed the dragon’s eyes.
While that great monster slept, the hero took the Golden Fleece; and proudly sailed away bearing his treasure and the willing maid, (whose aid had saved him) to his native port Iolcus—victorious with the Argonauts.
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Section 2 Aeson.
Rejuvenation of Aeson Now when the valiant Argonauts returned to Thessaly, their happy relatives, fathers and mothers, praised the
living Gods; and with their hallowed gifts enhanced the flames with precious incense; and they offered Jove a sacred bullock, rich with gilded horns.
But Jason’s father, Aeson, came not down rejoicing to behold his son, for now worn out with many years, he waited death. And Jason to Medea grieving said:
“Dearest, to whom my life and love are due, although your kindness has been great to me, and you have granted more than I should ask, yet one thing more I beg of you; if your enchantments can accomplish my desire, take from my life some years that I should live and add them to my father’s ending days.”— And as he spoke he could not check his tears.
Medea, moved by his affection, thought how much less she had grieved for her loved sire: and she replied:—“A wicked thing you ask! Can I be capable of using you in such a manner as to take your life and give it to another? Ask not me a thing so dreadful! May the Gods forbid!— I will endeavor to perform for you a task much greater. By the powers of Night I will most certainly return to him the lost years of your father, but must not deprive you of your own. — Oh grant the power, great goddess of the triple form, that I may fail not to accomplish this great deed!”
Three nights were wanting for the moon to join her circling horns and form a perfect orb. When these were passed, the rounded light shone full and bright upon the earth.—Through the still night alone, Medea stole forth from the house with feet bare, and in flowing garment clothed— her long hair unadorned and not confined. Deep slumber has relaxed the world, and all that’s living, animals and birds and men, and even the hedges and the breath- ing leaves are still—and motionless the laden air.
Only the stars are twinkling, and to them she looks and beckons with imploring hands. Now thrice around she paces, and three times besprinkles her long hair with water dipt from crystal streams, which having done she kneels a moment on the cold, bare ground, and screaming three times calls upon the Night,—
“O faithful Night, regard my mysteries! O golden-lighted Stars! O softly-moving Moon— genial, your fire succeeds the heated day! O Hecate! grave three-faced queen of these charms of enchanters and enchanters, arts! O fruitful Earth, giver of potent herbs! O gentle Breezes and destructive Winds! You Mountains, Rivers, Lakes and sacred Groves, and every dreaded god of silent Night! Attend upon me!—
“When my power commands, the rivers turn from their accustomed ways and roll far backward to their secret springs! I speak—and the wild, troubled sea is calm, and I command the waters to arise! The clouds I scatter—and I bring the clouds; I smooth the winds and ruffle up their rage; I weave my spells and I recite my charms; I pluck the fangs of serpents, and I move the living rocks and twist the rooted oaks; I blast the forests. Mountains at my word tremble and quake; and from her granite tombs the liberated ghosts arise as Earth astonished groans! From your appointed ways, O wonder-working Moon, I draw you down against the magic-making sound of gongs and brazen vessels of Temesa’s ore; I cast my spells and veil the jeweled rays of Phoebus’ wain, and quench Aurora’s fires.
“At my command you tamed the flaming bulls which long disdained to bend beneath the yoke, until they pressed their necks against the plows; and, subject to my will, you raised up war till the strong company of dragon-birth were slaughtered as they fought amongst themselves; and, last, you lulled asleep the warden’s eyes— guards of the Golden Fleece—till then awake and sleeping never—so, deceiving him, you sent the treasure to the Grecian cities!
“Witness my need of super-natured herbs, elixirs potent to renew the years of age, giving the bloom of youth.— You shall not fail to grant me this; for not in vain the stars are flashing confirmation; not in vain the flying dragons, harnessed by their necks, from skies descending bring my chariot down.”
A chariot, sent from heaven, came to her— and soon as she had stroked the dragons’ necks, and shaken in her hands the guiding reins— as soon as she had mounted, she was borne quickly above, through unresisting air. And, sailing over Thessaly, she saw the vale of Tempe, where the level soil is widely covered with a crumbling chalk— she turned her dragons towards new regions there: and she observed the herbs by Ossa born, the weeds on lofty Pelion, Othrys, Pindus and vast Olympus—and from here she plucked the needed roots, or there, the blossoms clipped all with a moon-curved sickle made of brass— many the wild weeds by Apidanus, as well as blue Amphrysus’ banks, she chose, and not escaped Enipeus from her search; Peneian stretches and Spercheian banks all yielded what she chose:—and Boebe’s shore where sway the rushes; and she plucked up grass, a secret grass, from fair Euboean fields
life-giving virtues in their waving blades, as yet unknown for transformation wrought on Glaucus. All those fields she visited, with ceaseless diligence in quest of charms, nine days and nine nights sought strong
herbs, and the swift dragons with their active wings, failed not to guide the chariot where she willed— until they reached her home. The dragons then had not been even touched by anything, except the odor of surrounding herbs, and yet they sloughed their skins, the growth of years.
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She would not cross the threshold of her home nor pass its gates; but, standing in the field, alone beneath the canopy of Heaven, she shunned all contact with her husband, while she built up from the ever-living turf two altars, one of which upon the right to Hecate was given, but the one upon the left was sacred then to you, O Hebe, goddess of eternal youth!
Festooning woodland boughs and sweet vervain adorned these altars, near by which she dug as many trenches. Then, when all was done, she slaughtered a black ram, and sprinkled with blood the thirsty trenches; after which she poured from rich carchesian goblets generous wine and warm milk, grateful to propitious Gods— the Deities of earth on whom she called— entreating, as she did so, Pluto, lord of ghostly shades, and ravished Proserpine, that they should not, in undue haste, deprive her patient’s aged limbs of life.
When certain she compelled the God’s regard, assured her incantations and long prayers were both approved and heard, she bade her people bring out the body of her father-in-law— old Aeson’s worn out body—and when she had buried him in a deep slumber by her spells, as if he were a dead man, she then stretched him out upon a bed of herbs.
She ordered Jason and his servants thence, and warned them not to spy upon her rites, with eyes profane. As soon as they retired, Medea, with disheveled hair and wild abandon, as a Bacchanalian, paced times three around the blazing altars, while she dipped her torches, splintered at the top, into the trenches, dark: with blood, and lit the dipt ends in the sacred altar flames. Times three she purified the ancient man with flames, and thrice with water, and three times with sulphur,—as the boiling mixture seethed and bubbled in the brazen cauldron near.
And into this, acerbic juices, roots, and flowers and seeds—from vales Hemonian— and mixed elixirs, into which she cast stones of strange virtue from the Orient, and sifted sands of ebbing ocean’s tide; white hoar-frost, gathered when the moon was full, the nauseating flesh and luckless wings of the uncanny screech-owl, and the entrails from a mysterious animal that changed from wolf to man, from man to wolf again; the scaly sloughing of a water-snake, the medic liver of a long-lived stag, and the hard beak and head of an old crow which was alive nine centuries before; these, and a thousand nameless things the foreign sorceress prepared and mixed, and blended all together with a branch of peaceful olive, old and dry with years. — And while she stirred the withered olive branch in the hot mixture, it began to change from brown to green; and presently put forth new leaves, and soon was heavy with a wealth of luscious olives.—As the ever-rising fire threw bubbling froth beyond the cauldron’s rim, the ground was covered with fresh verdure — flowers and all luxuriant grasses, and green plants.
Medea, when she saw this wonder took her unsheathed knife and cut the old man’s throat; then, letting all his old blood out of him she filled his ancient veins with rich elixir. As he received it through his lips or wound, his beard and hair no longer white with age, turned quickly to their natural vigor, dark and lustrous; and his wasted form renewed, appeared in all the vigor of bright youth, no longer lean and sallow, for new blood coursed in his well-filled veins.—Astonished, when released from his deep sleep, and strong in youth, his memory assured him, such he was years four times ten before that day!—
Bacchus, from his celestial vantage saw this marvel, and convinced his nurses might then all regain their former vigor, he pled with Medea to restore their youth. The Colchian woman granted his request.
Section 3 Pelias.
Medea and Pelias but so her malice might be satisfied Medea feigned she had a quarrel with her husband, and for safety she had
fled to Pelias. There, since the king himself was heavy with old age, his daughters gave her generous reception. And these girls the shrewd Medea in a short time won, by her false show of friendliness; and while among the most remarkable of her achievements she was telling how she had rejuvenated Aeson, and she dwelt particularly, on that strange event, these daughters were induced to hope that by some skill like this their father might regain his lost youth also. And they begged of her this boon, persuading her to name the price; no matter if it was large. She did not reply at once and seemed to hesitate, and so she held their fond minds in a deep suspense by her feigned med- itation. When she had at length declared she would restore his youth, she said to them: “That you may have strong confidence in this my promised boon, the oldest leader of your flock of sheep shall be changed to a lamb again by my prized drugs.”
Straightway a wooly ram, worn out with length of untold years was brought, his great horns curved around his hollow temples. After she had cut his scrawny throat with her sharp knife Thessalian, barely staining it with his thin blood, Medea plunged his carcass in a bronze-made kettle, throwing in it at the same time juices of great potency. These made his body shrink and burnt away his two horns, and with horns his years. And now thin bleating was heard from within the pot; and even while they wondered at the sound, a lamb jumped out and frisking, ran away to find some udder with its needed milk.
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Amazed the daughters looked on and, now that these promises had been performed, they urged more eagerly their first request. Three times Phoebus unyoked his steeds after their plunge in Ebro’s stream, and on the fourth night stars shown brilliant on the dark foil of the sky, and then the treacherous daughter of Aeetes set some clear water over a hot fire and put in it herbs of no potency. And now a death-like sleep held the king down, his body all relaxed, and with the king his guards, a sleep which incantations with the potency of magic words had given.
The sad king’s daughters, as they had been bid, were in his room, and with Medea stood around his bed. “Why do you hesitate,” Medea said. “You laggards, come and draw your swords; let out his old blood that I may refill his empty veins again with young blood. In your hands your father’s life and youth are resting. You, his daughters, must have love for him, and if the hopes you have are not all vain, come, do your duty by your father; drive out old age at the point of your good weapons; and let out his blood enfeebled—cure him with the stroke of iron.”
Spurred on by these words, as each one of them was filial she became the leader in the most unfilial act, and that she might not be most wicked did the wicked deed. Not one could bear to see her own blows, so they turned their eyes away; and every face averted so, they blindly struck him with their cruel hands. The old man streaming with his blood, still raised himself on elbow, and half mangled tried to get up from his bed; with all those swords around him, he stretched out his pale arms and he cried: “What will you do, my daughters? What has armed you to the death of your loved father?” Their wrong courage left them, and their hands fell. When he would have said still more, Medea cut his throat and plunged his mangled body into boiling water.
Section 4 Medeae fuga.
Only because her winged dragons sailed swiftly with her up to the lofty sky, escaped Medea punishment for this unheard of crime.
Her chariot sailed above embowered Pelion—long the lofty home of Chiron—over Othrys, and the vale made famous where Cerambus met his fate. Cerambus, by the aid of nymphs, from there was wafted through the air on wings, when earth was covered by the overwhelming sea— and so escaped Deucalion’s flood, uncrowned.
She passed by Pittane upon the left, with its huge serpent-image of hard stone, and also passed the grove called Ida’s, where the stolen bull was changed by Bacchus’ power into a hunted stag—in that same vale Paris lies buried in the sand; and over fields where Mera warning harked, Medea flew; over the city of Eurypylus upon the Isle of Cos, whose women wore the horns of cattle when from there had gone the herd of Hercules; and over Rhodes beloved of Phoebus, where Telchinian tribes dwelt, whose bad eyes corrupting power shot forth;— Jove, utterly despising, thrust them deep beneath his brother’s waves; over the walls of old Carthaea, where Alcidamas had seen with won- der a tame dove arise from his own daughter’s body.
And she saw the lakes of Hyrie in Teumesia’s Vale, by swans frequented—There to satisfy his love for Cycnus, Phyllius gave two living vultures: shell for him subdued a lion, and delivered it to him; and mastered a great bull, at his command; but when the wearied Phyllius refused to render to his friend the valued bull. Indignant, the youth said, “You shall regret your hasty words;” which having said, he leaped from a high precipice, as if to death; but gliding through the air, on snow-white wings, was changed into a swan—Dissolved in tears, his mother Hyrie knew not he was saved; and weeping, formed the lake that bears her name.
And over Pleuron, where on trembling wings escaped the mother Combe from her sons, Medea flew; and over the far isle Calauria, sacred to Latona.—She beheld the conscious fields whose lawful king, together with his queen were changed to birds.
Upon her right Cyllene could be seen; there Menephon, degraded as a beast, outraged his mother. In the dis- tance, she beheld Cephisius, who lamented long his hapless grandson, by Apollo changed into a bloated sea-calf. And she saw the house where king Eumelus mourned the death of his aspiring son.—Borne on the wings of her enchanted dragons, she arrived at Corinth, whose inhabitants, ‘tis said, from many mushrooms, watered by the rain sprang into being.
There she spent some years. But after the new wife had been burnt by the Colchian witchcraft and two seas had seen the king’s own palace all aflame, then, savagely she drew her sword, and bathed it in the blood of her own in- fant sons; by which atrocious act she was revenged; and she, a wife and mother, fled the sword of her own husband, Jason.
Medea amd Aegeus On the wings of her enchanted Titan Dragons borne, she made escape, securely, nor delayed until she entered
the defended walls of great Minerva’s city, at the hour when aged Periphas—transformed by Jove, together with his queen, on eagle wings flew over its encircling walls: with whom the guilty Halcyone, skimming seas safely escaped, upon her balanced wings.
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And after these events, Medea went to Aegeus, king of Athens, where she found protection from her enemies for all this evil done. With added wickedness Aegeus, after that, united her to him in marriage.—
Book 8 Section 2
Labyrinthus. Ariadnes corona. Minos and the Minotaur
King Minos, when he reached the land of Crete and left his ships, remembered he had made a vow to Jupiter, and offered up a hundred bulls.—The splendid spoils of war adorned his palace.— Now the infamous reproach of Crete had grown, till it exposed the double-natured shame. So, Minos, moved to cover his disgrace, resolved to hide the monster in a prison, and he built with intricate design, by Daedalus contrived, an architect of wonderful ability, and famous. This he planned of mazey wanderings that deceived the eyes, and labyrinthic passages involved. So sports the clear Maeander, in the fields of Phrygia winding doubtful; back and forth it meets itself, until the wandering stream fatigued, impedes its wearied waters’ flow; from source to sea, from sea to source involved. So Daedalus contrived innumerous paths, and windings vague, so intricate that he, the architect, hardly could retrace his steps. In this the Minotaur was long concealed, and there devoured Athenian victims sent three seasons, nine years each, till Theseus, son of Aegeus, slew him and retraced his way, finding the path by Ariadne’s thread. Without delay the victor fled from Crete, together with the loving maid, and sailed for Dia Isle of Naxos, where he left the maid forlorn, abandoned. Her, in time, lamenting and deserted, Bacchus found and for his love immortalized her name. He set in the dark heavens the bright crown that rested on her brows. Through the soft air it whirled, while all the sparkling jewels changed to flashing fires, assuming in the sky between the Serpent-holder and the Kneeler the well-known shape of Ariadne’s Crown.
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Brown, Larry A. Mahabharata: The Great Epic of India. Larry A. Brown. Feb. 2000. Web. 23 Jan. 2015.
The Bhagavad Gita. Trans. Edwin Arnold. Internet Sacred Text Archive. n.d. Web. 23 Jan. 2015.
The Shi King, the Old “Poetry Classic” of the Chinese. Trans. William Jennings. Online Library of Liberty. n.d. Web. 19 May 2015. Cartwright, M. “Sophocles.” Ancient History Encyclopedia. Pub. 29 Sept. 2013. Web. 30 Jan. 2015.
-----. “Greek Tragedy.” Ancient History Encyclopedia. Pub. 16 March 2013. Web. 30 Jan. 2015.
“Confucianism.” Encyclopædia Britannica. Encyclopædia Britannica Online Academic Edition. Encyclopædia Bri- tannica Inc., 2015. Web. 30 Jan. 2015.
Confucius. “Confucian Analects.” The Chinese Classics. Trans. James Legge. Internet Sacred Text Archive. n.d. Web. 30 Sept. 2014.
The Epic of Gilgamesh. Trans. R. Campbell Thompson. Internet Sacred Text Archive. n.d. Web. 19 May 2015.
The Epic of Gilgamesh. Trans. William Muss-Arnolt. New York: D. Appleton and Co., 1901. Print. Euripedes. Medea. Trans. E. Coleridge. Elpenor. n.d. Web. 19 May 2015.
“Exodus.” The American Standard Version Bible. Internet Sacred Text Archive. n.d. Web. 30 Sept. 2014.
“Exodus.” The King James Bible. University of Michigan Digital Collections. 18 Feb. 1997. Web. 30 Sept. 2014.
“Genesis.” The American Standard Version Bible. Internet Sacred Text Archive. n.d. Web. 30 Sept. 2014.
“Genesis.” The King James Bible. University of Michigan Digital Collections. 18 Feb. 1997. Web. 30 Sept. 2014.
Homer. The Iliad. Trans. Samuel Butler. The University of Adelaide. 26 Apr. 2015. Web. 19 May 2015.
-----. The Odyssey. Trans. Samuel Butler. The University of Adelaide. 26 Apr. 2015. Web. 19 May 2015. “JEDP Theo- ry.” Theopedia. 4 Oct. 2014. Web. 30 Jan. 2015.
Lloyd, J. “Homer.” Ancient History Encyclopedia. Pub. 19 June 2013. Web. 30 Jan. 2015.
The Mahabharata. Trans. Kisari Mohan Ganguli. Internet Sacred Text Archive. n.d. Web. 23 Jan. 2015.
Mark, J. J. “Bible.” Ancient History Encyclopedia. Pub. 2 Sept. 2009. Web. 19 Feb. 2015.
-----. “Gilgamesh.” Ancient History Encyclopedia. Pub. 13 Oct. 2010. 19 Feb. 2015.
-----. “Sun-Tzu.” Ancient History Encyclopedia. 4 Jan. 2013. Web. 19 Feb. 2015.
Legge, James. The Chinese Classics: Translated into English with Preliminary Essays and Explanatory Notes. Online Library of Liberty. n.d. Web. 19 May 2015.
“Mencius (Chinese philosopher).” Encyclopædia Britannica. Encyclopædia Britannica Online Academic Edition. Encyclopædia Britannica Inc., 2015. Web. 19 Feb. 2015.
“Mencius (Chinese text).” Encyclopædia Britannica. Encyclopædia Britannica Online Academic Edition. Ency- clopædia Britannica Inc., 2015. Web. 19 Feb. 2015.
Ovid. The Metamorphoses. Trans. Brookes More. Perseus Digital Library. n.d. Web 12 June 2015.
Sandars, N. K. The Epic of Gilgamesh. Penguin: 1960. Print.
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Sophocles. Oedipus Tyrannus (Oedipus the King). Trans. DW Myatt. The Internet Archive. n.d. Web. 19 May 2015.
Giles, Lionel. Sun Tzu On The Art Of War: The Oldest Military Treatise In The World. 14 Jan. 2012. Web. 30 Sept. 2014.
Valmiki, The Ramayana. Trans. Ralph T. H. Griffith. n.d. Web. 30 Sept. 2014.
Rabb, Kate Milner. “The Story of the Ramayana.” National Epics. n.d. Web. 30 Sept. 2014.
Virgil. The Aeneid. Ed. David Widger. 10 Mar. 2008. Web. 12 June 2015.
“Zhuangzi.” Encyclopædia Britannica. Encyclopædia Britannica Online Academic Edition. Encyclopædia Britannica Inc., 2015. Web. 9 Feb. 2015.
Zhuangzi. The Writings of Chuang Tzu. Trans. James Legge. Chinese Text Project. n.d. Web. 23 Jan. 2015.
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UrL Links for original Texts: Note: Items marked with * indicate that due to sources terms, we cannot post the direct link. *The Aeneid
Google search: The Aeneid
The Analects http://sacred-texts.com/cfu/
*The Art of War Google search: The Art of War
The Bhagavad Gita http://www.sacred-texts.com/hin/gita/agsgita.htm
The Book of Songs http://oll.libertyfund.org/titles/2109
The Epic of Gilgamesh http://www.sacred-texts.com/ane/eog/eog03.htm
The King James Bible http://quod.lib.umich.edu/k/kjv/browse.html http://www.sacred-texts.com/bib/asv/index.htm
The Iliad https://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/h/homer/h8i/index.html
The Mahabharata http://www.sacred-texts.com/hin/maha/index.htm http://larryavisbrown.homestead.com/files/xeno.mahabsynop.htm
Medea http://www.ellopos.net/elpenor/greek-texts/ancient-greece/euripides/medea.asp
The Metamorphoses http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/text?doc=Perseus:text:1999.02.0028
The Mother of Mencius http://oll.libertyfund.org/titles/2269
The Odyssey https://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/h/homer/h8o/
Oedipus https://archive.org/details/Sophocles-OedipusTyrannus
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*The Ramayana Google search: The Ramayana
The Zhuangzi http://ctext.org/zhuangzi
UrL Links for Images: Image 1.1 Map of Mesopotamia
https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Karte_Mesopotamien.png
Image 1.2 City of Uruk https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:City_context.svg
Image 1.3 Eanna District of Uruk https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Eanna4composite.svg
Image 1.4 Anu District of Uruk https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Anu_district.svg
Image 1.5 Uruk in 2008 https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Uruk_Archaealogical_site_at_Warka,_Iraq_MOD_45156521.jpg
Image 1.6 Mesopotamia in 2nd Millennium BC https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Meso2mil-English.JPG
Image 1.7 The Flood Tablet http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:British_Museum_Flood_Tablet.jpg#/media/File:British_Museum_ Flood_Tablet.jpg
Image 1.8 Gilgamesh Statue http://pt.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gilgamesh#/media/File:Gilgamesh_statue.jpg
Image 1.9 Seated Euripides https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Seated_Euripides_Louvre_Ma343.jpg
Image 1.10 Medea https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:De_Morgan_Medea.jpg
Image 1.11 Sophocles http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Sophocles_pushkin.jpg
Image 1.12 Oedipus https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Oedipus.jpg
Image 2.1 The Teaching Confucius https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Confucius_Tang_Dynasty.jpg
Image 2.2 Bamboo Book-Binding https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Bamboo_book_-_binding_-_UCR.jpg
Image 2.3 Mencius https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Mencius.jpg
Image 2.4 Zhuangzi Butterfly Dream https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Zhuangzi-Butterfly-Dream.jpg
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Appendix
Image 3.1 Wood Carving of a Scene from the Mahabharata https://www.flickr.com/photos/thaths/1848538112/in/photolist-3PmeYL-5QGocp-7R6ick-81UPiZ-cH48qq-
Image 3.2 The Battle of Kurukshetra https://www.flickr.com/photos/76104785@N00/6985294258/in/photolist-bDgsBU-qGjSzC-qGtKTc-cNxph- qHaLNu-qZEGYW-4af4pH-qZtbza-r1RUpd-xGmkn-anuiDx-nzqk78-nhVDTc-nhVEzx-7oMSn2-5HXW- Mc-4aj7C1-cNw2e-5Ek3uu-nxMeCY-5gjEsR-aCfGYa-aGpg9n-4aj7CU-4aj7H9-5HXWwD-5FRk1B-56ojGQ- 5J3dsy-5J3dj1-5Ja6WC-nhVHbN-978zUY-4aj7uS-37uRnz-5FLRve-5FR4pS-nhVyhV-nBccA8-5EfDdk- 4TD1Hh-5FVxn9-5FVyjQ-5FLPor-6QAAPr-5FVysb-5FLMr2-5FLP98-5QLHRE-q5y6qh/
Image 3.3 Fight with Ghatotkacha http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Fight_with_Ghatotkacha,_Scene_From_the_Story_of_Babhruvaha- na,_Folio_from_a_Mahabharata_((War_of_the)_Great_Bharatas)_LACMA_M.82.234.4.jpg
Image 3.4 Cloth Printed with Human Figures from the Ramayana Epic http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:COLLECTIE_TROPENMUSEUM_Doek_eenzijdig_bedrukt_met_ mensfiguren_uit_het_Ramayana_epos_TMnr_H-69.jpg
Image 3.5 Jor Bangla Temple (Ramayana Motifs) http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Jor_Bangla_Temple_(Ramayana_motifs)_Arnab_Dutta_2011.JPG
Image 3.6 Battle Scene in a City http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Battle_Scene_in_a_City,_Folio_from_a_Ramayana_(Adventures_of_ Rama)_LACMA_M.85.228.jpg
Image 4.1 Augustus http://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/imgsrv/download/pdf ?id=osu.32435020155099;orient=0;size=175;seq=6;attach- ment=0
Image 4.2 Mural in Pompeii https://www.flickr.com/photos/kjfnjy/14637894185/in/photolist-8bkC5u-5en93H-
Image 4.3 Deification of Caesar https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Virgil_Solis_-_Deification_Caesar.jpg
Image 4.5 Apollo and Daphne https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Antonio_del_Pollaiolo_Apollo_and_Daphne.jpg
Image 4.4 Ovidius Metamorphosis https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ovid#/media/File:Ovidius_Metamorphosis_-_George_Sandy%27s_1632_edition.jpg
WORLD l i t e r a t u r e
Compact Anthology of
Pa r t T w o T h e M i d d l e A g e s
Editor-in-Chief: laura Getty, PhD
Co-Editor: KyounGhye Kwon, PhD
Dahlonega, GA
Compact Anthology of World Literature is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non- Commercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.
This license allows you to remix, tweak, and build upon this work, even commercially, as long as you credit this original source for the creation and license the new creation under identical terms.
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NOTE: The above copyright license which University System of Georgia uses for their original content does not extend to or include content which was accessed and incorporated, and which is licensed under various other CC Licenses, such as ND licenses. Nor does it extend to or include any Special Permissions which were granted to us by the rightsholders for our use of their content. To determine copyright status of any content please refer to the bibliographies and appendices for original source information to further research specific copyright licenses.
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ISBN: 978-1-940771-22-9
This title is a product of a Complete College Georgia grant.
Produced by: University System of Georgia
Published by: University of North Georgia Press Dahlonega, Georgia
Cover Design and Layout Design: Corey Parson
For more information, please visit http://ung.edu/university-press Or email [email protected]
T a b l e o f C o n t e n t s Chapter 5: europe 5
6 12 41 56
202 211 250
The Parliament of Birds The Canterbury Tales The Decameron The Divine Comedy The Lais of Marie de France Lancelot, the Knight of the Cart The Song of the Cid The Travels of Marco Polo 281
Chapter 6: Middle east 317 318 323 348 352
The Rose Garden (Golestan or Gulistan) of Sa’di The Quran Rumi’s Divani Shamsi Tabriz and Masnavi Shahnameh The Thousand and One Nights 402
Chapter 7: China 423 424Li Bo, selected poems
The Romance of the Three Kingdoms 428
Chapter 8: Japan 495 496Noh plays (“Atsumori,” “Ikuta,” and “Tsunemasa”)
The Tale of Genji 517
Chapter 9: south asia 573 Tukaram, selected poems 574
597BiBliography
appendix 600
Acknowledgements This anthology is the product of a Complete College Georgia grant, and I would like to thank the Board of Re-
gents of the University System of Georgia for making this project possible. Many individuals at the University Press of North Georgia worked long hours on various aspects of the anthology, and I appreciate their time and effort; in particular, I would like to thank Corey Parson, managing editor, for her professionalism and support during this long process. Terri E. Bell, senior library assistant/ copyright compliance at UNG-Dahlonega, had the vital job of checking copyrights and researching the public domain content for this open access project, and I am grateful for her hard work and dedication.
Written by Editor-in-Chief Laura J. Getty, Ph.D.
A large part of my portion of this textbook came to fruition while time-traveling with my World Literature I students to familiar and unfamiliar places in the Ancient, Middle Ages, and Renaissance periods. I am first grate- ful for those students’ participation and insights, and I give special thanks to Dr. Joyce Stavick, head of the English Department at UNG, who kindly arranged for me to teach those classes during the time of my writing. This text- book could not have been made possible without our past, present, and future students who are willing to take the journey to different parts of the world in different times.
Important acknowledgments go to the Complete College Georgia Grant that critically funded this project. I also express my sincere gratitude to Dr. B. J. Robinson, director of the university press, for her thoughtful leader- ship, Dr. Deborah Prosser, dean of libraries, for providing helpful feedback, and Terri E. Bell, senior library assis- tant, for her extensive work on public domain research and copyright compliance, as well as to the anonymous peer-reviewers. My gratitude also goes to Dr. Laura Getty, editor-in-chief, with her seasoned teaching experience and broad knowledge. I am also grateful to Corey Parson, managing editor, Amy Beard, assistant managing editor, and Matthew Pardue, project editor, for their tireless work. Last but not least, I thank my family for their support and understanding during the time I spent on this project.
Despite multiple examinations of this textbook, there may be errors and areas of improvement. Fortunately, this online textbook can be periodically updated. I hope that this textbook will be of good use to students and teachers alike.
Written by Co-editor Kyounghye Kwon, Ph.D.
Introduction
i
Reading about any culture foreign to one’s own tends to create a form of culture shock in the reader. In a world literature class, students frequently face texts that are completely unfamiliar to them, and the typical culture shock reactions set in. We tend not to like things that we do not understand, in part because we do not like the feeling of not knowing something. I have had students complain that they did not “like” a story before we discussed it in class, and then the same students decide after the class discussion that they now like it. Again, understanding and liking go hand in hand. Give the literature a chance; something that might not make sense at first may end up being one of your favorite stories after finding a way to approach it.
That being said, whether students like a story is not the point of reading that text in a literature class. We read literature in these classes to learn something. It is a nice addition to the experience if students like the works, but we can read and analyze texts that we do not enjoy just as effectively as the ones we do: In some cases, it is actually easier. Critical thinking comes from taking something that is unfamiliar, breaking it down into manageable chunks of infor- mation, fitting it back together, and using the experience to replicate the process in other situations in the future.
A literature class is, of course, a perfect place to learn critical thinking skills. When interpreting a text, pre- tend that you are a lawyer in a courtroom arguing a case. Not all cases have smoking guns; most are won or lost on circumstantial evidence alone. The interpretation needs to be based primarily on evidence from the text; therefore, there can be more than one possible approach, but some interpretations can be wrong if there is no support in the text for the generalizations that the student uses. Evidence is the key; based on what the text tells us, what do we actually know? Expert opinions (secondary sources) may help, but remember that both sides in a court case usually can call some expert who will agree with them. Authorial intention is not entirely out of bounds in such an argu- ment, but it operates on the same principles: What can we actually argue, based on the evidence? For instance, any knowledge of Hemingway’s personal history makes it unlikely that the story “Soldier’s Home” could be interpreted as unsupportive of soldiers. Alternately, there are cases when the author’s life is of little or no help. Faulkner refused to tell an interviewer what the meaning of “A Rose for Emily” was, preferring perhaps that the reader not be limited by a simple (or simplistic) explanation of meaning.
In every interpretation, remember to distinguish between the views of the original audience and the views of the modern reader. While a text may remind students about their grandfathers, that association does not often help when interpreting a story written by someone years ago who did not know their grandfather. (It may, of course, help students interpret their interpretations, but, except for the very best reader response theorists out there, that approach is more commonly found in a different field of study.) If the story is about a grandfather in ancient Greece, the com- parison with their grandfather would be most useful if it helped focus them on what the characters in that time period in Greek society thought about grandfathers (or treated them, or talked to them, etc.) back then that is similar to or different from modern expectations. In other words, what does the work tell us about the expectations of the original audience? Without at least a solid guess about what the original audience thought about the work, it is impossible to discuss whether the author is writing something that conforms to society’s expectations or argues against them, let alone what the original audience was expected to learn from the story, or how it expected to be entertained.
The expectations of the audience bring us full circle to the issue of culture shock once again. Students in U.S. universities often feel more comfortable with American or British literature, since the K-12 school system in the U.S. usually emphasizes those works. Even if some students have not lived through the 1960s in the U.S., there is still a sense of familiarity to students raised in the U.S., although they might not understand as much of the deeper social context as they think they do. A world literature class may be the first place that some students have encoun- tered European works, let alone non-Western texts. The emphasis in this anthology, therefore, is on non-Western and European works, with only the British authors who were the most influential to European and non-Western au- thors (such as Shakespeare, whose works have influenced authors around the world to the present day). In a world literature class, there is no way that a student can be equally familiar with all of the societies, contexts, time periods, cultures, religions, and languages that they will encounter; even though the works presented here are translated,
Compact Anthology of World Literature
ii
students will face issues such as unfamiliar names and parts of the story (such as puns) that may not translate well or at all. Since these stories are rooted in their cultures and time periods, it is necessary to know the basic context of each work to understand the expectations of the original audience. The introductions in this anthology are meant to be just that: a basic overview of what students need to know before they begin reading, with topics that students can research further. An open access literature textbook cannot be a history book at the same time, but history is the great companion of literature: The more history students know, the easier it is for them to interpret literature.
These works can help students understand the present, as well. In an electronic age, with this text available to anyone with computer access around the world, it has never been more necessary to recognize and understand differences among nationalities and cultures. The literature in this anthology is foundational, in the sense that these works influenced the authors who followed them. For Western literature, it is necessary to know something about the Trojan War (and the Trojan Horse) to understand everything from literary references to them (for almost three thousand or so years) to why a computer virus would be named a “Trojan Horse” because of what it does. In India, the characters in the Mahabharata and the Ramayana still show up in regular conversations, and it would be im- possible to read modern Indian literature without a basic knowledge of these texts, which are referenced frequently. Chinese literature is infused with Confucian concepts, which influenced Chinese culture for thousands of years. These are just a few of the examples of why these texts are important to this day, and the introductions will explain the influence of each work.
A word to the instructor: The texts have been chosen with the idea that they can be compared and contrasted, using common themes. Rather than numerous (and therefore often random) choices of texts from various periods, these selected works are meant to make both teaching and learning easier. Students often learn better when there is a theme or a set of themes that they can use to make sense of the stories. For example, the differences among cul- tures and time periods in the definition of a hero are found throughout the anthology. As the time periods progress, the type of hero changes as well: warriors in the ancient world, knights and samurai in the medieval period, and soldiers in works set in the Renaissance. Many of the works examine the role of women in society, and each time period contains numerous works of social commentary. There are epics across world literature to compare, belief systems from the Greek pantheon of gods to Native American origin stories, and philosophical questions about ethical and moral behavior.
It is by comparing similar topics and themes that students are most easily able to see the significant differences in the cultures. If I ask students to discuss a work such as the Analects of Confucius, they often do not know where to begin or what to say. If I ask students to suggest what would happen if Gilgamesh were dropped into the environment of the Analects, they immediately see the problems: Gilgamesh is not a “gentleman” by Confucian standards, nor does he have the temperament to attract gentlemen retainers, who would expect courteous and proper behavior from him.
While cultural expectations are not universal, many of the themes found in these works are. Human beings have always cared about friendship, love, and finding their place in the world; we still read and watch stories of heroic journeys, bravery in its many forms, family relationships (good and bad), and the triumphs and tragedies of people who are not so different from ourselves.
As an example, the following assignment is one possible way to compare the texts in the Ancient World section.
Culture Shock Essay: take a character such as Achilles and place him in a story with a culture that would be completely foreign to him (such as the Mahabharata). How would he react to the people around him, and what would they think about him/his behavior? This topic could be mixed and matched: Hector in Gil- gamesh, Arjuna in the Aeneid, Aeneas in the Art of War, etc.
Again, by asking the students to compare cultures, it is easier for them to identify differences. Obviously, a similar type of essay would work in the medieval period and the Renaissance, and Ancient World texts could be compared to medieval or Renaissance texts as the term progresses.
A note about calendar systems: The anthology uses B.C.E. (Before Common Era) and C.E. (Common Era). As a world literature text, it seeks to be as inclusive as possible of belief systems around the world. Of course, the numbering system used comes from the Christian calendar’s B.C. (Before Christ) and A.D. (Anno Domini—in the year of our Lord); basically, Christianity is the determiner of what is Common Era and before. Since there needs to be a way of comparing time periods across these cultures, and today’s world uses the numbering system that stems from the Christian calendar, it is the system used throughout. It would be too unwieldy to use all of the relevant calendar systems, although it is worth noting to students that they exist. For instance, 2015 C.E. is the year 5776 in the Hebrew calendar, the year 4713 in the Chinese calendar, and 1436 in the Islamic calendar. For Hinduism, the current Epoch of this cycle of the universe (which is destroyed and remade numerous times) started in 3012 B.C.E., and the current Era in that Epoch started in 78 C.E. Obviously, it would be both difficult and confusing to employ more than one system.
T h e M i d d l e A g e s P a r t T w o
Compact Anthology of World Literature
iv
The term “Middle Ages” is primarily a Western construct: It is the middle because it comes between the Euro- pean Ancient World and the European Renaissance (also a Western construct, since it means the re-naissance, or rebirth, of ancient Greek and Roman ideals and literature). The European Renaissance was self-named by writers of that time (a fact that will be discussed in greater depth in the Renaissance section of this anthology), and they labeled everything that came between them and the Ancient Greeks and Romans as “the Middle Ages.” Renaissance writers in Europe had a vested interest in portraying that time period as somehow lesser than their own; as the readings in this section will demonstrate, there is nothing lesser about the works in this time period.
Some parts of the world have middle periods in their literature, but not with the same connotations as the European term. In China, for example, the Middle Period is considered the Golden Age of poetry, although the “middle” in this case means the middle of the dynastic period, which starts in 221 B.C.E. and ends in 1911 C.E. To the extent that the term itself means anything on a worldwide stage, it is used here to compare time periods in a chronological manner. Readers can see what is happening in literature in roughly the same times around the world.
In Japan, the Heian period (794-1185 C.E.) saw the flowering of Japanese literature. In the Japanese Imperial Court, men were expected to learn Chinese; aristocratic women, who were expected to write poetry and take part in the culture of the court, began writing in Japanese. The first novel in world literature dates to about 1000 C.E. and was written by Lady Murasaki Shikibu.
In China, Li Bo wrote some of the best poems of the Golden Age of poetry, while in the Middle East Jalal al-din Rumi wrote Persian poetry that is admired on a worldwide stage to this day. In Korea, sijo poetry flourished and continued to be a vibrant poetic form to the present.
Epics remained important in the medieval period, although in altered form. Dante wrote his Divine Comedy as Christian epic, playing on previous epic conventions. Ferdowsi’s Shahname includes an epic section, as well as mythological, heroic, and historical material. In many cases, epic literature was evolving into heroic literature. Previously, although scholars now believe that the Trojan War did happen, the events in the Iliad were the stuff of speculation, rather than history. In medieval times, both the Chinese Romance of the Three Kingdoms and the Span- ish Song of the Cid were based on historical events in recorded history. The characters in the Romance and the Cid are based on historical figures; they are the strongest, the smartest, and the best that humans can be, but they are nonetheless humans, without the supernatural characteristics of ancient world epic heroes.
In Europe, social commentaries and the role of women took on particular prominence in this time period. Both Dante’s and Chaucer’s works showcase those themes dramatically and insightfully. Marie de France and Boccaccio examine the workings of courtly love, often to comic effect, as does Chrétien de Troyes in a more serious tone.
For students: The works in this section are meant to be compared and contrasted. Consider the following questions while reading: • What is the definition of a hero for each society, and why? How do the heroes in The Romance of the Three
Kingdoms compare to the heroes in the Shahname and the Song of the Cid? How are they similar to or dif- ferent from earlier epic heroes?
• What is the definition of a leader for each society, and why? How is it/isn’t it different from the definition of a hero? How is leadership in the Golestan different from leadership in The Romance of the Three Kingdoms?
• What role does romantic love play in the medieval period? How are the romantic relationships in the works of Chaucer, Boccaccio, and Marie de France different from the romantic relationships in the Shahname and the Tale of Genji?
The texts also can be compared and contrasted with earlier time periods: • In what ways have the depictions of women changed from the ancient world to the medieval period? • How is an ancient world warrior different from and similar to a medieval knight? • How has the role of religion in these societies changed, especially where pantheons of gods have been re-
placed by monotheism in its various forms? • How do Li Bo’s poems continue and develop themes in earlier Chinese poetry? How are they similar to and
different from the Korean sijo in this section?
Written by Laura J. Getty
Europe 5
5
As mentioned in the introduction to Part Two, both the terms “the Middle Ages” and “the Renaissance” are spe- cifically European constructs. The European Renaissance was self-named, with writers in that time period identi- fying themselves as the “re-birth” (or re-naissance) of classical Greek and Roman ideals and literature. Everything between the classical world and their time period was referred to as the “middle”—or Middle Ages. The term, there- fore, should be taken with a grain of salt; obviously, to promote themselves, Renaissance writers were often harsh in their criticism of their immediate predecessors, as most new literary periods are to the previous literary period. To this day, popular culture in the West still has traces of the negative Renaissance attitude towards anything “medie- val.” European authors such as Dante would have been quite surprised (and indignant) to hear that he was part of a time period that supposedly was lesser than what followed. Since Dante’s Divine Comedy ranks among the best of world literature to this day, he would be justified in feeling that way.
In chronological terms, the Middle Ages in Europe traditionally are dated from the fall of Rome in 476 C.E. to the arrival of Columbus in North America in 1492 C.E. These dates are not exact, but they at least give us the gen- eral magnitude of the time period: roughly a thousand years. Within that stretch of time, scholars usually break the time into early, middle, and late periods of literature.
The selections in this chapter focus on the transformation of a hero and the role of courtly love in aristocrat- ic culture. There are still epic heroes, but now they are often knights (with different sets of concerns from ancient world warriors); in Dante, he takes the previous epic form even further by creating a Christian epic, with a hero who does not need to be a knight (or even all that brave, as long as he has divine help). There is a debate about whether courtly love ever existed outside of literature (or whether it actually inspired knights and ladies to act the way that they did in the stories), but the concept of courtly love drives many medieval stories. Historically, in aris- tocratic circles, marriage was almost exclusively a business transaction between families; your average knight might not have much chance of marrying the woman he loved, but (courtly love suggests) he might try to get her attention by performing brave deeds. In the most proper scenarios, he would serve her from afar, never expecting a reward for his attentions. It is that kind of courtly love that Cervantes would satirize during the Renaissance in Don Quix- ote. In more risqué scenarios, the knight might try to convince the (often married) lady to return his affections. Stories in the works of Chrétien de Troyes and Boccaccio play with that theme to both comic and dramatic effect. In the selections found here from Chaucer’s works, Chaucer makes it clear that he finds the whole concept of courtly love questionable (especially from the woman’s point of view) and sometimes outright objectionable. Dante distanc- es himself from his own background as a love poet, turning from earthly love to spiritual love in his writings; the lady he loves from afar (and with whom he never had a relationship) leads him to a love of God.
As you read, consider the following questions:
• How are medieval epic heroes (such as the Cid and Dante) different from and similar to the warriors of the ancient world?
• What kind of relationship do the heroes have to their societies, their leaders (rulers), their families, and their religion?
• How does the text approach courtly love, especially in terms of the behavior expected from knights and ladies? Does it support it or question it?
• What themes from the ancient world appear in the Middle Ages? In what ways are the stories a continua- tion of issues and concerns found in works from Part One?
• How has the role of religion changed in the stories, now that there are no pantheons of gods?
Written by Laura J. Getty
Compact Anthology of World Literature
6
THE PARLIAMENT OF BIRDS
Geoffrey Chaucer (ca. 1342- 1400 C.E.)
(ca. 1381-1382 C.E.) England
THE CANTERBURY TALES
Geoffrey Chaucer (ca. 1342-1400 C.E.)
(ca. 1387- 1400 C.E.) England
Geoffrey Chaucer’s influence on later British literature is difficult to overstate. The most important English writer before Shakespeare (who re-wrote Chaucer’s version of the Troilus and Criseyde story), Chaucer introduced new words into English (such as “cosmos”), and his stories draw on a wealth of previous authors, especially Ovid and Boccaccio. Unlike Shakespeare, Chaucer’s writing is often translated, since Middle English is substantially dif- ferent from even the Early Modern English of Shakespeare. The selections in this anthology are focused on a single theme: Chaucer’s revisionist, revolutionary approach to courtly love. Courtly love poetry often focuses on the male perspective exclusively; the female is the object to be obtained, and she usually is not given a voice (or, ultimately, a choice) in the matter. The Parliament of Birds (also called The Parliament of Fowles) gives the female a voice, if not necessarily a choice, while the General Prologue to The Canterbury Tales offers, among many other things, a satirical look at how courtly love can be misused: The Prioress and the Monk are only two examples. The Wife of Bath’s Tale and The Franklin’s Tale both offer fascinating alternatives to the regular courtly love scenario, while The Miller’s Tale is a mocking revision of the genre by the Miller, who is responding to the story of courtly love that had just been told by the Knight.
Written by Laura J. Getty
Chaucer: Parliament of Fowls
[The Parliament of Birds]
Geoffrey Chaucer, Translated by Gerald NeCastro
The life so brief, the art so long in the learning, the attempt so hard, the conquest so sharp, the fearful joy that ever slips away so quickly—by all this I mean love, which so sorely astounds my feeling with its wondrous opera- tion, that when I think upon it I scarce know whether I wake or sleep. For albeit I know not love myself; nor how he pays people their wage, yet I have very often chanced to read in books of his miracles and his cruel anger there, surely, I read he will ever be lord and sovereign, and his strokes will be so heavy I dare say nothing but, “God save such a lord!” I can say no more.
Somewhat for pleasure and somewhat for learning I am in the habit of reading books, as I have told you. But why speak I of all this? Not long ago I chanced to look at a book, written in antique letters, and there I read very diligently and eagerly through the long day, to learn a certain thing. For, as men say, out of old fields comes all this new corn from year to year; and, in good faith, out of old books comes all this new knowledge that men learn. But now to my theme in this matter: it so delighted me to read on, that the whole day seemed to me rather short. This book of which I speak was entitled Tully on the Dream of Scipio. It had seven chapters, on heaven and hell and earth, and the souls that live in those places; about which I will tell you the substance of Tully’s opinion, as briefly as I can.
First the book tells how, when Scipio had come to Africa, he met Masinissa, who clasped him in his arms for joy. Then it tells their conversation and all the joy that was between them until the day began to end; and then how Scipio’s beloved ancestor Africanus appeared to him that night in his sleep. Then it tells how Africanus showed him Carthage from a starry place, and disclosed to him all his good fortune to come, and said to him that any man, learned or unlettered, who loves the common profit and is virtuous shall go to a blessed place where is joy without end. Then Scipio asked whether people that die here have life and dwelling elsewhere; and Africanus said, “Yes,
License: Copyright Gerard NeCastro
Image 5.1: The Works of Geoffrey Chau- cer Frontispiece | An intricately designed black and white frontispiece featuring ivy vines featuring the text “The Works of Geoffrey Chaucer now newly imprinted”
Author: Edward Burne-Jones Source: Archive.org License: Public Domain
7
The Parliament of Birds
without doubt,” and added that our space of life in the present world, whatever way we follow, is just a kind of death, and righteous people, after they die, shall go to heaven.
And he showed him the Milky Way, and the earth here, so little in comparison with the hugeness of the heavens; and after that he showed him the nine spheres. And then he heard the melody that proceeds from those nine spheres, which is the fount of music and melody in this world, and the cause of harmony. Then Africanus instructed him not to take delight in this world, since earth is so little and so full of torment and ill favor. Then he told him how in a certain term of years every star should come into its own place, where it first was; and all that has been done by all mankind in this world shall pass out of memory.
Then he asked Africanus to tell him fully the way to come into that heavenly happiness; and he said, “First know yourself to be immortal; and always see that you labor diligently and teach for the common profit, and you shall not fail to come speedily to that dear place that is full of joy and of bright souls. But breakers of the law, in truth, and lecherous folk, after they die, shall ever be whirled about the earth in torment, until many an age be passed; and then, all their wicked deeds forgiven, they shall come to that blessed region, to which may God send you His grace to come.”
The day began to end, and dark night, which withdraws beasts from their activity, bereft me of my book for the lack of light; and I set forth to my bed, full of brooding and anxious heaviness. For I both had that which I wished not and what I wished that I had not. But at last, wearied with all the day’s labor, my spirit took rest and heavily slept; and as I lay in my sleep, I dreamed how Africanus, in the very same guise in which Scipio saw him that time before, had come and stood at the very side of my bed. When the weary hunter sleeps, quickly his mind returns to the wood; the judge dreams how his cases fare, and the carter how his carts go; the rich dream of gold, the knight fights his foes; the sick man dreams he drinks of the wine
cask, the lover that he has his lady. I cannot say whether my reading of Africanus was the cause that I dreamed that he stood there; but thus he spoke, “You have done so well to look upon my old tattered book, of which Macrobius thought not a little, that I would requite you somewhat for your labor.”
Cytherea, you sweet, blessed lady, who with your fire-brand subdues whomsoever you wish, and sends me this dream, be my helper in this, for you are best able! As surely as I saw you in the north-northwest when I began to write my dream, so surely do you give me power to rhyme it and compose it!
This aforesaid Africanus took me from there and brought me out with him to a gate of a park walled with mossy stone; and over the gate on either side, carved in large letters, were verses of very diverse senses, of which I shall tell you the full meaning:
“Through me men go into that blessed place Where hearts find health and deadly wounds find cure, Through me men go unto the fount of Grace, Where green and lusty May shall ever endure. I lead men to blithe peace and joy secure. Reader, be glad; throw off your sorrows past. Open am I; press in and make haste fast.”
On the other side it said:
“Through me men go where all mischance betides, Where is the mortal striking of the spear, To which Disdain and Coldness are the guides, Where trees no fruit or leaf shall ever bear.
THE PARLIAMENT OF BIRDS
Geoffrey Chaucer (ca. 1342- 1400 C.E.)
(ca. 1381-1382 C.E.) England
THE CANTERBURY TALES
Geoffrey Chaucer (ca. 1342-1400 C.E.)
(ca. 1387- 1400 C.E.) England
Geoffrey Chaucer’s influence on later British literature is difficult to overstate. The most important English writer before Shakespeare (who re-wrote Chaucer’s version of the Troilus and Criseyde story), Chaucer introduced new words into English (such as “cosmos”), and his stories draw on a wealth of previous authors, especially Ovid and Boccaccio. Unlike Shakespeare, Chaucer’s writing is often translated, since Middle English is substantially dif- ferent from even the Early Modern English of Shakespeare. The selections in this anthology are focused on a single theme: Chaucer’s revisionist, revolutionary approach to courtly love. Courtly love poetry often focuses on the male perspective exclusively; the female is the object to be obtained, and she usually is not given a voice (or, ultimately, a choice) in the matter. The Parliament of Birds (also called The Parliament of Fowles) gives the female a voice, if not necessarily a choice, while the General Prologue to The Canterbury Tales offers, among many other things, a satirical look at how courtly love can be misused: The Prioress and the Monk are only two examples. The Wife of Bath’s Tale and The Franklin’s Tale both offer fascinating alternatives to the regular courtly love scenario, while The Miller’s Tale is a mocking revision of the genre by the Miller, who is responding to the story of courtly love that had just been told by the Knight.
Written by Laura J. Getty
Chaucer: Parliament of Fowls
[The Parliament of Birds]
Geoffrey Chaucer, Translated by Gerald NeCastro
The life so brief, the art so long in the learning, the attempt so hard, the conquest so sharp, the fearful joy that ever slips away so quickly—by all this I mean love, which so sorely astounds my feeling with its wondrous opera- tion, that when I think upon it I scarce know whether I wake or sleep. For albeit I know not love myself; nor how he pays people their wage, yet I have very often chanced to read in books of his miracles and his cruel anger there, surely, I read he will ever be lord and sovereign, and his strokes will be so heavy I dare say nothing but, “God save such a lord!” I can say no more.
Somewhat for pleasure and somewhat for learning I am in the habit of reading books, as I have told you. But why speak I of all this? Not long ago I chanced to look at a book, written in antique letters, and there I read very diligently and eagerly through the long day, to learn a certain thing. For, as men say, out of old fields comes all this new corn from year to year; and, in good faith, out of old books comes all this new knowledge that men learn. But now to my theme in this matter: it so delighted me to read on, that the whole day seemed to me rather short. This book of which I speak was entitled Tully on the Dream of Scipio. It had seven chapters, on heaven and hell and earth, and the souls that live in those places; about which I will tell you the substance of Tully’s opinion, as briefly as I can.
First the book tells how, when Scipio had come to Africa, he met Masinissa, who clasped him in his arms for joy. Then it tells their conversation and all the joy that was between them until the day began to end; and then how Scipio’s beloved ancestor Africanus appeared to him that night in his sleep. Then it tells how Africanus showed him Carthage from a starry place, and disclosed to him all his good fortune to come, and said to him that any man, learned or unlettered, who loves the common profit and is virtuous shall go to a blessed place where is joy without end. Then Scipio asked whether people that die here have life and dwelling elsewhere; and Africanus said, “Yes,
License: Copyright Gerard NeCastro
Image 5.1: The Works of Geoffrey Chau- cer Frontispiece | An intricately designed black and white frontispiece featuring ivy vines featuring the text “The Works of Geoffrey Chaucer now newly imprinted”
Author: Edward Burne-Jones Source: Archive.org License: Public Domain
Compact Anthology of World Literature
8
This stream shall lead you to the sorrowful weir Where fish in baleful prison lie all dry. To shun it is the only remedy.”
These inscriptions were written, the one in gold, the other in black, and I beheld them for a long while, for at the one my heart grew hardy, and the other ever increased my fear; the first warmed me, the other chilled me. For fear of error my wit could not make its choice, to enter or to flee, to lose myself or save myself. Just as a piece of iron set between two load-stones of equal force has no power to move one way or the other—for as much as one draws the other hinders.
So it fared with me, who knew not which would be better, to enter or not, until Africanus my guide caught and pushed me in at the wide gates, saying, “Your doubt stands written on your face, though you tell it not to me. But fear not to come in, for this writing is not meant for you or for any, unless he would be Love’s servant. For in love, I believe, you have lost your sense of taste, even as a sick man loses his taste of sweet and bitter. Nevertheless, dull though you may be, you can still look upon that which you cannot do; for many a man who cannot complete a bout is nevertheless pleased to be at a wrestling match, and judges whether one or another does better. And if you have skill to set it down, I will show you something to write about.”
With that he took my hand in his, from which I took comfort and quickly went in. But Lord, how glad and at ease I was! For everywhere I cast my eyes were trees clad, each according to its kind, with everlasting leaves in fresh color and green as emerald, a joy to behold: the builder oak, eke the hardy ash, the elm the pillar and the coffin for corpses, the boxwood for horns, the holly for whip-handles, the fir to bear sails, the cypress to mourn death, the yew the bow- man, the aspen for smooth shafts, the olive of peace, the drunken vine, the victor palm, and the laurel for divination.
By a river in a green meadow, where there is at all points so much sweetness, I saw a garden, full of blos- somy boughs, with white, blue, yellow and red flow- ers; and cold fountain-streams, not at all dead, full of small shining fish with red fins and silver-bright scales. On every bough I heard the birds sing with the voice of angels in their melody. Some busied them- selves to lead forth their young. The little bunnies hastened to play. Further on I noticed all about the timid roe, the buck, harts and hinds and squirrels and small beasts of gentle nature. I heard stringed instru- ments playing harmonies of such ravishing sweetness that God, Maker and Lord of all, never heard better, I believe. At the same time a wind, scarce could it have been gentler, made in the green leaves a soft noise which accorded with the song of the birds above. The air of that place was so mild that never was there discomfort for heat or cold. Every wholesome spice and herb grew there, and no person could age or sick- en. There was a thousand times more joy than man can tell. And it would never be night there, but ever bright day in every man’s eye.
I saw Cupid our lord forging and filing his arrows under a tree beside a spring, and his bow lay ready at his feet. And meanwhile his daughter well tempered the arrow-heads in the spring, and by her cunning she piled them after as they should serve, some to slay, some to wound and pierce. Just then I was aware of Pleasure and of Fair Array and Courtesy and Joy
Image 5.2: Parliament of Fowls | A black and white illustration of a man in robes looking at the parliament of fowls as they nest in a tree.
Author: Edward Burne-Jones Source: Archive.org License: Public Domain
9
The Parliament of Birds
and of Deception who has wit and power to cause a being to do folly—she was disguised, I deny it not. And under an oak, I believe, I saw Delight, standing apart with Gentle Breeding. I saw Beauty without any raiment; and Youth, full of sportiveness and jollity, Foolhardiness, Flattery, Desire, Message-sending and Bribery; and three others— their names shall not be told by me.
And upon great high pillars of jasper I saw a temple of brass strongly stand. About the temple many women were dancing ceaselessly, of whom some were beautiful themselves and some gay in dress; only in their kirtles they went, with hair unbound—that was forever their business, year by year. And on the temple I saw many hundred pairs of doves sitting, white and beautiful. Before the temple-door sat Lady Peace full gravely, holding back the curtain, and beside her Lady Patience, with pale face and wondrous discretion, sitting upon a mound of sand. Next to her were Promise and Cunning and a crowd of their followers within the temple and without.
Inside I heard a gust of sighs blowing about, hot as fire, engendered of longing, which caused every altar to blaze ever anew. And well I saw then that all the cause of sorrows that lovers endure is through the bitter goddess Jealousy. As I walked about within the temple I saw the god Priapus standing in sovereign station, his scepter in hand, and in such attire as when the ass confounded him to confusion with its outcry by night. People were busily setting upon his head garlands full of fresh, new flowers of various colors.
In a private corner I found Venus, who was noble and stately in her bearing, sporting with her porter Riches. The place was dark, but in time I saw a little light—it could scarcely have been less. Venus reposed upon a golden bed until the hot sun should seek the west. Her golden hair was bound with a golden thread, but all untressed as she lay. And one could see her naked from the breast to the head; the remnant, in truth, was well covered to my plea- sure with a filmy kerchief of Valence; there was no thicker cloth that could also be transparent. The place gave forth a thousand sweet odors. Bacchus, god of wine, sat beside her, and next was Ceres, who saves all from hunger, and, as I said, the Cyprian woman lay in the midst; on their knees two young people were crying to her to be their helper.
But thus I left her lying, and further in the temple I saw how, in scorn of Diana the chaste, there hung on the wall many a broken bow of such maidens as had first wasted their time in her service. And everywhere was painted many stories, of which I shall touch on a few, such as Callisto and Atalanta and many maidens whose name I do not know. There was also Semiramis, Candace, Hercules, Byblis, Dido, Thisbe and Pyramus, Tristram and Isolt, Paris, Achilles, Helen, Cleopatra, Troilus, and Scylla, and the mother of Romulus as well—all were portrayed on the other wall, and their love and by what plight they died.
When I had returned to the sweet and green garden that I spoke of, I walked forth to comfort myself. Then I noticed how there sat a queen who was exceeding in fairness over every other creature, as the brilliant summer sun passes the stars in brightness. This noble goddess Nature was set upon a flowery hill in a verdant glade. All her halls and bowers were wrought of branches according to the art and measure of Nature.
And there was not any bird that is created through procreation that was not ready in her presence to hear her and receive her judgment. For this was Saint Valentine’s day, when every bird of every kind that men can imagine comes to this place to choose his mate. And they made an exceedingly great noise; and earth and sea and the trees and all the lakes were so full that there was scarcely room for me to stand, so full was the entire place. And just as Alan, in The Complaint of Nature, describes Nature in her features and attire, so might men find her in reality.
This noble empress, full of grace, bade every bird take his station, as they were accustomed to stand always on Saint Valentine’s day from year to year. That is to say, the birds of prey were set highest, and then the little birds who eat, as nature inclines them, worms or other things of which I speak not; but water-fowls sat the lowest in the dale; and birds that live on seed sat upon the grass, so many that it was a marvel to see.
There one could find the royal eagle, that pierces the sun with his sharp glance; and other eagles of lower race, of which clerks can tell. There was that tyrant with dun gray feathers, I mean the goshawk, that harasses other birds with his fierce ravening. There was the noble falcon, that with his feet grasps the king’s hand; also the bold spar- row-hawk, foe of quails; the merlin, that often greedily pursues the lark. The dove was there, with her meek eyes; the jealous swan, that sings at his death; and the owl also, that forebodes death; the giant crane, with his trumpet voice; thieving chough; the prating magpie; the scornful jay; the heron, foe to eels; the false lapwing, full of trickery; the starling, that can betray secrets; the tame redbreast; the coward kite; the cock, timekeeper of little thorps; the sparrow, son of Venus; the nightingale, which calls forth the fresh new leaves; the swallow, murderer of the little bees which make honey from the fresh-hued flowers; the wedded turtle-dove, with her faithful heart; the peacock, with his shining angel-feathers; the pheasant, that scorns the cock by night; the vigilant goose; the cuckoo, ever unnatural; the popinjay, full of wantonness; the drake, destroyer of his own kind; the stork, that avenges adultery; the greedy, gluttonous cormorant; the wise raven and the crow, with voice of ill-boding; the ancient thrush and the wintry fieldfare.
What more shall I say? One might find assembled in that place before the noble goddess Nature birds of every sort in this world that have feathers and stature. And each by her consent worked diligently to choose or take gra- ciously his lady or his mate.
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But to the point: Nature held on her hand a formel eagle, the noblest in shape that she ever found among her works, the gentlest and goodliest; in her every noble trait so had its seat that Nature herself rejoiced to look upon her and to kiss her beak many times. Nature, vicar of the Almighty Lord, who has knit in harmony hot, cold, heavy, light, moist, and dry in exact proportions, began to speak in a gentle voice: “Birds, take heed of what I say; and for your welfare and to further your needs I will hasten as fast as I can speak. You well know how on Saint Valentine’s day, by my statute and through my ordinance, you come to choose your mates, as I prick you with sweet pain, and then fly on your way. But I may not, to win this entire world, depart from my just order, that he who is most worthy shall begin.
“The tercel eagle, the royal bird above you in degree, as you well know, the wise and worthy one, trusty, true as steel, which you may see I have formed in every part as pleased me best—there is no need to describe his shape to you—he shall choose first and speak as he will. And after him you shall choose in order, according to your nature, each as pleases you; and, as your chance is, you shall lose or win. But whichever of you love ensnares most, to him may God send her who sighs for him most sorely.”
And at this she called the tercel and said, “My son, the choice is fallen to you. Nevertheless under this condition must be the choice of each one here, that his chosen mate will agree to his choice, whatsoever he be who would have her. From year to year this is always our custom. And whoever at this time can win grace has come here in blissful time!”
The royal tercel, with bowed head and humble appearance, delayed not and spoke: “As my sovereign lady, not as my spouse, I choose—and choose with will and heart and mind—the formel of so noble shape upon your hand. I am hers wholly and will serve her always. Let her do as she wishes, to let me live or die; I beseech her for mercy and grace, as my sovereign lady, or else let me die here presently. For surely I cannot live long in torment, for in my heart every vein is cut. Having regard only to my faithfulness, dear heart, have some pity upon my woe. And if I am found untrue to her, disobedient or willfully negligent, a boaster, or in time love elsewhere, I pray you this will be my doom: that I will be torn to pieces by these birds, upon that day when she should ever know me untrue to her or in my guilt unkind. And since no other loves her as well as I, though she never promised me love, she ought to be mine by her mercy; for I can fasten no other bond on her. Never for any woe shall I cease to serve her, however far she may roam. Say what you will, my words are done.”
Even as the fresh red rose newly blown blushes in the summer sun, so grew the color of this woman when she heard all this; she answered no word good or bad, so sorely was she abashed; until Nature said, “Daughter, fear not, be of good courage.”
Then spoke another tercel of a lower order: “That shall not be. I love her better than you, by Saint John, or at least I love her as well, and have served her longer, according to my station. If she should love for long being to me alone should be the reward; and I also dare to say, if she should find me false, unkind, a prater, or a rebel in any way, or jealous, let me be hanged by the neck. And unless I bear myself in her service as well as my wit allows me, to protect her honor in every point, let her take my life and all the wealth I have.”
Then a third tercel eagle said, “Now, sirs, you see how little time we have here, for every bird clamors to be off with his mate or lady dear, and Nature herself as well, because of the delay, will not hear half of what I would speak. Yet unless I speak I must die of sorrow. I boast not at all of long service; but it is as likely that I shall die of woe today as he who has been languishing these twenty winters. And it may well happen that a man may serve better in half a year, even if it were no longer, than another man who has served many years. I do not say this about myself, for I can do no service to my lady’s pleasure; but I dare say that I am her truest man, I believe, and would be most glad to please her. In short, until death may seize me I will be hers, whether I wake or sleep, and true in all that heart can think.”
In all my life since the day I was born never have I heard any man so noble make a plea in love or any other thing—even if a man had time and wit to rehearse their expression and their words. And this discourse lasted from the morning until the sun drew downward so rapidly. The clamor released by the birds rung so loud— “Make an end of this and let us go!”—that I well thought the forest would be splintered. They cried, “Make haste! Alas, you will ruin us! When shall your cursed pleading come to an end? How should a judge believe either side for yea or nay, without any proof ?”
The goose, cuckoo and duck so loudly cried, “Kek, kek!”, “Cuckoo!”, “Quack, quack!” that the noise reverberat- ed in my ears. The goose said, “All this is not worth a fly! But from this I can devise a remedy, and I will speak my verdict fair and soon, on behalf of the waterfowl. Let who will smile or frown.”
“And I for the worm-eating fowl,” said the foolish cuckoo; “of my own authority, for the common welfare, I will take the responsibility now, for it would be great charity to release us.” “By God, you may wait a while yet,” said the turtle-dove. “If you are he to choose who shall speak, it would be as well for him to be silent. I am among the birds that eat seed, one of the most unworthy, and of little wit—that I know well. But a creature’s tongue would be better quiet than meddling with such doings about which he knows neither rhyme nor reason. And whosoever does so, overburdens himself in foul fashion, for often one not entrusted to a duty commits offence.”
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Nature, who had always an ear to the murmuring of folly at the back, said with ready tongue, “Hold your peace there! And straightway, I hope, I shall find a counsel to let you go and release you from this noise. My judgment is that you shall choose one from each bird-folk to give the verdict for you all.”
The birds all assented to this conclusion. And first the birds of prey by full election chose the tercel-falcon to define all their judgment, and decide as he wished. And they presented him to Nature and she accepted him gladly. The falcon then spoke in this fashion: “It would be hard to determine by reason which best loves this gentle woman; for each has such ready answers that none may be defeated by reasons. I cannot see of what avail are arguments; so it seems there must be battle.”
“All ready!” then cried these tercel-eagles. “Nay, sirs,” said he, “if I dare say it, you do me wrong, my tale is not done. For, sirs, take it not amiss, I pray,
it cannot go thus as you desire. Ours is the voice that has the charge over this, and you must stand by the judges’ decision. Peace, therefore! I say that it would seem in my mind that the worthiest in knighthood, who has longest followed it, the highest in degree and of gentlest blood, would be most fitting for her, if she wish it. And of these three she knows which he is, I believe, for that is easily seen.”
The waterfowl put their heads together, and after short considering, when each had spoken his tedious gabble, they said truly, by one assent, how “the goose, with her gentle eloquence, who so desires to speak for us, shall say our say,” and prayed God would help her. Then the goose began to speak for these waterfowl, and said in her cack- ling, “Peace! Now every man take heed and hearken what argument I shall put forth. My wits are sharp, I love no delay; I counsel him, I say, even if he were my brother, leave him if she will not love him.”
“Lo here,” said the sparrow-hawk, “a perfect argument for a goose—bad luck to her! Lo, thus it is to have a wag- ging tongue! Now, fool, it would be better for you to have held your peace than have shown your folly, by God! But to do thus rests not in her wit or will; for it is truly said, ‘a fool cannot be silent.’“
Laughter arose from all the birds of noble kind; and straightway the seed-eating fowl chose the faithful tur- tle-dove, and called her to them, and prayed her to speak the sober truth about this matter, and asked her counsel. And she answered that she would fully show her mind. “Nay, God forbid a lover should change!” said the tur- tle-dove, and grew all red with shame. “Though his lady may be cold for evermore, let him serve her ever until he die. In truth I praise not the goose’s counsel, for even if my lady died I would have no other mate, I would be hers until death take me.”
“By my hat, well jested!” said the duck. “That men should love forever, without cause! Who can find reason or wit there? Does one who is mirthless dance merrily? Who should care for him who is carefree? Yea, quack!” said the duck loud and long, “God knows there are more stars than a pair.”
“Now fie, churl!” said the noble falcon. “That thought came straight from the dunghill. You can not see when a thing is proper. You fare with love as owls with light; the day blinds them, but they see very well in darkness. Your nature is so low and wretched that you can not see or guess what love is.”
Then the cuckoo thrust himself forward in behalf of the worm-eating birds, and said quickly, “So that I may have my mate in peace, I care not how long you contend. Let each be single all his life; that is my counsel, since they cannot agree. This is my instruction, and there an end!”
“Yea,” said the merlin, “as this glutton has well filled his paunch, this should suffice for us all! You murderer of the hedge-sparrow on the branch, the one who brought you up, you ruthless glutton! May you live unmated, you mangler of worms! It matters nothing to you, though your tribe may perish. Go, be a stupid fool, as long as the world lasts!”
“Peace now, I command here,” said Nature, “For I have heard the opinions of all, and yet we are no nearer to our goal. But this is my final decision, that she herself shall have the choice of whom she wishes. Whosoever may be pleased or not, he whom she chooses shall have her straightway. For since it cannot here be debated who loves her best, as the falcon said, then will I grant her this favor, that she shall have him alone on whom her heart is set, and he her that has fixed his heart on her. This judgment I, Nature, make; and I cannot speak falsely, nor look with partial eye on any rank. But if it is reasonable to counsel you in choosing a mate, then surely I would counsel you to take the royal tercel, as the falcon said right wisely; for he is noblest and most worthy whom I created so well for my own pleasure; that ought to suffice you.”
The formel answered with timid voice, “Goddess of nature, my righteous lady, true it is that I am ever under your rod, just as every other creature is, and I must be yours as long as my life may last. Therefore, grant me my first request, and straightway I will speak to you my mind.”
“I grant it to you,” said Nature; and this female eagle spoke immediately in this way: “Almighty queen, until this year comes to an end I ask respite, to take counsel with myself; and after that to have my choice free. This is all that I would say. I can say no more, even if you were to slay me. In truth, as yet I will in no manner serve Venus or Cupid”
“Now since it can happen no other way,” Nature said then, “there is no more to be said here. Then I wish these birds to go their way each with his mate, so that they tarry here no longer.” And she spoke to them thus as you shall
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hear. “To you I speak, you tercels,” said Nature. “Be of good heart, and continue in service, all three; a year is not so long to wait. And let each of you strive according to his degree to do well. For, God knows, she is departed from you this year; and whatsoever may happen afterwards, this interval is appointed to you all.”
And when this work was all brought to an end, Nature gave every bird his mate by just accord, and they went their way. Ah, Lord! The bliss and joy that they made! For each of them took the other in his wings, and wound their necks about each other, ever thanking the noble goddess of nature. But first were chosen birds to sing, as was always their custom year by year to sing a roundel at their departure, to honor Nature and give her pleasure. The tune, I believe, was made in France. The words were such as you may here find in these verses, as I remember them.
Qui bien aime a tard oublie.
“Welcome, summer, with sunshine soft, The winter’s tempest you will break, And drive away the long nights black!
Saint Valentine, throned aloft, Thus little birds sing for your sake: Welcome, summer, with sunshine soft, The winter’s tempest you will shake!
Good cause have they to glad them oft, His own true-love each bird will take; Blithe may they sing when they awake, Welcome, summer, with sunshine soft, The winter’s tempest you will break, And drive away the long nights black!”
And with the shouting that the birds raised, as they flew away when their song was done, I awoke; and I took up other books to read, and still I read always. In truth I hope so to read that some day I shall meet with something of which I shall fare the better. And so I will not cease to read: Explicit tractatus de Con- gregacione Volucrum die sancti Valentini tentum, secundum Galfridum Chaucers. Deo gracias.
The Canterbury Tales
Geoffrey Chaucer, Translated by Gerald NeCastro
Here begins the Book of the Tales of Canterbury. The General Prologue
When the sweet showers of April have pierced to the root the dryness of March and bathed every vein in moisture by which strength are the flowers brought forth; when Zephyr also with his sweet breath has given spirit to the tender new shoots in the grove and field, and the young sun has run half his course through Aries the Ram, and little birds make melody and sleep all night with an open eye, so nature pricks them in their hearts; then people long to go on pilgrimages to renowned shrines in various distant lands, and palmers to seek foreign shores. And es- pecially from every shire’s end in England they make their way to Canterbury, to seek the holy blessed martyr who helped them when they were sick.
One day in that season, as I was waiting at the Tabard Inn at Southwark, about to make my pilgrimage with de- vout heart to Canterbury, it happened that there came at night to that inn a company of twenty-nine various people, who by chance had joined together in fellowship. All were pilgrims, riding to Canterbury. The chambers and the stables were spacious, and we were lodged well. But in brief, when the sun had gone to rest, I had spoken with every one of them and was soon a part of their company, and agreed to rise early to take our way to where I have told you.
Nevertheless, while I have time and space, before this tale goes further, I think it is reasonable to tell you all the qualities of each of them, as they appeared to me, what sort of people they were, of what station and how they were fashioned. I will begin with a knight.
There was a Knight and a worthy man, who, from the time when he first rode abroad, loved chivalry, faithful- ness and honor, liberality and courtesy. He was valiant in his lord’s war and had campaigned, no man farther, in
License: Copyright Gerard NeCastro
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The Canterbury Tales
both Christian and heathen lands, and ever was honored for his worth. He was at Alexandria when it was won; many times in Prussia he sat in the place of honor above knights from all nations; he had fought in Lithuania and in Russia, and no Christian man of his did so more often; he had been in Granada at the siege of Algeciras and in Belmaria; he was at Lyeys and in Attalia when they were won, and had landed with many noble armies in the Levant. He had been in fifteen mortal battles, and had thrice fought for our faith in the lists at Tremessen and always slain his foe; he had been also, long before, with the lord of Palathia against another heathen host in Turkey; and ever he had great renown. And though he was valorous, he was prudent, and he was as meek as a maiden in his bearing. In all his life he never yet spoke any discourtesy to any living creature, but was truly a perfect gentle knight. To tell you of his equipment, his horses were good but he was not gaily clad. He wore a jerkin of coarse cloth all stained with rust by his coat of mail, for he had just returned from his travels and went to do his pilgrimage.
His son was with him, a young Squire, a lover and a lusty young soldier. His locks were curled as if laid in a press. He may have been twenty years of age, of average height, amazingly nimble and great of strength. He had been, at one time, in a campaign in Flanders, Artois, and Picardy, and had borne himself well, in so little time, in hope to stand in his lady’s grace. His clothes were embroi- dered, red and white, like a meadow full of fresh flowers. All the day long he was singing or playing upon the flute; he was as fresh as the month of May. His coat was short, with long, wide sleeves. Well could he sit a horse and ride, make songs, joust and dance, draw and write. He loved so ardently that at night-time he slept no more than a night- ingale. He was courteous, modest and helpful, and carved before his father at table.
They had a Yeoman with them; on that journey they would have no other servants. He was clad in a coat and hood of green, and in his hand he bore a mighty bow and under his belt a neat sheaf of arrows, bright and sharp, with peacock feathers. He knew how to handle his gear like a good yeoman; his arrows did not fall short on account of any poorly adjusted feathers. His head was cropped and his face brown. He understood well all the practice of woodcraft. He wore a gay arm-guard of leath- er and at one side a sword and buckler; at the other a fine dagger, well fashioned and as sharp as a spear-point; on his breast an image of St. Christopher in bright silver, and over his shoulder a horn on a green baldric. He was a woodsman indeed, I believe.
There was also a nun, a Prioress, quiet and simple in her smiling; her greatest oath was “by Saint Loy.” She was named Madame Eglantine. Well she sang the divine service, intoned in a seemly manner in her nose, and spoke French elegantly, after the manner of Stratford-atte- Bow, for of Parisian French she knew nothing. She had been well taught the art of eating, and let no morsel fall from her lips, and wet but her finger-tips in the sauce. She knew how to lift and how to hold a bit so that not a drop fell upon her breast. Her pleasure was all in courtesy. She wiped her upper lip so well that no spot of grease was to be seen in her cup after she had drunk; and very dainty she was in reaching for her food. And surely she was of fine behavior, pleasant and amiable of bearing. She took pains to imitate court manners, to be stately in her demeanor and to be held worthy of reverence. But to tell you of her charac- ter, she was so charitable and so tender-hearted she would weep if she saw a mouse caught in a trap if it were dead or bleeding. She had certain small dogs, which she fed upon roasted meat or milk and finest wheaten bread. She would weep sorely if one of them died or was struck at sharply with a stick. She was all warm feeling and tender heart. Her wimple was pleated neatly. Her nose was slender, her eyes gray as glass, her mouth small and soft and red. Certainly she had a fine forehead, almost a span high; truly she was not undersized. Her cloak was neatly made, I could tell.
Image 5.3: The Canterbuy Tales Title Page | The title page for The Canterbury Tales featuring an artist rendering of Geoffrey Chaucer gazing into a well, a paper clutch in his hand.
Author: Edward Burne-Jones Source: Archive.org License: Public Domain
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About her arm was a coral rosary, the larger beads of green, upon which hung a brooch of shining gold; on it was engraved first an A with a crown, and after that Amor vincit omnia.
Another Nun, her chaplain, was with her, and three Priests. There was a Monk, a very fine and handsome one, a great rider about the country-side and a lover of hunting,
a manly man in all things, fit to be an abbot. He had many fine horses in his stable, and when he rode, men could hear his bridle jingling in a whistling wind as clear and loud as the chapel-bell where this lord was prior. Because the rule of St. Maurus or of St. Benedict was old and something austere, this same monk let such old things pass and followed the ways of the newer world. He gave not a plucked hen for the text that hunters are not holy, or that a careless monk (that is to say, one out of his cloister) is like a fish out of water; for that text he would not give a her- ring. And I said his opinion was right; why should he study and lose his wits ever poring over a book in the cloister, or toil with his hands and labor as St. Augustine bids? How shall the world be served? Let St. Augustine have his work to himself. Therefore he rode hard, followed greyhounds as swift as birds on the wing. All his pleasure was in riding and hunting the hare, and he spared no cost on those. I saw his sleeves edged at the wrist with fine dark fur, the finest in the country, and to fasten his hood under his chin he had a finely-wrought brooch of gold; in the larger end was a love-knot. His bald head shone like glass; so did his face, as if it had been anointed. He was a sleek, fat lord. His bright eyes rolled in his head, glowing like the fire under a cauldron. His boots were of rich soft leather, his horse in excellent condition. Now certainly he was a fine prelate. He was not pale, like a wasted spirit; best of any roast he loved a fat swan. His palfrey was as brown as a berry.
There was a begging Friar, lively and jolly, a very dignified fellow. In all the four orders there is not one so skilled in gay and flattering talk. He had, at his own expense, married off many young women; he was a noble pillar of his order! He was well beloved and familiar among franklins everywhere in his countryside, and also with worthy town wom- en, for he had, as he said himself, more virtue as confessor than a parson, for he held a papal license. Very sweetly he heard confession, and his absolution was pleasant; he was an easy man to give penance, when he looked to have a good dinner. Gifts to a poor order are a sign that a man has been well confessed, he maintained; if a man gave, he knew he was contrite. For many people are so stern of heart that they cannot weep, though they suffer sorely; therefore, instead of weeping and praying, men may give silver to the poor friars. The tip of his hood was stuffed full of knives and pins as presents to fine women. And certainly he had a pleasant voice in singing, and well could play the fiddle; in singing ballads he bore off the prize. His neck was as white as the fleur-de-lis, and he was as strong as a champion. He knew all the town taverns, and every inn-keeper and bar-maid, better than the lepers and beggar-women. For it accorded not with a man of his importance to have acquaintance with sick lepers; it was not seemly, it profited not, to deal with any such poor trash, but all with rich folk and sellers of victual. But everywhere that advantage might follow he was courteous, lowly and serviceable. Nowhere was any so capable; he was the best beggar in his house, and gave a certain yearly payment so that none of his brethren might trespass on his routes. Though a widow might not have an old shoe to give, so pleasant was his “In principio,” he would have his farthing before he went. He gained more from his begging than he ever needed, I believe! He would romp about like a puppy-dog. On days of reconciliation, or love-days, he was very helpful, for he was not like a cloister-monk or a poor scholar with a threadbare cope, but like a Master of Arts or a cardinal. His half-cope was of double worsted and came from the clothes-press rounding out like a bell. He pleased his whim by lisping a little, to make his English sound sweet upon his tongue, and in his harping and singing his eyes twinkled in his head like the stars on a frosty night. This worthy friar was named Hubert.
There was a Merchant with a forked beard, in parti-colored garb. High he sat upon his horse, a Flanders bea- ver-hat on his head, and boots fastened neatly with rich clasps. He uttered his opinions pompously, ever tending to the increase of his own profit; at any cost he wished the sea were safeguarded between Middleburg and Orwell. In selling crown-pieces he knew how to profit by the exchange. This worthy man employed his wit cunningly; no crea- ture knew that he was in debt, so stately he was of demeanor in bargaining and borrowing. He was a worthy man indeed, but, to tell the truth, I know not his name.
There was also a Clerk from Oxford who had long gone to lectures on logic. His horse was as lean as a rake, and he was not at all fat, I think, but looked hollow-cheeked, and grave likewise. His little outer cloak was threadbare, for he had no worldly skill to beg for his needs, and as yet had gained himself no benefice. He would rather have had at his bed’s head twenty volumes of Aristotle and his philosophy, bound in red or black, than rich robes or a fiddle or gay psaltery. Even though he was a philosopher, he had little gold in his money-box! But all that he could get from his friends he spent on books and learning, and would pray diligently for the souls of who gave it to him to stay at the schools. Of study he took most heed and care. Not a word did he speak more than was needed, and the little he spoke was formal and modest, short and quick, and full of high matter. All that he said tended toward moral virtue. Gladly would he learn and gladly teach.
There was also a Sergeant of the Law, an excellent man, wary and wise, a frequenter of the porch of Paul’s Church. He was discreet and of great distinction; or seemed such, his words were so sage. He had been judge at court, by patent and full commission; with his learning and great reputation he had earned many fees and robes.
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Such a man as he for acquiring goods there never was; anything that he desired could be shown to be held in unre- stricted possession, and none could find a flaw in his deeds. Nowhere was there so busy a man, and yet he seemed busier than he was. He knew in precise terms every case and judgment since King William the Conqueror, and ev- ery statute fully, word for word, and none could chide at his writing. He rode in simple style in a parti-colored coat and a belt of silk with small cross-bars. Of his appearance I will not make a longer story.
Traveling with him was a Franklin, with a beard as white as a daisy, a ruddy face and a sanguine temper. Well he loved a sop of wine of a morning. He was accustomed to live in pleasure, for he was a very son of Epicurus, who held the opinion that perfect felicity stands in pleasure alone. He ever kept an open house, like a true St. Julian in his own country-side. His bread and his wine both were always of the best; never were a man’s wine-vaults better stored. His house was never without a huge supply of fish or meat; in his house it snowed meat and drink, and every fine pleasure that a man could dream of. According to the season of the year he varied his meats and his suppers. Many fat partridges were in his cage and many bream and pike in his fishpond. Woe to his cook unless his sauces were pungent and sharp, and his gear ever in order! All the long day stood a great table in his hall fully prepared. When the justices met at sessions of court, there he lorded it full grandly, and many times he sat as knight of the shire in parliament. A dagger hung at his girdle, and a pouch of taffeta, white as morning’s milk. He had been sheriff and auditor; nowhere was so worthy a vassal.
A Haberdasher, a Carpenter, a Weaver, a Dyer, and an Upholsterer were with us also, all in the same dress of a great and splendid guild. All fresh and new was their gear. Their knives were not tipped with brass but all with fine-wrought silver, like their girdles and their pouches. Each of them seemed a fair burgess to sit in a guildhall on a dais. Each for his discretion was fit to be alderman of his guild, and had goods and income sufficient for that. Their wives would have consented, I should think; otherwise, they would be at fault. It is a fair thing to be called madame, and to walk ahead of other folks to vigils, and to have a mantle carried royally before them.
They had a Cook with them for that journey, to boil chickens with the marrow-bones and tart powder-mer- chant and cyprus-root. Well he knew a draught of London ale! He could roast and fry and broil and stew, make dainty pottage and bake pies well. It was a great pity, it seemed to me, that he had a great ulcer on his shin, for he made capon-in-cream with the best of them.
There was a Shipman, from far in the West; for anything I know, he was from Dartmouth. He rode a nag, as well as he knew how, in a gown of coarse wool to the knee. He had a dagger hanging on a lace around his neck and un- der his arm. The hot summer had made his hue brown. In truth he was a good fellow: many draughts of wine had he drawn at Bordeaux while the merchant slept. He paid no heed to nice conscience; on the high seas, if he fought and had the upper hand, he made his victims walk the plank. But in skill to reckon his moon, his tides, his currents and dangers at hand, his harbors and navigation, there was none like him from Hull to Carthage. In his undertak- ings he was bold and shrewd. His beard had been shaken by many tempests. He knew the harbors well from Goth- land to Cape Finisterre, and every creek in Spain and in Brittany. His ship was called the Maudelayne.
With us was a Doctor, a Physician; for skill in medicine and in surgery there was no peer in this entire world. He watched sharply for favorable hours and an auspicious ascendant for his patients’ treatment, for he was well grounded in astrology. He knew the cause of each malady, if it was hot, cold, dry or moist, from where it had sprung and of what humor. He was a thorough and a perfect practitioner. Having found the cause and source of his trouble, quickly he had ready the sick man’s cure. He had his apothecaries all prepared to send him electuaries and drugs, for each helped the other’s gain; their friendship was not formed of late! He knew well the old Aesculapius, Dioscorides and Rufus, Hippocrates, Haly and Galen, Serapion, Rhasis and Avicenna, Averroes, Damascene and Constantine, Bernard, Gatisden and Gilbertine. His own diet was moderate, with no excess, but nourishing and simple to digest. His study was only a little on Scripture. He was clad in red and blue-gray cloth, lined with taffe- ta and sendal silk. Yet he was but moderate in spending, and kept what he gained during the pestilence. Gold is a medicine from the heart in physicians’ terms; doubtless that was why he loved gold above all else.
There was a Good Wife from near Bath, but she was somewhat deaf, and that was pity. She was so skilled in making cloth that she surpassed those of Ypres and Ghent. In all the parish there was no wife who should march up to make an offering before her, and if any did, so angered she was that truly she was out of all charity. Her kerchiefs were very fine in texture; and I dare swear those that were on her head for Sunday weighed ten pounds. Her hose were of a fine scarlet and tightly fastened, and her shoes were soft and new. Her face was bold and fair and red. All her life she was a worthy woman; she had had five husbands at the church-door, besides other company in her youth, but of that there is no need to speak now. She had thrice been at Jerusalem; many distant streams had she crossed; she had been on pilgrimages to Boulogne and to Rome, to Santiago in Galicia and to Cologne. This wan- dering by the way had taught her various things. To tell the truth, she was gap-toothed; she sat easily on an ambling horse, wearing a fair wimple and on her head a hat as broad as a buckler or target. About her broad hips was a short riding skirt and on her feet a pair of sharp spurs. Well could she laugh and prattle in company. Love and its reme- dies she knew all about, I dare give my word, for she had been through the old dance.
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There was a good man of religion, a poor Parson, but rich in holy thought and deed. He was also a learned man, a clerk, and would faithfully preach Christ’s gospel and devoutly instruct his parishioners. He was benign, wonder- fully diligent, and patient in adversity, as he was often tested. He was loath to excommunicate for unpaid tithes, but rather would give to his poor parishioners out of the church alms and also of his own substance; in little he found sufficiency. His parish was wide and the houses far apart, but not even for thunder or rain did he neglect to visit the farthest, great or small, in sickness or misfortune, going on foot, a staff in his hand. To his sheep did he give this noble example, which he first set into action and afterward taught; these words he took out of the gospel, and this similitude he added also, that if gold will rust, what shall iron do? For if a priest upon whom we trust were to be foul, it is no wonder that an ignorant layman would be corrupt; and it is a shame (if a priest will but pay attention to it) that a shepherd should be defiled and the sheep clean. A priest should give good example by his cleanness how his sheep should live. He would not farm out his benefice, nor leave his sheep stuck fast in the mire, while he ran to London to St. Paul’s, to get an easy appointment as a chantry-priest, or to be retained by some guild, but dwelled at home and guarded his fold well, so that the wolf would not make it miscarry. He was no hireling, but a shepherd. And though he was holy and virtuous, he was not pitiless to sinful men, nor cold or haughty of speech, but both discreet and benign in his teaching; to draw folk up to heaven by his fair life and good example, this was his care. But when a man was stubborn, whether of high or low estate, he would scold him sharply. There was nowhere a bet- ter priest than he. He looked for no pomp and reverence, nor yet was his conscience too particular; but the teaching of Christ and his apostles he taught, and first he followed it himself.
With him was his brother, a Ploughman, who had drawn many cartloads of dung. He was a faithful and good toiler, living in peace and perfect charity. He loved God best at all times with all his whole heart, in good and ill fortune, and then his neighbor even as himself. He would thresh and ditch and delve for every poor person without pay, but for Christ’s sake, if he were able. He paid his tithes fairly and well on both his produce and his goods. He wore a ploughman’s frock and rode upon a mare.
There was a Reeve also and a Miller, a Summoner and a Pardoner, a Manciple and myself. There were no more. The Miller was a stout fellow, big of bones and brawn; and well he showed them, for everywhere he went to a
wrestling match he would always carry off the prize ram. He was short-shouldered and broad, a thick, knotty fellow. There was no door that he could not heave off its hinges, or break with his head at a running. His beard was as red as any sow or fox, and broad like a spade as well. Upon the very tip of his nose he had a wart, and on it stood a tuft of red hair like the bristles on a sow’s ears, and his nostrils were black and wide. At his thigh hung a sword and buckler. His mouth was as great as a great furnace. He was a teller of dirty stories and a buffoon, and it was mostly of sin and obscenity. He knew well how to steal corn and take his toll of meal three times over; and yet he had a golden thumb, by God! He wore a white coat and a blue hood. He could blow and play the bagpipe well, and with its noise he led us out of town.
There was a gentle Manciple of an Inn of Court, of whom other stewards might take example for craftiness in buying victuals. Whether he paid in cash or took on credit, he was so watchful in his buying that he was always ahead and in good standing. Now is it not a full fair gift of God that the wit of such an unlettered man shall surpass the wisdom of a great body of learned men? He had more than a score of masters, expert and diligent in law, of whom in that house there were a dozen worthy to be stewards of lands and revenues of any lord in England, to let him live upon his income, honorably, free from debt, unless he were mad, or live as plainly as he would; or able to help a whole shire in any case that might occur. And yet this Manciple hoodwinked all of them.
The Reeve was a slender, bilious man. His beard was shaven as close as could be, and his hair was cut short around his ears and docked
Image 5.4: Hengwrt Manuscript | The top of the page containing the General Prologue for the Canterbury Tales from the Hengwrt manuscript.
Author: Unknown Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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in front like a priest’s. His legs were full and lean like a stick; I could see no calf. He could well keep a bin and a gar- ner and no inspector could get the best of him. In the drought or in the wet he could foretell the yield of his grain and seed. His lord’s sheep, poultry and cattle, his dairy and swine and horses and all his stock, this Reeve had whol- ly under his governance, and submitted his accounts thereon ever since his lord was twenty years of age; and none could ever find him out in arrears. There was no bailiff nor herdsman nor other churl whose tricks and craftiness he didn’t know. They were as afraid of him as of the plague. His dwelling-place was a pleasant one on a heath, all shad- ed with green trees. Better than his lord he knew how to pick up wealth, and had a rich private hoard; he knew how to please his master cunningly by giving and lending him out of what was his master’s by right, and to win thanks for that, and a coat and hood as a reward too. In his youth he had learned a good trade and was a fine carpenter and workman. This Reeve sat upon a fine dapple gray cob named Scot. He wore a long surcoat of blue and at his side a rusty blade. He was from Norfolk, near a town they call Baldeswell. His coat was tucked up around him like a friar’s, and he always rode last of us all.
A Summoner was with us there, a fire-red cherubim-faced fellow, salt-phlegmed and pimply, with slits for eyes, scabby black eyebrows and thin ragged beard, and as hot and lecherous as a sparrow. Children were terrified at his visage. No quicksilver, white-lead, brimstone, borax nor ceruse, no cream of tartar nor any ointment that would clean and burn, could help his white blotches or the knobs on his chaps. He loved garlic, onions and leeks too well, and to drink strong wine as red as blood, and then he would talk and cry out like mad. And after drinking deep of wine he would speak no word but Latin, in which he had a few terms, two or three, learned out of some canon. No wonder was that, for he heard it all day long, and you know well how a jay can call “Walter” after hearing it a long time, as well as the pope could. But if he were tested in any other point, his learning was found to be all spent. Questio quid juris, he was always crying. He was a kind and gentle rogue; a better fellow I never knew; for a quart of wine he would allow a good fellow to have his concubine for a year and completely excuse him. Secretly he knew how to swindle anyone. And if anywhere he found a good fellow, he would teach him in such case to have no fear of the archdeacon’s excommuni- cation, unless a man’s soul is in his purse, for it was in his purse he should be punished. “The Archdeacon’s hell is your purse,” he said. (But well I know he lied in his teeth; every guilty man should fear the church’s curse, for it will slay, just as absolution saves, and also let him beware of a significavit.) Within his jurisdiction on his own terms he held all the young people of the diocese, knew their guilty secrets, and was their chief adviser. He had a garland on his head large enough for an ale-house sign, and carried a round loaf of bread as big as a buckler.
With him rode a gentle Pardoner, of Roncesvalles, his friend and companion, who had come straight from the court of Rome. He sang loudly, “Come here, love, to me,” while the Summoner joined him with a stiff bass; never was there a trumpet of half such a sound. This Pardoner had waxy-yellow hair, hanging smooth, like a hank of flax, spread over his shoulders in thin strands. For sport he wore no hood, which was trussed up in his wallet; riding with his hair disheveled, bareheaded except for his cap, he thought he was all in the latest fashion. His eyes were glaring like a hare’s. He had a veronica sewed on his cap, and his wallet, brimful of pardons hot from Rome, lay before him on his saddle. His voice was as small as a goat’s. He had no beard nor ever would have, his face was as smooth as if lately shaven; I believe he was a mare or a gelding. But as for his trade, from Berwick to Dover there was not such another pardoner. In his bag he had a pillow-case which he said was our Lady’s kerchief, and a small piece of the sail which he said St. Peter had when he walked upon the sea and Jesus Christ caught him. He had a cross of latoun, set full of false gems, and pigs’ bones in a glass. But with these relics, when he found a poor parson dwelling in the country, in one day he gained himself more money than the parson gained in two months. And thus, with flattering deceit and tricks, he made the parson and the people his dupes. But to give him his due, after all he was a noble ecclesiastic in church; he could read well a lesson or legend and best of all sing an offertory. For he knew well that when that was done he must preach and file his tongue smooth, to win silver as he well knew how. Therefore he sang merrily and loud.
Now I have told you in few words the station, the array, the number of this company and why they were assem- bled in Southwark as well, at this noble inn, the Tabard, close to the Bell tavern. But now it is time to say how we behaved that same evening, when we had arrived at that inn; and afterward I will tell you of our journey and the rest of our pilgrimage.
But first I pray that by your courtesy you ascribe it not to my ill manners if I speak plainly in this matter, telling you their words and cheer, and if I speak their very words as they were. For this you know as well as I, that who- ever tells a tale that another has told, he must repeat every word, as nearly as he can, although he may speak ever so rudely and freely. Otherwise, he must tell his tale falsely, or pretend, or find new words. He may not spare any, even if it were his own brother; he is bound to say one word as well as the next. Christ himself spoke plainly in Holy Scriptures and you know well there is no baseness in that. And Plato, whoever can read him, says that the word must be cousin to the deed.
I also pray you to forgive me though I have not set folk here in this tale according to their station, as they should be. My wit is short, you can well understand.
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Our host put us all in good spirits, and soon brought us to supper and served us with the best of provisions. The wine was strong and very glad we were to drink. Our Host was a seemly man, fit to be marshal in a banquet-hall, a large man with bright eyes, bold in speech, wise and discreet, lacking nothing of manhood: there is not a fairer bur- gess in Cheapside. He was in all things a very merry fellow, and after supper, when we had paid our bills, he began to jest and speak of mirth among other things.
“Now gentle people,” he said, “truly you are heartily welcome to me, for, by my word, if I shall tell the truth, I have not seen this year so merry a company at this inn at once. I would gladly make mirth if I only knew how. And I have just now thought of a mirthful thing to give you pleasure, which shall cost nothing. You go to Canterbury, God speed you, and may the blessed martyr duly reward you! I know full well, along the way you mean to tell tales and amuse yourselves, for in truth it is no comfort or mirth to ride along dumb as a stone.
“And therefore, as I said, I will make you a game. If it please you all by common consent to stand by my words and to do as I shall tell you, now, by my father’s soul (and he is in heaven), tomorrow as you ride along, if you are not merry, I will give you my head. Hold up your hands, without more words!”
Our mind was not long to decide. We thought it not worth debating, and agreed with him without more thought, and told him to say his verdict as he wished.
“Gentle people,” said he, “please listen now, but take it not, I pray you, disdainfully. To speak briefly and plainly, this is the point, that each of you for pastime shall tell two tales in this journey to Canterbury, and two others on the way home, of things that have happened in the past. And whichever of you bears himself best, that is to say, that tells now tales most instructive and delighting, shall have a supper at the expense of us all, sitting here in this place, beside this post, when we come back from Canterbury. And to add to your sport I will gladly go with you at my own cost, and be your guide. And whoever opposes my judgment shall pay all that we spend on the way. If you agree that this will be so, tell me now, without more words, and without delay I will plan for that.”
We agreed to this thing and pledged our word with glad hearts, and prayed him to do so, and to be our ruler and to remember and judge our tales, and to appoint a supper at a certain price. We would be ruled at his will in great and small, and thus with one voice we agreed to his judgment. At this the wine was fetched, and we drank and then each went to rest without a longer stay.
In the morning, when the day began to spring, our host arose and played rooster to us all, and gathered us in a flock. Forth we rode, a little faster than a walk, to St. Thomas-a-Watering. There our Host drew up his horse and said, “Listen, gentle people, if you will. You know your agreement; I remind you of it. If what you said at the hour of evensong last night is still what you agree to this morning at the time of matins, let us see who shall tell the first tale. So may I ever drink beer or wine, whoever rebels against my judgment shall pay all that is spent on the journey. Now draw cuts, before we depart further; he who has the shortest shall begin the tales. Sir Knight, my master and my lord,” said he, “now draw your lot, for this is my will, Come nearer, my lady Prioress, and you, sir Clerk, be not shy, study not; set your hands to them, every one of you.”
Without delay every one began to draw, and in short, whether it were by chance or not, the truth is, the lot fell to the Knight, at which every one was merry and glad. He was to tell his tale, as was reasonable, according to the agreement that you have heard. What need is there for more words?
When this good man saw it was so, as one discreet and obedient to his free promise he said, “Since I begin the game, what, in God’s name, welcome be the cut! Now let us ride on, and listen to what I say.” And at that word we rode forth on our journey. And he soon began his tale with a cheerful spirit, and spoke in this way.
Here ends the Prologue of this book.
The Miller’s Tale Here follow the words between the Host and the Miller.
The Prologue of the Miller’s Tale When the Knight had ended his tale, in the entire crowd was there nobody, young or old, who did not say it was
a noble history and worthy to be called to mind; and especially each of the gentle people. Our Host laughed and swore, “So may I thrive, this goes well! The bag is unbuckled, let see now who shall tell another tale, for truly the sport has begun well. Now you, Sir Monk, if you can, tell something to repay the Knight’s story with.”
The Miller, who had drunk himself so completely pale that he could scarcely sit on his horse, would not take off his hood or hat, or wait and mind his manners for no one, but began to cry aloud in Pilate’s voice, and swore by arms and blood and head, “I know a noble tale for the occasion, to repay the Knight’s story with.”
Our Host saw that he was all drunk with ale and said, “Wait, Robin, dear brother, some better man shall speak first; wait, and let us work thriftily.”
“By God’s soul!” he said, “I will not do that! I will speak, or else go my way!”
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“Tell on, in the Devil’s name!” answered our Host. “You are a fool; your wits have been overcome.” “Now listen, one and all! But first,” said the Miller, “I make a protestation that I am drunk; I know it by my voice. And therefore if I speak as I should not, blame it on the ale of Southwark, I pray you; for I will tell a legend and
a life of a carpenter and his wife, and how a clerk made a fool of the carpenter.” “Shut your trap!” the Reeve answered and said, “Set aside your rude drunken ribaldry. It is a great folly and sin
to injure or defame any man, and to bring woman into such bad reputation. You can say plenty about other matters. This drunken Miller answered back immediately and said, “Oswald, dear brother, he is no cuckold who has no
wife. But I do not say, therefore, that you are one. There are many good wives, and always a thousand good to one bad. That you know well yourself, if you have not gone mad. Why are you angry now with my tale? I have a wife as well as you, by God, yet for all the oxen in my plough I would not presume to be able to judge myself if I may be a cuckold; I will believe well I am not one. A husband should not be too inquisitive about God’s private matters, nor of his wife’s. He can find God’s plenty there; he need not inquire about the remainder.”
What more can I say, but this Miller would withhold his word for nobody, and told his churl’s tale in his own fashion. I think that I shall retell it here. And therefore I beg every gentle creature, for the love of God, not to judge that I tell it thus out of evil intent, but only because I must truly repeat all their tales, whether they are better or worse, or else tell some of my matter falsely. And therefore whoever wishes not to hear it, let them turn the leaf over and choose another tale; for they shall find plenty of historical matters, great and small, concerning noble deeds, and morality and holiness as well. Do not blame me if you choose incorrectly. The Miller is a churl, you know well, and so was the Reeve (and many others), and the two of them spoke of ribaldry. Think well, and do not blame me, and people should not take a game seriously as well.
Here ends the Prologue.
Here begins the Miller’s Tale. A while ago there dwelt at Oxford a rich churl fellow, who took guests as boarders. He was a carpenter by trade.
With him dwelt a poor scholar who had studied the liberal arts, but all his delight was turned to learning astrology. He knew how to work out certain problems; for instance, if men asked him at certain celestial hours when there should be drought or rain, or what should happen in any matter; I cannot count every one.
This clerk was named gentle Nicholas. He was well skilled in secret love and consolation; and he was also sly and secretive about it; and as meek as a maiden to look upon. He had a chamber to himself in that lodging-house, without any company, and handsomely decked with sweet herbs; and he himself was as sweet as the root of lico- rice or any setwall. His Almagest, and other books great and small, his astrolabe, which he used in his art, and his counting-stones for calculating, all lay neatly by themselves on shelves at the head of his bed.
His clothes-press was covered with a red woolen cloth, and above it was set a pleasant psaltery, on which he made melody at night so sweetly that the entire chamber was full of it. He would sing the hymn Angelus ad Virgi- nem, and after that the King’s Note. Often was his merry throat blessed. And so this sweet clerk passed his time by help of what income he had and his friends provided.
This carpenter had newly wedded a wife, eighteen years of age, whom he loved more than his own soul. He was jealous, and held her closely caged, for she was young, and he was much older and judged himself likely to be made a cuckold.
His wit was rude, and he didn’t know Cato’s teaching that instructed that men should wed their equal. Men should wed according to their own station in life, for youth and age are often at odds. But since he had fallen into the snare, he must endure his pain, like other people.
This young wife was fair, and her body moreover was as graceful and slim as any weasel. She wore a striped silken belt, and over her loins an apron white as morning’s milk, all flounced out. Her smock was white and embroi- dered on the collar, inside and outside, in front and in back, with coal-black silk; and of the same black silk were the strings of her white hood, and she wore a broad band of silk, wrapped high about her hair.
And surely she had a lecherous eye; her eyebrows were arched and black as a sloe berry, and partly plucked out to make them narrow. She was more delicious to look on than the young pear-tree in bloom, and softer than a lamb’s wool. From her belt hung a leather purse, tasseled with silk and with beads of brass.
In all this world there is no man so wise who could imagine such a wench, or so lively a little doll. Her hue shone more brightly than the noble newly forged in the Tower. And as for her singing, it was as loud and lively as a swallow’s sitting on a barn. And she could skip and make merry as any kid or calf following its mother. Her mouth was sweet as honeyed ale or mead, or a hoard of apples laid in the hay or heather. She was skittish as a jolly colt, tall as a mast, and upright as a bolt. She wore a brooch on her low collar as broad as the embossed center of a shield, and her shoes were laced high on her legs. She was a primrose, a pig’s-eye, for a lord to lie in his bed or even a yeo- man to wed.
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Now sir, and again sir, it so chanced that this gentle Nicholas fell to play and romp with this young wife, as clerks are very artful and sly, on a day when her husband was at Osney. And secretly he caught hold of her genitalia and said: “Surely, unless you will love me, sweetheart, I shall die for my secret love of you. And he held her hard by the thighs and said, “Sweetheart, love me now, or I will die, may God save me!”
She sprang back like a colt in the halter, and wriggled away with her head. “I will not kiss you, in faith,” she said. Why, let me be, let me be, Nicholas, or I will cry out, ‘Alas! Help!’ Take away your hands, by your courtesy!”
But this Nicholas began to beg for her grace, and spoke so fairly and made such offers that at last she granted him her love and swore by Saint Thomas of Kent that she would do his will when she should see her chance.
“My husband is so jealous that unless you are secretive and watch your time, I know very well I am no better than dead. You must be very sly in this thing.”
“No, have no fear about that,” said Nicholas. “A clerk has spent his time poorly if he can not beguile a carpenter!” And thus they were agreed and pledged to watch for a time, as I have told. When Nicholas had done so, petted
her well on her limbs, and kissed her sweetly, he took his psaltery and made melody and played fervently. Then it happened on a holy day that this wife went to the parish church to work Christ’s own works. Her fore-
head shone as bright as day, since she had scrubbed it when she had finished her tasks. Now at that church there was a parish clerk named Absolom. His hair was curly and shone like gold, and spread
out like a large broad fan; its neat part ran straight and even. His complexion was rosy, and his eyes as gray as goose-quills. His leather shoes were carved in such a way that they resembled a window in Paul’s Church. He went clad precisely and neatly all in red hose and a kirtle of a light watchet-blue; the laces were set in it fair and thick, and over it he had a lively surplice, as white as a blossom on a twig. God bless me, but he was a sweet lad!
He knew well how to clip and shave and let blood, and make a quittance or a charter for land. He could trip and dance in twenty ways in the manner of Oxford in that day, and cast with his legs back and forth, and play songs on a small fiddle. He could play on his cittern as well, and sometimes sang in a loud treble. In the whole town there was no brew-house or tavern where any tapster might be that he did not visit in his merrymaking. But to tell the truth he was some-what squeamish about farting and rough speech.
This Absalom, so pretty and fine, went on this holy day with a censer, diligently incensing the wives of the parish, and he cast many longing looks on them, and especially on this carpenter’s wife. To look at her seemed to him a sweet employment, as she was so sweet and proper and lusty; I dare say, if she had been a mouse and he a cat, he would have pounced on her immediately. And this sweet parish-clerk had such a love-longing in his heart that at the offertory he would take nothing from any wife; for courtesy, he said, he would take none.
When at night the moon shone very beautifully and Absalom intended to remain awake all night for love’s sake, he took his cittern and went forth, amorous and jolly, until he came to the carpenter’s house a little after the cocks had crowed, and pulled himself up by a casement-window.
Dear lady, if your will so be, I pray you that you pity me
He sang in his sweet small voice, in nice harmony with his cittern. This carpenter woke, heard his song and said without hesitation to his wife, “What, Alison! Don’t you hear Ab-
salom chanting this way under our own bedroom-wall?” “Yes, God knows, John,” she answered him, “I hear every bit of it.” Thus it went on; what would you have better than well-enough? From day to day this jolly Absalom wooed her
until he was all woe-begone. He remained awake all night and all day, he combed his spreading locks and preened himself, he wooed her by go-betweens and agents, and swore he would be her own page; he sang quavering like a nightingale; he sent her mead, and wines sweetened and spiced, and wafers piping hot from the coals, and because she was from the town he proffered her money. For some people will be won by rich gifts and some by blows and some by courtesy. Sometimes, to show his cheerfulness and skill, he would play Herod on a high scaffold.
But in such a case what could help him? She so loved gentle Nicholas that Absalom may as well go blow the buck’s-horn. For all his labor he had nothing but scorn, and thus she made Absalom her ape and turned all his earnest to a joke. This proverb is true—it is no lie. Men say it is just so: “The sly nearby one makes the far dear one loathed.” For though Absalom may go mad for it, because he was far from her eye, this nearby Nicholas stood in his light. Now bear yourself well, gentle Nicholas, for Absalom may wail and sing “Alack!”
And so it happened one Saturday that the carpenter had gone to Oseney, and gentle Nicholas and Alison had agreed upon this, that Nicholas would create a ruse to beguile this poor jealous husband; and if the game went as planned, she should be his, for this was his desire and hers also. And immediately, without more words, Nicholas would delay no longer, but had food and drink for a day or two carried softly into his chamber, and instructed her say to her husband, if he asked about him, that she did not know where he was; that she had not set eyes upon him
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all that day and she believed he was in some malady, for not by any crying out could her maid rouse him; he would not answer at all, for nothing.
Thus passed forth all that Saturday; Nicholas lay still in his chamber, and ate and slept or did what he wished, until Sunday toward sundown. This simple carpenter had great wonder about Nicholas, what could ail him. “By Saint Thomas,” he said, “I am afraid all is not well with Nicholas. God forbid that he has died suddenly! This world nowadays is so ticklish, surely; to-day I saw carried to church a corpse that I saw at work last Monday. Go up, call at his door,” he said to his boy, “or knock with a stone; see how it is, and tell me straight.”
This boy went up sturdily, stood at the chamber-door, and cried and knocked like mad: “What! How! What are you doing, master Nicholas? How can you sleep all day long?”
But all was for nothing; he heard not a word. Then he found a hole, low down in the wall, where the cat would usually creep in; and through that he looked far into it and at last caught sight of him.
Nicholas sat ever gaping upward as if he were peering at the new moon. Down went the boy, and told his mas- ter in what plight he saw this man.
The carpenter began to cross himself and said, “Help us, Saint Frideswide! People know little what shall happen to them. This man with his astronomy is fallen into some madness or some fit; I always thought how it would end this way. Men were not intended to know God’s secrets. Yes, happy is an unlearned man that never had schooling and knows nothing but his beliefs!
“So fared another clerk with his astronomy; he walked in the fields to look upon the stars, to see what was to happen, until he fell into a clay-pit that he did not see! But yet, by Saint Thomas, I am very sorry about gentle Nich- olas. By Jesus, King of Heaven, he shall be scolded for his studying if I may. Get me a staff, Robin, so that I can pry under the door while you heave it up. I believe we shall rouse him from his studying!”
And so he went to the chamber door. His boy was a strong lad, and quickly heaved the door up by the hinges, and it immediately fell flat upon the floor. Nicholas sat ever as still as a stone, ever gaping into the air. This carpenter believed he had fallen into despair, and seized him mightily by the shoulders and shook him hard and cried wildly, “What, Nicholas! What, ho! What, look down! Awake, think on Christ’s passion; I cross thee from elves and un- earthly creatures!” And at that point he said the night-spell, toward the four corners of the house and on the outside of the threshold of the door:
Jesus Christ and sweet Saint Benedict Bless this house from every wicked sprit. For the night-hag, the white pater noster; Where did you go, Saint Peter’s sister?
At last this gentle Nicholas began to sigh sorely, and said, “Alack! Shall the entire world be destroyed again now?” “What are you saying?” said the carpenter. “What now! Think on God, as we do, we men that work.” “Fetch me a drink,” said Nicholas, “and after I will speak privately of a certain thing that concerns you and me
both. I will tell it to no other man, you can be sure.” The carpenter went down and came again bringing a large quart of mighty ale; and when each of them had
drunk his share, Nicholas shut his door fast and set the carpenter down beside him. “John, my dear host,” he said, “you shall swear to me here on your honor that you will reveal this secret to no
creature; for it is Christ’s own secret that I show you, and if you tell it to any you are a lost man. For this vengeance you will receive, therefore: if you betray me, you shall run mad!”
“No, may Christ and His holy blood forbid!” said this simple man. “I am no blabber, and though I say it myself, I am not wont to prate. Say what you will, I shall never utter it to man, woman or child, by Him That harrowed hell!”
“Now, John, I will not deceive you,” said Nicholas; “I have found by my astrology, as I have been looking in the shining moon, that now a Monday next, about a quarter through the night, there shall fall a rain so wild and mad that never was Noah’s flood half so great. This world shall all be drowned in less than an hour, so hideous shall be the downpour. Thus shall all mankind perish in the flood.”
“Alas, my wife! And shall she drown?” this carpenter answered, and nearly fell over for sorrow. “Alas, my Ali- son! Is there no remedy?”
“Why yes, before God, if you will work according to wise advising,” said gentle Nicholas; “but you may not work out of your own head. For thus says Solomon, and he was right trustworthy, “Work all by counsel, and you shall never repent.” And if you will work after good advice, I undertake without mast or sail to save both her and you and me. Have you not heard how Noah was saved, when our Lord had warned him that the entire world should be destroyed with water?”
“Yes,” said the carpenter, “I heard it long, long ago.” “Have you not heard also,” said Nicholas, “the woe that Noah and his sons had before he could get his wife
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aboard? He had rather than all his black rams then, I dare be bound, that she had had a ship all to herself ! Do you know then what is best to do? This thing calls for haste, and on an urgent matter one may not preach or delay. Go immediately and get us directly into this house a kneading-trough or else a brewing-tub for each of us (but make sure that they are large), in which we may swim as if in a barge and have in enough provisions for a day - we will need no more. The water shall slacken and run off about nine o’clock on the next day. But Robin your boy must not know of this, and I cannot save your maid Jill either. Do not ask why, for even if you ask me I will not tell God’s se- cret. It ought to suffice you, if your wits are not turning, to have as great a grace as Noah had. I shall save your wife, I promise you. Go your way now, and make haste.
“But when you have obtained these three kneading-tubs for us three, then you shall hang them from the rafters high in the roof, so that no man notice our device. And when you have done this, and laid our provisions in them nicely, and an axe as well to strike the cord in two when the water comes, and when you have broken a hole on high in the gable toward the garden over the barn, so that we may freely go on our way when the great shower is past - then you will float as merrily, I will be bound, as the white duck after her drake. Then will I call out, ‘How, Alison! How, John! Be merry; the flood will soon pass.’ And you will answer, ‘Hail, Master Nicholas! Good morning, I see you well, it is daylight now!’ And then we shall be lords over the entire world until we die, just as Noah and his wife!
“But one thing I warn you of strictly. Be well advised on that night when we have entered aboard ship that none of us speaks a word, neither calls nor cries, but we must be in our prayers. For that is God’s own precious command. And your wife and you must hang far apart, so that there will be no folly between you, any more in looking than in action. Now that all this plan is explained to you; go, and may God help you! Tomorrow at night, when people are all in bed, we will creep into our kneading-tubs and sit there, awaiting God’s grace. Go your way now; I have no time to make a longer sermon of this. Men say thus: “Send the wise and say nothing.” You are so wise that there is no need to teach you. Go, save our lives, I entreat you.”
This simple carpenter went his way often crying “alack!” and “alas!”, and told the secret to his wife. And she was wary, and knew better than he what this quaint plan was about. But nevertheless she acted as if she would die, and said, “Alas! Go your way at once and help us to escape, or else we are all lost; I am your true, faithful wedded wife. Go, dear spouse, and help to save us!
Lo, how great a thing is feeling! Men may die of imagination, so deep may the impression be. This simple fellow began to quake; he thought he could truly hear Noah’s flood come wallowing like the sea to drown his honey sweet Alison; he wept, wailed and made sorrowful expression, and he sighed with many a sorry gust. He went and got himself a kneading-trough, and after that a tub and a cask, sent them secretly to his house and hung them in the roof. With his own hand he made three ladders, to climb by the rungs and uprights into the tubs hanging among the beams; and supplied tub and trough and cask with bread and cheese as well as good ale in a large jug, sufficient for a day. But before he had made all this gear, he sent his serving boy and girl to London about his business. And as it drew toward night on the Monday, he lit no candle, but shut the door and ordered all things as they should be; and, in brief, up they all three climbed, and sat still while a man could walk a furlong.
“Now mum, and say a pater noster!” said Nicholas; and “Mum!” said John, and “Mum!” Alison. This carpenter sat still and said his prayers, ever listening for the rain, if he could hear it.
The dead sleep, for very weariness and apprehension, fell on this carpenter even about curfew-time or a little later, as I suppose; he groaned sorely in the travail of his spirit, and eke snored, for his head lay uneasily. Down the ladder stalked Nicholas, and Alison sped down very softly; and they were in mirth and glee, until the bells began to sound for lauds, and friars in the chancel began to sing.
This parish-clerk, amorous Absalom, always so woe-begone for love, was at Oseney on that Monday to amuse himself and make merry, with a party; and by chance he secretly asked a cloister-monk after John the carpenter. The monk drew him aside out of the church. “I know not,” he said; “I have not seen him work here since Saturday. I believe he has gone where our abbot has sent him for timber, for he is accustomed to go for timber and remain at the grange a day or two. Or else he is at home, certainly. In truth I cannot say where he is.”
This Absalom grew very merry of heart, and thought, “Now is the time to wake all night, for certainly since daybreak I have not seen him stirring about his door. On my soul, at cockcrow I shall knock secretly at his window which stands low upon his chamber-wall. To Alison now will I tell the whole of my love-longing, and now I shall not fail at the least to have a kiss from her. I shall have some sort of comfort, in faith. My mouth has itched all day long; that is a sign of kissing at least.
All night eke I dreamed I was at a festival. Therefore I will go sleep an hour or two, and then I will wake all night in mirth.”
When the first cock had crowed, up rose this frisky lover, and arrayed him in his gayest with all nicety. But first he chewed cardamoms and licorice to smell sweetly, before he had combed his hair, and put a true-love charm under his tongue, for by this he hoped to find favor. He rambled to the carpenter’s house, and stood still under the casement, which was so low it reached to his breast. He gave a soft half-cough,-”What do you, sweet Alison, honey-
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comb? My fair bird, my darling! Awake, sweet cinnamon, and speak to me. You think right little upon my sorrow, who sweat for your love wherever I go!
No wonder though I languish and sweat! I mourn like a lamb after the dug. In faith, darling, I have such love-longing that I mourn like the true turtle-dove. I cannot eat, no more than a maiden.”
“Go from the window, Jack-fool,” she said. “On my soul, there will be no singing “Come kiss me now.” I love another better than you, by heaven, Absalom, and else I were at fault. Go your ways, or I will cast a stone at you, and let me sleep, in the Devil’s name!”
“Alas!” he said. “Alackaday that true love was ever so ill bestowed! Then kiss me, since it may be no better, for Jesus’ love, and for the love of me.”
“Will you then go your way with that?” she said. “Yes, surely, sweetheart,” said this Absolom. “Then make yourself ready,” she said, “I am coming now.” And to Nicholas she said silently, “Now hush, and you shall laugh your fill.” This Absolom set himself down on his knees and said, “I am a lord of the highest degree; for after this I hope
there will come more. Sweetheart, your grace, and sweet bird, your favor!” She unlatches the window, and does so in haste. “Take this,” she said, “come now, and move quickly, lest our
neighbors see you.” This Absolom wiped his mouth dry. Dark as pitch, or as coal, was the night, and at the window she put out her
hole, and Absolom, who knew no better or worse but with his mouth he kissed her naked ass so sweetly, before he was aware of this.
He started aback, and thought something was amiss, for well he knew a woman has no beard. He felt something all rough and long-haired, and said, “Fy! alas! What have I done?”
“Tee hee!” she said, and shut the window, and Absolom went forth with troubled steps. “A beard! A beard!” said handy Nicholas, “By God’s body, this goes fair and well.” This foolish Absolom heard every bit, and on his lips he began to bite angrily, and said to himself, “I shall pay
you back.” Who rubs now, and who chafes now, his lips with dust, with sand, with straw, with cloth, with chips, but Absol-
om, who says over and over, “Alas! I commend my soul unto Satan”? But I would rather be revenged for this insult” he said, “than own this entire town. Alas,” he said, “alas, that I did not turn aside!”
His hot love was now cold and entirely quenched; for from that moment that he had kissed her ass, he cared not a straw for things of love, for he was healed of his sickness. Often the things of love he defied, and wept as does a child that is beaten.
This Absalom walked slowly across the street to a smith called Master Gervase, who forged plough-instruments at his forge. He was busily sharpening coulter and share when Absalom knocked very gently and said, “Unlock the door, Gervase, and do it quickly.”
“What! Who are you?” “It is me, Absalom.” “What, Absalom! By the cross, why are you up so early? Eh, God bless! What ails you? Some pretty girl, God
knows, has brought you to stir so early. By Saint Neot, you know well what I mean!” This Absalom cared not a peascod for all his mocking, and returned not a word in kind. He had more wool on
his distaff than Gervase knew, and said, “Dear friend, that hot coulter in the chimney—lend it to me. I have some- thing to do with it; and I will bring it you again right away.
“Surely,” answered Gervase, “even if it were gold or nobles in a bag all uncounted, you should have it, as I am a faithful smith! Eh, the Devil, what do you want to do with it?”
“That is as it may be,” said Absalom. I shall tell you tomorrow;” and he took up the coulter by the cool handle. Softly he went out the door and went to the wall of the carpenter’s house. He coughed first, and knocked withal upon the window, as he did before.
“Who is there that knocks so?” Alison answered. “I warrant it a thief !” “Why nay,” he said, “God knows, my sweet, I am your Absalom, my sweetheart. I have brought you a ring of
gold; my mother gave it me, on my life! It is very fine and nicely engraved. I will give you this, if you kiss me!” This Nicholas had risen to take a piss, and he thought he would contribute to the joke; he should kiss him be-
fore he ran off ! And he threw up the window in haste and quietly put his ass out—past the buttocks, all the way to the thigh-bone. Thereupon spoke this clerk Absalom, Speak, sweet bird, I know not where thou art. This Nicholas then let fly a fart as great as a thunder-clap, so much so that with the stroke Absalom was almost blinded; and he was ready with his hot iron and smote Nicholas on the ass.
Off went the skin, about a hands-breadth around, the hot coulter burned his rump so, and for the pain he thought he would die. “Help! Water, water! Help, help, for God’s sake!” he cried like a madman.
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The carpenter started out of his slumber; he heard one cry wildly “Water!”, and thought, “Alas! Noah’s flood is coming now!” He sat up without a word, and with his axe struck the cord in two, and down went tub and all; they stopped for nothing until they came to the floor, and there he lay in a swoon.
Up started Alison and Nicholas, and cried “Help!” and “Alack!” in the street. The neighbors young and old ran to stare upon him as he lay yet in a swoon, for with the fall he had broken his arm.
But he must even digest his own trouble, for when he spoke he was talked down by Alison and gentle Nicholas. They told every man he was mad, he was aghast so of “Noah’s flood” in his fantasy, that of his folly he had bought him three kneading-tubs and had hung them above in the roof; and had prayed them for God’s sake to sit with him in the roof, to keep him company.
People laughed at his odd quirk; into the roof they peered and gawked, and turned all his trouble into mirth. For whatever the carpenter answered, it was all for naught; no man heard his speeches, he was so sworn down by the great oaths of the others that in the entire city he was held as mad. Every clerk then agreed with every other clerk: “the man is mad, my dear brother!” And every creature laughed over this contention.
Thus the carpenter lost his wife, for all his watching and jealousy; and Nicholas was sore burned. This tale is done, and God save the entire company.
Here ends the Miller’s Tale.
The Wife of Bath’s Tale The Prologue of the Wife of Bath’s Tale
“Experience, though it would be no authority in this world, would be quite sufficient for me, to speak of the woe that is in marriage; for, gentle people, since I was twelve years old—thank God, Who lives forever—I have had five husbands at the church-door (for I have been wedded so often); and all were worthy men in their ranks. But in truth I was told not long ago that since Christ went only once to a wedding, in Cana of Galilee, by that same exam- ple he taught me that I should be wedded only once. Lo! Hear what a sharp word Jesus, man and God, spoke on a certain occasion beside a well, in reproof of the Samaritan woman. He said, ‘You have had five husbands; and that man who has you now is not your husband.’ Thus he said, certainly. What he meant by it I cannot say; but I ask, why the fifth man was no husband to the Samaritan woman.
“How many could she have in marriage? At this point I have never in my life heard a designation of the num- ber. Men may divine and interpret up and down, but well I know, surely, God expressly instructed us to increase and multiply. I can well understand that noble text. Likewise, I know well he said also that my husband should leave father and mother and take me. But he did not mention any number, not bigamy or of octogamy. Why should men speak villainously of them?
“Lo, Sir Solomon the wise king! I believe he had more than one wife, and I wish to God it were lawful for me to be refreshed half so often! What a gift of God he had in all his wives! No man who lives in this world now has so many. God knows this noble king, to my thinking, had a merry life with each of them, so joyous was his lot! Blessed be God that I wedded five! And they were the best that I could pick out, both in their bodies and of their coffers. A variety of schools make perfect scholars, and much practice in a variety of employments truly makes the perfect workman. I have the schooling of five husbands. I would welcome the sixth, whenever he shall come! In truth, I will not keep myself wholly chaste; when my husband has departed from the world, then some other Christian man shall wed me. For then, the apostle says, I am free, in God’s name, to wed where I wish.
“He says that it is no sin to be wedded; it is better to be wedded than to burn. What do I care if people speak badly of cursed Lamech and his bigamy? Well I know Abraham was a holy man, and Jacob as well, as far as I know, and each of them had more than two wives. And many other holy men did as well.
“When have you seen that in any time great God forbade marriage explicitly? Tell me, I pray you. Or where did he command virginity? You know as well as I, without a doubt, that the apostle, when he speaks of maidenhood, says that he had no instructions on it. Men may counsel a woman to be single, but counseling is not commanding; he left it to our own judgment. For if God had commanded maidenhood, then with that same word had he con- demned marrying. And certainly, if no seed were sown, from where then should virgins spring? Paul dared not command a thing for which his master gave no order. The prize is set for virginity—win it who can. Let us see who runs best.
“But this command is not to be taken by every creature, but only where Almighty God wishes to give it through his might. The apostle was a virgin, I know well, but nevertheless, though he wrote that he wished every creature to be like him, all that is only advice to be a virgin; and he gave me leave and indulgence to be a wife. So likewise, if my spouse should die, there is no shame or charge of bigamy to marry me. It would be good, he said, to touch no woman, for it is a peril to bring together fire and hay. You know what this example may mean.
“This is the sum of it all: the apostle held virginity to be more perfect than marriage because of weakness. I call
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them weak unless man and wife would lead all their life in chastity. I grant it well, I have no malice even if maiden- hood were set above remarriage. It pleases them to be clean, body and soul; of my own estate I will make no boast. For you well know that not every vessel in a lord’s house is made of gold; some are of wood, and do their lord service. God calls people to him in various manners, and each one has his own gift from—one this, one that, as it pleases God to provide. Virginity is a great perfection, and devoted chastity as well.
But Christ, the fountain of perfection, did not instruct every person to go sell all that he had and give to the poor, and in such a fash- ion follow him and his footsteps. “He spoke this to those people who wished to be perfect; and by your leave, gentle people, I am not one of those. I will use the flower of my life in the acts and fruits of marriage.
Tell me also, for what purpose were members of procreation made, and made in such a perfect manner? Trust well, they were not made for nothing. Whosoever wishes to interpret may do so, and interpret things up and down that and say that they were made for purging urine and that both our small things were also to know a female from a male and for no other cause—did someone say no? Those with experience know well it is not so. So that scholars will not be angry with me, I say this: that they are made for both; that is to say, for duty and for ease of procreation, providing we do not displease God. Why should men otherwise set down in their books that man shall yield to his wife her debt? Now with what should he make his payment, if he did not use his blessed instrument? They were made then upon a creature to purge urine, and for procreation as well.
But I do not say that every person who has such equipment is bound to go and use it for procreation. For that reason people should men take no heed of chastity. Christ was a virgin and created as a man, as were many saints since the beginning of the world; yet they always lived in perfect chastity. I will not envy any virginity. Let virgins be called bread of purified wheat-seed, and let us wives be called barley-bread; and yet, as Mark can tell, our Lord Jesus refreshed many people with barley-bread. I will persevere in such a state as God has called us to; I am not particular. In wifehood I will use my instrument as freely as
my Maker has sent it. If I am unaccommodating to my husband, may God give me sorrow. My husband shall have it both evening and morning, whenever it pleases him to come forth and pay his debt. I will not stop. I will have a husband who will be both my debtor and servant, and have his tribulation upon his flesh, while I am his wife. As long as I live I, and not he, have the power over his body. The apostle told it to me in this very way, and instructed our husbands to love us well. This entire subject pleases me well, every bit.
Up started the Pardoner, and without delay. “Now lady,” he said, “by God and St. John, you are a noble preacher in this matter! I was about to wed a wife; alas! Why should I pay for it so dearly upon my flesh? I would rather not wed any wife this year.”
“Wait! My tale is not yet begun,” she said. “No, before I go you shall drink out of another barrel that will taste worse than ale. And when I have told my story to you about the tribulation in marriage, in which I have been expert
Image 5.6: The Wife of Bath Prologue | “The Wife of Bath” prologue, a tale from The Canterbury Tales, from the Ellesmere manuscript.
Author: User “SkedO” Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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all my life (that is to say, I myself have been the scourge), then you may choose whether you will sip of that same barrel that I shall broach. Be mindful, before you come too close; for I shall tell half a score of examples. ‘Whosoever will not be warned by other men, by him shall other men be corrected’: these same words writes Ptolemy; read his Almagest.”
“Lady,” said this Pardoner, “I would pray you, if it were your pleasure, tell your tale as you began, hold back for no man, and teach us young men from your experience.”
“Gladly,” she said, “if it may please you. But I beg all of you in this company, if I speak according to my fancy, do not take it amiss. For my intent is but to make sport. Now, sirs, I will continue.
“May I never see another drop of ale or wine, if I did not tell the truth about my husbands, as three of them were good, and two of them were bad. The three men were good, rich and old, and they hardly could keep their obligation to me, by which they were bound to me. By God, you know well what I mean by this. May God help me, I laugh when I think how pitifully I made them work at night! And, by my faith, I found it useless. I did not need to make an effort or pay them any respect to win their love. They loved me so well, by God above, that I set no value on their love. A wise woman will always attempt to win love where she has none; but since I had them wholly in my hand and had all their land, why should I bother to please them, unless it were for my profit and pleasure? I ruled them so, by my faith, that many nights they sang ‘alas!’
“Not for them, I believe, was fetched the bacon that some men win at Dunmow in Essex. I governed them so well by my rules that each of them was blissful and glad to bring me beautiful things from the fair. They were glad when I spoke friendly to them, for God knows, I chided them without mercy. Now listen, you wise wives who can understand, hear how craftily I behaved myself.
“Thus shall you speak, and thus you shall put them in the wrong, for there is no man who can swear and lie half so boldly as a woman. I say this for the benefit of wise wives when they have made a little misstep. A wise wife, if she knows what is good for her, shall make a man believe that the jackdaw is mad, and shall use her own maid as a witness to confirm it.
“But now hear how I spoke: -’Old sir fogey, is this how you would have things? Why is my neighbor’s wife so fine? She is honored everywhere she goes, while I have no decent clothes and must sit at home. Are you in love? What are you doing at my neighbor’s house? Is she so fair? What do you whisper with our maid? God bless! Leave behind your tricks, old sir lecher! And if I have a friend or a gossip, completely innocent, and I walk to his house or amuse myself there, you chide me like a fiend. You come home as drunk as a mouse and sit on your bench preach- ing, with no good reason. You say to me, it is a great evil to wed a poor woman, for the cost; and if she were rich, of noble birth, then you say that it is a torment to suffer her pride and her melancholy. And if she were fair, you say that every lecher will have her, you very knave! She who is assailed on every side cannot remain in chastity for long.
“‘You say that some folk desire us for our wealth, some for our figure, some for our beauty, some because we can sing or dance, some for our manners and mirth, and some for our hands and slim arms. Thus all goes to the Devil, by your account.
“‘You say that a castle wall can not be defended when it is assailed so long from every side. And if a woman be foul, then you say that she covets every man she sees, and will leap on him like a spaniel, until she find some man to do business with her. You say no goose in the lake that is too grey to look for a mate. And you say that it is a hard matter to control a thing that no man would be willing to keep.
“‘Thus you say, old fool, when you are going to bed; that no wise man need marry, nor any man who hopes for heaven. With a wild thunder-clap and fiery lightning-bolt may your withered neck be snapped in two! You say that leaky houses, smoke, and chiding wives, make men flee from their own homes.
“‘Ah, God bless! What ails such an old man to scold like this? You say that we wives will cover our vices until we are safely married, and then we show them. That is a villain’s proverb! You say that oxen, asses, horses, and hounds are tested for some time before men buy them, and so are basins, wash-bowl, spoons, stools, pots, clothes, attire, and all such household stuff; but people make no test of wives until they are wedded. And then, you old rascally dotard, you say, we will show our vices.
“‘You say also it displeases me unless you praise my beauty and gaze ever upon my face and call me “fair lady” everywhere; and unless you make a feast on my birthday, and dress me gay and freshly; and unless you do honor to my nurse, and to my maid in my bower, and to my father’s family—all this you say, old barrel-full of lies.
“‘And yet you have gathered a false suspicion of our apprentice Jankin, for his crisp hair shining like fine gold, and because he escorts me back and forth. I would not have him, even if you should die tomorrow! But tell me this—and bad luck to you!—why do you hide the keys of your chest from me? By God, they are my goods as well as yours! Why do you intend to make a fool of the mistress of your house? Now by the lord who is called St. James, however you may rage, you shall not be master both of my body and of my goods; you must give up one of them, in spite of your eyes.
“‘What good does it do if you inquire after me or spy upon me? You want to lock me in your chest, I believe! You should say, “Wife, go where you wish, take your pleasure, I will believe no tales; I know you for a true wife,
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Lady Alice.” We love no man who takes note or care where we go; we wish to have our freedom. May he be blessed of all men, that wise astrologer, Sir Ptolemy, who says this proverb in his book Almagest, “Of all men, he who never cares who has the world in hand has the greatest wisdom.” You are to understand by this proverb that you have enough: why do you need to care how well-off other people are? For in truth, old fogey, you shall have plenty of pleasing thing in the evening. He who will forbid a man to light a candle at his lantern is too great a miser; by God, he should have light, nevertheless. So you have enough; you need not complain.
“‘You say also that if we make ourselves amorous with clothing and with costly dress, it would be a peril to our chastity; and yet—may the plague take you!—you must confirm it with these words of the apostle: “Ye women shall apparel yourselves in garments made with chastity and shame,” he said, “and not with tressed hair and splendid gems and pearls, nor with gold, nor rich clothes.” I would not give a fly for your text or your rubric.
“‘You said also I was like a cat; for a cat, if someone were to singe the cat’s skin, will always dwell at home; but if she were sleek and elegant in her fur, she will not remain in the house an hour, but before any day would dawn, will go forth to show her skin and go a-caterwauling. This is to say, sir rogue, if I am finely dressed, I will run out to show my clothes.
“‘Sir old fool, what ails you to spy after me? Even if you were to ask Argus to be my sentry with his hundred eyes as best he can, in faith, he shall not keep watch over me unless it suits me. Still I could deceive him, as I hope to prosper!
“‘You say also that there are three things that trouble this entire world, and that no creature can endure the fourth. Oh, dear sir rascal, may Jesus shorten your life! Still you preach and say a hateful woman is considered one of these adversities. Are there no other things you can use for comparison without an innocent wife being one of them?
“‘You compare woman’s love to hell, or to barren land where no water can lie. You compare it also to wildfire; the more it burns, the more it desires to consume everything that can be burned. You say that just as worms destroy a tree, so too a wife destroys her husband; those who are tied to women know this.
“Gentle people, in this very way, as you can see, I would firmly swear to my old husbands, that they said this in their drunkenness; and all was false, except I got Jankin and my niece to be my witnesses. O Lord! The pain and woe I did them, though they were innocent, by God’s sweet suffering! For I could bite and whinny like a horse. I knew how to complain, even if I was guilty; or else I would have often been undone. He who first comes to the mill, grinds first; I complained first, and thus our war was ended. They were very glad to excuse themselves hurriedly of things that they never had done in all their lives. I would accuse my old husband of visiting prostitutes, even when they were so sick that they could scarcely stand.
“Yet I tickled his heart because he thought that I had such great fondness for him. I swore that all my walking about at night was to spot wenches whom he slept with. Under that pretext I had many privy jests at him; for all such wit is given to us when we are born. God has given deceit, weeping, and spinning to women by nature, so long as they live.
“And thus I boast of one thing for myself: in the end I had the better in every way, by cunning, or by force, or by some type of device, such as continual murmuring or grumbling. And most chiefly at night they had ill fortune; then I would scold and grant him no pleasure. I would not stay in bed any longer if I felt his arm over my side, until he had paid his ransom to me. And therefore I tell this to every man: let he who can, prosper, for everything has its price. Men may lure no hawks with an empty hand. For the sake of gain I would give them their way, and pretend to have an appetite; and yet I never had pleasure in bacon, from Dunmow or elsewhere. And so I would be chiding them all the time; even if the pope had sat beside them, by my word, I would not spare them at their own table. I re- paid them word for word; so may the Almighty Lord help me, if I ere to make my testament right now, I would not owe them a word that has not been repaid. By my wits I made it so that they were glad to surrender, as their best option, or we would have never been at peace. For though my husband looked like a mad lion, he was nonetheless bound to fail in his purpose.
“Then would I say, ‘Good dear, take note how meekly Wilkin our sheep looks; come near, my spouse, let me kiss your cheek. You should be all patient and mild, and have a sweet tender conscience, since you thus preach of the patience of Job. Always endure, since you can preach so well; and unless you do, we must teach you for sure that it is pleasant to have a wife in peace. Truly, one of us two must bend to the other and since a man is more reasonable than a woman, you must be patient. What ails you to grumble and groan in this way? Is it because you want to have my body all to yourself ? Why, take it all! Have every bit! By Peter, I curse you, but you love it well! If I would sell my beautiful thing, I could walk as fresh as a rose, but I will keep it for your own taste. You are to blame, by God! I tell you the truth.” We had this sort of words between us; but now I will speak about my fourth husband.
“My fourth husband was a reveller, that is to say, he had a paramour—and I was young and full of frolic, stub- born and strong, and jolly as a magpie. I could dance well to a little harp, and sing like any nightingale, when I had taken a draught of sweet wine. Metellius, the filthy churl, the swine, who with a staff bereft his spouse of her life,
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because she drank wine, would not have frightened me from drink, if I had been his wife! And when I think of wine I must think of Venus; for just as surely as cold engenders hail, a lecherous mouth leads to a lecherous body. There is no defense in a woman who is full of wine, as lechers know by experience.
“Lord Christ! But when I think about my youth and mirth, it tickles me at the root of my heart! To this very day it does my heart good that I have had my fling in my time. But alas! Age, which envenoms all things, has bereft me of my beauty and energy. Let them go. Farewell! May the Devil go with them! The flour is gone, and there is no more to say; now I sell the bran as best as I can. But even now I will strive to be very merry.
“Now I will tell of my fourth husband. I say I had great resentment in my heart that he had pleasure in any oth- er. But by the Lord and Saint Joce, he was paid back! I made a cross from the same wood for his back; not with my body, in any foul manner, but truly I offered people such generous hospitality that for anger and absolute jealousy I made him fry in his own grease. By God, I was his purgatory on earth, wherefore I hope that his soul is in glory now.
“For God knows, he sat often and sang, when his shoe pinched him bitterly: No creature knew, except God and he, how sorely I twisted him in so many ways. He died when I returned home from Jerusalem, and lies buried under the cross-beam, albeit his tomb is not quite as elaborately crafted as the sepulcher of Darius that Apelles so skilfully made. It would have been a waste to bury him at such an expense! Farewell to him; he is now in his grave and in his coffin—God rest his soul!
“Now will I speak of my fifth husband—may God never allow his soul to enter hell! And yet he was the most villainous to me, as I can still feel on my ribs all in a row, and ever shall to my ending day. But he was so fresh and merry, and could sweet-talk so well that, even if he had beaten me on every bone, he could soon win my beautiful thing again. I believe I loved him best, because he was sparing in his love.
“We women have, to tell the truth, an odd fantasy on this matter; whatever thing we can not easily win we will cry after continually and crave. “Forbid us something, and we desire that thing. Press on us hard, and then we will flee. With much reserve we offer our merchandise; a large crowd at the market makes our wares expensive; wares offered at too low a price will be thought to have little value. Every wise woman knows this.
“My fifth husband—may God bless his soul—which I took for love and not for riches, was sometime an Oxford scholar; and he had left school, and went to board with my good friend, who dwelt in our town. May God keep her soul! Her name was Alisoun. She knew my heart and my private thoughts better than our parish priest, by my soul! To her I revealed all my secrets.
“For had my husband peed on a wall, or done something that would have cost him his life, I would have told his every bit of his secret to her, and to another worthy wife, and to my niece, whom I loved well. And I did so often, God knows, which often made his face red and hot for true shame, and he would blame himself for telling me so great a secret.
“And so it happened that once, in Lent, (as I so often did, I visited my friend, for I still always loved to be merry, and to walk from house to house in March, April, and May, to hear various tales) that Jankin the clerk, my friend dame Alice, and I walked into the fields. All that spring my husband was in London; I had a better opportunity to play, and to see and to be seen by lusty folk. What did I know about how my fortune was to be shaped or in what place? Therefore, I made my visits to holy day vigils, to processions, to sermons, to these pilgrimages, to mira- cle-plays, and to weddings, and wore my gay scarlet gowns. These worms and moths and mites never ate a bit of them, upon my peril! And do you know why? Because they were well used.
“Now I will tell what happed to me. I say that we walked in the fields, until in truth we had such flirtation to- gether, this clerk and I, that in my foresight I spoke to him, and told him how he should wed me, if I were widowed. For, I am not speaking in boast; I was certainly never to this point without provision for marriage—nor for other things as well. I think that a mouse’s heart is not worth a leek if the mouse has but one hole to run to; and if that one fails, then all is over.
“I persuaded him to think that he had enchanted me; my mother taught me that trick. And I said also I dreamed of him all night; he would have slain me as I lay on my back, and my whole bed was full of real blood; but yet I hoped that he should bring good fortune to me, for blood signifies gold, as I was taught. And all of it was false; I dreamed not a bit of it, but I followed my mother’s teaching all along, as well as in other things besides.
“But now, sir, let me see; what shall I say now? Aha! By God, I have it again. When my fourth husband lay on his bier, I wept ever and made a sorrowful expression, as wives must, for it is the custom; and I covered my face with my kerchief. But since I had been provided with a new mate, I wept rather little, I vow.
“In the morning my husband was borne to church by the neighbors, who mourned for him, and our scholar Jankin was one of them. So may God help me, when I saw him go after the bier, I thought he had so clean and fair a pair of legs and feet that I gave him all my heart to keep. He was twenty winters old, I believe, and if I am to tell the truth, I was forty. But I always had a colt’s tooth. I was gap-toothed; I bore the print of Saint Venus’ birthmark, and that became me well. I was a lusty one, and fair, and rich, and youthful, and merry of heart, may God help me.
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“For certainly, I am dominated by the planet Venus in my senses, and my heart is dominated by the planet Mars. Venus gave me my love for pleasure and my wantonness, and Mars my sturdy hardihood. My ascendant was Mars in Taurus. Alas, alas! That ever 1ove was thought a sin! I followed ever my inclination by virtue of my constel- lation. That made it that I could not withhold my chamber from any good fellow. Yet I have the mark of Mars upon my face and in another private place as well. May God be my salvation indeed, I never loved discreetly, but always followed my appetite, whether he was short or tall, black or white it did not matter to me, as long as he pleased me, how poor he was, nor of what station.
“What should I say but at the end of a month this jolly clerk Jankin, who was so debonair, wedded me with great splendor? And I gave him all the land and wealth that I had ever been given; but afterwards I repented myself sorely, for he would allow nothing that I desired. By God, he struck me once on the ear! That was because I tore a leaf out of his book and my ear grew entirely deaf because of the blow. I was as stubborn as a lioness, and a very chatterbox with my tongue, and I would walk as I had done before from house to house, though he had sworn I should not. For this reason he would often make homilies and teach me old Roman histories how Symplicius Gal- lus left his wife and forsook her for all his days, just because he saw her one day looking out of his door with her head uncovered.
“He told me the name of another Roman who forsook his wife also because without his knowledge she was to a summer game. And then he would seek in his Bible that proverb of the Ecclesiast where he commands and firmly forbids that a man should allow his wife to go wander about. Then indeed he would say just this,
“He who builds his house out of sallows, And spurs his blind horse over fallows, And allows his wife to seek hallows, Then should be hanged upon the gallows.”
But all for nothing; I did not care one acorn for his proverbs or his old saying, and I would not be scolded by him. I hate anyone who tells me my faults; and, God knows, so too do more of us than I. This made him insanely furious with me, but I would not tolerate him in any case.
“Now, by Saint Thomas, I will tell you the truly, why I tore a leaf out of his book, for which he struck me so that I became deaf. He had a book which he would be still reading, night and day, for his amusement. He called it Vale- rius and Theophrastus; he always laughed uproariously at this book. And there was also once a scholar at Rome, a cardinal, named Saint Jerome, who composed a book against Jovinian; and besides this in my husband’s book there were Tertullian, Chrysippus, Trotula, and Heloise, who was abbess not far from Paris, and also the Proverbs of Solo- mon, Ovid’s Art of Love and many other books; and all these were bound in one volume.
“And every night and day, when he had leisure and freedom from other outside occupation, it was his habit to read in this book about wicked women; of them he knew more lives and legends than there are of good women in the Bible. For, trust well, it is an impossibility that any scholar will speak well of women, unless it would be of the lives of holy saints; but never of any other woman. Who painted the Lion, tell me? By God, if women had written histories, as scholars have in their chapels, they would have written about men more evil than all the sons of Adam could redress.
“The children of Mercury and the children of Venus are contrary in their actions; Mercury loves wisdom and knowledge, and Venus revelry and extravagance. And, because of their contrary natures, each of these planets de- scends in sign of the zodiac in which the other is most powerful; thus Mercury is depressed in Pisces, where Venus is exalted, and Venus is depressed where Mercury is exalted. Therefore no woman is praised by any scholar. When the scholar is old and entirely unable to give Venus service that is even worth his old shoe, then he sits down and in his dotage writes that women cannot keep their marriage vow!
“But now to my tale—why I was beaten for a book, by God, as I told you. One night Jankin, our husband, sat by the fire and read in his book, first about Eve, for whose wickedness all mankind was brought to misery, for which Jesus Christ Himself was slain, Who redeemed us with His heart’s blood. Lo! Here you may read explicitly about woman, that she was the ruin of all mankind.
“Then he read to me how Samson lost his hair in his sleep; his sweetheart cut it with her shears, through which treason he lost both his eyes. Then I tell you he read me about Hercules and his Dejanira, who caused him to set fire to himself. Nor did he in any way forget the penance and woe which Socrates had with his two wives, how his wife Xantippe cast piss on his head; this blameless man sat still as a stone, wiped his head, and dared say no more than, “before thunder ceases, the rain comes.”
“Of his cursedness my husband found a relish in the tale of Pasiphae, queen of Crete. Fie! Speak no more of her horrible lust and desire—it is a grisly thing. He read with good devotion about Clytemnestra, who for her wanton- ness treacherously caused her husband’s death. He told me also for what cause Amphiaraus perished at Thebes; my
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husband had a legend about his wife Eriphyle, who for a brooch of gold secretly informed the Greeks where her husband had hidden himself; for this reason he met a sorry fate at Thebes. He told me of Livia and Lucilia, who both caused their husbands to die, the one for hate, the other for love. Livia, late one evening, poisoned her hus- band, because she had become his foe; the wanton Lucilia so loved her husband that she gave him a love-drink, that she might always be in his mind, but of such power that he was dead before morning.
“And thus in one way or the other husbands came to sorrow. And then he told me how one Latumius lamented to Arrius, his fellow, how there grew in his garden such a tree on which, he said, his three wives had hanged them- selves with desperate heart. ‘Oh dear brother, give me a slip from this same blessed tree,’ said this Arrius, ‘and it shall be planted in my garden!’
“He read about wives of later times, some of whom have murdered their husbands in their sleep, and had sex with their lovers while the corpse lay all night flat on the floor. And some have driven nails into their husband’s brains while they slept. And some have given them poison in their drink. He spoke more evil than a heart can devise.
“And in all this he knew more proverbs than blades of grass grow in this world. He said, ‘It is better to have your dwelling with a lion or a foul dragon, than with a woman accustomed to scorning.’ ‘It is better,’ he said, ‘to dwell high in the roof, than down in the house with an angry woman; they are so wicked and contrary that they forever hate what their husbands love.’
“He said, ‘A woman casts her shame away when she casts off her undergarments.’ And furthermore, ‘A beautiful woman, unless she is also chaste, is like a gold ring in a sow’s nose.’ Who would think or imagine the woe and pain in my heart.
“And when I saw that he would never leave reading all night in this cursed book, all of the sudden I plucked three leaves out of his book, even as he was reading, and I also struck him on the cheek with my fist so that he fell down backward into our fire. And he started up like a mad lion, and struck me on the head with his fist so that I lay as dead on the floor.
“And he was aghast when he saw how still I was, and would have fled on his way, until at last I came out of my swoon. ‘Oh, have you slain me, false thief,’ I said, ‘and have you murdered me thus for my land? Before I die, I will still kiss you.’ And he came nearer and kneeled down gently and said, ‘Dear sister Alisoun, so God help me, I shall never strike you again! You yourself are to blame for what I have done. Forgive me for it; and I beg you for that.’ - And yet again I hit him on the cheek, and said, ‘Thief, I am revenged this much. Now I will die; I can speak no more.’
“But at last with great pain and grief, we fell into agreement between ourselves. He put the full bridle into my hand, to have the governance of house and estate, and over his tongue and hands as well. And I made him burn his book then and there.
“And when I had got for myself all the sovereignty, through a master-stroke, and when he said, ‘My own faithful wife, do as you will the rest of your days; be the guard of your honor, and of my dignity also,’ we had never a dispute after that day. God help me so, I was as loving to him as any wife between Denmark and India, and as true also; and so was he to me. And I pray to God, Who sits in glory, so bless his soul for His sweet compassion! Now I will relate my story, if you will listen.”
The Friar, when he had heard all this, laughed and said, “Now, Madame, so may I have joy, this is a long pream- ble of a tale!”
When the Summoner heard the Friar make an outcry, he said, “Lo! By God’s two arms! A friar will evermore be meddling. Lo, good men! A fly and a friar will fall into every dish and every affair. Why do you speak of pream- bling? What! Amble or trot, or hold your peace and go sit down! You hinder our sport in this way.”
“Yes, is that what you want, sir Summoner? Now by my faith,” said the Friar, “I shall tell, before I go, such a tale or two of a summoner that all the people here shall laugh.”
“Now, Friar, I curse your face,” said this Summoner, “and I curse myself, unless I tell stories, two or three, of fri- ars, before I get to Sittingborne, that shall make your heart grieve, for I know well your patience has already left you.”
“Peace, and now!” cried our Host; and said, “Let the woman tell her tale. You act like people who are drunk with ale. Please, Madame, tell your tale; and that is best.”
“All ready, sir, just as you wish,” she said, “if I have the permission of this worthy Friar.” “Yes, Madame,” he said, “tell your tale now, and I will listen.” Here ends the Prologue of the Wife of Bath.
Here begins the Tale of the Wife of Bath. In the old days of King Arthur, of whom Britons speak great glory, this land was entirely filled with fairy power.
The elf-queen danced often with her merry company in many green meadows. This long ago was the belief, as I find in books. I speak of many hundred years ago; but in our times no man can see elves any more.
For now the great charity and the prayers of begging friars and other holy friars, who, as thick as motes in a sunbeam, reach every land and every stream, blessing halls, chambers, kitchens, bowers, cities, towns, castles,
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villages, barns, stables, dairies—all this causes there to be no elves. For where a fairy was accustomed to walk, there the begging friar himself walks now, in the mornings or the afternoons, and says his matins and his holy things as he goes along in his begging. Women may go up and down safely; in every bush or under every tree, there is no incubus, except him, and he will do nothing but dishonor them.
And so it happened that this King Arthur had in his court a lusty young knight, who one day came riding from the river; and it happened that he saw walking ahead of him a maiden, whom he ravished, in spite of all her resis- tance. For this violation there was such clamor and such appeal to King Arthur, that the knight was condemned by course of law to die; and perhaps the statute in place then was so severe that he would have lost his head, if the queen and other ladies had not so long begged the king for mercy, until he granted him his life at that point, and placed him entirely at the queen’s will, to choose whether she would save him or let him die.
The queen thanked the king very heartily; and after this, upon a day when she saw the opportunity, she spoke in this way to the knight: “You stand now,” she said, “in such a plight that you have even now no assurance of your life. I grant you life, if you can tell me what thing it is that women desire most. Beware, and guard your neck-bone from iron! And if you cannot tell it right now, I will still give you leave to go for twelve months and a day, to search out and learn an answer sufficient for this point. And before you depart, I will have security that you will yield up your body in this place.”
This knight was woeful, and he sighed sorrowfully. But what! He could not do just as he pleased. And, with such a reply that God would provide for him, at last he chose to depart and come at the very end of the year; and he took his leave and went forth along his way.
He sought every house and place where he hoped to find such luck as to learn what women love most. But he could arrive at no coast where he could find two creatures agreeing together on this matter. Some said that women best love riches; some said honor; some said mirth; some, fancy clothes; some, pleasure in bed, and to be widowed often and re-wed. Some said that our hearts are most eased when we be flattered and gratified.
They came very near the truth; a man shall best win us by flattery, I will not deny it, and we are caught by atten- tiveness and diligence, both great and small. And some said how we love best to be free and to do just as we wish, and that no man should reprove us for our faults, but say that we are wise and never foolish at all. For in truth there is nobody among us who will not kick if someone would claw us on a sore place, just because he tells us the truth. Try this, and he shall find it out that it is true. For though we may be full of vice within, we wish to be considered wise and clean of sin.
And some said that we have great delight to be accounted stable and trustworthy and steadfast in one purpose, and never reveal what men tell us. But that sort of talk is not worth a rake-handle, by God! We women can conceal nothing. Take witness of Midas. Would you like to hear the tale?
Ovid, among other little things, says that Midas had two ass’s ears growing upon his head under his long hair, which deformity he hid artfully from every man’s sight, as best he could, so that nobody knew of it, except his wife. He loved her most and trusted her; and he asked her to tell of his disfigurement to no creature. She swore to him, “No,” not even to gain all the world would she do that villainy and sin, to bring her husband so foul a name; for her own honor she would not do it.
But nevertheless she felt she should die, to hide a secret so long; it swelled so sorely about her heart, it seemed to her, that some word needed to burst from her. And since she dared tell it to no human creature, she ran down to a nearby marsh; her heart was ablaze until she arrived there.
And as a bittern bumbles in the mire, she laid her mouth down unto the water: “Betray me not, you water, with your sound,’ she said; ‘I tell it to you, and to nobody else. My husband has two long ass’s ears. Now my heart is whole and well again; now it is out. In very truth I could keep it in no longer.’
By this you may see that though we wait a time, we can conceal no secret forever; it must come out. If you wish to hear the remainder of the tale, read Ovid; you can find it out there.
This knight, about whom my tale chiefly is, when he saw he could not come by it, that is to say, what women love most—the spirit in his breast was so sorrowful. But home he went, as he could not remain. The day had come when he had to turn homeward. And as he went, deep in care, it happened that he rode under the edge of a forest, where he saw twenty-four ladies and more in a dance. Eagerly he drew toward this dance, in hope of learning some piece of wisdom. But in truth, before he arrived there entirely, the dance vanished—he did not know where it went. He saw no living creature there, except a woman sitting on the grass—no one could imagine a fouler creature.
At the approach of the knight this old woman arose and said, “Sir knight, there is no path that lies this way. Tell me, by your faith, what do you seek? Peradventure it may be better for you; these old people know many things.”
“My dear mother,” said this knight, “in truth I am just a dead man, unless I can say what thing it is that women desire most. If you could instruct me, I would repay you well for your work.”
“Pledge me your word here on my hand,” she said, “that you will do the first thing that I require of you, if it should lie in your power; and before it is night I will tell it you.”
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“Take my pledge here,” said the knight, “I agree.” “Then,” she said, “I dare to boast that your life is safe; for upon my soul I will guarantee that the queen will say
as I do. Show me the proudest of the whole court, who wears a kerchief or other head-dress and who dares say no to what I shall teach you. Let us go on, without further words.” Then she whispered a word in his ear, and told him to be glad and have no fear.
When they had arrived at the court, this knight said he had kept his day, as he had promised, and his answer was ready. At that time many noble wives were assembled to hear his answer, and many maidens, and many widows (because they be wise); and the queen herself sat as judge. And then this knight was summoned.
Silence was commanded to every creature, and the knight was ordered to tell in public what thing mortal wom- en most love. This knight stood not like a dumb beast, but without delay answered the question with manly voice, so that all the court heard it.
“My liege lady, over all this world” he said, “women wish to have sovereignty as well over her husband as her love, and to have mastery over him. This is your greatest desire, though you may slay me for this. Do as you wish; I am here at your will.”
In all the court there was neither wife nor maiden nor widow to contradict what he replied, but all declared he was worthy to have his freedom. And at that word, the old woman, whom the knight had seen sitting on the grass, started up.
“Mercy, my sovereign lady!” she said. “Do me justice, before your court departs. I taught the knight this answer, for which he pledged me his word that he would do the first thing I should require of him, if it lay in his power. Before the court, then, I pray you, sir knight,” she said, “that you take me as your wife; for you well know that I have saved your life. If I speak falsely, say no to me, upon your faith!”
This knight answered, “Alas and alack! I know full well that this was my promise. But for the love of God, please choose another request! Take all my goods, and let my body go.”
“No, then,’ she answered, “I curse us both. For though I may be ugly, poor, and old, I would like none of all the metal or ore that is buried under the earth or lies upon it, only that I would be your wife, and your love also.”
“My love!” he said, “No, my damnation! Alas that any of my kindred should be so foully disgraced by such a match!”
But all this was for nothing. This is the conclusion, that he was constrained, and had to wed her. And he took his old wife and went to bed.
Now perhaps some men would say that through my negligence I take no care to tell you all the joy and all the preparations that there were at the celebration that day. To this point I shall briefly answer, and say there was no joy nor celebration at all; but only heaviness and much sorrow. For he wedded her secretly the next morning. And he was so miserable that he hid himself the rest of the day like an owl, as his wife looked so ugly.
Great was his misery when he was alone with his wife; he tossed about and turned back and forth. His old wife lay always smiling, and said, “Ah, God bless, dear husband! Does every knight act this way with his wife? Is this the way of King Arthur’s household? Is every knight of his so hard to please? I am your own love and your wife also, and I have saved your life, and surely, I have never yet done you any wrong. Why do act this way on this first night? You act like a man who has lost his wit. What is my guilt? Tell me, for the love of God, and if I have the power, it shall be amended.”
“Amended!” said this knight. “Alas! No, no! It can not be amended forevermore! You are so loathly and so old, and come of so low a lineage as well, that it is small wonder that I toss and turn. I wish to God my heart would burst!’
‘Is this,’ she said, ‘the cause of your unrest?’ ‘Yes, certainly, and no wonder,’ he said. “Now, sir,” she replied, “I could amend all this before three days had passed, if I wish, so that you might bear
yourself toward me well. “But when you speak of such gentility as is descended from ancient wealth—so that you knights should there-
fore would be gentlemen of breeding—such arrogance is not worth a hen. Look who is always most virtuous, openly and secretly, and most inclines to do what gentle deeds he can; take him for the gentlest man. Christ wishes that we claim our gentility from Him, not from our ancestors’ ancient wealth. For though all their heritage of our ancestors, by reason of which we claim high rank, may descend to us, yet they cannot at all bequeath to any of us their virtuous living, which made them to be called gentle men and to bid us follow to them and do in like manner.
The wise poet of Florence, who is named Dante, speaks well on this matter. Lo, this is what Dante’s says in his poetry: “Seldom does a man climb to excellence on his own slim branches, for God, from his goodness, wills that we claim or gentility from Him.” For we may claim nothing from our ancestors, except for temporal things that can be injured and impaired.
“Every creature also knows this as well as I, that if gentility were planted by nature in a certain family all down the line, openly and privately, then they would never cease to do the fair duties of gentility; they could never do any
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The Canterbury Tales
base or vicious deed. Take fire and bear it into the darkest house between here and the mount of Caucasus, and let the doors be shut and leave that place. Nevertheless the fire will burn and blaze as fairly as though twenty thousand men witnessed it; on peril of my life, it will keep to its natural duty until it dies.
“Here you may well see how nobility hangs not from ancient possessions, since people do not always perform its works, as does the fire, according to its nature. For, God knows, one may often see a lord’s son do vicious and shameful deeds; and he who wishes to be esteemed for his gentility because he was born of a noble house and had virtuous and noble ancestors, and yet himself will not perform the deeds of gentility nor follow after his gentle an- cestor who is dead, he is not gentle, even if he is a duke or an earl; for base and sinful deeds make a commoner. For gentility then would be nothing but renown of your ancestors for their high worthiness, which is something that has nothing to do with you. Your gentility comes only from God. Then our true gentility comes from divine grace, and was in no fashion bequeathed to us with our earthly station.
“Think how noble was that Tullius Hostilius, as Valerius tells, who rose out of poverty to high nobility. Read Seneca, and Boethius as well; there you shall see expressly that he who does noble deeds is noble. And therefore, dear husband, I conclude in this way: albeit my ancestors were untutored, yet may the high God—and so I hope— grant me grace to live virtuously. Then I am noble, when I begin to live virtuously and to abandon evil.
“And you reproach me for poverty; but the high God on whom we believe chose freely to live in poverty. And surely every man, maiden, or wife, may well know that Jesus, King of Heaven, would not choose a wicked manner of living. Truly cheerful poverty is an honorable thing, so will Seneca say, and other clerks. Whoever keeps himself content with his poverty, I count as rich, even if he does not have not a shirt! He who covets is a poor creature, for he wishes to have that which is not within his power. But he who has nothing, nor covets things, is rich, albeit you count him as only a serving-lad.
“True poverty sings a song of its own. Concerning poverty, Juvenal says merrily: “The poor man, when he goes along the way,
Before the thieves, he can still sing and play.” Poverty is a hateful good, I suppose, a great remover from the busyness of the world, and a great teacher of
wisdom to one who takes it in patience. All this is poverty, though it may seem wretched; and a possession that no creature will challenge. When a man is humbled, often poverty allows him to know his God and himself as well. It seems to me that poverty is a magnifying glass through which he may see who his true friends are. And therefore, sir, I pray, so that I will not grieve you, scorn me no more for my poverty.
“Now, sir, you reproach me for my old age. And surely, sir, though there may be no authority in any book to tell you so, yet you honorable gentlefolk say that men should do courtesy to an old creature, and for your gentle man- ners call him Father. And I could find authorities to show this, I believe.
“Now you say I am old and foul: then have no fear that you will be a cuckold. For ugliness and age, upon my life, are great wardens over chastity. But nevertheless, since I know your delight, I shall fulfill your appetite.
“Choose,” she said, “one of these two things: to have me foul and old until I die, and to you a true, humble wife, never in all my days displeasing you; or else to have me young and beautiful, and take your chance on how many visits there will be to your house—or perhaps to some other place—which will be for my sake. Now choose yourself which one you will have.”
This knight thought hard about it and sighed deeply; but at last he spoke in this manner: “My lady and love, and my dear wife, I put myself into your wise governance. Please choose which may be the greatest pleasure and greatest honor to you and me also; I care not which of the two, for it is sufficient to me to please you.”
“Then I have the mastery over you,” she said, “since I may choose and govern as I wish” “Yes, surely, wife,” he said; “I believe that is for the best.” “Kiss me,” she said, “we will be angered no longer. For by my faith I will be both unto you—that is to say, both
beautiful, yes, and good. I pray to God that I may die mad, but I would be as good and faithful as ever a wife was since the world was new. And if I am not as beautiful to see in the morning as any lady, queen or empress, between the east and the west, do with my life and death as you will. Lift up the curtain, and look how it is.”
And when the knight saw truly that she was so fair and so young, he clasped her in his two arms for joy, his heart bathed in a bath of bliss. A thousand times in a row he kissed her. And she obeyed him in all that might cause him delight or pleasure.
And thus they lived in perfect joy to the end of their lives. And may Jesus Christ send us husbands meek, young, and lusty, and grace to outlive them that we wed.
And I pray Jesus also to shorten their days that will not be ruled by their wives. And old, angry misers—may God send them a true pestilence soon!
Here ends the Wife of Bath’s Tale.
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The Franklin’s Tale Here follow the Words of the Franklin to the Squire, and the Words of the Host to the Franklin.
“In faith, Squire, you have conducted yourself well and nobly. I praise your wit highly,” said the Franklin, with such delicate understanding. In my judgment there is nobody in this company who shall be your peer in eloquence as long as you live. May God give you good fortune, and send you perseverance in virtue, for I have great delight in your speaking. I have a son, and by the Trinity I had rather he would be a man of such discretion as you, than have twenty pounds worth of land, even if it were put in my hand right now.
“Fie on possessions, unless a man is virtuous as well! I have scolded my son, and shall still scold him, because he will not wish to pursue virtue; but his habit is to play at dice and to spend and to lose all that he has. And he had rather talk with a page than converse with any noble person from whom he might properly learn nobility.
“A straw for your gentle manners!” said our Host. “What, Franklin, well you know, by God, that each of you must tell at least a tale or two, or break your word.”
“That I well know, sir,” said the Franklin. “I pray you not to hold me in scorn if I speak a word or two to this man. “Tell your tale now, without more words. “Gladly, sir Host,” he said, “I will obey your will; now listen to what I say. I will not contradict you in any way as
far, to the extent that my wits will suffice. I pray to God that it may please yow; then I will know well that it is good enough.”
The Prologue of the Franklin’s Tale “These old gentle Bretons in their time made lays about various adventures, rhymed in their early British
tongue; which lays they sang to their instruments of music, or else read them, for their pleasure. And one of them I have in mind, which I will relate with good will as best I can. But, sirs, because I am an unlearned man, at my beginning I pray you to excuse me for my homely speech. In truth, I never learned rhetoric; anything I speak must be bare and plain. I never slept on the Mount of Parnassus, nor learned Marcus Tullius Cicero. I know no colors of speech, surely; only such colors as grow in the meadow, or else such as people dye or paint. Colors of rhetoric are too strange for me; my spirit has no feeling in such matters. But if you wish, you shall hear my tale.”
Here begins the Franklin’s Tale. In Armorica, which is called Brittany, there was a knight who loved and served a lady in the best manner he
could. And he underwent many labors and many great enterprises, before he gained her. For she was one of the fairest women under the sun, and had come from such a noble family that this knight scarcely dared for fear to tell her his woe and his pain and distress. But at last she took such pity upon his pains, because of his worthiness and primarily for his humble attentiveness, so that secretly she agreed to take him as husband and lord, in such lordship as men may have over their wives. And in order that they might live more in bliss, he swore to her as a knight, by his own free will, that never at any time in all his life would he take any authority upon himself against her will, nor show jealousy toward her, but obey her and follow her will in all things, as any lover shall do toward his lady; except that he wanted only the sovereignty in name, lest he should shame his rank as husband.
She thanked him, and said with great humility, “Sir, since through your noble mind you offer me so free a rein, God forbid that through my guilt there would ever be war or contention between us two. Sir, I will be your true humble wife until my heart break; take here my pledge.” Thus they were both in quiet and peace.
For one thing, sirs, I dare safely say, friends must comply with one another, if they wish to keep company long. Love will not be constrained by mastery; when mastery comes, the god of love soon beats his wings, and, farewell, he is gone! Love is as free as any spirit. Women by their nature desire liberty and not to be under constraint like a servant; and so do men, if I shall tell the truth. Look who is most patient in love, he has the advantage over all. Patience is a high virtue, certainly; for, as these scholars say, it conquers things that force could never reach.
Men should not scold or complain at every word. Learn to endure, or else, on my life, you shall learn this, whether you wish to or not. For certainly there is nobody in this world who sometimes does not act or speak amiss. Wrath, sickness, the constellation, wine, woe, changing humors, very often cause a man to act or speak amiss.
A man may not be avenged of every wrong; in every creature who knows how to rule his life, there must be moderation, according to the occasion. And therefore, so that he might live at ease, this wise worthy knight prom- ised patience toward her, and she seriously swore to him that there never should be a fault in her. Here one may see a humble and wise agreement; thus she took her servant and her lord: servant in love, and lord in marriage. Then he was in both lordship and servitude. Servitude? No, but superior in lordship, since he has both his ]ady and love; surely, his lady, and his wife as well, who accepted that law of love. And in this happy state he went home with his wife to his country, not far from Penmark, where his dwelling was, and where he lived in happiness and comfort.
Image 5.5: The Franklin’s Tale | A two page featuring a black and white illustration of Dorigen looking out at the rocks on the coast of Brit- tany, which play an important role in The Franklin’s Tale.
Author: Edward Burne-Jones Source: Archive.org License: Public Domain
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The Canterbury Tales
The Franklin’s Tale Here follow the Words of the Franklin to the Squire, and the Words of the Host to the Franklin.
“In faith, Squire, you have conducted yourself well and nobly. I praise your wit highly,” said the Franklin, with such delicate understanding. In my judgment there is nobody in this company who shall be your peer in eloquence as long as you live. May God give you good fortune, and send you perseverance in virtue, for I have great delight in your speaking. I have a son, and by the Trinity I had rather he would be a man of such discretion as you, than have twenty pounds worth of land, even if it were put in my hand right now.
“Fie on possessions, unless a man is virtuous as well! I have scolded my son, and shall still scold him, because he will not wish to pursue virtue; but his habit is to play at dice and to spend and to lose all that he has. And he had rather talk with a page than converse with any noble person from whom he might properly learn nobility.
“A straw for your gentle manners!” said our Host. “What, Franklin, well you know, by God, that each of you must tell at least a tale or two, or break your word.”
“That I well know, sir,” said the Franklin. “I pray you not to hold me in scorn if I speak a word or two to this man. “Tell your tale now, without more words. “Gladly, sir Host,” he said, “I will obey your will; now listen to what I say. I will not contradict you in any way as
far, to the extent that my wits will suffice. I pray to God that it may please yow; then I will know well that it is good enough.”
The Prologue of the Franklin’s Tale “These old gentle Bretons in their time made lays about various adventures, rhymed in their early British
tongue; which lays they sang to their instruments of music, or else read them, for their pleasure. And one of them I have in mind, which I will relate with good will as best I can. But, sirs, because I am an unlearned man, at my beginning I pray you to excuse me for my homely speech. In truth, I never learned rhetoric; anything I speak must be bare and plain. I never slept on the Mount of Parnassus, nor learned Marcus Tullius Cicero. I know no colors of speech, surely; only such colors as grow in the meadow, or else such as people dye or paint. Colors of rhetoric are too strange for me; my spirit has no feeling in such matters. But if you wish, you shall hear my tale.”
Here begins the Franklin’s Tale. In Armorica, which is called Brittany, there was a knight who loved and served a lady in the best manner he
could. And he underwent many labors and many great enterprises, before he gained her. For she was one of the fairest women under the sun, and had come from such a noble family that this knight scarcely dared for fear to tell her his woe and his pain and distress. But at last she took such pity upon his pains, because of his worthiness and primarily for his humble attentiveness, so that secretly she agreed to take him as husband and lord, in such lordship as men may have over their wives. And in order that they might live more in bliss, he swore to her as a knight, by his own free will, that never at any time in all his life would he take any authority upon himself against her will, nor show jealousy toward her, but obey her and follow her will in all things, as any lover shall do toward his lady; except that he wanted only the sovereignty in name, lest he should shame his rank as husband.
She thanked him, and said with great humility, “Sir, since through your noble mind you offer me so free a rein, God forbid that through my guilt there would ever be war or contention between us two. Sir, I will be your true humble wife until my heart break; take here my pledge.” Thus they were both in quiet and peace.
For one thing, sirs, I dare safely say, friends must comply with one another, if they wish to keep company long. Love will not be constrained by mastery; when mastery comes, the god of love soon beats his wings, and, farewell, he is gone! Love is as free as any spirit. Women by their nature desire liberty and not to be under constraint like a servant; and so do men, if I shall tell the truth. Look who is most patient in love, he has the advantage over all. Patience is a high virtue, certainly; for, as these scholars say, it conquers things that force could never reach.
Men should not scold or complain at every word. Learn to endure, or else, on my life, you shall learn this, whether you wish to or not. For certainly there is nobody in this world who sometimes does not act or speak amiss. Wrath, sickness, the constellation, wine, woe, changing humors, very often cause a man to act or speak amiss.
A man may not be avenged of every wrong; in every creature who knows how to rule his life, there must be moderation, according to the occasion. And therefore, so that he might live at ease, this wise worthy knight prom- ised patience toward her, and she seriously swore to him that there never should be a fault in her. Here one may see a humble and wise agreement; thus she took her servant and her lord: servant in love, and lord in marriage. Then he was in both lordship and servitude. Servitude? No, but superior in lordship, since he has both his ]ady and love; surely, his lady, and his wife as well, who accepted that law of love. And in this happy state he went home with his wife to his country, not far from Penmark, where his dwelling was, and where he lived in happiness and comfort.
Image 5.5: The Franklin’s Tale | A two page featuring a black and white illustration of Dorigen looking out at the rocks on the coast of Brit- tany, which play an important role in The Franklin’s Tale.
Author: Edward Burne-Jones Source: Archive.org License: Public Domain
Who, unless he had been wedded, could tell the joy, the comfort, and wellbeing between husband and wife?
This blessed condition lasted a year and more, until the knight of whom I speak, who was called Arveragus of Kayrrud, laid his plans to go and dwell a year or two in England, which also was called Britain, to seek worship and honor in arms, for he set all his pleasure on such toils. And he dwelt there two years, as the book says.
Now I will leave Arveragus, and will speak of Dorigen his wife, who loved her husband as her heart’s blood. For in his absence she wept and sighed, as these noble wives do (when they will). She mourned, watched, wailed, fasted, lament- ed; desire for his presence so distracted her that she cared nothing for the whole wide world. Her friends, who knew her heavy thoughts, comforted her in all they could. They preached to her; day and night they told her that she was slaying herself for no good reason, alas! And they comforted her all they could, to make her leave her heaviness.
Through the process of time, as you all know, one may engrave in a stone so long that some figure will be imprinted on it. They comforted her so long that, with the aid of hope and reason, she received the imprint of their consolation. Through this her great sorrow began to assuage; she could not con- tinue forever in such frenzy.
And while she was in all this sorrow, Arveragus had sent home to her letters telling of his welfare, and that he would soon return; otherwise, this sorrow would have slain her heart. Her friends saw her sorrow began to slacken, and on their knees begged her for God’s love to come and roam about with them, to drive away her dark imaginings. And finally she agreed, for well she saw that it was best.
Now her castle stood near to the sea, and for a diversion she often walked with her friends high upon the bank, from which she saw many ships and barges sailing on their course, wherever they would go. But then that became a part of her grief. For
often she said to herself, “Alas! Is there no ship of so many that I see that will bring home my lord? Then my heart would be fully cured of its bitter, bitter pains.”
Another time she would sit there and ponder, and from the shore cast her eyes down. But when she saw the grisly black rocks, her heart would so quake for true fear that she could not hold herself on her feet. Then she would sit down on the grass and piteously look into the sea, and with sorrowful, cold sighs say just so: “Eternal God, who through Your providence guides the world by sure government, You make nothing in vain, as they say. But, Lord, these grisly, fiendish, black rocks, which seem more like a foul chaos of work than any fair creation by such a per- fect, wise, and unchanging God: why have You created this irrational work? For by this work neither man nor bird nor brute is benefited, south or north, east or west.
“It does no good, in my mind, but harm. Do You not see, Lord, how it destroys mankind? Although they may not be remembered, rocks have slain a hundred thousand bodies of mankind, which is such a fair a part of Your work that You made it in Your own image. Then it should seem You had a great fondness toward men; but how then may it be that You created to destroy them in such a way that do no good, but always harm? I know well that scholars will say as they please by arguments that all is for the best, though I cannot understand their reasons. But may the same God that made the wind blow protect my lord! This is my conclusion; I leave all disputation to schol-
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ars. But I wish to God that all these black rocks were sunk into hell, for his sake! These rocks slay my heart for fear.” Thus she would speak to herself, with many piteous tears.
Her friends saw that it was no diversion for her, but only a discomfort, to walk by the sea, and devised for her amusements in other places. They led her by rivers and springs and in other delightful places; they danced and they played at chess and backgammon.
So one day in the morning, they went to amuse themselves for the entire day in a nearby garden, in which they had made their provision of food and other things. This was on the sixth morning of May, and May with his soft rains had painted this garden full of leaves and flowers. And truly the craft of man’s hand had so curiously arrayed this garden that never was a garden of such beauty, unless it would be paradise itself.
The scent and the fresh sight of flowers would have gladdened any heart that was ever born, unless too great a sickness or too great a sorrow distressed it; so full was it of delight and beauty.
After dinner they began to dance and sing, except Dorigen, who always made complaint or moan, because she saw not her husband and also her love enter into the dance. But nevertheless she must wait for a time and with good hope let her sorrow pass.
Upon this dance, among other men, there danced before Dorigen a squire who was fresher and more joyful in apparel than is the month of May, I believe. He sang and danced to surpass any man who is or was since the world was made. He was, if one would describe him, one of the most handsome men alive: young, strong, virtuous, rich, and wise; and well beloved and held in great honor. And in short, if I am to tell the truth, this servant to Venus, this lively squire, who was called Aurelius, had loved Dorigen, entirely without her knowledge, more than any creature for two years and more, as it happened, but never dared he tell her his woe. He drank all his penance without a cup.
He was in despair, he dared say nothing except that in his songs he would reveal his woe to some degree, as in a general complaining; he said he loved, and was in no way beloved. Of such matter he made many lays, songs, com- plaints, roundels, and virelays, about how he would dare not utter his sorrow, but languishes like a fury in hell; and die he must, he said, as did Echo for Narcissus, who dared not tell her woe. In other manner than this that I speak of he dared not reveal his passion to her; except that, by chance, sometimes at dances, where young people perform their customs of courtship, it may well be that he looked upon her face in such a way as a man who asks for grace; but she knew nothing of his intent.
Nevertheless it happened, before they went from that garden, that because he was her neighbor and a man of good reputation, and she had known him for a long time, they began to speak. And Aurelius drew more and more toward his matter and when he saw his time, he said thus: “Madame, by God That made this world, If I had known it would gladden your heart, I wish that the day when your Arveragus went over the sea, I, Aurelius, had gone to a place from which I never should have returned. For I well know that my service is in vain; my reward is but the breaking of my heart. Have pity upon my bitter pains, Madame, for with a word you may slay me or save me. I wish to God that I were buried here at your feet! I have now no time to say more; have mercy, sweet, or you will cause me to die!”
She looked at Aurelius: “Is this your desire?” she said. “Is this what you wish to say? Never before did I know what was in your mind. But now, Aurelius, I know it. By that God that gave me breath and soul, never in word or deed shall I be an untrue wife. As long as I have any senses, I will be his to whom I am bound. Take this for my final answer.”
But in sport after that she said, “Aurelius, by the high God in heaven, yet would I consent to be your love, since I see you so piteously lamenting. Whenever that day comes that all along the coast of Brittany you remove all the rocks, stone by stone, so that they no longer obstruct the passage of ship or boat—I say, when you have made the coast so clear of rocks that there is no stone to be seen, then I will love you best of all men. Take here my pledge, in all that I can ever do.”
“Is there no other mercy in you?” he said. “No,” she said, “by that Lord that made me! For I well know that shall never happen. Let such follies pass out
of your heart. What delight should a man ever have to go about loving the wife of another man, who has her body whenever he wishes?”
Aurelius gave many sore sighs. He was woeful when he heard this; and with a sorrowful heart he answered, “Madame, this would be impossible! Then I must die of a sudden and horrible death.” And with that word he turned back.
Then many of her other friends came roaming up and down in the paths, and knew nothing of this affair, but speedily began new revel; until the bright sun lost his hue, and the horizon had taken away from him his light (this is as much as to say, it was evening). And they went home in joy and contentment, except, alas, wretched Aurelius alone! He went to his house with sorrowful heart; he saw that he could never escape death, and felt his heart grow cold. Up to the heaven he held his hands and set himself down on his bare knees, and raving said his prayer; for true woe he was out of his wits and knew not what he spoke.
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With piteous heart he began his complaint to the gods, and first to the sun: “Apollo,” he said, “lord and ruler of every plant, herb, tree, and flower, who gives to each of them his times and seasons, according to your height in the sky, as your lodging changes toward north or south; lord Phoebus, cast your merciful eye upon wretched Aurelius, who is so lost. Behold, lord, my lady has decreed my guiltless death, unless your kindness should have some pity upon my dying heart. For well I know, lord Phoebus, that you may help me best of all except my lady, if you wish. Now promise to hear me tell you in what way I may be helped.
“Your blessed sister, Lucina the bright, chief goddess and queen of the sea (though Neptune has his godhead in the sea, yet is she empress over him), you well know, lord, that just as it is her desire to be kindled and lightened by your orb, for which reason she follows you eagerly, so too the sea desires by its nature to follow her, being goddess both in the sea and in rivers great and small.
“Therefore, Lord Phoebus, this is my prayer: perform this miracle or break my heart; that now at this next opposition, which shall be in the sign of the Lion, pray Lucina to bring a flood so great that it shall rise above the highest rock in Armorican Britanny by at least five fathoms, and let this flood last two years.
“Then, certainly, I may say to my lady, ‘Keep your promise, the rocks are gone.’ Lord Phoebus, do this miracle; ask her to go the same speed as you; I say, ask your sister that these two years she will go no faster in her course than you. Then shall she always be exactly at full, and the spring flood-tide will last day and night. And if she will not promise to grant me my dear sovereign lady in such a manner, pray her to sink every rock into her own dark region under the ground where Pluto dwells, or nevermore shall I gain my lady. Barefoot I will go a pilgrimage to your temple at Delphi. Lord Phoebus; see the tears on my cheeks, and have some pity on my pains.”
And with that he fell down in a swoon and for a long time lay in a trance. His brother, who knew his trouble, caught him up and brought him to his bed. In this woe and torment I let this woeful creature lie in despair. He may choose, as far as I am concerned, whether he will live or die.
Arveragus was come home, with other valiant knights, in health and great honor as the flower of chivalry. Oh, now you are happy, Dorigen, who has in your arms your lively husband, the vigorous knight, the valiant warrior, who loves you as his own heart’s life. He never thought to be suspicious whether any creature had spoken to her of love while he was gone; he had no fear of that. He gave no heed to any such matter, but danced, jousted, and showed her great enjoyment. Thus I leave them in happiness and bliss, and will tell of the sick Aurelius.
Two years and more the wretched Aurelius lay in languor and mad torment, before he could walk a step on earth; and he had no comfort in this time, except from his brother, a scholar, who knew of all this woeful matter. For in truth he dared say no word about it to any other creature. He carried it under his breast more secretly than Pamphilus carried his love for Galatea. His breast was whole, to outward view, but ever in his heart was the keen arrow. And you well know that in surgery the cure of a wound healed only on the surface is perilous, unless men could touch the arrow or get at it.
His brother wept and wailed privately, until at last it came to his mind that while he was at Orleans, in France, as young scholars who are desirous of studying curious arts seek in every nook and corner to learn this special knowledge, it came to his mind that, one day while he studied at Orleans, he saw a book of natural magic, which his friend, who was then a bachelor of law, had secretly left upon his desk, though he was there for a different field of study. This book spoke much of the celestial influences concerning the twenty-eight mansions which belong to the moon, and such folly as is not worth a fly in our day. For the faith of the Holy Church that is in our doctrine will not allow any illusion to harm us.
And as soon as he remembered this book his heart began to dance for joy, and he said quietly to himself, “My brother shall be cured speedily; for I am sure there are arts by which men create various apparitions, such as these deceiving magicians conjure up. For often at feasts, I have heard tell, within a large hall these magicians have made water and a barge come in and row up and down in the hall. Sometimes a grim lion has seemed to come, and some- times flowers spring as in a meadow, sometimes a vine, with grapes white and red, sometimes a castle of mortar and stone. And when they wished, they caused it all to disappear immediately; so it seemed to every man’s sight.
“Now then, I conclude thus, that if I could find some old comrade at Orleans who is acquainted with these mansions of the moon, or other natural magic besides, he should well cause my brother to possess his love. For by means of an illusion a clerk may make it appear to a man’s sight that every one of the black rocks of Brittany be removed, and that ships come and go along the shore, and that this continue a day or two in such form. Then my brother would be entirely cured. Then she must keep her promise, or else at least he shall shame her.”
Why should I make this a longer story? He came to his brother’s bed and gave him such encouragement to go to Orleans that he started up at once and went ahead on his way in hopes to be relieved of his care. When they had almost arrived at that city, about two or three furlongs away, they met a young clerk roaming by himself who greet- ed them politely in Latin, and then said a marvelous thing. “I know the cause of your coming,” he said. And before they went a foot further, he told them all that was in their minds. This scholar of Brittany asked him about the com- panions whom he had known in old days, and he answered him that they were dead; for which he wept many tears.
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Aurelius alighted quickly from his horse and went forth home to his house with this magician, who made them well at ease; no provision that might give pleasure. Aurelius had never seen in his life a house so well appointed.
Before he went to supper, the magician showed him forests and parks full of wild beasts; there he saw harts with their lofty horns, the largest that eye ever saw. He beheld a hundred of them slain by dogs, and some bleeding from bitter arrow-wounds. When these wild deer vanished, he saw falconers upon a fair river, slaying the heron with their hawks. Then he saw knights jousting on a plain. And after this, the magician did him the pleasure to show him his lady in a dance, in which he himself was dancing, as it seemed to him. And when this master who created the magic saw that it was time, he clapped his hands, and, farewell, all our revel was gone.
And yet while they saw all this marvelous sight, they never stirred out of the house, but sat still in his study, where his books were, and no other creature but the three of them.
This master called his squire to him, and said thus: “Is our supper ready? It is almost an hour, I will swear, since I told you make our supper, when these honorable men went with me into my study, where my books are.”
“Sir,” said this squire, “when it pleases you it will be entirely ready, even if you wish to have it right now.” “Let us go to supper, then,” he said, “that is best. These people in love must take repose sometime.” After supper they fell into talk over the sum which should be this master’s reward for removing all the rocks of
Brittany, and from the Gironde to the mouth of Seine. He raised difficulties and swore that he would not have less than a thousand pounds, and he would not be glad to do it for that sum, so God save him!
Aurelius answered directly, with a joyous heart, “Fie on a thousand pound! I would give this wide world, which men say is a ball, if I were lord of it. This bargain is done, for we are agreed. You shall be paid faithfully, by my word. But take care now that you delay us here no longer than tomorrow, for any negligence or sloth.”
“No,” this clerk said, “take here my faith in pledge to you.” Aurelius went to bed when he wished, and rested nearly all that night. Despite all his labor and his hope of bliss,
his woeful heart had relief from suffering. In the morning, when it was day, they took the shortest road to Brittany, Aurelius and this magician, and dismounted at the place where they wished to be. And, as books remind me, this was the cold, frosty season of December. Phoebus grew old and of hue like latten, who in his hot declination shone with his bright beams like burnished gold; but now he had descended into Capricorn, where he shone fully pale, I dare well say. The bitter frosts, with sleet and rain, have destroyed the green in every garden. Janus with his double beard sits by the fire and drinks the wine out of his ox-horn; before him stands brawn of the tusked boar, and every lusty man cries, “Noel!”
Aurelius offered his master all the hospitality and reverence he could, and asked him to do his duty to bring him out of his bitter pains, or with a sword he would slit his own heart. This cunning scholar so pitied this man that he made as much haste as he could, day and night, to look for the most beneficial time for his experiment; that is to say, to create an appearance, by such an illusion or crafty trick—I do not have vocabulary of astrology—that she and every person should think and say that the rocks of Brittany were gone, or else sunk under the earth.
So at last he found his time to work his tricks and stage his miserable performance of wicked superstition. He brought forth his Toledo tables, well corrected; there lacked nothing, neither his tables of collected or expanded years, nor his roots, nor his other gear, such as his centres and his arguments, and his tables of proportional parts for his equations. And for his calculations he knew full well how far Alnath in the eighth sphere was pushed from the head of that fixed Aries above, which is calculated to be in the ninth sphere; cunningly he calculated by means of all this. When he had found his first mansion, by proportion he knew the rest, and he well knew the rising of his moon, in which was the planet’s face and term, and all the rest. And he knew well the moon to be in a mansion favorable to his enterprise, and knew also the other matters to be observed for working such illusions and such misdoings as heathen people used in those days.
For this reason he no longer delayed, but through his magic it seemed for a week or two that all the rocks were gone. Aurelius, who was still despairing whether he should have his love or fare badly, waited night and day for this miracle. And when he knew that there was no hindrance, but that every rock was gone, he fell down at his master’s feet immediately and said, “I, Aurelius, woeful wretch, thank you, lord, and Venus my lady, who have helped me from my cold misery.” And he made his way forth to the temple where he knew he should see his lady. And when he saw his time, he then saluted his dear sovereign lady with a timid heart and humble face.
This woeful man said, “My own lady, whom I most fear and love as best I know how, and whom of all this world I would be most loathe to displease, if I did not suffer so much distress for the love of you that soon I must die here at your feet, I should never tell you how woebegone I am. But surely I must either die or make my complaint, as you slay me, an innocent man, with true pain. But though you have no pity for my death, consider this carefully before you break your pledge.
“For the sake of God in heaven, please repent before you murder me because I love you. For well you know what you promised, Madame; not that I claim anything of you as a right, my sovereign lady, but only ask it as a favor. Nevertheless, in a garden yonder, at such a spot, you know very well what you promised me, and you pledged
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your word in my hand, to love me best; God knows, you said so, though I may be unworthy of it. Madame, I say it for your honor, more than to save my heart’s life; I have done as you said, and if you wish, you may go and see. Do as you wish; remember your promise, for, alive or dead, you shall find me right in that garden. It all depends on you, to make me live or die. But well I know the rocks are gone.
He takes his leave, and she stood astonished; not a drop of blood was in all her face. She thought never to have come into such a trap. She said, “Alas that ever this should happen! For I never deemed that such a monstrosity or marvel could happen, by any possibility. It is against the course of nature. And home she went, a sorrowful creature; scarcely could she walk for utter fear, and for a whole day or two she wept and wailed and swooned, so that it was pitiful to behold. But why she was so she told no creature, for Arveragus was gone out of town.
But with a pale face and sorrowful expression she spoke to herself, and said thus in her complaint as I shall tell you. She said, “Alas! I complain about you, Fortune, who has bound me unawares in your chain, from which to escape I know no help, except only death or dishonor; one of these two it is necessary for me to choose. But nev- ertheless I had rather forfeit my life than have shame on my body, or lose my fair reputation, or know myself false. And by my death, surely, I may escape.
“Alas, have not many noble wives and many maidens slain themselves before this, rather than do wrong with her body? Yes, surely; lo! These histories testify it. When the thirty tyrants, full of cursedness, had slain Phidon at a feast in Athens, by their malice they commanded men to arrest his daughters and bring them before them entirely naked, to fulfill their foul pleasure, and they made them dance in their father’s blood upon the pavement. May God give them damnation! For this reason these woeful maidens, in fear of this, secretly leaped into a well and drowned themselves, rather than lose their maidenhood; so the books relate.
“The people of Messene had fifty Lacedaemon maidens sought out, with whom they wished to satisfy their lust; but of that entire band there was none who was not slain, and with good will chose to die rather than consent to be robbed of her maidenhood. Why should I, then, fear to die?
“Lo also, the tyrant Aristoclides. He loved a maiden named Stymphalides, who, when her father was slain one night, went directly to Diana’s temple, and laid hold of the image of Diana with her two hands, and would never let go. No creature could tear her hands from it, until she was slain in that very place. Now since maidens have had such scorn to be defiled with man’s base pleasure, it seems to me that a wife ought indeed rather to slay herself than be defiled.
“What shall I say of Hasdrubal’s wife, who slew herself at Carthage? For when she saw that the Romans had won the city, she took all her children and skipped down into the fire, and chose rather to die than that any Roman dishonored her.
“Did not Lucrece slay herself at Rome, alas, when she was violated by Tarquin, because she deemed it a shame to live when she had lost her honor?
The seven maidens of Miletus also for true fear and woe slew themselves rather than the people of Gaul should violate them.
I could tell now more than a thousand stories, I believe, concerning this matter. When Abradates was slain, his dear wife slew herself and let her blood flow into Abradates’ deep, wide wounds, saying, “My body, at least, no creature shall defile, if I can hinder it.”
“Why should I cite more examples of this, since so many have slain themselves rather than be defiled? I will end thus, for it is better for me to slay myself than so to be defiled. I will be true to Arveragus, or slay myself in some way, as did the dear daughter of Democion, because she would not be defiled. O Scedasus, it is a great pity to read how your daughters died, who slew themselves for the same cause, alas! It was as great pity, or indeed greater, for the Theban maiden that slew herself even for the same grief, to escape Nicanor. Another Theban maiden did likewise; because one of Macedonia had violated her, she redressed her maidenhood by her death. What shall I say of the wife of Niceratus, who for a like cause took her life? How true also was his love to Alcibiades, and chose rather to die than to suffer his body to be unburied! Lo, what a wife was Alcestis! What says Homer of Penelope the good? All Greece knows of her chastity. It is written thus of Laodamia, in truth, that when Protesilaus was slain at Troy, she would live no longer after his days. I may tell the same of noble Portia; she could not live without Brutus, to whom she had fully given her whole heart. The perfect wifehood of Artemisia is honored through all barbarian lands. O queen Teuta, your wifely chastity may be a mirror to all wives. The same thing I say of Bilia, of Rhodogune and of Valeria.”
Thus Dorigen made her complaint a day or two, at all times intending to die. But nevertheless Arveragus, this worthy knight, came home the third evening, and asked her why she wept so sorely. And she began to weep ever more bitterly.
“Alas that ever I was born! Thus I said,” she said, “this was my oath,” and she told him what you have already heard; there is no need to tell more.
This husband, with cheerful countenance and in friendly fashion, answered and said as I shall tell you; “Is there
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anything else but this, Dorigen?” “Nay, nay,” she said, “so may God help me; God forbid there would be more; this is too much.” “Yes, wife,” he replied; “leave sleeping that which is quiet. It may yet be well today, by chance. You shall keep
your pledge, by my faith! For may God so surely have mercy on me, for the true love I have for you I had far rather be stabbed to the heart, than you should not hold your pledge. A promise is the highest thing that a man may keep.” But with that word he burst out weeping immediately, and said, “I forbid you, on pain of death, as long as your life lasts, to tell this matter to any creature. I will endure all my woe as best I can, and make no such sign of grief that people might judge or guess harm of you.”
And he called forth a squire and maid, and said, “Go forth directly with Dorigen and bring her to such a place.” They took their leave and went their way, but they knew not why she went there. He would tell his intention to no creature. Perhaps in truth many of you will think him a foolish man in this, that he would put his wife in jeopardy; listen to the tale, before you exclaim against her. She may have better fortune than you might suppose; and when you have heard the tale, you may judge.
This squire Aurelius, who was so amorous of Dorigen, happened by chance to meet her amidst the town, right in the busiest street, as she was bound straight for the garden where she had promised to go. And he also was bound for the garden; for he always noted well when she would go out of her house to any place. But thus they met, by chance or good fortune; and he saluted her with joyous mood, and asked where she was going.
And she answered, as if she were mad, “To the garden, as my husband ordered, to keep my promise, Alas! Alas!” Aurelius wondered about what had happened, and in his heart he had great compassion about her and her lament, and about Arveragus, the worthy knight who had told her to maintain everything she had promised, so loath was he that his wife should break her pledge. And Aurelius’ heart was moved to great pity, and this made him consider carefully what would be best, so that he felt he would rather refrain from his desire rather than to be guilty of such a wretched and dishonorable act against nobility and all gentility.
For this reason he said thus in few words: “Madame, say to Arveragus, your lord, that since I see his great nobil- ity to you (and I well see your distress), that it seemed better to him to suffer shame (and that would be a pity) than you should break your pledge to me, I would rather suffer perpetual woe than part the love between you. Into your hand, Madame, I release, cancelled, every assurance and every bond that you have made to me to this day from the time when you were born. I pledge my word that I shall never reproach you on the score of any promise. And here I take my leave of the best and truest wife that in all my days I have ever known. But let every woman beware what she promises; let her at least think of Dorigen.” Thus surely a squire can do a gentle deed, as well as can a knight.
She thanked him upon her bare knees, and went home to her husband and told him everything, even as you have heard me tell it. And be assured, he was so well pleased that I could not tell how much; why should I explain this matter any further? Arveragus and his wife Dorigen led forth their days in sovereign bliss.
Never again was there trouble between them. Evermore he cherished her as though she were a queen, and she was true to him. Concerning these two people you will get no more from me.
Aurelius, who had forfeited all the expense, cursed the time when he was born. “Alas! alas!” he said, “that I promised a thousand pounds’ weight of refined gold to this philosopher! What shall I do? I see nothing more but that I am undone. I must sell my heritage and be a beggar. I cannot remain here and shame all my family here, un- less I can gain his mercy. But nevertheless I will seek of him to let me pay on certain days each year, and will thank him for his great courtesy. I will keep my word, I will not be false.”
With sore heart he went to his coffer and brought to this clerk gold of the value of five hundred pounds, I believe, and asked him through his noble courtesy to grant him certain days to pay the remnant, and said, “Master, I dare well boast that I never failed of my word as yet. For truly my debt shall be paid to you, whatever may happen to me, even if I must go begging in my undergarments alone. But would you promise, upon security, to give me a respite for two or three years; then it will be well with me. For otherwise I must sell my heritage. There is no more to say.”
This philosopher answered gravely and said thus, when he heard these words, “Have I not kept my covenant with you?”
“Yes, surely, well and truly,” he said. “Have you not had your lady just as you desired?” “No, no,” he said and sighed sorrowfully. “What was the cause? Tell me, if you can.” Aurelius began his tale immediately, and told him everything, as you have heard. There is no need to rehearse
it again. He said, “Arveragus on account of his nobility would rather have died in sorrow and woe than that his wife would be false to her pledge.” He told him also the sorrow of Dorigen, how loath she was to be a wicked wife, and that she had rather have died that day, and that it was through innocence she had sworn her oath. “She never heard tell before of magic illusion; that made me have pity upon her. And just as he sent her freely to me, so freely I sent her back to him. This is everything; there is no more to say.”
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This philosopher answered: “Dear friend, each of you did a gentle deed toward the other. You are a squire, he is a knight. But may God in his blessed power forbid, but a clerk may truly do a gentle deed as well as any of you.
Sir, I release you from your debt of a thousand pounds, as freely as if you had only now crept out of the earth and had never known me before now. For, sir, I will not take a penny from you for all my skill and all my labor. You have paid well for my subsistence. It is enough. And farewell, and have a good day.” And he took his horse and went forth on his journey.
Gentle people, I would ask you this question now: Which do you think was the most noble? Now tell me, before you go farther. I know no more; my tale is finished.
Here is ended the Franklin’s Tale.
THE DECAMERON
Giovanni Boccaccio ( 1313- 1375 C.E.)
Begun ca. 1349 and finished by 1353 C.E. Italy
Boccaccio began writing his Decameron shortly after an outbreak of the plague in Florence, Italy, in 1348 that killed about three quarters of the population. The introduction to this frame tale depicts the horrors of the plague, with vivid descriptions of the dying and laments about the lack of a cure. In his story, seven women and three men leave Florence to take refuge in the countryside. They justify their decision in several ways: the right to self-preser- vation; the bad morals and lewd behavior of many of their neighbors (who are convinced that they are going to die anyway); and their own feelings of abandonment by their families. They decide to tell stories to pass the time: one story each for ten days (the Greek for “ten” is “deka” and for “day” is “hemera,” from which Boccaccio derives his title). Each day, one of them chooses a theme for the stories. As entertaining as the stories are, the discussions be- tween the stories are what make the collection special; the speakers carry on a battle of the sexes as they debate the meaning and relative value of each story. The same dynamic can be found in two other frame tales in this antholo- gy, one of which was influenced by the Decameron: the Thousand and One Nights (written before the Decameron) with its gripping frame story of Shahrazad; and Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, with the conversations (and argu- ments) among the pilgrims who are telling the tales.
Written by Laura J. Getty
The Decameron
Giovanni Boccaccio, Translated by John Payne
Introduction To the Ladies
Giovanni Boccaccio, Translated by Léopold Flameng
When I reflect how disposed you are by nature to compassion, I cannot help being apprehensive lest what I now offer to your acceptance should seem to have but a harsh and offensive beginning; for it presents at the very outset the mournful remembrance of that most fatal plague, so terrible yet in the memories of us all. But let not this dismay you from reading further, as though every page were to cost you sighs and tears. Rather let this beginning, disagreeable as it is, seem to you but as a rugged and steep mountain placed before a delightful valley, which ap- pears more beautiful and pleasant, as the way to it was more difficult: for as joy usually ends in sorrow, so again the end of sorrow is joy. To this short fatigue (I call it short, because contained in few words,) immediately succeeds the mirth and pleasure I had before promised you; and which, but for that promise, you would scarcely expect to find. And in truth could I have brought you by any other way than this, I would gladly have done it: but as the occasion of the occurrences, of which I am going to treat, could not well be made out without such a relation, I am forced to use this Introduction.
In the year then of our Lord 1348, there happened at Florence, the finest city in all Italy, a most terrible plague; which, whether owing to the influence of the planets, or that it was sent from God as a just punishment for our sins, had broken out some years before in the Levant, and after passing from place to place, and making incredible havoc
License: Public Domain
License: Public Domain
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all the way, had now reached the west. There, spite of all the means that art and human foresight could suggest, such as keeping the city clear from filth, the exclusion of all suspected persons, and the publication of copious instruc- tions for the preservation of health; and notwithstanding manifold humble supplications offered to God in pro- cessions and otherwise; it began to show itself in the spring of the aforesaid year, in a sad and wonderful manner. Unlike what had been seen in the east, where bleeding from the nose is the fatal prognostic, here there appeared certain tumours in the groin or under the arm-pits, some as big as a small apple, others as an egg; and afterwards purple spots in most parts of the body; in some cases large and but few in number, in others smaller and more nu- merous—both sorts the usual messengers of death. To the cure of this malady, neither medical knowledge nor the power of drugs was of any effect; whether because the disease was in its own nature mortal, or that the physicians (the number of whom, taking quacks and women pretenders into the account, was grown very great,) could form no just idea of the cause, nor consequently devise a true method of cure; whichever was the reason, few escaped; but nearly all died the third day from the first appearance of the symptoms, some sooner, some later, without any fever or other accessory symptoms. What gave the more virulence to this plague, was that, by being communicated from the sick to the hale, it spread daily, like fire when it comes in contact with large masses of combustibles. Nor was it caught only by conversing with, or coming near the sick, but even by touching their clothes, or anything that they had before touched. It is wonderful, what I am going to mention; and had I not seen it with my own eyes, and were there not many witnesses to attest it besides myself, I should never venture to relate it, however worthy it were of belief. Such, I say, was the quality of the pestilential matter, as to pass not only from man to man, but, what is more strange, it has been often known, that anything belonging to the infected, if touched by any other creature, would certainly infect, and even kill that creature in a short space of time. One instance of this kind I took particu- lar notice of: the rags of a poor man just dead had been thrown into the street; two hogs came up, and after rooting amongst the rags, and shaking them about in their mouths, in less than an hour they both turned round, and died on the spot.
These facts, and others of the like sort, occasioned various fears and devices amongst those who survived, all tending to the same uncharitable and cruel end; which was, to avoid the sick, and everything that had been near them, expecting by that means to save themselves. And some holding it best to live temperately, and to avoid excesses of all kinds, made parties, and shut themselves up from the rest of the world; eating and drinking mod- erately of the best, and diverting themselves with music, and such other entertainments as they might have within door; never listening to anything from without, to make them uneasy. Others maintained free living to be a better preservative, and would baulk no passion or appetite they wished to gratify, drinking and reveling incessantly from tavern to tavern, or in private houses (which were frequently found deserted by the owners, and therefore common to every one), yet strenuously avoiding, with all this brutal indulgence, to come near the infected. And such, at that time, was the public distress, that the laws, human and divine, were no more regarded; for the officers, to put them in force, being either dead, sick, or in want of persons to assist them, every one did just as he pleased. A third sort of people chose a method between these two: not confining themselves to rules of diet like the former, and yet avoiding the intemperance of the latter ; but eating and drinking what their appetites required, they walked every- where with odours and nose gays to smell to ; as holding it best to corroborate the brain: for the whole atmosphere seemed to them tainted with the stench of dead bodies, arising partly from the distemper itself, and partly from the fermenting of the medicines within them. Others with less humanity, but perchance, as they supposed, with more security from danger, decided that the only remedy for the pestilence was to avoid it: persuaded, therefore, of this, and taking care for themselves only, men and women in great numbers left the city, their houses, relations, and ef- fects, and fled into the country: as if the wrath of God had been restrained to visit those only within the walls of the city; or else concluding, that none ought to stay in a place thus doomed to destruction.
Thus divided as they were in their views, neither did all die, nor all escape; but falling sick indifferently, as well those of one as of another opinion; they who first set the example by forsaking others, now languished themselves without pity. I pass over the little regard that citizens and relations showed to each other; for their terror was such, that a brother even fled from his brother, a wife from her husband, and, what is more uncommon, a parent from his own child. Hence numbers that fell sick could have no help but what the charity of friends, who were very few, or the avarice of servants supplied; and even these were scarce and at extravagant wages, and so little used to the business that they were fit only to reach what was called for, and observe when their employer died; and this desire of getting money often cost them their lives. From this desertion of friends, and scarcity of servants, an unheard-of custom prevailed; no lady, however young or handsome, would scruple to be attended by a man-servant, whether young or old it mattered not, and to expose herself naked to him, the necessity of the distemper requiring it, as though it was to a woman; which might make those who recovered, less modest for the time to come. And many lost their lives, who might have escaped, had they been looked after at all. So that, between the scarcity of servants, and the violence of the distemper, such numbers were continually dying, as made it terrible to hear as well as to behold. Whence, from mere necessity, many customs were introduced different from what had been before known in the city.
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The Decameron
It had been usual, as it now is, for the women who were friends and neighbours to the deceased, to meet togeth- er at his house, and to lament with his relations; at the same time the men would get together at the door, with a number of clergy, according to the person’s circumstances; and the corpse was carried by people of his own rank, with the solemnity of tapers and singing, to that church where the deceased had desired to be buried. This custom was now laid aside, and, so far from having a crowd of women to lament over them, great numbers passed out of the world without a witness. Few were they who had the tears of their friends at their departure; those friends were laughing and making themselves merry the while; for even the women had learned to postpone every other concern to that of their own lives. Nor was a corpse attended by more than ten or a dozen, nor those citizens of credit, but fellows hired for the purpose; who would put themselves under the bier, and carry it with all possible haste to the nearest church; and the corpse was interred, without any great ceremony, where they could find room. With regard to the lower sort, and many of a middling rank, the scene was still more affecting; for they staying at home either through poverty or hopes of succour in distress, fell sick daily by thousands, and, having nobody to attend them, generally died: some breathed their last in the streets, and others shut up in their own houses, where the stench that came from them made the first discovery of their deaths to the neighbourhood. And, indeed, every place was filled with the dead. Hence it became a general practice, as well out of regard for the living as pity for the dead, for the neighbours, assisted by what porters they could meet with, to clear all the houses, and lay the bodies at the doors; and every morning great numbers might be seen brought out in this manner, to be carried away on biers, or tables, two or three at a time; and sometimes it has happened that a wife and her husband, two or three brothers, and a father and son, have been laid on together. It has been observed also, whilst two or three priests have walked before a corpse with their crucifix, that two or three sets of porters have fallen in with them; and where they knew but of one dead body, they have buried six, eight, or more : nor was there any to follow, and shed a few tears over them ; for things were come to that pass, that men’s lives were no more regarded than the lives of so many beasts. Thus it plainly appeared, that what the wisest in the ordinary course of things, and by a common train of calami- ties, could never be taught, namely, to bear them patiently, this, by the excess of calamity, was now grown a familiar lesson to the most simple and unthinking. The consecrated ground no longer containing the numbers which were continually brought thither, especially as they were desirous of laying every one in the parts allotted to their fami- lies, they were forced to dig trenches, and to put them in by hundreds, piling them up in rows, as goods are stowed in a ship, and throwing in a little earth till they were filled to the top.
Not to dwell upon every particular of our misery, I shall observe, that it fared no better with the adjacent country; for, to omit the different boroughs about us, which presented the same view in miniature with the city, you might see the poor distressed labourers, with their families, without either the aid of physicians, or help of servants, languishing on the highways, in the fields, and in their own houses, and dying rather like cattle than human crea- tures. The consequence was that, growing dissolute in their manners like the citizens, and careless of everything, as supposing every day to be their last, their thoughts were not so much employed how to improve, as how to use their substance for their present support. The oxen, asses, sheep, goats, swine, and the dogs themselves, ever faithful to their masters, being driven from their own homes, were left to roam at will about the fields, and among the stand- ing corn, which no one cared to gather, or even to reap ; and many times, after they had filled themselves in the day, the animals would return of their own accord like rational creatures at night.
What can I say more, if I return to the city? Unless that such was the cruelty of Heaven, and perhaps of men, that between March and July following, according to authentic reckonings, upwards of a hundred thousand souls perished in the city only; whereas, before that calamity, it was not supposed to have contained so many inhabi- tants. What magnificent dwellings, what noble palaces were then depopulated to the last inhabitant! What families became extinct! What riches and vast possessions were left, and no known heir to inherit them! What numbers of both sexes, in the prime and vigour of youth, whom in the morning neither Galen, Hippocrates, nor Æsculapius himself, would have denied to be in perfect health, breakfasted in the morning with their living friends, and supped at night with their departed friends in the other world or else to show by our habits the greatness of our distress. And if we go hence, it is either to see multitudes of the dead and sick carried along the streets; or persons who had been outlawed for their villanies, now facing it out publicly, in safe defiance of the laws; or the scum of the city, enriched with the public calamity, and insulting us with ribald ballads. Nor is anything now talked of, but that such a one is dead, or dying; and, were any left to mourn, we should hear nothing but lamentations. Or if we go home — I know not whether it fares with you as with myself—when I find out of a numerous family not one left besides a maidservant, I am frightened out of my senses; and go where I will, the ghosts of the departed seem always before me; not like the persons whilst they were living, but assuming a ghastly and dreadful aspect. Therefore the case is the same, whether we stay here, depart hence, or go home; especially as there are few left but ourselves who are able to go, and have a place to go to. Those few too, I am told, fall into all sorts of debauchery; and even cloistered ladies, supposing themselves entitled to equal liberties with others, are as bad as the worst. Now if this be so (as you see plainly it is), what do we here? What are we dreaming of ? Why are we less regardful of our lives than other people
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of theirs? Are we of less value to ourselves, or are our souls and bodies more firmly united, and so in less danger of dissolution? It is monstrous to think in such a manner; so many of both sexes dying of this distemper in the very prime of their youth afford us an undeniable argument to the contrary. Wherefore, lest through our own willful- ness or neglect, this calamity, which might have been prevented, should befall us, I should think it best (and I hope you will join with me,) for us to quit the town, and avoiding, as we would death itself, the bad example of others, to choose some place of retirement, of which every one of us has more than one, where we may make ourselves innocently merry, without offering the least violence to the dictates of reason and our own consciences. There will our ears be entertained with the warbling of the birds, and our eyes with the verdure of the hills and valleys; with the waving of cornfields like the sea itself; with trees of a thousand different kinds, and a more open and serene sky; which, however overcast, yet affords a far more agreeable prospect than these desolate walls. The air also is pleas- anter, and there is greater plenty of everything, attended with few inconveniences: for, though people die there as well as here, yet we shall have fewer such objects before us, as the inhabitants are less in number; and on the other part, if I judge right, we desert nobody, but are rather ourselves forsaken. For all our friends, either by death, or endeavouring to avoid it, have left us, as if we in no way belonged to them. As no blame then can ensue from fol- lowing this advice, and perhaps sickness and death from not doing so, I would have us take our maids, and every- thing we may be supposed to want, and enjoy all the diversions which the season will permit, to-day in one place, to-morrow in another; and so continue to do, unless death should interpose, until we see what end Providence designs for these things. And of this too let me remind you, that our characters will stand as fair by our going away reputably, as those of others will do who stay at home with discredit.”
The ladies having heard what Pampinea had to offer, not only approved of it, but had actually began to concert measures for their instant departure, when Filomena, who was a most discreet person, remarked: “Though Pam- pinea has spoken well, yet there is no occasion to run headlong into the affair, as you are about to do. We are but women, nor is any of us so ignorant as not to know how little able we shall be to conduct such an affair, without some man to help us. We are naturally fickle, obstinate, suspicious, and fearful; and I doubt much, unless we take somebody into our scheme to manage it for us, lest it soon be at an end; and perhaps, little to our reputation. Let us provide against this, therefore, before we begin.”
Eliza then replied: “It is true, man is our sex’s chief or head, and without his management, it seldom happens that any undertaking of ours succeeds well. But how are these men to be come at? We all know that the greater part of our male acquaintance are dead, and the rest all dispersed abroad, avoiding what we seek to avoid, and without our knowing where to find them. To take strangers with us, would not be altogether so proper: for, whilst we have regard to our health, we should so contrive matters, that, wherever we go to repose and divert ourselves, no scandal may ensue from it.”
Whilst this matter was in debate, behold, three gentlemen came into the church, the youngest not less than twenty-five years of age, and in whom neither the adversity of the times, the loss of relations and friends, nor even fear for themselves, could stifle, or indeed cool, the passion of love. One was called Pamfilo, the second Filostrato, and the third Dioneo, all of them well bred, and pleasant companions; and who, to divert themselves in this time of affliction, were then in pursuit of their mistresses, who as it chanced were three of these seven ladies, the other four being all related to one or other of them. These gentlemen were no sooner within view, than the ladies had immedi- ately their eyes upon them, and
Pampinea said, with a smile, “See, fortune is with us, and has thrown in our way three prudent and worthy gen- tlemen, who will conduct and wait upon us, if we think fit to accept of their service.” Neifile, with a blush, because she was one that had an admirer, answered: “Take care what you say, I know them all indeed to be persons of character, and fit to be trusted, even in affairs of more consequence, and in better company; but, as some of them are enamoured of certain ladies here, I am only concerned lest we be drawn into some scrape or scandal, without either our fault or theirs.” Filomena replied: “Never tell me what other people may think, so long as I know myself to be virtuous; God and the truth will be my defence; and if they be willing to go, we will say with Pampinea, that fortune is with us.”
The rest hearing her speak in this manner, gave consent that the gentlemen should be invited to partake in this expedition. Without more words, Pampinea, who was related to one of the three rose up, and made towards them, as they stood watching at a distance. Then, after a cheerful salutation, she acquainted them with the design in hand, and entreated that they would, out of pure friendship, oblige them with their company. The gentlemen at first took it all for a jest, but, being assured to the contrary, immediately answered that they were ready; and, to lose no time, gave the necessary orders for what they wished to have done. Every thing being thus prepared, and a messenger dis- patched before, whither they intended to go, the next morning, which was Wednesday, by break of day, the ladies, with some of their women, and the gentlemen, with every one his servant, set out from the city, and, after they had travelled two short miles, came to the place appointed.
It was a little eminence, remote from any great road, covered with trees and shrubs of an agreeable verdure; and on the top was a stately palace, with a grand and beautiful court in the middle: within were galleries, and fine
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The Decameron
apartments elegantly fitted up, and adorned with most curious paintings; around it were fine meadows, and most delightful gardens, with fountains of the purest and best water. The vaults also were stored with the richest wines, suited rather to the taste of copious topers, than of modest and virtuous ladies. This palace they found cleared out, and everything set in order for their reception, with the rooms all graced with the flowers of the season, to their great satisfaction. The party being seated, Dioneo, who was the pleasantest of them all, and full of words, began “Your wis- dom it is, ladies, rather than any foresight of ours, which has brought us hither. I know not how you have disposed of your cares; as for mine, I left them all behind me when I came from home. Either prepare, then, to be as merry as myself (I mean with decency), or give me leave to go back again, and resume my cares where I left them.” Pampinea made answer, as if she had disposed of hers in like manner: “You say right, sir, we will be merry; we fled from our troubles for no other reason. But, as extremes are never likely to last, I, who first proposed the means by which such an agreeable company is now met together, being desirous to make our mirth of some continuance, do find there is a necessity for our appointing a principal, whom we shall honour and obey in all things as our head; and whose province it shall be to regulate our diversions. And that every one may make trial of the burthen which attends care, as well as the pleasure which there is in superiority, nor therefore envy what he has not yet tried, I hold it best that every one should experience both the trouble and the honour for one day. The first, I propose, shall be elected by us all, and, on the approach of evening, hall name a person to succeed for the following day: and each one, during the time of his or her government, shall give orders concerning the place where, and the manner how, we are to live.”
These words were received with the highest satisfaction, and the speaker was, with one consent, appointed president for the first day: whilst Filomena, running to a laurel-tree, (for she had often heard how much that tree has always been esteemed, and what honour was conferred on those who were deservedly crowned with it,) made a garland, and put it upon Pampinea’s head. That garland, whilst the company continued together, was ever after to be the ensign of sovereignty.
Pampinea, being thus elected queen, enjoined silence, and having summoned to her presence the gentlemen’s servants, and their own women, who were four in number: “To give you the first example,” said she, “how, by pro- ceeding from good to better, we may live orderly and pleasantly, and continue together, without the least reproach, as long as we please, in the first place I declare Parmeno, Dioneo’s servant, master of my household, and to him I commit the care of my family, and everything relating to my hall. Sirisco, Pamfilo’s servant, I appoint my treasurer, and to be under the direction of Parmeno; and Tindaro I command to wait on Filostrato and the other two gentle- men, whilst their servants are thus employed. Mysia, my woman, and Licisca, Filomena’s, I order into the kitchen, there to get ready what shall be provided by Parmeno. To Lauretta’s Chimera, and Fiammetta’s Stratilia, I give the care of the ladies’ chambers, and to keep the room clean where we sit. And I will and command you all, on pain of my displeasure, that wherever you go, or whatever you hear and see, you bring no news here but what is good.” These orders were approved by all; and the queen, rising from her seat, with a good deal of gaiety, added: “Here are gardens and meadows, where you may divert yourselves till nine o’clock, when I shall expect you back, that we may dine in the cool of the day.”
The company were now at liberty, and the gentlemen and ladies took a pleasant walk in the garden, talking over a thousand merry things by the way, and diverting themselves by singing love songs, and weaving garlands of flowers. Returning at the time appointed, they found Parmeno busy in the execution of his office: for in a saloon below was the table set forth, covered with the neatest linen, with glasses reflecting a lustre like silver: and water having been presented to them to wash their hands, by the queen’s order, Parmeno desired them to sit down. The dishes were now served up in the most elegant manner, and the best wines brought in, the servants waiting all the time with the most profound silence; and being well pleased with their entertainment, they dined with all the facetiousness and mirth imaginable. When dinner was over, as they could all dance, and some both play and sing well, the queen ordered in the musical instruments. Dioneo took a lute, and Fiammetta a viol, in obedience to the royal command; a dance was struck up, and the queen, with the rest of the company, took an agreeable turn or two, whilst the servants were sent to dinner; and when the dance was ended, they began to sing, and continued till the queen thought it time to break up. Her permission being given, the gentlemen retired to their chambers, remote from the ladies’ lodging rooms, and the ladies did the same, and undressed themselves for bed.
It was little more than three, when the queen rose, and ordered all to be called, alleging that much sleep in the daytime was unwholesome. Then they went into a meadow of deep grass, where the sun had little power; and having the benefit of a pleasant breeze, they sat down in a circle, as the queen had commanded, and she addressed them in this manner:—“As the sun is high, and the heat excessive, and nothing is to be heard but the chirping of the cicalas among the olives, it would be madness for us to think of moving yet: this is an airy place, and here are chess-boards and backgammon tables to divert yourselves with; but if you will be ruled by me, you will not play at all, since it often makes the one party uneasy, without any great pleasure to the other, or to the lookers-on; but let us begin and tell stories, and in this manner one person will entertain the whole company ; and by the time it has gone round, the worst part of the day will be over, and then we can divert ourselves as we like best. If this be agreeable to
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you, then (for I wait to know your pleasure) let us begin; if not, you are at your own disposal till the evening.” This motion being approved by all, the queen continued, “Let every one for this first day take what subject he fancies most:” and turning to Pamfilo, who sat on her right hand, she bade him begin. He readily obeyed, and spoke to this effect, so as to be distinctly heard by the whole company.
Day the Third The Ninth Story
Gillette de narbonne recovereth the king of france of a fistula and demandeth for her husband bertrand de roussillon, who marrieth her against his will and betaketh him for despite to florence, where, he paying court to a young lady,
gillette, in the person of the latter, lieth with him and hath by him two sons; wherefore after, holding her dear, he enter- taineth her for his wife.
Lauretta’s story being now ended, it rested but with the queen to tell, an she would not infringe upon Dioneo’s privilege; wherefore, without waiting to be solicited by her companions, she began all blithesomely to speak thus: “Who shall tell a story that may appear goodly, now we have heard that of Lauretta? Certes, it was well for us that hers was not the first, for that few of the others would have pleased after it, as I misdoubt me will betide of those which are yet to tell this day. Natheless, be that as it may, I will e’en recount to you that which occurreth to me upon the proposed theme.
There was in the kingdom of France a gentleman called Isnard, Count of Roussillon, who, for that he was scant of health, still entertained about his person a physician, by name Master Gerard de Narbonne. The said count had one little son, and no more, hight Bertrand, who was exceeding handsome and agreeable, and with him other children of his own age were brought up. Among these latter was a daughter of the aforesaid physician, by name Gillette, who vowed to the said Bertrand an infinite love and fervent more than pertained unto her tender years. The count dying and leaving his son in the hands of the king, it behoved him betake himself to Paris, whereof the damsel abode sore disconsolate, and her own father dying no great while after, she would fain, an she might have had a seemly occasion, have gone to Paris to see Bertrand: but, being straitly guarded, for that she was left rich and alone, she saw no honourable way thereto; and being now of age for a husband and having never been able to forget Bertrand, she had, without reason assigned, refused many to whom her kinsfolk would have married her.
Now it befell that, what while she burned more than ever for love of Bertrand, for that she heard he was grown a very goodly gentleman, news came to her how the King of France, by an imposthume which he had had in his breast and which had been ill tended, had gotten a fistula, which occasioned him the utmost anguish and annoy, nor had he yet been able to find a physician who might avail to recover him thereof, albeit many had essayed it, but all had aggravated the ill; wherefore the king, despairing of cure, would have no more counsel nor aid of any. Hereof the young lady was beyond measure content and bethought herself that not only would this furnish her with a legit- imate occasion of going to Paris, but that, should the king’s ailment be such as she believed, she might lightly avail to have Bertrand to husband. Accordingly, having aforetime learned many things of her father, she made a powder of certain simples useful for such an infirmity as she conceived the king’s to be and taking horse, repaired to Paris.
Before aught else she studied to see Bertrand and next, presenting herself before the king, she prayed him of his favour to show her his ailment. The king, seeing her a fair and engaging damsel, knew not how to deny her and showed her that which ailed him. Whenas she saw it, she was certified incontinent that she could heal it and accordingly said, ‘My lord, an it please you, I hope in God to make you whole of this your infirmity in eight days’ time, without annoy or fatigue on your part.’ The king scoffed in himself at her words, saying, ‘That which the best physicians in the world have availed not neither known to do, how shall a young woman know?’ Accordingly, he thanked her for her good will and answered that he was resolved no more to follow the counsel of physicians. Whereupon quoth the damsel, ‘My lord, you make light of my skill, for that I am young and a woman; but I would have you bear in mind that I medicine not of mine own science, but with the aid of God and the science of Master Gerard de Narbonne, who was my father and a famous physician whilst he lived.’
The king, hearing this, said in himself, ‘It may be this woman is sent me of God; why should I not make proof of her knowledge, since she saith she will, without annoy of mine, cure me in little time?’ Accordingly, being resolved to essay her, he said, ‘Damsel, and if you cure us not, after causing us break our resolution, what will you have ensue to you therefor?’ ‘My lord,’ answered she, ‘set a guard upon me and if I cure you not within eight days, let burn me alive; but, if I cure you, what reward shall I have?’ Quoth the king, ‘You seem as yet unhusbanded; if you do this, we will marry you well and worshipfully.’ ‘My lord,’ replied the young lady, ‘I am well pleased that you should marry me, but I will have a husband such as I shall ask of you, excepting always any one of your sons or of the royal house.’ He readily promised her that which she sought, whereupon she began her cure and in brief, before the term limited, she brought him back to health.
Image 5.7: Giovanni Boccaccio and Florentines Who Have Fled from the Plague | In this introduction to The Decameron, the author is shown alongside his ten characters (three men and seven women) who left Florence to escape the plague.
Author: Master of 1482 and follower (illuminators) Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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The Decameron
you, then (for I wait to know your pleasure) let us begin; if not, you are at your own disposal till the evening.” This motion being approved by all, the queen continued, “Let every one for this first day take what subject he fancies most:” and turning to Pamfilo, who sat on her right hand, she bade him begin. He readily obeyed, and spoke to this effect, so as to be distinctly heard by the whole company.
Day the Third The Ninth Story
Gillette de narbonne recovereth the king of france of a fistula and demandeth for her husband bertrand de roussillon, who marrieth her against his will and betaketh him for despite to florence, where, he paying court to a young lady,
gillette, in the person of the latter, lieth with him and hath by him two sons; wherefore after, holding her dear, he enter- taineth her for his wife.
Lauretta’s story being now ended, it rested but with the queen to tell, an she would not infringe upon Dioneo’s privilege; wherefore, without waiting to be solicited by her companions, she began all blithesomely to speak thus: “Who shall tell a story that may appear goodly, now we have heard that of Lauretta? Certes, it was well for us that hers was not the first, for that few of the others would have pleased after it, as I misdoubt me will betide of those which are yet to tell this day. Natheless, be that as it may, I will e’en recount to you that which occurreth to me upon the proposed theme.
There was in the kingdom of France a gentleman called Isnard, Count of Roussillon, who, for that he was scant of health, still entertained about his person a physician, by name Master Gerard de Narbonne. The said count had one little son, and no more, hight Bertrand, who was exceeding handsome and agreeable, and with him other children of his own age were brought up. Among these latter was a daughter of the aforesaid physician, by name Gillette, who vowed to the said Bertrand an infinite love and fervent more than pertained unto her tender years. The count dying and leaving his son in the hands of the king, it behoved him betake himself to Paris, whereof the damsel abode sore disconsolate, and her own father dying no great while after, she would fain, an she might have had a seemly occasion, have gone to Paris to see Bertrand: but, being straitly guarded, for that she was left rich and alone, she saw no honourable way thereto; and being now of age for a husband and having never been able to forget Bertrand, she had, without reason assigned, refused many to whom her kinsfolk would have married her.
Now it befell that, what while she burned more than ever for love of Bertrand, for that she heard he was grown a very goodly gentleman, news came to her how the King of France, by an imposthume which he had had in his breast and which had been ill tended, had gotten a fistula, which occasioned him the utmost anguish and annoy, nor had he yet been able to find a physician who might avail to recover him thereof, albeit many had essayed it, but all had aggravated the ill; wherefore the king, despairing of cure, would have no more counsel nor aid of any. Hereof the young lady was beyond measure content and bethought herself that not only would this furnish her with a legit- imate occasion of going to Paris, but that, should the king’s ailment be such as she believed, she might lightly avail to have Bertrand to husband. Accordingly, having aforetime learned many things of her father, she made a powder of certain simples useful for such an infirmity as she conceived the king’s to be and taking horse, repaired to Paris.
Before aught else she studied to see Bertrand and next, presenting herself before the king, she prayed him of his favour to show her his ailment. The king, seeing her a fair and engaging damsel, knew not how to deny her and showed her that which ailed him. Whenas she saw it, she was certified incontinent that she could heal it and accordingly said, ‘My lord, an it please you, I hope in God to make you whole of this your infirmity in eight days’ time, without annoy or fatigue on your part.’ The king scoffed in himself at her words, saying, ‘That which the best physicians in the world have availed not neither known to do, how shall a young woman know?’ Accordingly, he thanked her for her good will and answered that he was resolved no more to follow the counsel of physicians. Whereupon quoth the damsel, ‘My lord, you make light of my skill, for that I am young and a woman; but I would have you bear in mind that I medicine not of mine own science, but with the aid of God and the science of Master Gerard de Narbonne, who was my father and a famous physician whilst he lived.’
The king, hearing this, said in himself, ‘It may be this woman is sent me of God; why should I not make proof of her knowledge, since she saith she will, without annoy of mine, cure me in little time?’ Accordingly, being resolved to essay her, he said, ‘Damsel, and if you cure us not, after causing us break our resolution, what will you have ensue to you therefor?’ ‘My lord,’ answered she, ‘set a guard upon me and if I cure you not within eight days, let burn me alive; but, if I cure you, what reward shall I have?’ Quoth the king, ‘You seem as yet unhusbanded; if you do this, we will marry you well and worshipfully.’ ‘My lord,’ replied the young lady, ‘I am well pleased that you should marry me, but I will have a husband such as I shall ask of you, excepting always any one of your sons or of the royal house.’ He readily promised her that which she sought, whereupon she began her cure and in brief, before the term limited, she brought him back to health.
Image 5.7: Giovanni Boccaccio and Florentines Who Have Fled from the Plague | In this introduction to The Decameron, the author is shown alongside his ten characters (three men and seven women) who left Florence to escape the plague.
Author: Master of 1482 and follower (illuminators) Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
The king, feeling himself healed, said, ‘Damsel, you have well earned your husband’; whereto she answered, ‘Then, my lord, I have earned Bertrand de Roussillon, whom I began to love even in the days of my childhood and have ever since loved over all.’ The king deemed it a grave matter to give him to her; nevertheless, having promised her and un- willing to fail of his faith, he let call the count to himself and bespoke him thus: ‘Bertrand, you are now of age and accomplished [in all that behoveth unto man’s estate]; wherefore it is our pleasure that you return to govern your county and carry with you a damsel, whom we have given you to wife.’ ‘And who is the damsel, my lord?’ asked Bertrand; to which the king answered, ‘It is she who hath with her medicines restored to us our health.’
Bertrand, who had seen and recognized Gillette, knowing her (albeit she seemed to him very fair) to be of no such lineage as sort- ed with his quality, said all disdainfully, ‘My lord, will you then marry me to a she-leach? Now God forbid I should ever take such an one to wife!’ ‘Then,’ said the king, ‘will you have us fail of our faith, the which, to have our health again, we pledged to the damsel, who in guerdon thereof demanded you to husband?’ ‘My lord,’ answered Bertrand, ‘you may, an you will, take from me whatsoever I possess or, as your liegeman, bestow me upon whoso pleaseth you; but of this I certify you, that I will never be a consenting party unto such a marriage.’ ‘Nay,’ rejoined the king, ‘but you shall, for that the damsel is fair and wise
and loveth you dear; wherefore we doubt not but you will have a far happier life with her than with a lady of higher lineage.’ Bertrand held his peace and the king let make great preparations for the celebration of the marriage.
The appointed day being come, Bertrand, sore against his will, in the presence of the king, espoused the damsel, who loved him more than herself. This done, having already determined in himself what he should do, he sought leave of the king to depart, saying he would fain return to his county and there consummate the marriage; then, taking horse, he repaired not thither, but betook himself into Tuscany, where, hearing that the Florentines were at war with those of Sienna, he determined to join himself to the former, by whom he was joyfully received and made captain over a certain number of men-at-arms; and there, being well provided of them, he abode a pretty while in their service.
The newly-made wife, ill content with such a lot, but hoping by her fair dealing to recall him to his county, be- took herself to Roussillon, where she was received of all as their liege lady. There, finding everything waste and dis- ordered for the long time that the land had been without a lord, with great diligence and solicitude, like a discreet lady as she was, she set all in order again, whereof the count’s vassals were mightily content and held her exceeding dear, vowing her a great love and blaming the count sore for that he accepted not of her. The lady, having thorough- ly ordered the county, notified the count thereof by two knights, whom she despatched to him, praying him that, an it were on her account he forbore to come to his county, he should signify it to her and she, to pleasure him, would depart thence; but he answered them very harshly, saying, ‘For that, let her do her pleasure; I, for my part, will return thither to abide with her, whenas she shall have this my ring on her finger and in her arms a son by me begotten.’ Now the ring in question he held very dear and never parted with it, by reason of a certain virtue which it had been given him to understand that it had.
The knights understood the hardship of the condition implied in these two well nigh impossible requirements, but, seeing that they might not by their words avail to move him from his purpose, they returned to the lady and
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reported to her his reply; whereat she was sore afflicted and determined, after long consideration, to seek to learn if and where the two things aforesaid might be compassed, to the intent that she might, in consequence, have her hus- band again. Accordingly, having bethought herself what she should do, she assembled certain of the best and chief- est men of the county and with plaintive speech very orderly recounted to them that which she had already done for love of the count and showed them what had ensued thereof, adding that it was not her intent that, through her sojourn there, the count should abide in perpetual exile; nay, rather she purposed to spend the rest of her life in pilgrimages and works of mercy and charity for her soul’s health; wherefore she prayed them take the ward and governance of the county and notify the count that she had left him free and vacant possession and had departed the country, intending nevermore to return to Roussillon. Many were the tears shed by the good folk, whilst she spoke, and many the prayers addressed to her that it would please her change counsel and abide there; but they availed nought. Then, commending them to God, she set out upon her way, without telling any whither she was bound, well furnished with monies and jewels of price and accompanied by a cousin of hers and a chamberwoman, all in pilgrims’ habits, and stayed not till she came to Florence, where, chancing upon a little inn, kept by a decent widow woman, she there took up her abode and lived quietly, after the fashion of a poor pilgrim, impatient to hear news of her lord.
It befell, then, that on the morrow of her arrival she saw Bertrand pass before her lodging, a-horseback with his company, and albeit she knew him full well, natheless she asked the good woman of the inn who he was. The hostess answered, ‘That is a stranger gentleman, who calleth himself Count Bertrand, a pleasant man and a courte- ous and much loved in this city; and he is the most enamoured man in the world of a she-neighbour of ours, who is a gentlewoman, but poor. Sooth to say, she is a very virtuous damsel and abideth, being yet unmarried for poverty, with her mother, a very good and discreet lady, but for whom, maybe, she had already done the count’s pleasure.’ The countess took good note of what she heard and having more closely enquired into every particular and appre- hended all aright, determined in herself how she should do.
Accordingly, having learned the house and name of the lady whose daughter the count loved, she one day repaired privily thither in her pilgrim’s habit and finding the mother and daughter in very poor case, saluted them and told the former that, an it pleased her, she would fain speak with her alone. The gentlewoman, rising, replied that she was ready to hearken to her and accordingly carried her into a chamber of hers, where they seated them- selves and the countess began thus, ‘Madam, meseemeth you are of the enemies of Fortune, even as I am; but, an you will, belike you may be able to relieve both yourself and me.’ The lady answered that she desired nothing better than to relieve herself by any honest means; and the countess went on, ‘Needs must you pledge me your faith, whereto an I commit myself and you deceive me, you will mar your own affairs and mine.’ ‘Tell me anything you will in all assurance,’ replied the gentlewoman; ‘for never shall you find yourself deceived of me.’
Thereupon the countess, beginning with her first enamourment, recounted to her who she was and all that had betided her to that day after such a fashion that the gentlewoman, putting faith in her words and having, indeed, already in part heard her story from others, began to have compassion of her. The countess, having related her adventures, went on to say, ‘You have now, amongst my other troubles, heard what are the two things which it behoveth me have, an I would have my husband, and to which I know none who can help me, save only yourself, if that be true which I hear, to wit, that the count my husband is passionately enamoured of your daughter.’ ‘Madam,’ answered the gentlewoman, ‘if the count love my daughter I know not; indeed he maketh a great show thereof. But, an it be so, what can I do in this that you desire?’ ‘Madam,’ rejoined the countess, ‘I will tell you; but first I will e’en show you what I purpose shall ensue thereof to you, an you serve me. I see your daughter fair and of age for a husband and according to what I have heard, meseemeth I understand the lack of good to marry her withal it is that causeth you keep her at home. Now I purpose, in requital of the service you shall do me, to give her forthright of mine own monies such a dowry as you yourself shall deem necessary to marry her honorably.’
The mother, being needy, was pleased with the offer; algates, having the spirit of a gentlewoman, she said, ‘Madam, tell me what I can do for you; if it consist with my honour, I will willingly do it, and you shall after do that which shall please you.’ Then said the countess, ‘It behoveth me that you let tell the count my husband by some one in whom you trust, that your daughter is ready to do his every pleasure, so she may but be certified that he loveth her as he pretendeth, the which she will never believe, except he send her the ring which he carrieth on his finger and by which she hath heard he setteth such store. An he send you the ring, you must give it to me and after send to him to say that your daughter is ready do his pleasure; then bring him hither in secret and privily put me to bed to him in the stead of your daughter. It may be God will vouchsafe me to conceive and on this wise, having his ring on my finger and a child in mine arms of him begotten, I shall presently regain him and abide with him, as a wife should abide with her husband, and you will have been the cause thereof.’
This seemed a grave matter to the gentlewoman, who feared lest blame should haply ensue thereof to her daughter; nevertheless, bethinking her it were honourably done to help the poor lady recover her husband and that she went about to do this to a worthy end and trusting in the good and honest intention of the countess, she not only promised her to do it, but, before many days, dealing with prudence and secrecy, in accordance with the latter’s
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instructions, she both got the ring (albeit this seemed somewhat grievous to the count) and adroitly put her to bed with her husband, in the place of her own daughter. In these first embracements, most ardently sought of the count, the lady, by God’s pleasure, became with child of two sons, as her delivery in due time made manifest. Nor once only, but many times, did the gentlewoman gratify the countess with her husband’s embraces, contriving so secretly that never was a word known of the matter, whilst the count still believed himself to have been, not with his wife, but with her whom he loved; and whenas he came to take leave of a morning, he gave her, at one time and another, divers goodly and precious jewels, which the countess laid up with all diligence.
Then, feeling herself with child and unwilling to burden the gentlewoman farther with such an office, she said to her, ‘Madam, thanks to God and you, I have gotten that which I desired, wherefore it is time that I do that which shall content you and after get me gone hence.’ The gentlewoman answered that, if she had gotten that which contented her, she was well pleased, but that she had not done this of any hope of reward, nay, for that herseemed it behoved her to do it, an she would do well. ‘Madam,’ rejoined the countess, ‘that which you say liketh me well and so on my part I purpose not to give you that which you shall ask of me by way of reward, but to do well, for that meseemeth behoveful so to do.’ The gentlewoman, then, constrained by necessity, with the utmost shamefastness, asked her an hundred pounds to marry her daughter withal; but the countess, seeing her confusion and hearing her modest demand, gave her five hundred and so many rare and precious jewels as were worth maybe as much more. With this the gentlewoman was far more than satisfied and rendered the countess the best thanks in her power; whereupon the latter, taking leave of her, returned to the inn, whilst the other, to deprive Bertrand of all farther occasion of coming or sending to her house, removed with her daughter into the country to the house of one of her kinsfolk, and he, being a little after recalled by his vassals and hearing that the countess had departed the country, returned to his own house.
The countess, hearing that he had departed Florence and returned to his county, was mightily rejoiced and abode at Florence till her time came to be delivered, when she gave birth to two male children, most like their father, and let rear them with all diligence. Whenas it seemed to her time, she set out and came, without being known of any, to Montpellier, where having rested some days and made enquiry of the count and where he was, she learned that he was to hold a great entertainment of knights and ladies at Roussillon on All Saints’ Day and betook herself thither, still in her pilgrim’s habit that she was wont to wear. Finding the knights and ladies assembled in the count’s palace and about to sit down to table, she went up, with her children in her arms and without changing her dress, into the banqueting hall and making her way between man and man whereas she saw the count, cast herself at his feet and said, weeping, ‘I am thine unhappy wife, who, to let thee return and abide in thy house, have long gone wandering miserably about the world. I conjure thee, in the name of God, to accomplish unto me thy promise upon the condition appointed me by the two knights I sent thee; for, behold, here in mine arms is not only one son of thine, but two, and here is thy ring. It is time, then, that I be received of thee as a wife, according to thy promise.’
The count, hearing this, was all confounded and recognized the ring and the children also, so like were they to him; but yet he said, ‘How can this have come to pass?’ The countess, then, to his exceeding wonderment and that of all others who were present, orderly recounted that which had passed and how it had happened; whereupon the count, feeling that she spoke sooth and seeing her constancy and wit and moreover two such goodly children, as well for the observance of his promise as to pleasure all his liegemen and the ladies, who all besought him thenceforth to receive and honour her as his lawful wife, put off his obstinate despite and raising the countess to her feet, embraced her and kissing her, acknowledged her for his lawful wife and those for his children. Then, letting clothe her in apparel such as beseemed her quality, to the exceeding joyance of as many as were there and of all other his vassals who heard the news, he held high festival, not only all that day, but sundry others, and from that day forth still honoured her as his bride and his wife and loved and tendered her over all.”
Day the Fourth The Second Story
Fra alberto giveth a lady to believe that the angel gabriel is enamoured of her and in his shape lieth with her sundry times; after which, for fear of her kinsmen, he casteth himself forth of her window into the canal and taketh refuge
Image 5.8: Boccaccio by Morgh- en | Engraved portrait of Boccaccio, by the artist Raffaello Sanzio Morghen.
Author: Raffaello Sanzio Morghen Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
The Decameron
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in the house of a poor man, who on the morrow carrieth him, in the guise of a wild man of the woods, to the piazza, where, being recognized, he is taken by his brethren and put in prison.
The story told by Fiammetta had more than once brought the tears to the eyes of the ladies her companions; but, it being now finished, the king with a stern countenance said, “My life would seem to me a little price to give for half the delight that Guiscardo had with Ghismonda, nor should any of you ladies marvel thereat, seeing that every hour of my life I suffer a thousand deaths, nor for all that is a single particle of delight vouchsafed me. But, leaving be my affairs for the present, it is my pleasure that Pampinea follow on the order of the discourse with some story of woe- ful chances and fortunes in part like to mine own; which if she ensue like as Fiammetta hath begun, I shall doubt- less begin to feel some dew fallen upon my fire.” Pampinea, hearing the order laid upon her, more by her affection apprehended the mind of the ladies her companions than that of Filostrato by his words, wherefore, being more disposed to give them some diversion than to content the king, farther than in the mere letter of his command- ment, she bethought herself to tell a story, that should, without departing from the proposed theme, give occasion for laughter, and accordingly began as follows:
“The vulgar have a proverb to the effect that he who is naught and is held good may do ill and it is not believed of him; the which affordeth me ample matter for discourse upon that which hath been proposed to me and at the same time to show what and how great is the hypocrisy of the clergy, who, with garments long and wide and faces paled by art and voices humble and meek to solicit the folk, but exceeding loud and fierce to rebuke in others their own vices, pretend that themselves by taking and others by giving to them come to salvation, and to boot, not as men who have, like ourselves, to purchase paradise, but as in a manner they were possessors and lords thereof, as- sign unto each who dieth, according to the sum of the monies left them by him, a more or less excellent place there, studying thus to deceive first themselves, an they believe as they say, and after those who put faith for that matter in their words. Anent whom, were it permitted me to discover as much as it behoved, I would quickly make clear to many simple folk that which they keep hidden under those huge wide gowns of theirs. But would God it might betide them all of their cozening tricks, as it betided a certain minor friar, and he no youngling, but held one of the first casuists in Venice; of whom it especially pleaseth me to tell you, so as peradventure somewhat to cheer your hearts, that are full of compassion for the death of Ghismonda, with laughter and pleasance.
There was, then, noble ladies, in Imola, a man of wicked and corrupt life, who was called Berto della Massa and whose lewd fashions, being well known of the Imolese, had brought him into such ill savour with them that there was none in the town who would credit him, even when he said sooth; wherefore, seeing that his shifts might no longer stand him in stead there, he removed in desperation to Venice, the receptacle of every kind of trash, thinking to find there new means of carrying on his wicked practices. There, as if conscience-stricken for the evil deeds done by him in the past, feigning himself overcome with the utmost humility and waxing devouter than any man alive, he went and turned Minor Friar and styled himself Fra Alberta da Imola; in which habit he proceeded to lead, to all appearance, a very austere life, greatly commending abstinence and mortification and never eating flesh nor drinking wine, whenas he had not thereof that which was to his liking. In short, scarce was any ware of him when from a thief, a pimp, a forger, a manslayer, he suddenly became a great preacher, without having for all that for- sworn the vices aforesaid, whenas he might secretly put them in practice. Moreover, becoming a priest, he would still, whenas he celebrated mass at the altar, an he were seen of many, beweep our Saviour’s passion, as one whom tears cost little, whenas he willed it. Brief, what with his preachings and his tears, he contrived on such wise to inveigle the Venetians that he was trustee and depository of well nigh every will made in the town and guardian of folk’s monies, besides being confessor and counsellor of the most part of the men and women of the place; and doing thus, from wolf he was become shepherd and the fame of his sanctity was far greater in those parts than ever was that of St. Francis at Assisi.
It chanced one day that a vain simple young lady, by name Madam Lisetta da Ca Quirino, wife of a great merchant who was gone with the galleys into Flanders, came with other ladies to confess to this same holy fri- ar, at whose feet kneeling and having, like a true daughter of Venice as she was (where the women are all feath- er-brained), told him part of her affairs, she was asked of him if she had a lover. Whereto she answered, with an offended air, ‘Good lack, sir friar, have you no eyes in your head? Seem my charms to you such as those of yonder others? I might have lovers and to spare, an I would; but my beauties are not for this one nor that. How many women do you see whose charms are such as mine, who would be fair in Paradise?’ Brief, she said so many things of this beauty of hers that it was a weariness to hear. Fra Alberto incontinent perceived that she savoured of folly and himseeming she was a fit soil for his tools, he fell suddenly and beyond measure in love with her; but, reserving blandishments for a more convenient season, he proceeded, for the nonce, so he might show himself a holy man, to rebuke her and tell her that this was vainglory and so forth. The lady told him he was an ass and knew not what one beauty was more than another, whereupon he, unwilling to vex her overmuch, took her confession and let her go away with the others.
Image 5.9: A Tale from the Decameron | An oil painting by John William Waterhouse, showing the characters of The Decameron sitting together as they tell their stories.
Author: Unknown Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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The Decameron
in the house of a poor man, who on the morrow carrieth him, in the guise of a wild man of the woods, to the piazza, where, being recognized, he is taken by his brethren and put in prison.
The story told by Fiammetta had more than once brought the tears to the eyes of the ladies her companions; but, it being now finished, the king with a stern countenance said, “My life would seem to me a little price to give for half the delight that Guiscardo had with Ghismonda, nor should any of you ladies marvel thereat, seeing that every hour of my life I suffer a thousand deaths, nor for all that is a single particle of delight vouchsafed me. But, leaving be my affairs for the present, it is my pleasure that Pampinea follow on the order of the discourse with some story of woe- ful chances and fortunes in part like to mine own; which if she ensue like as Fiammetta hath begun, I shall doubt- less begin to feel some dew fallen upon my fire.” Pampinea, hearing the order laid upon her, more by her affection apprehended the mind of the ladies her companions than that of Filostrato by his words, wherefore, being more disposed to give them some diversion than to content the king, farther than in the mere letter of his command- ment, she bethought herself to tell a story, that should, without departing from the proposed theme, give occasion for laughter, and accordingly began as follows:
“The vulgar have a proverb to the effect that he who is naught and is held good may do ill and it is not believed of him; the which affordeth me ample matter for discourse upon that which hath been proposed to me and at the same time to show what and how great is the hypocrisy of the clergy, who, with garments long and wide and faces paled by art and voices humble and meek to solicit the folk, but exceeding loud and fierce to rebuke in others their own vices, pretend that themselves by taking and others by giving to them come to salvation, and to boot, not as men who have, like ourselves, to purchase paradise, but as in a manner they were possessors and lords thereof, as- sign unto each who dieth, according to the sum of the monies left them by him, a more or less excellent place there, studying thus to deceive first themselves, an they believe as they say, and after those who put faith for that matter in their words. Anent whom, were it permitted me to discover as much as it behoved, I would quickly make clear to many simple folk that which they keep hidden under those huge wide gowns of theirs. But would God it might betide them all of their cozening tricks, as it betided a certain minor friar, and he no youngling, but held one of the first casuists in Venice; of whom it especially pleaseth me to tell you, so as peradventure somewhat to cheer your hearts, that are full of compassion for the death of Ghismonda, with laughter and pleasance.
There was, then, noble ladies, in Imola, a man of wicked and corrupt life, who was called Berto della Massa and whose lewd fashions, being well known of the Imolese, had brought him into such ill savour with them that there was none in the town who would credit him, even when he said sooth; wherefore, seeing that his shifts might no longer stand him in stead there, he removed in desperation to Venice, the receptacle of every kind of trash, thinking to find there new means of carrying on his wicked practices. There, as if conscience-stricken for the evil deeds done by him in the past, feigning himself overcome with the utmost humility and waxing devouter than any man alive, he went and turned Minor Friar and styled himself Fra Alberta da Imola; in which habit he proceeded to lead, to all appearance, a very austere life, greatly commending abstinence and mortification and never eating flesh nor drinking wine, whenas he had not thereof that which was to his liking. In short, scarce was any ware of him when from a thief, a pimp, a forger, a manslayer, he suddenly became a great preacher, without having for all that for- sworn the vices aforesaid, whenas he might secretly put them in practice. Moreover, becoming a priest, he would still, whenas he celebrated mass at the altar, an he were seen of many, beweep our Saviour’s passion, as one whom tears cost little, whenas he willed it. Brief, what with his preachings and his tears, he contrived on such wise to inveigle the Venetians that he was trustee and depository of well nigh every will made in the town and guardian of folk’s monies, besides being confessor and counsellor of the most part of the men and women of the place; and doing thus, from wolf he was become shepherd and the fame of his sanctity was far greater in those parts than ever was that of St. Francis at Assisi.
It chanced one day that a vain simple young lady, by name Madam Lisetta da Ca Quirino, wife of a great merchant who was gone with the galleys into Flanders, came with other ladies to confess to this same holy fri- ar, at whose feet kneeling and having, like a true daughter of Venice as she was (where the women are all feath- er-brained), told him part of her affairs, she was asked of him if she had a lover. Whereto she answered, with an offended air, ‘Good lack, sir friar, have you no eyes in your head? Seem my charms to you such as those of yonder others? I might have lovers and to spare, an I would; but my beauties are not for this one nor that. How many women do you see whose charms are such as mine, who would be fair in Paradise?’ Brief, she said so many things of this beauty of hers that it was a weariness to hear. Fra Alberto incontinent perceived that she savoured of folly and himseeming she was a fit soil for his tools, he fell suddenly and beyond measure in love with her; but, reserving blandishments for a more convenient season, he proceeded, for the nonce, so he might show himself a holy man, to rebuke her and tell her that this was vainglory and so forth. The lady told him he was an ass and knew not what one beauty was more than another, whereupon he, unwilling to vex her overmuch, took her confession and let her go away with the others.
Image 5.9: A Tale from the Decameron | An oil painting by John William Waterhouse, showing the characters of The Decameron sitting together as they tell their stories.
Author: Unknown Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
He let some days pass, then, taking with him a trusty companion of his, he repaired to Madam Lisetta’s house and withdrawing with her into a room apart, where none might see him, he fell on his knees before her and said, ‘Madam, I pray you for God’s sake pardon me that which I said to you last Sunday, whenas you bespoke me of your beauty, for that the following night I was so cruelly chastised there that I have not since been able to rise from my bed till to-day.’ Quoth Mistress Featherbrain, ‘And who chastised you thus?’ ‘I will tell you,’ replied the monk. ‘Being that night at my orisons, as I still use to be, I saw of a sudden a great light in my cell and ere I could turn me to see what it might be, I beheld over against me a very fair youth with a stout cudgel in his hand, who took me by the gown and dragging me to my feet, gave me such a drubbing that he broke every bone in my body. I asked him why he used me thus and he answered, “For that thou presumedst to-day, to disparage the celestial charms of Madam Lisetta, whom I love over all things, save only God.” “Who, then, are you?” asked I; and he replied that he was the angel Gabriel. “O my lord,” said I, “I pray you pardon me”; and he, “So be it; I pardon thee on condition that thou go to her, as first thou mayst, and get her pardon; but if she pardons thee not, I will return to thee and give thee such a bout of it that I will make thee a woeful man for all the time thou shalt live here below.” That which he said to me after I dare not tell you, except you first pardon me.’
My Lady Addlepate, who was somewhat scant of wit, was overjoyed to hear this, taking it all for gospel, and said, after a little, ‘I told you, Fra Alberto, that my charms were celestial, but, so God be mine aid, it irketh me for you and I will pardon you forthright, so you may come to no more harm, provided you tell me truly that which the angel said to you after.’ ‘Madam,’ replied Fra Alberto, ‘since you pardon me, I will gladly tell it you; but I must warn you of one thing, to wit, that whatever I tell you, you must have a care not to repeat it to any one alive, an you would not mar your affairs, for that you are the luckiest lady in the world. The angel Gabriel bade me tell you that you pleased him so much that he had many a time come to pass the night with you, but that he feared to affright you. Now he sendeth to tell you by me that he hath a mind to come to you one night and abide awhile with you and (for that he is an angel and that, if he came in angel-form, you might not avail to touch him,) he purposeth, for your delectation, to come in guise of a man, wherefore he biddeth you send to tell him when you would have him come
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and in whose form, and he will come hither; whereof you may hold yourself blest over any other lady alive.’ My Lady Conceit answered that it liked her well that the angel Gabriel loved her, seeing she loved him well nor
ever failed to light a candle of a groat before him, whereas she saw him depictured, and that what time soever he chose to come to her, he should be dearly welcome and would find her all alone in her chamber, but on this condi- tion, that he should not leave her for the Virgin Mary, whose great well-wisher it was said he was, as indeed ap- peareth, inasmuch as in every place where she saw him [limned], he was on his knees before her. Moreover, she said it must rest with him to come in whatsoever form he pleased, so but she was not affrighted.
Then said Fra Alberto, ‘Madam, you speak sagely and I will without fail take order with him of that which you tell me. But you may do me a great favour, which will cost you nothing; it is this, that you will him come with this my body. And I will tell you in what you will do me a favour; you must know that he will take my soul forth of my body and put it in Paradise, whilst he himself will enter into me; and what while he abideth with you, so long will my soul abide in Paradise.’ ‘With all my heart,’ answered Dame Littlewit. ‘I will well that you have this consolation, in requital of the buffets he gave you on my account.’ Then said Fra Alberto, ‘Look that he find the door of your house open to-night, so he may come in thereat, for that, coming in human form, as he will, he might not enter save by the door.’ The lady replied that it should be done, whereupon the monk took his leave and she abode in such a transport of exultation that her breech touched not her shift and herseemed a thousand years till the angel Gabriel should come to her.
Meanwhile, Fra Alberto, bethinking him that it behoved him play the cavalier, not the angel, that night pro- ceeded to fortify himself with confections and other good things, so he might not lightly be unhorsed; then, getting leave, as soon as it was night, he repaired with one of his comrades to the house of a woman, a friend of his, whence he was used whiles to take his start what time he went to course the fillies; and thence, whenas it seemed to him time, having disguised himself, he betook him to the lady’s house. There he tricked himself out as an angel with the trappings he had brought with him and going up, entered the chamber of the lady, who, seeing this creature all in white, fell on her knees before him. The angel blessed her and raising her to her feet, signed to her to go to bed, which she, studious to obey, promptly did, and the angel after lay down with his devotee. Now Fra Alberto was a personable man of his body and a lusty and excellent well set up on his legs; wherefore, finding himself in bed with Madam Lisetta, who was young and dainty, he showed himself another guess bedfellow than her husband and many a time that night took flight without wings, whereof she avowed herself exceeding content; and eke he told her many things of the glories of heaven. Then, the day drawing near, after taking order for his return, he made off with his trappings and returned to his comrade, whom the good woman of the house had meanwhile borne amicable company, lest he should get a fright, lying alone.
As for the lady, no sooner had she dined than, taking her waiting-woman with her, she betook herself to Fra Alberto and gave him news of the angel Gabriel, telling him that which she had heard from him of the glories of life eternal and how he was made and adding to boot, marvellous stories of her own invention. ‘Madam,’ said he, ‘I know not how you fared with him; I only know that yesternight, whenas he came to me and I did your message to him, he suddenly transported my soul amongst such a multitude of roses and other flowers that never was the like thereof seen here below, and I abode in one of the most delightsome places that was aye until the morning; but what became of my body meanwhile I know not.’ ‘Do I not tell you?’ answered the lady. ‘Your body lay all night in mine arms with the angel Gabriel. If you believe me not, look under your left pap, whereas I gave the angel such a kiss that the marks of it will stay by you for some days to come.’ Quoth the friar, ‘Say you so? Then will I do to-day a thing I have not done this great while; I will strip myself, to see if you tell truth.’ Then, after much prating, the lady returned home and Fra Alberto paid her many visits in angel-form, without suffering any hindrance.
However, it chanced one day that Madam Lisetta, being in dispute with a gossip of hers upon the question of female charms, to set her own above all others, said, like a woman who had little wit in her noddle, ‘An you but knew whom my beauty pleaseth, in truth you would hold your peace of other women.’ The other, longing to hear, said, as one who knew her well, ‘Madam, maybe you say sooth; but knowing not who this may be, one cannot turn about so lightly.’ Thereupon quoth Lisetta, who was eath enough to draw, ‘Gossip, it must go no farther; but he I mean is the angel Gabriel, who loveth me more than himself, as the fairest lady (for that which he telleth me) who is in the world or the Maremma.’ The other had a mind to laugh, but contained herself, so she might make Lisetta speak farther, and said, ‘Faith, madam, an the angel Gabriel be your lover and tell you this, needs must it be so; but methought not the angels did these things.’ ‘Gossip,’ answered the lady, ‘you are mistaken; zounds, he doth what you wot of better than my husband and telleth me they do it also up yonder; but, for that I seem to him fairer than any she in heaven, he hath fallen in love with me and cometh full oft to lie with me; seestow now?’
The gossip, to whom it seemed a thousand years till she should be whereas she might repeat these things, took her leave of Madam Lisetta and foregathering at an entertainment with a great company of ladies, orderly recounted to them the whole story. They told it again to their husbands and other ladies, and these to yet others, and so in less than two days Venice was all full of it. Among others to whose ears the thing came were Lisetta’s brothers-in-law, who, without saying aught to her, bethought themselves to find the angel in question and see if he knew how to fly,
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and to this end they lay several nights in wait for him. As chance would have it, some inkling of the matter came to the ears of Fra Alberto, who accordingly repaired one night to the lady’s house, to reprove her, but hardly had he put off his clothes ere her brothers-in-law, who had seen him come, were at the door of her chamber to open it.
Fra Alberto, hearing this and guessing what was to do, started up and having no other resource, opened a window, which gave upon the Grand Canal, and cast himself thence into the water. The canal was deep there and he could swim well, so that he did himself no hurt, but made his way to the opposite bank and hastily entering a house that stood open there, besought a poor man, whom he found within, to save his life for the love of God, telling him a tale of his own fashion, to explain how he came there at that hour and naked. The good man was moved to pity and it behov- ing him to go do his occasions, he put him in his own bed and bade him abide there against his return; then, locking him in, he went about his affairs. Meanwhile, the lady’s brothers-in-law entered her chamber and found that the angel Gabriel had flown, leaving his wings there; whereupon, seeing themselves baffled, they gave her all manner hard words and ultimately made off to their own house with the angel’s trappings, leaving her disconsolate.
Broad day come, the good man with whom Fra Alberto had taken refuge, being on the Rialto, heard how the angel Gabriel had gone that night to lie with Madam Lisetta and being surprised by her kinsmen, had cast himself for fear into the canal, nor was it known what was come of him, and concluded forthright that this was he whom he had at home. Accordingly, he returned thither and recognizing the monk, found means after much parley, to make him fetch him fifty ducats, an he would not have him give him up to the lady’s kinsmen. Having gotten the money and Fra Alberto offering to depart thence, the good man said to him, ‘There is no way of escape for you, an it be not one that I will tell you. We hold to-day a festival, wherein one bringeth a man clad bear-fashion and another one accoutred as a wild man of the woods and what not else, some one thing and some another, and there is a hunt held in St. Mark’s Place, which finished, the festival is at an end and after each goeth whither it pleaseth him with him whom he hath brought. An you will have me lead you thither, after one or other of these fashions, I can after carry you whither you please, ere it be spied out that you are here; else I know not how you are to get away, without being recognized, for the lady’s kinsmen, concluding that you must be somewhere hereabout, have set a watch for you on all sides.’
Hard as it seemed to Fra Alberto to go on such wise, nevertheless, of the fear he had of the lady’s kinsmen, he resigned himself thereto and told his host whither he would be carried, leaving the manner to him. Accordingly, the other, having smeared him all over with honey and covered him with down, clapped a chain about his neck and a mask on his face; then giving him a great staff in on hand and in the other two great dogs which he had fetched from the shambles he despatched one to the Rialto to make public proclamation that whoso would see the angel Gabriel should repair to St. Mark’s Place; and this was Venetian loyalty! This done, after a while, he brought him forth and setting him before himself, went holding him by the chain behind, to the no small clamour of the folk, who said all, ‘What be this? What be this?’ till he came to the place, where, what with those who had followed after them and those who, hearing the proclamation, were come thither from the Rialto, were folk without end. There he tied his wild man to a column in a raised and high place, making a show of awaiting the hunt, whilst the flies and gads gave the monk exceeding annoy, for that he was besmeared with honey. But, when he saw the place well filled, making as he would unchain his wild man, he pulled off Fra Alberto’s mask and said, ‘Gentlemen, since the bear cometh not and there is no hunt toward, I purpose, so you may not be come in vain, that you shall see the angel Gabriel, who cometh down from heaven to earth anights, to comfort the Venetian ladies.’
No sooner was the mask off than Fra Alberto was incontinent recognized of all, who raised a general outcry against him, giving him the scurviest words and the soundest rating was ever given a canting knave; moreover, they cast in his face, one this kind of filth and another that, and so they baited him a great while, till the news came by chance to his brethren, whereupon half a dozen of them sallied forth and coming thither, unchained him and threw a gown over him; then, with a general hue and cry behind them, they carried him off to the convent, where it is believed he died in prison, after a wretched life. Thus then did this fellow, held good and doing ill, without it being believed, dare to feign himself the angel Gabriel, and after being turned into a wild man of the woods and put to shame, as he deserved, bewailed, when too late, the sins he had committed. God grant it happen thus to all other knaves of his fashion!”
Day the Fifth The Ninth Story
Federigo degli alberighi loveth and is not loved. He wasteth his substance in prodigal hospitality till there is left him but one sole falcon, which, having nought else, he giveth his mistress to eat, on her coming to his house; and she, learning
this, changeth her mind and taking him to husband, maketh him rich again.
Filomena having ceased speaking, the queen, seeing that none remained to tell save only herself and Dioneo, whose privilege entitled him to speak last, said, with blithe aspect, “It pertaineth now to me to tell and I, dearest ladies, will willingly do it, relating a story like in part to the foregoing, to the intent that not only may you know how much the
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love of you can avail in gentle hearts, but that you may learn to be yourselves, whenas it behoveth, bestowers of your guerdons, without always suffering fortune to be your guide, which most times, as it chanceth, giveth not discreetly, but out of all measure.
You must know, then, that Coppo di Borghese Domenichi, who was of our days and maybe is yet a man of great worship and authority in our city and illustrious and worthy of eternal renown, much more for his fashions and his merit than for the nobility of his blood, being grown full of years, delighted oftentimes to discourse with his neigh- bours and others of things past, the which he knew how to do better and more orderly and with more memory and elegance of speech than any other man. Amongst other fine things of his, he was used to tell that there was once in Florence a young man called Federigo, son of Messer Filippo Alberighi and renowned for deeds of arms and cour- tesy over every other bachelor in Tuscany, who, as betideth most gentlemen, became enamoured of a gentlewoman named Madam Giovanna, in her day held one of the fairest and sprightliest ladies that were in Florence; and to win her love, he held jousts and tourneyings and made entertainments and gave gifts and spent his substance without any stint; but she, being no less virtuous than fair, recked nought of these things done for her nor of him who did them. Federigo spending thus far beyond his means and gaining nought, his wealth, as lightly happeneth, in course of time came to an end and he abode poor, nor was aught left him but a poor little farm, on whose returns he lived very meagrely, and to boot a falcon he had, one of the best in the world. Wherefore, being more in love than ever and him- seeming he might no longer make such a figure in the city as he would fain do, he took up his abode at Campi, where his farm was, and there bore his poverty with patience, hawking whenas he might and asking of no one.
Federigo being thus come to extremity, it befell one day that Madam Giovanna’s husband fell sick and seeing himself nigh upon death, made his will, wherein, being very rich, he left a son of his, now well grown, his heir, after which, having much loved Madam Giovanna, he substituted her to his heir, in case his son should die without lawful issue, and died. Madam Giovanna, being thus left a widow, betook herself that summer, as is the usance of our ladies, into the country with her son to an estate of hers very near that of Federigo; wherefore it befell that the lad made acquaintance with the latter and began to take delight in hawks and hounds, and having many a time seen his falcon flown and being strangely taken therewith, longed sore to have it, but dared not ask it of him, seeing it so dear to him. The thing standing thus, it came to pass that the lad fell sick, whereat his mother was sore concerned, as one who had none but him and loved him with all her might, and abode about him all day, comforting him without cease; and many a time she asked him if there were aught he desired, beseeching him tell it her, for an it might be gotten, she would contrive that he should have it. The lad, having heard these offers many times repeated, said, ‘Mother mine, an you could procure me to have Federigo’s falcon, methinketh I should soon be whole.’
The lady hearing this, bethought herself awhile and began to consider how she should do. She knew that Fed- erigo had long loved her and had never gotten of her so much as a glance of the eye; wherefore quoth she in herself, ‘How shall I send or go to him to seek of him this falcon, which is, by all I hear, the best that ever flew and which, to boot, maintaineth him in the world? And how can I be so graceless as to offer to take this from a gentleman who hath none other pleasure left?’ Perplexed with this thought and knowing not what to say, for all she was very certain of getting the bird, if she asked for it, she made no reply to her son, but abode silent. However, at last, the love of her son so got the better of her that she resolved in herself to satisfy him, come what might, and not to send, but to go herself for the falcon and fetch it to him. Accordingly she said to him, ‘My son, take comfort and bethink thyself to grow well again, for I promise thee that the first thing I do to-morrow morning I will go for it and fetch it to thee.’ The boy was rejoiced at this and showed some amendment that same day.
Next morning, the lady, taking another lady to bear her company, repaired, by way of diversion, to Federigo’s little house and enquired for the latter, who, for that it was no weather for hawking nor had been for some days past, was then in a garden he had, overlooking the doing of certain little matters of his, and hearing that Madam Giovanna asked for him at the door, ran thither, rejoicing and marvelling exceedingly. She, seeing him come, rose and going with womanly graciousness to meet him, answered his respectful salutation with ‘Give you good day, Federigo!’ then went on to say, ‘I am come to make thee amends for that which thou hast suffered through me, in loving me more than should have behooved thee; and the amends in question is this that I purpose to dine with thee this morning familiarly, I and this lady my companion.’ ‘Madam,’ answered Federigo humbly, ‘I remember me not to have ever received any ill at your hands, but on the contrary so much good that, if ever I was worth aught, it came about through your worth and the love I bore you; and assuredly, albeit you have come to a poor host, this your gracious visit is far more precious to me than it would be an it were given me to spend over again as much as that which I have spent aforetime.’ So saying, he shamefastly received her into his house and thence brought her into his garden, where, having none else to bear her company, he said to her, ‘Madam, since there is none else here, this good woman, wife of yonder husbandman, will bear you company, whilst I go see the table laid.’
Never till that moment, extreme as was his poverty, had he been so dolorously sensible of the straits to which he had brought himself for the lack of those riches he had spent on such disorderly wise. But that morning, finding he had nothing wherewithal he might honourably entertain the lady, for love of whom he had aforetime entertained folk
Image 5.10: Decameron | An image from The Decameron, illustrated by Taddeo Crivelli, depicting the seven women and three men from Boccaccio’s manuscript.
Author: User “Cassmus” Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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The Decameron
love of you can avail in gentle hearts, but that you may learn to be yourselves, whenas it behoveth, bestowers of your guerdons, without always suffering fortune to be your guide, which most times, as it chanceth, giveth not discreetly, but out of all measure.
You must know, then, that Coppo di Borghese Domenichi, who was of our days and maybe is yet a man of great worship and authority in our city and illustrious and worthy of eternal renown, much more for his fashions and his merit than for the nobility of his blood, being grown full of years, delighted oftentimes to discourse with his neigh- bours and others of things past, the which he knew how to do better and more orderly and with more memory and elegance of speech than any other man. Amongst other fine things of his, he was used to tell that there was once in Florence a young man called Federigo, son of Messer Filippo Alberighi and renowned for deeds of arms and cour- tesy over every other bachelor in Tuscany, who, as betideth most gentlemen, became enamoured of a gentlewoman named Madam Giovanna, in her day held one of the fairest and sprightliest ladies that were in Florence; and to win her love, he held jousts and tourneyings and made entertainments and gave gifts and spent his substance without any stint; but she, being no less virtuous than fair, recked nought of these things done for her nor of him who did them. Federigo spending thus far beyond his means and gaining nought, his wealth, as lightly happeneth, in course of time came to an end and he abode poor, nor was aught left him but a poor little farm, on whose returns he lived very meagrely, and to boot a falcon he had, one of the best in the world. Wherefore, being more in love than ever and him- seeming he might no longer make such a figure in the city as he would fain do, he took up his abode at Campi, where his farm was, and there bore his poverty with patience, hawking whenas he might and asking of no one.
Federigo being thus come to extremity, it befell one day that Madam Giovanna’s husband fell sick and seeing himself nigh upon death, made his will, wherein, being very rich, he left a son of his, now well grown, his heir, after which, having much loved Madam Giovanna, he substituted her to his heir, in case his son should die without lawful issue, and died. Madam Giovanna, being thus left a widow, betook herself that summer, as is the usance of our ladies, into the country with her son to an estate of hers very near that of Federigo; wherefore it befell that the lad made acquaintance with the latter and began to take delight in hawks and hounds, and having many a time seen his falcon flown and being strangely taken therewith, longed sore to have it, but dared not ask it of him, seeing it so dear to him. The thing standing thus, it came to pass that the lad fell sick, whereat his mother was sore concerned, as one who had none but him and loved him with all her might, and abode about him all day, comforting him without cease; and many a time she asked him if there were aught he desired, beseeching him tell it her, for an it might be gotten, she would contrive that he should have it. The lad, having heard these offers many times repeated, said, ‘Mother mine, an you could procure me to have Federigo’s falcon, methinketh I should soon be whole.’
The lady hearing this, bethought herself awhile and began to consider how she should do. She knew that Fed- erigo had long loved her and had never gotten of her so much as a glance of the eye; wherefore quoth she in herself, ‘How shall I send or go to him to seek of him this falcon, which is, by all I hear, the best that ever flew and which, to boot, maintaineth him in the world? And how can I be so graceless as to offer to take this from a gentleman who hath none other pleasure left?’ Perplexed with this thought and knowing not what to say, for all she was very certain of getting the bird, if she asked for it, she made no reply to her son, but abode silent. However, at last, the love of her son so got the better of her that she resolved in herself to satisfy him, come what might, and not to send, but to go herself for the falcon and fetch it to him. Accordingly she said to him, ‘My son, take comfort and bethink thyself to grow well again, for I promise thee that the first thing I do to-morrow morning I will go for it and fetch it to thee.’ The boy was rejoiced at this and showed some amendment that same day.
Next morning, the lady, taking another lady to bear her company, repaired, by way of diversion, to Federigo’s little house and enquired for the latter, who, for that it was no weather for hawking nor had been for some days past, was then in a garden he had, overlooking the doing of certain little matters of his, and hearing that Madam Giovanna asked for him at the door, ran thither, rejoicing and marvelling exceedingly. She, seeing him come, rose and going with womanly graciousness to meet him, answered his respectful salutation with ‘Give you good day, Federigo!’ then went on to say, ‘I am come to make thee amends for that which thou hast suffered through me, in loving me more than should have behooved thee; and the amends in question is this that I purpose to dine with thee this morning familiarly, I and this lady my companion.’ ‘Madam,’ answered Federigo humbly, ‘I remember me not to have ever received any ill at your hands, but on the contrary so much good that, if ever I was worth aught, it came about through your worth and the love I bore you; and assuredly, albeit you have come to a poor host, this your gracious visit is far more precious to me than it would be an it were given me to spend over again as much as that which I have spent aforetime.’ So saying, he shamefastly received her into his house and thence brought her into his garden, where, having none else to bear her company, he said to her, ‘Madam, since there is none else here, this good woman, wife of yonder husbandman, will bear you company, whilst I go see the table laid.’
Never till that moment, extreme as was his poverty, had he been so dolorously sensible of the straits to which he had brought himself for the lack of those riches he had spent on such disorderly wise. But that morning, finding he had nothing wherewithal he might honourably entertain the lady, for love of whom he had aforetime entertained folk
Image 5.10: Decameron | An image from The Decameron, illustrated by Taddeo Crivelli, depicting the seven women and three men from Boccaccio’s manuscript.
Author: User “Cassmus” Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
without number, he was made perforce aware of his default and ran hither and thither, perplexed beyond measure, like a man beside himself, inwardly cursing his ill fortune, but found neither money nor aught he might pawn. It was now growing late and he having a great desire to entertain the gentle lady with somewhat, yet choosing not to have recourse to his own labourer, much less any one else, his eye fell on his good falcon, which he saw on his perch in his little sa- loon; whereupon, having no other resource, he took the bird and finding him fat, deemed him a dish worthy of such a lady. Accordingly, without more ado, he wrung the hawk’s neck and hastily caused a little maid of his pluck it and truss it and after put it on the spit and roast it diligently. Then, the table laid and covered with very white cloths, whereof he had yet some store, he returned with a blithe countenance to the lady in the garden and told her that dinner was ready, such as it was in his power to provide. Accordingly, the lady and her friend, arising, betook themselves to table and in company with Federigo, who served them with the utmost diligence, ate the good falcon, unknowing what they did.
Presently, after they had risen from table and had abidden with him awhile in cheerful discourse, the lady, thinking it time to tell that wherefor she was come, turned to Federigo and courteously bespoke him, saying, ‘Federigo, I doubt not a jot but that, when thou hearest that which is the especial occasion of my coming hither, thou wilt marvel at my presumption, remembering thee of thy past life and of my virtue, which latter belike thou reputedst cruelty and hardness of heart; but, if thou hadst or hadst had children, by whom thou mightest know how potent is the love one beareth them, meseemeth certain that thou wouldst in part hold me excused. But, although thou hast none, I, who have one child, cannot therefore escape the common laws to which other mothers are subject and whose enforcements it behoveth me ensue, need must I, against my will and contrary to all right and seemliness, ask of thee a boon, which I know is supremely dear to thee (and that with good reason, for that thy sorry fortune hath left thee none other delight, none other diversion, none other solace), to wit, thy falcon, whereof my boy is so sore enamoured that, an I carry it not to him, I fear me his present disorder will be so aggravated that there may presently ensue thereof somewhat whereby I shall lose him. Wherefore I conjure thee,—not by the love thou bearest me and whereto thou art nowise beholden, but by thine own nobility, which in doing courtesy hath approved itself greater than in any other,—that it please thee give it to me, so by the gift I may say I have kept my son alive and thus made him for ever thy debtor.’
Federigo, hearing what the lady asked and knowing that he could not oblige her, for that he had given her the falcon to eat, fell a-weeping in her presence, ere he could answer a word. The lady at first believed that his tears
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arose from grief at having to part from his good falcon and was like to say that she would not have it. However, she contained herself and awaited what Federigo should reply, who, after weeping awhile, made answer thus: ‘Mad- am, since it pleased God that I should set my love on you, I have in many things reputed fortune contrary to me and have complained of her; but all the ill turns she hath done me have been a light matter in comparison with that which she doth me at this present and for which I can never more be reconciled to her, considering that you are come hither to my poor house, whereas you deigned not to come what while I was rich, and seek of me a little boon, the which she hath so wrought that I cannot grant you; and why this cannot be I will tell you briefly. When I heard that you, of your favour, were minded to dine with me, I deemed it a light thing and a seemly, having regard to your worth and the nobility of your station, to honour you, as far as in me lay, with some choicer victual than that which is commonly set before other folk; wherefore, remembering me of the falcon which you ask of me and of his excellence, I judged him a dish worthy of you. This very morning, then, you have had him roasted upon the trencher, and indeed I had accounted him excellently well bestowed; but now, seeing that you would fain have had him on other wise, it is so great a grief to me that I cannot oblige you therein that methinketh I shall never forgive myself therefor.’ So saying, in witness of this, he let cast before her the falcon’s feathers and feet and beak.
The lady, seeing and hearing this, first blamed him for having, to give a woman to eat, slain such a falcon, and after inwardly much commended the greatness of his soul, which poverty had not availed nor might anywise avail to abate. Then, being put out of all hope of having the falcon and fallen therefore in doubt of her son’s recovery, she took her leave and returned, all disconsolate, to the latter, who, before many days had passed, whether for chagrin that he could not have the bird or for that his disorder was e’en fated to bring him to that pass, departed this life, to the inexpressible grief of his mother. After she had abidden awhile full of tears and affliction, being left very rich and yet young, she was more than once urged by her brothers to marry again, and albeit she would fain not have done so, yet, finding herself importuned and calling to mind Federigo’s worth and his last magnificence, to wit, the having slain such a falcon for her entertainment, she said to them, ‘I would gladly, an it liked you, abide as I am; but, since it is your pleasure that I take a [second] husband, certes I will never take any other, an I have not Federigo degli Alberighi.’ Whereupon her brothers, making mock of her, said ‘Silly woman that thou art, what is this thou sayest? How canst thou choose him, seeing he hath nothing in the world?’ ‘Brothers mine,’ answered she, ‘I know very well that it is as you say; but I would liefer have a man that lacketh of riches than riches that lack of a man.’ Her brethren, hearing her mind and knowing Federigo for a man of great merit, poor though he was, gave her, with all her wealth, to him, even as she would; and he, seeing himself married to a lady of such worth and one whom he had loved so dear and exceeding rich, to boot, became a better husband of his substance and ended his days with her in joy and solace.”
THE DIVINE COMEDY
Dante Alighieri (1265-1321 C.E.)
Composed between 1308- 1321 C.E. Italy
Durante degli Alighieri, known to us as Dante, called his masterpiece simply La Commedia (The Comedy), not because it is funny, but because it begins sadly and ends happily. It is a deceptively simple title for such a complex and detailed work; as an example, Dante intended the first three lines to be read with four levels of mean- ing (literal, allegorical, moral, and anagogical/mystical). Boccaccio, author of The Decameron, added the word “Divine” to the title, both for the subject matter and the quality of the work. In the story, Dante appears as the main character, although this “pilgrim” should not be confused with the author himself: The character has no clue about what is happening, while the author controls all. The Divine Comedy exists because Dante made the switch from writing love lyrics (with the focus on earth- ly love) to writing about spiritual love after his muse, Beatrice, died during one of the plagues in Florence. Just as Beatrice inspired Dante from afar during life (the two never had a romantic relationship), she becomes after death the angelic inspiration to turn his attention to God. Dante plays with several traditions in his work: It is a Christian epic, where the epic hero does not need to be brave (in fact, he faints several times) as long as he has divine inter- vention; it is a pro-Trojan work, following Virgil’s lead in the Aeneid; and it uses classical imagery and mythology to represent ideas (literally, Cerberus is a three-headed dog from Greek mythology, but he appears on the level of the Gluttonous to represent the concept of gulping down food). Virgil’s influence manifests itself in several other ways: not only as the epic poet who was, according to Dante, his great master, but also as the poet who wrote of the foun-
Image 5.11: Portrait of Dante Alighieri | In this depiction, Dante wears a laurel wreath and a rather angry scowl.
Author: Gustave Doré Source: WikiArt License: Public Domain
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The Divine Comedy
dation of the Roman Empire. Dante believed that a strong Holy Roman Empire (based in what is now Germany) would lead to the Second Coming of Christ, whose birth came during the original pax Romana (peace of Rome). It makes perfect sense, therefore, that Beatrice would task Virgil with being Dante’s guide until she assumes that duty before the ascent through Heaven. It also would explain the urgency of Dante’s prose; Dante believes that little time is left before the end of the world, so his work attempts to persuade its audience to change their ways now. In the first book, Inferno (Hell), Dante finds ways to represent how the punishment is the crime, often with astonishing creativity; in Purgatorio (Purgatory), Dante describes the way that sins are purged; and in Paradiso (Heaven), Dante displays his knowledge of the arts and sciences of his day. Geographically, Hell is described as a downward funnel, while the island of Purgatory is a funnel leading upward. Earth exists (for Dante) as a globe around which all other heavenly bodies move; Heaven exists in those circles that form around the Earth, with God in the space beyond. Heaven is therefore described both as a rose (with the petals forming the circles) and as a type of stadium, where everyone sits facing out, rather than in. Dante’s goal at the end of the epic is to be granted a vision of God as he looks out into the empyrean.
Written by Laura J. Getty
Selections from The Divine Comedy of Dante Alighieri
Dante Alighieri, Translated by Courtney Langdon
Inferno I Introduction to the Divine Comedy
The Wood and the Mountain When half way through the journey of our life I found that I was in a gloomy wood, because the path which led aright was lost. And ah, how hard it is to say just what this wild and rough and stubborn woodland was, 5 the very thought of which renews my fear! So bitter ’t is, that death is little worse; but of the good to treat which there I found, I’ll speak of what I else discovered there.
I cannot well say how I entered it, 10 so full of slumber was I at the moment when I forsook the pathway of the truth; but after I had reached a mountain’s foot, where that vale ended which had pierced my heart with fear, I looked on high, 15 and saw its shoulders mantled already with that planet’s rays which leadeth one aright o’er every path.
Then quieted a little was the fear, which in the lake-depths of my heart had lasted 20 throughout the night I passed so piteously.
And even as he who, from the deep emerged with sorely troubled breath upon the shore,
turns round, and gazes at the dangerous water; even so my mind, which still was fleeing on, 25 turned back to look again upon the pass which ne’er permitted any one to live.
When I had somewhat eased my weary body,
License: Public Domain
Image 5.12: Inferno: Canto One | Dante flees through a dark forest, pursued by three dangerous animals, a lion, a leopard, and a wolf.
Author: Teodolinda Barolini Source: Digital Dante License: Public Domain
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o’er the lone slope I so resumed my way, that e’er the lower was my steady foot. 30 Then lo, not far from where the ascent began, a Leopard which, exceeding light and swift, was covered over with a spotted hide, and from my presence did not move away; nay, rather, she so hindered my advance, 35 that more than once I turned me to go back.
Some time had now from early morn elapsed, and with those very stars the sun was rising that in his escort were, when Love Divine in the beginning moved those beauteous things; 40 I therefore had as cause for hoping well of that wild beast with gaily mottled skin, the hour of daytime and the year’s sweet season; but not so, that I should not fear the sight, which next appeared before me, of a Lion, 45 —against me this one seemed to be advancing with head erect and with such raging hunger, that even the air seemed terrified thereby— and of a she-Wolf, which with every lust seemed in her leanness laden, and had caused 50 many ere now to lead unhappy lives. The latter so oppressed me with the fear that issued from her aspect, that I lost the hope I had of winning to the top.
And such as he is, who is glad to gain, 55 and who, when times arrive that make him lose, weeps and is saddened in his every thought; such did that peaceless animal make me, which, ’gainst me coming, pushed me, step by step, back to the place where silent is the sun. 60
While toward the lowland I was falling fast, the sight of one was offered to mine eyes, who seemed, through long continued silence, weak. When him in that vast wilderness I saw, “Have pity on me,” I cried out to him, 65 “whate’er thou be, or shade, or very man!”
“Not man,” he answered, “I was once a man; and both my parents were of Lombardy, and Mantuans with respect to fatherland. ’Neath Julius was I born, though somewhat late, 70 and under good Augustus’ rule I lived in Rome, in days of false and lying gods. I was a poet, and of that just man, Anchises’ son, I sang, who came from Troy after proud Ilion had been consumed. 75 But thou, to such sore trouble why return? Why climbst thou not the Mountain of Delight, which is of every joy the source and cause?”
“Art thou that Virgil, then, that fountain-head which poureth forth so broad a stream of speech?” 80 I answered him with shame upon my brow.
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“O light and glory of the other poets, let the long study, and the ardent love which made me con thy book, avail me now. Thou art my teacher and authority; 85 thou only art the one from whom I took the lovely manner which hath done me honor. Behold the beast on whose account I turned; from her protect me, O thou famous Sage, for she makes both my veins and pulses tremble!” 90
“A different course from this must thou pursue,” he answered, when he saw me shedding tears, “if from this wilderness thou wouldst escape; for this wild beast, on whose account thou criest, alloweth none to pass along her way, 95 but hinders him so greatly, that she kills; and is by nature so malign and guilty, that never doth she sate her greedy lust, but after food is hungrier than before. Many are the animals with which she mates, 100 and still more will there be, until the Hound shall come, and bring her to a painful death. He shall not feed on either land or wealth, but wisdom, love and power shall be his food, and ’tween two Feltros shall his birth take place. 105 Of that low Italy he’ll be the savior, for which the maid Camilla died of wounds, with Turnus, Nisus and Eurỳalus. And he shall drive her out of every town, till he have put her back again in Hell, 110 from which the earliest envy sent her forth.
I therefore think and judge it best for thee to follow me; and I shall be thy guide, and lead thee hence through an eternal place, where thou shalt hear the shrieks of hopelessness 115 of those tormented spirits of old times, each one of whom bewails the second death; then those shalt thou behold who, though in fire, contented are, because they hope to come, whene’er it be, unto the blessèd folk; 120 to whom, thereafter, if thou wouldst ascend, there’ll be for that a worthier soul than I. With her at my departure I shall leave thee, because the Emperor who rules up there, since I was not obedient to His law, 125 wills none shall come into His town through me. He rules as emperor everywhere, and there as king; there is His town and lofty throne. O happy he whom He thereto elects!”
And I to him: “O Poet, I beseech thee, 130 even by the God it was not thine to know, so may I from this ill and worse escape, conduct me thither where thou saidst just now, that I may see Saint Peter’s Gate, and those whom thou describest as so whelmed with woe.” 135
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He then moved on, and I behind him kept.
Inferno II Introduction to the Inferno
The Mission of Virgil Daylight was going, and the dusky air was now releasing from their weary toil all living things on earth; and I alone was making ready to sustain the war both of the road and of the sympathy, 5 which my unerring memory will relate.
O Muses, O high Genius, help me now! O Memory, that wrotest what I saw, herewith shall thy nobility appear!
I then began: “Consider, Poet, thou 10 that guidest me, if strong my virtue be, or e’er thou trust me to the arduous course. Thou sayest that the sire of Silvio entered, when still corruptible, the immortal world, and that while in his body he was there. 15 Hence, that to him the Opponent of all ill was courteous, considering the great result that was to come from him, both who, and what, seems not unfitting to a thoughtful man; for he of fostering Rome and of her sway 20 in the Empyrean Heaven was chosen as sire; and both of these, if one would tell the truth, were foreordained unto the holy place, where greatest Peter’s follower hath his seat. While on this quest, for which thou giv’st him praise, 25 he heard the things which of his victory the causes were, and of the Papal Robe. The Chosen Vessel went there afterward, to bring thence confirmation in the faith, through which one enters on salvation’s path. 30 But why should I go there, or who concedes it? I’m not Aeneas, nor yet Paul am I; me worthy of this, nor I nor others deem. If, therefore, I consent to come, I fear lest foolish be my coming; thou art wise, 35 and canst much better judge than I can talk.”
And such as he who unwills what he willed, and changes so his purpose through new thoughts, that what he had begun he wholly leaves; such on that gloomy slope did I become; 40 for, as I thought it over, I gave up the enterprise so hastily commenced.
“If I have rightly understood thy words,” replied the shade of that Great-hearted man, “thy soul is hurt by shameful cowardice, 45
Image 5.13: Inferno: Canto Two | The Ro- man poet Virgil explains that he has been sent to guide Dante through the underworld.
Author: Teodolinda Barolini Source: Digital Dante License: Public Domain
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He then moved on, and I behind him kept.
Inferno II Introduction to the Inferno
The Mission of Virgil Daylight was going, and the dusky air was now releasing from their weary toil all living things on earth; and I alone was making ready to sustain the war both of the road and of the sympathy, 5 which my unerring memory will relate.
O Muses, O high Genius, help me now! O Memory, that wrotest what I saw, herewith shall thy nobility appear!
I then began: “Consider, Poet, thou 10 that guidest me, if strong my virtue be, or e’er thou trust me to the arduous course. Thou sayest that the sire of Silvio entered, when still corruptible, the immortal world, and that while in his body he was there. 15 Hence, that to him the Opponent of all ill was courteous, considering the great result that was to come from him, both who, and what, seems not unfitting to a thoughtful man; for he of fostering Rome and of her sway 20 in the Empyrean Heaven was chosen as sire; and both of these, if one would tell the truth, were foreordained unto the holy place, where greatest Peter’s follower hath his seat. While on this quest, for which thou giv’st him praise, 25 he heard the things which of his victory the causes were, and of the Papal Robe. The Chosen Vessel went there afterward, to bring thence confirmation in the faith, through which one enters on salvation’s path. 30 But why should I go there, or who concedes it? I’m not Aeneas, nor yet Paul am I; me worthy of this, nor I nor others deem. If, therefore, I consent to come, I fear lest foolish be my coming; thou art wise, 35 and canst much better judge than I can talk.”
And such as he who unwills what he willed, and changes so his purpose through new thoughts, that what he had begun he wholly leaves; such on that gloomy slope did I become; 40 for, as I thought it over, I gave up the enterprise so hastily commenced.
“If I have rightly understood thy words,” replied the shade of that Great-hearted man, “thy soul is hurt by shameful cowardice, 45
Image 5.13: Inferno: Canto Two | The Ro- man poet Virgil explains that he has been sent to guide Dante through the underworld.
Author: Teodolinda Barolini Source: Digital Dante License: Public Domain
which many times so sorely hinders one, that from an honored enterprise it turns him, as seeing falsely doth a shying beast. In order that thou rid thee of this fear, I’ll tell thee why I came, and what I heard 50 the first time I was grieved on thy account. Among the intermediate souls I was, when me a Lady called, so beautiful and happy, that I begged her to command. Her eyes were shining brighter than a star, 55 when sweetly and softly she began to say, as with an angel’s voice she spoke to me:
‘O courteous Mantuan spirit, thou whose fame is still enduring in the world above, and will endure as long as lasts the world, 60 a friend of mine, but not a friend of Fortune, is on his journey o’er the lonely slope obstructed so, that he hath turned through fear; and, from what I have heard of him in Heaven, I fear lest he may now have strayed so far, 65 that I have risen too late to give him help. Bestir thee, then, and with thy finished speech, and with whatever his escape may need, assist him so that I may be consoled. I, who now have thee go, am Beatrice; 70 thence come I, whither I would fain return; ’t was love that moved me, love that makes me speak. When in the presence of my Lord again,
often shall I commend thee unto Him.’ Thereat she ceased to speak, and I began: 75
‘O Lady of virtue, thou through whom alone the human race excels all things contained within the heaven that hath the smallest circles, thy bidding pleases me so much, that late I’d be, hadst thou already been obeyed; 80 thou needst but to disclose to me thy will. But tell me why thou dost not mind descending into this center from that ample place, whither thou art so eager to return.’
‘Since thou wouldst know thereof so inwardly, 85 I’ll tell thee briefly,’ she replied to me, ‘why I am not afraid to enter here. Of those things only should one be afraid, that have the power of doing injury; not of the rest, for they should not be feared. 90 I, of His mercy, am so made by God, that me your wretchedness doth not affect, nor any flame of yonder fire molest. There is a Gentle Lady up in Heaven, who grieves so at this check, whereto I send thee, 95 that broken is stern judgment there above. She called Lucìa in her prayer, and said: ‘Now hath thy faithful servant need of thee, and I, too, recommend him to thy care.’
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Lucìa, hostile to all cruelty, 100 set forth thereat, and came unto the place, where I with ancient Rachel had my seat. ‘Why, Beatrice,’ she said, ‘true Praise of God, dost thou not succour him who loved thee so, that for thy sake he left the common herd? 105 Dost thou not hear the anguish of his cry? see’st not the death that fights him on the flood, o’er which the sea availeth not to boast? Ne’er were there any in the world so swift to seek their profit and avoid their loss, 110 as I, after such words as these were uttered, descended hither from my blessèd seat, confiding in that noble speech of thine, which honors thee and whosoe’er has heard it.’
Then, after she had spoken to me thus, 115 weeping she turned her shining eyes away; which made me hasten all the more to come; and, even as she wished, I came to thee, and led thee from the presence of the beast, which robbed thee of the fair Mount’s short approach. 120 What is it, then? Why, why dost thou hold back? Why dost thou lodge such baseness in thy heart, and wherefore free and daring art thou not, since three so blessèd Ladies care for thee within the court of Heaven, and my words, too, 125 give thee the promise of so much that’s good?”
As little flowers by the chill of night bowed down and closed, when brightened by the sun, stand all erect and open on their stems; so likewise with my wearied strength did I; 130 and such good daring coursed into my heart, that I began as one who had been freed:
“O piteous she who hastened to my help, and courteous thou, that didst at once obey the words of truth that she addressed to thee! 135 Thou hast with such desire disposed my heart toward going on, by reason of thy words, that to my first intention I’ve returned. Go on now, since we two have but one will; thou Leader, and thou Lord, and Teacher thou!” 140
I thus addressed him; then, when he had moved, I entered on the wild and arduous course.
Inferno III The Gate and Vestibule of Hell
Cowards and Neutrals. Acheron Through me one goes into the town of woe, through me one goes into eternal pain, through me among the people that are lost.
Justice inspired my high exalted Maker;
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I was created by the Might divine, 5 the highest Wisdom and the primal Love.
Before me there was naught created, save eternal things, and I eternal last; all hope abandon, ye that enter here!
These words of gloomy color I beheld 10 inscribed upon the summit of a gate; whence I: “Their meaning, Teacher, troubles me.”
And he to me, like one aware, replied: “All fearfulness must here be left behind; all forms of cowardice must here be dead. 15 We’ve reached the place where, as I said to thee, thou’lt see the sad folk who have lost the Good which is the object of the intellect.” Then, after he had placed his hand in mine with cheerful face, whence I was comforted, 20 he led me in among the hidden things.
There sighs and wails and piercing cries of woe reverberated through the starless air; hence I, at first, shed tears of sympathy. Strange languages, and frightful forms of speech, 25 words caused by pain, accents of anger, voices both loud and faint, and smiting hands withal, a mighty tumult made, which sweeps around forever in that timelessly dark air, as sand is wont, whene’er a whirlwind blows. 30
And I, whose head was girt about with horror, said: “Teacher, what is this I hear? What folk is this, that seems so overwhelmed with woe?”
And he to me: “This wretched kind of life the miserable spirits lead of those 35 who lived with neither infamy nor praise. Commingled are they with that worthless choir of Angels who did not rebel, nor yet were true to God, but sided with themselves. The heavens, in order not to be less fair, 40 expelled them; nor doth nether Hell receive them, because the bad would get some glory thence.”
And I: “What is it, Teacher, grieves them so, it causes them so loudly to lament?”
“I’ll tell thee very briefly,” he replied. 45 “These have no hope of death, and so low down is this unseeing life of theirs, that envious they are of every other destiny. The world allows no fame of them to live; Mercy and Justice hold them in contempt. 50 Let us not talk of them; but look, and pass!”
And I, who gazed intently, saw a flag,
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which, whirling, moved so swiftly that to me contemptuous it appeared of all repose; and after it there came so long a line 55 of people, that I never would have thought that death so great a number had undone.
When some I’d recognized, I saw and knew the shade of him who through his cowardice the great Refusal made. I understood 60 immediately, and was assured that this the band of cowards was, who both to God displeasing are, and to His enemies. These wretched souls, who never were alive, were naked, and were sorely spurred to action 65 by means of wasps and hornets that were there. The latter streaked their faces with their blood, which, after it had mingled with their tears, was at their feet sucked up by loathsome worms.
When I had given myself to peering further, 70 people I saw upon a great stream’s bank; I therefore said: “Now, Teacher, grant to me that I may know who these are, and what law makes them appear so eager to cross over, as in this dim light I perceive they are.” 75
And he to me: “These things will be made clear to thee, as soon as on the dismal strand of Acheron we shall have stayed our steps.” Thereat, with shame-suffused and downcast eyes, and fearing lest my talking might annoy him, 80 up to the river I abstained from speech.
Behold then, coming toward us in a boat, an agèd man, all white with ancient hair, who shouted: “Woe to you, ye souls depraved! Give up all hope of ever seeing Heaven! 85 I come to take you to the other shore, into eternal darkness, heat and cold. And thou that yonder art, a living soul, withdraw thee from those fellows that are dead.” But when he saw that I did not withdraw, 90 he said: “By other roads and other ferries shalt thou attain a shore to pass across, not here; a lighter boat must carry thee.”
To him my Leader: “Charon, be not vexed; thus is it yonder willed, where there is power 95 to do whate’er is willed; so ask no more!”
Thereat were quieted the woolly cheeks of that old boatman of the murky swamp, who round about his eyes had wheels of flame. Those spirits, though, who nude and weary were, 100 their color changed, and gnashed their teeth together, as soon as they had heard the cruel words. They kept blaspheming God, and their own parents,
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the human species, and the place, and time, and seed of their conception and their birth. 105 Then each and all of them drew on together, weeping aloud, to that accursèd shore which waits for every man that fears not God.
Charon, the demon, with his ember eyes makes beckoning signs to them, collects them all, 110 and with his oar beats whoso takes his ease.
Even as in autumn leaves detach themselves, now one and now another, till their branch sees all its stripped off clothing on the ground; so, one by one, the evil seed of Adam 115 cast themselves down that river-bank at signals, as doth a bird to its recalling lure. Thus o’er the dusky waves they wend their way; and ere they land upon the other side, another crowd collects again on this. 120
“My son,” the courteous Teacher said to me, “all those that perish in the wrath of God from every country come together here; and eager are to pass across the stream, because Justice Divine so spurs them on, 125 that what was fear is turned into desire. A good soul never goes across from hence; if Charon, therefore, findeth fault with thee, well canst thou now know what his words imply.”
The darkling plain, when this was ended, quaked 130 so greatly, that the memory of my terror bathes me even now with sweat. The tear-stained ground gave forth a wind, whence flashed vermilion light which in me overcame all consciousness; 135 and down I fell like one whom sleep o’ertakes.
Inferno IV The First Circle. The Borderland
Unbaptized Worthies. Illustrious Pagans A heavy thunder-clap broke the deep sleep within my head, so that I roused myself, as would a person who is waked by force; and standing up erect, my rested eyes I moved around, and with a steady gaze 5 I looked about to know where I might be.
Truth is I found myself upon the verge of pain’s abysmal valley, which collects the thunder-roll of everlasting woes. So dark it was, so deep and full of mist, 10 that, howsoe’er I gazed into its depths, nothing at all did I discern therein.
“Into this blind world let us now descend!”
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the Poet, who was death-like pale, began, “I will be first, and thou shalt second be.” 15
And I, who of his color was aware, said: “How am I to come, if thou take fright, who ’rt wont to be my comfort when afraid?”
“The anguish of the people here below,” he said to me, “brings out upon my face 20 the sympathy which thou dost take for fear. Since our long journey drives us, let us go!” Thus he set forth, and thus he had me enter the first of circles girding the abyss.
Therein, as far as one could judge by list’ning, 25 there was no lamentation, saving sighs which caused a trembling in the eternal air; and this came from the grief devoid of torture felt by the throngs, which many were and great, of infants and of women and of men. 30
To me then my good Teacher: “Dost not ask what spirits these are whom thou seest here? Now I would have thee know, ere thou go further, that these sinned not; and though they merits have, ’t is not enough, for they did not have baptism, 35 the gateway of the creed believed by thee; and if before Christianity they lived, they did not with due worship honor God; and one of such as these am I myself. For such defects, and for no other guilt, 40 we’re lost, and only hurt to this extent, that, in desire, we live deprived of hope.”
Great sorrow filled my heart on hearing this, because I knew of people of great worth, who in that Borderland suspended were. 45
“Tell me, my Teacher, tell me, thou my Lord,” I then began, through wishing to be sure about the faith which conquers every error; “came any ever, by his own deserts, or by another’s, hence, who then was blest?” 50
And he, who understood my covert speech, replied: “To this condition I was come but newly, when I saw a Mighty One come here, crowned with the sign of victory. From hence He drew the earliest parent’s shade, 55 and that of his son, Abel, that of Noah, and Moses the law-giver and obedient; Abram the patriarch, and David king, Israel, with both his father and his sons, and Rachel, too, for whom he did so much, 60 and many others; and He made them blest; and I would have thee know that, earlier than these, there were no human spirits saved.”
Because he talked we ceased not moving on,
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but all the while were passing through the wood, 65 the wood, I mean, of thickly crowded shades. Nor far this side of where I fell asleep had we yet gone, when I beheld a fire, which overcame a hemisphere of gloom. Somewhat away from it we were as yet, 70 but not so far, but I could dimly see that honorable people held that place.
“O thou that honorest both art and science, who are these people that such honor have, that it divides them from the others’ life?” 75
And he to me: “The honorable fame, which speaks of them in thy live world above, in Heaven wins grace, which thus advances them.”
And hereupon a voice was heard by me: “Do honor to the loftiest of poets! 80 his shade, which had departed, now returns.” And when the voice had ceased and was at rest, four mighty shades I saw approaching us; their looks were neither sorrowful nor glad.
My kindly Teacher then began to say: 85 “Look at the one who comes with sword in hand before the three, as if their lord he were. Homer he is, the sovreign poet; Horace, the satirist, the one that cometh next; the third is Ovid, Lucan is the last. 90 Since each of them in common shares with me the title which the voice of one proclaimed, they do me honor, and therein do well.”
Thus gathered I beheld the fair assembly of those the masters of the loftiest song, 95 which soareth like an eagle o’er the rest.
Then, having talked among themselves awhile, they turned around to me with signs of greeting; and, when he noticed this, my Teacher smiled. And even greater honor still they did me, 100 for one of their own company they made me, so that amid such wisdom I was sixth. Thus on we went as far as to the light, talking of things whereof is silence here becoming, even as speech was, where we spoke. 105 We reached a noble Castle’s foot, seven times encircled by high walls, and all around defended by a lovely little stream. This last we crossed as if dry land it were; through seven gates with these sages I went in, 110 and to a meadow of fresh grass we came. There people were with slow and serious eyes, and, in their looks, of great authority; they spoke but seldom and with gentle voice. We therefore to one side of it drew back 115
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into an open place so luminous and high, that each and all could be perceived. There on the green enamel opposite were shown to me the spirits of the great, for seeing whom I glory in myself. 120
I saw Electra with companions many, of whom I knew both Hector and Aeneas, and Caesar armed, with shining falcon eyes. I saw Camilla with Penthesilea upon the other side, and King Latinus, 125 who with Lavinia, his own daughter, sat. I saw that Brutus who drove Tarquin out, Lucretia, Julia, Martia and Cornelia, and, all alone, I saw the Saladin.
Then, having raised my brows a little higher, 130 the Teacher I beheld of those that know, seated amid a philosophic group. They all look up to him, all honor him; there Socrates and Plato I beheld, who nearer than the rest are at his side; 135 Democritus, who thinks the world chance-born, Diogenes, Anaxagoras and Thales, Empedocles, Heraclitus, and Zeno; of qualities I saw the good collector, Dioscorides I mean; Orpheus I saw, 140 Tully and Livy, and moral Seneca; Euclid, the geometer, and Ptolemy, Hippocrates, Avicenna, Galen, Averrhoès, who made the famous comment.
I cannot speak of all of them in full, 145 because my long theme drives me on so fast, that oft my words fall short of what I did.
The sixfold band now dwindles down to two; my wise Guide leads me by a different path out of the calm into the trembling air; 150 and to a place I come, where naught gives light.
Inferno V The Second Circle. Sexual Intemperance
The Lascivious and Adulterers Thus from the first of circles I went down into the second, which surrounds less space, and all the greater pain, which goads to wailing.
There Minos stands in horrid guise, and snarls; inside the entrance he examines sins, 5 judges, and, as he girds himself, commits. I mean that when an ill-born soul appears before him, it confesses itself wholly; and thereupon that Connoisseur of sins perceives what place in Hell belongs to it, 10
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and girds him with his tail as many times, as are the grades he wishes it sent down. Before him there are always many standing; they go to judgment, each one in his turn; they speak and hear, and then are downward hurled. 15
“O thou that comest to the inn of woe,” said Minos, giving up, on seeing me, the execution of so great a charge, “see how thou enter, and in whom thou put thy trust; let not the gate-way’s width deceive thee!” 20
To him my Leader: “Why dost thou, too, cry? Hinder thou not his fate-ordained advance; thus is it yonder willed, where there is power to do whate’er is willed; so ask no more!”
And now the woeful sounds of actual pain 25 begin to break upon mine ears; I now am come to where much wailing smiteth me. I reached a region silent of all light, which bellows as the sea doth in a storm, if lashed and beaten by opposing winds. 30 The infernal hurricane, which never stops, carries the spirits onward with its sweep, and, as it whirls and smites them, gives them pain. Whene’er they come before the shattered rock, there lamentations, moans and shrieks are heard; 35 there, cursing, they blaspheme the Power Divine. I understood that to this kind of pain are doomed those carnal sinners, who subject their reason to their sensual appetite.
And as their wings bear starlings on their way, 40 when days are cold, in full and wide-spread flocks; so doth that blast the evil spirits bear; this way and that, and up and down it leads them; nor only doth no hope of rest, but none of lesser suffering, ever comfort them. 45
And even as cranes move on and sing their lays, forming the while a long line in the air; thus saw I coming, uttering cries of pain, shades borne along upon the aforesaid storm; I therefore said: “Who, Teacher, are the people 50 the gloomy air so cruelly chastises?”
“The first of those of whom thou wouldst have news,” the latter thereupon said unto me, “was empress over lands of many tongues. To sexual vice so wholly was she given, 55 that lust she rendered lawful in her laws, thus to remove the blame she had incurred. Semiramis she is, of whom one reads that she gave suck to Ninus, and became his wife; she held the land the Soldan rules. 60
The next is she who killed herself through love,
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and to Sichaeus’ ashes broke her faith; the lustful Cleopatra follows her. See Helen, for whose sake so long a time of guilt rolled by, and great Achilles see, 65 who fought with love when at the end of life. Paris and Tristan see;” and then he showed me, and pointed out by name, a thousand shades and more, whom love had from our life cut off.
When I had heard my Leader speak the names 70 of ladies and their knights of olden times, pity o’ercame me, and I almost swooned. “Poet,” I then began, “I’d gladly talk with those two yonder who together go, and seem to be so light upon the wind.” 75
“Thou’lt see thy chance when nearer us they are;” said he, “beseech them then by that same love which leadeth them along, and they will come.”
Soon as the wind toward us had bent their course. I cried: “O toil-worn souls, come speak with us, 80 so be it that One Else forbid it not!”
As doves, when called by their desire, come flying with raised and steady pinions through the air to their sweet nest, borne on by their own will; so from the band where Dido is they issued, 85 advancing through the noisome air toward us, so strong with love the tone of my appeal.
“O thou benign and gracious living creature, that goest through the gloomy purple air to visit us, who stained the world blood-red; 90 if friendly were the universal King, for thy peace would we pray to Him, since pity thou showest for this wretched woe of ours. Of whatsoever it may please you hear and speak, we will both hear and speak with you, 95 while yet, as now it is, the wind is hushed. The town where I was born sits on the shore, whither the Po descends to be at peace together with the streams that follow him. Love, which soon seizes on a well-born heart, 100 seized him for that fair body’s sake, whereof I was deprived; and still the way offends me. Love, which absolves from loving none that’s loved, seized me so strongly for his love of me, that, as thou see’st, it doth not leave me yet. 105 Love to a death in common led us on; Cain’s ice awaiteth him who quenched our life.” These words were wafted down to us from them.
When I had heard those sorely troubled souls, I bowed my head, and long I held it low, 110 until the Poet said: “What thinkest thou?” When I made answer I began: “Alas!
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how many tender thoughts and what desire induced these souls to take the woeful step!”
I then turned back to them again and spoke, 115 and I began: “Thine agonies, Francesca, cause me to weep with grief and sympathy. But tell me: at the time of tender sighs, whereby and how did Love concede to you that ye should know each other’s veiled desires?” 120
And she to me: “There is no greater pain than to remember happy days in days of misery; and this thy Leader knows. But if to know the first root of our love so yearning a desire possesses thee, 125 I’ll do as one who weepeth while he speaks. One day, for pastime merely, we were reading of Launcelot, and how love o’erpowered him; alone we were, and free from all misgiving. Oft did that reading cause our eyes to meet, 130 and often take the color from our faces; and yet one passage only overcame us. When we had read of how the longed-for smile was kissed by such a lover, this one here, who nevermore shall be divided from me, 135 trembling all over, kissed me on my mouth. A Gallehault the book, and he who wrote it! No further in it did we read that day.”
While one was saying this, the other spirit so sorely wept, that out of sympathy 140 I swooned away as though about to die, and fell as falls a body that is dead.
Inferno VI The Third Circle. Intemperance in Food
Gluttons On my return to consciousness, which closed before the kindred couple’s piteous case, which utterly confounded me with grief, new torments all around me I behold, and new tormented ones, where’er I move, 5 where’er I turn, and wheresoe’er I gaze.
In the third circle am I, that of rain eternal, cursèd, cold and burdensome; its measure and quality are never new. Coarse hail, and snow, and dirty-colored water 10 through the dark air are ever pouring down; and foully smells the ground receiving them.
A wild beast, Cerberus, uncouth and cruel, is barking with three throats, as would a dog, over the people that are there submerged. 15 Red eyes he hath, a dark and greasy beard,
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a belly big, and talons on his hands; he claws the spirits, flays and quarters them. The rainfall causes them to howl like dogs; with one side they make shelter for the other; 20 oft do the poor profaners turn about.
When Cerberus, the mighty worm, perceived us, his mouths he opened, showing us his fangs; nor had he any limb that he kept still. My Leader then stretched out his opened palms, 25 and took some earth, and with his fists well filled, he threw it down into the greedy throats. And like a dog that, barking, yearns for food, and, when he comes to bite it, is appeased, since only to devour it doth he strain 30 and fight; even such became those filthy faces of demon Cerberus, who, thundering, stuns the spirits so, that they would fain be deaf.
Over the shades the heavy rain beats down we then were passing, as our feet we set 35 upon their unreal bodies which seem real. They each and all were lying on the ground, excepting one, which rose and sat upright, when it perceived us pass in front of it.
“O thou that through this Hell art being led,” 40 it said to me, “recall me, if thou canst; for thou, before I unmade was, wast made.”
And I to it: “The anguish thou art in perchance withdraws thee from my memory so, it doth not seem that thee I ever saw. 45 But tell me who thou art, that in so painful a place art set, and to such punishment, that none, though greater, so repulsive is.”
And he to me: “Thy town, which is so full of envy that the bag o’erflows already, 50 owned me when I was in the peaceful life. Ciacco, you townsmen used to call me then; for my injurious fault of gluttony I’m broken, as thou seest, by the rain; nor yet am I, sad soul, the only one, 55 for all these here are subject, for like fault, unto like pain.” Thereat he spoke no more.
“Thy trouble, Ciacco,” I replied to him, “so burdens me that it invites my tears; but tell me, if thou canst, to what will come 60 the citizens of our divided town; if any one therein is just; and tell me the reason why such discord hath assailed her.”
And he to me then: “After struggling long they’ll come to bloodshed, and the boorish party 65 will drive the other out with much offence.
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Then, afterward, the latter needs must fall within three suns, and the other party rise, by help of one who now is ‘on the fence.’ A long time will it hold its forehead up, 70 keeping the other under grievous weights, howe’er it weep therefor, and be ashamed. Two men are just, but are not heeded there; the three sparks that have set men’s hearts on fire, are overweening pride, envy and greed.” 75
Herewith he closed his tear-inspiring speech. And I to him: “I’d have thee teach me still, and grant the favor of some further talk. Farinàta and Tegghiàio, who so worthy were, Jàcopo Rusticùcci, Arrigo and Mosca, 80 and the others who were set on doing good, tell me where these are, and let me know of them; for great desire constraineth me to learn if Heaven now sweeten, or Hell poison them.”
And he: “Among the blackest souls are these; 85 a different fault weighs toward the bottom each; if thou descend so far, thou mayst behold them. But when in the sweet world thou art again, recall me, prithee, unto others’ minds; I tell no more, nor further answer thee.” 90
His fixed eyes thereupon he turned askance; a while he looked at me, then bowed his head, and fell therewith among the other blind.
Then said my Leader: “He’ll not wake again on this side of the angel-trumpet’s sound. 95 What time the hostile Podestà shall come, each soul will find again its dismal tomb, each will take on again its flesh and shape, and hear what through eternity resounds.”
We thus passed through with slowly moving steps 100 the filthy mixture of the shades and rain, talking a little of the future life; because of which I said: “These torments, Teacher, after the Final Sentence will they grow, or less become, or burn the same as now.” 105
And he to me: “Return thou to thy science, which holdeth that the more a thing is perfect, so much the more it feels of weal or woe. Although this cursèd folk shall nevermore arrive at true perfection, it expects 110 to be more perfect after, than before.”
As in a circle, round that road we went, speaking at greater length than I repeat, and came unto a place where one descends; there found we Plutus, the great enemy. 115
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Inferno VII The Fourth Circle. Intemperance in Wealth
Misers and Prodigals. The Fifth Circle “Papè Satàn, papè Satàn, alèppë!” thus Plutus with his clucking voice began; that noble Sage, then, who knew everything, said, to encourage me: “Let not thy fear distress thee, for, whatever power he have, 5 he’ll not prevent our going down this rock.”
Then to those swollen lips he turned around, and said: “Be silent, thou accursèd wolf; with thine own rage consume thyself within! Not causeless is our going to the bottom; 10 there is it willed on high, where Michael wrought vengeance upon the arrogant rebellion.”
As sails, when swollen by the wind, fall down entangled, when the mast breaks; even so, down to the ground the cruel monster fell. 15
Into the fourth ditch we descended thus, advancing further o’er the woeful edge, which bags all evil in the universe.
Justice of God, alas! who heapeth up the many unheard of toils and pains I saw, 20 and wherefore doth our sin torment us so?
As yonder o’er Charybdis doth the sea, which breaks against the one it runs to meet, so must the people dance a ring-dance here. I here saw folk, more numerous than elsewhere, 25 on one side and the other, with great howls rolling big weights around by strength of chest; they struck against each other; then, right there each turned, and rolling back his weight, cried out: “Why keepest thou?” and “Wherefore throw away?” 30 They circled thus around the gloomy ring on either hand unto the point opposed, still shouting each to each their vile refrain; then each turned back, when through his own half-ring he had attained the other butting place. 35
And I, whose heart was well nigh broken, said: “Now, Teacher, show me who these people are, and tell me whether all these tonsured ones upon our left ecclesiastics were.”
And he replied to me: “They each and all 40 were in their first life so squint-eyed in mind, that they with measure used no money there. Clearly enough their voices bark it forth, whene’er they reach the two points of the ring, where difference in fault unmateth them. 45
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These churchmen were, who have no hairy covering upon their heads, and Popes and Cardinals, among whom avarice works its mastery.”
And I to him: “Among such men as these I surely, Teacher, ought to recognize 50 a few, who by these sins polluted were.”
And he to me: “Thou shapest a vain thought; the undiscerning life which made them foul, now to all recognition makes them dark. To these two shocks they’ll come eternally; 55 these from the sepulchre will rise again close-fisted; these, shorn of their very hair. Ill-giving and ill-keeping took from them the lovely world, and set them at this fray; to qualify it I’ll not use fair words. 60 Now canst thou, son, behold the short-lived cheat of riches that are put in Fortune’s care, and for whose sake the human race contends; for, all the gold there is beneath the moon, and all that was there once, could not avail 65 to make one of these weary spirits rest.”
“Teacher,” said I to him, “now tell me further: what is this Fortune thou dost touch upon, which hath the world’s good things thus in her claws?”
“O foolish creatures,” said he then to me. 70 “how great the ignorance which hurteth you! I’d have thee swallow now my thought of her. The One whose knowledge everything transcends, so made the heavens, and so gave guides to them, that every part on every other shines, 75 thus equally distributing the light; likewise for worldly splendours He ordained a general minister and guide, to change, from time to time, the vain goods of the world from race to race, from one blood to another, 80 past all resistance by the minds of men; wherefore, one people governs, and the other declines in power, according to her judgment, which hidden is, as in the grass a snake. Your knowledge is not able to resist her; 85 foreseeing, she decides, and carries on her government, as theirs the other gods. Her permutations have no truce at all; necessity compels her to be swift; hence oft it happens that a change occurs. 90 This is the one who is so often cursed even by those who ought to give her praise, yet give her blame amiss, and ill repute. But she is blest, and gives no heed to that; among the other primal creatures glad, 95 she turns her sphere, and blest enjoys herself. But now to woe more piteous let’s descend; now falls each star that rose when I set out,
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and one is here forbidden too long a stay.” We crossed the circle to the other bank 100 over a bubbling stream, that poureth down along a ditch which from it takes its shape. Than purple-black much darker was its water; and we, accompanying its dusky waves, went down and entered on an uncouth path. 105 A swamp it forms which hath the name of Styx, this dismal little brook, when it hath reached the bottom of the grey, malignant slopes.
And I, who was intensely gazing there, saw muddy people in that slimy marsh, 110 all naked, and with anger in their looks. They struck each other, not with hands alone, but with their heads and chests, and with their feet, and rent each other piecemeal with their teeth.
Said the good Teacher: “Son, thou seest now 115 the souls of those whom anger overcame; nay, more, I’d have thee certainly believe that ’neath the water there are folk who sigh, and make this water bubble at its surface, as, wheresoe’er it turn, thine eye reveals. 120 Stuck in the slime, they say: “Sullen we were in the sweet air that’s gladdened by the sun, bearing within us fumes of surliness; we now are sullen in the swamp’s black mire.” This hymn they gurgle down inside their throats, 125 because they cannot utter it with perfect speech.
And so we circled round the filthy fen a great arc ’tween the dry bank and the marsh, our eyes intent on those that swallow mud; and to a tower’s foot we came at last. 130
Inferno VIII The Fifth Circle. Intemperance in Indignation The Wrathful and Sullen. Styx. The City of Dis
I say, continuing, that long before we ever reached the lofty tower’s foot, our eyes had upward toward its summit turned, because of two small flames we there saw placed, and of another answering from so far, 5 that hardly could mine eyesight make it out. Then to all wisdom’s Sea I turned around, and said: “What sayeth this? and what replies that other fire? and who are they that made it?”
And he to me: “Upon the filthy waves 10 thou canst already see what is expected, unless the marsh’s fog conceal it from thee.”
Bowstring ne’er shot an arrow from itself, that sped away so swiftly through the air, as I beheld a slender little boat 15
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come toward us through the water thereupon, under the guidance of a single boatman, who shouted: “Thou art caught now, wicked soul!”
“O Phlegyas, Phlegyas,” said my Master then, “this time thou criest out in vain! No longer 20 shalt thou have us, than while we cross the swamp.”
Like one who listens to a great deceit practiced upon him, and who then resents it, so Phlegyas in his stifled wrath became. My Leader then went down into the boat, 25 and had me enter after him; and only when I was in it did it laden seem. Soon as my Leader and I were in the boat, the ancient prow goes on its way, and cuts more water than with others is its wont. 30
While we were speeding through the stagnant trench, one stood before me filled with mud, and said: “Now who art thou, that comest ere thy time?”
And I to him: “Even though I come, I stay not; but who art thou, that art become so foul?” 35 He answered: “As thou see’st, I’m one who weeps.”
Then I to him: “In sorrow and in grief mayst thou, accursèd spirit, here remain, for thee I know, all filthy though thou be!”
Then toward the boat he stretched out both his 40 hands; my wary Teacher, therefore, thrust him off, saying: “Away there with the other dogs!” And with his arms he then embraced my neck, and kissed my face, and said: “Blessèd be she who pregnant was with thee, indignant soul! 45 He was a haughty person in the world; nor is there any goodness which adorns his memory; hence his shade is furious here. How many now up yonder think themselves great kings, who here shall be like pigs in mire, 50 leaving behind them horrible contempt!”
And I said: “Teacher, I’d be greatly pleased to see him get a ducking in this broth, before we issue from the marshy lake.”
And he to me: “Thou shalt be satisfied 55 before the shore reveal itself to thee; ’t is meet that thou enjoy a wish like that.”
Soon after this I saw the muddy people making such havoc of him, that therefor I still give praise and render thanks to God. 60 They all were shouting: “At Filippo Argenti!” the spirit of the wrathful Florentine turning, meanwhile, his teeth against himself.
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We left him there; of him I therefore tell no more; but on mine ears there smote a wail, 65 hence I, intent ahead, unbar mine eyes. The kindly Teacher said: “Now, son, at last the town, whose name is Dis, is drawing near with all its host of burdened citizens.”
And I said: “Teacher, clearly I behold 70 its mosques already in that valley there, vermilion, as if issuing out of fire.”
And he to me: “The eternal fire within which keeps them burning, maketh them look red, as thou perceivest in this nether Hell.” 75
Thereat we came inside the trenches deep, which fortify that region comfortless; to me its walls appeared to be of iron. Not without going first a long way round, we came to where the boatman cried aloud 80 to us: “Get out, for here the entrance is!”
More than a thousand o’er the gates I saw of those that from the heavens had rained, who, vexed, were saying: “Who is he, that, without death, is going through the kingdom of the dead?” 85 And my wise Teacher thereupon made signs of wishing to have private talk with them.
Their great disdain they somewhat checked, and said: “Come thou alone, and let him go his way, who with such daring entered this domain. 90 Let him retrace alone his foolish road, and try it, if he can; for thou shalt here remain, that him so dark a land didst show.”
Think, Reader, whether I lost heart on hearing those cursèd words; for I did not believe 95 that I should e’er return on earth again.
“O my dear Leader, who hast made me safe more than seven times, and extricated me from serious dangers which I had to face, forsake me not,” said I, “when so undone! 100 If further progress be denied to us, let us at once retrace our steps together.”
That Lord then, who had brought me thither, said: “Be not afraid; for none can take from us our passage, since by such an One ’t is given! 105 But thou, await me here, and with good hope nourish and comfort thou thy weary soul, for I’ll not leave thee in the nether world.”
Thus goes his way, and there abandons me, my tender Father, and I in doubt remain; 110 for Yes and No contend within my head.
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I could not hear what he proposed to them; but with them there he did not long remain, for each in rivalry ran back within. They closed the gates, those enemies of ours, 115 right in my Master’s face, who stayed outside, and walking with slow steps returned to me. His eyes were downcast, and his eyebrows shorn of all self-trust, and as he sighed he said: “Who has forbidden me the homes of pain?” 120
“Though I get angry, be not thou dismayed,” he said to me, “for I shall win the fight, whate’er defensive stir be made within. This insolence of theirs is nothing new, for at a gateway less concealed than this 125 they used it once, which still is lockless found. Death’s scroll thou sawest over it; and now this side of it One such descends the slope, crossing the rings unguided, that through him the city will be opened unto us.” 130
Inferno IX The Gate of the City of Dis
The Sixth Circle. Heresy The color cowardice brought out on me, who saw my Leader coming back, the sooner repressed in him his unaccustomed hue. He stopped attentive like a man who listens; because his eyesight could not lead him far 5 through the dark air, and through the heavy fog. “Yet we must win the battle,” he began, “unless . . . One such did offer us herself ! Oh, how I long for some one to arrive!”
I well perceived how, when he overlaid 10 what he began to say by what came after, that these were words that differed from the first. But none the less his language gave me fear, because I lent to his unfinished phrase a meaning worse, perhaps, than he intended. 15
“Into this bottom of the dismal shell doth any of that first grade e’er descend, whose only penalty is hope cut off ?”
I asked this question. He replied to me: “It seldom comes to pass that one of us 20 performs the journey whereupon I go. ’T is true that I was conjured once before down here by magic of that wild Erìchtho, who used to call shades back into their bodies. My flesh had hardly been made bare of me, 25 when me she forced to enter yonder wall, and thence withdraw a soul from Judas’ ring. That is the lowest and the darkest place,
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and from the heaven that turns all things most distant; well do I know the road; so be at rest! 30 This marsh, from which the mighty stench exhales, girdles the woeful city round about, which without wrath we cannot enter now.”
And more he said, but I recall it not, because mine eye had made me wholly heed 35 the glowing summit of the lofty tower, where three infernal Furies stained with blood had suddenly uprisen all at once, having the members and the mien of women, and girt with water-snakes of brightest green; 40 for hair they had small serpents and horned snakes, wherewith their frightful temples were entwined.
And he, who well the handmaids of the Queen of everlasting lamentation knew, said unto me: “Behold the fierce Erìnyes! 45 This is Megaera here upon the left; Alecto, she who weepeth on the right; Tisìphonë’s between.” Thereat he ceased.
Each with her nails was tearing at her breast; they smote them with their hands, and cried so loud, 50 that to the Poet I drew close in dread. “Now let Medusa come! We’ll turn him thus to stone!” they all cried out, as down they looked; “wrong were we not to punish Theseus’ raid.”
“Turn back, and close thine eyes, for should the Gorgon 55 reveal itself, and thou behold the face, there’d be no more returning up above.” The Teacher thus: and turning me himself, on my hands he did not so far rely, as not to close mine eyes with his as well. 60
O ye in whom intelligence is sound, heed carefully the teaching which lies hidden beneath the veil of my mysterious lines!
There now was coming o’er the turbid waves the uproar of a dread-inspiring sound, 65 because of which both shores were all aquake, a noise like nothing other than a wind, impetuous through opposing heats, which smites a forest, and without the least restraint shatters, lays low, and carries off its boughs; 70 dust-laden it goes proudly on its way, and makes wild animals and shepherds flee.
He freed mine eyes, and said: “Direct thou now thy keenest vision o’er that ancient scum, to where that reeking smoke is most intense.” 75
As frogs before the hostile water-snake scatter in all directions through the water,
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till each is squatting huddled on the shore; more than a thousand ruined souls I saw, who thus from one were fleeing, who on foot, 80 but with dry feet, was passing over Styx. That dense air he kept moving from his face by often passing his left hand before him, and only with that trouble weary seemed. I well perceived he was a Messenger 85 from Heaven, and to my Teacher turned; with signs he warned me to keep still, and bow before him. Ah, how disdainful did he seem to me! He reached the gate, and with a little wand he opened it, for hindrance had he none. 90
“O people thrust from Heaven and held in scorn,” upon the horrid threshold he began, “whence dwells in you this overweening pride? Why is it that ye kick against the Will, from which its end can never be cut off, 95 and which hath more than once increased your pain? Of what avail to butt against the Fates? Your Cerberus, if ye remember well, still sports for this a hairless chin and neck.”
He then returned along the filthy road, 100 nor did he say a word to us; but looked like one whom other cares constrain and gnaw, than that of him who in his presence is; then we with full assurance toward the town, after those holy words, addressed our steps. 105 We entered it without the least contention; and I, who longed to look about and see the state of those whom such a fortress holds, when I was in it, cast mine eyes around, and see on every side an ample plain, 110 with anguish and with awful torture filled.
Even as at Arles, where marshy turns the Rhone, or as at Pola near Quarnaro’s gulf, which bounds Italia, and her border bathes, the sepulchres make all the ground uneven; 115 so likewise did they here on every side, save that their nature was more bitter here; for flames were spread about within the tombs, whereby they glowed with such intensity, that no art needeth greater heat for iron. 120 The lids of all of them were raised, and wails so woeful issued thence, that of a truth they seemed the wails of wretched, tortured men.
“Teacher, what sort of people are those there,” said I, “who, buried in those arc-like tombs, 125 make themselves heard by means of woeful sighs?”
“Arch-heretics are with their followers here” said he, “of every sect, and far more laden than thou believest are the sepulchers.
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Here like with like is buried, and more hot 130 and less so are the monuments.” Thereat, when he had turned him to the right, we passed between the woes and lofty bastioned walls.
Inferno X The Sixth Circle. Heresy
Heretics Now wends his way along a narrow path, between the torments and the city’s wall, my Teacher and, behind his shoulders, I.
“O lofty Virtue,” I began, “that leadst me around the impious circles at thy pleasure, 5 converse with me and satisfy my wishes. The people that are lying in the tombs, could they be seen? For all the lids are raised, it seems, and there is no one keeping guard.”
And he to me: “They all will be locked in, 10 when from Jehoshaphat they here return together with the bodies they have left above. On this side have their burial-place with Epicurus all his followers, who claim that with the body dies the soul. 15 To the request, however, which thou makest thou’lt soon receive a due reply in here, as also to the wish thou keepest from me.” And I: “Good Leader, I but keep my heart concealed from thee, in order to speak little; 20 nor hast thou only now thereto disposed me.”
“O Tuscan, thou that through the town of fire dost go alive with such respectful speech, in this place be thou pleased to stay thy steps. Thy very language makes thee manifest 25 a native of that noble fatherland, to which I was, perhaps, too great a bane.”
All of a sudden issued forth these words from one of those ark-tombs; hence I, in fear, a little closer to my Leader drew. 30 And he said: “Turn around; what doest thou? See Farinata who has risen there; thou’lt see him wholly from his girdle up.”
Already had I fixed mine eyes on his; and he was standing up with chest and head 35 erect, as if he had great scorn for Hell. My Leader then with bold and ready hands pushed me between the sepulchers toward him, saying: “Now let thy words be frank and clear.”
When I was ’neath his tomb, he looked at me 40 awhile, and then, as though disdainfully, he asked of me: “Who were thine ancestors?”
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And I, who was desirous to obey, hid it not from him, but revealed it all; whereat he slightly raised his brows, and said: 45 “So bitterly were they opposed to me, and to mine ancestors, and to my party, that I on two occasions scattered them.”
“If they were driven out,” I answered him, “from all directions they returned both times; 50 your people, though, have not well learned that art.”
A shade then at the tomb’s uncovered mouth rose at his side as far up as his chin; I think that he had risen upon his knees. Round me he looked, as if he wished to see 55 whether some other one were with me there; but when his doubt had wholly spent itself, weeping he said: “If thou through this blind prison dost go by reason of highmindedness, where is my son? and why is he not with thee?” 60
And I to him: “I come not by myself; he who is waiting yonder leads me here, one whom, perhaps, your Guido held in scorn.” The nature of his torment and his words had read this person’s name to me already; 65 on this account was my reply so full.
Then of a sudden standing up, he cried: “What saidst thou? Held? Is he not still alive? Doth not the sweet light strike upon his eyes?” When he perceived the short delay I made 70 before replying, down upon his back he fell, nor outside showed himself again.
The other one, meanwhile, the great-souled man, at whose request I stopped, changed not his looks, nor did he move his neck or turn his side. 75 And “If,” continuing his previous words, he said: “if they have badly learned that art, far more doth that torment me than this bed. And yet that Lady’s face who ruleth here shall not be lighted fifty times again, 80 ere thou shalt know how heavy that art is. And so mayst thou return to the sweet world, pray tell me why so pitiless toward mine that people is in every law of theirs?”
Whence I to him: “The havoc and great slaughter 85 which caused the Arbia to be colored red, occasion such petitions in our church.”
When, sighing, he had tossed his head, he said: “In this thing I was not alone, nor surely had I, without due cause, moved with the rest; 90 but I was yonder, where assent was given by every one to do away with Florence, the only one to openly defend her.”
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“So may your seed eventually repose,” I begged of him, “untie for me, I pray, 95 the knot which has perplexed my thinking here. It seems, if well I hear, that ye behold beforehand that which time brings with itself, while in the present ye do otherwise.”
“We see,” he said, “like one whose sight is poor, 100 things that are far from us; to that extent the Highest Leader shines upon us still. When they approach, or are, our intellect is wholly vain, and we, if others bring no news, know nothing of your human state. 105 Hence thou canst understand that wholly dead will be our knowledge from that moment on, when closed shall be the gateway of the future.”
Thereat, for I was grieved at my mistake, I said: “You’ll therefore tell that fallen man 110 his son is dwelling with the living still; and if in answering I was mute just now, cause him to know it was because my thoughts were struggling with the problem you have solved.”
And now my Teacher was recalling me; 115 with greater haste I therefore begged the spirit that he would tell me who was with him there. He said: “With o’er a thousand here I lie; the second Frederick and the Cardinal are here within; I speak not of the rest.” 120
He thereupon concealed himself; and I, those words recalling which seemed hostile to me, back toward the ancient Poet turned my steps. The latter moved; and then, as on we went, he said to me: “Why art thou so perplexed?” 125 And him in what he asked I satisfied.
“Then let thy mind preserve,” that Sage enjoined, “what thou hast heard against thyself; pay now attention here!” His finger then he raised. “When in the sweet ray’s presence thou shalt be 130 of Her whose lovely eyes see everything, from her thou’lt know the journey of thy life.”
Thereafter to the left he turned his feet; we left the wall, and toward the middle went along a path which to a valley leads, 135 which even up there unpleasant made its stench.
Inferno XI The Sixth Circle. Heresy
The Distribution of the Damned in the Inferno Upon the utmost verge of a high bank, formed in a circle by great broken rocks,
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we came upon a still more cruel pack; and there, by reason of the horrible excess of stench the deep abyss exhales, 5 for shelter we withdrew behind the lid of a large tomb, whereon I saw a scroll which said: “Pope Anastasius I contain, whom out of the right way Photinus drew.”
“Our going down from here must be delayed, 10 so that our sense may first get used a little to this foul blast; we shall not mind it then.”
The Teacher thus; and I: “Find thou therefor some compensation, lest our time be lost.” And he to me: “See how I think of this.” 15
“My son, within these rocks,” he then began, “are three small circles which, from grade to grade, are similar to those thou leavest now. Full of accursèd spirits are they all; but that hereafter sight alone suffice thee, 20 hear how, and wherefore they are packed together.
Of all wrong-doing which in Heaven wins hate injustice is the end, and each such end aggrieves by either violence or fraud. But whereas fraud is man’s peculiar evil, 25 God hates it most; therefore the fraudulent are down below, and greater pain assails them.
All the first circle holds the violent; but since against three persons force is used, its shape divides it into three great rings. 30 Both against God, one’s neighbor, and one’s self may force be used; against themselves, I mean, and what is theirs, as clearly shown thou’lt hear. By force both death and painful wounds are given one’s neighbor, and thereby his property 35 is ruined, burned, and by extortions robbed; the first ring, hence, torments in separate troops all homicides and those that smite with malice, spoilers of property and highway robbers. Upon oneself may one lay violent hands, 40 and on one’s goods; hence in the second ring must needs repentant be without avail whoever of your world deprives himself, gambles away and dissipates his means, and weepeth there where he should joyful be. 45 ’Gainst God may force be used, by wittingly denying that He is, by blasphemy, and by disprizing Nature and His Goodness; and therefore with its mark the lesser ring sealeth both Sodom and Cahors, and him 50 who, speaking from his heart, despises God.
And fraud, whereby all consciences are bitten, one may employ against a man who trusts him,
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and ’gainst a man who storeth up no trust. This latter kind of fraud would seem to kill 55 only the bond of love which Nature makes; hence in the second circle make their nest hypocrisy, and flatteries, and workers of magic, coining, theft and simony, panders and grafters, and such filth as these. 60
In the other way forgotten is the love which Nature makes, and that which afterward is joined thereto, whence special trust is born; hence in the smallest ring, where the universe its center hath, and on which Dis is seated, 65 whoe’er betrays is spent eternally.”
“Teacher,” said I, “thine argument proceeds most lucidly, and full well classifies this deep abyss and those that people it. But tell me now: those of the muddy marsh, 70 those whom the wind drives, those the rain beats down, and those that with such keen tongues meet each other, why are n’t they punished in the red-hot town, if God be angry with them? and, if not, why are they tortured in those several ways?” 75
And he to me: “Why doth thine intellect wander so far from that which is its wont, or doth thy mind intently gaze elsewhere? Hast thou no recollection of the words with which thine Ethics treats extensively 80 the dispositions three which Heaven rejects, Incontinence, and Malice, and insane Bestiality, and how Incontinence offends God least, and hence receives least blame? If thou consider this opinion well, 85 and then remember who those are above, that outside undergo their punishment, well shalt thou see why from these wretches here they’re set apart, and why less wrathfully Vengeance Divine is hammering on them there.” 90
“O Sun that healest every troubled sight, thou so contentest me when answering questions, that doubt, no less than knowledge, pleases me. Return a little further back,” said I, “to where thou sayest usury offends 95 Goodness Divine, and loose the tangled knot.”
“Philosophy” said he to me, “points out to him that understandeth it, and not in one part only, that Nature takes her course from the Intellect Divine, and from its Art; 100 and if thou note thy Physics carefully, after not many pages shalt thou find that your art follows that, as best it can, as the disciple him who teaches; hence, your art is grandchild, as it were, to God. 105
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From these two things, if thou recall to mind the first of Genesis, must people needs obtain their livelihood, and progress make. And as the usurer takes another course, Nature both in herself and in her follower 110 he scorneth, since in something else he trusts.
But follow me now, for I please to go; because the Fishes o’er the horizon quiver, and wholly over Caurus lies the Wain, and one descends the bank much further on.” 115
Inferno XII The Seventh Circle. The First Ring.
Violence against one’s Fellow Man. Murderers and Spoilers. Phlegethon The place, where to descend the bank we came, was Alp-like, and, through what was also there, such that all eyes would be repelled by it.
As is that downfall on the hither side of Trent, which sidewise smote the Àdige, 5 through earthquake or through failure of support; since from the mountain’s summit, whence it moved down to the plain, the rock is shattered so, that it would yield a path for one above; even such was the descent of that ravine; 10 and on the border of the broken bank was stretched at length the Infamy of Crete, who in the seeming heifer was conceived; and when he saw us there he bit himself, like one whom inward anger overcomes. 15
In his direction then my Sage cried out: “Dost thou, perhaps, think Athens’ duke is here, who gave thee death when in the world above? Begone, thou beast! for this man cometh not taught by thy sister, but is going by, 20 in order to behold your punishments.”
As doth a bull, who from his leash breaks free the moment he receives the mortal blow, and cannot walk, but plunges here and there; so doing I beheld the Minotaur; 25 and he, aware, cried out: “Run to the pass! ’t is well that, while he rages, thou descend.”
Thereat we made our way adown that heap of fallen rocks, which often ’neath my feet were moved, because of their unwonted load. 30
I went along in thought; and he: “Perchance thou thinkest of this landslide, which is guarded by that beast’s anger which I quenched just now. Now I would have thee know that, when down here to nether Hell I came, that other time, 35
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this mass of rock had not yet fallen down. But certainly, if I remember well, not long ere He arrived, who carried off from Dis the highest circle’s mighty prey, on every side the deep and foul abyss 40 so trembled that I thought the universe had felt the love, whereby, as some believe, the world to Chaos hath been oft reduced; and at that moment this old mass of rock was thus, both here and elsewhere, overthrown. 45 But turn thine eyes down yonder now; for lo, the stream of blood is drawing near to us, wherein boils who by violence harms others.”
O blind cupidity, O foolish wrath, that so dost in our short life goad us on, 50 and after, in the eternal, steep us thus!
I saw a wide moat curving in an arc, and such that it embraces all the plain, according as my Escort had informed me; and in a file, between it and the bank, 55 Centaurs were running by, with arrows armed, as in the world it was their wont to hunt. On seeing us descend, they all stopped short, and three of them detached them from the troop, with bows and arrows they had chosen first. 60 And one cried from afar: “Ye that descend the slope, to what pain are ye coming? Tell it from there, or else I draw my bow.”
My Teacher said: “Our answer will we give to Chiron yonder, when we reach his side; 65 thus ever to thy harm was thy will rash.”
He touched me then, and said: “That one is Nessus, who died for lovely Dejanira’s sake, and who himself wrought vengeance for himself; the middle one, who gazes at his breast, 70 is that great Chiron who brought up Achilles; the other, Pholus, who so wrathful was. They go by thousands round about the moat, shooting each soul that from the blood emerges further than its own sin allotted it.” 75
To those swift-footed beasts we then drew near; Chiron an arrow took, and with its notch backward upon his jaws he pushed his beard. When he had thus uncovered his great mouth, he said unto his mates: “Are ye aware 80 that he who comes behind moves what he touches? Yet dead men’s feet are not thus wont to do.”
And my good Leader, who now reached his breast, where the two natures are together joined, replied: “He lives indeed, and thus alone 85 must I needs show to him the dark abyss; necessity is leading him, not pleasure.
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One who withdrew from singing praise to God, gave me this new commission; he is not a highwayman, nor I a robber’s soul. 90 But by the Power, through whom I move my steps along so wild a road, bestow on us one of thy troop, at whose side we may be, and who may show us where one fords, and carry this man upon his back, for he is not 95 a spirit who can travel through the air.”
Upon his right breast Chiron turned, and said to Nessus: “Turn around, and guide them thus, and if another troop should meet you, cause it to stand aside.” Then we with this safe escort 100 skirted the edge of that red, boiling stream, wherein the boiled were crying out aloud.
I saw some people in it to their brows. “These tyrants are,” the mighty Centaur said, “who took to bloodshed and to plundering. 105 Here tears are shed because of heartless wrongs; here Alexander is, and who for years grieved Sicily, fierce Dionysius. The brow which hath so black a head of hair, is Azzolino; the other which is blond, 110 Obizzo of Este, who in truth was quenched up in the world by his un-natural son.” I turned then toward the Poet, but he said: “Be he now first to thee, and second I.”
A little further on the Centaur stopped 115 over some people who, it seemed, emerged out of that boiling river from their necks. On one side there a lonely shade he showed us, and said: “He yonder in God’s bosom pierced the heart, which still is honored on the Thames.” 120
Then people I beheld who from the stream held out their heads, and even all their chest; and many did I recognize of these. Thus shallower and shallower became that blood, until it only cooked their feet; 125 here was the place for us to ford the ditch.
“Even as thou seest that the boiling stream grows shallow more and more on this side here,” the Centaur said, “I wish thee to believe that on this other side its bottom sinks 130 increasingly, until it joins the place where it behooveth tyranny to groan. Justice Divine is over here tormenting that Attila who was a scourge on earth, Pyrrhus, and Sextus; and forever milks 135 the tears, which with the boiling it unlocks, from Rinier da Corneto and Rinier Pazzo, who on the highroads waged so great a war.”
He then turned back, and crossed the ford again.
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Inferno XIII The Seventh Circle. The Second Ring. Violence against
Oneself. Suicides and Squanderers Not yet had Nessus reached the other side, when we had set our steps within a wood, which was not marked by any path whatever. No green leaves there, but leaves of gloomy hue; no smooth and straight, but gnarled and twisted, twigs; 5 nor was there any fruit, but poison-thorns. No thickets rough and dense as these are owned by those wild beasts, that hate the tilled estates that lie between the Cécina and Corneto.
Herein those ugly Harpies make their nest, 10 who drove the Trojans from the Strophades, with gloomy prophecies of future loss. Wide wings they have, and human necks and faces; their feet are clawed, and feathered their great bellies; they utter wailings on the uncouth trees. 15
My kindly Teacher then began to say: “Before thou enter any further, know that in the second ring thou art, and wilt be, until thou reach the horrid plain of sand; hence look around thee well, and things thou’lt see, 20 that from my words would take away belief.”
Moans I heard uttered upon every side, but saw no person who might make them there; hence, utterly confused, I checked my steps. I think he thought I thought that all those voices 25 were uttered from among those thorny trunks by people hiding there on our account. The Teacher therefore said: “If thou break off a little twig from any of these trees, the thoughts thou hast will all be proven false.” 30
I then stretched out my hand a little way, and from a sturdy thorn-tree plucked a twig, whereat its trunk cried out: “Why dost thou rend me?” Then, after growing dark with blood, its cry began again: “Why dost thou break me off ? 35 Hast thou no spirit of compassion in thee? Men were we once, and now are stocks become; thy hand ought surely to have had more pity, even if the souls of serpents we had been.”
As from a fresh, green log, that at one end 40 is being burned, and at the other drips and makes a hissing with the escaping air; so from the broken twig together issued both words and blood; I therefore dropped the end, and stood dumbfounded, like a man who fears. 45
“Had he before been able to believe, O wounded soul,” replied my Sage to him,
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“what in my verses only he has seen, he had not set his hand on thee; whereas the thing’s incredibility has made me 50 lead him to do what I myself regret. But tell him who thou wast, that he, by way of compensation, may refresh thy fame up in the world, where he can still return.”
The trunk: “With sweet words thou dost so entice me, 55 that I can not keep still; be not annoyed, if I am tempted to a little talk. I am the man who once held both the keys of Frederick’s heart, and he who turned them round so gently, locking and unlocking it, 60 that most men from his secrets I withheld; so faithful was I to my glorious charge, that for its sake I lost both sleep and strength. The courtesan who never turned away her harlot eyes from Caesar’s dwelling-place, 65 a common form of death and vice of courts, ’gainst me inflamed the minds of every one; and those on fire inflamed Augustus so, that my glad honors turned to wretched grief. My mind, to vent its feelings of disdain, 70 and thinking to avoid disdain by death, made me unjust against myself, the just. By this tree’s uncouth roots, I swear to you, I never broke the faith I owed my lord, who so deserving was of reverence! 75 And to the world should one of you return, let him assist my memory, which still lies crushed beneath the blow which envy gave it!”
A while he waited, then the Poet said: “Since he is still, lose not thy chance; but speak, 80 and ask him other questions, if thou like.”
Whence I to him: “Ask thou again whate’er thou thinkest satisfactory to me; for I could not, such pity stirs my heart!”
Hence he began again: “So may this man 85 do freely for thee what thy words request, imprisoned spirit, may it please thee still to tell us how within these knotted trunks a soul is bound; and tell us, if thou canst, if any from such limbs is ever freed.” 90
Thereat the trunk blew hard, and afterward that wind was changed into the following words: “Briefly shall a reply be made to you. Whenever a wild spirit leaves the body, from which itself hath torn itself away, 95 Minos commits it to the seventh ravine. Into the wood it falls, nor is a place allotted to it; but where Fortune hurls it, there, like a grain of spelt, it germinates.
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It grows into a sapling and wild tree; 100 the Harpies, feeding then upon its leaves, cause pain to it, and for the pain a vent. Like other spirits, for our spoils we’ll come, though not that any be reclothed therewith; for ’t is not right to have what one casts off. 105 We’ll drag them with us here, and then our bodies will all around the dismal wood be hung, each on the thorn-tree of its hostile shade.”
We still were giving heed unto the trunk, believing that it wished to tell us more, 110 when we were startled by a sudden noise, as likewise he is, who perceives a boar and pack of hounds approach his hunting-post, and hears the crashing of the beasts and boughs.
And lo, two on the left, who naked were 115 and scratched, and fled away so rapidly, they shattered all the branches of the wood. The one ahead: “Now hurry, hurry, death!” and the other one, who thought himself too slow, cried: “Lano, not so knowing were thy legs, 120 when running from Del Toppo’s battle-jousts!” And then, perhaps because of failing breath, he there made of himself and of a bush a group. The wood behind these two was full of swarthy bitches, ravenous and fleet 125 as greyhounds are, when from their chains unleashed. Into the one who crouched they set their teeth, and tore him into pieces bit by bit; they then made off with those his suffering limbs.
Thereat my Escort took me by the hand, 130 and led me to the bush, which all in vain out of its bleeding rents was shedding tears. “O Giàcomo” it said, “da Sant’Andrea, what boots it thee to make a screen of me? and how am I to blame for thy bad life?” 135
When over him my Teacher stopped, he said: “Who then wast thou, that through so many gashes art blowing forth with blood such painful speech?”
And he to us: “O spirits that have come in time to see the unbecoming havoc, 140 which from me thus hath torn away my leaves, collect them at the foot of my sad bush! I to that town belonged, which for the Baptist changed its first patron; wherefore he, for this, will always make her mournful with his art; 145 and were it not that on the Arno’s bridge there lingers still some little glimpse of him, those townsmen who rebuilt her afterward over the ashes left by Attila, had caused that work to be performed in vain. 150 I made myself a gibbet of my house.”
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Inferno XIV The Seventh Circle. The Third Ring Violence against God. Blasphemers
Since love for my own native place constrained me, I gathered up the scattered twigs and leaves, and gave them back to him who now was weak. Thence to the bound we came, where from the third the second ring is severed, and wherein 5 a frightful form of Justice may be seen.
To manifest aright what here was new, I say that we had reached a barren plain, which from its bed removeth every plant. The woeful wood is as a garland round it, 10 as round the former is the dismal moat; there on its very edge we stayed our steps. Its soil was of a dense and arid sand, whose nature differed in no way from that, which once was trodden by the feet of Cato. 15
Vengeance of God, how much by every one thou oughtest to be feared, who readeth here what to these eyes of mine was manifest!
Of naked souls I many flocks beheld, who all wept very sorely, while on each 20 a different law appeared to be imposed. A few lay on the ground upon their backs; and some were seated cuddled up together, while others moved about continually. Most numerous were those that moved around, 25 and least so those that under torment lay, but all the freer had their tongues to wail.
Down on the whole great waste of sand there rained with gentle fall dilated flakes of fire, like flakes of snow that fall on windless Alps. 30 As were the flames which Alexander saw in India’s torrid regions, as they fell upon his hosts, unbroken to the ground; —and this he met, by ordering his troops to trample on the soil, because the flames, 35 when single, were more easily put out— even such descended here the eternal heat, whereby the sand was set on fire, as tinder is kindled under steel, to double pain. And ever without resting was the dance 40 of wretched hands, that kept, now here, now there, slapping away each latest burning flake.
“Thou, Teacher,” I began, “that conquerest all, except the stubborn devils who came out against us at the entrance of the gate, 45 who is that great one who seems not to mind the fire, but lies there scornful and awry, so that the rain seems not to ripen him?”
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And that same one, who had observed that I concerning him was questioning my Leader, 50 cried: “As I was alive, such am I dead! If Jove should tire that smith of his, from whom, in wrath, he took the pointed thunderbolt, wherewith I smitten was that final day; or should he tire the others, each in turn, 55 in Mongibello’s smithy black with smoke, by calling out: ‘Help, help, good Vulcan, help!’ even as he did on Phlegra’s battle-field; and should he shoot at me with all his might, no glad revenge would he obtain thereby!” 60
Thereat my Leader spoke with so much force, that I had never heard him use the like: “In that thine arrogance, O Capaneus, is not extinguished, art thou all the more chastised; no torment, saving thine own rage, 65 were for thy furious pride a fitting pain.”
Then with a gentler mien he turned to me, and said: “One of the seven kings was he, who Thebes besieged; he held, and seems to hold God in disdain, and little seems to prize Him; 70 but, as I told him, his own spitefulness is fit enough adornment for his breast. Now follow me, and see that thou meanwhile set not thy feet upon the burning sand, but to the thicket keep them ever close.” 75
In silence we went on, and came to where, out of the wood a little stream spirts forth, whose ruddy color makes me shudder still. As from the Bulicàmë springs a brook, which afterward the sinful women share, 80 even so went that one down across the sand. Its bottom and both sides had turned to stone, as also had the embankments on each side; I hence perceived the crossing-place was there.
“Of all the other things which I have shown thee 85 since first we entered through the outer gate, whose threshold unto no one is denied, nothing has ever by thine eyes been seen as notable as is this present brook, which deadens o’er itself all little flames.” 90
These were my Leader’s words; I therefore begged that he would freely grant to me the food, desire of which he had so freely given.
“Amid the sea there lies a wasted land,” he told me thereupon, “whose name is Crete, 95 under whose king the world of old was pure. There is a mountain there, which, happy once with waters and green leaves, was Ida called; ’t is now abandoned like a thing outworn.
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Whilom as trusty cradle for her son 100 Rhea selected it, and when he wept, to hide him better, caused a shouting there. Within that mountain stands a great Old Man, who holds his shoulders toward Damiata turned, and who, as at his mirror, looks at Rome. 105 His head is formed of finest gold, his arms and breast are of the purest silver, then, as far as to his loins, he’s made of brass; all chosen iron is he down from there, save that baked clay his right foot is, and straighter 110 he stands on that, than on the other foot. Each of these parts, except the golden one, is broken by a cleft, whence trickle tears, which, when collected, perforate that cave. From rock to rock they course into this vale; 115 then Acheron with Styx and Phlegethon they form, and through this narrow duct descend as far as where one goes no further down; they form Cocytus there; and what that pool is like, thou’lt see; hence here it is not told. 120
And I to him: “If thus this present stream hs from our world descended, why alone on this ring’s edge hath it appeared to us?”
And he: “Thou knowest that the place is round, and though a long way thou hast gone already, 125 e’er to the left descending toward the bottom, through the whole circle thou hast not yet gone; wherefore, if aught that’s new appear to us, it should not bring amazement to thy face.”
And I again: “But where are Phlegethon 130 and Lethe, Teacher? For, of this one silent, thou say’st the other of this rain is made.”
And he replied: “Thou certainly dost please me in all thy questions, but the red stream’s boiling ought surely to have answered one of them. 135 Lethe thou’lt see, but there, outside this cave, whither souls go to wash themselves, when once their sin, repented of, has been removed.”
And then he said: “It now is time for us to leave the wood; see that thou follow me; 140 the banks, which are not burned, afford a path; and up above them every flame is quenched.”
Inferno XV The Seventh Circle. The Third Ring Violence against Nature. Sodomites
One of the hard embankments bears us now, and overhead the brook’s mist shades them so, that from the fire it saves the stream and banks.
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Such bulwarks as, to keep the sea away, the Flemings make between Witsand and Bruges, 5 through fearing lest the high-tide break upon them; and as the Paduans make along the Brenta, their villages and strongholds to defend, ere Chiarentana feel the summer heat; in such a way were those embankments made, 10 although the master did not make them there so high or thick, whoe’er he may have been.
So far we were already from the wood, that I could not have seen just where it was, even had I turned around to look behind, 15 when we a band of spirits met, who came along the bank, each one of whom looked hard at us, as in the evening one is wont to look at people, when the moon is new; and toward us they were knitting close their brows, 20 as an old tailor at his needle’s eye. When by that gathering I had thus been eyed, one of them, who had recognized me, seizing my garment’s hem, exclaimed: “How wonderful!”
And I, when toward me he had stretched his arm, 25 fastened upon his roasted face mine eyes, so that, though blistered, it did not prevent mine intellect from recognizing him; and downward having bent my face toward his, I answered him: “Are you here, Ser Brunetto?” 30
And that one: “O my son, be not displeased should Brunetto Latini a little way turn back with thee, and let the troop go on.”
“I beg you to with all my power;” said I, “and if you’d have me sit with you, I will, 35 if it please that one; for with him I go.”
“O son,” he said, “whoever of this herd stands still at all, lies prone a hundred years, nor shields himself when smitten by the fire. Therefore go on; I’ll follow at thy skirts, 40 and then I’ll join again my company, which goes bewailing its eternal loss.”
I dared not from the path descend, to go upon his level there; but held my head bowed down, like one who walks in reverence. 45
And he began: “What fortune or what fate before thy last day leadeth thee down here, and who is he that showeth thee the way?”
I answered him: “When in the life serene up yonder, in a vale I lost my way, 50 before my age had rounded out its noon. Thereon I turned my back but yestermorn;
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this one, as I returned to it, appeared to me, and o’er this path now leads me home.”
And he to me: “If thine own star thou follow, 55 thou canst not fail to reach a glorious port, if in the lovely life I judged aright; and had I not so prematurely died, I, seeing Heaven so well disposed toward thee, had given thee comfort in thy work. But that 60 ungrateful, wicked people, which of old came down from Fièsolë, and which e’en now smacks of the mountain and of hard grey stone, for thy well-doing shall become thy foe; and rightly, for among the acid sorbs 65 it is not fitting that sweet figs bear fruit. An old fame in the world proclaims them blind, a greedy, envious, overweening folk; see to it that thou cleanse thee from their ways! Thy fortune hath in store for thee such honor, 70 that either party shall be hungry for thee; but distant from the goat shall be the grass. Let, then, the beasts of Fièsolë make litter with their own selves, nor let them touch the plant, if on their dungheap any burgeon still, 75 in which the sacred seed may live again of those old Romans who remained therein, when of such wickedness the nest was made!”
“If perfectly fulfilled had been my prayer,” I then replied to him, “you had not yet 80 been banished from the natural life of man; for in my mind is fixed, and stirs e’en now my heart, that dear and kind paternal face you showed, when in the world from time to time you taught me how man makes himself eternal; 85 and how much gratitude I feel for this, must, while I live, be in my words perceived. What of my course you tell, I write, and keep, with other texts, for a Lady to explain, who can, if ever I attain to her. 90 I only wish that this be clear to you, that I, if but my conscience chide me not, am ready for whatever Fortune wills. Not new unto mine ears is such reward; hence, as she lists, let Fortune turn her wheel, 95 and let the country clown his mattock ply!”
Thereat my Teacher over his right cheek turned back, and looked at me; and then he said: “He listens well, who giveth heed to this.”
Nor speaking less do I, on this account, 100 go on with Ser Brunetto, asking who his fellows were, of greatest note and rank.
And he to me: ’T is well to know of some; our silence on the rest will merit praise,
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for short the time were for so long a talk. 105 Know then, in brief, that clerics were they all, and mighty men of letters of great fame, soiled by the self same sin when in the world. And with that sad crowd yonder Priscian goes, and Francis of Accorso, too; and him, 110 if thou hadst had a longing for such scurf, thou couldst have seen there, whom the servants’ Servant changed from the Arno to the Bacchigliònë, where he behind him left his ill-strained nerves. I’d speak of more; but I can come and talk 115 no further, for a new dust-cloud I see rising o’er yonder from the sandy plain. People, with whom I must not be, are coming; let my Tesoro, in which I’m still alive, be recommended thee; I ask no more.” 120
Then round he turned, and seemed to be of those who at Verona run across the meadow to win the green cloth; and of these he seemed not he who loses, but the one who wins.
Inferno XVI The Seventh Circle. The Third Ring Violence against Nature. Sodomites
I now was where the booming of the water, which fell into the following round, was heard like the dull, buzzing sound which bee-hives make; when three shades separated from a group, which ’neath the rain’s tormenting punishment 5 was passing by, and ran along together. Toward us they came, and each of them cried out: “Stop, thou, that by thy garb dost seem to us a citizen of our corrupted town!”
Alas, what wounds I saw upon their limbs, 10 both old and recent, by the flames burnt in! It pains me still but to remember them.
My Leader, giving heed to these their cries, turned his face round toward me, and said: “Now wait! To those men yonder courtesy is due; 15 and, were not for the fire, which, arrow-like, the nature of the place shoots forth, I’d say that haste were more becoming thee than them.”
And they, when we had stopped, began again their old refrain; and after they had reached us, 20 all three of them made of themselves a wheel.
As champions oiled and nude are wont to do, when looking for an advantageous grip, before they come to giving blows and wounds; thus, as he wheeled, each turned his face toward me, 25 so that his feet continuous journey made in opposite direction to his neck.
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And one began: “Even if the wretched nature of this soft place, and our burned, shrivelled faces bring us and our requests into contempt, 30 still let our reputation bend thy mind to tell us who thou art, that dost so safely rub on the soil of Hell thy living feet. He, in whose footprints thou dost see me tread, was, though he go both nude and hairless now, 35 of higher rank then thou believest him. He was the grandson of the good Gualdrada; his name was Guido Guerra, and when alive, his wisdom and his sword accomplished much. The other, who behind me treads the sand, 40 Tegghiàio Aldobrandi is, whose voice should have been welcomed in the world above. And I, who with them am tormented here, Iàcopo Rusticucci was; and surely my shrewish wife than aught else hurts me more.” 45
If I had been protected from the fire, I would have lept into their midst below, and I believe my Leader had allowed it. But since I should have burned and baked myself, fear was victorious over my good will, 50 which made me eager to embrace them there.
I then began: “Your state impressed within me not scorn, but so much pain, that only late will all of it entirely disappear, as soon as this my Lord said words to me, 55 because of which I thought within myself that there were people coming such as you. Of your own town am I, and evermore have I your doings and your honored names related, and heard mentioned, with regard. 60 I leave the gall, and for the sweet fruit go, which my veracious Leader promised me; but to the center must I first descend.”
“So may thy spirit lead thy members long,” the former thereupon replied to me, 65 “and, after thou art gone, thy fame be bright, tell me if courtesy and worth abide within our town, as they were wont to do, or whether they have wholly gone from it; for Guglielmo Borsierë, who but newly 70 has been in pain with us, and with our mates goes yonder, grieves us greatly with his words.”
“The people newly come, and sudden gains, have bred in thee such pride and such excess, that, Florence, thou art even now in pain!” 75 Thus with uplifted face I cried; whereat the three, who this as answer understood, looked at each other, as one looks at truth.
“If satisfying others other times cost thee so little, happy thou, that thus 80
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at thy sweet will dost speak!” they all replied. “Hence,—so mayst thou, from these dark places saved, return to see the lovely stars again,— when saying ‘I was there’ shall do thee good, see that thou tell the people about us.” 85 They then broke up their wheel, and in their flight it seemed as if their nimble legs were wings.
Amen could not have been as quickly said, as they then disappeared; my Teacher, therefore, thought it advisable for us to leave. 90
I followed him, and not far had we gone, before the water’s noise was so near by, that, had we spoken, we had not been heard.
And as the stream, which is the first that eastward from Monte Veso takes a separate course 95 upon the left slope of the Apennines, and which above is Acquacheta called, before it flows into its lowly bed, and at Forlì is of that name deprived, booms loud, because of falling o’er a cliff 100 above San Benedetto of the Alp, where for a thousand there should refuge be; even thus, as o’er a precipice it fell, we found that colored water roaring so, that very soon it would have hurt our ears. 105
I had a cord around about me girt, wherewith I once had thought that I could capture the Leopard with the brightly colored hide. When from me I had wholly loosened it, even as my Leader had commanded me, 110 I coiled it up and held it out to him. Thereat upon his right he turned around, and hurled it to some distance from the edge down into that profound and dark abyss.
“Surely some strange new thing must needs reply” 115 said I within myself, “to this strange signal, which with his eye my Teacher follows thus.”
Ah, with what caution men should deal with those, who see not only what is done by others, but with their wisdom see into their thoughts! 120
He said to me: “What I am waiting for, and what thy thought now dreams, will soon come up; soon to thy vision will it be revealed.”
E’er to a truth that hath a falsehood’s face ought one to close his lips as best he can, 125 for, though one faultless be, it brings him shame; but I can not suppress it here; hence, Reader, even by the verses of this Comedy, so may they not be void of lasting favor,
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I swear to thee, that through that coarse, dark air 130 I saw a shape, which would have chilled with wonder however brave a heart, come swimming up, as he returns, who, going down at times to clear an anchor clinging to a reef, or aught else lying hidden in the sea, 135 above extends, and draweth in below.
Inferno XVII The Seventh Circle. The Third Ring
Violence against Art. Usurers “Behold the wild beast with the pointed tail, which, crossing mountains, breaks through walls and armor; behold who sickens all the world with stench!”
My Leader thus began to speak to me, and signalled to it to approach the edge, 5 near where the marble we had traversed ended. And that foul image of deceit came on, and landed on the bank its head and chest; but o’er the edge it drew not up its tail.
Its face was as the face of a just man, 10 so pleasing outwardly was its complexion; the body of a serpent all the rest. Two paws it had, all hairy to the arm-pits; its back and breast, as well as both its sides, were painted o’er with snares and wheel-like shields. 15 Ne’er with more colors in its woof and warp did Turks or Tartars manufacture cloth, nor by Arachnne were such webs designed.
As flat-boats sometimes lie upon the shore, in water partly, partly on the land; 20 and as among the greedy Germans yonder, the beaver seats himself to wage his war; so lay that worst of beasts upon the edge which closes in the sandy plain with stone. All of its tail was quivering in the void, 25 and twisting upward its envenomed fork, which like a scorpion’s weapon armed its tip.
“Our path must turn aside a little now,” my Leader said to me, “until we reach that wicked beast reclining over there.” 30
Around our right breast, therefore, we went down, and took ten paces on the very edge, thus surely to avoid both sand and fire; and after we had come to it, I saw, upon the sand a little further on, 35 some people sitting near the precipice.
My Teacher then: “That thou mayst take with thee a full experience of this ring, go on,
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and see the nature of the life they lead. There be thy conversation brief; meanwhile, 40 till thou return, I’ll talk with this wild beast, that its strong shoulders may be yielded us.”
Thus further on, along the outer edge of that seventh circle, all alone I went, to where the melancholy people sat. 45 Out of their eyes their woe was bursting forth; first here, then there, they helped them with their hands, now from the flames, now from the heated soil. Not otherwise do dogs in summer-time, now with their paws, and with their muzzles now, 50 whene’er by flees, or flies, or gadflies bitten.
When on the face of some I set mine eyes, on whom the woeful fire is falling there, I knew not one of them; but I perceived that from the neck of each there hung a pouch, 55 which had a certain color and design, wherewith their eyes appeared to feed themselves. And as I, looking, came into their midst, azure upon a yellow pouch I saw, which had the form and semblance of a lion. 60 Then, as my gaze continued on its course, another I beheld, as red as blood, exhibiting a goose more white than butter.
And one of them, who had his small white pouch emblazoned with an azure pregnant sow, 65 said to me: “What dost thou in this our ditch? Now go thy way; and since thou livest still, know that my fellow townsman, Vitaliano, will sit beside me here upon my left. I, with these Florentines, a Paduan am, 70 and very frequently they stun my ears by shouting: “Let the sovereign knight arrive, who’ll bring with him the pocket with three beaks!”’ Herewith his mouth he twisted, sticking out his tongue, as doth an ox that licks its nose. 75 And I, afraid lest any longer stay might anger him who warned me to be brief, turned from those weary spirits back again.
I found my Leader, who had climbed already upon the back of that fierce animal, 80 and said to me: “Now be thou strong and bold! By stairs like these shall we descend hereafter; climb thou in front, for midst I wish to be, so that the tail may do no injury.”
Like one with quartan-fever’s chill so near, 85 that pale already are his finger nails, and that, but looking at the shade, he shudders; such at the words he uttered I became; but that shame made its threats to me, which renders a servant strong when in a good lord’s presence. 90 As on those horrid shoulders I sat down,
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I wished to tell him: “See that thou embrace me!” my voice, however, came not as I thought.
But he, who succoured me at other times and other straights, as soon as I was up, 95 encircled and sustained me with his arms; and then he said: “Now, Geryon, move thou on! Wide be thy wheels, and gradual thy descent; bethink thee of the unwonted load thou hast.”
As from its mooring place a little boat 100 backs slowly out, even so did he withdraw; and when he wholly felt himself in play, to where his breast had been, he turned his tail, and moved the latter, stretched out like an eel, while with his paws he gathered in the air. 105
I do not think that there was greater fear when Phaëthon let go his horses’ reins, whereby, as still appears, the sky was burned; nor yet when wretched Icarus perceived his back unfeathering through the melting wax, 110 while, calling him, his father cried: “Thou hold’st an evil course!” than mine was, when I saw that I was in the air on every side, and gone the sight of all things save the beast.
The latter, swimming, slowly wends his way, 115 wheels and descends, but I perceive it not, save by the wind below and in my face. The waterfall I now heard on the right, making a horrid roar beneath us; hence, I outward thrust my head with eyes turned down. 120 More fearful of the abyss I then became, for fires I now beheld, and wailings heard; hence, trembling, I clung closer with my thighs. And then, for I perceived it not before, by the great torments which on divers sides 125 drew near, I saw our wheeling and descent.
Even as a falcon long upon the wing, which, without seeing lure or game-bird, makes the falconer say: “Alas, thou comest down!” descendeth weary, through a hundred rings, 130 whence he had swiftly started, and alights far from his lord in angry sullenness; so likewise Geryon set us down below, close to the bottom of the rough-hewn rock; and, of our persons rid, as fast as flies 135 an arrow from a bowstring, sped away.
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Inferno XVIII The Eighth Circle. Fraud.
The First Trench. Pandars and Seducers. The Second Trench. Flatterers and Prostitutes
A place there is in Hell, called Malebolgë, wholly of stone, and of an iron hue, as is the round wall which encircles it. Right in the midst of its malicious field yawneth a well exceeding wide and deep, 5 of whose construction, in its place, I’ll speak. Round, therefore, is the girdle which remains between the well and that hard, high wall’s base, and ten great trenches subdivide its bed.
As is the appearance which, where many moats 10 encircle castles for the walls’ protection, the section where they are presents; such was the one those trenches furnished here; and just as in such fortresses small bridges stretch from their thresholds to the outmost bank; 15 so crags ran from the bottom of the cliff across the banks and trenches to the well, which, gathering them together, cuts them off.
In this place, then, we found ourselves, when dropped from Geryon’s back; the Poet thereupon 20 held to the left, and I behind him moved.
Upon the right side I beheld new cause for sympathy, new pains, and scourgers new, wherewith the first trench was completely filled. Down at its bottom naked were the sinners; 25 this side the middle facing us they came, beyond it with us, but with quicker steps; means such as those which at the Jubilee the Romans took, because of its great throng, to have the people pass across the bridge, 30 who toward the Castle all on one side face, and toward Saint Peter’s go their way; while all move toward the mountain on the other edge.
This side and that, upon the dark, stone floor, horned demons with great scourges I beheld, 35 who from behind were fiercely whipping them. Ah, how they caused them to lift them up their heels, when by the first blows smitten! Certainly none waited for the second, or the third.
While I was going on, mine eyes were met 40 by one of them; and instantly I said: “I fast not from a previous sight of him.” To make him out I therefore stayed my feet; and, having stopped with me, my gentle Leader assented to my going back a little. 45
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That scourged one thought that he could hide himself by looking down, but little it availed him; for “Thou, that castest down thine eyes,” said I, unless the features which thou hast are false, Venèdico Caccianimico art; 50 but what brings thee into such pungent sauces?”
And he to me: “Unwillingly I tell it; but forced I am by thy transparent speech, which makes me recollect the olden world. I was the one who led Ghisolabella 55 to do according to the Marquis’ will, however the disgusting tale be told. Nor am I here the only Bolognese that weeps; nay, this place is so full of us, that not so many tongues are taught today 60 between Savena and Reno to say sipa; and if thereof thou wouldst have pledge or proof, recall to mind our avaricious breasts.”
As thus he spoke, a demon with his lash smote him, and said to him: “Pandar, begone! 65 There are no women here to sell for coin.”
I then rejoined my Escort; whereupon, when we had taken some few steps, we came to where a crag projected from the bank. This we ascended with the greatest ease, 70 and turning to the right along its ridge, we left those everlasting circling walls.
When we were where it hollows out below, to let the scourged pass through, my Leader said: “Now stay thy steps, and on thee let the sight 75 of all these other ill-born spirits strike, whose faces thou hast not perceived as yet, because they’ve gone with us in our direction.”
As from the ancient bridge we watched the troop, which on the other side was toward us coming, 80 and which the scourge was likewise driving on, without my asking, my good Teacher said: “Look at that great man there, who, as he comes, for all his pain, seems not to shed a tear. How royal an appearance he still keeps! 85 Jason is he, who, by his doughtiness and wit, deprived the Colchians of their ram. He passed the isle of Lemmos on his way, after its pitiless and daring women had given up to death their every male. 90 With tokens of his love and flattering words he there deceived the maid, Hypsìpylë, who previously had all the rest deceived. He left her there with child, and all alone; him to this punishment that fault condemns; 95 and for Medea, too, is vengeance wrought. With him go those that in this way deceive;
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be this enough to know of this first ditch, and of those, too, that in its fangs it holds.”
Already were we where the narrow path 100 forms with the second bank a cross, and makes therewith abutments for another arch. We thence heard people in the following trench who whined and groaned, and with their muzzles puffed, while smiting their own bodies with their palms. 105 The banks were crusted over with a mould by vapor from below, which, sticking there, offensive to both eyes and nose became. So deep the bottom, that there is no means of looking into it, unless one climb 110 the arch’s summit, where the crag is highest. Thither we came, and from it in the ditch people I saw immersed in excrement, which seemed from human privies to have come.
While peering with mine eyes down there, I saw 115 a head so foul with filth, that whether clerk’s or layman’s head it were, was not apparent. Scolding, he said: “Why greedier art thou to look at me, than at the other foul ones?”
And I: “Because, if I remember well, 120 I’ve seen thee with dry hair ere now, for thou Alèssio Interminèi of Lucca art; that’s why I eye thee more than all the rest.” And he then, as he beat upon his pate: “Those flatteries immersed me here below, 125 wherewith my tongue was never surfeited.”
Then, after this, my Leader said to me: “See that thou urge thy glance a little further, that with thine eyes thou quite attain the face of that disgusting and dishevelled wench, 130 who yonder claws herself with filthy nails, and crouches now, and now is on her feet. That Thaïs is, the prostitute, who answered her paramour, when he had said ‘Have I great thanks from thee?’: ‘Nay, marvelously great!’ 135 Herewith, then, let our sight be satisfied.”
Inferno XIX The Eighth Circle. Fraud
The Third Trench. Simoniacs O Simon Magus, O his wretched followers, since ye the things of God, which ought to be the brides of righteousness, rapaciously adulterate for silver and for gold; it now behooves the trumpet sound for you, 5 for in the third great trench your station is!
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We now had climbed the next tomb-spanning bridge, and were on that part of the crag, which hangs directly o’er the middle of the trench.
Wisdom Supreme, how great the art thou showest 10 in Heaven, on earth, and in the evil world! How justly, too, thy virtue makes awards!
I saw that on its sloping sides and bottom the livid-colored stone was full of holes, all of one width, while each of them was round. 15 Nor less nor more wide did they seem to me, than those which in my beautiful Saint John’s are made as places for baptizing priests; and one of which, not many years ago, I broke, to save one who was choking in it; 20 be this a witness undeceiving all!
Out of the mouth of each a sinner’s feet protruded, and, as far as to the calf, his legs; the rest of him remained within. The soles of all were, both of them, on fire; 25 because of which their joints so strongly twitched, they would have snapped green twigs and cords of grass. And as a flame on oily things is wont to move along the outer surface only; so likewise was it there from heels to toes. 30
“Who, Teacher, is he yonder, who is tortured by twitching more than all the rest, his mates,” said I, “and whom a redder flame is sucking?”
And he to me: “If thou wouldst have me bear thee down yonder bank which lowest lies, from him 35 thou’lt know both of himself and of his sins.”
And I: “What pleases thee I like; my lord thou art, and that I part not from thy will thou knowst, as also what is left unsaid.”
We then upon the fourth embankment came, 40 and, turning round, descended on our left into that narrow bottom pierced with holes; nor yet did my good Teacher set me down from off his back, but brought me to the hole of him who grieved so sorely with his shank. 45
“Whoe’er thou art, sad soul, that holdest down thine upper portion, planted like a stake,” I then began, “say something, if thou canst.”
I there was like a friar that confesses a base assassin, who, on being planted, 50 calls him again, that death may be delayed.
And he cried out: “Dost thou stand there already, dost thou stand there already, Boniface?
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By several years the writing lied to me. Art thou so quickly sated with the wealth, 55 for which thou didst not fear to seize by fraud, and outrage next, the Lady beautiful?”
Even such did I become, as those are, who, not understanding what is answered them, deem themselves mocked, and think of no reply. 60 Then Virgil said: “Tell him immediately: ‘I’m not the one, I’m not the one thou thinkest!’” And I replied to him as I was bidden.
Whereat the spirit writhed with both his feet; then, sighing, and with weeping voice, he said: 65 “What is it, then, that thou dost ask of me? If to know who I am concern thee so, that for it thou hast crossed the bank; know, then, that I was with the mighty Mantle clothed; and verily the she-Bear’s son was I, 70 so eager to advance the cubs, that wealth I pocketed up there, and here myself. The others, who in working simony preceded me, are gathered ’neath my head, flattened between the fissures of the rock. 75 I, in like manner, shall down yonder fall, when he arrives, whom I believed thou wast, when I of thee the sudden question asked. But now already longer is the time, that I, thus up-side down, have cooked my feet, 80 than he will planted stay with ruddy soles; for after him shall come from westward lands a lawless shepherd of still uglier deed, and fit to cover him and me. Renewed shall Jason be, of whom in Maccabees 85 one reads; and as to that one his king yielded, even so who governs France shall yield to this.”
I know not whether I was here too bold, in that I answered him in this strain only: “Now tell me, pray, how great the treasure was, 90 our Lord demanded of Saint Peter first, before He placed the Keys in his control? Surely he asked for naught but ‘Follow me.’ Nor yet did Peter or the rest take gold or silver from Matthias, when by lot 95 he took the place the guilty soul had lost. Therefore keep still, for thou art rightly punished; and take good care of that ill-gotten wealth, which caused thee to be valiant against Charles. And were it not for this, that I am still 100 forbidden by reverence for the Keys supreme thou hadst in keeping in the joyful life, words of still greater weight would I employ; because your greed, by trampling on the good and raising the depraved, afflicts the world. 105 The Evangelist was thinking of your shepherds, when she, who on the waters hath her seat,
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was seen by him to fornicate with kings; the one who with the seven heads was born, and from the ten horns her support received, 110 while virtue still was pleasing to her spouse. Ye’ve made yourselves a god of gold and silver; and from idolaters how differ ye, save that they worship one, and ye a hundred?
Ah, Constantine, of how much ill was mother, 115 not thy conversion, but the dower-gift the earliest wealthy Father took from thee!”
While I was singing him such notes as these, he, whether it were wrath or conscience bit him, was fiercely kicking out with both his feet. 120 I verily believe it pleased my Leader, he heeded with so glad a look throughout the utterance of those true, clear words of mine. He therefore took me up with both his arms, and when he had me wholly on his breast, 125 he climbed again the path down which he came; nor tired of holding me in his embrace, but bore me to the summit of the arch, which crosses from the fourth bank to the fifth. When there, he gently set his burden down, 130 gently, because that crag was rough and steep, and would be difficult for goats to cross; from thence another trench was shown to me.
Inferno XX The Eighth Circle. Fraud
The Fourth Trench. Diviners and Soothsayers About strange punishments must I make verses, and furnish matter for the twentieth song of this first lay, which treats of those submerged.
Already had I wholly given myself to looking down at its uncovered bottom, 5 which with the tears of agony was bathed; when people in the great round trench I saw come weeping silently, and at the pace, at which in this world litanies advance.
Then, as my sight fell on them lower down, 10 wondrously twisted each of them appeared between the chin and where the chest begins; for toward his loins his face was turned around, and backward it behooved him to advance, because of foresight they had been deprived. 15
By palsy some, perhaps, may thus have been entirely turned around, but I’ve not seen it, nor do I think there ever was one such.
So may God let thee, Reader, gather fruit from this thy reading, think now for thyself 20
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how I could ever keep my own face dry, when at close range I saw our human image so twisted, that the weeping of the eyes along the fissure bathed the back. Indeed, as on a rock of that hard crag I leaned, 25 I wept so, that my Escort said to me: “Art thou still foolish as the others are? Here liveth piety when wholly dead is pity. Who, then, guiltier is than he who lets his feelings judge Divine Decrees? 30
Lift, lift thy head, and see the man for whom, before the Trojans’ eyes, the earth was opened! whence all cried: ‘Whither art thou rushing now, Amphiaràus? Why quittest thou the war?’ and he ceased not from plunging headlong down 35 to Minos, who lays hold on every one. See how he makes a bosom of his shoulders; because he wished to see too far ahead, he looks behind, and backward goes his way.
Behold Tiresias there, who changed his looks, 40 when female he became, from being male, his members being each and all transformed; and afterward he needs must strike again the two entwining serpents with his rod, ere he the plumage of a male regained. 45
He who to that one’s belly turns his back, is Aruns, who in Luni’s mountain quarries, where toils the Carrarese who dwells below, among white marbles had as dwelling-place a cave, from which his view was not cut off, 50 when at the stars he gazed, or at the sea.
And she who, yonder, with dishevelled locks covers the breasts which thou dost not behold, and has on that side all her hairy skin, was Manto, who first searched through many lands, 55 then settled in the place where I was born; thereof I’d have thee hear me speak a little.
After her father had from life departed, and Bacchus’ city had become enslaved, she wandered long about the world. Up there 60 in lovely Italy, beneath the Alps which o’er the Tyrol lock out Germany, there lies a lake which is Benàco called. From o’er a thousand springs, I trow, ’tween Garda and Val Camònica, the Pennine Alp 65 is bathed by waters which therein find rest. A midway place there is, where Trento’s shepherd, and he of Brescia, and the Veronese, might each his blessing give, if there he went. Peschiera next, a fair and mighty fortress, 70 and fit to face both Bergamasks and Brescians, sits where the shore lies lowest round about.
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There all that in Benàco’s spacious lap cannot be held, flows out of it perforce, and down through verdant pastures forms a stream. 75 When once its water gathers head to run, no more Benàco, Mincio is its name, till at Govèrnolo it joins the Po. Not long its course, before it finds low ground, o’er which it spreads, and, making it a marsh, 80 is wont at times to be unsound in summer.
Passing that way, the cruel virgin saw a region in the middle of the fen, untilled and naked of inhabitants. There, to escape all human fellowship, 85 and work her arts, she settled with her slaves, and lived, and there she left her empty body. Thereafter men, who all around were scattered, collected in that place, which was a strong one, because it had a fen on every side. 90 O’er those dead bones of hers they built a town; then, after her, who first picked out the site, they called it Mantua, with no other lot. The people in it were more numerous once, before the foolishness of Casalodi 95 had been deceived by Pinamonte’s guile. I charge thee, then, if e’er thou hear it said my town had its beginning otherwise, permit no falsehood to defraud the truth.”
“Thy statements, Teacher, are so sure to me,” 100 said I, “and take such hold upon my faith, that those of others would be burnt-out coals. But tell me if among these passing people thou seest any one deserving note; for my mind now is wholly bent on that.” 105
He told me then: “The one who from his cheeks extends his beard across his swarthy shoulders, an augur was, when Greece lacked males so much, that for her cradles only few were left; ’t was he who set, with Chalcas’ aid, at Aulis 110 the time to cut the fleet’s first rope. His name Eurỳpylus, and in a certain place he thus is called by my high Tragedy; this thou know’st well, who knowest all of it. That other one, so thin about his flanks, 115 was Michael Scot, who surely understood the artful game of magical deceits. Guido Bonatti see; and see Asdente, who wishes now that he had given heed to cord and leather, but too late repents. 120 See the sad women who abandoned needles, spindles and shuttles, to become diviners; these wrought their spells with herbs and images.
But now come on, for Cain is with his thorns holding the bounds of both the hemispheres, 125
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and plays upon the waves below Seville, and round already was the moon last night; thou surely must recall it, since at times, it harmed thee not, when in the dark wood’s depths.”
Thus he to me, as, meanwhile, on we went. 130
Inferno XXI The Eighth Circle. Fraud
The Fifth Trench. Corrupt Politicians Speaking of other things my Comedy cares not to sing, we thus from bridge to bridge moved on, and, when upon the summit, stopped, in order to behold the next ravine of Malebòlgë, and the next vain cries; 5 and I beheld it wonderfully dark.
And just such sticky pitch as that which boils in the Venetians’ Arsenal in winter, for calking up again the unsound ships, which cannot then be sailed;—instead of which, 10 as one a new one builds, one plugs the ribs of that which many voyages has made; one hammers at the stern, and at the prow another; one fashions oars, another cordage twists, while still another mends a jib or mainsail;— 15 such was the coarse, dense pitch, which, not by fire, but by an art divine, boiled there below, and limed the bank on every side. I saw the pitch, but nothing in it, save the bubbles the boiling raised, and that the whole of it 20 kept swelling up, and settling back compressed.
While I was gazing fixedly down yonder, my Leader cried to me: “Beware, beware!” and drew me to himself from where I was. I then turned round, as one who longs to see 25 the thing which it behooves him to escape, and who, when by a sudden fear unmanned, although he sees, delays not his departure; and I perceived behind us a black devil come running up along the rocky crag. 30
Ah, how ferocious in his looks he was, and in his actions how severe he seemed, with wings outspread, and light upon his feet! His shoulder, which was sharp and high, was loaded with both a sinner’s haunches, whom he held 35 clutched tightly by the sinews of his feet.
“O Malebranche,” from our bridge he cried, “here’s one of Santa Zita’s Ancients! Put him beneath, for I’m for more of them returning to that town which I have well stocked therewith; 40 there, save Bonturo, every one’s a grafter; a ‘No’ for money there becomes a ‘Yes.’”
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He hurled him down, and o’er the rugged crag returned; and never was a mastif loosed with so much hurry to pursue a thief. 45
The other sank, and then rose doubled up; those fiends, though, who were sheltered by the bridge, cried: “Here the Holy Face availeth not! One here swims otherwise than in the Serchio! If, therefore, thou dost not desire our hooks, 50 protrude not from the surface of the pitch.”
They pricked him then with o’er a hundred prongs, and said: “Here under cover must thou dance, that, if thou canst, thou mayst thieve secretly.” Not otherwise do cooks have scullions plunge 55 the meat with hooks into the cauldron’s midst, to hinder it from floating on its surface.
Thereat my kindly Teacher said to me: “That here thy presence be not known, crouch down behind a rock, which may avail to screen thee; 60 and be not thou afraid, for any harm that may be done to me, who know these things, for I in frays like this have been before.”
He then passed on beyond the bridge’s head, and when the sixth embankment had been reached, 65 he had to show assurance in his face. With just the storm and fury wherewith dogs break out and rush upon a poor old man, who stops and begs at once from where he is; from ’neath the little bridge those devils issued, 70 and turned against him all their grappling hooks; but he cried out: “Be none of you malicious! Before your grappling hooks take hold of me, let one of you advance, and hear me speak; then take ye counsel as to grappling me.” 75
Then all cried out: “Let Malacoda go!” Thereat one started, while the rest kept still, and, as he came, said: “What does this avail him?”
“Dost thou think, Malacoda,” said my Teacher, “that, as thou seest, I have hither come, 80 safe until now from all your hindrances, unhelped by Will Divine and favoring fate? Let us go on, for it is willed in Heaven that I should show another this wild road.”
Thereat his pride received so great a fall, 85 that at his feet he dropped his grappling hook, and to the rest said: “Let him not be wounded.”
My Leader thereupon cried out to me: “Thou that among the bridge’s broken rocks art crouching, safely now regain my side.” 90
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I therefore moved, and quickly came to him; then all the fiends advanced so far, I feared they would not keep their word. Even thus I once saw infantry, who, under pledge of safety, were from Caprona coming forth, afraid, 95 when ’mong so many foes they saw themselves. Then wholly to my Leader’s side I drew, nor from their faces, which did not look good, did I remove my eyes. For as their prongs they lowered, one fiend to another said: 100 “Wouldst thou that I should touch him on his rump?” and they replied: “Yes, see thou nick it for him!”
But that fiend, who was with my Leader talking, turned round at once, and said to him: “Keep still, keep still there, Scarmiglionë!” Then to us: 105 “Further advance along this present crag can not be made, because the sixth arch yonder lies wholly shattered on the ground below; but if it please you still to go ahead, go on along this ridge; there is near by 110 another crag which furnishes a path. Than this hour five hours later yesterday, twelve hundred, six and sixty years had passed, since here the path was broken. I am sending some of my company in that direction, 115 to see if any yonder air themselves; go on with them, for they will not be bad.”
“Step forward, Alichino, and Calcabrina,” he then began to say, “thou, too, Cagnazzo; and let old Barbariccia guide the ten. 120 Have Libicocco go, and Draghignazzo; tusked Ciriatto, too, and Graffiacane, with Farfarello and crazy Rubicante. Search round about the boiling birdlime pitch; let these be safe as far as that next crag, 125 which all unbroken goes across the dens.”
“Oh, Teacher, what is this I see?” said I. “If thou know how, pray let us go alone, for I request no escort for myself. If thou as wary art as thou art wont, 130 dost thou not notice how they gnash their teeth, and with their eyebrows threaten us with woe?”
And he to me: “I would not have thee frightened; let them grin on, then, as they like, for that they’re doing at the wretches who are boiled.” 135
They wheeled, and moved along the left bank then; but not till each, as signal toward their leader, had first thrust out his tongue between his teeth, and he had of his rump a trumpet made.
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Inferno XXII The Eighth Circle. Fraud
The Fifth Trench. Corrupt Politicians Ere now have I seen cavalry break camp, start to attack, or be reviewed, and even, at times, retreat, in order to escape; scouts have I also seen upon your lands, O Aretines; raids, too, have I beheld, 5 and tournaments and tilting-matches fought; with trumpets now, and now with bells, with drums and beacon-signals made from fortresses, with native and with foreign things; but never have I seen horse, or infantry, or ship, 10 by sign of either land or sky, set out with instrument of wind as odd as that.
With the ten demons we were going on; ah, the fierce company! But in a church with saints consort, with gluttons at an inn! 15 Upon the pitch alone was I intent, that I might see all details of the trench and of the people who were burned therein.
As dolphins do, when, arching up their backs, they give the warning which bids mariners 20 take measures for the safety of their ship; even so at times, his suffering to relieve, one of the sinners there displayed his back, and hid it in less time than lightning takes.
And as in ditches at the water’s edge 25 frogs stay with nothing but their muzzles out, and thus conceal their feet and all the rest; even so on all sides did those sinners stay; and now that Barbariccia was approaching, they likewise ’neath the boiling pitch withdrew. 30 I saw, and still it stirs my heart with horror, one waiting thus, as oft, while one frog stays, it happens that another scurries off. And Graffiacane, who was nearest to him, hooking his pitch-smeared tresses, pulled him up, 35 so that an otter he appeared to me.
I knew by now the names of each and all, I noted them so well when they were chosen, and, when they called each other, noticed how. “O Rubicante, see thou set thy claws 40 upon him so, that thou peel off his skin!” the accursèd all cried out together then.
And I: “My Teacher, if thou canst, contrive to learn who that wretch is, who thus has fallen into his adversaries’ hands.” 45
My Leader thereupon drew near to him, and asked him whence he was, and he replied:
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“Of Navarre’s kingdom I a native was. My mother placed me out to serve a lord, for she had borne me to a rascal knave, 50 who both himself and what he owned destroyed. I next in good King Thibaut’s household served, and there I set myself to practice graft, for which I pay the reckoning in this heat.”
Here Ciriatto, from whose mouth protruded, 55 as from a boar’s, a tusk on either side, caused him to feel how one of them could rip. Among bad cats the mouse had fallen now; for Barbariccia clasped him in his arms, and said: “Stand off, while I am clutching him!” 60 Then, toward my Teacher having turned his face, he said: “Ask him again, if more thou wish to know of him, before the others rend him.”
My Leader then: “Now tell me: know’st thou any, among the other sinners ’neath the pitch, 65 who Latin is?” And he: “Not long ago I left a man from that vicinity; would that like him I still were covered up, for I should then fear neither claw nor hook!”
Here Libicocco said: “We’ve borne too much!” 70 and with his hook so seized him by the arm, and tore it, that he carried off a piece. And Draghignazzo also wished to clutch him down at his legs; but their decurion then turned right around at them with threatening looks. 75
When they were somewhat pacified again, of him, who still was looking at his wound, my Leader asked without delay: “Who, then, was he, from whom thou tookst unlucky leave, as thou hast said, to land upon the shore?” 80
And he made answer: “That was Fra Gomita, Gallura’s man, a vessel of all fraud, who, when he held in hand his master’s foes, so dealt with them that each is glad. Their money he took, and, as he puts it, let them all 85 off easy, and even in other offices was not a petty, but a first rate grafter. With him Don Michel Zanche of Logodoro associates; and never do their tongues feel tired out by talking of Sardinia. 90 But oh! Look at the other grinning there! More would I say, but am afraid lest that one be making ready now to claw my skin.”
Then the great provost turned toward Farfarello, who rolled his eyes as if he meant to strike, 95 and said: “Off yonder, thou malicious bird!”
“If you desire” thereat began again the terror-stricken man, “to see or hear
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Tuscans or Lombards, I will have some come. But let the Evil Claws here stand aside 100 a little, that their vengeance be not feared, and I, while sitting in this very place, for one that I am, shall make seven come out, when I shall whistle, as our wont it is, when any one of us protrudes himself.” 105
Cagnazzo at this speech his muzzle raised, and shook his head, and said: “Hear the sly trick devised by him to cast himself below!”
Then he, who frauds in great abundance had, replied to him: “Tricky indeed am I, 110 when for my mates a greater pain I win!”
Here Alichìn could not control himself, but said, in opposition to the rest: “I shall not gallop after thee, in case thou dive, but o’er the pitch shall beat my wings; 115 the ridge abandoned, be the bank a screen, to see if thou alone art more than we!”
Now, Reader, of a new sport shalt thou hear! Each turned his eyes the other way; and he the first, who had thereto been most opposed. 120 The Navarrese chose well his time, stood firmly upon the ground, and, jumping suddenly, from what they purposed freed himself thereby. For this each felt himself to blame, but most the one who of the loss had been the cause; 125 hence he moved first, and shouted: “Thou art caught!” But little did it profit him; for wings could not outmeasure fear; as one went under, the other, flying upward, raised his breast; nor different is the speed with which a duck 130 dives under water, when a hawk draws near, who, vexed and baffled thus, flies up again.
Then Calcabrina, angered by the flout, flew out behind him, glad that one escaped, because it let him scuffle with the other; 135 and then, the grafter having disappeared, he turned his claws upon his own companion, and grappled with him o’er the ditch; but he, being, indeed, a fighting sparrow-hawk fitted to claw him well, they both fell down 140 into the middle of the boiling fen. A sudden separator was the heat; but rising thence was quite impossible, they had their wings so limed with sticky pitch.
Then Barbariccia, vexed as were the rest, 145 his mates, had four of them with all their hooks fly to the other bank; on both sides then they speedily descended to their posts, and stretched their hooks out toward the pitch-
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belimed, who now were cooked inside their crusted hides; 150 and, thus embarrassed, we abandoned them.
Inferno XXIII The Eighth Circle. Fraud
The Sixth Trench. Hypocrites Silent, alone, and unaccompanied, we went along, one first and one behind, as Minor Friars go when on the road.
My thoughts, by reason of the present brawl, were turned to Aesop’s fable, that wherein 5 he talks about the frog and mouse; for ‘now’ and ‘at this moment’ are no more alike, than one is like the other, if beginning and end be linked by an attentive mind. And ev’n as one thought from another springs, 10 so, next, from that one was another born, which doubled my first fear. Hence thus I thought: “These devils have been scorned on our account, and with such injury and scoff, indeed, that I believe that they are greatly vexed. 15 If anger to ill-will be joined, they’ll come more fiercely after us, than doth a dog the rabbit which he seizes with his teeth.”
Already was I feeling all my hair bristling with fear, when, gazing back intent, 20 I said: “If, Teacher, thou hide not thyself and me with speed, I dread the Evilclaws; we have them now behind us, and I so imagine them, that I already feel them.”
And he: “If I were made of leaded glass, 25 thine outward image I would not reflect more quickly than thine inward I receive. Even now thy thoughts were coming among mine with outlook and intent so similar, that I with both a single purpose formed. 30 If it be true the right bank slopeth so, that to the following trench we can descend, we shall escape from this imagined chase.”
He had not finished telling me his plan, when not far off I saw them coming on 35 with wings outspread, intent on seizing us.
My Leader then took hold of me at once, even as a mother, by the noise aroused, and seeing close to her the burning flames, seizes her child and flees, and doth not stop, 40 since caring more for him than for herself, even long enough to clothe her with a shift; and downward from the ridge of that hard bank, his back he yielded to the hanging rock, which closes one side of the following trench. 45
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Water ne’er moved as swiftly through a sluice, to turn the overshot wheel of a mill, when closest to the paddles it approaches, as did my Teacher o’er that selvage-bank, bearing me down with him upon his back, 50 as though his son I were, and not his mate.
His feet had hardly reached the trench’s bed below, when they were on the ridge above, just over us; but naught was now to fear; because the Providence on high, which willed 55 to place them in the fifth trench as its servants, takes from them all the power of leaving it.
A painted people found we there below, who, moving with exceedingly slow steps, shed tears, and in their looks appeared subdued 60 and weary. Cloaks they had equipped with cowls lowered before their eyes, and cut like those which in Cologne are fashioned for her monks. So gilded outside are they that they dazzle; but inside all are lead, and of such weight, 65 that those which Frederick clothed men with were straw. O cloak that wearies through eternity!
We turned again, as ever, to the left, along with them, intent on their sad plaint; but, owing to the weight, that weary folk 70 came on so slowly, that new company we had at every motion of our legs. Hence to my Leader I: “Contrive to find some one whom we may know by deed or name, and, while thus going, move thine eyes around.” 75
And one, who heard my Tuscan speech, cried out behind us: “Stay your feet, O ye that run so quickly through the gloomy air! From me, perhaps, shalt thou receive what thou dost ask.” Thereat my Leader turned and said: “Now wait; 80 and then proceed according to his pace.”
I stopped, and two I saw, whose faces showed great mental haste to be with me, and yet their burden and the narrow path delayed them. On coming up to us, they watched me long 85 with eyes askance, and uttered not a word; then, toward each other turning, thus they spoke: “This one seems by the action of his throat alive; but if they’re dead, by what right, then, go they uncovered by the heavy stole?” 90
And then, addressing me, they said: “O Tuscan, who to the gathering of sad hypocrites art come, scorn not to tell us who thou art.”
And I to them: “On Arno’s lovely stream, and in its famous town, both born and bred, 95
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I’m in the body I have always had. But who are ye, adown whose cheeks there drips, as I perceive, so great a woe, and what the penalty which sparkles on you thus?”
“These orange cloaks,” one answered, “are of lead, 100 and of such thickness are they, that the weights thus cause the scales that balance them to creak. We Jovial Friars were, and Bolognese; I, Catalàn, and Loderingo he, by name, and chosen by thy town together, 105 as one alone is usually called, to keep its peace; and such we were, as still in the Gardingo’s neighborhood appears.”
“O friars,” I began, “your evil deeds . . .” but said no more; because there struck mine eyes 110 one crucified by three stakes on the ground. On seeing me, sighs through his beard he blew, and writhed all over; then Fra Catalàn, informed thereby of what had happened, said:
“The pinioned man thou gazest at, advised 115 the Pharisees that it expedient was to torture one man for the people’s sake. Stretched crosswise, as thou seest, on the road, and naked, he is forced to be the first to feel how much whoever passes weighs. 120 And in like fashion suffer in this ditch his father-in-law, and others of the council which proved a seed of evil for the Jews.”
I then saw Virgil marvelling at him, who in the figure of a cross was stretched 125 so basely in eternal banishment.
Then to the friar he addressed these words: “Be not displeased to tell us, an ye may, if on the right there lie a crossing-place, by means of which we two may issue hence, 130 without black Angels being forced to come and extricate us from this trench’s bed.”
“Nearer than thou dost hope” he then replied, “a crag there is, which at the great round wall begins, and all the cruel trenches spans, 135 save that at this one it is broken down, and spans it not; but ye can climb the ruins, which from its base lie piled along the slope.”
My Leader kept his head bowed down awhile; then said: “Wrongly did he report the thing, 140 who yonder grapples sinners with his hook!”
The friar then: “Among the many vices given the Devil at Bologna, I once heard that he a liar is, and sire of lies.”
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Thereat my Leader with great strides departed, 145 somewhat disturbed by anger in his looks; then I the burdened left, and followed on behind the footprints of belovèd feet.
Inferno XXIV The Eighth Circle. Fraud
The Seventh Trench. Thieves When in the youthful season of the year the sun beneath Aquarius warms his locks, while southward now the nights pursue their way; and when the hoar-frost draws upon the ground the counterfeit of her white sister’s face, 5 though shortly lasts the temper of her pen; the peasant, lacking provender, gets up, looks out, and, seeing all the country white, slaps himself on the thigh, returns in doors, and walking to and fro, laments, poor wretch, 10 not knowing what to do; then later on returning out again, recovers hope, on seeing that the world has shortly changed its face; and, taking down his shepherd-staff, out to their feeding drives his tender sheep. 15
Even thus my Teacher filled me with dismay, when I beheld such trouble in his face; thus, too, the plaster quickly reached the wound; for when we had attained the ruined bridge, my Leader turned to me with that sweet look, 20 which at the Mountain’s foot I first perceived. First having well surveyed the ruined arch, after some counsel taken with himself, his arms he opened, and took hold of me. And like a man who ponders while he acts, 25 and always seems to look ahead; ev’n so, while upward to the top of one great rock he pushed me, he sought out another crag, and said: “Take hold of that one next, but first see whether it be fit to bear thy weight.” 30
No path was this for one who wore a cloak, since scarcely could we two, though he was light, and I was pushed, ascend from rock to rock. And had the slope on that bank not been shorter, than on the other, I know not of him, 35 but I would surely have been overcome; but since the whole of Malebolgë slopes down to the opening of the lowest well, such is the nature of each trench’s banks, that one is high, and low the following one; 40 and yet we reached at length the ridge above, from which the crag’s last rock projects. My breath was so exhausted from my lungs, when up at last, that I could go no further; nay, on arriving I sat down at once. 45
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“Thus, henceforth, must thou rid thyself of sloth,” my Teacher said; “for one attains not fame, sitting on cushions, or ’neath canopies; and he that lives without attaining it, leaveth on earth such traces of himself, 50 as smoke doth in the air, or foam in water. Therefore get up! O’ercome thy troubled breath with that soul-energy, which wins all fights, unless it sink beneath its body’s weight! A longer stairway must be climbed; ’t is not 55 enough that these stairs have been left; if, then, thou understand me, let it profit thee.”
I thereupon arose, and showed myself better equipped with breath than I had felt, and said: “Go on, for I am strong and bold!” 60
We took the pathway up along the crag, which rocky was, narrow and hard to climb, and steeper far than was the one before. Not to seem weak, I talked as on I went; this from the next trench caused a voice to come, 65 which was incapable of forming words. Though I was on the summit of the arch which crosses here, I know not what it said; but moved to anger seemed the one who spoke. Downward I looked, and yet my living eyes 70 could not attain the bottom for the dark; hence, “Teacher, try to reach the following ridge,” said I, “and let us from the wall descend, for as I hear, but do not understand, so, looking down from hence, I make out nothing.” 75
“No other answer give I thee,” he said, “save that of action; for a fair request ought to be met by deeds without a word.”
We climbed down from the bridge’s further head, where to the eighth embankment it is joined, 80 and then the trench was clearly shown to me; and in it I beheld a frightful throng of snakes, and of so weird a kind, that still the memory of them freezes up my blood.
Let Libya and her sand no longer boast; 85 for though she breed chelỳdri, jàculi, with cenchri, phàreae and àmphisbaenae, ne’er with all Ethiopia did she show, nor e’en with what above the Red Sea lies, either so many or such evil plagues. 90 Among this cruel and most dismal swarm people were running, nude and terrified, and with no hope of hole or heliotrope. Their hands were bound behind their back with snakes, whose tail and head were thrust between their loins, 95 and tied together in a knot in front.
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Then lo, a serpent hurled himself at one, who near our bank was standing, and transfixed him there where the neck is to the shoulders joined. Never were o or i so quickly written, 100 as he took fire, and, burning up, must needs turn wholly into ashes as he fell; whereat, though thus destroyed upon the ground, the dust, assembling of its own accord, turned instantly into the self-same man. 105
So likewise, as great sages have declared, the Phoenix dies, and then is born again, as she approaches her five-hundredth year; she feeds through life on neither herbs or grain, but on amòmum only and incense-tears; 110 her final swaddling bands are nard and myrrh.
And as is he who falls, nor knoweth how, by demon force, which pulls him to the ground, or other inhibition binding man, and who, on getting up again, looks round 115 wholly bewildered by the great distress which he has felt, and, as he looks, heaves sighs; such was that sinner, after he had risen. O Power of God, how truly just thou art, that in revenge dost deal such blows as these! 120
Thereat my Leader asked him who he was, and he replied: “Into this wild ravine I rained from Tuscany not long ago. Mule that I was, a beast’s life, not a man’s, I liked; I’m Vanni Fucci, called the Beast; 125 for me Pistoia was a worthy den.”
Then “Tell him not to slip away,” I said, “and ask what fault thrust him down here; for I once saw in him a man of blood and strife.”
The sinner then, who understood, feigned not, 130 but turned toward me both mind and face, and said, as with a sudden shame he colored up: “That thou hast caught me in the misery in which thou see’st me, gives me greater pain than that which took me from the other life. 135 I can’t refuse what thou dost ask of me. I’m placed thus low, because ’t was I who robbed the vestry known for its fair ornaments; a deed once falsely put upon another. But now, lest thou enjoy this sight of me, 140 if thou art ever out of these dark lands, thine ears to my announcement ope, and hear: Pistoia first despoils herself of Neri; then Florence changes folk and government. From Val di Magra Mars draws forth a bolt 145 by turbid clouds enveloped; next, with wild and cruel storm, a battle will be fought upon the Picene Plain; then suddenly
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the bolt will cleave the mist in such a way, that every Bianco will thereby be wounded. 150 And this I’ve said, that it may give thee pain!”
Inferno XXV The Eighth Circle. Fraud
The Seventh Trench. Thieves The thief, at the conclusion of his words, lifted his hands with both their figs, and cried: “Take that, O God, for ’t is to Thee I show them!”
From that time onward snakes have been my friends, for thereupon one coiled around his neck, 5 as if to say: “I’d have thee speak no more;” another, coiling, tied his arms together, and clinched itself so well in front of him, that he could make no use of them at all.
Pistoia, ah, Pistoia, why not will 10 to burn to ashes, and no longer last, since in ill-doing thou excell’st thy seed? In all of Hell’s dark rings I’ve seen no spirit so arrogant toward God; not even he, who fell down headlong from the walls at Thebes. 15
Without another word he fled away; whereat I saw a Centaur full of rage come crying: “Where, where is the stubborn soul?” Not ev’n Maremma has so many snakes, I think, as on his crupper that one had, 20 as far as where our human form begins. Upon his shoulders right behind his nape there crouched a dragon with wide opened wings; and he sets fire to whomsoe’er he meets.
My Teacher said: “He, yonder, Cacus is, 25 who ’neath the rocks that form Mount Aventine oft made a lake of blood. He travels not along the road o’er which his brethren go, because of having fraudulently robbed the famous herd which he as neighbor had; 30 this ended his sly deeds beneath the club of Hercules, who may perhaps have dealt him a hundred blows, whereof he felt but ten.”
While thus he spoke, that sinner, too, made off; whereat three spirits came and stood below us, 35 whom neither I nor even my Leader noticed, until they all cried out: “Who then are ye?” because of which our conversation ceased, for afterward we heeded them alone. I knew them not; but so it happened then, 40 as it is wont to do in certain cases, that one perforce employed another’s name, saying: “But where can Cianfa have remained?”
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Hence, that my Leader might give heed, I placed my finger in a line from chin to nose. 45
If thou art slow now, Reader, to believe what I shall tell, no marvel will it be, for I, who saw it, hardly grant I did.
As toward them I was holding up my brows, lo, a six-footed serpent hurls itself 50 in front of one, and clings to him all over; with both its middle feet it clasped his paunch, and with its fore feet seized upon his arms; then with its teeth it wounded both his cheeks; it spread its hind feet out along his thighs, 55 and thrusting next its tail between the two, it stretched it upward all along his back. Ivy was never rooted to a tree so fast, as round about the other’s limbs that horrible wild creature twined its own. 60 And thereupon, as if hot wax they were, they stuck together, and their colors mixed, till neither seemed to be what it had been; just as a browish hue precedes the flame on burning paper which is not yet black, 65 while, equally, the white part dies away.
The other two looked on, and each exclaimed: “O me, Agnello, what a change is thine! for see, thou now art neither two nor one.”
Already into one had both heads turned, 70 when we two countenances still beheld mixed in a single face, where both were lost. From the four previous strips two arms were made; the thighs and legs, the belly and the chest became such members as were never seen. 75 Cancelled therein was every former aspect; the transformed figure seemed both two and none; and thus appearing slowly moved away.
As like a lightning-flash a lizard looks, if, changing hedges ’neath the dog-day’s scourge, 80 across a road it passes; even such a little fiery serpent seemed to me, as toward the bellies of the other two it came, livid and black as peppercorn. And in that part through which our nourishment 85 is first received, it transfixed one of them, and then fell down, stretched out in front of him. The pierced man gazed at it, but nothing said; nay, firmly on his feet he stood, and yawned, as if attacked by fever or by sleep. 90 He at the serpent looked, and it at him; one through his wound, the other through its mouth smoked hard, and each smoke with the other mingled.
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Let Lucan, then, be silent, where he tells of poor Sabellus’ and Nassidius’ fate, 95 and, giving heed, hear what is now proclaimed. Of Cadmus, and of Arethusa, too, let Ovid cease to speak; for though his verse turn him into a snake, and make of her a fount, I grudge him not; for face to face 100 he ne’er so changed two natures, that the forms of each were ready to exchange their matter.
They blended each with each in such a way that, while the serpent fork-wise clove its tail, the wounded man together drew his feet. 105 The legs and with them ev’n the very thighs so stuck together, that in little time their juncture left no mark that could be seen. The cloven tail was taking on the shape which there was being lost; the skin of one, 110 meanwhile, was growing soft, and hard the other’s. I saw his arms withdraw into his armpits, and both the serpent’s feet, which were not long, lengthen as much, as those were growing short. And then its hinder feet, together twisted, 115 became the member which a man conceals, while from his own the wretch had two thrust forth. And while the smoke was veiling both of them with novel hues, and generated hair on one side, and deprived of it the other, 120 the one stood up, and down the other fell, nor turned aside for that the impious eyes, beneath which each of them was changing face. The one who stood, drew his in toward his temples; and from the excessive matter coming there 125 ears issued on his undeveloped cheeks; and that, which ran not back, but was retained, of this superfluous matter, gave the face a nose, and thickened suitably its lips. He who was lying down thrusts forth his muzzle, 130 and backward through his head withdraws his ears, even as a snail doth with its horns; his tongue, which single used to be, and prompt to speech, divides itself, while in the other case, the split one closes, and the smoking stops. 135
The soul which had become a savage beast flees hissing through the trench; the other spits behind him as he talks. Then, having turned away from him his just created shoulders, he to the third said: “I’d have Buoso run, 140 as I have, on his belly o’er this path.”
I thus beheld the seventh balast change and interchange; here let its novelty excuse me, if it slightly blur my pen. And though somewhat bewildered were my eyes, 145 and though confused my mind, those men could not escape so secretly, that I should fail
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Pùccio Sciancato perfectly to see; and of the three companions who came first, he only was not changed; the other one 150 was he, for whom, Gavillë, thou dost weep.
Inferno XXVI
The Eighth Circle. Fraud The Eighth Trench. Fraudulent Counselors
Rejoice, O Florence, since thou art so great, that thou dost beat thy wings o’er sea and land, while ev’n through Hell thy name is spread abroad! Among the thieves five such as these I found, thy citizens, whence shame accrues to me, 5 nor to great honor risest thou thereby. But if the truth be dreamed at dawn’s approach, thou’lt feel a little while from now what Prato, of others not to speak, is craving for thee; and were it now, it would not be too soon; 10 so were it, then, since thus it needs must be! for it will grieve me more, the more I age.
We went away, and up the flight of stairs, the bournes had formed for our descent before, my Teacher climbed again, and drew me with him; 15 and as we followed up the lonely path among the rocks and boulders of the crag, our feet proceeded not without our hands.
I sorrowed then, and now again I sorrow, when I direct my mind to what I saw, 20 and curb my genius more than I am wont, lest it should run when virtue guides it not; that, if a kindly star, or aught that’s better, have blest me, I myself may not regret it.
As many glow-worms as the countryman,— 25 who on the hillside takes his rest, when he, who lights the world, least hides his face from us, while to the gnat the fly is giving way,— sees down along the valley where, perchance, he gathers in his grapes, or ploughs his field; 30 with just as many flames the whole eighth trench was gleaming bright, as I perceived at once, when I was where its bottom came in view.
As he who by the bears avenged himself, beheld Elijah’s chariot when it left, 35 and when to heaven its horses rose erect, since he could not so trace it with his eyes, as to see more than just the flame alone, when like a little cloud it rose on high; of such a nature were the flames that moved 40 along the gulley of the ditch, for none displays its theft, though each a sinner hides.
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Risen up to look, I so stood on the bridge, that without being pushed I would have fallen, had I not grasped a great projecting rock. 45
My Leader, who perceived me thus intent, then said: “The spirits are within the fires, and each is swathed by that wherewith he burns.”
“My Teacher,” I replied, “I’m more assured through hearing thee, but deemed it so already, 50 and wished to ask thee: ‘Who is in the flame which comes along so cloven at the top, that from the pyre it seems to rise, whereon Etèocles was with his brother placed?’”
He answered me: “Therein are both Ulysses 55 and Diomed tormented, who in pain thus go together, as they did in wrath; and in that flame of theirs they now bewail the ambush of the horse, which made the gate, from which the Roman’s noble seed went forth; 60 there they lament the trick, because of which Deidamìa, dead, still mourns Achilles; there the Palladium’s penalty is paid.”
“If they can speak within those sparks,” said I, “I pray thee, Teacher, much, and pray again 65 that mine be worth to thee a thousand prayers, refuse not my request to linger here until the horned flame come this way; thou see’st that toward it I’m inclined by great desire.”
And he replied to me: “Thy prayer deserves 70 much praise and therefore I accede to it,
but see thou that thy tongue restrain itself. Leave speech to me, who have a clear idea of what thou wouldst; for they, since Greeks they were, might be, perchance, disdainful of thy words.” 75
After the flame had come so near to us, that time and place seemed fitting to my Leader, ’t was in this fashion that I heard him speak:
“O ye that in a single flame are two, if I deserved of you, when still alive, 80 if I deserved of you or much or little, when in the world I wrote the lofty verses, depart not; but let one of you inform us whither, when lost, he went away to die.”
The greater horn then of the ancient flame 85 began to quiver with a murmuring sound, as would a flame made weary by the wind; and then, while swaying here and there its tip, as if the latter were the tongue that spoke, gave forth a voice, and said: “When I departed 90 from Circe, who concealed me near Gaeta more than a year before Aeneas so
Image 5.14: Inferno: Canto Twenty-Six | Dante and Virgil travel through the eighth circle of Hell, where sinners are punished for fraud by being turned into tongues of fire.
Author: Teodolinda Barolini Source: Digital Dante License: Public Domain
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had named the place, nor fondness for my son, nor pious reverence for my agèd father, nor ev’n the bounden love which should have cheered 95 Penelope, could overcome within me the eagerness I had to gain experience both of the world, and of the vice and worth of men; but forth I put upon the deep and open sea with but a single ship, 100 and with that little company, by whom I had not been deserted. Both its shores I then beheld, as far away as Spain, Morocco and the island of the Sards, and all the rest that sea bathes round about. 105 Both old and slow were I and my companions, when we attained that narrow passage-way, where Hercules set up those signs of his, which warned men not to sail beyond their bounds; Seville I left behind me on the right hand, 110 Ceuta I’d left already on the other.
And then I said: ‘O brothers, ye who now have through a hundred thousand perils reached the West, to this so short a waking-time still left your senses, will not to refuse 115 experience of that world behind the sun which knows not man! Bethink you of the seed whence ye have sprung; for ye were not created to lead the life of stupid animals, but manliness and knowledge to pursue.’ 120
So eager for the voyage did I make my fellows by this little speech of mine, that, after it, I hardly could have checked them. Hence, to the morning having turned our stern, we with our oars made wings for our mad flight, 125 e’er veering toward the left as on we sped. Night was already seeing all the stars of the other pole, and our pole so low down, that from the ocean’s floor it never rose. Five times rekindled, and as often quenched, 130 had been the light beneath the moon, since first we entered on the passage of the deep, when lo, a mountain loomed before us, dim by reason of the distance, and so high it seemed to me, that I had seen none such. 135 And we rejoiced; but soon our happiness was turned to grief; for from the new-found land a whirlwind rose, and smote our vessel’s prow; three times it made her whirl with all the waters; then at the fourth it made her stern go up, 140 and prow go down, even as Another pleased, till over us the ocean’s waves had closed.”
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Inferno XXVII The Eighth Circle. Fraud
The Eighth Trench. Fraudulent Counselors The flame, because of having ceased to speak, was quiet and erect, and now away from us was going with the gentle Poet’s leave; when lo, another, which behind it came, caused us to turn our eyes up toward its tip, 5 by reason of a vague sound issuing thence.
As the Sicilian bull (which bellowed first with the lament of him, and that was right, who with his file had given form to it,) was wont to bellow with the voice of him 10 who suffered in it, so that, though of brass, it seemed the one who by the pain was pierced; even so, since from the body of the flame they had nor path nor mouth, the painful words were changed at first into the latter’s tongue. 15 But when these words had travelled to the tip, and given it that vibration which the tongue, when uttered, gave to them, we heard it say:
“O thou, to whom I now address my voice, and who just now didst talk in Lombard, saying: 20 ‘Now go thy way, for thee I urge no more;’ though I, perhaps, have somewhat late arrived, be not displeased to stop and speak with me; thou see’st that I am not, although I burn! If into this blind world thou only now 25 art fallen down from that sweet Latin land, whence all my guilt I bring, pray tell me whether the Romagnoles are having peace or war; for I came from the mountains ’tween Urbino and that high peak from which the Tiber springs.” 30
While downward I was leaning still intent, my Leader touched me on my side, and said: “Speak thou, for this one an Italian is.”
And I, who had my answer all prepared, began to speak without delay: “O soul, 35 that art concealed down yonder, thy Romagna is not at present, and she never was, devoid of war within her tyrants’ hearts; but I left none apparent there just now. Ravenna is, as she for many years 40 has been; Polenta’s eagle so broods there, that Cervia it o’ercovers with its wings. The town which made the long resistance once, and of the French a sanguinary heap, beneath the green paws finds itself again. 45 Verrucchio’s former Mastif and the new, who foully with Montagna dealt, there make, where they are wont, a gimlet of their teeth.
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The cities of Lamone and Santerno the little lion of the white lair rules, 50 who changes sides from summer-time to winter; and that whose flank is by the Savio bathed, lives, as it sits twixt plain and mount, a free state half, and half a tyranny. And now, I pray thee, tell me who thou art, 55 nor harder be than others here have been, so may thy name maintain itself on earth.”
After the flame had roared a little while, as is its fashion, to and fro it moved its pointed tip, and then gave forth this breath: 60
“If I believed that my reply were made to one who to the world would e’er return, this flame would stay without another quiver; but inasmuch as, if I hear the truth, none e’er returned alive from this abyss, 65 fearless of infamy I answer thee. A man of arms I was, then Cordelier, trusting, since girded thus, to make amends; and certainly my trust had been confirmed, were’t not for that High Priest, (whom ill befall!) 70 who set me at my former sins again; both how and why I’d have thee hear from me. While I was still the shape of bones and flesh my mother gave me, my performances were not a lion’s, but a fox’s deeds. 75 All covert practices and hidden ways I knew; and I so carried on their arts, that to the ends of earth their fame was noised. When I perceived at last that I had reached that period of my life, when each should strike 80 his sails and coil his ropes, what hitherto had given me pleasure I thereat disliked; I yielded then, repenting and confessing, and that, alas, poor me! would have availed. The Prince of modern Pharisees, who then 85 hard by the Lateran had a war on hand, though not with either Saracens or Jews, for Christian were all enemies of his, and none of them had gone to conquer Acre, or been a merchant in the Soldan’s land; 90 not heeding in himself his lofty office and holy orders, or in me the cord, which leaner used to make those girt therewith; but as upon Soracte Constantine once bade Sylvester heal his leprosy; 95 so this one called on me, as master-leech, to cure him of the fever of his pride; he asked me for advice, but I kept still, because his words were like a drunkard’s words. And then he said: ‘Let not thy heart mistrust; 100 I from now on absolve thee; teach me, then, how I can Palestrina overthrow. To lock and unlock Heaven is in my power,
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as thou dost know; two, therefore, are the Keys, my predecessor held in small esteem.’ 105 His weighty words then drove me to the point, at which the silent course appeared the worse; ‘Father,’ I therefore said, ‘since from the sin thou washest me, which I must now commit, a promise long drawn out but shortly kept 110 will cause thy triumph on the lofty seat.’ Then Francis came for me, when I was dead; but one of our black Cherubs said to him: ‘Remove him not, and do no wrong to me! Among my menials he must needs descend, 115 because he gave the fraudulent advice, since which till now I’ve had him by the hair; for who repents not cannot be absolved, nor yet can one at once repent and will, the contradiction not permitting it!’ 120 O woeful me! O how I shook with fear, when, after laying hold on me, he said: ‘Perhaps thou didst not think me a logician!’ He carried me to Minos, and the latter round his hard back eight times entwined his tail, 125 and when in great rage he had bitten it, ‘A sinner of the thievish fire is this,’ he said; hence, where thou see’st me, I am lost, and, thus robed, sorrowing go my way.”
When he had thus completed his discourse, 130 the flame departed from us with its grief, twisting and lashing its sharp-pointed horn.
I and my Leader then passed further on up o’er the crag, as far as the next arch which spans the ditch, wherein their due is paid 135 to those who burdens win by severing bonds.
Inferno XXVIII
The Eighth Circle. Fraud The Ninth Trench. Sowers of Discord
Who ever could, ev’n with unfettered words, tell fully of the blood and of the wounds which now I saw, though oft he told the tale? All tongues would certainly fall short of it, by reason of our speech and of our mind, 5 whose means are small for taking in so much.
If all the people should again assemble, who on Apulia’s fortune-ravaged soil suffered of old from all the loss of blood shed by the Trojans, and in that long war, 10 which with its spoil of rings made such high heaps, as Livy writes, who maketh no mistakes; with those who felt the painful force of blows received in waging war with Robert Guiscard,
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and those whose bones are still heaped up together 15 at Ceperano, where a faithless liar was each Apulian, and near Tagliacozzo, where old Alardo won, though all unarmed; and if, of these, one showed a limb pierced through, and one a limb lopped off, ’t would all be nothing, 20 compared with this ninth trench’s foul display.
No cask, indeed, by loss of middle-board or stave, is opened as was one I saw, split from the chin to where one breaketh wind; while down between his legs his entrails hung, 25 his pluck appeared, and that disgusting sack, which maketh excrement of what is swallowed.
While I on seeing him was all intent, he looked at me, and opening with his hands his breast, he said: “See now how I am cloven! 30 Behold how torn apart Mahomet is! Ali in tears moves on ahead of me, cloven in his face from forelock down to chin; and all the others whom thou seest here disseminators were, when still alive, 35 of strife and schism, and hence are cloven thus. There is a devil here behind, who thus fiercely adorns, and to the sword’s edge puts each member of this company anew, when we have gone around the woeful road; 40 because, ere one return in front of him, the wounds thus made have all been closed again. But who art thou, that musest on the crag, perhaps to put off going to the torture adjudged thine accusation of thyself ?” 45
“Death hath not reached him yet,” replied my Teacher, “nor to a torment is he led by guilt, but that complete experience may be giv’n him, I, who am dead, must needs conduct him here from circle unto circle down through Hell; 50 and this is true, as that I speak to thee.”
On hearing him, more were there than a hundred who stopped there in the ditch to look at me, and who through their surprise forgot their pain.
“To Fra Dolcino do thou therefore say, 55 thou that, perhaps, wilt shortly see the sun, if soon he would not hither follow me, to arm him so with food, lest stress of snow should give the Novarese a victory, which else would not be easily obtained.” 60
When one foot he had raised to go away, Mahomet said these words to me; which done, upon the ground he stretched it to depart.
Another then, who had his neck pierced through,
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his nose cut off as far as ’neath his brows, 65 and who had one ear only, having stopped to gaze in wonder with the others there, opened, before the rest, his throat, whose neck vermilion was on every side, and said:
“O thou that by thy guilt art not condemned, 70 and whom up in the Latin land I’ve seen, unless too great resemblance play me false, call Pier da Medicina to thy mind, if e’er thou see again the lovely plain, which from Vercelli slopes to Marcabò. 75 And make it known to Fano’s two best men, to Messer Guido and Angiolello, too, that they, unless foreseeing be in vain down here, will from their vessel be cast forth, and drowned in sacks near La Cattòlica, 80 through a disloyal tyrant’s treachery. Between the isles Majolica and Cyprus Neptune ne’er saw so great a crime committed by pirates, nay, nor by the Argolic folk. That traitor who sees only with one eye, 85 and holds the town, from seeing which, one now is with me here, who fain would fasting be, will to a conference have them come with him; he’ll then so act, that ’gainst Focara’s wind they’ll stand in need of neither vow nor prayer.” 90
And I to him: “Point out and show to me, if news of thee thou’dst have me bear above, which is the one who had the bitter sight.” Thereat he laid his hand upon the jaw of one of his companions, oped his mouth, 95 and cried: “This is the one, for he speaks not; when exiled, he removed all doubt in Caesar, by saying that a man, when once prepared, ne’er brooked delay but to his detriment.”
Oh, how dismayed that Curio seemed to me, 100 who from his throat now had his tongue cut out, yet once had been so daring in his speech!
Then one, from whom both hands had been lopped off, raising his maimed arms through the gloomy air, so that his blood befouled his face, cried out: 105 “Mosca will thou remember, too, who said, alas! ‘What’s done is done!’ a speech which proved the seed of evil for the Tuscan race.” “And death” I thereto added, “to thy tribe!” Then he, as woe on woe he heaped, went off, 110 as one would whom his grief had made insane.
But I remained to look upon the throng, and such a thing I saw as I should be afraid to tell of without further proof; if it were not that conscience reassures me, 115 the good companion which, beneath the breastplate
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of conscious purity, emboldens man. I really saw, and still I seem to see it, a trunk without a head, which moved along, as moved the others of the mournful herd; 120 and by the hair it held the severed head, which, hanging like a lantern from its hand, was saying as it gazed at us: “O me!” With his own self he made himself a lamp, and two in one they were, and one in two; 125 how this can be, He knows who so ordains.
When at the bridge’s very foot he was, he raised his arm above him, head and all, that he might thus bring near to us his words, which were: “Now see my baneful punishment, 130 thou that, though breathing, go’st to see the dead! See whether any be as great as this! And that thou with thee mayst bear news of me, know that Bertran de Born I am, the man who gave the youthful king the ill support. 135 Of sire and son I mutual rebels made; Ahithophel by Absalom and David, with his malicious goadings, did no more. Because I severed those who thus were joined, I bear my brain around with me, alas! 140 severed from its foundation in this trunk; retaliation thus is seen in me.”
Inferno XXIX The Eighth Circle. Fraud
The Tenth Trench. Falsifiers of Metals The many people and unheard-of wounds had caused my eyes to be so drunk with tears, that fain they were to linger there and weep; but Virgil said: “At what art gazing still? Why is it that thine eyes still rest down there 5 among the wretched mutilated shades? Thou didst not thus when in the other trenches; consider, then, if thou propose to count them, that this trench circles two-and-twenty miles, and that the moon is now beneath our feet; 10 short is the time allowed us still, and more there is to see, than what thou seest here.”
“If thou hadst heeded” I thereat replied, “the reason for my gazing there, thou wouldst, perhaps, have granted me a longer stay.” 15
Meantime my Leader on his way was going, and I behind him moving, as I made my answer, adding: “In that hollow place, whereon I kept mine eyes so steadily, I think a spirit sprung from mine own blood 20 bewails the fault so dearly paid for there.”
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Thereat my Teacher said: “Let not thy thoughts hereafter break on him; heed other things, and there let him remain; for at the foot of that small bridge I saw him point thee out, 25 and with his finger fiercely threaten thee; Geri del Bello I then heard him called. So wholly wast thou then intent on him who formerly possessed Hautefort, that thou, till he departed, didst not look beyond.” 30
“Leader,” said I, “his death by violence, which is not yet avenged for him by any who shared the shame, made him indignant; that, as I believe, was why he went away without addressing me; he thus has caused me 35 to pity him the more.” We thus conversed till we had reached the first place on the crag, whence, had there been more light, the next ravine had to its very bottom been revealed.
When we o’er Malebolgë’s final cloister 40 were situated so, that its lay-brethren could be perceived by us, uncouth laments, which had their arrow-heads with pity barbed, so pierced me through and through, that with my hands I closed mine ears. Such pain as there would be, 45 if from the hospitals of Val di Chiana, Maremma and Sardinia, from July until September, all diseases came together in one ditch; such was it here; and out of it there came a stench, like that 50 which out of rotting limbs is wont to come.
Adown the last bank of the lengthy crag we went, as ever to the left; and then much clearer was my vision toward the bottom, wherein the servant of the Most High Lord, 55 Justice infallible, is punishing the falsifiers she recordeth here.
I do not think it were a sadder sight to see the whole race in Aegina sick, when so suffused with poison was the air, 60 that all the animals, down to the little worm, fell dead, and when the ancient race of people, according to what poets hold for truth, out of the seed of ants restored themselves; than now it was, to see the spirits languish 65 down in that gloomy ditch in different heaps. One on his belly lay, and others leaned against each other’s shoulders, while another crawled on all fours along the dismal path.
Without conversing, step by step we moved, 70 both looking at and listening to the sick, who could not raise their bodies. Two of these I then saw sitting and against each other
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leaning, just as a pan against a pan is leaned to warm, and spotted o’er with scabs 75 from head to foot; and never have I seen a curry-comb plied by a boy, for whom his master waited, or by one who kept awake against his will, as each oft plied upon himself the edge of finger-nails 80 for the great rage of itching, which hath else no help; their nails kept scraping down their scabs, as doth a knife the scales of bream, or fish of other kinds equipped with larger scales.
“O thou that with thy fingers flay’st thyself,” 85 to one of them my Leader then began, “and who at times dost pincers make of them, pray tell us whether Latin any be of those in here, so may thy nails suffice thee for thy work eternally.” 90
“We, both of us, whom thou beholdest here so spoiled, are Latin,” answered one who wept, “but who art thou that didst inquire of us?”
My Leader thereupon said: “I am one who with this living man from ledge to ledge 95 descend, and who propose to show him Hell.”
Thereat the common back was broken up, and trembling each of them turned round toward me, with others who had heard him by rebound. Then my good Teacher drew close up to me, 100 and said: “Say whatsoe’er thou wilt to them.” Hence, since he so had wished it, I began:
“So may your memory never fly away from human minds in that first world of ours, but rather under many suns survive, 105 pray tell me who ye are, and of what people; nor let your foul and loathsome punishment make you afraid to show yourselves to me.”
“I of Arezzo was; and Albero da Siena had me burned;” one then replied, 110 “but what I died for doth not bring me here. ’T is true I said to him, although in jest, that I knew how to raise me in the air; and he, who, curious, had but little sense, wished me to show that art to him; and only 115 because I did not make him Daedalus, he had me burned by one, who treated him as son. But to the last trench of the ten Minos, who may not make mistakes, condemned me for the alchemy I practised in the world.” 120
Then to the Poet I: “Now was there ever a people as vainglorious as the men of Siena? Surely not the French by far!”
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Whereat the other leprous one, who heard me, replied to what I said: “Excepting Stricca, 125 who moderation knew in what he spent; and Niccolò, who was the first to find the costly use of cloves in gardens where such seed takes root; excepting, too, the company, on whom Càccia d’ Asciàn 130 wasted his vineyard and great forest land, while d’ Abbagliato squandered all his sense. But so that thou mayst know who backs thee thus against the men of Siena, point thine eyes toward me, that well my face may answer thee; 135 so shalt thou see that I’m Capocchio’s shade, who metals falsified by alchemy; and thou, if well I see thee, shouldst recall how good an ape of nature I was once.”
Inferno XXX The Eighth Circle. Fraud. The Tenth Trench
Falsifiers of Persons, Money, and Words When Juno, on account of Semele, was angry with the royal blood of Thebes, as several times she showed herself to be, so fiercely mad did Athamas become, that, when he saw his wife approaching him, 5 burdened by her two sons on either side, “Spread we the nets,” he cried, “that I may take, upon their passing, lioness and cubs!” and thereupon stretched out his cruel claws, and taking hold of one, Learchus named, 10 whirled him around, and dashed him ’gainst a rock; his wife then with the other drowned herself.
Again, when Fortune so low down had brought the Trojans’ arrogant, all-daring power, that with their kingdom shattered was their king; 15 Hecuba, sad, forlorn, and captive now, when she had seen her dead Polỳxena, and in her painful anguish had perceived her Polydorus lying on the beach, out of her senses, barked as would a dog; 20 so greatly had her suffering turned her mind.
But ne’er did furies or of Thebes or Troy reveal in any one such cruelty, in goading beasts or, much less, human limbs, as that which I beheld in two death-pale 25 and naked shades, who ran around, and bit, as doth a boar, when from the sty let out. One reached Capocchio, and so thrust his tusks into his neck behind, that, dragging him, he made his belly scrape the solid ground. 30
The Aretine, still trembling, said to me: “That imp is Gianni Schicchi who, enraged, goes all around ill-treating others thus.”
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Then “Oh,” said I to him, “so may the other not fix his teeth in thee, be not too tired 35 to tell me who he is, before he ‘skips’!”
And he to me: “That is the ancient soul of wicked Myrrha, who, outside the bounds of lawful love, became her father’s mistress. She came to sin with him by counterfeiting 40 another’s person in herself, as dared the other one who yonder goes away,— that he might gain the lady of the stud,— to counterfeit Buoso Donati’s self, and make his will and give it legal form.” 45
When the two furious souls, on whom my eyes were fixed, had passed away, I turned them round to look upon the other evil born.
And one I saw, who like a lute were shaped, if he had only had his groin cut off 50 down in the region where a man is forked. The heavy dropsy which unmates the limbs in such a way with ill-digested humor, that face and paunch no longer correspond, was causing him to keep his lips apart, 55 as doth the hectic, who, because of thirst, turns one lip chinward, and the other up.
“O ye that are, and wherefore I know not, free from all torment in this world of woe,” said he to us, “behold, and pay attention 60 to Master Adam’s wretched misery! When living, I had all that I desired, and now, alas, I crave a drop of water. The little brooks which toward the Arno run down from the Casentino’s green-clad hills, 65 and render all their channels cool and fresh, are evermore before me, nor in vain; because their image makes me drier far than this disease, which strips my face of flesh. The rigid Justice, which is scourging me, 70 takes from the very place in which I sinned the means to give my sighs a greater flight. There lies Romena, where I falsified the coin on which the Baptist’s form is stamped; for that I left my body burned above. 75 But could I see the woeful soul of Guido, or Alexander, or their brother, here, for Fonte Branda I’d not give the sight. One is in here already, if the shades, who go around here raging, tell the truth, 80 but what is that to me whose limbs are bound? If only I were still so light of foot, that I could in a hundred years advance one inch, I’d be already on the road, in search of him among the loathsome people, 85 although this trench goes round eleven miles, and is no less than half a mile across.
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Through them am I in such a family, for they persuaded me to coin the florins, which had at least three carats of alloy.” 90
Then I to him said: “Who are those two wretches who, smoking like wet hands in winter-time, are lying there beside thee on thy right?”
“I found them here,” he answered, “when I rained into this ditch, since when they have not turned, 95 nor will, I think, for all eternity. One is the woman who charged Joseph falsely; the other, Sinon, Troy’s deceitful Greek; their burning fever makes them reek like this.”
And one of them, who felt aggrieved, perhaps, 100 at being named so darkly, smote the speaker upon his hard stiff belly with his fist. It made a sound, as it had been a drum; then Master Adam smote him with his arm, which did not seem less hard, upon his face, 105 and said: “Though I of motion be deprived, by reason of my limbs which heavy are, I have an arm that’s loose for needs like this.”
Then he replied: “When going to the fire thou hadst it not so ready; but just so, 110 and more, thou hadst it, when thou madest coin.”
He of the dropsy: “Here thou sayest true, but thou wast not so true a witness there, where thou wast questioned of the truth at Troy.”
“If I spoke falsely, thou didst falsify 115 the coin!” said Sinon, “I’m for one sin here, and thou for more than any other demon!”
“Remember, perjurer, the horse,” replied he of the swollen paunch, “and bitter be for thee, that known it is by all the world!” 120
“Ill be for thee the thirst wherewith thy tongue is cracking,” said the Greek, “and that foul water, which ’fore thine eyes thus makes thy paunch a hedge!”
Thereat the coiner said: “As is its wont, thy mouth in speaking evil gapeth wide; 125 for though I’m thirsty, and humor stuffs me out, thine is the fever and the aching head; and thou’dst not stand in need of many words bidding thee lick the mirror of Narcissus.”
On listening to them I was all intent, 130 when “Now be careful there!” my Teacher said, “for I’m not far from quarrelling with thee.”
When I thus heard him speak to me in anger, such was the shame wherewith I turned to him,
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that through my memory it is circling still; 135 and such as he who dreameth of his harm, and, dreaming, wishes that he dreamt, and thus, as if it were not, longs for that which is; such I became, who, impotent to speak, would fain excuse myself, and all the while 140 was doing so, but did not think I was.
“Less shame would wash away a greater fault than thine hath been;” my Teacher said to me, “therefore unburden thee of all thy sadness, and count on me as ever at thy side, 145 if it again should chance that Fortune find thee where folk in such a wrangle are engaged; for vulgar is the wish to hear such things.”
Inferno XXXI The Edge of the Central Well
The Giants One and the selfsame tongue first wounded me, so that it colored both my cheeks, and then supplied me with the medicine required; Achilles’ and his father’s lance, I hear, was likewise wont to be the source of, first, 5 a sad, and, after, of a grateful gift.
We turned our backs upon the woeful vale over the bank which girds it round about, and passed across without a single word.
Here less than night it was, and less than day, 10 so that my sight advanced not far; but here I heard a horn give forth so loud a sound, that it had rendered any thunder faint; this led mine eyes, as counter to its path they followed, wholly to a single place. 15
After the woeful rout, when Charlemagne the holy army of his knights had lost, Roland blew not so terrible a blast.
I had not kept my head turned toward it long, when many lofty towers I seemed to see; 20 I, therefore: “Teacher, say what town is this?”
“Since through the darkness from too far away thou peerest,” he replied, “it comes about that afterward thou errest in conceiving. If yonder thou attain, thou’lt clearly see 25 how from afar one’s senses are deceived; hence onward urge thyself a little more.”
Thereat he took my hand with kindly care, and said to me: “Ere further on we go, so that the fact may seem less strange to thee, 30 know, then, that towers they are not, but Giants;
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and all of them are standing in the well around the bank, each from his navel down.”
As, when a fog is thinning off, one’s gaze little by little giveth shape to that, 35 which, since it packs the air, the mist conceals; even so, as through the dense, dark air I pierced, and nearer drew and nearer to the brink, error in me took flight, and fear increased; for, as upon its round enclosing walls 40 Montereggione crowns itself with towers; thus o’er the margin which surrounds the well with one half of their bodies towered up those frightful Giants, whom, when from the sky he thunders, Jupiter is threatening still. 45
Already now was I distinguishing the face of one, his shoulders and his breast, most of his paunch, and, down his sides, both arms.
When Nature ceased from making animals like these, and took such executioners 50 from Mars, she certainly did very well; and ev’n if she of elephants and whales repent her not, whoever subtly looks holds her therein the more discreet and just; for where the reasoning faculty is joined 55 to evil will equipped with power to act, people can make against it no defence.
His face appeared to me as long and big as is at Rome the pine-cone of Saint Peter’s, and in proportion to it were his other bones; 60 so that the bank, which from his middle down an apron was, showed quite so much of him above it, that of reaching to his hair three Frisians would have made a useless boast; for I full thirty spans of him perceived, 65 down from the place at which one buckles cloaks.
“Rafel mai amech zabi et almi” the frightful mouth, to which no sweeter psalms were fitting, thereupon began to cry.
Then toward him cried my Leader: “Foolish soul, 70 keep to thy horn, and vent thyself therewith, when wrath or other passion seizes thee! Search at thy neck, and thou wilt find the cord which holds it tied, O spirit of confusion, and see it lying on thy mighty breast.” 75
To me then: “Self-accused he stands, for this is Nimrod, to whose evil thought is due that more than one tongue in the world is spoken. Let us leave him alone, nor talk in vain; for such is every tongue to him, as his 80 to others is, for that is known to none.
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Then, turning to the left, we travelled on much further; and within a crossbow’s shot we found the next one far more large and fierce. What was the master’s power who girded him, 85 I cannot say; but this one had in front his left arm, and behind his back his right, tied by a chain, which downward from his neck held him so bound, that on the uncovered part it wound around as far as the fifth coil. 90
My Leader said to me: “’Gainst Jove Most High this proud soul wished to test his strength, and hence hath this reward. Ephialtes is his name; his haughty undertaking he attempted what time the Giants caused the Gods to fear; 95 the arms he plied he moveth now no more.”
And I to him: “If possible it be, I’d gladly have these eyes of mine enjoy experience of the measureless Briareus.”
Then he replied: “Antaeus thou’lt behold 100 not far from here, who speaks, and, since unbound, can set us at the bottom of all sin. He is much further on, whom thou wouldst see, and bound he is, and shaped like this one, save that more ferocious in his looks he seems.” 105
There never was an earthquake strong enough to shake a tower with so much violence, as Ephialtes quickly shook at this. Then more than ever yet did I fear death, nor for it was there need of more than fear, 110 had it not been that I perceived his bonds.
We thereupon proceeded further still, and to Antaeus came, who full five ells, beside his head, protruded from the pit.
“O thou that in the valley fortune-blest, 115 which once caused Scipio to inherit glory when with his followers Hannibal took flight, once tookst a thousand lions as thy prey, and who, hadst thou been at thy brethren’s war on high, it seems that it is still believed 120 the Sons of Earth had been the victors there; pray set us down below, nor let disdain affect thee, where the cold locks up Cocytus. Make us not go to Tìtyus or to Tìpheus; this man can give what most is longed for here; 125 stoop, then, nor twist thy muzzle. He can still give fame to thee on earth, since he is living, and still looks forward to long life, if Grace recall him not untimely to itself.”
The Teacher thus; then he in haste stretched out 130 the hands, whose mighty pressure Hercules
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once felt, and took my Leader. Virgil then, on feeling himself taken, said to me: “Come here, that I may take thee up;” and then so did, that he and I one bundle were. 135
Such as the Carisenda seems, when viewed beneath its leaning side, whene’er a cloud sails o’er it so, that opposite it hangs; such did Antaeus seem to me, who watched to see him stoop, and such a moment’t was, 140 that I had gladly gone another road.
But lightly at the bottom, which devours Judas and Lucifer, he set us down; nor, thus bent over, did he linger there, but raised himself, as on a ship a mast. 145
Inferno XXXII The Ninth Circle. Treachery. Cocytus
Traitors to their Relatives, and to their Country If I had rhymes that were as harsh and hoarse as would be fitting for the dismal hole, on which lean all the other circling rocks, I’d squeeze the juice of my conception out more fully; but because I have them not, 5 not without fear do I resolve to speak; for to describe the bottom of the universe is not an enterprise wherewith to jest, nor for a tongue that says ‘mamma’ and ‘dad’; let, then, those Ladies give my verse their aid, 10 who helped Amphion build the walls of Thebes, that from the facts the telling differ not.
O rabble, that, ill-born beyond all people, are in a place, to speak of which is hard, far better had ye here been sheep or goats! 15
When we were down within the gloomy well, beneath the Giant’s feet, though lower far, and I still gazing at its lofty wall, I heard one say to me: “Look where thou walkest! and see that with thy feet thou trample not 20 the heads of us two wretched, weary brothers!” Thereat I turned around, and saw before me, and ’neath my feet, a lake which, being frozen, seemed to be made of glass and not of water.
The Danube up in Austria never made 25 so thick a veil in winter for its course, nor yonder ’neath the cold sky did the Don, as what was here; for even if Tambernich had fallen on it, or had Pietrapana, it had not cracked even at its very edge. 30
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And as a frog remains, to do its croaking, with muzzle out of water, in the season when oft the peasant dreams that she is gleaning; even so, as far as where one’s shame is shown, the woeful shades were livid in the ice, 35 as to the notes of storks they set their teeth. Each kept his face turned downward; from his mouth, the cold, and from his eyes, his saddened heart provides itself a witness in their midst.
When I had gazed around a while, I looked 40 down at my feet, and two I saw with heads so close together, that their hair was mixed.
“Ye that are pressing thus your breasts together, say who ye are,” said I. They bent their necks, and when their faces had been raised toward me, 45 their eyes, moist only inwardly before, gushed upward though the lids; whereat the cold, binding the tears between them, closed them up.
A clamp ne’er bound so tightly board to board; whereat, so great the anger mastering them, 50 like two he-goats, they butted one another.
And one who had, by reason of the cold, lost both his ears, with face still lowered, said: “Why dost thou mirror thee so much on us? If thou wouldst know who those two near thee are, 55 the valley from which thy Bisenzio flows belonged to their sire Albert and to them. They issued from one body; and thou canst search through all Caìna, but thou’lt never find a shade more worthy to be fixed in ice; 60 not he, whose breast and shadow broken were by one same blow at Arthur’s hand; nor yet Focaccia; nor this fellow here, whose head so blocks me, that I cannot see beyond, and who was Sàssol Mascheroni called; 65 who he was, thou, if Tuscan, now knowst well. And that thou put me to no further speech, know, then, that I was Camiciòn de’ Pazzi, and that, to excuse me, I await Carlìn.”
Thereafter I beheld a thousand faces 70 made doglike by the cold; hence frozen ponds cause me to shudder now, and always will.
And now, while toward that center we were moving, whereto all heavy objects gravitate, and I was trembling in the eternal cold; 75 I know not whether it were will, or fate, or chance; but as I walked among the heads, hard in the face of one I struck my foot. Weeping he scolded: “Wherefore dost thou smite me? Unless thou comest to increase the vengeance 80 for Mont’ Aperti, why dost thou molest me?”
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And I said: “Teacher, wait now for me here, that I through him may issue from a doubt; then at thy pleasure shalt thou hurry me.”
My Leader stopped; and I to him, who still 85 was savagely blaspheming, said: “What sort of man art thou, that scoldest people so?”
“Now who art thou, that goest” he replied, “through Antenora, smiting cheeks so roughly, that it would be too much, wert thou alive?” 90
“I am alive, and it may profit thee” was my reply, “for me to place thy name, if fame thou ask, among my other notes.”
And he: “I crave the contrary; away with thee, and bother me no more; for ill 95 dost thou know how to flatter in this bog!”
Thereat I seized him by the nape, and said: “It needs must be that thou reveal thy name, or that no hair remain upon thee here!”
Then he to me: “Though thou pull out my hair, 100 I’ll neither say, nor show thee, who I am, fall thou upon my head a thousand times.”
I had his hair wrapped round my hand already, and more than one shock had I plucked from him, while he was barking, with his eyes turned down; 105 when here another cried: “What ails thee, Bocca? Is making noise with jawbones not enough, unless thou bark? What devil touches thee?”
“Henceforth” said I, “I would not have thee speak, perfidious traitor; for true news of thee 110 I’ll carry with me to thy lasting shame.”
“Begone, and tell whate’er thou wilt;” he answered, but be not silent, if thou issue hence, of him who had just now his tongue so ready. He here bewails the money of the French; 115 ‘Him of Duera’ thou canst say, ‘I saw where cold the days are for the sinful folk.’ And if thou shouldst be asked who else was there, thou hast beside thee him of Beccherìa, who had his gorget cut in two by Florence. 120 Gianni de’ Soldanier is further on, I think, with Ganellon, and Tebaldello, who, while its people slept, unlocked Faenza.”
From him we had departed now, when two I saw, so frozen in a single hole, 125 that one man’s head served as the other’s cap. And as because of hunger bread is eaten, even so the upper on the other set
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his teeth, where to the nape the brain is joined. Not otherwise did Tydeus gnaw the temples 130 of Menalippus out of spite, than this one was gnawing at the skull and other parts.
“O thou that showest by a sign so beastly hatred toward him thou eatest, tell me why,” said I to him, “on this express condition, 135 that shouldst thou rightfully of him complain, I, knowing who ye are, and that one’s sin, may quit thee for it in the world above, if that, wherewith I speak, be not dried up.”
Inferno XXXIII The Ninth Circle. Treachery. Cocytus
Traitors to their Country, and to their Guests From his grim meal that sinner raised his mouth, and wiped it on the hair of that same head, which he had spoiled behind. He then began:
“Thou wouldst that I renew a hopeless grief, the thought of which already breaks my heart, 5 before I speak of it. But if my words are likely to be seeds, and bear the fruit of infamy upon the traitor whom I gnaw, speaking and weeping shalt thou see together.
I know not who thou art, nor by what means 10 thou’rt come down here, but when I hear thee speak, thou truly seemst to me a Florentine. Know, then, that I Count Ugolino was, and this man here Ruggieri, the Archbishop; and now I’ll tell thee why I’m thus his neighbor. 15
That, as the outcome of his evil thoughts, I, trusting him, was seized, and afterward was put to death, there is no need to say; but that which thou canst not have heard, that is, how cruel was my death, thou now shalt hear, 20 and whether he have wronged me thou shalt know.
A narrow slit within the moulting-tower, which bears, because of me, the name of Hunger, and in whose walls still others must be locked, had through its opening shown me many a moon 25 already, when I had the evil dream, which rent apart the curtain of the future. This one therein a lord and huntsman seemed, chasing the wolf and wolfings toward the mount which hinders Pisans from beholding Lucca, 30 with bitches lean and eager and well trained; for he had set before him in his van Gualandi with Sismondi and Lanfranchi. After a little run both father and sons seemed weary to me; then methought I saw 35 their flanks torn open by sharp-pointed fangs.
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When, just before the morning, I awoke, I heard my children, who were with me there, sob in their sleep, and ask me for their bread. Cruel indeed thou art, if, thinking what 40 my heart forebode, thou grievest not already; and if thou weepest not, at what art wont to weep? Awake they were, and now the hour was drawing nigh when food was brought to us, hence each, by reason of his dream, was worried; 45 and then I heard the dread tower’s lower door nailed up; whereat, without a word, I looked my children in the face. I did not weep, so like a stone had I become within; they wept; and my poor little Anselm said: 50 ‘Father, thou lookest so! What aileth thee?’ But still I did not weep, nor did I answer through all that day, or through the following night, till on the world another sun had dawned. Then, when a little beam had made its way 55 into our woeful prison, and I perceived by their four faces, how I looked myself, I bit in anguish both my hands. And they, thinking it done because I craved to eat, immediately stood up, and said to me: 60 ‘Father, much less shall we be pained, if us thou eat; thou with this wretched flesh didst clothe us, do thou, then, strip it from us now.’ Thereat, to sadden them no more, I calmed myself; through that day and the next we all kept mute. 65 Ah, why, hard earth, didst thou not open up?
Then Gaddo, when the fourth day we had reached, stretched himself out at length before my feet, and said: “My father, why dost thou not help me?” And there he died; and, ev’n as thou seest me, 70 between the fifth day and the sixth I saw the three fall one by one; and, blind already, I gave myself to groping over each, and two days called them, after they were dead; then fasting proved more powerful than pain.” 75
When he had spoken thus, with eyes awry, he seized again the wretched skull with teeth, which for the bone were strong as are a dog’s.
Ah, Pisa, foul reproach of those that dwell in that fair country where the sì is heard; 80 since slow thy neighbors are to punish thee, then let Caprara and Gorgona move, and make a hedge across the Arno’s mouth, that every person in thee may be drowned! for though Count Ugolino had the name 85 of traitor to thee in thy castle-towns, thou shouldst not thus have crucified his sons. Their youthful age had made, thou modern Thebes, Brigata and Uguccione innocent, and the other two my canto names above. 90
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Further along we went, to where the ice roughly enswathes another class of people, not downward turned, but wholly on their backs. Weeping itself allows not weeping there, and tears, which find a barrier in their eyes, 95 turn back, to cause their suffering to increase; because the first ones form a solid block, and thus like crystal visors wholly fill the hollow cup beneath the brow. And though, as in a callous spot, 100 because of cold all feeling had departed from my face, it seemed to me that now I felt some wind; whence I to him: “My Teacher, who moves this? Is not all moving air quenched here below?” 105
And he: “Ere long shalt thou be where thine eyes, seeing the cause which raineth down the blast, will make an answer to thee as to this.”
One of the wretches of the icy crust called out to us thereat: “O souls, so cruel, 110 that unto you the last place is assigned, remove for me the hard veils on my face, that I may somewhat vent the pain that fills my heart, before the tears freeze up again.”
Whence I to him: “If thou wouldst have me help thee, 115 say who thou art; and should I not relieve thee, may I needs reach the bottom of the ice!”
Then he: “I Frate Alberigo am, he of the evil garden’s fruit, who here for every fig I gave get back a date.” 120
Then “Oh!” said I, “art thou already dead?” And he to me replied: “I have no knowledge how in the world above my body fares. Such is the privilege of this Ptolomèa, that frequently a soul falls into it, 125 ere Atropos have caused it to move on. But that thou scrape more gladly from my face these glassy tears, know, then, that just as soon as any soul betrays, as I betrayed, its body is taken from it by a demon, 130 who then takes charge of it, until its time be all revolved. Into a well like this it rushes headlong down; and so, perhaps, the body of the shade that winters here behind me, is still visible above. 135 This thou shouldst know, if just come down, for he Ser Branca d’ Oria is, and many years have now gone by, since he was thus shut up.”
“I think” said I, “that thou deceivest me, for Branca d’ Oria is not dead as yet, 140 but eats, and drinks, and sleeps, and dons his clothes.”
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“Above us, in the Malebranche’s ditch,” he said, “there, where the sticky pitch is boiling, not yet had Michel Zanche’s soul arrived, when in his stead this fellow left behind 145 a devil in his body, as did also one of his kinsmen, who with him performed the treachery. But stretch thy hand here now, and ope mine eyes!” And yet I oped them not, for rudeness shown to him was courtesy. 150
Ah, Genoese! ye men estranged from all morality, and full of every vice, why from the earth are ye not wholly driven? for with the meanest spirit of Romagna, I found one such of you, that, for his deeds, 155 in soul he bathes already in Cocytus, and seems in body still alive above.
Inferno XXXIV The Ninth Circle. Treachery. Cocytus Traitors to their Benefactors. Lucifer
“The banners of the King of Hell advance toward us; now, therefore, look ahead of thee,” my Teacher said, “and see if thou perceive him.”
As, when a heavy fog is breathed abroad, or when at night our hemisphere grows dark, 5 a windmill looks when seen from far away; even such a structure seemed I now to see; then, for the wind, I shrank behind my Leader, for other shelter was there none. I now— and ’t is with fear I put it into verse,— 10 was where the shades were wholly covered up, and visible as is a straw in glass; some lying are; and some are standing up, one on his head, the other on his soles; one, like a bow, bends toward his feet his face. 15
When we had gone so far ahead, that now it pleased my Teacher to reveal to me the Creature who once seemed so beautiful, he stepped from where he was in front of me, stopped me, and said: “Lo Dis, and lo the place, 20 where thou must arm thyself with fortitude!”
How frozen and how weak I then became, ask thou not, Reader, for I write it not, because all speech would be of small avail. I did not die, nor yet remained alive; 25 think for thyself now, hast thou any wit, what I became, of both of these deprived.
The Emperor of the Realm of Woe stood forth out of the ice from midway up his breast; and I compare more closely with a Giant, 30 than merely with his arms the Giants do;
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consider now how great that whole must be, that with such parts as these may be compared. If, once as beautiful as ugly now, he still raised up his brows against his Maker, 35 justly doth every woe proceed from him.
Oh, what a marvel it appeared to me, when I beheld three faces to his head! One was in front of us, and that was red; the other two were to the latter joined 40 right o’er the middle of each shoulder-blade, and met each other where he had his crest; that on the right twixt white and yellow seemed; the left one such to look at, as are those who come from there, where valeward flows the Nile. 45 Under each face two mighty wings stretched out, of size proportioned to so huge a bird; sails of the sea I never saw so large. They had no feathers, but were like a bat’s in fashion; these he flapped in such a way, 50 that three winds issued forth from him; thereby Cocytus was completely frozen up. With six eyes he was weeping, and his tears and bloody slaver trickled o’er three chins. In each mouth, as a heckle would have done, 55 a sinner he was crushing with his teeth, and thus was causing pain to three of them. To him who was in front of us the biting was nothing to the clawing, for at times his back remained completely stripped of skin. 60
“That soul up there which hath the greatest pain Judas Iscariot is,” my Teacher said, “who hath his head within, and plies his legs without. Of the other two, whose heads are down, Brutus is he who from the black snout hangs; 65 see how he writhes, and utters not a word! Cassius the other is, who so big-limbed appears. But night is coming up again, and now ’t is time to leave, for we’ve seen all.”
Then, as it pleased him, I embraced his neck, 70 and he availed himself of time and place, and when the wings were opened wide enough, he firmly grasped the shaggy flanks, and then from tuft to tuft he afterward descended between the matted hair and frozen crusts. 75
When we were come to where the thigh turns round, just at the thick part of the hips, my Leader with tiring effort and with stress of breath turned his head round to where his legs had been, and seized the hair as one would who ascends; 80 hence I thought we were going back to Hell.
“Hold fast to me, for by such stairs as these” panting like one worn out, my Teacher said, “must such great wickedness be left behind.”
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Then, through an opening in the rock he issued, 85 and, after seating me upon its edge, over toward me advanced his cautious step.
Raising mine eyes, I thought that I should still see Lucifer the same as when I left him; but I beheld him with his legs held up. 90 And thereupon, if I became perplexed, let those dull people think, who do not see what kind of point that was which I had passed.
“Stand up” my Teacher said, “upon thy feet! the way is long and difficult the road, 95 and now to middle-tierce the sun returns.”
It was no palace hallway where we were, but just a natural passage under ground, which had a wretched floor and lack of light.
“Before I tear myself from this abyss, 100 Teacher,” said I on rising, “talk to me a little, and correct my wrong ideas. Where is the ice? And how is this one fixed thus upside down? And in so short a time how hath the sun from evening crossed to morn?” 105
Then he to me: “Thou thinkest thou art still beyond the center where I seized the hair of that bad Worm who perforates the world. While I was going down, thou wast beyond it; but when I turned, thou then didst pass the point 110 to which all weights are drawn on every side; thou now art come beneath the hemisphere opposed to that the great dry land o’ercovers, and ’neath whose zenith was destroyed the Man, who without sinfulness was born and died; 115 thy feet thou hast upon the little sphere, which forms the other surface of Judecca. ’T is morning here, whenever evening there; and he who made our ladder with his hair, is still fixed fast, ev’n as he was before. 120
He fell on this side out of Heaven; whereat, the land, which hitherto was spread out here, through fear of him made of the sea a veil, and came into our hemisphere; perhaps to flee from him, what is on this side seen 125 left the place empty here, and upward rushed.”
There is a place down there, as far removed from Beelzebub, as e’er his tomb extends, not known by sight, but by a brooklet’s sound, which flows down through a hole there in the rock, 130 gnawed in it by the water’s spiral course, which slightly slopes. My Leader then, and I, in order to regain the world of light, entered upon that dark and hidden path;
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and, without caring for repose, went up, 135 he going on ahead, and I behind, till through a rounded opening I beheld some of the lovely things the sky contains; thence we came out, and saw again the stars.
Purgatorio I Introduction to the Purgatorio
The Shore of the Island of Purgatory. Cato To run o’er better water hoists her sails the little vessel of my genius now, which leaves behind her such a cruel sea; and of that second Realm I’ll sing, wherein the human spirit purifies itself, 5 and groweth worthy to ascend to Heaven.
But here let Poetry arise from death, since, holy Muses, yours I am; and let Calliopë, here somewhat higher soaring, with those sweet tones accompany my song, 10 whose power the miserable Magpies felt so keenly, that of pardon they despaired.
The oriental sapphire’s tender hue, now gathering in the sky’s unclouded face, as far as to the first of circles pure, 15 began again to give mine eyes delight, when forth I issued from the deadly air, which with its gloom had filled mine eyes and heart. The beauteous planet which incites to love, veiling with light the Fishes in her train, 20 was causing all the eastern sky to laugh.
Round to the right I turned, and set my mind upon the other pole, and saw four stars, never perceived, save by the first of men. The sky appeared to enjoy their little flames. 25 O region of the North, that widowed art, because deprived of gazing thereupon!
When I had from the sight of them withdrawn, turning a little toward the other pole, whence now the Wain had wholly disappeared, 30 a lone Old Man beside me I perceived, deserving of such reverence in his looks, that no son owes his father any more. Long was the beard he wore, and partly white, as likewise was the hair upon his head, 35 two locks of which hung down upon his breast. And so the rays of those four holy stars adorned his face with splendor, that to me course he looked as if the sun were facing him.
“Who, then, are ye, that ’gainst the blind stream’s 40 have from the eternal Prison escaped?” he said,
Image 5.15: Purgatorio: Canto One | After leaving Hell, Dante and Virgil encounter Cato the Younger, who says that Dante must clean himself before he can enter Purgatory.
Author: Teodolinda Barolini Source: Digital Dante License: Public Domain
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moving the while those venerable locks. “Who led you, or what served you as a lamp, when forth ye issued from the night profound, which makes the infernal Vale forever black? 45 Are broken thus the laws of Hell’s abyss, or through new counsel is there change in Heaven, that ye, though damned, are come to these my cliffs?”
My Leader thereupon took hold of me, and with his words and with his hands and signs 50 imposed respect upon my legs and brow.
He then replied: “I came not of myself; from Heaven came down a Lady, at whose prayer I helped this man with my companionship. But since thy will it is that our true state 55 should be explained to thee more clearly, mine it cannot be that this should be denied thee. Not yet hath this man his last evening seen; but through his folly was so near to it, that he was left but very little time. 60 As I have told thee, I was sent to save his life; nor was there any other way than this, to which I have addressed myself. I’ve shown him all the people who are guilty; and now I mean those spirits to reveal, 65 who ’neath thy jurisdiction cleanse themselves. Long would it take to tell thee how I led him; virtue descendeth from on high, which helps me lead him to see thee and to hear thee speak. His coming, therefore, please to welcome; Freedom 70 he seeks, which is so dear, as knoweth he who gives up life therefor. This thou dost know, since death for its sake was not bitter to thee in Utica, where thou didst leave the robe, which on the Great Day will so brightly shine. 75 The eternal edicts are not void through us; for this man lives, and I’m not bound by Minos; but of that circle am, wherein the eyes of thy chaste Marcia are, O holy breast, whose looks implore thee still to hold her thine; 80 for love of her, then, yield thee unto us! Permit us through thy seven domains to go. My grateful praise of thee I’ll bear to her, if to be mentioned there below thou deign.”
“Marcia so pleased mine eyes,” he then replied, 85 “that, while upon the other side I was, I granted all the favors she desired. Now that she dwells beyond the evil stream, no longer can she move me, by the law made at the moment when I issued thence. 90 But if a Lady of Heaven impel and guide thee, as thou hast said, no need of flattering prayers; suffice it thee that for her sake thou ask. Go, then, and see that with a leafless rush thou gird this man, and that thou wash his face, 95
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so that therefrom all foulness thou remove; for ’t were not fit he went, with eyes o’ercast by any mist, before the first of those who serve as Ministers of Paradise. This little isle around its lowest base, 100 down yonder where the waves are beating it, produces rushes on its yielding ooze. No other plant, like one that brought forth leaves, or hardened, can maintain its life down there, because it yields not when receiving blows. 105 Thereafter be not hither your return; the sun, which rises now, will show you how to climb the Mountain by the easiest slope.”
Thereat he disappeared; and I arose without a word, and to my Leader’s side 110 I closely drew, and toward him turned mine eyes. And he began: “Son, follow thou my steps; let us turn backward, for the shore slopes down on this side toward its lowly boundaries.”
The dawn was vanquishing the morning breeze, 115 which fled before it, so that, from afar, I recognized the shimmering of the sea.
We now were going o’er the lonely plain, as one who to a road he lost returns, and, till he find it, seems to go in vain. 120 When we were there, where with the sun the dew still struggles on, through being in a place where, for the breeze, it slowly melts away, my Teacher, having spread out both his hands, rested them gently on the tender grass; 125 whence I, who of his purpose was aware, yielded to him the cheeks my tears had stained; he then brought all that natural color back, which Hell had on my countenance concealed.
We came thereafter to that lonely shore, 130 which never saw its waters sailed by one who afterward experienced a return. Here, as the other pleased, he girded me. O wondrous sight! For, like the humble plant which he had chosen, another instantly 135 sprang forth again from where he tore the first.
Purgatorio II The Shore of the Island of Purgatory The Angel Pilot and Arriving Souls
And now already had the sun arrived at that horizon, whose meridian circle rests with its zenith o’er Jerusalem; and Night, which circles opposite thereto, was issuing from the Ganges with the Scales, 5 which, when she gains, are falling from her hands;
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so that the white and pure vermilion cheeks of beautiful Aurora, where I was, were turning orange through excessive age.
Along the seaside we were lingering still, 10 like folk who, taking thought about their road, go on in heart, but with their body stay; when lo, as, at the approach of morning, Mars, because of heavy vapors, groweth red down in the West above the ocean’s floor; 15 even so I saw—may I again behold it!— a light which o’er the sea so swiftly moved, that no flight is as rapid as its motion; from which when I a moment had withdrawn mine eyes, to ask a question of my Leader, 20 again I saw it grown more bright and large. And on each side of it there then appeared I knew not what white thing, and underneath little by little came another forth.
Meanwhile my Teacher uttered not a word 25 until the first white objects looked like wings; then, having recognized the Pilot well, he cried: “See, see now that thou bend thy knees! This is God’s Angel; fold thy hands! Henceforth shalt thou behold such officers as this. 30 See how he so scorns human instruments, as to wish neither oar, nor other sail than his own wings, between such distant shores! See how he holds them straight up toward the sky, stroking the air with those eternal plumes, 35 which do not moult as mortal feathers do!”
And then, as more and more the Bird divine drew near to us, the brighter he appeared; therefore mine eyes endured him not near by, but down I cast them; with a little boat 40 he came ashore, so agile and so light, the water swallowed up no part of it. Such on its stern the heavenly Pilot stood, that he would bless one, were he but described; more than a hundred spirits sat within. 45
“When Israel out of Egypt came,” they all in unison were singing there together, with what is written after in that psalm. Then, having signed them with the holy Cross, whereat all cast themselves upon the shore, 50 he went away as swiftly as he came.
The crowd which stayed seemed strangers to the place, and gazed around them there, as doth a man, who with unwonted things acquaints himself.
The sun, which from the middle of the sky 55 had hunted Capricorn with arrows bright,
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was shooting forth the day on every side, when those new people raised their brows toward us, and said: “If ye know how, point out to us the road that one should take to reach the Mount.” 60
And Virgil answered: “Ye, perchance, believe that we have had experience of this place; but we are pilgrim-strangers like yourselves. We came just now, a little while before you, but by another way, so rough and hard, 65 that going up will now seem play to us.”
The souls who, by my breathing, had become aware that I was still a living being, in their astonishment turned death-like pale; and as around a messenger who bears 70 the olive, people surge to hear the news, and, as to crowding, none of them seem shy; so one and all those fortune-favored souls fixed on my face their gaze, as if forgetting to go and make their spirits beautiful. 75
Then one among them I beheld advance, in such a loving manner, to embrace me, that it persuaded me to do the like. O, save in your appearance, empty shades! Three times behind it did I clasp my hands, 80 and to my breast therewith as oft returned.
With wonder, I believe, I painted me; smiling because of this, the shade drew back, while, following after, I pressed further on. With gentle words he told me to desist; 85 then who it was I knew, and begged of him to stop a little while and speak with me.
“As thee I loved, when in my mortal body,” he answered me, “even so, when freed, I love thee; therefore I stop; but wherefore goest thou?” 90
“Casella mine,” said I, “I take this journey, that where I am I may return again; but why from thee hath so much time been taken?”
And he to me: “No outrage hath been done me, if he, who takes both when and whom he likes, 95 hath more than once refused me passage here; for to a Righteous Will is his conformed; yet peacefully, these three months, hath he taken whoever wished to enter into his boat. Hence I, who now was toward the sea-shore bent, 100 where Tiber’s water mingles with the salt, was with benignity received by him at yonder river’s mouth, toward which his wings ev’n now are turned; for those who go not down toward Acheron, always assemble there.” 105
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And I: “If some new law take not from thee the memory or the practice of the song of love, which used to quiet all my longings, be pleased a little to console therewith my spirit, which, because of coming here 110 when in its body, is so sore distressed!”
“The love that talketh with me in my mind,” he thereupon began to sing so sweetly, that still within me is its sweetness heard.
My Teacher, I, and those that with him were, 115 seemed as contented, as if none of us had any other thing upon his mind. Absorbed in listening to his notes, we all were motionless; when lo, the grave Old Man, who cried: “Ye laggard spirits, what is this? 120 What means this negligence and standing still? Run to the Mount, and strip ye off the slough, which lets not God be visible to you.”
Ev’n as, when picking grains of wheat or tares, doves, met together at their feeding, calm, 125 and not displaying their accustomed pride, if anything appear that frightens them, all of a sudden leave their food alone, because assailed by greater cause for care; even so I saw that new-come family 130 give up the song, and toward the hillside move, like one who goes, but whither knoweth not; nor was in less haste our departure made.
Purgatorio X Purgatory. The First Ring. Pride
Instances of Humility. The Expiation of Pride When past the threshold of the Gate we were, whose use the evil love of souls impairs, because it makes the crooked path seem straight, ’t was by its sound I knew that it had closed; and, had I turned mine eyes in its direction, 5 what would have fittingly excused my fault?
We mounted through a fissure in the rock, which moved about to this side and to that, as moves a wave that flees and draweth near. “A little skill must here be used by us,” 10 my Leader then began, “in keeping close, now here, now there, to the receding side.”
This caused our steps to be so slow and short, that to her bed the waning moon had gone to rest herself again, ere we had issued 15 forth from that needle’s eye; but when set free we were, and in the open up above, where back the Mountain’s side recedes, I, weary,
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and both of us uncertain of our way, stopped short upon a level place up there, 20 more lonely than are roads through desert lands.
From where its margin borders on the void, up to the foot of that high rising bank, would measure thrice a human body’s length; and far as e’er mine eye could wing its flight, 25 now on the right, and now upon the left, such did this girding ledge appear to me.
Our feet had not been moving on it yet, when I perceived the bank surrounding it— which, being perpendicular, could not 30 be climbed—white marble was, and so adorned with carvings, that not only Polyclètus, but Nature, too, would there be put to shame.
The Angel who to earth came with the word of peace, which, wept-for during many years, 35 had after its long closure opened Heaven, appeared before us there in gentle mien, sculptured so truthfully, it did not seem that he could be an image that is dumb. One would have sworn that he was saying: “Hail!” 40 for She was there portrayed in effigy, who turned the key that opened Love on high; and in her mien and acts she had the words “Behold the handmaid of the Lord” impressed as clearly as a figure stamped in wax. 45
“Keep not thy mind on one place only fixed!” my gentle Teacher said, who had me there on that side of him, where one has his heart; I therefore moved my eyes, and further on than Mary, on the side where him I had, 50 who urged me to go on, I then beheld another story graven in the rock; passing by Virgil, therefore, I drew near so that it might be set before mine eyes.
Cut in the marble there the cart and oxen 55 were drawing up the holy Ark, which made men dread a charge not given them in trust. People in front appeared; and all of them, forming seven choirs, made one of my two senses say “No,” and the other one say “Yes, they sing.” 60 So, too, by reason of the incense-smoke, which there was pictured forth, my eyes and nose became discordant as to Yes and No. The humble Psalmist there, with loins girt up, came dancing on, before the blessèd Vessel, 65 and, doing so, was more and less than king. And Michal, opposite to this portrayed, was from a palace window looking down, as would an angry woman filled with scorn.
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From where I was, I onward moved my feet, 70 that I might closely note another tale, which after Michal gleamed upon me white. The glorious action of that Roman prince was storied here, whose worth moved Gregory to win his mighty triumph; I refer 75 to Emperor Trajan; at his bridle stood a widow who, in tears, showed signs of grief. The space around him there seemed trampled down and thronged with horsemen, while above his head eagles, it seemed, upon a field of gold 80 were fluttering in the wind. Among all these the sorrowing woman seemed to say: “My lord, avenge me for the slaying of my son, which breaks my heart.” And he to answer her: “Wait now till I return.” And she, like one 85 whom sorrow makes impatient, said: “But what, my lord, if thou shouldst not return?” And he: “That one will do it, who shall hold my place.” “How shall another’s goodness help thy case,” she answered him, “if thou forget thine own?” 90 Then he: “Now be thou comforted; for needs must I perform my duty ere I leave; justice so wills, and pity keeps me here.”
He to whose vision naught was ever new, created this seen language, new to us, 95 since not found here on earth. While with delight I looked upon the pictures of such great humilities, which for their Maker’s sake are also dear to see, “On this side, lo, much people come, but slow the steps they take;” 100 the Poet murmured, “toward the grades above these souls will send us forward on our way.”
Mine eyes, intent on gazing, to behold new things, for which with eagerness they long, in turning toward him were not slow to move. 105 Yet I’d not have thee, Reader, shrink dismayed from thy good purposes, through hearing how God wills that what is due be paid. Heed not the nature of the torment! Think of what comes after! Think that, at the very worst, 110 beyond the Judgment-day it cannot go.
Then I began: “That, Teacher, which toward us I see advancing does not look like people, nor know I what, my sight is so deceived.”
And he to me: “Their torment’s heavy nature 115 so bows them toward the ground, that my eyes, too, struggled therewith at first. But steadily gaze there, and disentangle with thine eyes what underneath those stones is coming on; thou now canst see how each one smites himself.” 120
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O ye proud Christians, sad and weary creatures, who, sick in mental vision, put your trust in backward moving steps; perceive ye not that worms we are, created but to form the angelic butterfly, which flies unscreened 125 to judgment? Why, then, is it that your mind soars up in pride, since ye are, as it were, defective insects, even as is a worm, in which formation is not yet complete?
As, to hold up a ceiling or a roof, 130 in lieu of corbel, one perceives at times a human figure joining knees to breast, which out of unreality gives birth to real distress in him who sees it; such seemed these to me, when I had given good heed. 135
They were, in truth, both more and less bowed down, as each had more or less upon his back; but he that in his acts most patient was, seemed to say, weeping: “I can bear no more!”
Purgatorio XI Purgatory. The First Ring. Pride
The Lord’s Prayer. The Proud “Our Father, Thou that in the Heavens dost dwell, not circumscribed, but for the greater love Thou hast for what Thou madest first on high; let both Thy Name and Worth be given praise by every creature, ev’n as it is meet 5 that to Thy loving Spirit thanks be given! And may Thy Kingdom’s Peace come down to us, since we can not attain it of ourselves, for all our striving, save it also come! As gladly of their wills Thine Angels make 10 a sacrifice to Thee, singing ‘All Hail!’, so likewise gladly may men do with theirs! Give us this day our daily spirit-food, without which, through this bitter wilderness, he backward goes, who onward toileth most! 15 And as we pardon every one the wrong we’ve suffered, of Thy Mercy do Thou us forgive, regarding not what we deserve! Our virtue which is easily o’ercome, test Thou not through our ancient Enemy, 20 but set us free from him, who tempts it so! This last request, dear Lord, is not, indeed, made for ourselves, who need not make it here, but is for their sake who behind us stayed.”
Thus praying good speed for themselves and us, 25 those shades beneath a burden went their way, not unlike that whereof one dreams at times, unequally tormented, all of them,
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and weary, o’er the first ring, round and round, purging away the world’s defiling mists. 30
If good things there be always said for us, what can be said and done on their behalf down here, by those whose will is rooted well? Surely one ought to help them wash away the stains they brought with them, that they may issue, 35 cleansed and unburdened, to the starry spheres.
“Pray, so may pity and Justice speedily unburden you, that ye may move your wings, and raise yourselves according to your wish, show us on which hand lies the shortest way 40 to reach the stairs; and, be there more than one, teach us the pass that hath the gentlest slope; for, owing to the load of Adam’s flesh, which clothes his spirit, he who with me comes is slow in climbing, though against his will.” 45
As to the words, which in reply they said to those which he, whom I was following, spoke, it was not evident from whom they came; but this was said: “Come with us on the right along the bank, and ye shall find the pass, 50 which may be climbed by one that’s still alive. And were I not prevented by the stone, which tames my haughty neck, and forces me to keep my face bowed down, at this man here, who liveth still and telleth not his name, 50 I’d look, to see if he is one I know, and stir his pity for this heavy load. Latin I was, and born to a great Tuscan; Guglielmo Aldobrandesco was my father; I know not if you ever knew his name. 55 My forebears’ ancient blood and noble deeds caused me to be so arrogant, that I, unmindful of our common mother, earth, held every man in scorn to such extent, I died for it, as well knows Siena’s folk, 60 and every child in Campagnàtico. I am Omberto; nor to me alone doth this work ill, for pride hath with itself drawn all my kin into calamity. And here, for this, must I needs bear this load 65 among the dead, till God be satisfied, since I among the living bore it not.”
Listening, I bowed my face; and one of them, not he who had been speaking, writhed around under the burden which was hampering him; 70 and, having seen and recognized me, called, and kept his eyes with effort fixed on me, who, as I went along with them, was stooping.
Then “Oh!” said I, “Art thou not Oderisi, the glory of Agobbio and the art, 75 which is in Paris called ‘illuminating’?”
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“Brother,” said he, “more smiling are the parchments which Franco Bolognese paints; the glory is now all his and only partly mine. Because of that great longing to excel, 80 whereon my heart was set, I certainly would not have been so courteous while I lived. Here is the forfeit paid for pride like this; nor should I be here yet, had it not been that, while I still could sin, I turned to God. 85 O empty glory of our human powers, how short a time green lasts upon its top, unless uncultured ages overtake it! Once Cimabùe thought that he would hold the field in painting, yet the cry is all 90 for Giotto now, hence that one’s fame is dark. Thus hath one Guido taken from the other the glory of our tongue; and he is born, perhaps, who from the nest will banish both. Worldly repute is but a breath of wind, 95 which cometh now from here, and now from there, and shifts its name, because its quarter shifts. What greater fame shalt thou have—if when old thou quit thy flesh, than hadst thou died ere ‘pap’ and ‘chink’ were dropped,—a thousand years from now? 100 For that, if to eternity compared, is shorter than the twinkling of an eye is to the sky’s most slowly moving sphere. All Tuscany proclaimed the fame of him, who walks so slowly on the road before me; 105 yet hardly is a whisper of him left in Siena now, whose governor he was, what time the rage of Florence was destroyed, which then as haughty was, as abject now. Your worldly fame is like the hue of grass, 110 which comes and goes, and he discolors it, through whom it springs up tender from the ground.”
And I: “Thy true speech heart’ning me with good humility, thou prickst my swollen pride; but who is he of whom thou spok’st just now? 115
“That” he replied, “is Provenzàn Salvani; and here he is, because presumptuously he brought all Siena under his control. Thus hath he gone, and without rest he goes, e’er since he died; who yonder dares too much, 120 in satisfaction pays such coin as this.”
And I then: “If the spirit who delays, before repenting, till the verge of life, abides below, and cometh not up here, unless good prayers assist him, till as long 125 a time be passed as he had been alive, wherefore hath this man’s coming been vouchsafed?”
“When in his greatest glory,” he replied, “all shame removed, he freely took his stand in Siena’s Campo; 130
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and there, to free a friend suffering in Charles’ prison, he brought himself to quake in every vein. I’ll say no more, and know that what I say is darkly spoken; but so, ere long, will thine own neighbors act, 135 that thou’lt be able to interpret it. This deed of his relieved him from those bounds.”
Purgatorio XII Purgatory. The First Ring. Pride
Instances of Punished Pride. The Angel of Humility With equal steps, like oxen going yoked, I went along beside that burdened soul, as long as my dear Pedagogue allowed; but when he said: “Leave him, and go thou on; for here ’t is well that each should urge his bark 5 with sail and oars, as much as e’er he can,” I straightened me as much as walking called for, although my thoughts kept humble and depressed.
On had I moved, and in my Teacher’s steps 10 was following willingly, and both of us were showing now how light of step we were, when “Downward turn thine eyes!” he said to me, “Well will it be, to calm thee on thy way, that thou shouldst see the bed thy soles are treading.” 15
As over those that ’neath them buried lie —that they may be recalled to people’s minds— tombs level with the ground the record bear of what they were before; whence there they oft are wept for, through the prick of memory, 20 which spurs to grief the pitiful alone; ev’n so I saw engraved in sculpture here, though finer in respect to workmanship, as much as from the Mount juts out as path.
I saw, on one side, Him who once was made 25 nobler by far than any other creature, fall like a flash of lightning down from Heaven.
I saw Briareus, on the other side, pierced by an arrow from the sky, lie prone, and heavy on the ground with mortal cold. 30
I saw Apollo, Mars I saw and Pallas, as, still in armor, round their Sire they stood, gazing upon the Giants’ scattered limbs.
I saw great Nimrod ’neath his mighty work dumb with confusion, as he watched the folk, 35 who once were proud with him on Shinar’s plain.
O Niobe, with what sad eyes I thee
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saw pictured forth in stone, between thy children, the seven and seven thy dead, upon the road!
O Saul, how plainly there on thine own sword 40 didst thou seem dead upon Gilbòa’s mount, which felt thereafter neither rain nor dew!
O mad Arachne, thee I saw, as when, already half a spider, thou wast sad amid the tatters of thy fatal work. 45
O Rehoboam, not a threat seems now thy face, but terror-stricken, as away a chariot bears thee, lest thou be pursued.
It showed, moreover, that hard pavement did, how costly once Alcmaeon caused his mother’s 50 unlucky ornament to seem to her.
It showed how, in the temple’s walls, his sons cast themselves on Sennacherib, and how, when he was dead, they there abandoned him.
It showed the slaughter and the cruel woe 55 wrought by Tomyris, when she said to Cyrus: “With blood I fill thee, that didst thirst for blood!”
It showed, too, how the Assyrians took to flight, routed, when Holophernes had been killed, and also what was of that slaughter left. 60
I saw proud Troy in ashes and in caves. O Ilion, how degraded and how vile it showed thou wast, the image there perceived!
What master, or of brush or graving-tool, could reproduce the shadows and the features, 65 which there would cause all cultured minds to wonder? The dead seemed dead, the living seemed alive; whoever saw the real, no better saw than I then did what I was treading on, as long as bowed I walked. Be ye, then, proud, 70 and go with haughty looks, ye sons of Eve, nor bow your heads, to see your evil path!
More of the Mountain had we circled now, and of the sun’s course far more had we spent, than my not disengaged mind had supposed; 75 when he who always walked attentively ahead of me, began: “Lift up thy head! The time for going thus absorbed is passed. See there an Angel who is making ready to come toward us; see how the sixth handmaiden 80 returns now from the service of the day. With reverence adorn thine acts and face, that he may now be pleased to send us up; think that this day will never dawn again!”
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So well accustomed was I to his warning, 85 that I should never let my time be lost, that on this theme he could not darkly speak.
Toward us the lovely Creature was advancing, arrayed in white, and in his countenance, such as, when trembling, seems the morning star. 90 His arms he opened, then he oped his wings, and said to us: “Come; near by are the steps, and going up is easy after this.”
Only a few to this announcement come. O human race, why, born for upward flight, 95 fallest thou so before a little wind?
He led us on to where the rock was cut; and there my forehead with his wings he stroked, and promised that my passage would be safe.
As, on the right hand, to ascend the mount, 100 where seated is the church, which dominates the well ruled town o’er Rubaconte’s bridge, the slope’s bold flight is broken by the stairs constructed in an age, when quire and stave were safe; so, likewise, doth the bank relax, 105 which from the next ledge here quite steeply falls; but closely on each side the high rock rubs.
While, turning thither, we were on our way, “Blest are the poor in spirit!” voices sang in such a way as words could not describe. 110
Alas! how different are the passes here from those in Hell! For one up here goes in with songs, but there below with frightful wails!
We now were climbing up the holy stairs, and lighter far I felt than formerly 115 I seemed to be, when on the level ground; I hence said: “Teacher, say, what heavy thing has been removed from me, that, as I walk, I almost feel no weariness at all?”
He answered: “When the P’s, which still remain 120 almost extinct upon thy brow, are quite erased, as one is now, thy feet will so be conquered by good will, that they will feel not only no fatigue, but it will be a pleasure to them to be upward urged.” 125
I then did as do those, who go about with something on their head they know not of, till others’ gestures cause them to suspect; whereat their hand assists in ascertaining, searches, and finds, and so performs the work, 130 which cannot be accomplished by their sight; and with my right hand’s fingers spread I found
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that only six the letters were, which he who held the Keys, had o’er my temples cut; on seeing which my Leader smiled with joy. 135
Purgatorio XXI Purgatory. The Fifth Ring. Avarice and Prodigality
Statius. The Cause of the Earthquake The natural thirst, which never can be quenched, save by the water asked for by the lowly young woman of Samaria as a boon, was troubling me, while hurry spurred me on behind my Leader o’er the cumbered path, 5 and I was grieving for the just revenge.
Then lo, as Luke records for us that Christ, when risen from the burial cave, appeared before the two upon the road, a shade appeared, and came behind us as we watched 10 the crowd, which lay around us at our feet; but we perceived him not; hence he spoke first, and said: “May God, my brethren, give you peace!”
We turned at once, and to this greeting Virgil replied with that which corresponds to it. 15 Then he began: “Within the blest assembly mayst thou be set at peace by that just court which in eternal exile bindeth me.”
“What!” he replied, as quickly on we went, “If ye are shades whom God deigns not on high, 20 who guided you so far along His stairs?”
My Teacher then: “If thou regard the marks which this one bears, and which the Angel draws, thou’lt see that with the good he needs must reign. But whereas she, who spinneth night and day, 25 had not as yet drawn off for him the flax, which Clotho lays and packs for every one, his soul, which sister is to thee and me, could not, in climbing here, come up alone, because it seeth not as we. Hence I 30 out of the ample throat of Hell was drawn, to show the way to him, and I shall show it, as far as e’er my school can lead him on. But tell us, if thou knowest, why the Mountain shook so just now, and why all seemed to shout 35 with one accord down to its oozy base?”
Thus by his asking he had threaded so the needle’s eye of my desire, that, merely with hope, my thirst had come to be less craving.
The former then began: “Nothing exists 40 which this Mount’s sacred government can feel, that void of order is, or ’gainst its wont.
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From every change this place up here is free; whate’er Heaven’s self from its own self receives, can be the cause of it, and nothing else; 45 for neither rain, nor hail, nor snow, nor dew, nor frost falls any higher up than lies the little stairway of the three short steps; clouds neither dense or rarefied appear, nor lightning flashes, nor yet Thaumas’ daughter, 50 who often changes quarter in the world. Dry vapor goes no higher than the top of those three steps whereof I spoke to thee, and on which Peter’s vicar hath his feet. Below, perhaps, it trembles more or less, 55 but never quakes up here because of wind concealed, I know not how, inside the earth. It trembles here whenever any soul feels pure enough to rise, or starts to climb; and such a cry as this endorses it. 60 Of purity the will alone gives proof, which, seizing on the soul, now wholly free to change its company, by willing helps it. It wills this from the first; but that desire which, ’gainst the will, God’s Justice turns toward pain, 65 as it was once toward sin, allows it not. And I, who have five hundred years and more lain in this woe, felt only now within me a free volition for a better sphere. That’s why thou didst the earthquake feel, and hear 70 the pious spirits on this Mountain praise that Lord, who soon, I pray, will send them up.”
He thus addressed us; and, since one in drink delights, according as his thirst is great, I could not say how much he did me good. 75
And my wise Leader: “Now I see the net which holds you here, and how it opens, why it trembles here, and why ye all rejoice. Now who thou wast be pleased to let me know, and also let thy words include for me 80 why thou hast lain so many centuries here.”
“At that time when, helped by the Most High King, good Titus took due vengeance for the wounds, from which came forth the blood by Judas sold, I was in great renown” that spirit said, 85 “up yonder with the name which longest lasts, and honors most, but not as yet with faith. So sweet my song, that, though a Toulousan, Rome drew me to herself, where I deserved to have my temples crowned with myrtle wreath. 90 Statius they call me still up there; of Thebes I sang, of great Achilles next; but ’neath this second load I sank upon the way. The seeds of my enthusiasm were the sparks, which warmed me, of that fire divine, wherewith 95 more than a thousand poets are enflamed;
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I mean the Aeneid, which my mother was and nurse in poetry; and, lacking which, not by a drachm’s weight had I stirred the scales. And to have lived on earth when Virgil lived, 100 to one sun’s period more would I consent than what I owe, to issue from my ban.”
These words turned Virgil toward me with a look, which, silently, “Be silent!” said; and yet the power that wills can not do everything; 105 for tears and laughter follow so the passion, from which they each take rise, that least of all do they obey the will in those most truthful. I only smiled, like one who winks; whereat the shade kept still, and looked into my eyes, 110 wherein expression is most fixed, and said: “So mayst thou bring unto a happy end so great a toil, why was it that thy face showed me just now the flashing of a smile?”
I now am caught on one side and the other; 115 one asks for silence, the other conjures me to speak; I therefore sigh, and by my Teacher am understood. “Be not afraid to talk,” the latter said to me, “but speak, and tell him what he so eagerly desires to know.” 120
I therefore said: “Perhaps thou marvellest, O ancient spirit, at the smile I gave; but I would have still greater wonder seize thee. This spirit here, who upward leads mine eyes, that Virgil is, from whom thou didst of old 125 derive the strength to sing of men and gods. If thou hast given my smile some other cause, leave it as not the true one, and believe it was the words thyself didst say of him.”
Already was he stooping to embrace 130 my Teacher’s feet; but he said: “Brother, no; for thou, a shade now, dost a shade behold.”
Rising, he said: “Thou now canst understand the sum of love which warmeth me toward thee, since I forget our disembodied state, 135 and act with shades as if they solid were.”
Purgatorio XXII Purgatory. Statius. The Angel of Justice
The Sixth Ring. Gluttony. Instances of Temperance Already was the Angel left behind, the Angel who had toward the sixth ring turned us, after erasing from my face a wound; and he had said to us that those are blest, whose longing is for justice, and his words, 5 with nothing further, ended this with “thirst.”
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Hence, lighter now than at the other passes, I so advanced, that I, without fatigue, was following up the spirits who were swift, when Virgil thus began: “A love that flames, 10 by virtue kindled, always lights another, if but its flame be outwardly revealed. And therefore from the hour when Juvenal, who let me know thy love for me, came down among us in the Borderland of Hell, 15 my good will hath been such toward thee, that none e’er bound me more to one I had not seen; these stairs will, therefore, now seem short to me. But tell me, and forgive me as a friend, if too great confidence relax my rein, 20 and as a friend converse with me henceforth: how was it avarice could find a place within thy breast together with such wisdom, as that wherewith thou by thy zeal wast filled?”
At first these words made Statius smile a little; 25 and then he answered: “Every word of thine is of thy love for me a precious proof. Things, of a truth, quite frequently appear, which offer one false arguments for doubt, because their real occasions are concealed. 30 Thy question makes me sure of thy belief, due, maybe, to the ring where I was found, that I was in the last life avaricious. Know, then, that avarice was too far from me, and that this lack of temperance on my part 35 thousands of courses of the moon have punished. And were it not that I corrected me, when I had understood thee in thy cry, indignant, as it were, with human nature: ‘Why dost thou not, O virtuous love of gold, 40 govern the appetite of mortal men?’ I’d now, by rolling, feel the wretched jousts. I then perceived that hands could ope their wings too much in spending, and repented me of that, as well as of my other sins. 45 How many from the grave shall hairless rise through ignorance which, in life and at the last, deprives them of repentance for this fault! Know, too, that any fault which of a sin is just the opposite, together with it 50 drieth its green leaves here. If, therefore, I, to purge myself, have been among the folk who avarice bewail, to me it happened because of what was contrary thereto.”
“When thou didst sing, then, of the cruel strife 55 between the two afflictions of Jocasta,” said he who sang bucolic songs, “by that which Clio singeth with thee there, the faith, without which doing good is not enough, had not, it seems, yet made thee a believer. 60 If this be so, what sun, or else what candles
Image 5.16: Purgatorio: Canto Twen- ty-Two | Dante passes through the sixth layer of Purgatory, where gluttony transforms to temperance.
Author: Teodolinda Barolini Source: Digital Dante License: Public Domain
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Hence, lighter now than at the other passes, I so advanced, that I, without fatigue, was following up the spirits who were swift, when Virgil thus began: “A love that flames, 10 by virtue kindled, always lights another, if but its flame be outwardly revealed. And therefore from the hour when Juvenal, who let me know thy love for me, came down among us in the Borderland of Hell, 15 my good will hath been such toward thee, that none e’er bound me more to one I had not seen; these stairs will, therefore, now seem short to me. But tell me, and forgive me as a friend, if too great confidence relax my rein, 20 and as a friend converse with me henceforth: how was it avarice could find a place within thy breast together with such wisdom, as that wherewith thou by thy zeal wast filled?”
At first these words made Statius smile a little; 25 and then he answered: “Every word of thine is of thy love for me a precious proof. Things, of a truth, quite frequently appear, which offer one false arguments for doubt, because their real occasions are concealed. 30 Thy question makes me sure of thy belief, due, maybe, to the ring where I was found, that I was in the last life avaricious. Know, then, that avarice was too far from me, and that this lack of temperance on my part 35 thousands of courses of the moon have punished. And were it not that I corrected me, when I had understood thee in thy cry, indignant, as it were, with human nature: ‘Why dost thou not, O virtuous love of gold, 40 govern the appetite of mortal men?’ I’d now, by rolling, feel the wretched jousts. I then perceived that hands could ope their wings too much in spending, and repented me of that, as well as of my other sins. 45 How many from the grave shall hairless rise through ignorance which, in life and at the last, deprives them of repentance for this fault! Know, too, that any fault which of a sin is just the opposite, together with it 50 drieth its green leaves here. If, therefore, I, to purge myself, have been among the folk who avarice bewail, to me it happened because of what was contrary thereto.”
“When thou didst sing, then, of the cruel strife 55 between the two afflictions of Jocasta,” said he who sang bucolic songs, “by that which Clio singeth with thee there, the faith, without which doing good is not enough, had not, it seems, yet made thee a believer. 60 If this be so, what sun, or else what candles
Image 5.16: Purgatorio: Canto Twen- ty-Two | Dante passes through the sixth layer of Purgatory, where gluttony transforms to temperance.
Author: Teodolinda Barolini Source: Digital Dante License: Public Domain
lightened thy darkness so, that thou thereafter didst set thy sails behind the Fisherman?”
“Thou first didst send me to Parnassus’ slopes to drink,” he said to him, “and then the first 65 thou wast, who, next to God, illumined me. Thou didst like him, who, when he walks by night, a light behind him bears nor helps himself, but maketh those that follow after see, when thou didst say: ‘The age renews itself; 70 Justice returns, and man’s primeval times, as down from Heaven a new-born race descends.’ Through thee a poet I became, through thee a Christian! But, that thou mayst better see my sketch, I’ll set my hand to color it. 75
Pregnant already with the true belief, sowed by the eternal Kingdom’s messengers, was every portion of the whole wide world; and now thy words, to which I’ve just referred, with these new preachers harmonized so well, 80 that I became accustomed to frequent them. Thereat so holy did they come to seem, that when Domitian persecuted them, their lamentations did not lack my tears; and while I still remained in yonder world, 85 I helped them; and their upright mode of life caused me to treat with scorn all other sects.
And ere in poetry I led the Greeks to see the streams of Thebes, baptized I was; and yet, through fear, a secret Christian only, 90 I long pretended faith in paganism; this lukewarmness around the fourth ring moved me till far beyond the fourth centennial year. Thou, therefore, that didst lift the covering veil which hid from me the good whereof I speak, 95 tell me, while we have still a little more to climb, where our old Terence is, and where Cecilius, Plautus, Varro, if thou know; tell me if they are damned, and in what ward.”
“Both they and Persius, I and many others” 100 my Leader answered him, “are with the Greek, whom more than any else the Muses nursed, in the first circle of the sightless Prison; and frequently we talk about the mount, which always hath our nurses on its slopes. 105 Euripides and Antiphon are there with us, Simonides and Agathon, and many other Greeks, who once adorned their brows with laurel. There, of thine own folk, Antigone is seen, Deìphile, 110 Argìa, and, as sad as once, Ismène. There, too, may she be seen, who showed Langìa; there is Tiresias’ daughter, Thetis also, and with her sisters there, Deidamìa.”
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And now the Poets, both of them, were silent, 115 intent again on looking round, since free from climbing up and free from walls; and while four handmaids of the day had dropped behind, the fifth was at the sun-car’s pole, still upward pointing its burning horn; whereat my Leader: 120 “I think that it behooves us now to turn our right sides toward the outer edge, and circle the Mountain as our wont it is to do.”
Thus was our custom our instructor there; and with less doubt we started on again, 125 because of that deserving soul’s assent. In front they went, and I behind, alone, listening the while to what they had to say, which gave me understanding for my verse.
But soon their pleasant talk a Tree broke off, 130 which in the middle of the road we found, with fruit agreeable and sweet to smell; and as a fir-tree tapers up from branch to branch, so likewise this one tapered down, in order, I believe, that none may climb it. 135 And on the side on which our path was closed, down from the lofty cliff a limpid stream was falling, and spraying upward o’er its leaves.
Then toward the Tree the two Bards turned their steps; and from among its leaves a voice cried out: 140 “Of this food there will be for you a dearth!” Then: “More did Mary think of honoring, the marriage feast, and making it complete, than of her mouth, which pleadeth now for you; the ancient Roman women were content 145 with water for their only drink; and Daniel thought little of his food, but wisdom gained. The primal age was beautiful as gold; with hunger it made acorns sweet to taste, and nectar every little brook, with thirst. 150 Honey and flying locusts were the food which fed the Baptist in the wilderness; hence he is now as glorious and as great, as by the Gospel is revealed to you.”
Purgatorio XXVI Purgatory. The Seventh Ring. Lust
Instances of Natural and of Unnatural Lust While thus, one ’fore the other, ’long the edge we went, and my good Teacher often said: “Attention pay; and let my warning help thee!” the sun, which with its rays was changing now from azure all the western skies to white, 5 was on my right side striking me; and I was with my shadow giving to the flame a brighter red; I noticed many shades
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give heed to this small sign, as on they moved. This was what started them to speak of me; 10 and they began to say among themselves: “That one seems not to have an unreal body.” Then some of them, as far as possible drew near to me, though always with due care not to come out where they would not be burned. 15
“O thou that goest on behind the rest, though not from sloth, but from respect, perhaps reply to me, who burn with thirst and fire! Nor is by me alone thine answer needed; for all these here have greater thirst therefor 20 than Indians or Ethiopians for cold water. Inform us how it is that with thyself thou makest thus a wall against the sun, as if thou hadst not entered death’s snare yet.”
Thus one of them addressed me; and at once 25 had I declared myself, had I not heeded another novelty which then appeared; for through the middle of the flaming road folk with their faces turned the other way came on, and made me stop to gaze at them. 30 There all the shades on every side I see make haste, and, without stopping, kiss each other, with this short form of greeting satisfied.
Thus one ant from among its dark host touches its muzzle to another’s, to obtain, 35 perhaps, directions as to path or fortune.
As soon as they leave off their friendly greeting, and ere the first step has been taken there, each struggles to outcry the other shade; the new-come band shouts: “Sodom and Gomorrah!” 40 the other: “In the cow Pasìphaë reclines, that to her lust the bull may run.”
Thereat, like cranes,—if some of them should fly toward the Riphæan heights, and toward the sands the rest, these shunning ice, and those the sun,— 45 one band departs, the other comes along; and weeping to their previous song they turn, and to the cry which best befitteth them. Then those same shades who had entreated me, drew near to me, as they had done before, 50 with eagerness to listen in their looks.
And I, who twice had seen what they desired, began: “O souls, who now are sure of having, whenever it may be, a state of peace, my body’s members have not stayed beyond, 55 either unripe or ripe, but with their blood, and with their joints are really with me here. I hence go up, to be no longer blind. On high a Lady wins us Grace, whereby
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I carry through your world my mortal part. 60 But, so may your best wish be soon fulfilled, in order that that heaven may shelter you, which, full of love, is amplest in its spread, tell me, that I may rule more paper for it, both who ye are, and what is yonder crowd, 65 which onward goes its way behind your backs.”
A mountaineer becomes not otherwise confused, nor, looking round, grows dumb, when, rough and wild, he enters first a town, than each shade did in its appearance there; 70 but, when set free from that astonishment, which soon diminishes in high-born hearts, the one who questioned me before resumed: “Happy art thou, that shippest thus experience of these our bounds, that better thou mayst live! 75 The people who come not along with us, in that offended, for which Caesar once when triumphing heard ‘Queen’ cried out against him; from us they therefore separate with cries of ‘Sodom,’ and by self-reproach assist, 80 as thou hast heard, the burning by their shame. Our sin was intersexual; but, since we, by following our appetites like beasts, failed to conform ourselves to human law, to our confusion, when we leave the others, 85 her name we cry, who bestialized herself by lying in the beast-resembling frame. Thou knowest now our deeds, and what our guilt; if who we are thou’dst know, perhaps, by name, there is no time to tell, nor could I do it. 90 As to myself, I’ll rid thee of thy wish; I’m Guido Guinizelli, and purge me now, because of grieving well before the end.”
As in Lycurgus’ anguish those two sons became, when they again beheld their mother, 95 ev’n such did I, though I went not so far, when him I heard self-named, who father was to me and others, better men than I, who e’er made sweet and graceful rhymes of love; hence, lost in thought, nor hearing aught or speaking, 100 I moved, and long I gazed at him in wonder, but, for the fire, no nearer drew to him.
When I with looking had been fully fed, I put myself entirely at his service with those assurances which win belief. 105
And he: “Thou leav’st in me a memory, from what I hear, so great and plain, that Lethe can neither wipe it out nor make it dim. But, if thy words swore what was true just now, tell me: why hast thou by thy speech and looks 110 revealed to me that thou dost hold me dear?”
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And I to him: “’T was those sweet rhymes of yours which, while the modern form of speech endures, will e’er endear to me their very ink.”
“Brother,” he said, “he whom I indicate,” 115 (he pointed at a spirit on ahead) was of his mother tongue a better smith. In love-songs and in stories of romance he vanquished all; hence let those fools talk on, who think the Limousin excelleth him. 120 To rumor, rather than to truth, they turn their faces, forming their opinions thus, ere art or reason have by them been heeded. Thus with Guittone many ancients did, giving, from cry to cry, to him alone 125 the prize, until with most the truth prevailed. If now so amply privileged thou art, that lawful is thy going to the cloister, where Christ is Abbot of the brotherhood, a Pater-noster say to Him for me, 130 or all of it that we in this world need, wherein no longer it is ours to sin.”
And then, perhaps to yield his place to one near by him there, he vanished through the fire, as to the bottom would a fish through water. 135
Toward him who had been pointed out I moved a little way, and said that my desire was for his name a gracious place preparing.
“Your courteous question” he, unurged, began, “delighteth me so much, that I can not, 140 nor do I wish to, hide myself from you. Arnaut am I, who, going, weep and sing; with sorrow my past folly I behold, and see with joy the hoped-for coming day. Now by the Power which guides you to the top 145 of this short flight of stairs, I beg of you be mindful in due time of this my pain!”
Then in the fire refining them he hid.
Purgatorio XXX Terrestrial Paradise. Lethe
Appearance of Beatrice. Disappearance of Virgil When the Septentrion of the highest heaven,— which never either setting knew, or rising, or veil of other mist than that of guilt, and which was causing every creature there to know his duty, as the lower one 5 makes him who turns the helm to reach a port,— stopped suddenly; the people of the truth, who first had come between it and the Griffon, turned around toward the Car, as toward their peace; and one of them, as though from Heaven sent down, 10
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sang thrice aloud: “Come thou from Lebanon, my spouse!” and all the rest sang after him.
As at the last trump-call each of the blest will quickly rise from out his tomb, and sing the Halleluiah with a voice regained; 15 even so there rose upon the Car divine, at such an elder’s voice, a hundred servants and message-bearers of eternal life. They all were saying: “Blest be thou that comest!” and, strewing flowers on high and all around, 20 “Oh, scatter forth your lilies with full hands!”
I’ve seen ere now when day began to dawn, the eastern skies all rosy, and the rest adorned with beauty and serenity; and then the sun rise with its face o’ershadowed 25 in such a way that, through the tempering of mists, the human eye could long endure it; so likewise standing in a cloud of flowers, which rose from angel hands, and fell again within and out the Car, a Lady, crowned 30 with a wreath of olives o’er a pure white veil, appeared before me, ’neath a cloak of green, clothed with the color of a living flame.
My spirit hereupon, which for so long a time had not been trembling in her presence, 35 or felt itself all broken down with awe, with no more knowledge of her by mine eyes, but through a hidden virtue issuing from her, felt the great power of the olden love.
As soon as that high virtue smote my sight, 40 which formerly had pierced me through and through, ere I had passed beyond my boyhood’s years, round to the left I turned me with the trust wherewith an infant to its mother runs, whenever terrified or in distress, 45 to say to Virgil: “Less now than a drachm of blood remains in me that is not trembling; I feel the tokens of the olden flame.”
But Virgil now had left us of himself deprived, Virgil, my dearest father, Virgil, 50 to whom for my salvation I had giv’n me; nor yet did all our ancient mother lost avail to keep my cheeks, though cleansed with dew, from turning dark again because of tears.
“Dante, though Virgil leave, weep thou not yet, 55 weep thou not yet; for thou wilt need to weep by reason of another sword than this.”
Even as an admiral, who, both on stern and prow, comes to behold the men that serve on the other ships, and urge them to do well; 60
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so likewise on the left side of the Car, when I had turned around me at the sound of mine own name, which here must needs be mentioned, I saw the Lady who had first appeared concealed beneath the Angels’ festival, 65 direct her eyes toward me across the stream.
Although the veil, which from her head hung down, encircled by Minerva’s olive leaves, did not allow her to appear distinctly; she went on royally, still stern in mien, 70 as one doth who, when speaking, holdeth back his warmest words: “Look at us well, for we, indeed, are, we, indeed, are Beatrice! How wast thou able to approach the Mountain? Didst thou not know that man is happy here?” 75
My lowered eyes fell on the limpid stream; but when I saw myself reflected there, I drew them to the grass, so great the shame that weighed my forehead down! As to her child a mother seems severe, so she to me, 80 for bitter tastes the savor of harsh pity.
Silent she kept, then suddenly the Angels chanted: “In Thee, Lord, have I set my trust,” but further than “my feet” they did not go.
Even as the snow among the living beams 85 grown on the back of Italy is frozen, when blown and hardened by Slavonian winds; and then, when melting, trickles through itself, if but the land that loses shadows breathe, and thus seems like a fire that melts a candle; 90 ev’n so was I with neither tears nor sighs, before the song of those who ever tune their notes to music of eternal spheres.
But when I heard in their sweet harmonies the sympathy they had for me, far more 95 than had they said: “Why, Lady, shame him so?” the ice bound tightly round my heart was turned to breath and water, and through mouth and eyes issued with anguish from my inmost breast.
Then she, still standing motionless 100 upon the same side of the Car, addressed those sympathetic creatures with these words:
“Ye keep your watches through the eternal day, so that nor night nor slumber robs from you one step the world may take upon its course; 105 my answer, hence, is made with greater care, that he, who yonder weeps, may understand, and guilt and sorrow of one measure be.
Not only through the work of those great spheres,
Image 5.17: Purgatorio: Canto Thirty | In this illustration, Dante is criticized by Beatrice for loving other women after her death, and they both observe the griffin.
Author: Teodolinda Barolini Source: Digital Dante License: Public Domain
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which to some end directly guide each seed, 110 according as the stars are its companions; but through the bounty of the Grace divine, which for its rain hath clouds so very high, our eyes cannot approach them; this one here was such potentially in early life, 115 that all right dispositions would have had wondrous results in him. But all the more malign and savage doth a soil become, when sown with evil seed and left untilled, the better and more vigorous it is. 120 I for a while sustained him with my face; and showing him my youthful eyes, I led him along with me turned in the right direction. But when the threshold of my second age I reached, and changed my life, he took himself 125 away from me, and gave him to another. And when from flesh to spirit I had risen, and beauty and virtue had increased in me, less dear and pleasing was I then to him; and o’er an untrue path he turned his steps, 130 following deceitful images of good, which naught that they have promised pay in full. Nor yet did it avail me to obtain the inspirations, wherewith both in dreams and otherwise I called him back; he cared 135 so little for them! So low down he fell, that short were now all means for his salvation, save showing him the people that are lost. I visited the Gateway of the dead for this, and unto him who guided him 140 up hither, fraught with tears, my prayers were borne. God’s high, fate-ordered Will would broken be, if Lethe should be passed, and should such food be tasted without paying first the scot of penitence made manifest by tears.” 145
Paradiso I Introduction to the Paradiso. Invocation of Apollo. Ascent
through the Sphere of Fire. The Order of the Universe The Glory of Him who moveth everything, penetrates all the Universe, and shines more brightly in one part, and elsewhere less.
Within the Heaven which most receives His Light I was; and saw what he who thence descends 5 neither knows how, nor hath the power, to tell; for as it draweth near to its Desire, our intellect so deeply sinks therein, that recollection cannot follow it. As much, however, of the holy Realm 10 as in my memory I could treasure up, shall now become the subject of my song.
O Good Apollo, for my final task
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make me as worthy a vessel of Thy Power, as Thou dost ask for Thy dear laurel’s gift. 15 One of Parnassus’ peaks hath hitherto sufficed me; but with both of them I now must start upon the course which still remains. Enter my breast, and breathe Thou as of old Thou didst, when from the scabbard of his limbs 20 Thou drewest Marsyas forth.
O Power Divine, if Thou but lend Thyself to me so much, that I may show the blessèd Kingdom’s shadow which in my mind is stamped; to Thy dear tree 25 Thou’lt see me come, and crown me with the leaves my theme and Thou shall cause me to deserve. So seldom, Father, are there any picked, to grace a Caesar’s or a Poet’s triumph, (the fault of human wills, and to their shame), 30 that His Peneian leaf should bring forth joy within the Joyous Delphic Deity, when for itself it causes one to thirst.
A great flame follows from a little spark; perhaps with better voices after me 35 shall men so pray, that Cyrrha will reply.
For mortal men the lantern of the world rises through divers passes; but from that which with three crosses brings four rings together, it issues on a more propitious course, 40 and in conjunction with a kinder star, and more in its own image moulds and seals the mundane wax. A pass almost like this had made it morning there and evening here; and all that hemisphere was white, and black 45 the other side; when Beatrice I saw turned toward her left, and looking at the sun; no eagle ever gazed at it so keenly.
And even as from the first a second ray is wont to come, and upward start again, 50 as would a pilgrim longing to return; even so to her act, by mine eyes infused through my imagination, mine conformed; and on the sun I gazed beyond our wont.
Much is permitted there, which is not here 55 allowed our faculties, thanks to the site created as the human race’s home.
Not long did I endure it, nor so briefly, as not to see it sparkle all around, as molten iron doth, when out of fire 60 it issues boiling; day then all at once seemed joined to day, as if the One who can had with another sun adorned the sky.
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With eyes fixed wholly on the eternal wheels stood Beatrice; and I on her fixed mine, 65 from there above removed. Looking at her, I such became within, as Glaucus did on tasting of the herb, which in the sea made him a fellow of the other Gods.
Transhumanizing could not be expressed 70 by words; let this case, therefore, him suffice, for whom Grace holds experience in reserve.
If I, O Love that rulest Heaven, was only that part of me, which Thou didst last create, Thou know’st, that with Thy Light didst raise me up. 75
When the rotation Thou, by being longed for, dost make eternal, drew me to itself by harmonies distributed and tuned by Thee, it seemed that so much of the sky was by the sun’s flame set on fire, that rain 80 nor river ever made so broad a lake.
The newness of the sound, and brilliant light kindled in me a wish to know their cause, never with so great keenness felt; whence she, who saw me ev’n as I behold myself, 85 opened her mouth to calm my troubled mind, ere I did mine to question, and began:
“With false imagining dost thou so dull thyself, that thou perceivest not what else thou wouldst perceive, if thou hadst thrown it off. 90 Thou’rt not on earth, as thou dost think thyself; but lightning fleeing from its proper place ne’er ran as thou, that art thereto returning.”
If I was by her little smiled-out words of my first doubt relieved, within a new one 95 was I the more ensnared; I therefore said: “Already sated, I had found repose from great amazement; but I wonder now how I can these light elements transcend.”
Heaving, thereat, a pitying sigh, she turned 100 her eyes upon me with the look a mother gives her delirious child; and then began:
“All things, whate’er they be, an order have among themselves; and form this order is, which makes the Universe resemble God. 105 Therein exalted creatures see the trace of that Eternal Worth, which is the end for which the mentioned order is created. Within the ordered state whereof I speak, all natures have their place with different lots, 110 as nearer to their source they are, or less; wherefore toward different ports they wend their way
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through the vast sea of being, each endowed with instinct, granted it to bear it on. This instinct toward the moon impelleth fire; 115 this is the motive force in mortal hearts; this binds together and unites the earth; nor doth this bow impel those creatures only which lack intelligence, but those that have intelligence and love. The Providence 120 which ordereth all this, with Its own Light e’er calms the heaven, inside of which revolves the one that moveth with the greatest speed. And thither now, as to a place ordained, that bowstring’s power is bearing us along, 125 which to a glad mark speeds whate’er it shoots. ’T is true that, as a form is frequently discordant with the intention of an art, because its matter in response is deaf; so likewise from this natural course at times 130 a creature turns away; for power it hath, though thus impelled, to bend aside elsewhere, (as one may see fire falling from a cloud), if, by false pleasure drawn, that primal impulse turn it aside to earth. If well I judge, 135 no further shouldst thou wonder at thy rising, than at a stream thou dost, which to its foot down from a lofty mountain’s top descends. As great a marvel would it be in thee, if, rid of hindrance, thou hadst sat thee down, 140 as rest, on earth, would in a living flame.”
Then toward the sky she turned her face again.
Paradiso II The First Heaven. The Moon. Reflected Happiness Inconstant Spirits who failed to keep their Vows
O ye who, in a little boat embarked, have, fain to listen, followed in the wake of this my ship, which, singing, ploughs ahead, go back to see your shores again! Start not upon the ocean; for, if me ye lost, 5 ye might, perhaps, be left behind astray.
The seas I sail were never crossed before; Minerva breathes, Apollo is my guide, and all nine Muses point me out the Bears.
Ye other few, who early raised your necks 10 for Angels’ bread, on which one here on earth subsists, but with which none are ever sated, ye well may start your vessel on the deep salt sea, if in the furrow of my ship ye stay, ere smooth again the waves become. 15 Those glorious ones, who crossed the seas to Colchis, were not so much amazed, as ye shall be, when Jason turned a ploughman they beheld.
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The innàte and ceaseless thirsting for the Realm in God’s own image made, was bearing us 20 as swiftly as ye see the heavens revolve.
On high looked Beatrice, and I on her; and in the time, perhaps, an arrow takes to light, and fly, and from the notch be freed, I saw that I had come to where a marvel 25 turned to itself my sight; hence she, from whom the working of my mind could not be hid, as glad as she was lovely, turned toward me, and said: “Direct thy grateful mind to God, who with the first star hath united us.” 30
Meseemed as if a cloud were covering us, as luminous and dense, as hard and polished, as is a diamond smitten by the sun. Within itself the eternal pearl received us, as water, though unbroken it remain, 35 receives within itself a ray of light.
If body I was (nor can one here conceive how one dimension could endure another, which needs must be, if body enter body), the more should we be kindled by the wish 40 that Essence to behold, wherein is seen how once with God our nature was conjoined. Thère will be seen, what here we hold by faith, not demonstrated, but will self-known be, as is the primal truth which men believe. 45
“My Lady,” I replied, “as best I can do I devoutly render thanks to Him, who from the mortal world hath severed me. But tell me what this body’s dark spots are, which cause the folk down yonder on the earth 50 to tell each other fables about Cain.”
She smiled a little, then she said: “If mortals’ opinion therein errs, where key of sense unlocketh not, surely the shafts of wonder ought not to pierce thee now; 55 for thou perceivest that short are Reason’s wings, when following sense. But tell me what thou think’st thereof thyself.”
And I: “What seems to us diverse up here, is caused, I think, by bodies thin and dense.” 60
And she: “Thou’lt surely see that thy belief is sunk in error, if but well thou heed the arguments I’ll now oppose to it.
The eighth sphere shows you many shining stars, which both in quality and magnitude, 65 may be observed to differ in their looks. If only rarity and density
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caused this, among them all one single virtue would more, and less, and equally be shared. Virtues that differ needs must be the fruit 70 of formal principles, and these, save one, would, by thy way of reasoning, be destroyed. Again, if thinness caused the dusky spots which thou dost ask about, this planet would, in portions, through its bulk its matter lack, 75 or, as a body what is fat and lean distributes, so would this one alternate its volume’s leaves. If true the former were, ’t would in the sun’s eclipses be revealed, because the latter’s light would then shine through, 80 as when in other thin things introduced. This does not happen; hence the other one must be considered now; and should I chance to quash it, false will thy opinion prove.
If, therefore, it be so that this thin part 85 extends not through, a limit there must be, beyond which what is contrary thereto allows it not to pass; the other’s ray is, hence, reflected, as color from a glass returns, which back of it concealeth lead. 90 Thou’lt now say that the ray seems dimmer there than in the other parts it is, because from further back reflected. From this retort experimenting, which is wont to be the fountain of the rivers of your arts, 95 can, if thou ever try it, set thee free. Thou’lt take three mirrors; two of them removed at equal distance from thee, let the third, placed ’tween them, more remotely meet thine eyes. Then, turning toward them, let a lamp stand so 100 between them, as to shine upon all three, and be reflected on thee from them all. Though the most distant light will not extend so much in quantity, thou’lt see thereby how it must needs with equal brightness shine. 105 And now, as at the stroke of burning rays, what lies beneath the snow is wholly bared of what were previously its cold and color; thee, thus remaining in thine intellect, will I inform with such a living light, 110 that it will quiver when thou seest it.
Within the heaven of Peace Divine revolves a body, subject to whose influence lies the being of whatever it contains. The next, which hath so many eyes, distributes 115 that being ’mong the different essences, distinguished from it, and contained by it. The other spheres, by various differences, dispose to their effects and causes those distinctions which within themselves they have. 120 These organs of the world so go their way, as thou perceivest now, from grade to grade,
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that from above they take, and downward act. Give me good heed, as through this argument I seek the truth thou wishest, that henceforth 125 thou mayst know how to cross the ford alone. The holy circles’ influence and motion, as from the blacksmith doth the hammer’s art, must from the blessèd Motors be inspired; and that heaven which so many lights adorn, 130 receives its impress from the Mind profound, which turneth it, and makes thereof a seal. And as the soul which lives within your dust unfolds itself through members, which are different, and unto different potencies conformed; 135 so likewise, multiplied among the stars, doth that Intelligence unfold its goodness, while on its unity itself revolves. Each different power a different alloy makes, mixed with the precious body which it quickens, 140 and with which it unites, as life in you. Because of that glad nature whence it flows, the mingled virtue through the body shines, as, through a living pupil, joy. From this comes what ’tween light and light a difference seems, 145 and not from rarity and density; this is the formal principle which makes, according to its strength, things dark and bright.
Paradiso III The First Heaven. The Moon. Reflected Happiness Inconstant Spirits who failed to keep their Vows
That sun which erst had warmed my heart with love, by proving and refuting, had revealed to me the pleasing face of lovely truth; and I, in order to confess myself corrected and assured, lifted my head 5 as high as utterance of assent required.
But, that I might behold it, there appeared a sight, which to itself so closely held me, that my confession I remembered not.
Even as from polished or transparent glasses, 10 or waters clear and still, but not so deep, that wholly lost to vision is their bed, the features of our faces are returned so faintly, that upon a pallid brow a pearl comes no less faintly to our eyes; 15 thus saw I many a face that longed to speak; I therefore ran into the fault opposed to that which kindled love ’tween man and fount.
As soon as I became aware of them, supposing they were mirrored images, 20 to find out whose they were, I turned mine eyes; and seeing nothing, back again I turned them
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straight on into the light of my sweet Guide, whose holy eyes were glowing as she smiled.
“Be not surprised” she said, “that I should smile 25 at what is childish in thy present thought, since on the truth it trusts not yet its foot, but, as its wont is, turneth thee in vain. Real substances are these whom thou perceivest, assigned here for a vow not wholly kept. 30 Speak to them, then, and hear them, and believe; for from Itself the True Light which contents them, permits them not to turn their feet away.”
And I addressed me to the shade which seemed most eager to converse, and I began, 35 like one confounded by too great desire:
“O well-created spirit, that in rays of life eternal dost that sweetness taste, which never is, untasted, understood, ’t will grateful be to me, if thou content me 40 with thine own name, and thy companions’ lot.”
Hence promptly and with laughing eyes she said: “Not otherwise doth our love lock its doors against a just desire, than that Love doth, who wills that all His court be like Himself. 45 A virgin sister was I in the world; and if within itself thy mind look well, my being fairer will not hide me from thee, but thou wilt recognize that I’m Piccarda, who, placed here with these other blessèd ones, 50 am happy in the slowest moving sphere. Our wishes, which are only set on fire by that which is the Holy Spirit’s pleasure, rejoice in that our joy was willed by Him. And this allotment, which appears so low, 55 is therefore giv’n to us, because our vows neglected were, and not completely kept.”
Hence I to her: “In these your wondrous faces there shines I know not what that is divine, which from your old appearance changes you; 60 hence in remembering you I was not quick; but what thou now dost tell me helps me so, that I more easily recall thy face. But, tell me, ye who here so happy are, are ye desirous of a higher place, 65 that ye may see more friends, or make you more?”
First with those other shades she smiled a little, and then replied to me so joyously, that she appeared to burn with love’s first fire:
“Brother, love’s virtue sets our will at rest, 70 and makes us wish for only what we have, and doth not make us thirsty for aught else.
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If higher we desired to be, our wishes would be discordant with the will of Him, who here discerneth us, which, thou wilt see, 75 can in these circles not occur, if love be necessary to existence here, and if love’s nature thou consider well. Nay more, essential to this blessèd life it is, that we should be within the Will 80 Divine, whereby our wills become one will; and so, even as we are, from grade to grade throughout this Realm, to all the Realm is pleasing, as to its King, who in His Will in-wills us; and His Will is our Peace; and that 85 the Ocean is, whereunto moveth all that It creates, and all that Nature makes.”
Clear was it then to me that every where in Heaven is Paradise, and yet the Grace of Good Supreme rains there in many ways. 90
But as it happens that, if one food sate, and longing for another still remain, for one we ask, and one decline with thanks; even thus with word and act did I, to learn from her what was the nature of the web, 95 whose shuttle she drew not unto its end.
“High worth and perfect life in-heaven” she said, “a lady higher up here, in whose rule the robe and veil are worn, that, till death come, both watch and sleep they may beside that Spouse, 100 who every vow accepts, which love conforms to that which pleases Him. To follow her, when I was but a girl I fled the world, and in her habit clothing me, I promised that I would keep within her order’s path. 105 Thereafter men more used to ill than good, out of that pleasant cloister dragged me forth, and God knows what my life was after that.
This other splendor also, which reveals itself to thee upon my right, and glows 110 with all the radiance of this sphere of ours, takes to herself what of myself I say; a nun she was, and likewise from her head the shadow of the sacred veils was torn. But when she, too, was brought back to the world 115 against her wishes and against good usage, she never from the heart’s veil freed herself. This is the splendor of the great Costanza, who by the second Wind of Swabia gave the third and final Power birth.” She thus 120 addressed me, and thereat ‘Ave, Maria’ began to sing, and, singing, disappeared, as through deep water heavy objects do.
Mine eyes which followed after her as far
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as it was possible, on losing her, 125 back to the mark of greater longing turned, and unto Beatrice reverted wholly; but she so flashed upon me, as I gazed, that first my sight endured it not; and this the slower made me in my questioning. 130
Paradiso IV The First Heaven. The Moon. Reflected Happiness Inconstant Spirits who failed to keep their Vows
A free man, ’tween two viands equally attractive and removed, would die of hunger, before he carried either to his teeth; thus would a lamb, between the ravenings of two fierce wolves, keep fearing each alike; 5 thus would a dog remain between two does.
Hence, by my doubts impelled in equal measure, if I was silent, I reproach me not, nor do I praise, since thus it had to be. I held my peace; but my desire was painted 10 upon my face, and far more warmly thus I asked, than had it been by uttered speech.
Hence Beatrice did ev’n as Daniel once, when in Nebuchadnezzar he appeased the wrath, which had unjustly made him cruel; 15 and “Clearly do I see” she said, “how both thy wishes so attract thee, that thy thought is so self-bound, that it is not expressed. Thou arguest thus: ‘If my good will endure, why doth the violence of others cause 20 the measure of my merit to be less?’ Again it gives thee cause for doubt, that souls seem to return unto the stars again, according to the opinion Plato held. These are the questions which upon thy will 25 are thrusting equally; I’ll hence deal first with that one which hath most of venom for thee.
Of all the Seraphs he who most in-Gods himself, or Moses, Samuel, or, I say, whichever John thou choose, or even Mary, 30 have in no other heaven their seats, than have those spirits which appeared to thee just now, nor for their being more or fewer years; but all make beautiful the highest sphere, and each in different ways enjoys sweet life, 35 through feeling more and less the Eternal Breath. They did not here reveal themselves, because this special sphere had been allotted them, but to express the lowest heavenly state.
Thus must one speak to your intelligence, 40 since only from sense-objects can it learn
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what it thereafter fits for understanding. Because of this the Scriptures condescend to your capacity, and feet and hands ascribe to God, and yet mean something else; 45 and Holy Church in human form presents Gabriel and Michael to you, and the other, who to Tobias once restored his health.
That which Timaeus teaches of the soul is not like that which one up here beholds, 50 for, as he says it, so he seems to mean. He says that each soul to its star returns, because he thinks that it was severed thence, when Nature granted it as form; and yet his doctrine is, perhaps, of other guise, 55 than what his words imply, and may possess a meaning which is not to be despised. In case he mean that to these wheel-like spheres returns their influence’s praise or blame, his bow may hit, perhaps, upon a truth. 60 This principle, ill understood, once turned nigh all the world awry, so that, in naming Jove, Mercury and Mars, it went astray.
The other doubt whereby thy mind is stirred, less venom hath, because its harmfulness 65 could not conduct thee elsewhere from my side. That this our Justice should appear to be unjust in the eyes of mortals, argues faith,
and not heretical depravity. But here, because your human understanding 70 can penetrate this truth with ease, I’ll now, as thou desirest, render thee content.
If violence it be, when he who suffers contributes naught to him who uses force, these souls were not excused because of that; 75 for will, unless it willeth, is not quenched, but acts as Nature acts in fire, though turned a thousand times aside by violence; for, whether it be bent or much or little, it yieldeth to the force; and so did these, 80 when able to regain the holy place. For if their will had been as absolute as that which held Lorenzo on his grate, or that which to his hand made Mutius cruel, it would, as soon as freed, have urged them back 85 along the road o’er which they once were dragged; but wills as firm as that are very rare! And by these words, if thou hast gathered them, as it behooved thee to, that doubt is quashed, which often would have troubled thee again. 90
But now athwart thine eyes another pass appears, one such, that from it by thyself thou wouldst not issue, but wouldst weary first. I surely have instilled this in thy mind,
Image 5.18: Paradiso: Canto Four | Be- atrice and Dante face one another and discuss free will.
Author: Teodolinda Barolini Source: Digital Dante License: Public Domain
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that spirits who are happy could not lie, 95 since such are always near the Primal Truth; yet from Piccarda thou mayst next have heard that Constance for the veil retained her love; she, therefore, seems to contradict me here. Oft hath it happened, brother, heretofore, 100 that, to escape from danger, one has done, against one’s will, what was not right to do; as, at his father’s hest, Alcmaeon did, who impious made himself, his mother killing, in order not to fail in piety. 105 In such a case I’d have thee think that force mingles with will, and that they so behave, that sinful actions cannot be excused. Absolute will consenteth not to wrong, but in so far consenteth, as it fears, 110 unless it yield, to be more greatly harmed. Hence, when Piccarda puts the matter thus, she means it of the will that’s absolute, and of the other I; hence both speak true.
Such was the rippling of the holy stream, 115 which issued from the Fount whence every truth derives; and such, it set both doubts at rest.
“O thou belovèd of the Primal Lover, O goddess,” said I then, “whose speech both warms and inundates me so, that more and more 120 it quickens me with life, not deep enough is mỳ love to return thee grace for grace; but let Who sees and can, provide for this. I well see that our mind is never sated, unless it be illumined by the Truth, 125 outside of which no truth extends. Therein it rests, as doth a wild beast in its lair, as soon as it attains it; and it can attain it; else would all desires be vain.
Hence like a shoot doubt rises at the foot 130 of truth; and this is Nature, which from height to height impels us toward the mountain’s top.
This biddeth me, and this assurance gives me, Lady, with reverence to inquire of you about another truth that’s dark to me. 135 I wish to know if one can so content you for broken vows by means of other things, that these shall not prove light upon your scales.”
Then Beatrice looked at me with her eyes filled so divinely with the sparks of love, 140 that, overcome, my vision turned in flight, and I with bowed eyes almost lost myself.
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Paradiso XX The Sixth Heaven. Jupiter. The Happiness of Justice Just Princes. Faith and Salvation. Predestination
When he who sheddeth light on all the world so far below our hemisphere descends, that daylight fades away on every side, the sky, once lighted up by him alone, is quickly rendered visible again 5 by many lights, whereof one only shines; and I this happening in the sky recalled, when silent in the blessèd beak became the Standard of the world and of its leaders; for, brighter far, 10 those living lights commenced songs which have fled and fallen from my mind.
O thou sweet Love, that with a smile dost cloak thee, how ardent in those flutes didst thou appear, whose only breath was that of holy thoughts! 15
After those precious and pellucid jewels wherewith I saw the sixth great light engemmed, had brought to silence their angelic chimes, I seemed to hear the murmur of a brook, which, flowing limpid down from rock to rock, 20 reveals the abundance of its mountain-springs.
And as a sound takes from a cittern’s neck its form, even as the air that enters it doth from the vent-hole of a shepherd’s pipe, so, all delay of waiting laid aside, 25 that murmur of the Eagle mounted up
along its neck, as if it hollow were. A voice it there became, and through its beak it issued forth in words, such as the heart whereon I wrote them down, was longing for. 30
“That part of me which sees, and braves the sun, in mortal eagles,” it began again, “must now be looked upon attentively, for of the fires wherewith I shape me, those wherewith the eye is sparkling in my head, 35 the highest are of all their ordered grades.
He that as pupil in the middle shines, was once the singer of the Holy Spirit, who bore the Ark about from town to town; he now knows how deserving was his song, 40 so far as it resulted from his will, by the reward proportioned to its merit.
Of five that make a circle for my brow, the spirit nearest to my beak was he, who comforted the widow for her son; 45 he now knows by his personal experience
Image 5.19: Paradiso: Canto Twenty | Heavenly souls form shapes with their bodies, eventually transforming into an eagle, one of the symbols of ancient Rome.
Author: Teodolinda Barolini Source: Digital Dante License: Public Domain
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of this sweet life and of its opposite, how dear it costs one not to follow Christ.
In the circumference of which I speak, he that comes next upon the rising arc, 50 delayed his death by genuine repentance; he now knows that Eternal Justice brooks no change, whenever worthy prayers below to-morrow’s make of that which was today’s.
The one who follows, with the laws and me, 55 with good intentions which produced bad fruits, made himself Greek by ceding to the Shepherd; he now knows that the ill, from his good deed derived, is not a cause of harm to him, although thereby the world may be destroyed. 60
He whom thou seest in the downward arc, the William was, for whom that country mourns, which weeps because its Charles and Frederick live; he now knows how Heaven loves a righteous king, and by his splendor’s glow reveals it still. 65
Who in the erring world below would think that Rìpheus the Trojan was the fifth among the holy lights which form this curve? He now knows many of the things the world is impotent to see in Grace Divine, 70 although his sight discerneth not its depths.
Like a young lark which, as it soars through space, first sings, and then is silent, satisfied with the last sweetness which contented her; such seemed to me the image of the seal 75 of that Eternal Pleasure, by whose will each thing becometh what it is. And though, with reference to my doubt, up there I was, as glass is to the color which it clothes, it could not bear to bide its time in silence; 80 but by the very force of its own weight urged from my mouth the words, “What things are these?” whereat I saw a glorious feast of sparkling.
Thereafter, with its eye the more enkindled, the blessèd Sign, in order not to keep me 85 in wondering suspense, replied to me: “I see that thou believest all these things, because I say them, but dost not see how; and therefore, though believed in, they are hidden. Thou dost as one who fully knows a thing 90 by name, but cannot see just what it is, unless another make it manifest.
Regnum Coelorum suffers violence from burning love, and from a living hope, which vanquishes the Will Divine; though not 95 as man o’ercometh man, but conquers it
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because it willeth to be overcome; and so, though vanquished, by its goodness wins.
The first life in the eyebrow, and the fifth cause thee to be amazed, because therewith 100 thou see’st the region of the Angels painted. They did not issue Gentiles from their bodies, as thou dost think, but Christians, with firm faith, one in the Feet that were to suffer, one, in those that had. For one, to claim his bones, 105 came back from Hell, where no one ever wills the good again; and this was the reward of living hope; of living hope which put its trust in prayers addressed to God to raise him, that thus his will might have a chance to act. 110
The glorious soul I speak of, when the flesh had been regained, wherein he stayed not long, believed in Him, who had the power to help him; and through belief so warmed to genuine love, that he was worthy at his second death 115 to come to this festivity. The other, through grace from so profound a spring distilled, that never hath the eye of any creature reached its first wave, set all his love below on righteousness; hence God, from grace to grace, 120 to our redemption which is still to be, opened his eyes; he hence believed in it, and afterward endured no more the stench of Paganism; and for it he rebuked those who perverted were. And those three Ladies 125 thou sawest at the right wheel of the Car, in lieu of baptism, were as sponsors for him more than a thousand years ere baptism was.
O thou Predestination, how remote are thy foundations from the sight of those 130 who do not see the First Cause as a whole!
And ye, O mortals, keep yourselves in check, when judging men; for we, who God behold, know not as yet all those that are elect; and pleasant is such ignorance to us, 135 because our good is in this good refined, that what is willed by God, we also will.”
Thus, then, by that divinely pictured image, to make the shortness of my vision clear, a pleasant medicine was granted me. 140
And as a skillful cithern player makes the string’s vibrations follow a good singer, whereby the song acquires more power to please; even so, while it was speaking, I recall that both those blessèd lights I then beheld, 145 as when, in winking, eyes concordant are, moving their flamelets to the Eagle’s words.
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Paradiso XXXI The Empyrean. GOD. The Angels and the Blest. St. Bernard
Dante’s Last Words with Beatrice. The Glory of Mary In semblance, therefore, of a pure white Rose the sacred soldiery which with His blood Christ made His Bride, revealed itself to me; meanwhile the other host, which, flying, sees the glory of Him who wins its love, and sings 5 the goodness which had made them all so great, was, like a swarm of bees, which now inflowers itself, and now returns to where its toil is sweetened, ever coming down to enter the spacious Flower, which with so many leaves 10 adorns itself, and reascending thence to where its Love forever makes His home.
The faces of them all were living flames, their wings were golden, and the rest so white, that never is such whiteness reached by snow. 15 When down into the Flower they came, they spread from bench to bench the peace and ardent love, which by the fanning of their sides they won. Nor did so vast a host of flying forms between the flower and that which o’er it lies, 20 hinder the sight, or dim the splendor seen; because the Light Divine so penetrates the Universe, according to its worth, that naught can be an obstacle thereto. And this secure and joyous Kingdom, thronged 25 by people of the ages old and new, wholly on one Mark set its looks and love.
O Trinal Light, that in a Single Star, sparkling before their eyes, dost so appease them, look down upon our tempest here below! 30
If the Barbarians—coming from a region, above which Helicë looms every day, while circling with the son who is her joy, on seeing Rome and all her lofty buildings, what time the Lateran rose eminent 35 o’er every mortal thing—were wonderstruck; how overwhelmed with awe must I have been, I, who from human things, to things divine, from time, into eternity had come, from Florence—to a people just and sane! 40 Because of this, indeed, and of my joy, it pleased me to be mute and hear no sound.
And ev’n as in the temple of his vow, when hoping to describe it all some day, a pilgrim looks around him, and is cheered; 45 ev’n so, while wandering through the living Light, I turned mine eyes on all the graded ranks, circling now up, now down, and now around.
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There love-persuasive faces I beheld, decked by Another’s light and their own smiles, 50 and gestures fraught with grace and dignity.
My look now as a whole had comprehended the general form of Paradise, but had not yet settled especially on any part; and I was longing with rekindled wish 55 to ask my Lady as to many things, concerning which my mind was in suspense.
Though one thing I had meant, another answered; thinking to look at Beatrice, an elder I saw arrayed as are the glorious folk. 60 His eyes and cheeks were all suffused with joy and kindliness, and such his pious mien, as fitting is a father’s tenderness.
Hence “Where is she?” I said impulsively; and he: “To bring thy longing to an end, 65 was I by Beatrice from mine own place withdrawn; and if upon the highest rank’s third round thou look, thou shalt again behold her enthroned where her deserts allotted her.”
Without reply I lifted up mine eyes, 70 and saw her, as, reflecting from herself the eternal rays, she made herself a crown. Not from the tract whence highest thunders peal is any mortal eye so far removed from whatsoever sea it fathoms most 75 as Beatrice was distant from mine eyes; but naught was that to me, because her face came down to me unblurred by aught between.
“O Lady, thou in whom my hope is strong, and who for my salvation didst endure 80 to leave the traces of thy feet in Hell, I recognize the virtue and the grace of all the many things which I have seen, as coming from thy power and kindliness. From slavery to freedom thou hast drawn me 85 in every way, and over every path, within thy power to achieve that end. Guard thou in me the fruitage of thy bounty, that thus my soul, restored to health by thee, may, when it leaves my body, please thee still!” 90
I thus implored; and she, though so far off she seemed, looked down at me and smiled; then to the Eternal Fount she turned again.
Thereat the holy elder said: “That thou mayst bring thy journey to its perfect end, 95 for which both prayers and holy love have sent me, hover about this Garden with thine eyes, for to have seen it will prepare thy look to rise still higher through the Ray Divine.
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The Queen of Heaven, for whom I wholly burn 100 with love, will grant us this and very grace, for I her faithful servant Bernard am.”
As he who from Croatia comes, perchance, to look at our Veronica, and who, because of its old fame, is never sated, 105 but says in thought, as long as it is shown: “My Lord, Christ Jesus, God in very truth, was, then, your countenance like unto this?” even such was I, as on the living love I gazed on him, who in this world received 110 a taste, in contemplation, of that Peace.
“This glad existence, son of Grace,” he then began, “will not be known to thee, if fixed at this low level only are thine eyes. Look at the circles, to the most remote, 115 till yonder thou behold that Queen enthroned, to whom devoutly subject is this Realm.”
I raised mine eyes; and as at early morn the horizon’s eastern parts excel in light the regions where the sun is setting; so, 120 as with mine eyes from vale to mount I moved, I saw a region at the utmost verge vanquish in light all other parts before me. And as the skies where one awaits the car which Phaethon badly drove, more brightly gleam, 125 while pale the light on either side becomes; so likewise, brilliant in the middle loomed that peaceful Oriflamme, and on each side the fire in equal measure burned less bright.
And clustered there with wings outspread I saw 130 more than a thousand Angels jubilant, and each distinct in splendor and in speed; while smiling down upon their sports and songs a Beauty I beheld, who was the joy within the eyes of all the other Saints. 135 And even if I in utterance were as rich as in imagination, I’d not dare attempt to tell the least of its delight.
When Bernard saw mine eyes intently fixed upon the object of his ardent love, 140 he turned to it his own with such affection, that mine more eager grew to look again.
Paradiso XXXII The Empyrean. GOD. The Angels and the Blest.
The Order of the Rose. The Blessed Children. The Great Patricians Intent on his delight, that contemplator the office of a teacher took unasked, and thereupon began these holy words:
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“The one so beautiful at Mary’s feet is she who opened and who made the wound, 5 which Mary closed again, and then anointed. In the order which up there the third seats make, Rachel beneath her sits with Beatrice, as thou perceivest.
Sarah, Rebecca, Judith, 10 and she who was that singer’s ancestress, who said when he was grieving for his sin: “Have mercy on me,” thou canst thus behold downward from rank to rank, as each I name, and through the Rose decline from leaf to leaf. 15
Descending from the seventh row of seats, even as above it, Hebrew women follow, dividing all the tresses of the Flower; for in accordance with the attitude their faith assumed toward Christ, these women form 20 the wall which separates the sacred steps.
On this side, where full-bloomed the Flower is, complete with all its leaves, are seated those who in the Christ that was to come believed; and on the other, where the semicircles 25 are interrupted by still vacant seats, are those who faced toward Christ already come.
And as on this side here the glorious throne of Heaven’s own Lady, and the other seats beneath it, such a great partition make; 30 so, opposite, the seat of that great John, who, ever holy, underwent the desert and martyrdom, and then two years in Hades; while Francis, Benedict and Augustine beneath him were decreed to form the line 35 with others down to here, from round to round.
And now behold how great God’s foresight is; for each of these two aspects of the Faith will fill this Garden to the same extent.
And know that downward from the row of seats, 40 which midway separates the two divisions, no one is seated for his own deserts, but for another’s, under fixed conditions; for all of these are spirits who were freed before they had the power to really choose. 45 This by their faces thou canst well perceive, and by their childish voices furthermore, if, looking at them well, thou listen, too.
Thou doubtest now, and, doubting, thou art silent; but I will set thee free from that strong bond 50 wherein thy subtle thoughts are holding thee.
Within the ample nature of this Realm nothing can any more occur by chance,
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than either sadness, thirst or hunger can; for in accordance with eternal law 55 is settled all thou seest, so that here close-fitting to the finger is the ring. These people, therefore, who before their time have reached true life, are not without good cause more excellent, or less, among themselves. 60 The King, through whom this Kingdom finds repose in such delight and love, that no one’s will is bold enough to long for any greater; creating all minds in His own glad sight, as Him it pleases, dowers each with Grace 65 in divers ways; here let the fact suffice. And this is clearly and expressly marked for you in Holy Scripture by those twins who in their mother had their wrath aroused. According to the color of the hair 70 of that Grace, therefore, must the Light supreme be worthily accorded as a crown. Without deserving aught, then, for their deeds, are these to different grades assigned, which differ in their innate keen-sightedness alone. 75 The faith of parents only was, indeed, with innocence, enough for their salvation, throughout the centuries of early times. Then, when the primal ages had elapsed, males were by circumcision forced to win 80 the virtue needed by their guileless wings; but later, when the age of Grace had come, without the perfect baptism in the Christ, such innocence was there below retained.
But now look at the face which to the Christ 85 is most resemblant; for its light alone can make thee ready to behold the Christ.”
I saw such gladness raining down on her, borne by those holy minds, created such that they might fly across those altitudes, 90 that whatsoever I had seen before ne’er held me with such admiration poised, nor showed me such resemblance unto God.
And that same love which first descended there, “Ave Maria, Gratia plena,” singing, 95 spread out his open wings in front of her. And on all sides the beatific Court made such an answer to the song divine, that every face became the more serene.
“O holy father, who for me dost bear 100 to be down here, and leave the pleasant place, where by eternal lot thou hast thy seat, who is that Angel who with such delight is at our Queen’s eyes gazing, and is so enamored, that he seems to be on fire?” 105
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For teaching I had thus recourse again to him who was from Mary drawing beauty, as from the sun the early morning star.
And he to me: “As much self-trust and grace as can be in an Angel or a soul, 110 are all in him; and we would have it so; for he it was who carried down the palm to Mary, when God’s Son upon Himself was pleased to take the burden of our flesh.
But with thine eyes now follow after me, 115 as I keep speaking; and note the great Patricians of this most just and kind Imperial State. The two that have the happiest seats up there, because the nearest to Augusta’s throne, are, as it were, the two roots of this Rose. 120 He that upon the left is at her side, that Father is, because of whose bold taste the human species tastes such bitterness; and on her right thou see’st that ancient Father of Holy Church, to whom Christ gave in trust 125 the Keys of this fair Flower. And he who saw, ere dying, all that fair Bride’s troubled days, who with the spear and with the nails was won, beside him sits; and at the other’s side that Leader rests, ’neath whom the ingrate folk, 130 stiff-necked and fickle-minded, lived on manna.
Anna thou seest sitting opposite to Peter, so content to see her daughter, that never from her doth she move her eyes, although ‘Hosanna!’ singing; o’er against 135 the oldest Father of a family Lucìa sits, who had thy Lady go, when thou thy brows in downward flight didst turn.
But since apace thy slumber-time is fleeing, here will we pause, as that good tailor does, 140 who cuts his gown according to his cloth; and toward the Primal Love direct our eyes, that, looking toward Him, thou mayst penetrate as far into His Splendor as thou canst. But lest, perchance, by moving thine own wings, 145 thou shouldst recede, believing to advance, Grace needs must be obtained for thee by prayer; Grace from the one who hath the power to help thee; hence follow after me with thine affection, that from my words thy heart turn not aside.” 150
He then began the following holy prayer:
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The Vision of God. Ultimate Salvation “O Virgin Mother, Daughter of thy Son, humbler and loftier than any creature, eternal counsel’s predetermined goal, thou art the one that such nobility didst lend to human nature, that its Maker 5 scorned not to make Himself what He had made. Within thy womb rekindled was the Love, through whose warm influence in the eternal Peace this Flower hath blossomed thus. Here unto us thou art a noonday torch of Charity; 10 and down below ’mong mortal men, thou art a living fount of Hope. Lady, so great thou art, and hast such worth, that one who longs for Grace, and unto thee hath not recourse, wingless would wish to have his longing fly. 15 Not only doth thy Kindliness give help to him that asketh it, but many times it freely runs ahead of his request. In thee is Mercy, Pity is in thee, in thee Magnificence, and all there is 20 of Goodness in a creature meets in thee.
Now doth this man, who from the lowest drain of the Universe hath one by one beheld, as far as here, the forms of spirit-life, beseech thee, of thy grace, for so much strength 25 that with his eyes he may uplift himself toward Ultimate Salvation higher still. And I, who never for mine own sight burned more than I do for his, offer thee all
my prayers, and pray that they be not too poor, 30 that thou with thy prayers so dissolve each cloud of his mortality, that unto him the Highest Pleasure may unfold Itself. And furthermore, I pray to thee, O Queen, who canst whate’er thou wilt, that, after such 35 a sight, thou keep all his affections sound. His human promptings let thy care defeat; see with how many blest ones Beatrice is clasping for my prayers her hands to thee!”
The eyes belovèd and revered by God, 40 intent on him who prayed, revealed to us how grateful unto her are earnest prayers. Thence they addressed them to the Eternal Light, wherein it may not be believed the eye of any creature finds so clear a way. 45
And I, who to the End of all desires was drawing near, within me, as I ought, brought to its goal the ardor of desire.
Image 5.20: Paradiso: Canto Thir- ty-Three | Dante witnesses the Virgil Mary, and Saint Bernard offers her a prayer on Dante’s behalf.
Author: Teodolinda Barolini Source: Digital Dante License: Public Domain
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Bernard was smiling, and was making signs for me to look on high; but, as he wished, 50 I was already of mine own accord; because my sight, as purer it became, was penetrating more and more the radiance of that High Light, which of Itself is true.
From this time onward greater was my sight 55 than is our speech, which yields to such a vision, and memory also yields to such excess.
And such as he, who seeth in a dream, and after it, the imprinted feeling stays, while all the rest returns not to his mind; 60 even such am I; for almost wholly fades my vision, yet the sweetness which was born of it is dripping still into my heart.
Even thus the snow is in the sun dissolved; even thus the Sibyl’s oracles, inscribed 65 on flying leaves, were lost adown the wind.
O Light Supreme, that dost uplift Thyself so far from mortal thought, relend my mind a little of what Thou didst seem to be, and cause my tongue to be so powerful, 70 that of Thy Glory it may leave at least a spark unto the people still to come; for to my mem’ry if it but a while return, and speak a little in these lines, more of Thy Victory will be conceived. 75
I think the keenness of the living Ray which I endured would have confounded me, if from it I had turned away mine eyes. And I recall that I, because of this, the bolder was to bear it, till I made 80 my vision one with Value Infinite.
O the abundant Grace, whereby I dared to pierce the Light Eternal with my gaze, until I had therein exhausted sight!
I saw that far within its depths there lies, 85 by Love together in one volume bound, that which in leaves lies scattered through the world; substance and accident, and modes thereof, fused, as it were, in such a way, that that, whereof I speak, is but One Simple Light. 90
This union’s general form I think I saw, since, saying so, I feel that I the more rejoice. Of more forgetfulness for me one moment is, than centuries twenty-five are for the enterprise which once caused Neptune 95 to wonder at the shadow Argo cast.
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My mind, thus wholly in suspense, was gazing steadfast and motionless, and all intent, and, gazing, grew enkindled more and more.
Such in that Light doth one at last become, 100 that one can never possibly consent to turn therefrom for any other sight; because the Good, which is the will’s real object, is therein wholly gathered, and, outside, that is defective which is perfect there. 105
Ev’n as to what I do remember, mine will now be shorter than an infant’s speech, who at the breast still bathes his tongue. ’T was not that there was other than a simple semblance within the Living Light wherein I gazed, 110 which always is what It hath been before; but through my sight, which in me, as I looked, was gathering strength, because I changed, one sole appearance underwent a change for me.
Within the Lofty Light’s profound and clear 115 subsistence there appeared to me three Rings, of threefold color and of one content; and one, as Rainbow is by Rainbow, seemed reflected by the other, while the third seemed like a Fire breathed equally from both. 120
Oh, how, to my conception, short and weak is speech! And this, to what I saw, is such, that it is not enough to call it small.
O Light Eternal, that alone dost dwell within Thyself, alone dost understand 125 Thyself, and love and smile upon Thyself, Self-understanding and Self-understood!
That Circle which appeared to be conceived within Thyself as a Reflected Light, when somewhat contemplated by mine eyes, 130 within Itself, of Its own very color, to me seemed painted with our Human Form; whence wholly set upon It was my gaze.
Like the geometer, who gives himself wholly to measuring the circle, nor, 135 by thinking, finds the principle he needs; ev’n such was I at that new sight. I wished to see how to the Ring the Image there conformed Itself, and found therein a place; but mine own wings were not enough for this; 140 had not my mind been smitten by a flash of light, wherein what it was willing came.
Here power failed my high imagining; but, like a smoothly moving wheel, that Love was now revolving my desire and will, 145 which moves the sun and all the other stars.
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THE LAIS OF MARIE DE FRANCE
Marie de France
Written in the late 1100s C.E. France (Anglo-Norman)
In her works, the author states that her name is Marie, and she is from France. No other detail about the au- thor’s life is known, although there are quite a few educated guesses about her possible ties to various royal courts. Marie writes in Anglo-Norman (a version of medieval French), and she says that her lais are versions of oral tales told by Breton minstrels (from Brittany, on the coast of France).
Her lais are some of the earliest forms of courtly love literature that survive, influencing later knightly romances (such as Sir Launfal), stories of King Arthur’s knights (such as Wolfram von Eschenbach’s Parzival), and certain stories in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales (in particular, the Franklin’s Tale, which is itself based on a Breton lai).
Written by Laura J. Getty
The Lais of Marie de France
Marie de France, Translated by Eugene Mason
The Lai of Sir Launfal I will tell you the story of another Lai. It relates the adventures of a rich and mighty baron, and the Breton calls
it, the Lai of Sir Launfal. King Arthur—that fearless knight and courteous lord—removed to Wales, and lodged at Caerleon-on-Usk, since
the Picts and Scots did much mischief in the land. For it was the wont of the wild people of the north to enter in the realm of Logres, and burn and damage at their will. At the time of Pentecost, the King cried a great feast. Thereat he gave many rich gifts to his counts and barons, and to the Knights of the Round Table. Never were such worship and bounty shown before at any feast, for Arthur bestowed honours and lands on all his servants—save only on one. This lord, who was forgotten and misliked of the King, was named Launfal. He was beloved by many of the Court, be- cause of his beauty and prowess, for he was a worthy knight, open of heart and heavy of hand. These lords, to whom their comrade was dear, felt little joy to see so stout a knight misprized. Sir Launfal was son to a King of high descent, though his heritage was in a distant land. He was of the King’s household, but since Arthur gave him naught, and he was of too proud a mind to pray for his due, he had spent all that he had. Right heavy was Sir Launfal, when he considered these things, for he knew himself taken in the toils. Gentles, marvel not overmuch hereat. Ever must the pilgrim go heavily in a strange land, where there is none to counsel and direct him in the path.
Now, on a day, Sir Launfal got him on his horse, that he might take his pleasure for a little. He came forth from the city, alone, attended by neither servant nor squire. He went his way through a green mead, till he stood by a river of clear running water. Sir Launfal would have crossed this stream, without thought of pass or ford, but he might not do so, for reason that his horse was all fearful and trembling. Seeing that he was hindered in this fashion, Launfal un- bitted his steed, and let him pasture in that fair meadow, where they had come. Then he folded his cloak to serve him as a pillow, and lay upon the ground. Launfal lay in great misease, because of his heavy thoughts, and the discomfort of his bed. He turned from side to side, and might not sleep. Now as the knight looked towards the river he saw two damsels coming towards him; fairer maidens Launfal had never seen. These two maidens were richly dressed in kirtles closely laced and shapen to their persons and wore mantles of a goodly purple hue. Sweet and dainty were the damsels, alike in raiment and in face. The elder of these ladies carried in her hands a basin of pure gold, cunningly wrought by some crafty smith—very fair and precious was the cup; and the younger bore a towel of soft white linen. These maidens turned neither to the right hand nor to the left, but went directly to the place where Launfal lay. When Launfal saw that their business was with him, he stood upon his feet, like a discreet and courteous gentleman. After they had greeted the knight, one of the maidens delivered the message with which she was charged.
“Sir Launfal, my demoiselle, as gracious as she is fair, prays that you will follow us, her messengers, as she has a certain word to speak with you. We will lead you swiftly to her pavilion, for our lady is very near at hand. If you but lift your eyes you may see where her tent is spread.”
Right glad was the knight to do the bidding of the maidens. He gave no heed to his horse, but left him at his provand in the meadow. All his desire was to go with the damsels, to that pavilion of silk and divers colours,
License: Public Domain
Image 5.21: Marie de France | Marie de France sits and writes her manuscript on a pedestal.
Author: Master of Jean de Papeleu Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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The Lais of Marie de France
THE LAIS OF MARIE DE FRANCE
Marie de France
Written in the late 1100s C.E. France (Anglo-Norman)
In her works, the author states that her name is Marie, and she is from France. No other detail about the au- thor’s life is known, although there are quite a few educated guesses about her possible ties to various royal courts. Marie writes in Anglo-Norman (a version of medieval French), and she says that her lais are versions of oral tales told by Breton minstrels (from Brittany, on the coast of France).
Her lais are some of the earliest forms of courtly love literature that survive, influencing later knightly romances (such as Sir Launfal), stories of King Arthur’s knights (such as Wolfram von Eschenbach’s Parzival), and certain stories in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales (in particular, the Franklin’s Tale, which is itself based on a Breton lai).
Written by Laura J. Getty
The Lais of Marie de France
Marie de France, Translated by Eugene Mason
The Lai of Sir Launfal I will tell you the story of another Lai. It relates the adventures of a rich and mighty baron, and the Breton calls
it, the Lai of Sir Launfal. King Arthur—that fearless knight and courteous lord—removed to Wales, and lodged at Caerleon-on-Usk, since
the Picts and Scots did much mischief in the land. For it was the wont of the wild people of the north to enter in the realm of Logres, and burn and damage at their will. At the time of Pentecost, the King cried a great feast. Thereat he gave many rich gifts to his counts and barons, and to the Knights of the Round Table. Never were such worship and bounty shown before at any feast, for Arthur bestowed honours and lands on all his servants—save only on one. This lord, who was forgotten and misliked of the King, was named Launfal. He was beloved by many of the Court, be- cause of his beauty and prowess, for he was a worthy knight, open of heart and heavy of hand. These lords, to whom their comrade was dear, felt little joy to see so stout a knight misprized. Sir Launfal was son to a King of high descent, though his heritage was in a distant land. He was of the King’s household, but since Arthur gave him naught, and he was of too proud a mind to pray for his due, he had spent all that he had. Right heavy was Sir Launfal, when he considered these things, for he knew himself taken in the toils. Gentles, marvel not overmuch hereat. Ever must the pilgrim go heavily in a strange land, where there is none to counsel and direct him in the path.
Now, on a day, Sir Launfal got him on his horse, that he might take his pleasure for a little. He came forth from the city, alone, attended by neither servant nor squire. He went his way through a green mead, till he stood by a river of clear running water. Sir Launfal would have crossed this stream, without thought of pass or ford, but he might not do so, for reason that his horse was all fearful and trembling. Seeing that he was hindered in this fashion, Launfal un- bitted his steed, and let him pasture in that fair meadow, where they had come. Then he folded his cloak to serve him as a pillow, and lay upon the ground. Launfal lay in great misease, because of his heavy thoughts, and the discomfort of his bed. He turned from side to side, and might not sleep. Now as the knight looked towards the river he saw two damsels coming towards him; fairer maidens Launfal had never seen. These two maidens were richly dressed in kirtles closely laced and shapen to their persons and wore mantles of a goodly purple hue. Sweet and dainty were the damsels, alike in raiment and in face. The elder of these ladies carried in her hands a basin of pure gold, cunningly wrought by some crafty smith—very fair and precious was the cup; and the younger bore a towel of soft white linen. These maidens turned neither to the right hand nor to the left, but went directly to the place where Launfal lay. When Launfal saw that their business was with him, he stood upon his feet, like a discreet and courteous gentleman. After they had greeted the knight, one of the maidens delivered the message with which she was charged.
“Sir Launfal, my demoiselle, as gracious as she is fair, prays that you will follow us, her messengers, as she has a certain word to speak with you. We will lead you swiftly to her pavilion, for our lady is very near at hand. If you but lift your eyes you may see where her tent is spread.”
Right glad was the knight to do the bidding of the maidens. He gave no heed to his horse, but left him at his provand in the meadow. All his desire was to go with the damsels, to that pavilion of silk and divers colours,
License: Public Domain
Image 5.21: Marie de France | Marie de France sits and writes her manuscript on a pedestal.
Author: Master of Jean de Papeleu Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
pitched in so fair a place. Certainly neither Semiramis, in the days of her most wanton power, nor Octavian, the Emperor of all the West, had so gracious a covering from sun and rain. Above the tent was set an eagle of gold, so rich and precious, that none might count the cost. The cords and fringes thereof were of silken thread, and the lanc- es which bore aloft the pavilion were of refined gold. No King on earth might have so sweet a shelter, not though he gave in fee the value of his realm. Within this pavilion Launfal came upon the Maiden. Whiter she was than any altar lily, and more sweetly flushed than the new born rose in time of summer heat. She lay upon a bed with napery and coverlet of richer worth than could be furnished by a castle’s spoil. Very fresh and slender showed the lady in her vesture
of spotless linen. About her person she had drawn a mantle of ermine, edged with purple dye from the vats of Alexandria. By reason of the heat her raiment was unfastened for a little, and her throat and the rondure of her bosom showed whiter and more untouched than hawthorn in May. The knight came before the bed, and stood gazing on so sweet a sight. The Maiden beckoned him to draw near, and when he had seated himself at the foot of her couch, spoke her mind.
“Launfal,” she said, “fair friend, it is for you that I have come from my own far land. I bring you my love. If you are prudent and discreet, as you are goodly to the view, there is no emperor nor count, nor king, whose day shall be so filled with riches and with mirth as yours.”
When Launfal heard these words he rejoiced greatly, for his heart was litten by another’s torch. “Fair lady,” he answered, “since it pleases you to be so gracious, and to dower so graceless a knight with your
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love, there is naught that you may bid me do—right or wrong, evil or good—that I will not do to the utmost of my power. I will observe your commandment, and serve in your quarrels. For you I renounce my father and my father’s house. This only I pray, that I may dwell with you in your lodging, and that you will never send me from your side.”
When the maiden heard the words of him whom so fondly she desired to love, she was altogether moved, and granted him forthwith her heart and her tenderness. To her bounty she added another gift besides. Never might Launfal be desirous of aught, but he would have according to his wish. He might waste and spend at will and plea- sure, but in his purse ever there was to spare. No more was Launfal sad. Right merry was the pilgrim, since one had set him on the way, with such a gift, that the more pennies he bestowed, the more silver and gold were in his pouch.
But the Maiden had yet a word to say. “Friend,” she said, “hearken to my counsel. I lay this charge upon you, and pray you urgently, that you tell not
to any man the secret of our love. If you show this matter, you will lose your friend, for ever and a day. Never again may you see my face. Never again will you have seisin of that body, which is now so tender in your eyes.”
Launfal plighted faith, that right strictly he would observe this commandment. So the Maiden granted him her kiss and her embrace, and very sweetly in that fair lodging passed the day till evensong was come.
Right loath was Launfal to depart from the pavilion at the vesper hour, and gladly would he have stayed, had he been able, and his lady wished.
“Fair friend,” said she, “rise up, for no longer may you tarry. The hour is come that we must part. But one thing I have to say before you go. When you would speak with me I shall hasten to come before your wish. Well I deem that you will only call your friend where she may be found without reproach or shame of men. You may see me at your pleasure; my voice shall speak softly in your ear at will; but I must never be known of your comrades, nor must they ever learn my speech.”
Right joyous was Launfal to hear this thing. He sealed the covenant with a kiss, and stood upon his feet. Then there entered the two maidens who had led him to the pavilion, bringing with them rich raiment, fitting for a knight’s apparel. When Launfal had clothed himself therewith, there seemed no goodlier varlet under heaven, for certainly he was fair and true. After these maidens had refreshed him with clear water, and dried his hands upon the napkin, Launfal went to meat. His friend sat at table with him, and small will had he to refuse her courtesy. Very serviceably the damsels bore the meats, and Launfal and the Maiden ate and drank with mirth and content. But one dish was more to the knight’s relish than any other. Sweeter than the dainties within his mouth, was the lady’s kiss upon his lips.
When supper was ended, Launfal rose from table, for his horse stood waiting without the pavilion. The destrier was newly saddled and bridled, and showed proudly in his rich gay trappings. So Launfal kissed, and bade farewell, and went his way. He rode back towards the city at a slow pace. Often he checked his steed, and looked behind him,
Image 5.23: German Woodcut | This woodcut depicts a werewolf transforming.
Author: User “Vearthy” Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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for he was filled with amazement, and all bemused concerning this adventure. In his heart he doubted that it was but a dream. He was altogether astonished, and knew not what to do. He feared that pavilion and Maiden alike were from the realm of faery.
Launfal returned to his lodging, and was greeted by servitors, clad no longer in ragged raiment. He fared richly, lay softly, and spent largely, but never knew how his purse was filled. There was no lord who had need of a lodging in the town, but Launfal brought him to his hall, for refreshment and delight. Launfal bestowed rich gifts. Launfal redeemed the poor captive. Launfal clothed in scarlet the minstrel. Launfal gave honour where honour was due. Stranger and friend alike he comforted at need. So, whether by night or by day, Launfal lived greatly at his ease. His lady, she came at will and pleasure, and, for the rest, all was added unto him.
Now it chanced, the same year, about the feast of St. John, a company of knights came, for their solace, to an orchard, beneath that tower where dwelt the Queen. Together with these lords went Gawain and his cousin, Yvain the fair. Then said Gawain, that goodly knight, beloved and dear to all,
“Lords, we do wrong to disport ourselves in this pleasaunce without our comrade Launfal. It is not well to slight a prince as brave as he is courteous, and of a lineage prouder than our own.”
Then certain of the lords returned to the city, and finding Launfal within his hostel, entreated him to take his pastime with them in that fair meadow. The Queen looked out from a window in her tower, she and three ladies of her fellowship. They saw the lords at their pleasure, and Launfal also, whom well they knew. So the Queen chose of her Court thirty damsels—the sweetest of face and most dainty of fashion—and commanded that they should descend with her to take their delight in the garden. When the knights beheld this gay company of ladies come down the steps of the perron, they rejoiced beyond measure. They hastened before to lead them by the hand, and said such words in their ear as were seemly and pleasant to be spoken. Amongst these merry and courteous lords hasted not Sir Launfal. He drew apart from the throng, for with him time went heavily, till he might have clasp and greeting of his friend. The ladies of the Queen’s fellowship seemed but kitchen wenches to his sight, in comparison with the loveliness of the maiden. When the Queen marked Launfal go aside, she went his way, and seating herself upon the herb, called the knight before her. Then she opened out her heart.
“Launfal, I have honoured you for long as a worthy knight, and have praised and cherished you very dearly. You may receive a queen’s whole love, if such be your care. Be content: he to whom my heart is given, has small reason to complain him of the alms.”
“Lady,” answered the knight, “grant me leave to go, for this grace is not for me. I am the King’s man, and dare not break my troth. Not for the highest lady in the world, not even for her love, will I set this reproach upon my lord.”
When the Queen heard this, she was full of wrath, and spoke many hot and bitter words. “Launfal,” she cried, “well I know that you think little of woman and her love. There are sins more black that a
man may have upon his soul. Traitor you are, and false. Right evil counsel gave they to my lord, who prayed him to suffer you about his person. You remain only for his harm and loss.”
Launful was very dolent to hear this thing. He was not slow to take up the Queen’s glove, and in his haste spake words that he repented long, and with tears.
“Lady,” said he, “I am not of that guild of which you speak. Neither am I a despiser of woman, since I love, and am loved, of one who would bear the prize from all the ladies in the land. Dame, know now and be persuaded, that she, whom I serve, is so rich in state, that the very meanest of her maidens, excels you, Lady Queen, as much in clerkly skill and goodness, as in sweetness of body and face, and in every virtue.”
The Queen rose straightway to her feet, and fled to her chamber, weeping. Right wrathful and heavy was she, because of the words that had besmirched her. She lay sick upon her bed, from which, she said, she would never rise, till the King had done her justice, and righted this bitter wrong. Now the King that day had taken his pleasure within the woods. He returned from the chase towards evening, and sought the chamber of the Queen. When the lady saw him, she sprang from her bed, and kneeling at his feet, pleaded for grace and pity. Launfal—she said— had shamed her, since he required her love. When she had put him by, very foully had he reviled her, boasting that his love was already set on a lady, so proud and noble, that her meanest wench went more richly, and smiled more sweetly, than the Queen. Thereat the King waxed marvellously wrathful, and swore a great oath that he would set Launfal within a fire, or hang him from a tree, if he could not deny this thing, before his peers.
Arthur came forth from the Queen’s chamber, and called to him three of his lords. These he sent to seek the knight who so evilly had entreated the Queen. Launfal, for his part, had returned to his lodging, in a sad and sorrowful case. He saw very clearly that he had lost his friend, since he had declared their love to men. Launfal sat within his chamber, sick and heavy of thought. Often he called upon his friend, but the lady would not hear his voice. He bewailed his evil lot, with tears; for grief he came nigh to swoon; a hundred times he implored the Maiden that she would deign to speak with her knight. Then, since the lady yet refrained from speech, Launfal cursed his hot and unruly tongue. Very near he came to ending all this trouble with his knife. Naught he found to do but to
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wring his hands, and call upon the Maiden, begging her to forgive his trespass, and to talk with him again, as friend to friend.
But little peace is there for him who is harassed by a King. There came presently to Launfal’s hostel those three barons from the Court. These bade the knight forthwith to go with them to Arthur’s presence, to acquit him of this wrong against the Queen. Launfal went forth, to his own deep sorrow. Had any man slain him on the road, he would have counted him his friend. He stood before the King, downcast and speechless, being dumb by reason of that great grief, of which he showed the picture and image.
Arthur looked upon his captive very evilly. “Vassal,” said he, harshly, “you have done me a bitter wrong. It was a foul deed to seek to shame me in this ugly
fashion, and to smirch the honour of the Queen. Is it folly or lightness which leads you to boast of that lady, the least of whose maidens is fairer, and goes more richly, than the Queen?”
Launfal protested that never had he set such shame upon his lord. Word by word he told the tale of how he de- nied the Queen, within the orchard. But concerning that which he had spoken of the lady, he owned the truth, and his folly. The love of which he bragged was now lost to him, by his own exceeding fault. He cared little for his life, and was content to obey the judgment of the Court.
Right wrathful was the King at Launfal’s words. He conjured his barons to give him such wise counsel herein, that wrong might be done to none. The lords did the King’s bidding, whether good came of the matter, or evil. They gathered themselves together, and appointed a certain day that Launfal should abide the judgment of his peers. For his part Launfal must give pledge and surety to his lord, that he would come before this judgment in his own body. If he might not give such surety then he should be held captive till the appointed day. When the lords of the King’s household returned to tell him of their counsel, Arthur demanded that Launfal should put such pledge in his hand, as they had said. Launfal was altogether mazed and bewildered at this judgment, for he had neither friend nor kindred in the land. He would have been set in prison, but Gawain came first to offer himself as his surety, and with him, all the knights of his fellowship. These gave into the King’s hand as pledge, the fiefs and lands that they held of his Crown. The King having taken pledge from the sureties, Launfal returned to his lodging, and with him certain knights of his company. They blamed him greatly because of his foolish love, and chastened him grievously by reason of the sorrow he made before men. Every day they came to his chamber, to know of his meat and drink, for much they feared that presently he would become mad.
The lords of the household came together on the day appointed for this judgment. The King was on his chair, with the Queen sitting at his side. The sureties brought Launfal within the hall, and rendered him into the hands of his peers. Right sorrowful were they because of his plight. A great company of his fellowship did all that they were able to acquit him of this charge. When all was set out, the King demanded the judgment of the Court, according to the accusation and the answer. The barons went forth in much trouble and thought to consider this matter. Many amongst them grieved for the peril of a good knight in a strange land; others held that it were well for Launfal to suffer, because of the wish and malice of their lord. Whilst they were thus perplexed, the Duke of Cornwall rose in the council, and said,
“Lords, the King pursues Launfal as a traitor, and would slay him with the sword, by reason that he bragged of the beauty of his maiden, and roused the jealousy of the Queen. By the faith that I owe this company, none com- plains of Launfal, save only the King. For our part we would know the truth of this business, and do justice be- tween the King and his man. We would also show proper reverence to our own liege lord. Now, if it be according to Arthur’s will, let us take oath of Launfal, that he seek this lady, who has put such strife between him and the Queen. If her beauty be such as he has told us, the Queen will have no cause for wrath. She must pardon Launfal for his rudeness, since it will be plain that he did not speak out of a malicious heart. Should Launfal fail his word, and not return with the lady, or should her fairness fall beneath his boast, then let him be cast off from our fellowship, and be sent forth from the service of the King.”
This counsel seemed good to the lords of the household. They sent certain of his friends to Launfal, to acquaint him with their judgment, bidding him to pray his damsel to the Court, that he might be acquitted of this blame. The knight made answer that in no wise could he do this thing. So the sureties returned before the judges, saying that Launfal hoped neither for refuge nor for succour from the lady, and Arthur urged them to a speedy ending, because of the prompting of the Queen.
The judges were about to give sentence upon Launfal, when they saw two maidens come riding towards the palace, upon two white ambling palfreys. Very sweet and dainty were these maidens, and richly clothed in garments of crimson sendal, closely girt and fashioned to their bodies. All men, old and young, looked willingly upon them, for fair they were to see. Gawain, and three knights of his company, went straight to Launfal, and showed him these maidens, praying him to say which of them was his friend. But he answered never a word. The maidens dismounted from their palfreys, and coming before the dais where the King was seated, spake him fairly, as they were fair.
“Sire, prepare now a chamber, hung with silken cloths, where it is seemly for my lady to dwell: for she would lodge with you awhile.”
Image 5.22: The Lai of Sir Launfal | A beautiful, well- dressed maiden rides a white horse through a crowd.
Author: Reginald L. Knowles Source: Hathi Trust Digital Library License: Public Domain
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The Lais of Marie de France
wring his hands, and call upon the Maiden, begging her to forgive his trespass, and to talk with him again, as friend to friend.
But little peace is there for him who is harassed by a King. There came presently to Launfal’s hostel those three barons from the Court. These bade the knight forthwith to go with them to Arthur’s presence, to acquit him of this wrong against the Queen. Launfal went forth, to his own deep sorrow. Had any man slain him on the road, he would have counted him his friend. He stood before the King, downcast and speechless, being dumb by reason of that great grief, of which he showed the picture and image.
Arthur looked upon his captive very evilly. “Vassal,” said he, harshly, “you have done me a bitter wrong. It was a foul deed to seek to shame me in this ugly
fashion, and to smirch the honour of the Queen. Is it folly or lightness which leads you to boast of that lady, the least of whose maidens is fairer, and goes more richly, than the Queen?”
Launfal protested that never had he set such shame upon his lord. Word by word he told the tale of how he de- nied the Queen, within the orchard. But concerning that which he had spoken of the lady, he owned the truth, and his folly. The love of which he bragged was now lost to him, by his own exceeding fault. He cared little for his life, and was content to obey the judgment of the Court.
Right wrathful was the King at Launfal’s words. He conjured his barons to give him such wise counsel herein, that wrong might be done to none. The lords did the King’s bidding, whether good came of the matter, or evil. They gathered themselves together, and appointed a certain day that Launfal should abide the judgment of his peers. For his part Launfal must give pledge and surety to his lord, that he would come before this judgment in his own body. If he might not give such surety then he should be held captive till the appointed day. When the lords of the King’s household returned to tell him of their counsel, Arthur demanded that Launfal should put such pledge in his hand, as they had said. Launfal was altogether mazed and bewildered at this judgment, for he had neither friend nor kindred in the land. He would have been set in prison, but Gawain came first to offer himself as his surety, and with him, all the knights of his fellowship. These gave into the King’s hand as pledge, the fiefs and lands that they held of his Crown. The King having taken pledge from the sureties, Launfal returned to his lodging, and with him certain knights of his company. They blamed him greatly because of his foolish love, and chastened him grievously by reason of the sorrow he made before men. Every day they came to his chamber, to know of his meat and drink, for much they feared that presently he would become mad.
The lords of the household came together on the day appointed for this judgment. The King was on his chair, with the Queen sitting at his side. The sureties brought Launfal within the hall, and rendered him into the hands of his peers. Right sorrowful were they because of his plight. A great company of his fellowship did all that they were able to acquit him of this charge. When all was set out, the King demanded the judgment of the Court, according to the accusation and the answer. The barons went forth in much trouble and thought to consider this matter. Many amongst them grieved for the peril of a good knight in a strange land; others held that it were well for Launfal to suffer, because of the wish and malice of their lord. Whilst they were thus perplexed, the Duke of Cornwall rose in the council, and said,
“Lords, the King pursues Launfal as a traitor, and would slay him with the sword, by reason that he bragged of the beauty of his maiden, and roused the jealousy of the Queen. By the faith that I owe this company, none com- plains of Launfal, save only the King. For our part we would know the truth of this business, and do justice be- tween the King and his man. We would also show proper reverence to our own liege lord. Now, if it be according to Arthur’s will, let us take oath of Launfal, that he seek this lady, who has put such strife between him and the Queen. If her beauty be such as he has told us, the Queen will have no cause for wrath. She must pardon Launfal for his rudeness, since it will be plain that he did not speak out of a malicious heart. Should Launfal fail his word, and not return with the lady, or should her fairness fall beneath his boast, then let him be cast off from our fellowship, and be sent forth from the service of the King.”
This counsel seemed good to the lords of the household. They sent certain of his friends to Launfal, to acquaint him with their judgment, bidding him to pray his damsel to the Court, that he might be acquitted of this blame. The knight made answer that in no wise could he do this thing. So the sureties returned before the judges, saying that Launfal hoped neither for refuge nor for succour from the lady, and Arthur urged them to a speedy ending, because of the prompting of the Queen.
The judges were about to give sentence upon Launfal, when they saw two maidens come riding towards the palace, upon two white ambling palfreys. Very sweet and dainty were these maidens, and richly clothed in garments of crimson sendal, closely girt and fashioned to their bodies. All men, old and young, looked willingly upon them, for fair they were to see. Gawain, and three knights of his company, went straight to Launfal, and showed him these maidens, praying him to say which of them was his friend. But he answered never a word. The maidens dismounted from their palfreys, and coming before the dais where the King was seated, spake him fairly, as they were fair.
“Sire, prepare now a chamber, hung with silken cloths, where it is seemly for my lady to dwell: for she would lodge with you awhile.”
Image 5.22: The Lai of Sir Launfal | A beautiful, well- dressed maiden rides a white horse through a crowd.
Author: Reginald L. Knowles Source: Hathi Trust Digital Library License: Public Domain
This gift the King granted gladly. He called to him two knights of his household, and bade them bestow the maidens in such chambers as were fitting to their degree. The maidens being gone, the King required of his barons to proceed with their judgment, saying that he had sore displeasure at the slowness of the cause.
“Sire,” replied the barons, “we rose from Council, because of the damsels who entered in the hall. We will at once resume the sitting, and give our judgment without more delay.”
The barons again were gathered together, in much thought and trouble, to consider this matter. There was great strife and dissension amongst them, for they knew not what to do. In the midst of all this noise and tumult, there came two other damsels riding to the hall on two Spanish mules. Very richly arrayed were these damsels in raiment of fine needlework, and their kirtles were covered by fresh fair mantles, embroidered with gold. Great joy had Launfal’s comrades when they marked these ladies. They said between themselves that doubtless they came for the succour of the good knight. Gawain, and certain of his company, made haste to Launfal, and said,
“Sir, be not cast down. Two ladies are near at hand, right dainty of dress, and gracious of person. Tell us truly, for the love of God, is one of these your friends?”
But Launfal answered very simply that never before had he seen these damsels with his eyes, nor known and loved them in his heart.
The maidens dismounted from their mules, and stood before Arthur, in the sight of all. Greatly were they praised of many, because of their beauty, and of the colour of their face and hair. Some there were who deemed already that the Queen was overborne.
The elder of the damsels carried herself modestly and well, and sweetly told over the message wherewith she was charged.
“Sire, make ready for us chambers, where we may abide with our lady, for even now she comes to speak with thee.” The King commanded that the ladies should be led to their companions, and bestowed in the same honour-
able fashion as they. Then he bade the lords of his household to consider their judgment, since he would endure no further respite. The Court already had given too much time to the business, and the Queen was growing wrathful, because of the blame that was hers. Now the judges were about to proclaim their sentence, when, amidst the tumult of the town, there came riding to the palace the flower of all the ladies of the world. She came mounted upon a palfrey, white as snow, which carried her softly, as though she loved her burthen. Beneath the sky was no goodlier steed, nor one more gentle to the hand. The harness of the palfrey was so rich, that no king on earth might hope to buy trappings so precious, unless he sold or set his realm in pledge. The Maiden herself showed such as I will tell you. Passing slim was the lady, sweet of bodice and slender of girdle. Her throat was whiter than snow on branch, and her eyes were like flowers in the pallor of her face. She had a witching mouth, a dainty nose, and an open brow. Her eyebrows were brown, and her golden hair parted in two soft waves upon her head. She was clad in a shift of spotless linen, and above her snowy kirtle was set a mantle of royal purple, clasped upon her breast. She carried a hooded falcon upon her glove, and a greyhound
followed closely after. As the Maiden rode at a slow pace through the streets of the city, there was none, neither great nor small, youth nor sergeant, but ran forth from his house, that he might content his heart with so great beauty. Every man that saw her with his eyes, marvelled at a fairness beyond that of any earthly woman. Little he cared for any mortal maiden, after he had seen this sight. The friends of Sir Launfal hastened to the knight, to tell him of his lady’s succour, if so it were according to God’s will.
“Sir comrade, truly is not this your friend? This lady is neither black nor golden, mean nor tall. She is only the most lovely thing in all the world.”
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When Launfal heard this, he sighed, for by their words, he knew again his friend. He raised his head, and as the blood rushed to his face, speech flowed from his lips.
“By my faith,” cried he, “yes, she is indeed my friend. It is a small matter now whether men slay me, or set me free; for I am made whole of my hurt just by looking on her face.”
The Maiden entered in the palace—where none so fair had come before—and stood before the King, in the presence of his household. She loosed the clasp of her mantle, so that men might the more easily perceive the grace of her person. The courteous King advanced to meet her, and all the Court got them on their feet, and pained them- selves in her service. When the lords had gazed upon her for a space, and praised the sum of her beauty, the lady spake to Arthur in this fashion, for she was anxious to begone.
“Sire, I have loved one of thy vassals,—the knight who stands in bonds. Sir Launfal. He was always misprized in thy Court, and his every action turned to blame. What he said, that thou knowest; for over hasty was his tongue before the Queen. But he never craved her in love, however loud his boasting. I cannot choose that he should come to hurt or harm by me. In the hope of freeing Launfal from his bonds, I have obeyed thy summons. Let now thy barons look boldly upon my face, and deal justly in this quarrel between the Queen and me.”
The King commanded that this should be done, and looking upon her eyes, not one of the judges but was per- suaded that her favour exceeded that of the Queen.
Since then Launfal had not spoken in malice against his lady, the lords of the household gave him again his sword. When the trial had come thus to an end the Maiden took her leave of the King, and made her ready to depart. Gladly would Arthur have had her lodge with him for a little, and many a lord would have rejoiced in her service, but she might not tarry. Now without the hall stood a great stone of dull marble, where it was the wont of lords, departing from the Court, to climb into the saddle, and Launfal by the stone. The Maiden came forth from the doors of the palace, and mounting on the stone, seated herself on the palfrey, behind her friend. Then they rode across the plain together, and were no more seen.
The Bretons tell that the knight was ravished by his lady to an island, very dim and very fair, known as Avalon. But none has had speech with Launfal and his faery love since then, and for my part I can tell you no more of the matter.
The Lai of the Were-Wolf Amongst the tales I tell you once again, I would not forget the Lai of the Were-Wolf. Such beasts as he are
known in every land. Bisclavaret he is named in Brittany; whilst the Norman calls him Garwal. It is a certain thing, and within the knowledge of all, that many a christened man has suffered this change, and
ran wild in woods, as a Were-Wolf. The Were-Wolf is a fearsome beast. He lurks within the thick forest, mad and horrible to see. All the evil that he may, he does. He goeth to and fro, about the solitary place, seeking man, in order to devour him. Hearken, now, to the adventure of the Were-Wolf, that I have to tell.
In Brittany there dwelt a baron who was marvellously esteemed of all his fellows. He was a stout knight, and a comely, and a man of office and repute. Right private was he to the mind of his lord, and dear to the counsel of his neighbours. This baron was wedded to a very worthy dame, right fair to see, and sweet of semblance. All his love was set on her, and all her love was given again to him. One only grief had this lady. For three whole days in every week her lord was absent from her side. She knew not where he went, nor on what errand. Neither did any of his house know the business which called him forth.
On a day when this lord was come again to his house, altogether joyous and content, the lady took him to task, right sweetly, in this fashion,
“Husband,” said she, “and fair, sweet friend, I have a certain thing to pray of you. Right willingly would I receive this gift, but I fear to anger you in the asking. It is better for me to have an empty hand, than to gain hard words.”
When the lord heard this matter, he took the lady in his arms, very tenderly, and kissed her. “Wife,” he answered, “ask what you will. What would you have, for it is yours already?” “By my faith,” said the lady, “soon shall I be whole. Husband, right long and wearisome are the days that you
spend away from your home. I rise from my bed in the morning, sick at heart, I know not why. So fearful am I, lest you do aught to your loss, that I may not find any comfort. Very quickly shall I die for reason of my dread. Tell me now, where you go, and on what business! How may the knowledge of one who loves so closely, bring you to harm?”
“Wife,” made answer the lord, “nothing but evil can come if I tell you this secret. For the mercy of God do not require it of me. If you but knew, you would withdraw yourself from my love, and I should be lost indeed.”
When the lady heard this, she was persuaded that her baron sought to put her by with jesting words. Therefore she prayed and required him the more urgently, with tender looks and speech, till he was overborne, and told her all the story, hiding naught.
“Wife, I become Bisclavaret. I enter in the forest, and live on prey and roots, within the thickest of the wood.”
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After she had learned his secret, she prayed and entreated the more as to whether he ran in his raiment, or went spoiled of vesture.
“Wife,” said he, “I go naked as a beast.” “Tell me, for hope of grace, what you do with your clothing?” “Fair wife, that will I never. If I should lose my raiment, or even be marked as I quit my vesture, then a Were-
Wolf I must go for all the days of my life. Never again should I become man, save in that hour my clothing were given back to me. For this reason never will I show my lair.”
“Husband,” replied the lady to him, “I love you better than all the world. The less cause have you for doubting my faith, or hiding any tittle from me. What savour is here of friendship? How have I made forfeit of your love; for what sin do you mistrust my honour? Open now your heart, and tell what is good to be known.”
So at the end, outwearied and overborne by her importunity, he could no longer refrain, but told her all. “Wife,” said he, “within this wood, a little from the path, there is a hidden way, and at the end thereof an ancient
chapel, where oftentimes I have bewailed my lot. Near by is a great hollow stone, concealed by a bush, and there is the secret place where I hide my raiment, till I would return to my own home.”
On hearing this marvel the lady became sanguine of visage, because of her exceeding fear. She dared no longer to lie at his side, and turned over in her mind, this way and that, how best she could get her from him. Now there was a certain knight of those parts, who, for a great while, had sought and required this lady for her love. This knight had spent long years in her service, but little enough had he got thereby, not even fair words, or a promise. To him the dame wrote a letter, and meeting, made her purpose plain.
“Fair friend,” said she, “be happy. That which you have coveted so long a time, I will grant without delay. Never again will I deny your suit. My heart, and all I have to give, are yours, so take me now as love and dame.”
Right sweetly the knight thanked her for her grace, and pledged her faith and fealty. When she had confirmed him by an oath, then she told him all this business of her lord—why he went, and what he became, and of his ravening within the wood. So she showed him of the chapel, and of the hollow stone, and of how to spoil the Were- Wolf of his vesture. Thus, by the kiss of his wife, was Bisclavaret betrayed. Often enough had he ravished his prey in desolate places, but from this journey he never returned. His kinsfolk and acquaintance came together to ask of his tidings, when this absence was noised abroad. Many a man, on many a day, searched the woodland, but none might find him, nor learn where Bisclavaret was gone.
The lady was wedded to the knight who had cherished her for so long a space. More than a year had passed since Bisclavaret disappeared. Then it chanced that the King would hunt in that self-same wood where the Were- Wolf lurked. When the hounds were unleashed they ran this way and that, and swiftly came upon his scent. At the view the huntsman winded on his horn, and the whole pack were at his heels. They followed him from morn to eve, till he was torn and bleeding, and was all adread lest they should pull him down. Now the King was very close to the quarry, and when Bisclavaret looked upon his master, he ran to him for pity and for grace. He took the stirrup within his paws, and fawned upon the prince’s foot. The king was very fearful at this sight, but presently he called his courtiers to his aid.
“Lords,” cried he, “hasten hither, and see this marvellous thing. Here is a beast who has the sense of man. He abases himself before his foe, and cries for mercy, although he cannot speak. Beat off the hounds, and let no man do him harm. We will hunt no more to-day, but return to our own place, with the wonderful quarry we have taken.”
The King turned him about, and rode to his hall, Bisclavaret following at his side. Very near to his master the Were-Wolf went, like any dog, and had no care to seek again the wood. When the King had brought him safely to his own castle, he rejoiced greatly, for the beast was fair and strong, no mightier had any man seen. Much pride had the King in his marvellous beast. He held him so dear, that he bade all those who wished for his love, to cross the Wolf in naught, neither to strike him with a rod, but ever to see that he was richly fed and kennelled warm. This commandment the Court observed willingly. So all the day the Wolf sported with the lords, and at night he lay within the chamber of the King. There was not a man who did not make much of the beast, so frank was he and debonair. None had reason to do him wrong, for ever was he about his master, and for his part did evil to none. Every day were these two companions together, and all perceived that the King loved him as his friend.
Hearken now to that which chanced. The King held a high Court, and bade his great vassals and barons, and all the lords of his venery to the feast.
Never was there a goodlier feast, nor one set forth with sweeter show and pomp. Amongst those who were bid- den, came that same knight who had the wife of Bisclavaret for dame. He came to the castle, richly gowned, with a fair company, but little he deemed whom he would find so near. Bisclavaret marked his foe the moment he stood within the hall. He ran towards him, and seized him with his fangs, in the King’s very presence, and to the view of all. Doubtless he would have done him much mischief, had not the King called and chidden him, and threatened him with a rod. Once, and twice, again, the Wolf set upon the knight in the very light of day. All men marvelled at his malice, for sweet and serviceable was the beast, and to that hour had shown hatred of none. With one consent
Lancelot
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the household deemed that this deed was done with full reason, and that the Wolf had suffered at the knight’s hand some bitter wrong. Right wary of his foe was the knight until the feast had ended, and all the barons had taken farewell of their lord, and departed, each to his own house. With these, amongst the very first, went that lord whom Bisclavaret so fiercely had assailed. Small was the wonder that he was glad to go.
No long while after this adventure it came to pass that the courteous King would hunt in that forest where Bisclavaret was found. With the prince came his wolf, and a fair company. Now at nightfall the King abode within a certain lodge of that country, and this was known of that dame who before was the wife of Bisclavaret. In the morn- ing the lady clothed her in her most dainty apparel, and hastened to the lodge, since she desired to speak with the King, and to offer him a rich present. When the lady entered in the chamber, neither man nor leash might restrain the fury of the Wolf. He became as a mad dog in his hatred and malice. Breaking from his bonds he sprang at the lady’s face, and bit the nose from her visage. From every side men ran to the succour of the dame. They beat off the wolf from his prey, and for a little would have cut him in pieces with their swords. But a certain wise counsellor said to the King, “Sire, hearken now to me. This beast is always with you, and there is not one of us all who has not known him for long. He goes in and out amongst us, nor has molested any man, neither done wrong or felony to any, save only to this dame, one only time as we have seen. He has done evil to this lady, and to that knight, who is now the husband of the dame. Sire, she was once the wife of that lord who was so close and private to your heart, but who went, and none might find where he had gone. Now, therefore, put the dame in a sure place, and question her straitly, so that she may tell—if perchance she knows thereof—for what reason this Beast holds her in such mor- tal hate. For many a strange deed has chanced, as well we know, in this marvellous land of Brittany.”
The King listened to these words, and deemed the counsel good. He laid hands upon the knight, and put the dame in surety in another place. He caused them to be questioned right straitly, so that their torment was very grievous. At the end, partly because of her distress, and partly by reason of her exceeding fear, the lady’s lips were loosed, and she told her tale. She showed them of the betrayal of her lord, and how his raiment was stolen from the hollow stone. Since then she knew not where he went, nor what had befallen him, for he had never come again to his own land. Only, in her heart, well she deemed and was persuaded, that Bisclavaret was he.
Straightway the King demanded the vesture of his baron, whether this were to the wish of the lady, or whether it were against her wish. When the raiment was brought him, he caused it to be spread before Bisclavaret, but the Wolf made as though he had not seen. Then that cunning and crafty counsellor took the King apart, that he might give him a fresh rede.
“Sire,” said he, “you do not wisely, nor well, to set this raiment before Bisclavaret, in the sight of all, In shame and much tribulation must he lay aside the beast, and again become man. Carry your wolf within your most secret chamber, and put his vestment therein. Then close the door upon him, and leave him alone for a space. So we shall see presently whether the ravening beast may indeed return to human shape.”
The King carried the Wolf to his chamber, and shut the doors upon him fast. He delayed for a brief while, and taking two lords of his fellowship with him, came again to the room. Entering therein, all three, softly together, they found the knight sleeping in the King’s bed, like a little child. The King ran swiftly to the bed and taking his friend in his arms, embraced and kissed him fondly, above a hundred times. When man’s speech returned once more, he told him of his adventure. Then the King restored to his friend the fief that was stolen from him, and gave such rich gifts, moreover, as I cannot tell. As for the wife who had betrayed Bisclavaret, he bade her avoid his country, and chased her from the realm. So she went forth, she and her second lord together, to seek a more abiding city, and were no more seen.
The adventure that you have heard is no vain fable. Verily and indeed it chanced as I have said. The Lai of the Were-Wolf, truly, was written that it should ever be borne in mind.
The Lai of the Honeysuckle With a glad heart and right good mind will I tell the Lai that men call Honeysuckle; and that the truth may
be known of all it shall be told as many a minstrel has sung it to my ear, and as the scribe hath written it for our delight. It is of Tristan and Isoude, the Queen. It is of a love which passed all other love, of love from whence came wondrous sorrow, and whereof they died together in the self-same day,
King Mark was sorely wrath with Tristan, his sister’s son, and bade him avoid his realm, by reason of the love he bore the Queen. So Tristan repaired to his own land, and dwelt for a full year in South Wales, where he was born. Then since he might not come where he would be, Tristan took no heed to his ways, but let his life run waste to Death. Marvel not overmuch thereat, for he who loves beyond measure must ever be sick in heart and hope, when he may not win according to his wish. So sick in heart and mind was Tristan that he left his kingdom, and returned straight to the realm of his banishment, because that in Cornwall dwelt the Queen. There he hid privily in the deep forest, withdrawn from the eyes of men; only when the evening was come, and all things sought their rest, he prayed the peasant and other mean folk of that country, of their charity to grant him shelter for the night. From
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the serf he gathered tidings of the King. These gave again to him what they, in turn, had taken from some out-lawed knight. Thus Tristan learned that when Pentecost was come King Mark purposed to hold high Court at Tintagel, and keep the feast with pomp and revelry; moreover that thither would ride Isoude, the Queen.
When Tristan heard this thing he rejoiced greatly, since the Queen might not adventure through the forest, except he saw her with his eyes. After the King had gone his way, Tristan entered within the wood, and sought the path by which the Queen must come. There he cut a wand from out a certain hazel-tree, and having trimmed and peeled it of its bark, with his dagger he carved his name upon the wood. This he placed upon her road, for well he knew that should the Queen but mark his name she would bethink her of her friend. Thus had it chanced before. For this was the sum of the writing set upon the wand, for Queen Isoude’s heart alone: how that in this wild place Tristan had lurked and waited long, so that he might look upon her face, since without her he was already dead. Was it not with them as with the Honeysuckle and the Hazel tree she was passing by! So sweetly laced and taken were they in one close embrace, that thus they might remain whilst life endured. But should rough hands part so fond a clasping, the hazel would wither at the root, and the honeysuckle must fail. Fair friend, thus is the case with us, nor you without me, nor I without you.
Now the Queen fared at adventure down the forest path. She spied the hazel wand set upon her road, and well she remembered the letters and the name. She bade the knights of her company to draw rein, and dismount from their palfreys, so that they might refresh themselves a little. When her commandment was done she withdrew from them a space, and called to her Brangwaine, her maiden, and own familiar friend. Then she hastened within the wood, to come on him whom more she loved than any living soul. How great the joy between these twain, that once more they might speak together softly, face to face. Isoude showed him her delight. She showed in what fashion she strove to bring peace and concord betwixt Tristan and the King, and how grievously his banishment had weighed upon her heart. Thus sped the hour, till it was time for them to part; but when these lovers freed them from the other’s arms, the tears were wet upon their cheeks. So Tristan returned to Wales, his own realm, even as his uncle bade. But for the joy that he had had of her, his friend, for her sweet face, and for the tender words that she had spoken, yea, and for that writing upon the wand, to remember all these things, Tristan, that cunning harper, wrought a new Lai, as shortly I have told you. Goatleaf, men call this song in English. Chevrefeuille it is named in French; but Goatleaf or Honey- suckle, here you have the very truth in the Lai that I have spoken.
LANCELOT, THE KNIGHT OF THE CART
Chrétien de Troyes
Ca. 1175-1181 C.E. France
The French writer Wace translated Geoffrey of Monmouth’s History of the Kings of Britain, one of the most popular sources for Arthurian stories, into French in 1155 C.E. (and added the idea of the Round Table, not found in previous works on King Arthur). Not long after that, Chrétien de Troyes began writing his five Arthurian stories: Erec and Enide, Cligès, Lancelot, Yvain, and Perceval. His importance in the history of Arthurian literature is consid- erable, since he introduces a French knight who is the best knight of King Arthur’s court: Lancelot. Previously, Brit- ish knights had been the greatest knight of the court, and other authors would follow Chrétien’s lead: the German Parzival in Wolfram von Eschenbach’s work, for example, becomes the best knight, while the anonymous author of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight restores a British knight to the honored spot, and Thomas Malory in his Le Morte d’Arthur creates a British/French hybrid by making Galahad (the son of Lancelot and the British Elaine) the best
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Author: Reginald L. Knowles Source: Hathi Trust Digital Library License: Public Domain
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knight. It was also Chrétien who made Lancelot the lover of Queen Guinevere. Prior to Chrétien, other knights had been Guinevere’s lover, but after Chrétien, the story was altered permanently. Many other writers before Chrétien had written about the Arthurian legends, but his version was considered the best (just as Homer’s versions of Greek legends surpassed previous versions). All of his stories examine the difficulty of following multiple codes at once: the knight with his liege lord; the knightly lover with his lady; and the knight with his religion. To be loyal to one’s lady can mean prioritizing her over one’s liege lord, or even over one’s religious and moral code. It is precisely this problem that Lancelot faces in Chrétien’s story.
Written by Laura J. Getty
Chrétien Detroyes: Arthurian Romances
[Lancelot, The Knight of the Cart]
Chrétien de Troyes, Translated by W. W. Comfort
Part I: Vv. 1 Vv. 1840 Since my lady of Champagne wishes me to undertake to write a romance I shall very gladly do so, being so de-
voted to her service as to do anything in the world for her, without any intention of flattery. But if one were to intro- duce any flattery upon such an occasion, he might say, and I would subscribe to it, that this lady surpasses all others who are alive, just as the south wind which blows in May or April is more lovely than any other wind. But upon my word, I am not one to wish to flatter my lady. I will simply say: “The Countess is worth as many queens as a gem is worth of pearls and sards.” Nay I shall make no comparison, and yet it is true in spite of me; I will say, however, that her command has more to do with this work than any thought or pains that I may expend upon it. Here Chretien begins his book about the Knight of the Cart. The material and the treatment of it are given and furnished to him by the Countess, and he is simply trying to carry out her concern and intention. Here he begins the story.
Upon a certain Ascension Day King Arthur had come from Caerleon, and had held a very magnificent court at Camelot as was fitting on such a day. After the feast the King did not quit his noble companions, of whom there were many in the hall. The Queen was present, too, and with her many a courteous lady able to converse in French. And Kay, who had furnished the meal, was eating with the others who had served the food. While Kay was sitting there at meat, behold there came to court a knight, well equipped and fully armed, and thus the knight appeared before the King as he sat among his lords. He gave him no greeting, but spoke out thus: “King Arthur, I hold in captivity knights, ladies, and damsels who belong to thy dominion and household; but it is not because of any intention to restore them to thee that I make reference to them here; rather do I wish to proclaim and serve thee notice that thou hast not the strength or the resources to enable thee to secure them again. And be assured that thou shalt die before thou canst ever succour them.“ The King replies that he must needs endure what he has not the power to change; nevertheless, he is filled with grief. Then the knight makes as if to go away, and turns about, without tarrying longer before the King; but after reaching the door of the hall, he does not go down the stairs, but stops and speaks from there these words: “King, if in thy court there is a single knight in whom thou hast such confidence that thou wouldst dare to entrust to him the Queen that he might escort her after me out into the woods whither I am going, I will promise to await him there, and will surrender to thee all the prisoners whom I hold in exile in my country if he is able to defend the Queen and if he succeeds in bringing her back again.” Many who were in the palace heard this challenge, and the whole court was in an uproar. Kay, too, heard the news as he sat at meat with those who served. Leaving the table, he came straight to the King, and as if greatly enraged, he began to say: “O King, I have served thee long, faithfully, and loyally; now I take my leave, and shall go away, having no desire to serve thee more.” The King was grieved at what he heard, and as soon as he could, he thus replied to him: “Is this serious, or a joke?” And Kay replied: “O King, fair sire, I have no desire to jest, and I take my leave quite seriously. No other reward or wages do I wish in return for the service I have given you. My mind is quite made up to go away immediately.” “Is it in anger or in spite that you wish to go?” the King inquired; “seneschal, remain at court, as you have done hitherto, and be assured that I have nothing in the world which I would not give you at once in return for your consent to stay.” “Sire,” says Kay, “no need of that. I would not accept for each day’s pay a measure of fine pure gold.” Thereupon, the King in great dismay went off to seek the Queen. “My lady,” he says, “you do not know the demand that the seneschal makes of me. He asks me for leave to go away, and says he will no longer stay at court; the reason of this I do not know. But he will do at your request what he will not do for me. Go to him now, my lady dear. Since he will not consent to stay for my sake, pray him to remain on your account, and if need be, fall at his feet, for I should never again be happy if I should lose his company.” The King sends the Queen to the seneschal,
License: Public Domain
Image 5.25: Idylls of the King | Sir Lancelot rides away down a forest path toward a distant castle.
Author: Holger Thölking Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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knight. It was also Chrétien who made Lancelot the lover of Queen Guinevere. Prior to Chrétien, other knights had been Guinevere’s lover, but after Chrétien, the story was altered permanently. Many other writers before Chrétien had written about the Arthurian legends, but his version was considered the best (just as Homer’s versions of Greek legends surpassed previous versions). All of his stories examine the difficulty of following multiple codes at once: the knight with his liege lord; the knightly lover with his lady; and the knight with his religion. To be loyal to one’s lady can mean prioritizing her over one’s liege lord, or even over one’s religious and moral code. It is precisely this problem that Lancelot faces in Chrétien’s story.
Written by Laura J. Getty
Chrétien Detroyes: Arthurian Romances
[Lancelot, The Knight of the Cart]
Chrétien de Troyes, Translated by W. W. Comfort
Part I: Vv. 1 Vv. 1840 Since my lady of Champagne wishes me to undertake to write a romance I shall very gladly do so, being so de-
voted to her service as to do anything in the world for her, without any intention of flattery. But if one were to intro- duce any flattery upon such an occasion, he might say, and I would subscribe to it, that this lady surpasses all others who are alive, just as the south wind which blows in May or April is more lovely than any other wind. But upon my word, I am not one to wish to flatter my lady. I will simply say: “The Countess is worth as many queens as a gem is worth of pearls and sards.” Nay I shall make no comparison, and yet it is true in spite of me; I will say, however, that her command has more to do with this work than any thought or pains that I may expend upon it. Here Chretien begins his book about the Knight of the Cart. The material and the treatment of it are given and furnished to him by the Countess, and he is simply trying to carry out her concern and intention. Here he begins the story.
Upon a certain Ascension Day King Arthur had come from Caerleon, and had held a very magnificent court at Camelot as was fitting on such a day. After the feast the King did not quit his noble companions, of whom there were many in the hall. The Queen was present, too, and with her many a courteous lady able to converse in French. And Kay, who had furnished the meal, was eating with the others who had served the food. While Kay was sitting there at meat, behold there came to court a knight, well equipped and fully armed, and thus the knight appeared before the King as he sat among his lords. He gave him no greeting, but spoke out thus: “King Arthur, I hold in captivity knights, ladies, and damsels who belong to thy dominion and household; but it is not because of any intention to restore them to thee that I make reference to them here; rather do I wish to proclaim and serve thee notice that thou hast not the strength or the resources to enable thee to secure them again. And be assured that thou shalt die before thou canst ever succour them.“ The King replies that he must needs endure what he has not the power to change; nevertheless, he is filled with grief. Then the knight makes as if to go away, and turns about, without tarrying longer before the King; but after reaching the door of the hall, he does not go down the stairs, but stops and speaks from there these words: “King, if in thy court there is a single knight in whom thou hast such confidence that thou wouldst dare to entrust to him the Queen that he might escort her after me out into the woods whither I am going, I will promise to await him there, and will surrender to thee all the prisoners whom I hold in exile in my country if he is able to defend the Queen and if he succeeds in bringing her back again.” Many who were in the palace heard this challenge, and the whole court was in an uproar. Kay, too, heard the news as he sat at meat with those who served. Leaving the table, he came straight to the King, and as if greatly enraged, he began to say: “O King, I have served thee long, faithfully, and loyally; now I take my leave, and shall go away, having no desire to serve thee more.” The King was grieved at what he heard, and as soon as he could, he thus replied to him: “Is this serious, or a joke?” And Kay replied: “O King, fair sire, I have no desire to jest, and I take my leave quite seriously. No other reward or wages do I wish in return for the service I have given you. My mind is quite made up to go away immediately.” “Is it in anger or in spite that you wish to go?” the King inquired; “seneschal, remain at court, as you have done hitherto, and be assured that I have nothing in the world which I would not give you at once in return for your consent to stay.” “Sire,” says Kay, “no need of that. I would not accept for each day’s pay a measure of fine pure gold.” Thereupon, the King in great dismay went off to seek the Queen. “My lady,” he says, “you do not know the demand that the seneschal makes of me. He asks me for leave to go away, and says he will no longer stay at court; the reason of this I do not know. But he will do at your request what he will not do for me. Go to him now, my lady dear. Since he will not consent to stay for my sake, pray him to remain on your account, and if need be, fall at his feet, for I should never again be happy if I should lose his company.” The King sends the Queen to the seneschal,
License: Public Domain
Image 5.25: Idylls of the King | Sir Lancelot rides away down a forest path toward a distant castle.
Author: Holger Thölking Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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and she goes to him. Finding him with the rest, she went up to him, and said: “Kay, you may be very sure that I am greatly troubled by the news I have heard of you. I am grieved to say that I have been told it is your intention to leave the King. How does this come about? What motive have you in your mind? I cannot think that you are so sensible or courteous as usual. I want to ask you to remain: stay with us here, and grant my prayer.” “Lady,” he says, “I give you thanks; nevertheless, I shall not remain.” The Queen again makes her request, and is joined by all the other knights. And Kay informs her that he is growing tired of a service which is unprofitable. Then the Queen prostrates herself at full length before his feet. Kay beseeches her to rise, but she says that she will never do so until he grants her request. Then Kay promises her to remain, provided the King and she will grant in advance a favour he is about to ask. “Kay,” she says, “he will grant it, whatever it may be. Come now, and we shall tell him that upon this condition you will remain.” So Kay goes away with the Queen to the King‘s presence. The Queen says: “I have had hard work to detain Kay; but I have brought him here to you with the understanding that you will do what he is going to ask.” The King sighed with satisfaction, and said that he would perform whatever request he might make.
“Sire,” says Kay, “hear now what I desire, and what is the gift you have promised me. I esteem myself very fortunate to gain such a boon with your consent. Sire, you have pledged your word that you would entrust to me my lady here, and that we should go after the knight who awaits us in the forest.” Though the King is grieved, he trusts him with the charge, for he never went back upon his word. But it made him so ill-humoured and displeased that it plainly showed in his countenance. The Queen, for her part, was sorry too, and all those of the household say that Kay had made a proud, outrageous, and mad request. Then the King took the Queen by the hand, and said: “My lady, you must accompany Kay without making objection.” And Kay said: “Hand her over to me now, and have no fear, for I shall bring her back perfectly happy and safe.” The King gives her into his charge, and he takes her off. After them all the rest go out, and there is not one who is not sad. You must know that the seneschal was fully armed, and his horse was led into the middle of the courtyard, together with a palfrey, as is fitting, for the Queen. The Queen walked up to the palfrey, which was neither restive nor hard-mouthed. Grieving and sad, with a sigh the Queen mounts, saying to herself in a low voice, so that no one could hear: “Alas, alas, if you only knew it, I am sure you would never allow me without interference to be led away a step.” She thought she had spoken in a very low tone; but Count Guinable heard her, who was standing by when she mounted. When they started away, as great a lament was made by all the men and women present as if she already lay dead upon a bier. They do not believe that she will ever in her life come back. The seneschal in his impudence takes her where that other knight is awaiting her. But no one was so much concerned as to undertake to follow him; until at last my lord Gawain thus addressed the King his uncle: “Sire,” he says, “you have done a very foolish thing, which causes me great surprise; but if you will take my advice, while they are still near by, I and you will ride after them, and all those who wish to accompany us. For my part, I cannot restrain myself from going in pursuit of them at once. It would not be proper for us not to go after them, at least far enough to learn what is to become of the Queen, and how Kay is going to comport himself.” “Ah, fair nephew,” the King replied, “you have spoken courteously. And since you have undertak- en the affair, order our horses to be led out bridled and saddled that there may be no delay in setting out.”
The horses are at once brought out, all ready and with the saddles on. First the King mounts, then my lord Gawain, and all the others rapidly. Each one, wishing to be of the party, follows his own will and starts away. Some were armed, but there were not a few without their arms. My lord Gawain was armed, and he bade two squires lead by the bridle two extra steeds. And as they thus approached the forest, they saw Kay’s horse running out; and they recognised him, and saw that both reins of the bridle were broken. The horse was running wild, the stirrup-straps all stained with blood, and the saddle-bow was broken and damaged. Every one was chagrined at this, and they nudged each other and shook their heads. My lord Gawain was riding far in advance of the rest of the party, and it was not long before he saw coming slowly a knight on a horse that was sore, painfully tired, and covered with sweat. The knight first saluted my lord Gawain, and his greeting my lord Gawain returned. Then the knight, recognising my lord Gawain, stopped and thus spoke to him: “You see, sir, my horse is in a sweat and in such case as to be no longer serviceable. I suppose that those two horses belong to you now, with the understanding that I shall return the service and the favour, I beg you to let me have one or the other of them, either as a loan or outright as a gift.” And he answers him: “Choose whichever you prefer.” Then he who was in dire distress did not try to select the better or the fairer or the larger of the horses, but leaped quickly upon the one which was nearer to him, and rode him off. Then the one he had just left fell dead, for he had ridden him hard that day, so that he was used up and overworked. The knight without delay goes pricking through the forest, and my lord Gawain follows in pursuit of him with all speed, until he reaches the bottom of a hill. And when he had gone some distance, he found the horse dead which he had given to the knight, and noticed that the ground had been trampled by horses, and that broken shields and lances lay strewn about, so that it seemed that there had been a great combat between several knights, and he was very sorry and grieved not to have been there. However, he did not stay there long, but rapidly passed on until he saw again by chance the knight all alone on foot, completely armed, with helmet laced, shield hanging from his neck, and with his sword girt on. He had overtaken a cart. In those days such a cart served the same pur-
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pose as does a pillory now; and in each good town where there are more than three thousand such carts nowadays, in those times there was only one, and this, like our pillories, had to do service for all those who commit murder or treason, and those who are guilty of any delinquency, and for thieves who have stolen others’ property or have forcibly seized it on the roads. Whoever was convicted of any crime was placed upon a cart and dragged through all the streets, and he lost henceforth all his legal rights, and was never afterward heard, honoured, or welcomed in any court. The carts were so dreadful in those days that the saying was then first used: “When thou dost see and meet a cart, cross thyself and call upon God, that no evil may befall thee.” The knight on foot, and without a lance, walked behind the cart, and saw a dwarf sitting on the shafts, who held, as a driver does, a long goad in his hand. Then he cries out: “Dwarf, for God’s sake, tell me now if thou hast seen my lady, the Queen, pass by here.” The miserable, low-born dwarf would not give him any news of her, but replied: “If thou wilt get up into the cart I am driving thou shalt hear to-morrow what has happened to the Queen.” Then he kept on his way without giving further heed. The knight hesitated only for a couple of steps before getting in. Yet, it was unlucky for him that he shrank from the disgrace, and did not jump in at once; for he will later rue his delay. But common sense, which is inconsistent with love’s dictates, bids him refrain from getting in, warning him and counselling him to do and undertake nothing for which he may reap shame and disgrace. Reason, which dares thus speak to him, reaches only his lips, but not his heart; but love is enclosed within his heart, bidding him and urging him to mount at once upon the cart. So he jumps in, since love will have it so, feeling no concern about the shame, since he is prompted by love’s commands. And my lord Gawain presses on in haste after the cart, and when he finds the knight sitting in it, his surprise is great. “Tell me,” he shouted to the dwarf, “if thou knowest anything of the Queen.” And he replied: “If thou art so much thy own enemy as is this knight who is sitting here, get in with him, if it be thy pleasure, and I will drive thee along with him.” When my lord Gawain heard that, he considered it great foolishness, and said that he would not get in, for it would be dishonourable to exchange a horse for a cart: “Go on, and wherever thy journey lies, I will follow after thee.”
Thereupon they start ahead, one mounted on his horse, the other two riding in the cart, and thus they proceed in company. Late in the afternoon they arrive at a town, which, you must know, was very rich and beautiful. All three entered through the gate; the people are greatly amazed to see the knight borne upon the cart, and they take no pains to conceal their feelings, but small and great and old and young shout taunts at him in the streets, so that the knight hears many vile and scornful words at his expense. They all inquire: “To what punishment is this knight to be con- signed? Is he to be rayed, or hanged, or drowned, or burned upon a fire of thorns? Tell us, thou dwarf, who art driv- ing him, in what crime was he caught? Is he convicted of robbery? Is he a murderer, or a criminal?” And to all this the dwarf made no response, vouchsafing to them no reply. He conducts the knight to a lodging-place; and Gawain follows the dwarf closely to a tower, which stood on the same level over against the town. Beyond there stretched a meadow, and the tower was built close by, up on a lofty eminence of rock, whose face formed a sharp precipice. Following the horse and cart, Gawain entered the tower. In the hall they met a damsel elegantly attired, than whom there was none fairer in the land, and with her they saw coming two fair and charming maidens. As soon as they saw my lord Gawain, they received him joyously and saluted him, and then asked news about the other knight: “Dwarf, of what crime is this knight guilty, whom thou dost drive like a lame man?” He would not answer her question, but he made the knight get out of the cart, and then he withdrew, without their knowing whither he went. Then my lord Gawain dismounts, and valets come forward to relieve the two knights of their armour. The damsel ordered two green mantles to be brought, which they put on. When the hour for supper came, a sumptuous repast was set. The damsel sat at table beside my lord Gawain. They would not have changed their lodging-place to seek any other, for all that evening the damsel showed them gear honour, and provided them with fair and pleasant company.
When they had sat up long enough, two long, high beds were prepared in the middle of the hall; and there was another bed alongside, fairer and more splendid than the rest; for, as the story testifies, it possessed all the excel- lence that one could think of in a bed. When the time came to retire, the damsel took both the guests to whom she had offered her hospitality; she shows them the two fine, long, wide beds, and says: “These two beds are set up here for the accommodation of your bodies; but in that one yonder no one ever lay who did not merit it: it was not set up to be used by you.” The knight who came riding on the cart replies at once: “Tell me, he says, “for what cause this bed is inaccessible.” Being thoroughly informed of this, she answers unhesitatingly: “It is not your place to ask or make such an inquiry. Any knight is disgraced in the land after being in a cart, and it is not fitting that he should concern himself with the matter upon which you have questioned me; and most of all it is not right that he should lie upon the bed, for he would soon pay dearly for his act. So rich a couch has not been prepared for you, and you would pay dearly for ever harbouring such a thought.” He replies: “You will see about that presently.” .... “Am I to see it?” .... “Yes.” .... “It will soon appear.” .... “By my head,” the knight replies, “I know not who is to pay the penalty. But whoever may object or disapprove, I intend to lie upon this bed and repose there at my ease.” Then he at once disrobed in the bed, which was long and raised half an ell above the other two, and was covered with a yellow cloth of silk and a coverlet with gilded stars. The furs were not of skinned vair but of sable; the covering he had on him
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would have been fitting for a king. The mattress was not made of straw or rushes or of old mats. At midnight there descended from the rafters suddenly a lance, as with the intention of pinning the knight through the flanks to the coverlet and the white sheets where he lay. To the lance there was attached a pennon all ablaze. The coverlet, the bedclothes, and the bed itself all caught fire at once. And the tip of the lance passed so close to the knight’s side that it cut the skin a little, without seriously wounding him. Then the knight got up, put out the fire and, taking the lance, swung it in the middle of the hall, all this without leaving his bed; rather did he lie down again and slept as securely as at first.
In the morning, at daybreak, the damsel of the tower had Mass celebrated on their account, and had them rise and dress. When Mass had been celebrated for them, the knight who had ridden in the cart sat down pensively at a window, which looked out upon the meadow, and he gazed upon the fields below. The damsel came to another window close by, and there my lord Gawain conversed with her privately for a while about something, I know not what. I do not know what words were uttered, but while they were leaning on the window-sill they saw carried along the river through the fields a bier, upon which there lay a knight, and alongside three damsels walked, mourning bitterly. Behind the bier they saw a crowd approaching, with a tall knight in front, leading a fair lady by the horse’s rein. The knight at the window knew that it was the Queen. He continued to gaze at her attentively and with delight as long as she was visible. And when he could no longer see her, he was minded to throw himself out and break his body down below. And he would have let himself fall out had not my lord Gawain seen him, and drawn him back, saying: “I beg you, sire, be quiet now. For God’s sake, never think again of committing such a mad deed. It is wrong for you to despise your life.” “He is perfectly right,” the damsel says; “for will not the news of his disgrace be known everywhere? Since he has been upon the cart, he has good reason to wish to die, for he would be better dead than alive. His life henceforth is sure to be one of shame, vexation, and unhappiness.” Then the knights asked for their armour, and armed themselves, the damsel treating them courteously, with distinction and generosi- ty; for when she had joked with the knight and ridiculed him enough, she presented him with a horse and lance as a token of her goodwill. The knights then courteously and politely took leave of the damsel, first saluting her, and then going off in the direction taken by the crowd they had seen. Thus they rode out from the town without ad- dressing them. They proceeded quickly in the direction they had seen taken by the Queen, but they did not over- take the procession, which had advanced rapidly. After leaving the fields, the knights enter an enclosed place, and find a beaten road. They advanced through the woods until it might be six o’clock, and then at a crossroads they met a damsel, whom they both saluted, each asking and requesting her to tell them, if she knows, whither the Queen has been taken. Replying intelligently, she said to them: “If you would pledge me your word, I could set you on the right road and path, and I would tell you the name of the country and of the knight who is conducting her; but whoever would essay to enter that country must endure sore trials, for before he could reach there he must suffer much.” Then my lord Gawain replies: “Damsel, so help me God, I promise to place all my strength at your disposal and service, whenever you please, if you will tell me now the truth.” And he who had been on the cart did not say that he would pledge her all his strength; but he proclaims, like one whom love makes rich, powerful and bold for any enterprise, that at once and without hesitation he will promise her anything she desires, and he puts himself alto- gether at her disposal. “Then I will tell you the truth,” says she. Then the damsel relates to them the following story: “In truth, my lords, Meleagant, a tall and powerful knight, son of the King of Gorre, has taken her off into the kingdom whence no foreigner returns, but where he must perforce remain in servitude and banishment.” Then they ask her: “Damsel, where is this country? Where can we find the way thither?” She replies: “That you shall quickly learn; but you may be sure that you will meet with many obstacles and difficult passages, for it is not easy to enter there except with the permission of the king, whose name is Bademagu; however, it is possible to enter by two very perilous paths and by two very difficult passage-ways. One is called the water-bridge, because the bridge is under water, and there is the same amount of water beneath it as above it, so that the bridge is exactly in the middle; and it is only a foot and a half in width and in thickness. This choice is certainly to be avoided. and yet it is the less dan- gerous of the two. In addition there are a number of other obstacles of which I will say nothing. The other bridge is still more impracticable and much more perilous, never having been crossed by man. It is just like a sharp sword, and therefore all the people call it `the sword-bridge’. Now I have told you all the truth I know.” But they ask of her once again: “Damsel, deign to show us these two passages.” To which the damsel makes reply: “This road here is the most direct to the water-bridge, and that one yonder leads straight to the sword-bridge.” Then the knight, who had been on the cart, says: “Sire, I am ready to share with you without prejudice: take one of these two routes, and leave the other one to me; take whichever you prefer.” “In truth,” my lord Gawain replies, “both of them are hard and dangerous: I am not skilled in making such a choice, and hardly know which of them to take; but it is not right for me to hesitate when you have left the choice to me: I will choose the water-bridge.” The other answers: “Then I must go uncomplainingly to the sword-bridge, which I agree to do.” Thereupon, they all three part, each one commend- ing the others very courteously to God. And when she sees them departing, she says: “Each one of you owes me a favour of my choosing, whenever I may choose to ask it. Take care not to forget that.” “We shall surely not forget it,
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sweet friend,” both the knights call out. Then each one goes his own way, and he of the cart is occupied with deep reflections, like one who has no strength or defence against love which holds him in its sway. His thoughts are such that he totally forgets himself, and he knows not whether he is alive or dead, forgetting even his own name, not knowing whether he is armed or not, or whither he is going or whence he came. Only one creature he has in mind, and for her his thought is so occupied that he neither sees nor hears aught else. And his horse bears him along rapidly, following no crooked road, but the best and the most direct; and thus proceeding unguided, he brings him into an open plain. In this plain there was a ford, on the other side of which a knight stood armed, who guarded it, and in his company there was a damsel who had come on a palfrey. By this time the afternoon was well advanced, and yet the knight, unchanged and unwearied, pursued his thoughts. The horse, being very thirsty, sees clearly the ford, and as soon as he sees it, hastens toward it. Then he on the other side cries out: “Knight, I am guarding the ford, and forbid you to cross.” He neither gives him heed, nor hears his words, being still deep in thought. In the meantime, his horse advanced rapidly toward the water. The knight calls out to him that he will do wisely to keep at a distance from the ford, for there is no passage that way; and he swears by the heart within his breast that he will smite him if he enters the water. But his threats are not heard, and he calls out to him a third time: “Knight, do not enter the ford against my will and prohibition; for, by my head, I shall strike you as soon as I see you in the ford.” But he is so deep in thought that he does not hear him. And the horse, quickly leaving the bank, leaps into the ford and greedily begins to drink. And the knight says he shall pay for this, that his shield and the hauberk he wears upon his back shall afford him no protection. First, he puts his horse at a gallop, and from a gallop he urges him to a run, and he strikes the knight so hard that he knocks him down flat in the ford which he had forbidden him to cross. His lance flew from his hand and the shield from his neck. When he feels the water, he shivers, and though stunned, he jumps to his feet, like one aroused from sleep, listening and looking about him with astonishment, to see who it can be who has struck him. Then face to face with the other knight, he said: “Vassal, tell me why you have struck me, when I was not aware of your presence, and when I had done you no harm.” “Upon my word, you had wronged me,” the other says: “did you not treat me disdainfully when I forbade you three times to cross the ford, shouting at you as loudly as I could? You surely heard me challenge you at least two or three times, and you entered in spite of me, though I told you I should strike you as soon as I saw you in the ford.” Then the knight replies to him: “Whoever heard you or saw you, let him be damned, so far as I am concerned. I was probably deep in thought when you forbade me to cross the ford. But be assured that I would make you reset it, if I could just lay one of my hands on your bridle.” And the other replies: “Why, what of that? If you dare, you may seize my bridle here and now. I do not esteem your proud threats so much as a handful of ashes.” And he replies: “That suits me perfectly. However the affair may turn out, I should like to lay my hands on you.” Then the other knight advances to the middle of the ford, where the other lays his left hand upon his bridle, and his right hand upon his leg, pulling, dragging, and pressing him so roughly that he remonstrates, thinking that he would pull his leg out of his body. Then he begs him to let go, saying: “Knight, if it please thee to fight me on even terms, take thy shield and horse and lance, and joust with me.” He answers: “That will I not do, upon my word; for I suppose thou wouldst run away as soon as thou hadst escaped my grip.” Hearing this, he was much ashamed, and said: “Knight, mount thy horse, in confidence for I will pledge thee loyally my word that I shall not flinch or run away.” Then once again he answers him: “First, thou wilt have to swear to that, and I insist upon receiving thy oath that thou wilt neither run away nor flinch, nor touch me, nor come near me until thou shalt see me on my horse; I shall be treating thee very generous- ly, if, when thou art in my hands, I let thee go.” He can do nothing but give his oath; and when the other hears him swear, he gathers up his shield and lance which were floating in the ford and by this time had drifted well down- stream; then he returns and takes his horse. After catching and mounting him, he seizes the shield by the shoul- der-straps and lays his lance in rest. Then each spurs toward the other as fast as their horses can carry them. And he who had to defend the ford first attacks the other, striking him so hard that his lance is completely splintered. The other strikes him in return so that he throws him prostrate into the ford, and the water closes over him. Having accomplished that, he draws back and dismounts, thinking he could drive and chase away a hundred such. While he draws from the scabbard his sword of steel, the other jumps up and draws his excellent flashing blade. Then they clash again, advancing and covering themselves with the shields which gleam with gold. Ceaselessly and without repose they wield their swords; they have the courage to deal so many blows that the battle finally is so protracted that the Knight of the Cart is greatly ashamed in his heart, thinking that he is making a sorry start in the way he has undertaken, when he has spent so much time in defeating a single knight. If he had met yesterday a hundred such, he does not think or believe that they could have withstood him; so now he is much grieved and wroth to be in such an exhausted state that he is missing his strokes and losing time. Then he runs at him and presses him so hard that the other knight gives way and flees. However reluctant he may be, he leaves the ford and crossing free. But the other follows him in pursuit until he falls forward upon his hands; then he of the cart runs up to him, swearing by all he sees that he shall rue the day when he upset him in the ford and disturbed his revery. The damsel, whom the knight had with him, upon hearing the threats, is in great fear, and begs him for her sake to forbear from killing
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him; but he tells her that he must do so, and can show him no mercy for her sake, in view of the shameful wrong that he has done him. Then, with sword drawn, he approaches the knight who cries in sore dismay: “For God’s sake and for my own, show me the mercy I ask of you.” And he replies: “As God may save me, no one ever sinned so against me that I would not show him mercy once, for God’s sake as is right, if he asked it of me in God’s name. And so on thee I will have mercy; for I ought not to refuse thee when thou hast besought me. But first, thou shalt give me thy word to constitute thyself my prisoner whenever I may wish to summon thee.” Though it was hard to do so, he promised him. At once the damsel said: “O knight, since thou hast granted the mercy he asked of thee, if ever thou hast broken any bonds, for my sake now be merciful and release this prisoner from his parole. Set him free at my request, upon condition that when the time comes, I shall do my utmost to repay thee in any way that thou shalt choose.” Then he declares himself satisfied with the promise she has made, and sets the knight at liberty. Then she is ashamed and anxious, thinking that he will recognise her, which she did not wish. But he goes away at once, the knight and the damsel commending him to God, and taking leave of him. He grants them leave to go, while he himself pursues his way, until late in the afternoon he met a damsel coming, who was very fair and charming, well attired and richly dressed. The damsel greets him prudently and courteously, and he replies: “Damsel, God grant you health and happiness.” Then the damsel said to him: “Sire, my house is prepared for you, if you will accept my hospitality, but you shall find shelter there only on condition that you will lie with me; upon these terms I propose and make the offer.” Not a few there are who would have thanked her five hundred times for such a gift; but he is much displeased, and made a very different answer: “Damsel, I thank you for the offer of your house, and esteem it highly, but, if you please, I should be very sorry to lie with you.” “By my eyes,” the damsel says, “then I retract my offer.” And he, since it is unavoidable, lets her have her way, though his heart grieves to give consent. He feels only reluctance now; but greater distress will be his when it is time to go to bed. The damsel, too, who leads him away, will pass through sorrow and heaviness. For it is possible that she will love him so that she will not wish to part with him. As soon as he had granted her wish and desire, she escorts him to a fortified place, than which there was none fairer in Thessaly; for it was entirely enclosed by a high wall and a deep moat, and there was no man within except him whom she brought with her.
Here she had constructed for her residence a quantity of handsome rooms, and a large and roomy hall. Riding along a river bank, they approached their lodging-place, and a drawbridge was lowered to allow them to pass. Cross- ing the bridge, they entered in, and found the hall open with its roof of tiles. Through the open door they pass, and see a table laid with a broad white cloth, upon which the dishes were set, and the candles burning in their stands, and the gilded silver drinking-cups, and two pots of wine, one red and one white. Standing beside the table, at the end of a bench, they found two basins of warm water in which to wash their hands, with a richly embroidered towel, all white and clean, with which to dry their hands. No valets, servants, or squires were to be found or seen. The knight, removing his shield from about his neck, hangs it upon a hook, and, taking his lance, lays it above upon a rack. Then he dismounts from his horse, as does the damsel from hers. The knight, for his part, was pleased that she did not care to wait for him to help her to dismount. Having dismounted, she runs directly to a room and brings him a short mantle of scarlet cloth which she puts on him. The hall was by no means dark; for beside the light from the stars, there were many large twisted candles lighted there, so that the illumination was very bright. When she had thrown the mantle about his shoulders, she said to him: “Friend, here is the water and the towel; there is no one to present or offer it to you except me whom you see. Wash your hands, and then sit down, when you feel like doing so. The hour and the meal, as you can see, demand that you should do so.” He washes, and then gladly and readily takes his seat, and she sits down beside him, and they eat and drink together, until the time comes to leave the table.
When they had risen from the table, the damsel said to the knight: “Sire, if you do not object, go outside and amuse yourself; but, if you please, do not stay after you think I must be in bed. Feel no concern or embarrassment; for then you may come to me at once, if you will keep the promise you have made.” And he replies: “I will keep my word, and will return when I think the time has come.” Then he went out, and stayed in the courtyard until he thought it was time to return and keep the promise he had made. Going back into the hall, he sees nothing of her who would be his mistress; for she was not there. Not finding or seeing her, he said: “Wherever she may be, I shall look for her until I find her.” He makes no delay in his search, being bound by the promise he had made her. Entering one of the rooms, he hears a damsel cry aloud, and it was the very one with whom he was about to lie. At the same time, he sees the door of another room standing open, and stepping toward it, he sees right before his eyes a knight who had thrown her down, and was holding her naked and prostrate upon the bed. She, thinking that he had come of course to help her, cried aloud: “Help, help, thou knight, who art my guest. If thou dost not take this man away from me, I shall find no one to do so; if thou dost not succour me speedily, he will wrong me before thy eyes. Thou art the one to lie with me, in accordance with thy promise; and shall this man by force accomplish his wish before thy eyes? Gentle knight, exert thyself, and make haste to bear me aid.” He sees that the other man held the damsel brutally uncovered to the waist, and he is ashamed and angered to see him assault her so; yet it is not jealousy he feels, nor will he be made a cuckold by him. At the door there stood as guards two knights completely
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armed and with swords drawn. Behind them there stood four men-at-arms, each armed with an axe the sort with which you could split a cow down the back as easily as a root of juniper or broom. The knight hesitated at the door, and thought: “God, what can I do? I am engaged in no less an affair than the quest of Queen Guinevere. I ought not to have the heart of a hare, when for her sake I have engaged in such a quest. If cowardice puts its heart in me, and if I follow its dictates, I shall never attain what I seek. I am disgraced, if I stand here; indeed, I am ashamed even to have thought of holding back. My heart is very sad and oppressed: now I am so ashamed and distressed that I would gladly die for having hesitated here so long. I say it not in pride: but may God have mercy on me if I do not prefer to die honourably rather than live a life of shame! If my path were unobstructed, and if these men gave me leave to pass through without restraint, what honour would I gain? Truly, in that case the greatest coward alive would pass through; and all the while I hear this poor creature calling for help constantly, and reminding me of my promise, and reproaching me with bitter taunts.” Then he steps to the door, thrusting in his head and shoulders; glancing up, he sees two swords descending. He draws back, and the knights could not check their strokes: they had wielded them with such force that the swords struck the floor, and both were broken in pieces. When he sees that the swords are broken, he pays less attention to the axes, fearing and dreading them much less. Rushing in among them, he strikes first one guard in the side and then another. The two who are nearest him he jostles and thrusts aside, throwing them both down flat; the third missed his stroke at him, but the fourth, who attacked him, strikes him so that he cuts his mantle and shirt, and slices the white flesh on his shoulder so that the blood trickles down from the wound. But he, without delay, and without complaining of his wound, presses on more rapidly, until he strikes between the temples him who was assaulting his hostess. Before he departs, he will try to keep his pledge to her. He makes him stand up reluctantly. Meanwhile, he who had missed striking him comes at him as fast as he can and, raising his arm again, expects to split his head to the teeth with the axe. But the other, alert to defend himself, thrusts the knight toward him in such a way that he receives the axe just where the shoulder joins the neck, so that they are cleaved apart. Then the knight seizes the axe, wresting it quickly from him who holds it; then he lets go the knight whom he still held, and looks to his own defence; for the knights from the door, and the three men with axes are all attacking him fiercely. So he leaped quickly between the bed and the wall, and called to them: “Come on now, all of you. If there were thirty-seven of you, you would have all the fight you wish, with me so favourably placed; I shall never be overcome by you.” And the damsel watching him, exclaimed: “By my eyes, you need have no thought of that henceforth where I am.” Then at once she dismisses the knights and the men-at-arms, who retire from there at once, without delay or objection. And the damsel continues: “Sire you have well defended me against the men of my household. Come now, and I’ll lead you on.” Hand in hand they enter the hall, but he was not at all pleased, and would have willingly dispensed with her.
In the midst of the hall a bed had been set up, the sheets of which were by no means soiled, but were white and wide and well spread out. The bed was not of shredded straw or of coarse spreads. But a covering of two silk cloths had been laid upon the couch. The damsel lay down first, but without removing her chemise. He had great trouble in removing his hose and in untying the knots. He sweated with the trouble of it all; yet, in the midst of all the trou- ble, his promise impels and drives him on. Is this then an actual force? Yes, virtually so; for he feels that he is in duty bound to take his place by the damsel’s side. It is his promise that urges him and dictates his act. So he lies down at once, but like her, he does not remove his shirt. He takes good care not to touch her; and when he is in bed, he turns away from her as far as possible, and speaks not a word to her, like a monk to whom speech is forbidden. Not once does he look at her, nor show her any courtesy. Why not? Because his heart does not go out to her. She was certainly very fair and winsome, but not every one is pleased and touched by what is fair and winsome. The knight has only one heart, and this one is really no longer his, but has been entrusted to some one else, so that he cannot bestow it elsewhere. Love, which holds all hearts beneath its sway, requires it to be lodged in a single place. All hearts? No, only those which it esteems. And he whom love deigns to control ought to prize himself the more. Love prized his heart so highly that it constrained it in a special manner, and made him so proud of this distinction that I am not inclined to find fault with him, if he lets alone what love forbids, and remains fixed where it desires. The maiden clearly sees and knows that he dislikes her company and would gladly dispense with it, and that, having no desire to win her love, he would not attempt to woo her. So she said: “My lord, if you will not feel hurt, I will leave and return to bed in my own room, and you will be more comfortable. I do not believe that you are pleased with my company and society. Do not esteem me less if I tell you what I think. Now take your rest all night, for you have so well kept your promise that I have no right to make further request of you. So I commend you to God; and shall go away.” Thereupon she arises: the knight does not object, but rather gladly lets her go, like one who is the devoted lover of some one else; the damsel clearly perceived this, and went to her room, where she undressed completely and retired, saying to herself: “Of all the knights I have ever known, I never knew a single knight whom I would value the third part of an angevin in comparison with this one. As I understand the case, he has on hand a more perilous and grave affair than any ever undertaken by a knight; and may God grant that he succeed in it.” Then she fell asleep, and remained in bed until the next day’s dawn appeared.
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At daybreak she awakes and gets up. The knight awakes too, dressing, and putting on his arms, without wait- ing for any help. Then the damsel comes and sees that he is already dressed. Upon seeing him, she says: “May this day be a happy one for you.” “And may it be the same to you, damsel,” the knight replies, adding that he is waiting anxiously for some one to bring out his horse. The maiden has some one fetch the horse, and says: “Sire, I should like to accompany you for some distance along the road, if you would agree to escort and conduct me according to the customs and practices which were observed before we were made captive in the kingdom of Logres.” In those days the customs and privileges were such that, if a knight found a damsel or lorn maid alone, and if he cared for his fair name, he would no more treat her with dishonour than he would cut his own throat. And if he assaulted her, he would be disgraced for ever in every court. But if, while she was under his escort, she should be won at arms by another who engaged him in battle, then this other knight might do with her what he pleased without receiving shame or blame. This is why the damsel said she would go with him, if he had the courage and willingness to safe guard her in his company, so that no one should do her any harm. And he says to her: “No one shall harm you, I promise you, unless he harm me first.” “Then,” she says, “I will go with you.” She orders her palfrey to be saddled, and her command is obeyed at once. Her palfrey was brought together with the knight’s horse. Without the aid of any squire, they both mount, and rapidly ride away. She talks to him, but not caring for her words, he pays no at- tention to what she says. He likes to think, but dislikes to talk. Love very often inflicts afresh the wound it has given him. Yet, he applied no poultice to the wound to cure it and make it comfortable, having no intention or desire to secure a poultice or to seek a physician, unless the wound becomes more painful. Yet, there is one whose remedy he would gladly seek .... They follow the roads and paths in the right direction until they come to a spring, situated in the middle of a field, and bordered by a stone basin. Some one had forgotten upon the stone a comb of gilded ivory. Never since ancient times has wise man or fool seen such a comb. In its teeth there was almost a handful of hair belonging to her who had used the comb.
When the damsel notices the spring, and sees the stone, she does not wish her companion to see it; so she turns off in another direction. And he, agreeably occupied with his own thoughts, does not at once remark that she is leading him aside; but when at last he notices it, he is afraid of being beguiled, thinking that she is yielding and is going out of the way in order to avoid some danger. “See here, damsel,” he cries, “you are not going right; come this way! No one, I think, ever went straight who left this road.” “Sire, this is a better way for us,” the damsel says, “I am sure of it.” Then he replies to her: “I don’t know, damsel, what you think; but you can plainly see that the beaten path lies this way; and since I have started to follow it, I shall not turn aside. So come now, if you will, for I shall contin- ue along this way.” Then they go forward until they come near the stone basin and see the comb. The knight says: “I surely never remember to have seen so beautiful a comb as this.” “Let me have it,” the damsel says. “Willingly, damsel,” he replies. Then he stoops over and picks it up. While holding it, he looks at it steadfastly, gazing at the hair until the damsel begins to laugh. When he sees her doing so, he begs her to tell him why she laughs. And she says: “Never mind, for I will never tell you.” “Why not?” he asks. “Because I don’t wish to do so.” And when he hears that, he implores her like one who holds that lovers ought to keep faith mutually: “Damsel, if you love anything passion- ately, by that I implore and conjure and beg you not to conceal from me the reason why you laugh.” “Your appeal is so strong,” she says, “that I will tell you and keep nothing back. I am sure, as I am of anything, that this comb belonged to the Queen. And you may take my word that those are strands of the Queen’s hair which you see to be so fair and light and radiant, and which are clinging in the teeth of the comb; they surely never grew anywhere else.” Then the knight replied: “Upon my word, there are plenty of queens and kings; what queen do you mean?” And she answered: “In truth, fair sire, it is of King Arthur’s wife I speak.” When he hears that, he has not strength to keep from bowing his head over his saddle-bow. And when the damsel sees him thus, she is amazed and terrified, think- ing he is about to fall. Do not blame her for her fear, for she thought him in a faint. He might as well have swooned, so near was he to doing so; for in his heart he felt such grief that for a long time he lost his colour and power of speech. And the damsel dismounts, and runs as quickly as possible to support and succour him; for she would not have wished for anything to see him fall. When he saw her, he felt ashamed, and said: “Why do you need to bear me aid?” You must not suppose that the damsel told him why; for he would have been ashamed and distressed, and it would have annoyed and troubled him, if she had confessed to him the truth. So she took good care not to tell the truth, but tactfully answered him: “Sire, I dismounted to get the comb; for I was so anxious to hold it in my hand that I could not longer wait.” Willing that she should have the comb, he gives it to her, first pulling out the hair so carefully that he tears none of it. Never will the eye of man see anything receive such honour as when he begins to adore these tresses. A hundred thousand times he raises them to his eyes and mouth, to his forehead and face: he manifests his joy in every way, considering himself rich and happy now. He lays them in his bosom near his heart, between the shirt and the flesh. He would not exchange them for a cartload of emeralds and carbuncles, nor does he think that any sore or illness can afflict him now; he holds in contempt essence of pearl, treacle, and the cure for pleurisy; even for St. Martin and St. James he has no need; for he has such confidence in this hair that he requires no other aid. But what was this hair like? If I tell the truth about it, you will think I am a mad teller of lies. When the
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mart is full at the yearly fair of St. Denis, and when the goods are most abundantly displayed, even then the knight would not take all this wealth, unless he had found these tresses too. And if you wish to know the truth, gold a hundred thousand times refined, and melted down as many times, would be darker than is night compared with the brightest summer day we have had this year, if one were to see the gold and set it beside this hair. But why should I make a long story of it? The damsel mounts again with the comb in her possession; while he revels and delights in the tresses in his bosom. Leaving the plain, they come to a forest and take a short cut through it until they come to a narrow place, where they have to go in single file; for it would have been impossible to ride two horses abreast. Just where the way was narrowest, they see a knight approach. As soon as she saw him, the damsel recognised him, and said: “Sir knight, do you see him who yonder comes against us all armed and ready for a battle? I know what his in- tention is: he thinks now that he cannot fail to take me off defenceless with him. He loves me, but he is very foolish to do so. In person, and by messenger, he has been long wooing me. But my love is not within his reach, for I would not love him under any consideration, so help me God! I would kill myself rather than bestow my love on him. I do not doubt that he is delighted now, and is as satisfied as if he had me already in his power. But now I shall see what you can do, and I shall see how brave you are, and it will become apparent whether your escort can protect me. If you can protect me now, I shall not fail to proclaim that you are brave and very worthy.” And he answered her: “Go on, go on!” which was as much as to say: “I am not concerned; there is no need of your being worried about what you have said.”
While they were proceeding, talking thus, the knight, who was alone, rode rapidly toward them on the run. He was the more eager to make haste, because he felt more sure of success; he felt that he was lucky now to see her whom he most dearly loves. As soon as he approaches her, he greets her with words that come from his heart: “Wel- come to her, whence-soever she comes, whom I most desire, but who has hitherto caused me least joy and most distress!” It is not fitting that she should be so stingy of her speech as not to return his greeting, at least by word of mouth. The knight is greatly elated when the damsel greets him; though she does not take the words seriously, and the effort costs her nothing. Yet, if he had at this moment been victor in a tournament, he would not have so highly esteemed himself, nor thought he had won such honour and renown. Being now more confident of his worth, he grasped the bridle rein, and said: “Now I shall lead you away: I have to-day sailed well on my course to have arrived at last at so good a port. Now my troubles are at an end: after dangers, I have reached a haven; after sorrow, I have attained happiness; after pain, I have perfect health; now I have accomplished my desire, when I find you in such case that I can without resistance lead you away with me at once.” Then she says: “You have no advantage; for I am under this knight’s escort.” “Surely, the escort is not worth much,” he says, “and I am going to lead you off at once. This knight would have time to eat a bushel of salt before he could defend you from me; I think I could never meet a knight from whom I should not win you. And since I find you here so opportunely, though he too may do his best to prevent it, yet I will take you before his very eyes, however disgruntled he may be.” The other is not angered by all the pride he hears expressed, but without any impudence or boasting, he begins thus to challenge him for her: “Sire, don’t be in a hurry, and don’t waste your words, but speak a little reasonably. You shall not be deprived of as much of her as rightly belongs to you. You must know, however, that the damsel has come hither under my protection. Let her alone now, for you have detained her long enough!” The other gives them leave to burn him, if he does not take her away in spite of him. Then the other says: “It would not be right for me to let you take her away; I would soon- er fight with you. But if we should wish to fight, we could not possibly do it in this narrow road. Let us go to some level place—a meadow or an open field.” And he replies that that will suit him perfectly: “Certainly, I agree to that: you are quite right, this road is too narrow. My horse is so much hampered here that I am afraid he will crush his flank before I can turn him around.” Then with great difficulty he turns, and his horse escapes without any wound or harm. Then he says: “To be sure, I am much chagrined that we have not met in a favourable spot and in the presence of other men, for I should have been glad to have them see which is the better of us two. Come on now, let us begin our search: we shall find in the vicinity some large, broad, and open space.” Then they proceed to a mead- ow, where there were maids, knights, and damsels playing at divers games in this pleasant place. They were not all engaged in idle sport, but were playing backgammon and chess or dice, and were evidently agreeably employed. Most were engaged in such games as these; but the others there were engaged in sports, dancing, singing, tumbling, leaping, and wrestling with each other.
A knight somewhat advanced in years was on the other side of the meadow, seared upon a sorrel Spanish steed. His bridle and saddle were of gold, and his hair was turning grey. One hand hung at his side with easy grace. The weather being fine, he was in his shirt sleeves, with a short mantle of scarlet cloth and fur slung over his shoulders, and thus he watched the games and dances. On the other side of the field, close by a path, there were twenty-three knights mounted on good Irish steeds. As soon as the three new arrivals come into view, they all cease their play and shout across the fields: “See, yonder comes the knight who was driven in the cart! Let no one continue his sport while he is in our midst. A curse upon him who cares or deigns to play so long as he is here!” Meanwhile he who loved the damsel and claimed her as his own, approached the old knight, and said: “Sire, I have attained great hap-
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piness; let all who will now hear me say that God has granted me the thing that I have always most desired; His gift would not have been so great had He crowned me as king, nor would I have been so indebted to Him, nor would I have so profited; for what I have gained is fair and good.” “I know not yet if it be thine,” the knight replies to his son. But the latter answers him: “Don’t you know? Can’t you see it, then? For God’s sake, sire, have no further doubt, when you see that I have her in my possession. In this forest, whence I come, I met her as she was on her way. I think God had fetched her there for me, and I have taken her for my own.” “I do not know whether this will be al- lowed by him whom I see coming after thee; he looks as if he is coming to demand her of thee.” During this conver- sation the dancing had ceased because of the knight whom they saw, nor were they gaily playing any more because of the disgust and scorn they felt for him. But the knight without delay came up quickly after the damsel, and said: “Let the damsel alone, knight, for you have no right to her! If you dare, I am willing at once to fight with you in her defence.” Then the old knight remarked: “Did I not know it? Fair son, detain the damsel no longer, but let her go.” He does not relish this advice, and swears that he will not give her up: “May God never grant me joy if I give her up to him! I have her, and I shall hold on to her as something that is mine own. The shoulder-strap and all the armlets of my shield shall first be broken, and I shall have lost all confidence in my strength and arms, my sword and lance, before I will surrender my mistress to him.” And his father says: “I shall not let thee fight for any reason thou mayest urge. Thou art too confident of thy bravery. So obey my command.” But he in his pride replies: “What? Am I a child to be terrified? Rather will I make my boast that there is not within the sea-girt land any knight, wheresoever he may dwell, so excellent that I would let him have her, and whom I should not expect speedily to defeat.” The father answers: “Fair son, I do not doubt that thou dost really think so, for thou art so confident of thy strength. But I do not wish to see thee enter a contest with this knight.” Then he replies: “I shall be disgraced if I follow your advice. Curse me if I heed your counsel and turn recreant because of you, and do not do my utmost in the fight. It is true that a man fares ill among his relatives: I could drive a better bargain somewhere else, for you are trying to take me in. I am sure that where I am not known, I could act with better grace. No one, who did not know me, would try to thwart my will; whereas you are annoying and tormenting me. I am vexed by your finding fault with me. You know well enough that when any one is blamed, he breaks out still more passionately. But may God never give me joy if I renounce my purpose because of you; rather will I fight in spite of you!” “By the faith I bear the Apostle St. Peter,” his father says, “now I see that my request is of no avail. I waste my time in rebuking thee; but I shall soon devise such means as shall compel thee against thy will to obey my commands and submit to them.” Straightway summon- ing all the knights to approach, he bids them lay hands upon his son whom he cannot correct, saying: “I will have him bound rather than let him fight. You here are all my men, and you owe me your devotion and service: by all the fiefs you hold from me, I hold you responsible, and I add my prayer. It seems to me that he must be mad, and that he shows excessive pride, when he refuses to respect my will.” Then they promise to take care of him, and say that never, while he is in their charge, shall he wish to fight, but that he must renounce the damsel in spite of himself. Then they all join and seize him by the arms and neck. “Dost thou not think thyself foolish now?” his father asks; “confess the truth: thou hast not the strength or power to fight or joust, however distasteful and hard it may be for thee to admit it. Thou wilt be wise to consent to my will and pleasure. Dost thou know what my intention is? In order somewhat to mitigate thy disappointment, I am willing to join thee, if thou wilt, in following the knight to-day and to-morrow, through wood and plain, each one mounted on his horse. Perhaps we shall soon find him to be of such a character and bearing that I might let thee have thy way and fight with him.” To this proposal the other must perforce consent. Like the man who has no alternative, he says that he will give in, provided they both shall follow him. And when the people in the field see how this adventure has turned out, they all exclaim: “Did you see? He who was mounted on the cart has gained such honour here that he is leading away the mistress of the son of my lord, and he himself is allowing it. We may well suppose that he finds in him some merit, when he lets him take her off. Now cursed a hundred times be he who ceases longer his sport on his account! Come, let us go back to our games again.” Then they resume their games and dances.
Part II: Vv. 1841 Vv. 3684 Thereupon the knight turns away, without longer remaining in the field, and the damsel accompanies him.
They leave in haste, while the father and his son ride after them through the mown fields until toward three o’clock, when in a very pleasant spot they come upon a church; beside the chancel there was a cemetery enclosed by a wall. The knight was both courteous and wise to enter the church on foot and make his prayer to God, while the damsel held his horse for him until he returned. When he had made his prayer, and while he was coming back, a very old monk suddenly presented himself; whereupon the knight politely requests him to tell him what this place is; for he does not know. And he tells him it is a cemetery. And the other says: “Take me in, so help you God!” “Gladly, sire,” and he takes him in. Following the monk’s lead, the knight beholds the most beautiful tombs that one could find as far as Dombes or Pampelune; and on each tomb there were letters cut, telling the names of those who were destined
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to be buried there. And he began in order to read the names, and came upon some which said: “Here Gawain is to lie, here Louis, and here Yvain.” After these three, he read the names of many others among the most famed and cherished knights of this or any other land. Among the others, he finds one of marble, which appears to be new, and is more rich and handsome than all the rest. Calling the monk, the knight inquired: “Of what use are these tombs here?” And the monk replied: “You have already read the inscriptions; if you have understood, you must know what they say, and what is the meaning of the tombs.” “Now tell me, what is this large one for?” And the hermit answered: “I will tell you. That is a very large sarcophagus, larger than any that ever was made; one so rich and well-carved was never seen. It is magnificent without, and still more so within. But you need not be concerned with that, for it can never do you any good; you will never see inside of it; for it would require seven strong men to raise the lid of stone, if any one wished to open it. And you may be sure that to raise it would require seven men stronger than you and I. There is an inscription on it which says that any one who can lift this stone of his own unaided strength will set free all the men and women who are captives in the land, whence no slave or noble can issue forth, unless he is a native of that land. No one has ever come back from there, but they are detained in foreign prisons; whereas they of the country go and come in and out as they please.” At once the knight goes to grasp the stone, and raises it without the slightest trouble, more easily than ten men would do who exerted all their strength. And the monk was amazed, and nearly fell down at the sight of this marvellous thing; for he thought he would never see the like again, and said: “Sire, I am very anxious to know your name. Will you tell me what it is?” “Not I,” says the knight, “upon my word.” “I am certainly sorry, for that,” he says; “but if you would tell me, you would do me a great favour, and might benefit yourself. Who are you, and where do you come from?” “I am a knight, as you may see, and I was born in the kingdom of Logre. After so much information, I should prefer to be excused. Now please tell me, for your part, who is to lie within this tomb.” “Sire, he who shall deliver all those who are held captive in the kingdom whence none escapes.” And when he had told him all this, the knight commended him to God and all His saints. And then, for the first time, he felt free to return to the damsel. The old white-haired monk escorts him out of the church, and they resume their way. While the damsel is mounting, however, the hermit relates to her all that the knight had done inside, and then he begged her to tell him. if she knew, what his name was; but she assured him that she did not know, but that there was one sure thing she could say, namely, that there was not such a knight alive where the four winds of heaven blow.
Then the damsel takes leave of him, and rides swiftly after the knight. Then those who were following them come up and see the hermit standing alone before the church. The old knight in his shirt sleeves said: “Sire, tell us, have you seen a knight with a damsel in his company?” And he replies: “I shall not be loath to tell you all I know, for they have just passed on from here. The knight was inside yonder, and did a very marvellous thing in raising the stone from the huge marble tomb, quite unaided and without the least effort. He is bent upon the rescue of the Queen, and doubtless he will rescue her, as well as all the other people. You know well that this must be so, for you have often read the inscription upon the stone. No knight was ever born of man and woman, and no knight ever sat in a saddle, who was the equal of this man.” Then the father turns to his son, and says: “Son, what dost thou think about him now? Is he not a man to be respected who has performed such a feat? Now thou knowest who was wrong, and whether it was thou or I. I would not have thee fight with him for all the town of Amiens; and yet thou didst struggle hard, before any one could dissuade thee from thy purpose. Now we may as well go back, for we should be very foolish to follow him any farther.” And he replies: “I agree to that. It would be useless to follow him. Since it is your pleasure, let us return.” They were very wise to retrace their steps. And all the time the damsel rides close beside the knight, wishing to compel him to give heed to her. She is anxious to learn his name, and she begs and beseeches him again and again to tell her, until in his annoyance he answers her: “Have I not already told you that I belong in King Arthur’s realm? I swear by God and His goodness that you shall not learn my name.” Then she bids him give her leave to go, and she will turn back, which request he gladly grants.
Thereupon the damsel departs, and he rides on alone until it grew very late. After vespers, about compline, as he pursued his way, he saw a knight returning from the wood where he had been hunting. With helmet unlaced, he rode along upon his big grey hunter, to which he had tied the game which God had permitted him to take. This gentleman came quickly to meet the knight, offering him hospitality. “Sire,” he says, “night will soon be here. It is time for you to be reasonable and seek a place to spend the night. I have a house of mine near at hand, whither I shall take you. No one ever lodged you better than I shall do, to the extent of my resources: I shall be very glad, if you consent.” “For my part, I gladly accept,” he says. The gentleman at once sends his son ahead, to prepare the house and start the preparations for supper. The lad willingly executes his command forthwith, and goes off at a rapid pace, while the others, who are in no haste, follow the road leisurely until they arrive at the house. The gen- tleman’s wife was a very accomplished lady; and he had five sons, whom he dearly loved, three of them mere lads, and two already knights; and he had two fair and charming daughters, who were still unmarried. They were not natives of the land, but were there in durance, having been long kept there as prisoners away from their native land of Logres. When the gentleman led the knight into his yard, the lady with her sons and daughters jumped up and
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ran to meet them, vying in their efforts to do him honour, as they greeted him and helped him to dismount. Neither the sisters nor the five brothers paid much attention to their father, for they knew well enough that he would have it so. They honoured the knight and welcomed him; and when they had relieved him of his armour, one of his host’s two daughters threw her own mantle about him, taking it from her own shoulders and throwing it about his neck. I do not need to tell how well he was served at supper; but when the meal was finished, they felt no further hesita- tion in speaking of various matters. First, the host began to ask him who he was, and from what land, but he did not inquire about his name. The knight promptly answered him: “I am from the kingdom of Logres, and have never been in this land before.” And when the gentleman heard that, he was greatly amazed, as were his wife and children too, and each one of them was sore distressed. Then they began to say to him: “Woe that you have come here, fair sire, for only trouble will come of it! For, like us, you will be reduced to servitude and exile.” “Where do you come from, then?” he asked. “Sire, we belong in your country. Many men from your country are held in servitude in this land. Cursed be the custom, together with those who keep it up! No stranger comes here who is not compelled to stay here in the land where he is detained. For whoever wishes may come in, but once in, he has to stay. About your own fate, you may be at rest, you will doubtless never escape from here.” He replies: “Indeed, I shall do so, if possible.” To this the gentleman replies: “How? Do you think you can escape?” “Yes, indeed, if it be God’s will; and I shall do all within my power.” “In that case, doubtless all the rest would be set free; for, as soon as one succeeds in fairly escaping from this durance, then all the rest may go forth unchallenged.” Then the gentleman recalled that he had been told and informed that a knight of great excellence was making his way into the country to seek for the Queen, who was held by the king’s son, Meleagant; and he said to himself: “Upon my word, I believe it is he, and I’ll tell him so.” So he said to him: “Sire, do not conceal from me your business, if I promise to give you the best advice I know. I too shall profit by any success you may attain. Reveal to me the truth about your errand, that it may be to your advantage as well as mine. I am persuaded that you have come in search of the Queen into this land and among these heathen people, who are worse than the Saracens.” And the knight replies: “For no other purpose have I come. I know not where my lady is confined, but I am striving hard to rescue her, and am in dire need of advice. Give me any counsel you can.” And he says: “Sire, you have undertaken a very grievous task. The road you are travelling will lead you straight to the sword-bridge. You surely need advice. If you would heed my counsel, you would proceed to the sword-bridge by a surer way, and I would have you escorted thither.” Then he, whose mind is fixed upon the most direct way, asks him: “Is the road of which you speak as direct as the other way?” “No, it is not,” he says; “it is longer, but more sure.” Then he says: “I have no use for it; tell me about this road I am following!” “I am ready to do so,” he replies; “but I am sure you will not fare well if you take any other than the road I recommend. To-morrow you will reach a place where you will have trouble: it is called `the stony passage’. Shall I tell you how bad a place it is to pass? Only one horse can go through at a time; even two men could not pass abreast, and the passage is well guarded and defended. You will meet with resistance as soon as you arrive. You will sustain many a blow of sword and lance, and will have to return full measure before you succeed in passing through.” And when he had completed the account, one of the gentleman’s sons, who was a knight, stepped forward, saying: “Sire, if you do not object, I will go with this gentleman.” Then one of the lads jumps up, and says: “I too will go.” And the father gladly gives them both consent. Now the knight will not have to go alone, and he expresses his gratitude, being much pleased with the company.
Then the conversation ceases, and they take the knight to bed, where he was glad to fall asleep. As soon as day- light was visible he got up, and those who were to accompany him got up too. The two knights donned their armour and took their leave, while the young fellow started on ahead. Together they pursued their way until they came at the hour of prime to “the stony passage.” In the middle of it they found a wooden tower, where there was always a man on guard. Before they drew near, he who was on the tower saw them and cried twice aloud: “Woe to this man who comes!” And then behold! A knight issued from the tower, mounted and armed with fresh armour, and escort- ed on either side by servants carrying sharp axes. Then, when the other draws near the passage, he who defends it begins to heap him with abuse about the cart, saying: “Vassal, thou art bold and foolish, indeed, to have entered this country. No man ought ever to come here who had ridden upon a cart, and may God withhold from him His bless- ing!” Then they spur toward each other at the top of their horses’ speed. And he who was to guard the passage-way at once breaks his lance and lets the two pieces fall; the other strikes him in the neck, reaching him beneath the shield, and throws him over prostrate upon the stones. Then the servants come forward with the axes, but they in- tentionally fail to strike him, having no desire to harm or damage him; so he does not deign to draw his sword, and quickly passes on with his companions. One of them remarks to the other: “No one has ever seen so good a knight, nor has he any equal. Is not this a marvellous thing, that he has forced a passage here?” And the knight says to his brother: “Fair brother, for God’s sake, make haste to go and tell our father of this adventure.” But the lad asserts and swears that he will not go with the message, and will never leave the knight until he has dubbed and knighted him; let his brother go with the message, if he is so much concerned.
Then they go on together until about three o’clock, when they come upon a man, who asks them who they are. And they answer: “We are knights, busy about our own affairs.” Then the man says to the knight: “Sire, I should
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be glad to offer hospitality to you and your companions here.” This invitation he delivers to him whom he takes to be the lord and master of the others. And this one replies to him: “I could not seek shelter for the night at such an hour as this; for it is not well to tarry and seek one’s ease when one has undertaken some great task. And I have such business on hand that I shall not stop for the night for some time yet.” Then the man continues: “My house is not near here, but is some distance ahead. It will be late when you reach there, so you may proceed, assured that you will find a place to lodge just when it suits you.” “In that case,” he says, “I will go thither.” Thereupon the man starts ahead as guide, and the knight follows along the path. And when they had proceeded some distance, they met a squire who was coming along at a gallop, mounted upon a nag that was as fat and round as an apple. And the squire calls our to the man: “Sire, sire, make haste! For the people of Logres have attacked in force the inhabitants of this land, and war and strife have already broken out; and they say that this country has been invaded by a knight who has been in many battles, and that wherever he wishes to go, no one, however reluctantly, is able to deny him passage. And they further say that he will deliver those who are in this country, and will subdue our people. Now take my advice and make haste!” Then the man starts at a gallop, and the others are greatly delighted at the words they have heard, for they are eager to help their side. And the vavasor’s son says: “Hear what this squire says! Come and let us aid our people who are fighting their enemies!” Meanwhile the man rides off, without waiting for them, and makes his way rapidly toward a fortress which stood upon a fortified hill; thither he hastens, till he comes to the gate, while the others spur after him. The castle was surrounded by a high wall and moat. As soon as they had got inside, a gate was lowered upon their heels, so that they could not get out again. Then they say: “Come on, come on! Let us not stop here!” and they rapidly pursue the man until they reach another gate which was not closed against them. But as soon as the man had passed through, a portcullis dropped behind him. Then the others were much dismayed to see themselves shut in, and they think they must be bewitched. But he, of whom I have more to tell, wore upon his finger a ring, whose stone was of such virtue that any one who gazed at it was freed from the power of enchantment. Holding the ring before his eyes, he gazed at it, and said: “Lady, lady, so help me God, now I have great need of your succour!” This lady was a fairy, who had given it to him, and who had cared for him in his infan- cy. And he had great confidence that, wherever he might be, she would aid and succour him. But after appealing to her and gazing upon the ring, he realises that there is no enchantment here, but that they are actually shut in and confined. Then they come to the barred door of a low and narrow postern gate. Drawing their swords, they all strike it with such violence that they cut the bar. As soon as they were outside the tower, they see that a fierce strife was already begun down in the meadows, and that there are at least a thousand knights engaged, beside the low-bred infantry. While they were descending to the plain, the wise and moderate son of the vavasor remarked: “Sire, before we arrive upon the field, it would be wise for us, it seems to me, to find out and learn on which side our people are. I do not know where they are placed, but I will go and find out, if you wish it so.” “I wish you would do so,” he replies, “go quickly, and do not fail to come back again at once.” He goes and returns at once, saying: “It has turned out well for us, for I have plainly seen that these are our troops on this side of the field.” Then the knight at once rode into the fight and jousted with a knight who was approaching him, striking him in the eye with such violence that he knocked him lifeless to the ground. Then the lad dismounts, and taking the dead knight’s horse and arms, he arms himself with skill and cleverness. When he was armed, he straightway mounts, taking the shield and the lance, which was heavy, stiff, and decorated, and about his waist he girt a sharp, bright, and flashing sword. Then he followed his brother and lord into the fight. The latter demeaned himself bravely in the melee for some time, break- ing, splitting, and crushing shields, helmets and hauberks. No wood or steel protected the man whom he struck; he either wounded him or knocked him lifeless from the horse. Unassisted, he did so well that he discomfited all whom he met, while his companions did their part as well. The people of Logres, not knowing him, are amazed at what they see, and ask the vavasor’s sons about the stranger knight. This reply is made to them: “Gentlemen, this is he who is to deliver us all from durance and misery, in which we have so long been confined, and we ought to do him great honour when, to set us free, he has passed through so many perils and is ready to face many more. He has done much, and will do yet more.” Every one is overjoyed at hearing this welcome news. The news travelled fast, and was noised about, until it was known by all. Their strength and courage rise, so that they slay many of those still alive, and apparently because of the example of a single knight they work greater havoc than because of all the rest combined. And if it had not been so near evening, all would have gone away defeated; but night came on so dark that they had to separate.
When the battle was over, all the captives pressed about the knight, grasping his rein on either side, and thus addressing him: “Welcome, fair sire,” and each one adds: “Sire, for the name of God, do not fail to lodge with me!” What one says they all repeat, for young and old alike insist that he must lodge with them, saying: “You will be more comfortably lodged with me than with any one else.” Thus each one addresses him to his face, and in the desire to capture him, each one drags him from the rest, until they almost come to blows. Then he tells them that they are very foolish and silly to struggle so. “Cease this wrangling among yourselves, for it does no good to me or you. In- stead of quarrelling among ourselves, we ought rather to lend one another aid. You must not dispute about the priv-
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ilege of lodging me, but rather consider how to lodge me in such a place that it may be to your general advantage, and that I may be advanced upon my way.” Then each one exclaims at once: “That is my house, or, No, it is mine,” until the knight replies: “Follow my advice and say nothing more; the wisest of you is foolish to contend this way. You ought to be concerned to further my affairs, and instead you are seeking to turn me aside. If you had each indi- vidually done me all the honour and service it is possible to do, and I had accepted your kindness, by all the saints of Rome I swear that I could not be more obliged to you than I am now for your good-will. So may God give me joy and health, your good intentions please me as much as if each one of you had already shown me great honour and kindness: so let the will stand for the deed!” Thus he persuades and appeases them all. Then they take him quickly along the road to a knight’s residence, where they seek to serve him: all rejoice to honour and serve him throughout the evening until bedtime, for they hold him very dear. Next morning, when the time came to separate, each one offers and presents himself, with the desire to accompany him; but it is not his will or pleasure that any one shall go with him except the two whom he had brought with him. Accompanied by them alone, he resumed his journey. That day they rode from morn till evening without encountering any adventure. When it was now very late, and while they were riding rapidly out of a forest, they saw a house belonging to a knight, and seated at the door they saw his wife, who had the bearing of a gentle lady. As soon as she espied them coming, she rose to her feet to meet them, and greeted them joyfully with a smile: “Welcome! I wish you to accept my house; this is your lodging; pray dismount” “Lady, since it is your will, we thank you, and will dismount; we accept your hospitality for the night.” When they had dismounted, the lady had the horses taken by members of her well-ordered household. She calls her sons and daughters who come at once: the youths were courteous, handsome, and well-behaved, and the daughters were fair. She bids the lads remove the saddles and curry the horses well; no one refused to do this, but each carried out her instructions willingly. When she ordered the knights to be disarmed, her daughters step forward to perform this service. They remove their armour, and hand them three short mantles to put on. Then at once they take them into the house which was very handsome. The master was not at home, being out in the woods with two of his sons. But he presently returned, and his household, which was well-ordered, ran to meet him outside the door. Quickly they untie and unpack the game he brings, and tell him the news: “Sire, sire, you do not know that you have three knights for guests.” “God be praised for that,” he says. Then the knight and his two sons extend a glad welcome to their guests. The rest of the household were not backward, for even the least among them prepared to perform his special task. While some run to prepare the meal, others light the candles in profusion; still others get a towel and basins, and offer water for the hands: they are not niggardly in all this. When all had washed, they take their seats. Nothing that was done there seemed to be any trouble or burdensome. But at the first course there came a surprise in the form of a knight outside the door. As he sat on his charger, all armed from head to feet, he looked proud- er than a bull, and a bull is a yew proud beast. One leg was fixed in the stirrup, but the other he had thrown over the mane of his horse’s neck, to give himself a careless and jaunty air. Behold him advancing thus, though no one noticed him until he came forward with the words: “I wish to know which is the man who is so foolish and proud a numskull that he has come to this country and intends to cross the sword-bridge. All his pains will come to naught, and his expedition is in vain.” Then he, who felt no fear at all, thus replies with confidence: “I am he who intends to cross the bridge.” “Thou? Thou? How didst thou dare to think of such a thing? Before undertaking such a course, thou oughtest to have thought of the end that is in store for thee, and thou oughtest to have in mind the memory of the cart on which thou didst ride. I know not whether thou feelest shame for the ride thou hadst on it, but no sensi- ble man would have embarked on such an enterprise as this if he had felt the reproach of his action.”
Not a word does he deign to reply to what he hears the other say; but the master of the house and all the others express their surprise openly: “Ah, God, what a misfortune this is,” each one of them says to himself; “cursed be the hour when first a cart was conceived or made! For it is a very vile and hateful thing. Ah, God, of what was he accused? Why was he carried in a cart? For what sin, or for what crime? He will always suffer the reproach. If he were only clear of this disgrace, no knight could be found in all the world, however his valour might be proved, who would equal the merit of this knight. If all good knights could be compared, and if the truth were to be known, you could find none so handsome or so expert.” Thus they expressed their sentiments. Then he began his speech of im- pudence: “Listen, thou knight, who art bound for the sword-bridge! If thou wishest, thou shalt cross the water very easily and comfortably. I will quickly have thee ferried over in a skiff. But once on the other side, I will make thee pay me toll, and I will take thy head, if I please to do so, or if not, thou shalt be held at my discretion.” And he re- plies that he is not seeking trouble, and that he will never risk his head in such an adventure for any consideration. To which the other answers at once: “Since thou wilt not do this, whosesoever the shame and loss may be, thou must come outside with me and there engage me hand to hand.” Then, to beguile him. the other says: “If I could refuse, I would very gladly excuse myself; but in truth I would rather fight than be compelled to do what is wrong.” Before he arose from the table where they were sitting, he told the youths who were serving him, to saddle his horse at once, and fetch his arms and give them to him. This order they promptly execute: some devote themselves to arming him, while others go to fetch his horse. As he slowly rode along completely armed, holding his shield tight
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by the straps, you must know that he was evidently to be included in the list of the brave and fair. His horse became him so well that it is evident he must be his own, and as for the shield he held by the straps and the helmet laced upon his head, which fitted him so well, you would never for a moment have thought that he had borrowed it or received it as a loan; rather, you would be so pleased with him that you would maintain that he had been thus born and raised: for all this I should like you to take my word.
Outside the gate, where the battle was to be fought, there was a stretch of level ground well adapted for the encounter. When they catch sight of each other, they spur hotly to the attack and come together with such a shock, dealing such blows with their lances, that they first bend, then buckle up, and finally fly into splinters. With their swords they then hew away at their shields, helmets, and hauberks. The wood is cut and the steel gives way, so that they wound each other in several places. They pay each other such angry blows that it seems as if they had made a bargain. The swords often descend upon the horses’ croups, where they drink and feast upon their blood; their riders strike them upon the flanks until at last they kill them both. And when both have fallen to earth, they attack each other afoot; and if they had cherished a mortal hatred, they could not have assailed each other more fiercely with their swords. They deal their blows with greater frequency than the man who stakes his money at dice and never fails to double the stakes every time he loses; yet, this game of theirs was very different; for there were no loss- es here, but only fierce blows and cruel strife. All the people came out from the house: the master, his lady, his sons and daughters; no man or woman, friend or stranger, stayed behind, but all stood in line to see the fight in progress in the broad, level field. The Knight of the Cart blames and reproaches himself for faintheartedness when he sees his host watching him and notices all the others looking on. His heart is stirred with anger, for it seems to him that he ought long since to have beaten his adversary. Then he strikes him, rushing in like a storm and bringing his sword down close by his head; he pushes and presses him so hard that he drives him from his ground and reduces him to such a state of exhaustion that he has little strength to defend himself. Then the knight recalls how the other had basely reproached him about the cart; so he assails him and drubs him so soundly that not a string or strap remains unbroken about the neck-band of his hauberk, and he knocks the helmet and ventail from his head. His wounds and distress are so great that he has to cry for mercy. Just as the lark cannot withstand or protect itself against the hawk which outflies it and attacks it from above, so he in his helplessness and shame, must invoke him and sue for mercy. And when he hears him beg for mercy, he ceases his attack and says: “Dost thou wish for mercy?” He replies: “You have asked a very clever question; any fool could ask that. I never wished for anything so much as I now wish for mercy.” Then he says to him: “Thou must mount, then, upon a cart. Nothing thou couldst say would have any influence with me, unless thou mountest the cart, to atone for the vile reproaches thou didst address to me with thy silly mouth.” And the knight thus answers him: “May it never please God that I mount a cart!” “No?” he asks; “then you shall die.” “Sire, you can easily put me to death; but I beg and beseech you for God’s sake to show me mercy and not compel me to mount a cart. I will agree to anything, however grievous, excepting that. I would rather die a hundred times than undergo such a disgrace. In your goodness and mercy you can tell me nothing so distasteful that I will not do it.”
While he is thus beseeching him, behold across the field a maiden riding on a tawny mule, her head uncovered and her dress disarranged. In her hand she held a whip with which she belaboured the mule; and in truth no horse could have galloped so fast as was the pace of the mule. The damsel called out to the Knight of the Cart: “May God bless thy heart, Sir Knight, with whatever delights thee most!” And he, who heard her gladly, says: “May God bless you, damsel, and give you joy and health!” Then she tells him of her desire. “Knight,” she says, “in urgent need I have come from afar to thee to ask a favour, for which thou wilt deserve the best guerdon I can make to thee; and I believe that thou wilt yet have need of my assistance.” And he replies: “Tell me what it is you wish; and if I have it, you shall have it at once, provided it be not something extravagant.” Then she says: “It is the head of the knight whom thou hast just defeated; in truth, thou hast never dealt with such a wicked and faithless man. Thou wilt be committing no sin or wrong, but rather doing a deed of charity, for he is the basest creature that ever was or ever shall be.” And when he who had been vanquished hears that she wishes him to be killed, he says to him: “Don’t believe her, for she hates me; but by that God who was at once Father and Son, and who chose for His mother her who was His daughter and handmaiden, I beg you to have mercy upon me!” “Ah, knight!” the maid exclaims, “pay no attention to what this traitor says! May God give thee all the joy and honour to which thou dost aspire, and may He give thee good success in thy undertaking.” Then the knight is in a predicament, as he thinks and ponders over the question: whether to present to her the head she asks him to cut off, or whether he shall allow himself to be touched by pity for him. He wishes to respect the wishes of both her and him. Generosity and pity each command him to do their will; for he was both generous and tender-hearted. But if she carries off the head, then will pity be defeated and put to death; whereas, if she does not carry off the head, generosity will be discomfited. Thus, pity and generosity hold him so confined and so distressed that he is tormented and spurred on by each of them in turn. The damsel asks him to give her the head, and on the other hand the knight makes his request, appealing to his pity and kindness. And, since he has implored him, shall he not receive mercy? Yes, for it never happened that, when he had
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put down an enemy and compelled him to sue for mercy, he would refuse such an one his mercy or longer bear him any grudge. Since this is his cus- tom, he will not refuse his mercy to him who now begs and sues for it. And shall she have the head she covets? Yes, if it be possible. “Knight,” he says, “it is necessary for thee to fight me again, and if thou dost care to defend thy head again, I will show thee such mercy as to allow thee to resume the helmet; and I will give thee time to arm thy body and thy head as well as possible. But, if I conquer thee again, know that thou shalt surely die.” And he replies: “I desire nothing better than that, and ask for no further favour.” “And I will give thee this advantage,” he adds: “I will fight thee as I stand, without changing my present position.” Then the other knight makes ready, and they begin the fight again eagerly. But this time the knight triumphed more quickly than he had done at first. And the damsel at once cries out: “Do not spare him, knight, for anything he may say to thee. Surely he would not have spared thee, had he once defeated thee. If thou heedest what he says, be sure that he will again beguile thee. Fair knight, cut off the head of the most faithless man in the em- pire and kingdom, and give it to me! Thou shouldst present it to me, in view of the guerdon I intend for thee. For another day may well come when, if he can, he will beguile thee again with his words.” He, thinking his end is near, cries aloud to him for mercy; but his cry is of no avail, nor anything that he can say. The other drags him by the helmet, tearing all the fastening, and he strikes from his head the ventail and the gleaming coif. Then he cries out more loudly still: “Mercy, for God’s sake! Mer- cy, sir!” But the other answers: “So help me, I shall never again show thee pity, after having once let thee
off.” “Ah,” he says, “thou wouldst do wrong to heed my enemy and kill me thus.” While she, intent upon his death, admonishes him to cut off his head, and not to believe a word he says. He strikes: the head flies across the sward and the body fails. Then the damsel is pleased and satisfied. Grasping the head by the hair, the knight presents it to the damsel, who takes it joyfully with the words: “May thy heart receive such delight from whatever it most desires as my heart now receives from what I most coveted. I had only one grief in life, and that was that this man was still alive. I have a reward laid up for thee which thou shalt receive at the proper time. I promise thee that thou shalt have a worthy reward for the service thou hast rendered me. Now I will go away, with the prayer that God may guard thee from harm.” Then the damsel leaves him, as each commends the other to God. But all those who had seen the battle in the plain are overjoyed, and in their joy they at once relieve the knight of his armour, and honour him in every way they can. Then they wash their hands again and take their places at the meal, which they eat with better cheer than is their wont. When they had been eating for some time, the gentleman turned to his guest at his side, and said: “Sire, a long while ago we came hither from the kingdom of Logres. We were born your countrymen, and we should like to see you win honour and fortune and joy in this country; for we should profit by it as well as you, and it would be to the advantage of many others, if you should gain honour and fortune in the enterprise you have undertaken in this land.” And he makes answer: “May God hear your desire.”
When the host had dropped his voice and ceased speaking, one of his sons followed him and said: “Sire, we ought to place all our resources at your service, and give them outright rather than promise them; if you have any need of our assistance, we ought not to wait until you ask for it. Sire, be not concerned over your horse which is dead. We have good strong horses here. I want you to take anything of ours which you need, and you shall choose the best of our horses in place of yours.” And he replies: “I willingly accept.” Thereupon, they have the beds pre- pared and retire for the night. The next morning they rise early, and dress, after which they prepare to start. Upon
Image 5.26: Chrétien de Troyes | An etching of the French poet Chrétien working in his studio.
Author: Unknown Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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leaving, they fail in no act of courtesy, but take leave of the lady, her lord, and all the rest. But in order to omit nothing, I must remark that the knight was unwilling to mount the borrowed steed which was standing ready at the door; rather, he caused him to be ridden by one of the two knights who had come with him, while he took the latter’s horse instead, for thus it pleased him best to do. When each was seated on his horse, they all asked for leave to depart from their host who had served them so honourably. Then they ride along the road until the day draws to a close, and late in the afternoon they reach the sword-bridge.
At the end of this very difficult bridge they dismount from their steeds and gaze at the wicked-looking stream, which is as swift and raging, as black and turgid, as fierce and terrible as if it were the devil’s stream; and it is so dangerous and bottomless that anything failing into it would be as completely lost as if it fell into the salt sea. And the bridge, which spans it, is different from any other bridge; for there never was such a one as this. If any one asks of me the truth, there never was such a bad bridge, nor one whose flooring was so bad. The bridge across the cold stream consisted of a polished, gleaming sword; but the sword was stout and stiff, and was as long as two lances. At each end there was a tree-trunk in which the sword was firmly fixed. No one need fear to fall because of its breaking or bend- ing, for its excellence was such that it could support a great weight. But the two knights who were with the third were much discouraged; for they surmised that two lions or two leopards would be found tied to a great rock at the other end of the bridge. The water and the bridge and the lions combine so to terrify them that they both tremble with fear, and say: “Fair sire, consider well what confronts you; for it is necessary and needful to do so. This bridge is badly made and built, and the construction of it is bad. If you do not change your mind in time, it will be too late to repent. You must consider which of several alternatives you will choose. Suppose that you once get across (but that cannot possibly come to pass, any more than one could hold in the winds and forbid them to blow, or keep the birds from singing, or re-enter one’s mother’s womb and be born again—all of which is as impossible as to empty the sea of its water); but even supposing that you got across, can you think and suppose that those two fierce lions that are chained on the other side will not kill you, and suck the blood from your veins, and eat your flesh and then gnaw your bones? For my part, I am bold enough, when I even dare to look and gaze at them. If you do not take care, they will certainly devour you. Your body will soon be torn and rent apart, for they will show you no mercy. So take pity on us now, and stay here in our company! It would be wrong for you to expose yourself intentionally to such mortal peril.” And he, laughing, replies to them: “Gentlemen, receive my thanks and gratitude for the concern you feel for me: it comes from your love and kind hearts. I know full well that you would not like to see any mishap come to me; but I have faith and confidence in God, that He will protect me to the end. I fear the bridge and stream no more than I fear this dry land; so I intend to prepare and make the dangerous attempt to cross. I would rather die than turn back now.” The others have nothing more to say; but each weeps with pity and heaves a sigh. Meanwhile he prepares, as best he may, to cross the stream, and he does a very marvellous thing in removing the armour from his feet and hands. He will be in a sorry state when he reaches the other side. He is going to support himself with his bare hands and feet upon the sword, which was sharper than a scythe, for he had not kept on his feet either sole or upper or hose. But he felt no fear of wounds upon his hands or feet; he preferred to maim himself rather than to fall from the bridge and be plunged in the water from which he could never escape. In accordance with this determination, he passes over with great pain and agony, being wounded in the hands, knees, and feet. But even this suffering is sweet to him: for Love, who conducts and leads him on, assuages and relieves the pain. Creeping on his hands, feet, and knees, he proceeds until he reaches the other side. Then he recalls and recollects the two lions which he thought he had seen from the other side; but, on looking about, he does not see so much as a lizard or anything else to do him harm. He raises his hand before his face and looks at his ring, and by this test he proves that neither of the lions is there which he thought he had seen, and that he had been enchanted and deceived; for there was not a living creature there. When those who had remained behind upon the bank saw that he had safely crossed, their joy was natural; but they do not know of his injuries. He, however, considers himself fortunate not to have suffered anything worse. The blood from his wounds drips on his shirt on all sides. Then he sees before him a tower, which was so strong that never had he seen such a strong one before: indeed, it could not have been a better tower. At the window there sat King Bademagu, who was very scrupulous and precise about matters of honour and what was right, and who was careful to observe and practise loyalty above all else; and beside him stood his son, who always did precisely the opposite so far as possible, for he found his pleasure in disloyalty, and never wearied of villainy, treason, and felony. From their point of vantage they had seen the knight cross the bridge with trouble and pain. Meleagant’s colour changed with the rage and dis- pleasure he felt; for he knows now that he will be challenged for the Queen; but his character was such that he feared no man, however strong or formidable. If he were not base and disloyal, there could no better knight be found; but he had a heart of wood, without gentleness and pity. What enraged his son and roused his ire, made the king happy and glad. The king knew of a truth that he who had crossed the bridge was much better than any one else. For no one would dare to pass over it in whom there dwelt any of that evil nature which brings more shame upon those who possess it than prowess brings of honour to the virtuous. For prowess cannot accomplish so much as wickedness and sloth can do: it is true beyond a doubt that it is possible to do more evil than good.
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I could say more on these two heads, if it did not cause me to delay. But I must turn to something else and resume my subject, and you shall hear how the king speaks profitably to his son: “Son,” he says, “it was fortunate that thou and I came to look out this window; our reward has been to witness the boldest deed that ever entered the mind of man. Tell me now if thou art not well disposed toward him who has performed such a marvellous feat. Make peace and be reconciled with him, and deliver the Queen into his hands. Thou shalt gain no glory in battle with him, but rather mayst thou incur great loss. Show thyself to be courteous and sensible, and send the Queen to meet him before he sees thee. Show him honour in this land of thine, and before he asks it, present to him what he has come to seek. Thou knowest well enough that he has come for the Queen Guinevere. Do not act so that people will take thee to be obstinate, foolish, or proud. If this man has entered thy land alone, thou shouldst bear him company, for one gentleman ought not to avoid another, but rather attract him and honour him with courtesy. One receives honour by himself showing it; be sure that the honour will be thine, if thou doest honour and service to him who is plainly the best knight in the world.” And he replies: “May God confound me, if there is not as good a knight, or even a better one than he!” It was too bad that he did not mention himself, of whom he entertains no mean opinion. And he adds: “I suppose you wish me to clasp my hands and kneel before him as his liegeman, and to hold my lands from him? So help me God, I would rather become his man than surrender to him the Queen! God forbid that in such a fashion I should deliver her to him! She shall never be given up by me, but rather contest- ed and defended against all who are so foolish as to dare to come in quest of her.” Then again the king says to him: “Son, thou wouldst act very courteously to renounce this pretension. I advise thee and beg thee to keep the peace. Thou knowest well that the honour will belong to the knight, if he wins the Queen from thee in battle. He would doubtless rather win her in battle than as a gift, for it will thus enhance his fame. It is my opinion that he is seeking her, not to receive her peaceably, but because he wishes to win her by force of arms. So it would be wise on thy part to deprive him of the satisfaction of fighting thee. I am sorry to see thee so foolish; but if thou dost not heed my advice, evil will come of it, and the ensuing misfortune will be worse for thee. For the knight need fear no hostil- ity from any one here save thee. On behalf of myself and all my men, I will grant him a truce and security. I have never yet done a disloyal deed or practised treason and felony, and I shall not begin to do so now on thy account any more than I would for any stranger. I do not wish to flatter thee, for I promise that the knight shall not lack any arms, or horse or anything else he needs, in view of the boldness he has displayed in coming thus far. He shall be securely guarded and well defended against all men here excepting thee. I wish him clearly to understand that, if he can maintain himself against thee, he need have no fear of any one else.” “I have listened to you in silence long enough,” says Meleagant, “and you may say what you please. But little do I care for all you say. I am not a hermit, nor so compassionate and charitable, and I have no desire to be so honourable as to give him what I most love. His task will not be performed so quickly or so lightly; rather will it turn out otherwise than as you and he expect. You and I need not quarrel because you aid him against me. Even if he enjoys peace and a truce with you and all your men, what matters that to me? My heart does not quail on that account; rather, so help me God, I am glad that he need not feel concern for any one here but me; I do not wish you to do on my account anything which might be construed as disloyalty or treachery. Be as compassionate as you please, but let me be cruel.” “What? Wilt thou not change thy mind?” “No,” he says. “Then I will say nothing more. I will leave thee alone to do thy best and will go now to speak with the knight. I wish to offer and present to him my aid and counsel in all respects; for I am alto- gether on his side.”
Then the king goes down and orders them to bring his horse. A large steed is brought to him, upon which he springs by the stirrup, and he rides off with some of his men: three knights and two squires he bade to go with him. They did not stop their ride downhill until they came to the bridge, where they see him stanching his wounds and wiping the blood from them. The king expects to keep him as his guest for a long time while his wounds are healing; but he might as well expect to drain the sea. The king hastens to dismount, and he who was grievously wounded, stood up at once to meet him, though he did not know him, and he gave no more evidence of the pain he felt in his feet and hands than if he had been actually sound. The king sees that he is exerting himself, and quickly runs to greet him with the words: “Sire, I am greatly amazed that you have fallen upon us in this land. But be wel- come, for no one will ever repeat the attempt: it never happened in the past, and it will never happen in the future that any one should perform such a hardy feat or expose himself to such peril. And know that I admire you greatly for having executed what no one before ever dared to conceive. You will find me very kindly disposed, and loyal and courteous toward you. I am the king of this land, and offer you freely all my counsel and service; and I think I know pretty well what you have come here to seek. You come, I am sure, to seek the Queen.” “Sire,” he replies, “your surmise is correct; no other cause brings me here.” “Friend, you must suffer hardship to obtain her,” he replies; “and you are sorely wounded, as I see by the wounds and the flowing blood. You will not find him who brought her hith- er so generous as to give her up without a struggle; but you must tarry, and have your wounds cared for until they are completely healed. I will give you some of `the three Marys’ ointment, and something still better, if it can be found, for I am very solicitous about your comfort and your recovery. And the Queen is so confined that no mor-
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tal man has access to her—not even my son, who brought her here with him and who resents such treatment, for never was a man so beside himself and so desperate as he. But I am well disposed toward you, and will gladly give you, so help me God, all of which you stand in need. My son himself will not have such good arms but that I will give you some that are just as good, and a horse, too, such as you will need, though my son will be angry with me. Despite the feelings of any one, I will protect you against all men. You will have no cause to fear any one excepting him who brought the Queen here. No man ever menaced another as I have menaced him, and I came near driving him from my land, in my displeasure because he will not surrender her to you. To be sure, he is my son; but feel no concern, for unless he defeats you in battle, he can never do you the slightest harm against my will.” “Sire,” he says, “I thank you. But I am losing time here which I do not wish to waste. I have no cause to complain, and have no wound which is paining me. Take me where I can find him; for with such arms as I have, I am ready to divert myself by giving and receiving blows.” “Friend, you had better wait two or three weeks until your wounds are healed, for it would be well for you to tarry here at least two weeks, and not on any account could I allow it, or look on, while you fought in my presence with such arms and with such an outfit.” And he replies: “With your permission, no other arms would be used than these, for I should prefer to fight with them, and I should not ask for the slightest post- ponement, adjournment or delay. However, in deference to you, I will consent to wait until to-morrow; but despite what any one may say, longer I will not wait.” Then the king assured him that all would be done as he wished; then he has the lodging-place prepared, and insistently requests his men, who are in the company, to serve him, which they do devotedly. And the king, who would gladly have made peace, had it been possible, went at once to his son and spoke to him like one who desires peace and harmony, saying: “Fair son, be reconciled now with this knight without a fight! He has not come here to disport himself or to hunt or chase, but he comes in search of honour and to increase his fame and renown, and I have seen that he stands in great need of rest. If he had taken my advice, he would not have rashly undertaken, either this month or the next, the battle which he so greatly desires. If thou mak- est over the Queen to him, dost thou fear any dishonour in the deed? Have no fear of that, for no blame can attach to thee; rather is it wrong to keep that to which one has no rightful claim. He would gladly have entered the battle at once, though his hands and feet are not sound, but cut and wounded.” Meleagant answers his father thus: “You are foolish to be concerned. By the faith I owe St. Peter, I will not take your advice in this matter. I should deserve to be drawn apart with horses, if I heeded your advice. If he is seeking his honour, so do I seek mine; if he is in search of glory, so am I; if he is anxious for the battle, so am I a hundred times more so than he.” “I see plainly,” says the king, “that thou art intent upon thy mad enterprise, and thou shalt have thy fill of it. Since such is thy pleasure, to-morrow thou shalt try thy strength with the knight.” “May no greater hardship ever visit me than that!” Melea- gant replies; “I would much rather it were to-day than to-morrow. Just see how much more downcast I am than is usual! My eyes are wild, and my face is pale! I shall have no joy or satisfaction or any cause for happiness until I am actually engaged with him.”
The king understands that further advice and prayers are of no avail, so reluctantly he leaves his son and, taking a good, strong horse and handsome arms, he sends them to him who well deserves them, together with a surgeon who was a loyal and Christian man. There was in the world no more trusty man, and he was more skilled in the cure of wounds than all the doctors of Montpeilier. That night he treated the knight as best he could, in accordance with the king’s command. Already the news was known by the knights and damsels, the ladies and barons of all the country-side, and all through the night until daybreak strangers and friends were making long journeys from all the country round. When morning came, there was such a press before the castle that there was not room to move one’s foot. And the king, rising early in his distress about the battle, goes directly to his son, who had already laced upon his head the helmet which was of Poitiers make. No delay or peace is possible, for though the king did his best, his efforts are of no effect. In the middle of the castle-square, where all the people are assembled, the battle will be fought in compliance with the king’s wish and command. The king sends at once for the stranger knight, and he is conducted to the grounds which were filled with people from the kingdom of Logres. For just as people are accustomed to go to church to hear the organ on the annual feast-days of Pentecost or Christmas, so they had all assembled now. All the foreign maidens from King Arthur’s realm had fasted three days and gone barefoot in their shifts, in order that God might endow with strength and courage the knight who was to fight his adversary on behalf of the captives. Very early, before prime had yet been sounded, both of the knights fully armed were led to the place, mounted upon two horses equally protected. Meleagant was very graceful, alert, and shapely; the hauberk with its fine meshes, the helmet, and the shield hanging from his neck—all these became him well. All the spec- tators. however, favoured the other knight, even those who wished him ill, and they say that Meleagant is worth nothing compared with him. As soon as they were both on the ground, the king comes and detains them as long as possible in an effort to make peace between them, but he is unable to persuade his son. Then he says to them: “Hold in your horses until I reach the top of the tower. It will be only a slight favour, if you will wait so long for me.” Then in sorrowful mood he leaves them and goes directly to the place where he knew he would find the Queen. She had begged him the evening before to place her where she might have an unobstructed view of the battle; he had grant- ed her the boon, and went now to seek and fetch her, for he was very anxious to show her honour and courtesy. He
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placed her at one window, and took his place at another window on her right. Beside them, there were gathered there many knights and prudent dames and damsels, who were natives of that land; and there were many others, who were captives, and who were intent upon their orisons and prayers. Those who were prisoners were praying for their lord, for to God and to him they entrusted their succour and deliverance. Then the combatants without delay make all the people stand aside; then they clash the shields with their elbows, and thrust their arms into the straps, and spur at each other so violently that each sends his lance two arms’ length through his opponent’s shield, causing the lance to split and splinter like a flying spark. And the horses meet head on, clashing breast to breast, and the shields and helmets crash with such a noise that it seems like a mighty thunder-clap; not a breast-strap, girth, rein or surcingle remains unbroken, and the saddle-bows, though strong, are broken to pieces. The combat- ants felt no shame in falling to earth, in view of their mishaps, but they quickly spring to their feet, and without waste of threatening words rush at each other more fiercely than two wild boars, and deal great blows with their swords of steel like men whose hate is violent. Repeatedly they trim the helmets and shining hauberks so fiercely that after the sword the blood spurts out. They furnished an excellent battle, indeed, as they stunned and wounded each other with their heavy, wicked blows. Many fierce, hard, long bouts they sustained with equal honour, so that the onlookers could discern no advantage on either side. But it was inevitable that he who had crossed the bridge should be much weakened by his wounded hands. The people who sided with him were much dismayed, for they notice that his strokes are growing weaker, and they fear he will get the worst of it; it seemed to them that he was weakening, while Meleagant was triumphing, and they began to murmur all around. But up at the window of the tower there was a wise maiden who thought within herself that the knight had not undertaken the battle either on her account or for the sake of the common herd who had gathered about the list, but that his only incentive had been the Queen; and she thought that, if he knew that she was at the window seeing and watching him, his strength and courage would increase. And if she had known his name, she would gladly have called to him to look about him. Then she came to the Queen and said: “Lady, for God’s sake and your own as well as ours, I beseech you to tell me, if you know, the name of yonder knight, to the end that it may be of some help to him.” “Damsel,” the Queen replies, “you have asked me a question in which I see no hate or evil, but rather good intent; the name of the knight, I know, is Lancelot of the Lake.” “God, how happy and glad at heart I am!” the damsel says. Then she leans forward and calls to him by name so loudly that all the people hear: “Lancelot, turn about and see who is here taking note of thee!”
Part III: Vv. 3685 Vv. 5594 When Lancelot heard his name, he was not slow to turn around: he turns and sees seated up there at the
window of the tower her whom he desired most in the world to see. From the moment he caught sight of her, he did not turn or take his eyes and face from her, defending himself with backhand blows. And Meleagant meanwhile attacked him as fiercely as he could, delighted to think that the other cannot withstand him now; and they of the country are well pleased too, while the foreigners are so distressed that they can no longer support themselves, and many of them fall to earth either upon their knees or stretched out prone; thus some are glad, and some distressed. Then the damsel cried again from the window: “Ah, Lancelot, how is it that thou dost now conduct thyself so foolishly? Once thou wert the embodiment of prowess and of all that is good, and I do not think God ever made a knight who could equal thee in valour and in worth. But now we see thee so distressed that thou dealest back-hand blows and fightest thy adversary, behind thy back. Turn, so as to be on the other side, and so that thou canst face toward this tower, for it will help thee to keep it in view.” Then Lancelot is so ashamed and mortified that he hates himself, for he knows full well that all have seen how, for some time past, he has had the worst of the fight. There- upon he leaps backward and so manoeuvres as to force Meleagant into a position between him and the tower. Meleagant makes every effort to regain his former position. But Lancelot rushes upon him, and strikes him so violently upon his body and shield whenever he tries to get around him, that he compels him to whirl about two or three times in spite of himself. Lancelot’s strength and courage grow, partly because he has love’s aid, and partly because he never hated any one so much as him with whom he is engaged. Love and mortal hate, so fierce that never before was such hate seen, make him so fiery and bold that Meleagant ceases to treat it as a jest and begins to stand in awe of him, for he had never met or known so doughty a knight, nor had any knight ever wounded or injured him as this one does. He is glad to get away from him, and he winces and sidesteps, fearing his blows and avoiding them. And Lancelot does not idly threaten him, but drives him rapidly toward the tower where the Queen was stationed on the watch. There upon the tower he did her the homage of his blows until he came so close that, if he advanced another step, he would lose sight of her. Thus Lancelot drove him back and forth repeatedly in whatev- er direction he pleased, always stopping before the Queen, his lady, who had kindled the flame which compels him to fix his gaze upon her. And this same flame so stirred him against Meleagant that he was enabled to lead and drive him wherever he pleased. In spite of himself he drives him on like a blind man or a man with a wooden leg. The king sees his son so hard pressed that he is sorry for him and he pities him, and he will not deny him aid and
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assistance if possible; but if he wishes to proceed courteously, he must first beg the Queen’s permission. So he began to say to her: “Lady, since I have had you in my power, I have loved you and faithfully served and honoured you. I never consciously left anything undone in which I saw your honour involved; now repay me for what I have done. For I am about to ask you a favour which you should not grant unless you do so willingly. I plainly see that my son is getting the worst of this battle; I do not speak so because of the chagrin I feel, but in order that Lancelot, who has him in his power, may not kill him. Nor ought you to wish to see him killed; not because he has not wronged both you and him, but because I make the request of you: so tell him, please, to stop beating him. If you will, you can thus repay me for what I have done for you.” “Fair sire, I am willing to do so at your request,” the Queen replies; “had I mortal hatred for your son, whom it is true I do not love, yet you have served me so well that, to please you, I am quite willing that he should desist.” These words were not spoken privately, but Lancelot and Meleagrant heard what was said. The man who is a perfect lover is always obedient and quickly and gladly does his mistress’ pleasure. So Lancelot was constrained to do his Lady’s will, for he loved more than Pyramus, if that were possible for any man to do. Lancelot heard what was said, and as soon as the last word had issued from her mouth, “since you wish him to desist, I am willing that he should do so,” Lancelot would not have touched him or made a movement for any- thing, even if the other had killed him. He does not touch him or raise his hand. But Meleagant, beside himself with rage and shame when he hears that it has been necessary to intercede in his behalf, strikes him with all the strength he can muster. And the king went down from the tower to upbraid his son, and entering the list he addressed him thus: “How now? Is this becoming, to strike him when he is not touching thee? Thou art too cruel and savage, and thy prowess is now out of place! For we all know beyond a doubt that he is thy superior.” Then Meleagant, choking with shame, says to the king: “I think you must be blind! I do not believe you see a thing. Any one must indeed be blind to think I am not better than he.” “Seek some one to believe thy words!” the king replies, “for all the people know whether thou speakest the truth or a lie. All of us know full well the truth.” Then the king bids his barons lead his son away, which they do at once in execution of his command: they led away Meleagant. But it was not neces- sary to use force to induce Lancelot to withdraw, for Meleagant might have harmed him grievously, before he would have sought to defend himself. Then the king says to his son: “So help me God, now thou must make peace and surrender the Queen. Thou must cease this quarrel once for all and withdraw thy claim.” “That is great nonsense you have uttered! I hear you speak foolishly. Stand aside! Let us fight, and do not mix in our affairs!” But the king says he will take a hand, for he knows well that, were the fight to continue, Lancelot would kill his son. “He kill me! Rather would I soon defeat and kill him, if you would leave us alone and let us fight.” Then the king says: “So help me God, all that thou sayest is of no avail.” “Why is that?” he asks. “Because I will not consent. I will not so trust in thy folly and pride as to allow thee to be killed. A man is a fool to court death, as thou dost in thy ignorance. I know well that thou hatest me because I wish to save thy life. God will not let me see and witness thy death, if I can help it, for it would cause me too much grief.” He talks to him and reproves him until finally peace and good-will are restored. The terms of the peace are these: he will surrender the Queen to Lancelot, provided that the latter without reluctance will fight them again within a year of such time as he shall choose to summon him: this is no trial to Lancelot. When peace is made, all the people press about, and it is decided that the battle shall be fought at the court of King Arthur, who holds Britain and Cornwall in his sway: there they decide that it shall be. And the Queen has to consent, and Lancelot has to promise, that if Meleagant can prove him recreant, she shall come back with him again without the interference of any one. When the Queen and Lancelot had both agreed to this, the arrange- ment was concluded, and they both retired and removed their arms. Now the custom in the country was that when one issued forth, all the others might do so too. All called down blessings upon Lancelot: and you may know that he must have felt great joy, as in truth he did. All the strangers assemble and rejoice over Lancelot, speaking so as to be heard by him: “Sire, in truth we were joyful as soon as we heard your name, for we felt sure at once that we should all be set free.” There was a great crowd present at this glad scene, as each one strives and presses forward to touch him if possible. Any one who succeeded in touching him was more delighted than he could tell. There was plenty of joy, and of sorrow too; those who were now set free rejoiced unrestrainedly; but Meleagant and his followers have not anything they want, but are pensive, gloomy, and downcast. The king turns away from the list, taking with him Lancelot, who begs him to take him to the Queen. “I shall not fail to do so,” the king replies; “for it seems to me the proper thing to do. And if you like, I will show you Kay the seneschal.” At this Lancelot is so glad that he almost falls at his feet. Then the king took him at once into the hall, where the Queen had come to wait for him.
When the Queen saw the king holding Lancelot by the hand, she rose before the king, but she looked displeased with clouded brow, and she spoke not a word. “Lady, here is Lancelot come to see you,” says the king; “you ought to be pleased and satisfied.” “I, sire? He cannot please me. I care nothing about seeing him.” “Come now, lady,” says the king who was very frank and courteous, “what induces you to act like this? You are too scornful toward a man who has served you so faithfully that he has repeatedly exposed his life to mortal danger on this journey for your sake, and who has defended and rescued you from my son Meleagant who had deeply wronged you.” “Sire, truly he has made poor use of his time. I shall never deny that I feel no gratitude toward him.” Now Lancelot is dumbfound-
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ed; but he replies very humbly like a polished lover: “Lady, certainly I am grieved at this, but I dare not ask your reason.” The Queen listened as Lancelot voiced his disappointment, but in order to grieve and confound him, she would not answer a single word, but returned to her room. And Lancelot followed her with his eyes and heart until she reached the door; but she was not long in sight, for the room was close by. His eyes would gladly have followed her, had that been possible; but the heart, which is more lordly and masterful in its strength, went through the door after her, while the eyes remained behind weeping with the body. And the king said privily to him: “Lancelot, I am amazed at what this means: and how it comes about that the Queen cannot endure the sight of you, and that she is so unwilling to speak with you. If she is ever accustomed to speak with you, she ought not to be niggardly now or avoid conversation with you, after what you have done for her. Now tell me, if you know, why and for what misdeed she has shown you such a countenance.” “Sire, I did not notice that just now; but she will not look at me or hear my words, and that distresses and grieves me much.” “Surely,” says the king, “she is in the wrong, for you have risked your life for her. Come away now, fair sweet friend, and we shall go to speak with the seneschal.” “I shall be glad to do so,” he replies. Then they both go to the seneschal. As soon as Lancelot came where he was, the seneschal’s first exclamation was: “How thou hast shamed me!” “I? How so?” Lancelot inquires; “tell me what disgrace have I brought upon you?” “A very great disgrace, for thou hast carried out what I could not accomplish, and thou hast done what I could not do.”
Then the king left them together in the room, and went out alone. And Lancelot inquires of the seneschal if he has been badly off. “Yes,” he answers, “and I still am so. I was never more wretched than I am now. And I should have died a long time ago, had it not been for the king, who in his compassion has shown me so much gentle- ness and kindness that he willingly let me lack nothing of which I stood in need; but I was furnished at once with everything that I desired. But opposed to the kindness which he showed me, was Meleagant his son, who is full of wickedness, and who summoned the physicians to him and bade them apply such ointments as would kill me. Such a father and stepfather have I had! For when the king had a good plaster applied to my wounds in his desire that I should soon be cured, his treacherous son, wishing to put me to death, had it promptly taken off and some harmful salve applied. But I am very sure that the king was ignorant of this; he would not tolerate such base and murderous tricks. But you do not know how courteous he has been to my lady: no frontier tower since the time that Noah built the ark was ever so carefully guarded, for he has guarded her so vigilantly that, though his son chafed under the restraint, he would nor let him see her except in the presence of the king himself. Up to the present time the king in his mercy has shown her all the marks of consideration which she herself proposed. She alone had the disposition of her affairs. And the king esteemed her all the more for the loyalty she showed. But is it true, as I am told, that she is so angry with you that she has publicly refused to speak with you?” “You have been told the exact truth,” Lancelot replies, “but for God’s sake, can you tell me why she is so displeased with me?” He replies that he does not know, and that he is greatly surprised at it. “Well, let it be as she pleases,” says Lancelot, feeling his helplessness; “I must now take my leave, and I shall go to seek my lord Gawain who has entered this land, and who arranged with me that he would proceed directly to the waterbridge.” Then, leaving the room, he appeared before the king and asked for leave to proceed in that direction. And the king willingly grants him leave to go. Then those whom Lancelot had set free and delivered from prison ask him what they are to do. And he replies: “All those who desire may come with me, and those who wish to stay with the Queen may do so: there is no reason why they should accompany me.” Then all those, who so desire, accompany him, more glad and joyous than is their wont. With the Queen remain her damsels who are light of heart, and many knights and ladies too. But there is not one of those who stay behind, who would not have preferred to return to his own country to staying there. But on my lord Gawain’s account, whose arrival is expected, the Queen keeps them, saying that she will never stir until she has news of him.
The news spreads everywhere that the Queen is free to go, and that all the other prisoners have been set at liberty and are free to go whenever it suits and pleases them. Wherever the people of the land gather together, they ask each other about the truth of this report, and never talk of anything else. They are very much enraged that all the dangerous passes have been overcome, and that any one may come and go as he pleases. But when the natives of the country, who had not been present at the battle, learned how Lancelot had been the victor, they all betook themselves to the place where they knew he must pass by, thinking that the king would be well pleased if they should seize Lancelot and hale him back to him. All of his own men were without their arms, and therefore they were at a disadvantage when they saw the natives of the country coming under arms. It was not strange that they seized Lancelot, who was without his arms. They lead him back prisoner, his feet lashed together beneath his horse. Then his own men say: “Gentlemen, this is an evil deed; for the king has given us his safe-conduct, and we are under his protection.” But the others reply: “We do not know how that may be; but as we have taken you, you must return with us to court.” The rumour, which swiftly flies and runs, reaches the king, that his men have seized Lancelot and put him to death. When the king hears it, he is sorely grieved and swears angrily by his head that they who have killed him shall surely die for the deed; and that, if he can seize or catch them, it shall be their fate to be hanged, burned, or drowned. And if they attempt to deny their deed, he will not believe what they say, for they have
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brought him such grief and shame that he would be disgraced were vengeance not to be exacted from them; but he will be avenged without a doubt. The news of this spread until it reached the Queen, who was sitting at meat. She almost killed herself on hearing the false report about Lancelot, but she supposes it to be true, and therefore she is in such dismay that she almost loses the power to speak; but, because of those present, she forces herself to say: “In truth, I am sorry for his death, and it is no wonder that I grieve, for he came into this country for my sake, and therefore I should mourn for him.” Then she says to herself, so that the others should not hear, that no one need ask her to drink or eat, if it is true that he is dead, in whose life she found her own. Then grieving she rises from the table, and makes her lament, but so that no one hears or notices her. She is so beside herself that she repeatedly grasps her throat with the desire to kill herself; but first she confesses to herself, and repents with self-reproach, blaming and censuring herself for the wrong she had done him, who, as she knew, had always been hers, and would still be hers, if he were alive. She is so distressed at the thought of her cruelty, that her beauty is seriously impaired. Her cruelty and meanness affected her and marred her beauty more than all the vigils and fastings with which she afflicted herself. When all her sins rise up before her, she gathers them together, and as she reviews them, she re- peatedly exclaims: “Alas! of what was I thinking when my lover stood before me and I should have welcomed him, that I would not listen to his words? Was I not a fool, when I refused to look at or speak to him? Foolish indeed? Rather was I base and cruel, so help me God. I intended it as a jest, but he did not take it so, and has not pardoned me. I am sure it was no one but me who gave him his death-blow. When he came before me smiling and expecting that I would be glad to see him and would welcome him, and when I would not look at him, was not that a mortal blow? When I refused to speak with him, then doubtless at one blow I deprived him of his heart and life. These two strokes have killed him, I am sure; no other bandits have caused his death. God! can I ever make amends for this murder and this crime? No, indeed; sooner will the rivers and the sea dry up. Alas! how much better I should feel, and how much comfort I should take, if only once before he died I had held him in my arms! What? Yes, certainly, quite unclad, in order the better to enjoy him. If he is dead, I am very wicked not to destroy myself. Why? Can it harm my lover for me to live on after he is dead, if I take no pleasure in anything but in the woe I bear for him? In giving myself up to grief after his death, the very woes I court would be sweet to me, if he were only still alive. It is wrong for a woman to wish to die rather than to suffer for her lover’s sake. It is certainly sweet for me to mourn him long. I would rather be beaten alive than die and be at rest.”
For two days the Queen thus mourned for him without eating or drinking, until they thought she too would die. There are plenty of people ready to carry bad news rather than good. The news reaches Lancelot that his lady and sweetheart is dead. You need have no doubt of the grief he felt; every one may feel sure that he was afflicted and overcome with grief. Indeed, if you would know the truth, he was so downcast that he held his life in slight esteem. He wished to kill himself at once, but first he uttered a brief lament. He makes a running noose at one end of the belt he wore, and then tearfully communes thus with himself: “Ah, death, how hast thou spied me out and undone me, when in the bloom of health! I am undone, and yet I feel no pain except the grief within my heart. This is a terrible mortal grief. I am willing that it should be so, and if God will, I shall die of it. Then can I not die some other way, without God’s consent? Yes, if he will let me tie this noose around my neck. I think I can compel death, even against her will, to take my life. Death, who covets only those who fear her, will not come to me; but my belt will bring her within my power, and as soon as she is mine, she will execute my desire. But, in truth, she will come too tardily for me, for I yearn to have her now!” Then he delays and hesitates no longer, but adjusts his head within the noose until it rests about his neck; and in order that he may not fail to harm himself, he fastens the end of the belt tightly about the saddle-bow, without attracting the attention of any one. Then he let himself slide to earth, intend- ing his horse to drag him until he was lifeless, for he disdains to live another hour. When those who ride with him see him fallen to earth, they suppose him to be in a faint, for no one sees the noose which he had attached about his neck. At once they caught him in their arms and, on raising him, they found the noose which he had put around his neck and with which he sought to kill himself. They quickly cut the noose; but the noose had so hurt his throat that for some time he could not speak; the veins of his neck and throat are almost broken. Now he could not harm himself, even had he wished to do so; however, he is grieved that they have laid hands on him, and he almost burns up with rage, for willingly would he have killed himself had no one chanced to notice him. And now when he can- not harm himself, he cries: “Ah, vile and shameless death! For God’s sake, why hadst thou not the power and might to kill me before my lady died? I suppose it was because thou wouldst not deign to do what might be a kindly deed. If thou didst spare me, it must be attributed to thy wickedness. Ah, what kind of service and kindness is that! How well hast thou employed them here! A curse upon him who thanks thee or feels gratitude for such a service! I know not which is more my enemy: life, which detains me, or death, which will not slay me. Each one torments me mor- tally; and it serves me right, so help me God, that in spite of myself I should still live on. For I ought to have killed myself as soon as my lady the Queen showed her hate for me; she did not do it without cause, but she had some good reason, though I know not what it is. And if I had known what it was before her soul went to God, I should have made her such rich amends as would have pleased her and gained her mercy. God! what could my crime have
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been? I think she must have known that I mounted upon the cart. I do not know what other cause she can have to blame me. This has been my undoing. If this is the reason of her hate, God! what harm could this crime do? Any one who would reproach me for such an act never knew what love is, for no one could mention anything which, if prompted by love, ought to be turned into a reproach. Rather, everything that one can do for his lady-love is to be regarded as a token of his love and courtesy. Yet, I did not do it for my `lady-love’. I know not by what name to call her, whether `lady-love’, or not. I do not dare to call her by this name. But I think I know this much of love: that if she loved me, she ought not to esteem me less for this crime, but rather call me her true lover, inasmuch as I regard- ed it as an honour to do all love bade me do, even to mount upon a cart. She ought to ascribe this to love; and this is a certain proof that love thus tries his devotees and thus learns who is really his. But this service did not please my lady, as I discovered by her countenance. And yet her lover did for her that for which many have shamefully reproached and blamed him, though she was the cause of it; and many blame me for the part I have played, and have turned my sweetness into bitterness. In truth, such is the custom of those who know so little of love, that even honour they wash in shame. But whoever dips honour into shame, does not wash it, but rather sullies it. But they, who maltreat him so, are quite ignorant of love; and he, who fears not his commands, boasts himself very superior to him. For unquestionably he fares well who obeys the commands of love, and whatever he does is pardonable, but he is the coward who does not dare.”
Thus Lancelot makes his lament, and his men stand grieving by his side, keeping hold of him and guarding him. Then the news comes that the Queen is not dead. Thereupon Lancelot at once takes comfort, and if his grief for her death had before been intense and deep, now his joy for her life was a hundred thousand times as great. And when they arrived within six or seven leagues of the castle where King Bademagu was, grateful news of Lancelot was told him, how he was alive and was coming hale and hearty, and this news the king was glad to hear. He did a very courteous thing in going at once to appraise the Queen. And she replies: “Fair sire, since you say so, I believe it is true, but I assure you that, if he were dead, I should never be happy again. All my joy would be cut off, if a knight had been killed in my service.”
Then the king leaves her, and the Queen yearns ardently for the arrival of her lover and her joy. She has no desire this time to bear him any grudge. But rumour, which never rests but runs always unceasingly, again reaches the Queen to the effect that Lancelot would have killed himself for her sake, if he had had the chance. She is happy at the thought that this is true, but she would not have had it happen so for anything, for her sorrow would have been too great. Thereupon Lancelot arrived in haste. As soon as the king sees him, he runs to kiss and embrace him. He feels as if he ought to fly, borne along by the buoyancy of his joy. But his satisfaction is cut short by those who had taken and bound his guest, and the king tells them they have come in an evil hour, for they shall all be killed and confounded. Then they made answer that they thought he would have it so. “It is I whom you have insulted in doing your pleasure. He has no reason to complain,” the king replies; “you have not shamed him at all, but only me who was protecting him. However you look at it, the shame is mine. But if you escape me now, you will see no joke in this.” When Lancelot hears his wrath, he puts forth every effort to make peace and adjust mat- ters; when his efforts have met with success, the king takes him away to see the Queen. This time the Queen did not lower her eyes to the ground, but she went to meet him cheerfully, honouring him all she could, and making him sit down by her side. Then they talked together at length of all that was upon their hearts, and love furnished them with so much to say that topics did not lack. And when Lancelot sees how well he stands, and that all he says finds favour with the Queen, he says to her in confidence: “Lady, I marvel greatly why you received me with such a countenance when you saw me the day before yesterday, and why you would not speak a word to me: I almost died of the blow you gave me, and I had not the courage to dare to question you about it, as I now venture to do. I am ready now, lady, to make amends, when you have told me what has been the crime which has caused me such distress.” Then the Queen replies: “What? Did you not hesitate for shame to mount the cart? You showed you were loath to get in, when you hesitated for two whole steps. That is the reason why I would neither address nor look at you.” “May God save me from such a crime again,” Lancelot replies, “and may God show me no mercy, if you were not quite right! For God’s sake, lady, receive my amends at once, and tell me, for God’s sake, if you can ever pardon me.” “Friend, you are quite forgiven,” the Queen replies; “I pardon you willingly.” “Thank you for that, lady,” he then says; “but I cannot tell you here all that I should like to say; I should like to talk with you more at leisure, if possible.” Then the Queen indicates a window by her glance rather than with her finger, and says: “Come through the garden to-night and speak with me at yonder window, when every one inside has gone to sleep. You will not be able to get in: I shall be inside and you outside: to gain entrance will be impossible. I shall be able to touch you only with my lips or hand, but, if you please, I will stay there until morning for love of you. Our bodies cannot be joined, for close beside me in my room lies Kay the seneschal, who is still suffering from his wounds. And the door is not open, but is tightly closed and guarded well. When you come, take care to let no spy catch sight of you.” “Lady,” says he, “if I can help it, no spy shall see me who might think or speak evil of us.” Then, having agreed upon this plan, they separate very joyfully.
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Lancelot leaves the room in such a happy frame that all his past troubles are forgotten. But he was so impatient for the night to come that his restlessness made the day seem longer than a hundred ordinary days or than an entire year. If night had only come, he would gladly have gone to the trysting place. Dark and sombre night at last won its struggle with the day, and wrapped it up in its covering, and laid it away beneath its cloak. When he saw the light of day obscured, he pretended to be tired and worn, and said that, in view of his protracted vigils, he needed rest. You, who have ever done the same, may well understand and guess that he pretends to be tired and goes to bed in order to deceive the people of the house; but he cared nothing about his bed, nor would he have sought rest there for anything, for he could not have done so and would not have dared, and furthermore he would not have cared to possess the courage or the power to do so. Soon he softly rose, and was pleased to find that no moon or star was shining, and that in the house there was no candle, lamp, or lantern burning. Thus he went out and looked about, but there was no one on the watch for him, for all thought that he would sleep in his bed all night. Without escort or company he quickly went out into the garden, meeting no one on the way, and he was so fortunate as to find that a part of the garden-wall had recently fallen down. Through this break he passes quickly and proceeds to the window, where he stands, taking good care not to cough or sneeze, until the Queen arrives clad in a very white chemise. She wore no cloak or coat, but had thrown over her a short cape of scarlet cloth and shrew-mouse fur. As soon as Lancelot saw the Queen leaning on the window-sill behind the great iron bars, he honoured her with a gentle salute. She promptly returned his greeting, for he was desirous of her, and she of him. Their talk and conver- sation are not of vulgar, tiresome affairs. They draw close to one another, until each holds the other’s hand. But they are so distressed at not being able to come together more completely, that they curse the iron bars. Then Lancelot asserts that, with the Queen’s consent, he will come inside to be with her, and that the bars cannot keep him out. And the Queen replies: “Do you not see how the bars are stiff to bend and hard to break? You could never so twist, pull or drag at them as to dislodge one of them.” “Lady,” says he, “have no fear of that. It would take more than these bars to keep me out. Nothing but your command could thwart my power to come to you. If you will but grant me your permission, the way will open before me. But if it is not your pleasure, then the way is so obstructed that I could not possibly pass through.” “Certainly,” she says, “I consent. My will need not stand in your way; but you must wait until I retire to my bed again, so that no harm may come to you, for it would be no joke or jest if the seneschal, who is sleeping here, should wake up on hearing you. So it is best for me to withdraw, for no good could come of it, if he should see me standing here.” “Go then, lady,” he replies; “but have no fear that I shall make any noise. I think I can draw out the bars so softly and with so little effort that no one shall be aroused.”
Then the Queen retires, and he prepares to loosen the window. Seizing the bars, he pulls and wrenches them until he makes them bend and drags them from their places. But the iron was so sharp that the end of his little finger was cut to the nerve, and the first joint of the next finger was torn; but he who is intent upon something else paid no heed to any of his wounds or to the blood which trickled down. Though the window is not low, Lancelot gets through it quickly and easily. First he finds Kay asleep in his bed, then he comes to the bed of the Queen, whom he adores and before whom he kneels, holding her more dear than the relic of any saint. And the Queen extends her arms to him and, embracing him, presses him tightly against her bosom, drawing him into the bed beside her and showing him every possible satisfaction; her love and her heart go out to him. It is love that prompts her to treat him so; and if she feels great love for him, he feels a hundred thousand times as much for her. For there is no love at all in other hearts compared with what there is in his; in his heart love was so completely embodied that it was niggardly toward all other hearts. Now Lancelot possesses all he wants, when the Queen voluntarily seeks his company and love, and when he holds her in his arms, and she holds him in hers. Their sport is so agreeable and sweet, as they kiss and fondle each other, that in truth such a marvellous joy comes over them as was never heard or known. But their joy will not be revealed by me, for in a story, it has no place. Yet, the most choice and delightful satisfaction was precisely that of which our story must not speak. That night Lancelot’s joy and pleasure were very great. But, to his sorrow, day comes when he must leave his mistress’ side. It cost him such pain to leave her that he suffered a real martyr’s agony. His heart now stays where the Queen remains; he has not the power to lead it away, for it finds such pleasure in the Queen that it has no desire to leave her: so his body goes, and his heart remains. But enough of his body stays behind to spot and stain the sheets with the blood which has fallen from his fingers. Full of sighs and tears, Lancelot leaves in great distress. He grieves that no time is fixed for another meeting, but it cannot be. Regretfully he leaves by the window through which he had entered so happily. He was so badly wounded in the fingers that they were in sorry, state; yet he straightened the bars and set them in their place again, so that from neither side, either before or behind, was it evident that any one had drawn out or bent any of the bars. When he leaves the room, he bows and acts precisely as if he were before a shrine; then he goes with a heavy heart, and reaches his lodgings without being recognised by any one. He throws himself naked upon his bed without awaking any one, and then for the first time he is surprised to notice the cuts in his fingers; but he is not at all concerned, for he is very sure that the wound was caused by dragging the window bars from the wall. Therefore he was not at all worried, for he would rather have had both arms dragged from his body than not
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enter through the window. But he would have been very angry and distressed, if he had thus injured and wounded himself under any other circumstances.
In the morning, within her curtained room, the Queen had fallen into a gentle sleep; she had not noticed that her sheets were spotted with blood, but she supposed them to be perfectly white and clean and presentable. Now Meleagant, as soon as he was dressed and ready, went to the room where the Queen lay. He finds her awake, and he sees the sheets spotted with fresh drops of blood, whereupon he nudges his companions and, suspicious of some mischief, looks at the bed of Kay the seneschal, and sees that his sheets are blood-stained too, for you must know that in the night his wounds had begun to bleed afresh. Then he said: “Lady, now I have found the evidence that I desired. It is very true that any man is a fool to try to confine a woman: he wastes his efforts and his pains. He who tries to keep her under guard loses her sooner than the man who takes no thought of her. A fine watch, indeed, has been kept by my father, who is guarding you on my behalf ! He has succeeded in keeping you from me, but, in spite of him, Kay the seneschal has looked upon you last night, and has done what he pleased with you, as can readily be proved.” “What is that?” she asks. “Since I must speak, I find blood on your sheets, which proves the fact. I know it and can prove it, because I find on both your sheets and his the blood which issued from his wounds: the evidence is very strong.” Then the Queen saw on both beds the bloody sheets, and marvelling, she blushed with shame and said: “So help me God, this blood which I see upon my sheets was never brought here by Kay, but my nose bled during the night, and I suppose it must be from my nose.” In saying so, she thinks she tells the truth. “By my head,” says Meleagant, “there is nothing in what you say. Swearing is of no avail, for you are taken in your guilt, and the truth will soon be proved.” Then he said to the guards who were present: “Gentlemen, do not move, and see to it that the sheets are not taken from the bed until I return. I wish the king to do me justice, as soon as he has seen the truth.” Then he searched until he found him, and failing at his feet, he said: “Sire, come to see what you have failed to guard. Come to see the Queen, and you shall see the certain marvels which I have already seen and tested. But, before you go, I beg you not to fail to be just and upright toward me. You know well to what danger I have exposed myself for the Queen; yet, you are no friend of mine and keep her from me under guard. This morning I went to see her in her bed, and I remarked that Kay lies with her every night. Sire, for God’s sake, be not angry, if I am disgrun- tled and if I complain. For it is very humiliating for me to be hated and despised by one with whom Kay is allowed to lie.” “Silence!” says the king; “I don’t believe it.” “Then come, my lord, and see the sheets and the state in which Kay has left them. Since you will not believe my words, and since you think I am lying, I will show you the sheets and the quilt covered with blood from Kay’s wounds.” “Come now,” says the king, “I wish to see for myself, and my eyes will judge of the truth.” Then the king goes directly to the room, where the Queen got up at his approach. He sees that the sheets are blood-stained on her bed and on Kay’s alike and he says: “Lady, it is going badly now, if what my son has said is true.” Then she replies: “So help me God, never even in a dream was uttered such a monstrous lie. I think Kay the seneschal is courteous and loyal enough not to commit such a deed, and besides, I do not expose my body in the market-place, nor offer it of my own free will. Surely, Kay is not the man to make an insulting proposal to me, and I have never desired and shall never desire to do such a thing myself.” “Sire, I shall be much obliged to you,” says Meleagant to his father, “if Kay shall be made to atone for this outrage, and the Queen’s shame thus be exposed. It devolves upon you to see that justice is done, and this justice I now request and claim. Kay has betrayed King Arthur, his lord, who had such confidence in him that he entrusted to him what he loved most in the world.” “Let me answer, sire,” says Kay, “and I shall exonerate myself. May God have no mercy upon my soul when I leave this world, if I ever lay with my lady! Indeed, I should rather be dead than ever do my lord such an ugly wrong, and may God never grant me better health than I have now but rather kill me on the spot, if such a thought ever entered my mind! But I know that my wounds bled profusely last night, and that is the reason why my sheets are stained with blood. That is why your son suspects me, but surely he has no right to do so.” And Meleagant answers him: “So help me God, the devils and demons have betrayed you. You grew too heated last night and, as a result of your exertions, your wounds have doubtless bled afresh. There is no use in your denying it; we can see it, and it is perfectly evident. It is right that he should atone for his crime, who is so plainly taken in his guilt. Never did a knight with so fair a name commit such iniquities as this, and yours is the shame for it.” “Sire, sire,” says Kay to the king, “I will defend the Queen and myself against the accusation of your son. He harasses and distresses me, though he has no ground to treat me so.” “You cannot fight,” the king replies, “you are too ill.” “Sire, if you will allow it, I will fight with him, ill as I am, and will show him that I am not guilty of the crime which he imputes to me.” But the Queen, having secretly sent word to Lancelot, tells the king that she will present a knight who will defend the seneschal, if Meleagant dares to urge this charge. Then Meleagant said at once: “There is no knight without excep- tion, even were he a giant, whom I will not fight until one of us is defeated.” Then Lancelot came in, and with him such a rout of knights that the whole hall was filled with them. As soon as he had entered, in the hearing of all, both young and old, the Queen told what had happened, and said: “Lancelot, this insult has been done me by Meleagant. In the presence of all who hear his words he says I have lied, if you do not make him take it back. Last night, he asserted, Kay lay with me, because he found my sheets, like his, all stained with blood; and he says that he stands
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convicted, unless he will undertake his own defence, or unless some one else will fight the battle on his behalf.” Lancelot says: “You need never use arguments with me. May it not please God that either you or he should be thus discredited! I am ready to fight and to prove to the extent of my power that he never was guilty of such a thought. I am ready to employ my strength in his behalf, and to defend him against this charge.” Then Meleagant jumped up and said: “So help me God, I am pleased and well satisfied with that: no one need think that I object.” And Lancelot said: “My lord king, I am well acquainted with suits and laws, with trials and verdicts: in a question of veracity an oath should be taken before the fight.” Meleagant at once replies: “I agree to take an oath; so let the relics be brought at once, for I know well that I am right.” And Lancelot answers him: “So help me God, no one who ever knew Kay the seneschal would doubt his word on such a point.” Then they call for their horses, and ask that their arms be brought. This is promptly done, and when the valets had armed them, they were ready for the fight. Then the holy relics are brought forth: Meleagant steps forward, with Lancelot by his side, and both fall on their knees. Then Meleagant, laying his hands upon the relics, swears unreservedly: “So help me God and this holy relic, Kay the sene- schal lay with the Queen in her bed last night and, had his pleasure with her.” “And I swear that thou liest,” says Lancelot, “and furthermore I swear that he neither lay with her nor touched her. And may it please God to take vengeance upon him who has lied, and may He bring the truth to light! Moreover, I will take another oath and swear, whoever may dislike it or be displeased, that if I am permitted to vanquish Meleagant to-day, I will show him no mercy, so help me God and these relics here!” The king felt no joy when he heard this oath.
When the oaths had been taken, their horses were brought forward, which were fair and good in every way. Each man mounts his own home, and they ride at once at each other as fast as the steeds can carry them; and when the horses are in mid-career, the knights strike each other so fiercely that there is nothing left of the lances in their hands. Each brings the other to earth; however, they are not dismayed, but they rise at once and attack each oth- er with their sharp drawn swords. The burning sparks fly in the air from their helmets. They assail each other so bitterly with the drawn swords in their hands that, as they thrust and draw, they encounter each other with their blows and will not pause even to catch their breath. The king in his grief and anxiety called the Queen, who had gone up in the tower to look out from the balcony: he begged her for God’s sake, the Creator, to let them be sepa- rated. “Whatever is your pleasure is agreeable to me,” the Queen says honestly: “I shall not object to anything you do.” Lancelot plainly heard what reply the Queen made to the king’s request, and from that time he ceased to fight and renounced the struggle at once. But Meleagant does not wish to stop, and continues to strike and hew at him. But the king rushes between them and stops his son, who declares with an oath that he has no desire for peace. He wants to fight, and cares not for peace. Then the king says to him: “Be quiet, and take my advice, and be sensible. No shame or harm shall come to thee, if thou wilt do what is right and heed my words. Dost thou not remember that thou hast agreed to fight him at King Arthur’s court? And dost thou not suppose that it would be a much great- er honour for thee to defeat him there than anywhere else?” The king says this to see if he can so influence him as to appease him and separate them. And Lancelot, who was impatient to go in search of my lord Gawain, requests leave of the king and Queen to depart. With their permission he goes away toward the water-bridge, and after him there followed a great company of knights. But it would have suited him very well, if many of those who went had stayed behind. They make long days’ journeys until they approach the water-bridge, but are still about a league from it. Be- fore they came in sight of the bridge, a dwarf came to meet them on a mighty hunter, holding a scourge with which to urge on and incite his steed. In accordance with his instructions, he at once inquired: “Which of you is Lancelot? Don’t conceal him from me; I am of your party; tell me confidently, for I ask the question for your good.” Lancelot replies in his own behalf, and says: “I am he whom thou seekest and askest for.” “Ah,” says the dwarf, “frank knight, leave these people, and trust in me. Come along with me alone, for I will take thee to a goodly place. Let no one fol- low thee for anything, but let them wait here; for we shall return presently.” He, suspecting no harm in this, bids all his men stay there, and follows the dwarf who has betrayed him. Meanwhile his men who wait for him may contin- ue to expect him long in vain, for they, who have taken and seized him, have no desire to give him up. And his men are in such a state of grief at his failure to return that they do not know what steps to take. They all say sorrowfully that the dwarf has betrayed them. It would be useless to inquire for him: with heavy hearts they begin to search, but they know not where to look for him with any hope of finding him. So they all take counsel, and the most reason- able and sensible agree on this, it seems: to go to the passage of the water-bridge, which is close by, to see if they can find my lord Gawain in wood or plain, and then with his advice search for Lancelot. Upon this plan they all agree without dissension. Toward the water-bridge they go, and as soon as they reach the bridge, they see my lord Gawain overturned and fallen from the bridge into the stream which is very deep. One moment he rises, and the next he sinks; one moment they see him, and the next they lose him from sight. They make such efforts that they succeed in raising him with branches, poles and hooks. He had nothing but his hauberk on his back, and on his head was fixed his helmet, which was worth ten of the common sort, and he wore his iron greaves, which were all rusty with his sweat, for he had endured great trials, and had passed victoriously through many perils and assaults. His lance, his shield, and horse were all behind on the other bank. Those who have rescued him do not believe he is alive. For
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his body was full of water, and until he got rid of it, they did not hear him speak a word. But when his speech and voice and the passageway to his heart are free, and as soon, as what he said could be heard and understood, he tried to speak he inquired at once for the Queen, whether those present had any news of her. And they replied that she is still with King Bademagu, who serves her well and honourably. “Has no one come to seek her in this land?” my lord Gawain then inquires of them. And they answer him: “Yes, indeed.” “Who?” “Lancelot of the Lake,” they say, “who crossed the sword-bridge, and rescued and delivered her as well as all the rest of us. But we have been betrayed by a pot-bellied, humpbacked, and crabbed dwarf. He has deceived us shamefully in seducing Lancelot from us, and we do not know what he has done with him.” “When was that?” my lord Gawain inquires. “Sire, near here this very day this trick was played on us, while he was coming with us to meet you.” “And how has Lancelot been occupied since he entered this land?” Then they begin to tell him all about him in detail, and then they tell him about the Queen, how she is waiting for him and asserting that nothing could induce her to leave the country, until she sees him or hears some credible news of him. To them my lord Gawain replies: “When we leave this bridge, we shall go to search for Lancelot.” There is not one who does not advise rather that they go to the Queen at once, and have the king seek Lancelot, for it is their opinion that his son Meleagant has shown his enmity by having him cast into prison. But if the king can learn where he is, he will certainly make him surrender him: they can rely upon this with confidence.
They all agreed upon this plan, and started at once upon their way until they drew near the court where the Queen and king were. There, too, was Kay the seneschal, and that disloyal man, full to overflowing of treachery, who has aroused the greatest anxiety for Lancelot on the part of the party which now arrives. They feel they have been discomfited and betrayed, and they make great lament in their misery. It is not a gracious message which reports this mourning to the Queen. Nevertheless, she deports herself with as good a grace as possible. She resolves to endure it, as she must, for the sake of my lord Gawain. However, she does not so conceal her grief that it does not somewhat appear. She has to show both joy and grief at once: her heart is empty for Lancelot, and to my lord Ga- wain she shows excessive joy. Every one who hears of the loss of Lancelot is grief-stricken and distracted. The king would have rejoiced at the coming of my lord Gawain and would have been delighted with his acquaintance; but he is so sorrowful and distressed over the betrayal of Lancelot that he is prostrated and full of grief. And the Queen beseeches him insistently to have him searched for, up and down throughout the land, without postponement or delay. My lord Gawain and Kay and all the others join in this prayer and request. “Leave this care to me, and speak no more of it,” the king replies, “for I have been ready to do so for some time. Without need of request or prayer this search shall be made with thoroughness.” Everyone bows in sign of gratitude, and the king at once sends messen- gers through his realm, sagacious and prudent men-at-arms, who inquired for him throughout the land. They made inquiry for him everywhere, but gained no certain news of him. Not finding any, they come back to the place where the knights remain; then Gawain and Kay and all the others say that they will go in search of him, fully armed and lance in rest; they will not trust to sending some one else.
One day after dinner they were all in the hall putting on their arms, and the point had been reached where there was nothing to do but start, when a valet entered and passed by them all until he came before the Queen, whose cheeks were by no means rosy! For she was in such mourning for Lancelot, of whom she had no news, that she had lost all her colour. The valet greeted her as well as the king, who was by her side, and then all the others and Kay and my lord Gawain. He held a letter in his hand which he gave to the king, who took it. The king had it read in the hearing of all by one who made no mistake in reading it. The reader knew full well how to communicate to them what was written in the parchment: he says that Lancelot sends greetings to the king as his kind lord, and thanks him for the honour and kindness he has shown him, and that he now places himself at the king’s orders. And know that he is now hale and hearty at King Arthur’s court, and he bids him tell the Queen to come thither, if she will consent, in company with my lord Gawain and Kay. In proof of which, he affixed his signature which they should recognise, as indeed they did. At this they were very happy and glad; the whole court resounds with their jubilation, and they say they will start next day as soon as it is light. So, when the day broke, they make ready and prepare: they rise and mount and start. With great joy and jubilee the king escorts them for a long distance on their way. When he has conducted them to the frontier and has seen them safely across the border, he takes leave of the Queen, and likewise of all the rest. And when he comes to take his leave, the Queen is careful to express her grati- tude for all the kindness he has shown to her, and throwing her arms about his neck, she offers and promises him her own service and that of her lord: no greater promise can she make. And my lord Gawain promises his service to him, as to his lord and friend, and then Kay does likewise, and all the rest. Then the king commends them to God as they start upon their way. After these three, he bids the rest farewell, and then turns his face toward home. The Queen and her company do not tarry a single day until news of them reaches the court. King Arthur was delight- ed at the news of the Queen’s approach, and he is happy and pleased at the thought that his nephew had brought about the Queen’s return, as well as that of Kay and of the lesser folk. But the truth is quite different from what he thinks. All the town is cleared as they go to meet them, and knights and vassals join in shouting as they approach:
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“Welcome to my lord Gawain, who has brought back the Queen and many another captive lady, and has freed for us many prisoners!” Then Gawain answered them: “Gentlemen, I do not deserve your praise. Do not trouble ever to say this again, for the compliment does not apply to me. This honour causes me only shame, for I did not reach the Queen in time; my detention made me late. But Lancelot reached there in time, and won such honour as was never won by any other knight.” “Where is he, then, fair dear sire, for we do not see him here?” “Where?” echoes my lord Gawain; “at the court of my lord the King, to be sure. Is he not?” “No, he is not here, or anywhere else in this country. Since my lady was taken away, we have had no news of him.” Then for the first time my lord Gawain realised that the letter had been forged, and that they had been betrayed and deceived: by the letter they had been misled. Then they all begin to lament, and they come thus weeping to the court, where the King at once asks for in- formation about the affair. There were plenty who could tell him how much Lancelot had done, how the Queen and all the captives were delivered from durance by him, and by what treachery the dwarf had stolen him and drawn him away from them. This news is not pleasing to the King, and he is very sorry and full of grief; but his heart is so lightened by the pleasure he takes in the Queen’s return, that his grief concludes in joy. When he has what he most desires, he cares little for the rest.
While the Queen was out of the country, I believe, the ladies and the damsels who were disconsolate, decided among themselves that they would marry, soon, and they organised a contest and a tournament. The lady of Noauz was patroness of it, with the lady of Pomelegloi. They will have nothing to do with those who fare ill, but they assert that they will accept those who comport themselves well in the tournament. And they had the date of the contest proclaimed s long while in advance in all the countries near and far, in order that there might be more participants. Now the Queen arrived before the date they had set, and as soon as the ladies heard of the Queen’s return, most of them came at once to the King and besought him to grant them a favour and boon, which he did. He promised to do whatever they wished, before he knew what their desire might be. Then they told him that they wished him to let the Queen come to be present at their contest. And he who was not accustomed to forbid, said he was willing, if she wished ir so. In happy mood they go to the Queen and say to her: “Lady, do not deprive us of the boon which the King has granted us.” Then she asks them: “What is that? Don’t fail to tell!” Then they say to her: “If you will come to our tournament, he will not gainsay you nor stand in the way.” Then she said that she would come, since he was willing that she should. Promptly the dames send word throughout the realm that they are going to bring the Queen on the day set for the tournament. The news spread far and near, here and there, until it reached the kingdom whence no one used to return—but now whoever wished might enter or pass out unopposed. The news travelled in this kingdom until it came to a seneschal of the faithless Meleagant may an evil fire burn him! This seneschal had Lancelot in his keeping, for to him he had been entrusted by his enemy Meleagant, who hated him with deadly hate. Lancelot learned the hour and date of the tournament, and as soon as he heard of it, his eyes were not tearless nor was his heart glad. The lady of the house, seeing Lancelot sad and pensive, thus spoke to him: “Sire, for God’s sake and for your own soul’s good, tell me truly,” the lady said, “why you are so changed. You won’t eat or drink anything, and I see that you do not make merry or laugh. You can tell me with confidence why you are so sad and troubled.” “Ah, lady, for God’s sake, do not be surprised that I am sad! Truly, I am very much downcast, since I cannot be present where all that is good in the world will be assembled: that is, at the tournament where there will be a gathering of the people who make the earth tremble. Nevertheless, if it pleased you, and if God should incline your heart to let me go thither, you might rest assured that I should be careful to return to my captivity here.” “I would gladly do it,” she replied, “if I did not see that my death and destruction would result. But I am in such terror of my lord, the despicable Meleagant, that I would not dare to do it, for he would kill my husband at once. It is not strange that I am afraid of him, for, as you know, he is very bad.” “Lady, if you are afraid that I may not return to you at once after the tournament, I will take an oath which I will never break, that nothing will detain me from return- ing at once to my prison here immediately after the tournament.” Upon my word,” said she, “I will allow it upon one condition.” “Lady, what condition is that?” Then she replies: “Sire, upon condition that you wilt swear to return to me, and promise that I shall have your love.” “Lady, I give you all the love I have, and swear to come back.” Then the lady laughs and says: “I have no cause to boast of such a gift, for I know you have bestowed upon some one else the love for which I have just made request. However, I do not disdain to take so much of it as I can get. I shall be satisfied with what I can have, and will accept your oath that you will be so considerate of me as to return hither a prisoner.”
In accordance with her wish, Lancelot swears by Holy Church that he will return without fail. And the lady at once gives him the vermilion arms of her lord, and his horse which was marvellously good and strong and brave. He mounts and leaves, armed with handsome, new arms, and proceeds until he comes to Noauz. He espoused this side in the tournament, and took his lodging outside the town. Never did such a noble man choose such a small and lowly lodging-place; but he did not wish to lodge where he might be recognised. There were many good and excellent knights gathered within the town. But there were many more outside, for so many had come on account of the presence of the Queen that the fifth part could not be accommodated inside. For every one who would have
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been there under ordinary circumstances, there were seven who would not have come excepting on the Queen’s ac- count. The barons were quartered in tents, lodges, and pavilions for five leagues around. Moreover, it was wonderful how many gentle ladies and damsels were there. Lancelot placed his shield outside the door of his lodging-place, and then, to make himself more comfortable, he took off his arms and lay down upon a bed which he held in slight esteem; for it was narrow and had a thin mattress, and was covered with a coarse hempen cloth. Lancelot had thrown himself upon the bed all disarmed, and as he lay there in such poor estate, behold! a fellow came in in his shirt-sleeves; he was a herald-at-arms, and had left his coat and shoes in the tavern as a pledge; so he came running barefoot and exposed to the wind. He saw the shield hanging outside the door, and looked at it: but naturally he did not recognise it or know to whom it belonged, or who was the bearer of it. He sees the door of the house stand- ing open, and upon entering, he sees Lancelot upon the bed, and as soon as he saw him, he recognised him and crossed himself. And Lancelot made a sign to him, and ordered him not to speak of him wherever he might go, for if he should tell that he knew him, it would be better for him to have his eyes put out or his neck broken. “Sire,” the herald says, “I have always held you in high esteem, and so long as I live, I shall never do anything to cause you dis- pleasure.” Then he runs from the house and cries aloud: “Now there has come one who will take the measure! Now there has come one who will take the measure!” The fellow shouts this everywhere, and the people come from every side and ask him what is the meaning of his cry. He is not so rash as to answer them, but goes on shouting the same words: “Now there has come one who will take the measure!” This herald was the master of us all, when he taught us to use the phrase, for he was the first to make use of it.
Part IV: Vv. 5595 Vv. 7134 Now the crowd was assembled, including the Queen and all the ladies, the knights and the other people, and
there were many men-at-arms everywhere, to the right and left. At the place where the tournament was to be, there were some large wooden stands for the use of the Queen with her ladies and damsels. Such fine stands were never seen before they were so long and well constructed. Thither the ladies betook themselves with the Queen, wishing to see who would fare better or worse in the combat. Knights arrive by tens, twenties, and thirties, here eighty and there ninety, here a hundred, there still more, and yonder twice as many yet; so that the press is so great in front of the stands and all around that they decide to begin the joust. As they assemble, armed and unarmed, their lances suggest the appearance of a wood, for those who have come to the sport brought so many lances that there is noth- ing in sight but lances, banners, and standards. Those who are going to take part begin to joust, and they find plenty of their companions who had come with similar intent. Still others prepare to perform other feats of chivalry. The fields, meadows, and fallow lands are so full of knights that it is impossible to estimate how many of them are there. But there was no sign of Lancelot at this first gathering of the knights; but later, when he entered the middle of the field, the herald saw him and could not refrain from crying out: “Behold him who will take the measure! Behold him who will take the measure!” And the people ask him who he is, but he will not tell them anything.
When Lancelot entered the tournament, he was as good as twenty of the best, and he began to fight so doughti- ly that no one could take his eyes from him, wherever he was. On the Pomelegloi side there was a brave and valor- ous knight, and his horse was spirited and swifter than a wild stag. He was the son of the Irish king, and fought well and handsomely. But the unknown knight pleased them all more a hundred times. In wonder they all make haste to ask: “Who is this knight who fights so well?” And the Queen privily called a clever and wise damsel to her and said: “Damsel, you must carry a message, and do it quickly and with few words. Go down from the stand, and approach yonder knight with the vermilion shield, and tell him privately that I bid him do his `worst’.” She goes quickly, and with intelligence executes the Queen’s command. She sought the knight until she came up close to him; then she said to him prudently and in a voice so low that no one standing by might hear: “Sire, my lady the Queen sends you word by me that you shall do your `worst’.” When he heard this, he replied: “Very willingly,” like one who is alto- gether hers. Then he rides at another knight as hard as his horse can carry him, and misses his thrust which should have struck him. From that time till evening fell he continued to do as badly as possible in accordance with the Queen’s desire. But the other, who fought with him, did not miss his thrust, but struck him with such violence that he was roughly handled. Thereupon he took to flight, and after that he never turned his horse’s head toward any knight, and were he to die for it, he would never do anything unless he saw in it his shame, disgrace, and dishonour; he even pretends to be afraid of all the knights who pass to and fro. And the very knights who formerly esteemed him now hurled jests and jibes at him. And the herald who had been saying: “He will beat them all in turn!” is greatly dejected and discomfited when he hears the scornful jokes of those who shout: “Friend, say no more! This fellow will not take any one’s measure again. He has measured so much that his yardstick is broken, of which thou hast boasted to us so much.” Many say: “What is he going to do? He was so brave just now; but now he is so cow- ardly that there is not a knight whom he dares to face. The cause of his first success must have been that he never engaged at arms before, and he was so brave at his first attack that the most skilled knight dared not withstand him,
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for he fought like a wild man. But now he has learned so much of arms that he will never wish to bear them again his whole life long. His heart cannot longer endure the thought, for there is nothing more cowardly than his heart.” And the Queen, as she watches him, is happy and well-pleased, for she knows full well, though she does not say it, that this is surely Lancelot. Thus all day long till evening he played his coward’s part, and late in the afternoon they separated. At parting there was a great discussion as to who had done the best. The son of the Irish king thinks that without doubt or contradiction he has all the glory and renown. But he is grievously mistaken, for there were plenty of others as good as he. Even the vermilion knight so pleased the fairest and gentlest of the ladies and damsels that they had gazed at him more than at any other knight, for they had remarked how well he fought at first, and how excellent and brave he was; then he had become so cowardly that he dared not face a single knight, and even the worst of them could defeat and capture him at will. But knights and ladies all agreed that on the morrow they should return to the list, and the damsels should choose as their lords those who should win honour in that day’s fight: on this arrangement they all agree. Then they turn toward their lodgings, and when they had returned, here and there men began to say: “What has become of the worst, the most craven and despised of knights? Whither did he go? Where is he concealed? Where is he to be found? Where shall we search for him? We shall probably never see him again. For he has been driven off by cowardice, with which he is so filled that there is no greater craven in the world than he. And he is not wrong, for a coward is a hundred times more at ease than a valorous fighting man. Cowardice is easy of entreaty, and that is the reason he has given her the kiss of peace and has taken from her all she has to give. Courage never so debased herself as to lodge in his breast or take quarters near him. But cowardice is altogether lodged with him, and she has found a host who will honour her and serve her so faithfully that he is willing to resign his own fair name for hers.” Thus they wrangle all night, vying with each other in slander. But often one man maligns another, and yet is much worse himself than the object of his blame and scorn. Thus, every one said what he pleased about him. And when the next day dawned, all the people prepared and came again to the jousting place. The Queen was in the stand again, accompanied by her ladies and damsels and many knights without their arms, who had been captured or defeated, and these explained to them the armorial bearings of the knights whom they most esteem. Thus they talk among themselves: “Do you see that knight yonder with a golden band across the middle of his red shield? That is Governauz of Roberdic. And do you see that other one, who has an eagle and a dragon painted side by side upon his shield? That is the son of the King of Aragon, who has come to this land in search of glory and renown. And do you see that one beside him, who thrusts and jousts so well, bearing a shield with a leopard painted on a green ground on one part, and the other half is azure blue? That is Ignaures the well-beloved, a lover himself and jovial. And he who bears the shield with the pheasants portrayed beak to beak is Coguillanz of Mautirec. Do you see those two side by side, with their dappled steeds, and golden shields showing black lions? One is named Semiramis, and the other is his companion; their shields are painted alike. And do you see the one who has a shield with a gate painted on it, through which a stag appears to be passing out? That is King Ider, in truth.” Thus they talk up in the stand. “That shield was made at Limoges, whence it was brought by Pilades, who is very ardent and keen to be always in the fight. That shield, bridle, and breast-strap were made at Toulouse, and were brought here by Kay of Estraus. The other came from Lyons on the Rhone, and there is no better under heaven; for his great merit it was presented to Taulas of the Desert, who bears it well and protects himself with it skilfully. Yonder shield is of English workmanship and was made at London; you see on it two swallows which appear as if about to fly; yet they do not move, but receive many blows from the Poitevin lances of steel; he who has it is poor Thoas.” Thus they point out and describe the arms of those they know; but they see nothing of him whom they had held in such contempt, and, not remarking him in the fray, they suppose that he has slipped away. When the Queen sees that he is not there, she feels inclined to send some one to search for him in the crowd until he be found. She knows of no one better to send in search of him than she who yesterday performed her errand. So, straightway calling her, she said to her: “Damsel, go and mount your palfrey! I send you to the same knight as I sent you yesterday, and do you seek him until you find him. Do not delay for any cause, and tell him again to do his `worst’. And when you have given him this message, mark well what reply he makes.” The damsel makes no delay, for she had carefully noticed the direction he took the night before, knowing well that she would be sent to him again. She made her way through the ranks until she saw the knight, whom she instructs at once to do his “worst” again, if he desires the love and favour of the Queen which she sends him. And he makes answer: “My thanks to her, since such is her will.” Then the damsel went away, and the valets, sergeants, and squires begin to shout: “See this marvellous thing! He of yesterday with the vermilion arms is back again. What can he want? Never in the world was there such a vile, despicable, and craven wretch! He is so in the power of cowardice that resistance is useless on his part.” And the damsel returns to the Queen, who detained her and would not let her go until she heard what his response had been; then she heartily rejoiced, feeling no longer any doubt that this is he to whom she altogether belongs, and he is hers in like manner. Then she bids the damsel quickly return and tell him that it is her command and prayer that he shall do his “best “; and she says she will go at once without delay. She came down from the stand to where her valet with the palfrey was awaiting her. She mounted and rode until she found the knight, to whom
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she said at once: “Sire, my lady now sends word that you shall do the `best’ you can!” And he replies: “Tell her now that it is never a hardship to do her will, for whatever pleases her is my delight.” The maiden was not slow in bearing back this message, for she thinks it will greatly please and delight the Queen. She made her way as directly as possible to the stand, where the Queen rose and started to meet her, however, she did not go down, but waited for her at the top of the steps. And the damsel came happy in the message she had to bear. When she had climbed the steps and reached her side, she said: “Lady, I never saw so courteous g knight, for he is more than ready to obey every command you send to him, for, if the truth be known, he accepts good and evil with the same countenance. “Indeed,” says the Queen, “that may well be so.” Then she returns to the balcony to watch the knights. And Lancelot without delay seizes his shield by the leather straps, for he is kindled and consumed by the desire to show his prowess. Guiding his horse’s head, he lets him run between two lines. All those mistaken and deluded men, who have spent a large part of the day and night in heaping him with ridicule, will soon be disconcerted. For a long time they have had their sport and joke and fun. The son of the King of Ireland held his shield closely gripped by the leather straps, as he spurs fiercely to meet him from the opposite direction. They come together with such violence that the son of the Irish king having broken and splintered his lance, wishes no more of the tournament; for it was not moss he struck, but hard, dry boards. In this encounter Lancelot taught him one of his thrusts, when he pinned his shield to his arm, and his arm to his side, and brought him down from his horse to earth. Like arrows the knights at once fly out, spurring and pricking from either side, some to relieve this knight, others to add to his distress. While some thus try to aid their lords, many a saddle is left empty in the strife and fray. But all that day Gawain took no hand at arms, though he was with the others there, for he took such pleasure in watching the deeds of him with the red painted arms that what the others did seemed to him pale in comparison. And the herald cheered up again, as he shouted aloud so that all could hear: “Here there has one come who will take the measure! To-day you shall see what he can do. To-day his prowess shall appear.” Then the knight directs his steed and makes a very skilful thrust against a certain knight, whom he strikes so hard that he carries him a hundred feet or more from his horse. His feats with sword and lance are so well performed that there is none of the onlookers who does not find pleasure in watching him. Many even of those who bear arms find pleasure and satisfaction in what he does, for it is great sport to see how he makes horses and knights tumble and fall. He encounters hardly a single knight who is able to keep his seat, and he gives the horses he wins to those who want them. Then those who had been making game of him said: “Now we are disgraced and mortified. It was a great mistake for us to deride and vilify this man, for he is surely worth a thousand such as we are on this field; for he has defeated and outdone all the knights in the world, so that there is no one now that opposes him.” And the damsels, who amazed were watching him, all said that he might take them to wife; but they did not dare to trust in their beauty or wealth, or power or highness, for not for her beauty or wealth would this peerless knight deign to choose any one of them. Yet, most of them are so enamoured of him that they say that, unless they marry him, they will not be bestowed upon any man this year. And the Queen, who hears them boast, laughs to herself and enjoy the fun, for well she knows that if all the gold of Arabia should be set before him, yet he who is beloved by them all would not select the best, the fairest, or the most charming of the group. One wish is common to them all—each wishes to have him as her spouse. One is jealous of another, as if she were already his wife; and all this is because they see him so adroit that in their opinion no mortal man could perform such deeds as he had done. He did so well that when the time came to leave the list, they admitted freely on both sides that no one had equalled the knight with the vermilion shield. All said this, and it was true. But when he left, he allowed his shield and lance and trappings to fall where he saw the thickest press, then he rode off hastily with such secrecy that no one of all the host noticed that he had disappeared. But he went straight back to the place whence he had come, to keep his oath. When the tournament broke up, they all searched and asked for him, but without success, for he fled away, having no desire to be recognised. The knights are disappointed and distressed, for they would have rejoiced to have him there. But if the knights were grieved to have been deserted thus, still greater was the damsels’ grief when they learned the truth, and they asserted by St. John that they would not marry at all that year. If they can’t have him whom they truly love, then all the others may be dismissed. Thus the tourney was adjourned without any of them choosing a husband. Meanwhile Lancelot without delay repairs to his prison. But the seneschal arrived two or three days before Lancelot, and inquired where he was. And his wife, who had given to Lancelot his fair and well-equipped vermilion arms, as well as his harness and his horse, told the truth to the seneschal—how she had sent him where there had been jousting at the tourney of Noauz. “Lady,” the seneschal replies, “you could truly have done nothing worse than that. Doubtless, I shall smart for this, for my lord Meleagant will treat me worse than the beach-combers’ law would treat me were I a mariner in distress. I shall be killed or banished the moment he hears the news, and he will have no pity for me.” “Fair sire, be not now dismayed,” the lady said; “there is no occasion for the fear you feel. There is no possibility of his detention, for he swore to me by the saints that he would return as soon as possible.”
Then the seneschal mounts, and coming to his lord, tells him the whole story of the episode; but at the same time, he emphatically reassures him, telling how his wife had received his oath that he would return to his prison.
Image 5.27: Knights’ Tournament | Two knights fight while the audience looks on from the background.
Author: User “Ssire” Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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she said at once: “Sire, my lady now sends word that you shall do the `best’ you can!” And he replies: “Tell her now that it is never a hardship to do her will, for whatever pleases her is my delight.” The maiden was not slow in bearing back this message, for she thinks it will greatly please and delight the Queen. She made her way as directly as possible to the stand, where the Queen rose and started to meet her, however, she did not go down, but waited for her at the top of the steps. And the damsel came happy in the message she had to bear. When she had climbed the steps and reached her side, she said: “Lady, I never saw so courteous g knight, for he is more than ready to obey every command you send to him, for, if the truth be known, he accepts good and evil with the same countenance. “Indeed,” says the Queen, “that may well be so.” Then she returns to the balcony to watch the knights. And Lancelot without delay seizes his shield by the leather straps, for he is kindled and consumed by the desire to show his prowess. Guiding his horse’s head, he lets him run between two lines. All those mistaken and deluded men, who have spent a large part of the day and night in heaping him with ridicule, will soon be disconcerted. For a long time they have had their sport and joke and fun. The son of the King of Ireland held his shield closely gripped by the leather straps, as he spurs fiercely to meet him from the opposite direction. They come together with such violence that the son of the Irish king having broken and splintered his lance, wishes no more of the tournament; for it was not moss he struck, but hard, dry boards. In this encounter Lancelot taught him one of his thrusts, when he pinned his shield to his arm, and his arm to his side, and brought him down from his horse to earth. Like arrows the knights at once fly out, spurring and pricking from either side, some to relieve this knight, others to add to his distress. While some thus try to aid their lords, many a saddle is left empty in the strife and fray. But all that day Gawain took no hand at arms, though he was with the others there, for he took such pleasure in watching the deeds of him with the red painted arms that what the others did seemed to him pale in comparison. And the herald cheered up again, as he shouted aloud so that all could hear: “Here there has one come who will take the measure! To-day you shall see what he can do. To-day his prowess shall appear.” Then the knight directs his steed and makes a very skilful thrust against a certain knight, whom he strikes so hard that he carries him a hundred feet or more from his horse. His feats with sword and lance are so well performed that there is none of the onlookers who does not find pleasure in watching him. Many even of those who bear arms find pleasure and satisfaction in what he does, for it is great sport to see how he makes horses and knights tumble and fall. He encounters hardly a single knight who is able to keep his seat, and he gives the horses he wins to those who want them. Then those who had been making game of him said: “Now we are disgraced and mortified. It was a great mistake for us to deride and vilify this man, for he is surely worth a thousand such as we are on this field; for he has defeated and outdone all the knights in the world, so that there is no one now that opposes him.” And the damsels, who amazed were watching him, all said that he might take them to wife; but they did not dare to trust in their beauty or wealth, or power or highness, for not for her beauty or wealth would this peerless knight deign to choose any one of them. Yet, most of them are so enamoured of him that they say that, unless they marry him, they will not be bestowed upon any man this year. And the Queen, who hears them boast, laughs to herself and enjoy the fun, for well she knows that if all the gold of Arabia should be set before him, yet he who is beloved by them all would not select the best, the fairest, or the most charming of the group. One wish is common to them all—each wishes to have him as her spouse. One is jealous of another, as if she were already his wife; and all this is because they see him so adroit that in their opinion no mortal man could perform such deeds as he had done. He did so well that when the time came to leave the list, they admitted freely on both sides that no one had equalled the knight with the vermilion shield. All said this, and it was true. But when he left, he allowed his shield and lance and trappings to fall where he saw the thickest press, then he rode off hastily with such secrecy that no one of all the host noticed that he had disappeared. But he went straight back to the place whence he had come, to keep his oath. When the tournament broke up, they all searched and asked for him, but without success, for he fled away, having no desire to be recognised. The knights are disappointed and distressed, for they would have rejoiced to have him there. But if the knights were grieved to have been deserted thus, still greater was the damsels’ grief when they learned the truth, and they asserted by St. John that they would not marry at all that year. If they can’t have him whom they truly love, then all the others may be dismissed. Thus the tourney was adjourned without any of them choosing a husband. Meanwhile Lancelot without delay repairs to his prison. But the seneschal arrived two or three days before Lancelot, and inquired where he was. And his wife, who had given to Lancelot his fair and well-equipped vermilion arms, as well as his harness and his horse, told the truth to the seneschal—how she had sent him where there had been jousting at the tourney of Noauz. “Lady,” the seneschal replies, “you could truly have done nothing worse than that. Doubtless, I shall smart for this, for my lord Meleagant will treat me worse than the beach-combers’ law would treat me were I a mariner in distress. I shall be killed or banished the moment he hears the news, and he will have no pity for me.” “Fair sire, be not now dismayed,” the lady said; “there is no occasion for the fear you feel. There is no possibility of his detention, for he swore to me by the saints that he would return as soon as possible.”
Then the seneschal mounts, and coming to his lord, tells him the whole story of the episode; but at the same time, he emphatically reassures him, telling how his wife had received his oath that he would return to his prison.
Image 5.27: Knights’ Tournament | Two knights fight while the audience looks on from the background.
Author: User “Ssire” Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
“He will not break his word, I know,” says Meleagant: “and yet I am very much dis- pleased at what your wife has done. Not for any consideration would I have had him present at that tournament. But return now, and see to it that, when he comes back, he be so strictly guarded that he shall not escape from his prison or have any freedom of body: and send me word at once.” “Your orders shall be obeyed,” says the seneschal. Then he goes away and finds Lancelot re- turned as prisoner in his yard. A messenger, sent by the seneschal, runs back at once to Meleagant, appraising him of Lancelot’s re- turn. When he heard this news, he took ma- sons and carpenters who unwillingly or of their own free-will executed his commands. He summoned the best artisans in the land, and commanded them to build a tower, and exert themselves to build it well. The stone was quarried by the seaside; for near Gorre on this side there runs a big broad arm of the sea, in the midst of which an island stood, as Meleagant well knew. He ordered the stone to be carried thither and the material for the construction of the tower. In less than fif- ty-seven days the tower was completely built, high and thick and well-founded. When it was completed, he had Lancelot brought thither by night, and after putting him in the tower, he ordered the doors to be walled up, and made all the masons swear that they would never utter a word about this tower. It was his will that it should be thus sealed up, and that no door or opening should remain, except one small window. Here Lancelot was compelled to stay, and they gave him poor and meagre fare through this little window at certain hours, as the disloyal wretch had ordered and commanded them.
Now Meleagant has carried out all his purpose, and he betakes himself to King Arthur’s court: behold him now arrived! And when he was before the King, he thus spoke with pride and arrogance: “King, I have scheduled a battle to take place in thy presence and in thy court. But I see nothing of Lancelot who agreed to be my antagonist. Nevertheless, as my duty is, in the hearing of all who are present here, I offer myself to fight this battle. And if he is here, let him now step forth and agree to meet me in your court a year from now. I know not if any one has told you how this battle was agreed upon. But I see knights here who were present at our conference, and who, if they would, could tell you the truth. If he should try to deny the truth, I should employ no hireling to take my place, but would prove it to him hand to hand.” The Queen, who was seated beside the King, draws him to her as she says: “Sire, do you know who that knight is? It is Meleagant who carried me away while escorted by Kay the seneschal; he caused him plenty of shame and mischief too.” And the King answered her: “Lady, I understand; I know full well that it is he who held my people in distress.” The Queen says no more, but the King addresses Meleagant: “Friend,” he says, “so help me God, we are very sad because we know nothing of Lancelot.” “My lord King,” says Meleagant, “Lance- lot told me that I should surely find him here. Nowhere but in your court must I issue the call to this battle, and I desire all your knights here to bear me witness that I summon him to fight a year from to-day, as stipulated when we agreed to fight.”
At this my lord Gawain gets up, much distressed at what he hears: “Sire, there is nothing known of Lancelot in all this land,” he says; “but we shall send in search of him and, if God will, we shall find him yet, before the end of the year is reached, unless he be dead or in prison. And if he does not appear, then grant me the battle, and I will fight for him: I will arm myself in place of Lancelot, if he does not return before that day.” “Ah,” says Melea- gant, “for God’s sake, my fair lord King, grant him the boon. I join my request to his desire, for I know no knight in all the world with whom I would more gladly try my strength, excepting only Lancelot. But bear in mind that, if I do not fight with one of them, I will accept no exchange or substitution for either one.” And the King says that
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this is understood, if Lancelot does not return within the time. Then Meleagant left the royal court and journeyed until he found his father, King Bademagu. In order to appear brave and of consideration in his presence, he began by making a great pretence and by assuming an expression of marvellous cheer. That day the king was holding a joyous court at his city of Bade; it was his birthday, which he celebrated with splendour and generosity, and there were many people of divers sorts gathered with him. All the palace was filled with knights and damsels, and among them was the sister of Meleagant, of whom I shall tell you, farther on, what is my thought and reason for mentioning her here. But it is not fitting that I should explain it here, for I do not wish to confuse or entangle my material, but rather to treat it straight forwardly. Now I must tell you that Meleagant in the hearing of all, both great and small, spoke thus to his father boastingly: “Father,” he says, “so help me God, please tell me truly now whether he ought not to be well-content, and whether he is not truly brave, who can cause his arms to be feared at King Arthur’s court?” To this question his father replies at once: “Son,” he says, “all good men ought to honour and serve and seek the company of one whose deserts are such.” Then he flattered him with the request that he should not conceal why he has alluded to this, what he wishes, and whence he comes. “Sire, I know not whether you remember,” Meleagant begins, “the agreements and stipulations which were recorded when Lancelot and I made peace. It was then agreed, I believe, and in the presence of many we were told, that we should present ourselves at the end of a year at Arthur’s court. I went thither at the appointed time, ready equipped for my business there. I did everything that had been prescribed: I called and searched for Lancelot, with whom I was to fight, but I could not gain a sight of him: he had fled and run away. When I came away, Gawain pledged his word that, if Lancelot is not alive and does not return within the time agreed upon, no further postponement will be asked, but that he himself will fight the battle against me in place of Lancelot. Arthur has no knight, as is well known, whose fame equals his, but before the flowers bloom again, I shall see, when we come to blows, whether his fame and his deeds are in accord: I only wish it could be settled now!” “Son,” says his father, “thou art acting exactly like a fool. Any one, who knew it not before, may learn of thy madness from thy own lips. A good heart truly humbles itself, but the fool and the boastful never lose their folly. Son, to thee I direct my words, for the traits of thy character are so hard and dry, that there is no place for sweetness or friendship. Thy heart is altogether pitiless: thou art alto- gether in folly’s grasp. This accounts for my slight respect for thee, and this is what will cast thee down. If thou art brave, there will be plenty of men to say so in time of need. A virtuous man need not praise his heart in order to enhance his deed; the deed itself will speak in its own praise. Thy self-praise does not aid thee a whit to increase in any one’s esteem; indeed, I hold thee in less esteem. Son, I chasten thee; but to what end? It is of little use to advise a fool. He only wastes his strength in vain who tries to cure the madness of a fool, and the wisdom that one teaches and expounds is worthless, wasted and unemployed, unless it is expressed in works.” Then Meleagant was sorely enraged and furious. I may truly say that never could you see a mortal man so full of anger as he was; the last bond between them was broken then, as he spoke to his father these ungracious words: “Are you in a dream or trance, when you say that I am mad to tell you how my matters stand? I thought I had come to you as to my lord and my father; but that does not seem to be the case, for you insult me more outrageously than I think you have any right to do; moreover, you can give no reason for having addressed me thus.” “Indeed, I can.” “What is it, then?” “Because I see nothing in thee but folly and wrath. I know very well what thy courage is like, and that it will cause thee great trouble yet. A curse upon him who supposes that the elegant Lancelot, who is esteemed by all but thee, has ever fled from thee through fear. I am sure that he is buried or confined in some prison whose door is barred so tight that he cannot escape without leave. I should surely be sorely grieved if he were dead or in distress. It would surely be too bad, were a creature so splendidly equipped, so fair, so bold, yet so serene, to perish thus before his time. But, may it please God, this is not true.” Then Bademagu said no more; but a daughter of his had listened attentively to all his words, and you must know that it was she whom I mentioned earlier in my tale, and who is not happy now to hear such news of Lancelot. It is quite clear to her that he is shut up, since no one knows any news of him or his wanderings. “May God never look upon me, if I rest until I have some sure and certain news of him!” Straightway, without making any noise or disturbance, she runs and mounts a fair and easy-step- ping mule. But I must say that when she leaves the court, she knows not which way to turn. However, she asks no advice in her predicament, but takes the first road she finds, and rides along at random rapidly, unaccompanied by knight or squire. In her eagerness she makes haste to attain the object of her search. Keenly she presses forward in her quest, but it will not soon terminate. She may not rest or delay long in any single place, if she wishes to carry out her plan, to release Lancelot from his prison, if she can find him and if it is possible. But in my opinion, before she finds him she will have searched in many a land, after many a journey and many a quest, before she has any news of him. But what would be the use of my telling you of her lodgings and her journeyings? Finally, she travelled so far through hill and dale, up and down, that more than a month had passed, and as yet she had learned only so much as she knew before—that is, absolutely nothing. One day she was crossing a field in a sad and pensive mood, when she saw a tower in the distance standing by the shore of an arm of the sea. Not within a league around about was there any house, cottage, or dwelling-place. Meleagant had had it built, and had confined
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Lancelot within. But of all this she still was unaware. As soon as she espied the tower, she fixed her attention upon it to the exclusion of all else. And her heart gives her assurance that here is the object of her quest; now at last she has reached her goal, to which Fortune through many trials has at last directed her.
The damsel draws so near to the tower that she can touch it with her hands. She walks about, listening at- tentively, I suppose, if perchance she may hear some welcome sound. She looks down and she gazes up, and she sees that the tower is strong and high and thick. She is amazed to see no door or window, except one little narrow opening. Moreover, there was no ladder or steps about this high, sheer tower. For this reason she surmises that it was made so intentionally, and that Lancelot is confined inside. But she resolves that before she tastes of food, she will learn whether this is so or not. She thinks she will call Lancelot by name, and is about to do so when she is deterred by hearing from the tower a voice which was making a marvellously sad moan as it called on death. It implores death to come, and complains of misery unbearable. In contempt of the body and life, it weakly piped in a low, hoarse tone: “Ah, fortune, how disastrously thy wheel has turned for me! Thou hast mocked me shamefully: a while ago I was up, but now I am down; I was well off of late, but now I am in a sorry state; not long since thou didst smile on me, but now thy eyes are filled with tears. Alas, poor wretch, why didst thou trust in her, when so soon she has deserted thee! Behold, in a very little while she has cast thee down from thy high estate! Fortune, it was wrong of thee to mock me thus; but what carest thou! Thou carest not how it may turn out. Ah, sacred Cross! All, Holy Ghost! How am I wretched and undone! How completely has my career been closed! Ah, Gawain, you who possess such worth, and whose goodness is unparalleled, surely I may well be amazed that you do not come to succour me. Surely you delay too long and are not showing courtesy. He ought indeed to receive your aid whom you used to love so devotedly! For my part I may truly say that there is no lodging place or retreat on either side of the sea, where I would not have searched for you at least seven or ten years before finding you, if I knew you to be in prison. But why do I thus torment myself ? You do not care for me even enough to take this trouble. The rustic is right when he says that it is hard nowadays to find a friend! It is easy to rest the true friend in time oú need. Alas! more than a year has passed since first I was put inside this tower. I feel hurt, Gawain, that you have so long deserted me! But doubtless you know nothing of all this, and I have no ground for blaming you. Yes, when I think of it, this must be the case, and I was very wrong to imagine such a thing; for I am confident that not for all the world contains would you and your men have failed to come to release me from this trouble and distress, if you were aware of it. If for no other reason, you would be bound to do this out of love for me, your compan- ion. But it is idle to talk about it—it cannot be. Ah, may the curse and the damnation of God and St. Sylvester rest upon him who has shut me up so shamefully! He is the vilest man alive, this envious Meleagant, to treat me as evilly as possible!” Then he, who is wearing out his life in grief, ceases speaking and holds his peace. But when she, who was lingering at the base of the tower, heard what he said, she did not delay, but acted wisely and called him thus: “Lancelot,” as loudly as she could; “friend, up there, speak to one who is your friend!” But inside he did not hear her words. Then she called out louder yet, until he in his weakness faintly heard her, and wondered who could be calling him. He heard the voice and heard his name pronounced, but he did not know who was calling him: he thinks it must be a spirit. He looks all about him to see, I suppose, if he could espy any one; but there is nothing to be seen but the tower and himself. “God,” says he, “what is that I heard? I heard some one speak, but see nothing! Indeed, this is passing marvellous, for I am not asleep, but wide awake. Of course, if this happened in a dream, I should consider it an illusion; but I am awake, and therefore I am distressed.” Then with some trouble he gets up, and with slow and feeble steps he moves toward the little opening. Once there, he peers through it, up and down and to either side. When he had looked out as best he might, he caught sight of her who had hailed him. He did not recognise her by sight. But she knew him at once and said: “Lancelot, I have come from afar in search of you. Now, thank God, at last I have found you. I am she who asked of you a boon as you were on your way to the sword-bridge, and you very gladly granted it at my request; it was the head I bade you cut from the conquered knight whom I hated so. Because of this boon and this service you did me, I have gone to this trouble. As a guerdon I shall deliver you from here.” “Damsel, many thanks to you,” the prisoner then replied; “the ser- vice I did you will be well repaid if I am set at liberty. If you can get me out of here, I promise and engage to be henceforth always yours, so help me the holy Apostle Paul! And as I may see God face to face, I shall never fail to obey your commands in accordance with your will. You may ask for anything I have, and receive it without delay.” “Friend, have no fear that you will not be released from here. You shall be loosed and set free this very day. Not for a thousand pounds would I renounce the expectation of seeing you free before the datum of another day. Then I shall take you to a pleasant place, where you may rest and take your ease. There you shall have everything you desire, whatever it be. So have no fear. But first I must see if I can find some tool anywhere hereabouts with which you might enlarge this hole, at least enough to let you pass.” “God grant that you find something,” he said, agree- ing to this plan; “I have plenty of rope in here, which the rascals gave me to pull up my food—hard barley bread and dirty water, which sicken my stomach and heart.” Then the daughter of Bademagu sought and found a strong, stout, sharp pick, which she handed to him. He pounded, and hammered and struck and dug, notwithstanding the
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pain it caused him, until he could get out comfortably. Now he is greatly relieved and glad, you may be sure, to be out Of prison and to get away from the place where he has been so long confined. Now he is at large in the open air. You may be sure that he would not go back again, were some one to gather in a pile and give to him all the gold there is scattered in the world.
Behold Lancelot now released, but so feeble that he staggered from his weakness and disability. Gently, with- out hurting him, she sets him before her on her mule, and then they ride off rapidly. But the damsel purposely avoids the beaten track, that they may not be seen, and proceeds by a hidden path; for if she had travelled openly, doubtless some one would have recognised them and done them harm, and she would not have wished that to happen. So she avoided the dangerous places and came to a mansion where she often makes her sojourn because of its beauty and charm. The entire estate and the people on it belonged to her, and the place was well furnished, safe, and private. There Lancelot arrived. And as soon as he had come, and had laid aside his clothes, the damsel gently laid him on a lofty, handsome couch, then bathed and rubbed him so carefully that I could not describe half the care she took. She handled and treated him as gently as if he had been her father. Her treatment makes a new man of him, as she revives him with her cares. Now he is no less fair than an angel and is more nimble and more spry than anything you ever saw. When he arose, he was no longer mangy and haggard, but strong and handsome. And the damsel sought out for him the finest robe she could find, with which she clothed him when he arose. And he was glad to put it on, quicker than a bird in flight. He kissed and embraced the maid, and then said to her graciously: “My dear, I have only God and you to thank for being restored to health again. Since I owe my liberty to you, you may take and command at will my heart and body, my service and estate. I belong to you in return for what you have done for me; but it is long since I have been at the court of my lord Arthur, who has shown me great honour; and there is plenty there for me to do. Now, my sweet gentle friend, I beg you affectionately for leave to go; then, with your consent, I should feel free to go.” “Lancelot, fair, sweet dear friend, I am quite willing,” the damsel says; “I desire your honour and welfare above everything everywhere.” Then she gives him a wonderful horse she has, the best horse that ever was seen, and he leaps up without so much as saying to the stirrups “by your leave”: he was up without considering them. Then to God, who never lies, they commend each other with good intent.
Lancelot was so glad to be on the road that, if I should take an oath, I could not possibly describe the joy he felt at having escaped from his trap. But he said to himself repeatedly that woe was the traitor, the reprobate, whom now he has tricked and ridiculed, “for in spite of him I have escaped.” Then he swears by the heart and body of Him who made the world that not for all the riches and wealth from Babylon to Ghent would he let Meleagant escape, if he once got him in his power: for he has him to thank for too much harm and shame! But events will soon turn out so as to make this possible; for this very Meleagant, whom he threatens and presses hard, had already come to court that day without being summoned by any one; and the first thing he did was to search until he found my lord Gawain. Then the rascally proven traitor asks him about Lancelot, whether he had been seen or found, as if he himself did not know the truth. As a matter of fact, he did not know the truth, although he thought he knew it well enough. And Gawain told him, as was true, that he had not been seen, and that he had not come. “Well, since I don’t find him,” says Meleagant, “do you come and keep the promise you made me: I shall not longer wait for you.” Then Gawain makes answer: “I will keep presently my word with you, if it please God in whom I place my trust. I expect to discharge my debt to you. But if it comes to throwing dice for points, and I should throw a higher number than you, so help me God and the holy faith, I’ll not withdraw, but will keep on until I pocket all the stakes.” Then without delay Gawain orders a rug to be thrown down and spread before him. There was no snivelling or attempt to run away when the squires heard this command, but without grumbling or complaint they execute what he commands. They bring the rug and spread it out in the place indicated; then he who had sent for it takes his seat upon it and gives orders to be armed by the young men who were standing unarmed before him. There were two of them, his cousins or nephews, I know not which, but they were accomplished and knew what to do. They arm him so skilfully and well that no one could find any fault in the world with them for any mistake in what they did. When they finished arming him, one of them went to fetch a Spanish steed able to cross the fields, woods, hills, and valleys more swiftly than the good Bucephalus. Upon a horse such as you have heard Gawain took his seat—the admired and most accomplished knight upon whom the sign of the Cross was ever made. Already he was about to seize his shield, when he saw Lancelot dismount before him, whom he was not expecting to see. He looked at him in amazement, because he had come so unexpectedly; and, if I am not wrong, he was as much surprised as if he had fallen from the clouds. However, no business of his own can detain him, as soon as he sees Lancelot, from dismounting and extending his arms to him, as he embraces, salutes and kisses him. Now he is happy and at ease, when he has found his companion. Now I will tell you the truth, and you must not think I lie, that Gawain would not wish to be chosen king, unless he had Lancelot with him. The King and all the rest now learn that, in spite of all, Lancelot, for whom they so long have watched, has come back quite safe and sound. Therefore they all rejoice, and the court, which so long has looked for him, comes together to honour him. Their
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happiness dispels and drives away the sorrow which formerly was theirs. Grief takes flight and is replaced by an awakening joy. And how about the Queen? Does she not share in the general jubilee? Yes, verily, she first of all. How so? For God’s sake, where, then, could she be keeping herself ? She was never so glad in her life as she was for his return. And did she not even go to him? Certainly she did; she is so close to him that her body came near following her heart. Where is her heart, then? It was kissing and welcoming Lancelot. And why did the body conceal itself ? Why is not her joy complete? Is it mingled with anger or hate? No, certainly, not at all; but it may be that the King or some of the others who are there, and who are watching what takes place, would have taken the whole situation in, if, while all were looking on, she had followed the dictates of her heart. If common-sense had not banished this mad impulse and rash desire, her heart would have been revealed and her folly would have been complete. Therefore reason closes up and binds her fond heart and her rash intent, and made it more reasonable, postponing the greeting until it shall see and espy a suitable and more private place where they would fare better than here and now. The King highly honoured Lancelot, and after welcoming him, thus spoke: “I have not heard for a long time news of any man which were so welcome as news of you; yet I am much concerned to learn in what region and in what land you have tarried so long a time. I have had search made for you up and down, all the winter and summer through, but no one could find a trace of you.” “Indeed, fair sire,” says Lancelot, “I can inform you in a few words exactly how it has fared with me. The miserable traitor Meleagant has kept me in prison ever since the hour of the deliverance of the prisoners in his land, and has condemned me to a life of shame in a tower of his beside the sea. There he put me and shut me in, and there I should still be dragging out my weary life, if it were not for a friend of mine, a damsel for whom I once performed a slight service. In return for the little favour I did her, she has repaid me liberally: she has bestowed upon me great honour and blessing. But I wish to repay without delay him for whom I have no love, who has sought out and devised for me this shame and injury. He need not wait, for the sum is all ready, principal and interest; but God forbid that he find in it cause to rejoice!” Then Gawain said to Lancelot: “Friend, it will be only a slight favour for me, who am in your debt, to make this payment for you. Moreover, I am all ready and mounted, as you see. Fair, sweet friend, do not deny me the boon I desire and request.” But Lancelot replies that he would rather have his eye plucked out, or even both of them, than be persuaded to do this: he swears it shall never be so. He owes the debt and he will pay it himself: for with his own hand he promised it. Gawain plainly sees that nothing he can say is of any avail, so he loosens and takes off his hauberk from his back, and completely disarms himself. Lancelot at once arms himself without delay; for he is impatient to settle and discharge his debt. Meleagant, who is amazed beyond measure at what he sees, has reached the end of his good fortunes, and is about to receive what is owing him. He is almost beside himself and comes near fainting. “Surely I was a fool,” he says, “not to go, before coming here, to see if I still held imprisoned in my tower him who now has played this trick on me. But, God, why should I have gone? What cause had I to think that he could possibly escape? Is not the wall built strong enough, and is not the tower sufficiently strong and high? There was no hole or crevice in it, through which he could pass, unless he was aided from outside. I am sure his hiding-place was revealed. If the wall were worn away and had fallen into decay, would he not have been caught and injured or killed at the same time? Yes, so help me God, if it had fallen down, he would certainly have been killed. But I guess, before that wall gives away without being torn down, that all the water in the sea will dry up without leaving a drop and the world will come to an end. No, that is not it: it happened otherwise: he was helped to escape, and could not have got out otherwise: I have been outwitted through some trickery. At any rate, he has escaped; but if I had been on my guard, all this would never have happened, and he would never have come to court. But it’s too late now to repent. The rustic, who seldom errs, pertinently remarks that it is too late to close the stable when the horse is out. I know I shall now be exposed to great shame and humiliation, if indeed I do not suffer and endure something worse. What shall I suffer and endure? Rather, so long as I live, I will give him full measure, if it please God, in whom I trust.” Thus he consoles himself, and has no other desire than to meet his antagonist on the field. And he will not have long to wait, I think, for Lancelot goes in search of him, expecting soon to conquer him. But before the assault begins, the King bids them go down into the plain where the tower stands, the prettiest place this side of Ireland for a fight. So they did, and soon found themselves on the plain below. The King goes down too, and all the rest, men and women in crowds. No one stays behind; but many go up to the windows of the tower, among them the Queen, her ladies and damsels, of whom she had many with her who were fair.
In the field there stood a sycamore as fair as any tree could be; it was wide-spread and covered a large area, and around it grew a fine border of thick fresh grass which was green at all seasons of the year. Under this fair and stately sycamore, which was planted back in Abel’s time, there rises a clear spring of water which flows away hur- riedly. The bed of the spring is beautiful and as bright as silver, and the channel through which the water flows is formed, I think, of refined and tested gold, and it stretches away across the field down into a valley between the woods. There it pleases the King to take his seat where nothing unpleasant is in sight. After the crowd has drawn back at the King’s command, Lancelot rushes furiously at Meleagant as at one whom he hates cordially, but before
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striking him, he shouted with a loud and commanding voice: “Take your stand, I defy you! And take my word, this time you shall not be spared.” Then he spurs his steed and draws back the distance of a bow-shot. Then they drive their horses toward each other at top speed, and strike each other so fiercely upon their resisting shields that they pierced and punctured them. But neither one is wounded, nor is the flesh touched in this first assault. They pass each other without delay, and come back at the top of their horses: speed to renew their blows on the strong, stout shields. Both of the knights are strong and brave, and both of the horses are stout and fast. So mighty are the blows they deal on the shields about their necks that the lances passed clean through, without breaking or splintering, until the cold steel reached their flesh. Each strikes the other with such force that both are borne to earth, and no breast-strap, girth, or stirrup could save them from falling backward over their saddle-bow, leav- ing the saddle without an occupant. The horses run riderless over hill and dale, but they kick and bite each other, thus showing their mortal hatred. As for the knights who fell to earth, they leaped up as quickly as possible and drew their swords, which were engraved with chiselled lettering. Holding their shields before the face, they strive to wound each other with their swords of steel. Lancelot stands in no fear of him, for he knew half as much again about fencing as did his antagonist, having learned it in his youth. Both dealt such blows on the shield slung from their necks, and upon their helmets barred with gold, that they crushed and damaged them. But Lancelot presses him hard and gives him a mighty blow upon his right arm which, though encased in mail, was unprotected by the shield, severing it with one clean stroke. And when he felt the loss of his right arm, he said that it should be dearly sold. If it is at all possible, he will not fail to exact the price; he is in such pain and wrath and rage that he is well-nigh beside himself, and he has a poor opinion of himself, if he cannot score on his rival now. He rushes at him with the intent to seize him, but Lancelot forestalls his plan, for with his trenchant sword he deals his body such a cut as he will not recover from until April and May be passed. He smashes his nose-guard against his teeth, breaking three of them in his mouth. And Meleagant’s rage is such that he cannot speak or say a word; nor does he deign to cry for mercy, for his foolish heart holds tight in such constraint that even now it deludes him still. Lancelot approaches and, unlacing his helmet, cuts off his head. Never more will this man trouble him; it is all over with him as he falls dead. Not a soul who was present there felt any pity at the sight. The King and all the oth- ers there are jubilant and express their joy. Happier than they ever were before, they relieve Lancelot of his arms, and lead him away exultingly.
My lords, if I should prolong my tale, it would be beside the purpose, and so I will conclude. Godefroi de Leigni, the clerk, has written the conclusion of “the Cart”; but let no one find fault with him for having embroidered on Chretien’s theme, for it was done with the consent of Chretien who started it. Godefroi has finished it from the point where Lancelot was imprisoned in the tower. So much he wrote; but he would fain add nothing more, for fear of disfiguring the tale.
THE SONG OF THE CID
Anonymous
Composed ca. 1195-1207 C.E. Spain
The Song of the Cid (called both El Cantar de Mio Cid and El Poema de Mio Cid in Spanish) is based on real people and events. The hero of the story is Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar (1043-1099 C.E.), called Mío Cid (my Lord) by the narrator, El Cid by Moors, and El Campeador (the Champion) by Christians. In the Cid’s lifetime, Spain was a collection of kingdoms, with various Muslim rulers in south and central Spain, and several Christian rulers in the north. Muslim and Christian rulers often formed alliances, and the historical Cid led a combined army of Christian and Muslim troops, working alternately for rulers of both religions. In the story, his fame as a military leader does not protect him or his family from betrayal. Before the story begins, the Cid has been exiled by a Christian ruler based on slander by jealous courtiers. The Cid’s sense of honor drives the plot, and his fame lives on to the present day, where he is celebrated as a hero of Spain.
Written by Laura J. Getty
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The Lay of the Cid
Cid, Translated by R. Seldon Rose and Leonard Bacon
Cantar I The Banishment of the Cid
I He turned and looked upon them, and he wept very sore As he saw the yawning gateway and the hasps wrenched off the door, And the pegs whereon no mantle nor coat of vair there hung. There perched no moulting goshawk, and there no falcon swung. My lord the Cid sighed deeply such grief was in his heart 5 And he spake well and wisely: “Oh Thou, in Heaven that art Our Father and our Master, now I give thanks to Thee. Of their wickedness my foemen have done this thing to me.”
II Then they shook out the bridle rein further to ride afar. 10 They had the crow on their right hand as they issued from Bivár; And as they entered Burgos upon their left it sped. And the Cid shrugged his shoulders, and the Cid shook his head: “Good tidings, Alvar Fañez. We are banished from our weal, But on a day with honor shall we come unto Castile.” 15
III Roy Diaz entered Burgos with sixty pennons strong, And forth to look upon him did the men and women throng. And with their wives the townsmen at the windows stood hard by, And they wept in lamentation, their grief was risen so high. As with one mouth, together they spake with one accord: 20 “God, what a noble vassal, an he had a worthy lord.
IV Fain had they made him welcome, but none dared do the thing For fear of Don Alfonso, and the fury of the King. His mandate unto Burgos came ere the evening fell. With utmost care they brought it, and it was sealed well 25 ‘That no man to Roy Diaz give shelter now, take heed And if one give him shelter, let him know in very deed He shall lose his whole possession, nay! the eyes within his head Nor shall his soul and body be found in better stead.’ Great sorrow had the Christians, and from his face they hid. 30 Was none dared aught to utter unto my lord the Cid. Then the Campeador departed unto his lodging straight. But when he was come thither, they had locked and barred the gate. In their fear of King Alfonso had they done even so. An the Cid forced not his entrance, neither for weal nor woe 35 Durst they open it unto him. Loudly his men did call. Nothing thereto in answer said the folk within the hall. My lord the Cid spurred onward, to the doorway did he go. He drew his foot from the stirrup, he smote the door one blow. Yet the door would not open, for they had barred it fast. 40 But a maiden of nine summers came unto him at last:
License: Public Domain
Image 5.28: Statue of the Cid | The Cid sits on his horse with his sword pointed forward.
Author: User “chicadelatele” Source: Wikimedia Commons License: CC BY 2.0
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“Campeador, in happy hour thou girdedst on the sword. ‘This the King’s will. Yestereven came the mandate of our lord. With utmost care they brought it, and it was sealed with care: None to ope to you or greet you for any cause shall dare. 45 And if we do, we forfeit houses and lands instead. Nay we shall lose, moreover, the eyes within the head And, Cid, with our misfortune, naught whatever dost thou gain. But may God with all his power support thee in thy pain.” So spake the child and turned away. Unto her home went she. 50 That he lacked the King’s favor now well the Cid might see. He left the door; forth onward he spurred through Burgos town. When he had reached Saint Mary’s, then he got swiftly down He fell upon his knee and prayed with a true heart indeed: and when the prayer was over, he mounted on the steed. 55 North from the gate and over the Arlanzon he went. Here in the sand by Burgos, the Cid let pitch his tent. Roy Diaz, who in happy hour had girded on the brand, Since none at home would greet him, encamped there on the sand. With a good squadron, camping as if within the wood. 60 They will not let him in Burgos buy any kind of food. Provender for a single day they dared not to him sell.
V Good Martin Antolínez in Burgos that did dwell To the Cid and to his henchmen much wine and bread gave o’er, That he bought not, but brought with him--of everything good store. 65 Content was the great Campeador, and his men were of good cheer. Spake Martin Antolínez. His counsel you shall hear. “In happy hour, Cid Campeador, most surely wast thou born. Tonight here let us tarry, but let us flee at morn, For someone will denounce me, that thy service I have done. 70 In the danger of Alfonso I certainly shall run. Late or soon, if I ‘scape with thee the King must seek me forth For friendship’s sake; if not, my wealth, a fig it is not worth.
VI Then said the Cid, who in good hour had girded on the steel: “Oh Martin Antolínez, thou art a good lance and leal. 75 And if I live, hereafter I shall pay thee double rent, But gone is all my silver, and all my gold is spent. And well enough thou seest that I bring naught with me And many things are needful for my good company. Since by favor I win nothing by might then must I gain. 80 I desire by thy counsel to get ready coffers twain. With the sand let us fill them, to lift a burden sore, And cover them with stamped leather with nails well studded o’er.
VII Ruddy shall be the leather, well gilded every nail. In my behalf do thou hasten to Vidas and Raquél. 85 Since in Burgos they forbade me aught to purchase, and the King Withdraws his favor, unto them my goods I cannot bring. They are heavy, and I must pawn them for whatso’er is right. That Christians may not see it, let them come for them by night.
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May the Creator judge it and of all the Saints the choir. 90 I can no more, and I do it against my own desire.”
VIII Martin stayed not. Through Burgos he hastened forth, and came To the Castle. Vidas and Raquél, he demanded them by name.
IX Raquél and Vidas sate to count their goods and profits through, When up came Antolínez, the prudent man and true. 95 “How now Raquél and Vidas, am I dear unto your heart, I would speak close.” They tarried not. All three they went apart. “Give me, Raquél and Vidas, your hands for promise sure That you will not betray me to Christian or to Moor. I shall make you rich forever. You shall ne’er be needy more. 100 When to gather in the taxes went forth the Campeador, Many rich goods he garnered, but he only kept the best. Therefore this accusation against him was addressed. And now two mighty coffers full of pure gold hath he. Why he lost the King’s favor a man may lightly see. 105 He has left his halls and houses, his meadow and his field, And the chests he cannot bring you lest he should stand revealed. The Campeador those coffers will deliver to your trust. And do you lend unto him whatsoever may be just. Do you take the chests and keep them, but swear a great oath here 110 That you will not look within them for the space of all this year.” The two took counsel: “Something to our profit must inure In all barter. He gained something in the country of the Moor When he marched there, for many goods he brought with him away. 115 But he sleeps not unsuspected, who brings coined gold to pay. Let the two of us together take now the coffers twain. In some place let us put them where unseen they shall remain. “What the lord Cid demandeth, we prithee let us hear, And what will be our usury for the space of all this year?” 120 Said Martin Antolínez like a prudent man and true: “Whatever you deem right and just the Cid desires of you. He will ask little since his goods are left in a safe place. But needy men on all sides beseech the Cid for grace. For six hundred marks of money, the Cid is sore bested.” 125 “We shall give them to him gladly,” Raquél and Vidas said. “‘Tis night. The Cid is sorely pressed. So give the marks to us. Answered Raquél and Vidas: “Men do not traffic thus. But first they take their surety and thereafter give the fee.” Said Martin Antolínez: 130 “So be it as for me. Come ye to the great Campeador for ‘tis but just and fair That we should help you with the chests, and put them in your care, So that neither Moor nor Christian thereof shall hear the tale.” “Therewith are we right well content,” said Vidas and Raquél, 135 “You shall have marks six hundred when we bring the chests again.” And Martin Antolínez rode forth swiftly with the twain. And they were glad exceeding. O’er the bridge he did not go, But through the stream, that never a Burgalese should know Through him thereof. And now behold the Campeador his tent. 140
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When they therein had entered to kiss his hands they bent. My lord the Cid smiled on them and unto them said he: “Ha, don Raquél and Vidas, you have forgotten me! And now must I get hence away who am banished in disgrace, For the king from me in anger hath turned away his face. 145 I deem that from my chattels you shall gain somewhat of worth. And you shall lack for nothing while you dwell upon the earth.’ A-kissing of his hands forthwith Raquél and Vidas fell. Good Martin Antolínez had made the bargain well, That to him on the coffers marks six hundred they should lend. 150 And keep them safe, moreover, till the year had made an end. For so their word was given and sworn to him again, If they looked ere that within them, forsworn should be the twain, The Cid would never give them one groat of usury. Said Martin, “Let the chests be ta’en as swiftly as may be, 155 Take them, Raquél and Vidas, and keep them in your care. And we shall even go with you that the money we may bear, For ere the first cock croweth must my lord the Cid depart.” At the loading of the coffers you had seen great joy of heart. For they could not heave the great chests up though they were 160 stark and hale. Dear was the minted metal to Vidas and Raquél; And they would be rich forever till their two lives it were o’er
X The hand of my good lord the Cid, Raquél had kissed once more: “Ha! Campeador, in happy hour thou girdedst on the brand. 165 Forth from Castile thou goest to the men of a strange land. Such is become thy fortune and great thy gain shall be Ah Cid, I kiss thine hands again--but make a gift to me Bring me a Moorish mantle splendidly wrought and red.” “So be it. It is granted,” the Cid in answer said, 170 “If from abroad I bring it, well doth the matter stand; If not, take it from the coffers I leave here in your hand.” And then Raquél and Vidas bore the two chests away. With Martin Antolínez into Burgos entered they. And with fitting care, and caution unto their dwelling sped. 175 And in the midmost of the hall a plaited quilt they spread. And a milk-white cloth of linen thereon did they unfold. Three hundred marks of silver before them Martin told. And forthwith Martin took them, no whit the coins he weighed. Then other marks three hundred in gold to him they paid. 180 Martin had five esquires. He loaded all and one. You shall hear what said don Martin when all this gear was done: “Ha! don Raquél and Vidas, ye have the coffers two. Well I deserve a guerdon, who obtained this prize for you.”
XI Together Vidas and Raquél stepped forth apart thereon: 185 “Let us give him a fair present for our profit he has won. Good Martin Antolínez in Burgos that dost dwell, We would give thee a fair present for thou deserves well. Therewith get breeches and a cloak and mantle rich and fine. Thou hast earned it. For a present these thirty marks are thine. 190 For it is but just and honest, and, moreover, thou wilt stand Our warrant in this bargain whereto we set our hand.”
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Don Martin thanked them duly and took the marks again. He yearned to leave the dwelling and well he wished the twain. He is gone out from Burgos. O’er the Arlanzon he went. 195 And him who in good hour was born he found within his tent. The Cid arose and welcomed him, with arms held wide apart: “Thou art come, Antolínez, good vassal that thou art! May you live until the season when you reap some gain of me.” “Here have I come, my Campeador, with as good heed as might be. 200 Thou hast won marks six hundred, and thirty more have I. Ho! order that they strike the tents and let us swiftly fly. In San Pedro de Cardeñas let us hear the cock ere day. We shall see your prudent lady, but short shall be our stay. And it is needful for us from the kingdom forth to wend, 205 For the season of our suffrance drawns onward to its end.”
XII They spake these words and straightaway the tent upgathered then, My lord the Cid rode swiftly with all his host of men. And forth unto Saint Mary’s the horse’s head turned he, And with his right hand crossed himself: “God, I give thanks to thee 210 Heaven and Earth that rulest. And thy favor be my weal Holy Saint Mary, for forthright must I now quit Castile. For I look on the King with anger, and I know not if once more I shall dwell there in my life-days. But may thy grace watch o’er My parting, Blessed Virgin, and guard me night and day. 215 If thou do so and good fortune come once more in my way, I will offer rich oblations at thine altar, and I swear Most solemnly that I will chant a thousand masses there.”
XIII And the lord Cid departed fondly as a good man may. Forthwith they loosed the horses, and out they spurred away. 220 Said good Martin Antolínez in Burgos that did dwell: “I would see my lady gladly and advise my people well What they shall do hereafter. It matters not to me Though the King take all. Ere sunrise I shall come unto thee.”
XIV Martin went back to Burgos but my lord the Cid spurred on 225 To San Pedro of Cardeñas as hard as horse could run, With all his men about him who served him as is due. And it was nigh to morning, and the cocks full oft they crew, When at last my lord the Campeador unto San Pedro came. God’s Christian was the Abbot. Don Sancho was his name; 230 And he was saying matins at the breaking of the day. With her five good dames in waiting Xiména there did pray. They prayed unto Saint Peter and God they did implore: “O thou who guidest all mankind, succor the Campeador.”
XV One knocked at the doorway, and they heard the tidings then. 235 God wot the Abbot Sancho was the happiest of men. With the lights and with the candles to the court they ran forth right, And him who in good hour was born they welcomed in delight. “My lord Cid,” quoth the Abbot, “Now God be praised of grace!
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Do thou accept my welcome, since I see thee in this place.” 240 And the Cid who in good hour was born, hereunto answered he: “My thanks to thee, don Sancho, I am content with thee. For myself and for my vassals provision will I make. Since I depart to exile, these fifty marks now take. If I may live my life-span, they shall be doubled you. 245 To the Abbey not a groatsworth of damage will I do. For my lady do I give you an hundred marks again, Herself, her dames and daughters for this year do you maintain. I leave two daughters with you, but little girls they be. In thine arms keep them kindly. I commend them here to thee. 250 Don Sancho do thou guard them, and of my wife take care. If thou wantest yet and lackest for anything whate’er, Look well to their provision, thee I conjure once more, And for one mark that thou spendest the Abbey shall have four.” And with glad heart the Abbot his full assent made plain. 255 And lo! the Dame Xiména came with her daughters twain. Each had her dame-in-waiting who the little maiden bore. And Dame Xiména bent the knee before the Campeador. And fain she was to kiss his hand, and, oh, she wept forlorn! “A boon! A boon! my Campeador. In a good hour wert thou born. 260 And because of wicked slanderers art thou banished from the land.
XVI “Oh Campeador fair-bearded, a favor at thy hand! Behold I kneel before thee, and thy daughters are here with me, That have seen of days not many, for children yet they be, And these who are my ladies to serve my need that know. 265 Now well do I behold it, thou art about to go. Now from thee our lives a season must sunder and remove, But unto us give succor for sweet Saint Mary’s love.” The Cid, the nobly bearded, reached down unto the twain, And in his arms his daughters has lifted up again, 270 And to his heart he pressed them, so great his love was grown, And his tears fell fast and bitter, and sorely did he moan: “Xiména as mine own spirit I loved thee, gentle wife; But o’er well dost thou behold it, we must sunder in our life. I must flee and thou behind me here in the land must stay. 275 Please God and sweet Saint Mary that yet upon a day I shall give my girls in marriage with mine own hand rich and well, And thereafter in good fortune be suffered yet to dwell, May they grant me, wife, much honored, to serve thee then once more.”
XVII A mighty feast they had prepared for the Great Campeador 280 The bells within San Pedro they clamor and they peal. That my lord the Cid is banished men cry throughout Castile. And some have left their houses, from their lands some fled away. Of knights an hundred and fifteen were seen upon that day, By the bridge across the Arlanzon together they came o’er. 285 One and all were they calling on the Cid Campeador. And Martin Antolínez has joined him with their power. They sought him in San Pedro, who was born in a good hour.
XVIII When that his host was growing, heard the great Cid of Bivár, Swift he rode forth to meet them, for his fame would spread afar. 290
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When they were come before him, he smiled on them again. And one and all drew near him and to kiss his hand were fain. My lord the Cid spake gladly: “Now to our God on high I make my supplication that ere I come to die I may repay your service that house and land has cost, 295 And return unto you double the possession that ye lost.” My lord the Cid was merry that so great his commons grew, And they that were come to him they all were merry too. Six days of grace are over, and there are left but three, Three and no more. The Cid was warned upon his guard to be, 300 For the King said, if thereafter he should find him in the land, Then neither gold nor silver should redeem him from his hand. And now the day was over and night began to fall His cavaliers unto him he summoned one and all: “Hearken, my noble gentlemen. And grieve not in your care. 305 Few goods are mine, yet I desire that each should have his share. As good men ought, be prudent. When the cocks crow at day, See that the steeds are saddled, nor tarry nor delay. In San Pedro to say matins the Abbot good will be; He will say mass in our behalf to the Holy Trinity. 310 And when the mass is over, from the abbey let us wend, For the season of our sufferance draws onward to an end. And it is sure, moreover, that we have far to go.” Since so the Cid had ordered, they must do even so. Night passed, and came the morning. The second cock he crew; 315 Forthwith upon the horses the caparisons they threw. And the bells are rung for matins with all the haste they may. My lord Cid and his lady to church they went their way. On the steps Xiména cast herself, that stood the shrine before, And to God passionately she prayed to guard the Campeador: 320 “Our Father who art in Heaven, such glory is in Thee! Thou madest firmament and earth, on the third day the sea. The stars and moon Thou madest, and the great sun to warm. In the womb of Mary Mother, Thou tookest human form. Thou didst appear in Bethlehem as was Thy will and choice. 325 And in Thy praise and glory shepherds lifted up their voice. And thither to adore Thee from Arabia afar Came forth the three kings, Caspar, Melchior and Balthasar. And gold and myrrh and frankincense they proffered eagerly. Thou didst spare the prophet Jonah when he fell into the sea. 330 And Thou didst rescue Daniel from the lions in the cave. And, moreover, in Rome city Saint Sebastian didst Thou save. From the sinful lying witness Saint Susanna didst Thou ward. And years two and thirty didst Thou walk the Earth, our Lord, Showing, the which all men take heed, Thy miracles divine. 335 Of the stone, bread Thou madest, and of the water, wine. Thou didst raise up Saint Lazarus according to Thy will. Thou didst let the Hebrews take Thee. On Calvary the hill, In the place Golgotha by name, Thee, Lord, they crucified. And the two thieves were with Thee, whom they hanged on either side, 340 One is in heaven, the other he came not thereunto. A miracle most mighty on the cross there didst Thou do. Blind was Longinus never had seen from his birth-year. The side of our Lord Jesus he pierced it with the spear. Forth the blood issued swiftly, and ran down the shaft apace. 345 It stained his hands. He raised them and put them to his face. Forthwith his eyes were opened and in every way might see. He is ransomed from destruction for he straight believed on Thee.
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From the sepulchre Thou rosest, and into Hell didst go, According to Thy purpose, and its gates didst overthrow, 350 To bring forth the Holy Fathers. And King of Kings Thou art, And of all the world the Father, and Thee with all my heart Do I worship and acknowledge, and further I implore That Saint Peter speed my prayer for the Cid Campeador, That God keep his head from evil; and when this day we twain 355 Depart, then grant it to us that we meet in life again.” And now the prayer is over and the mass in its due course. From church they came, and already were about to get to horse. And the Cid clasped Xiména, but she, his hand she kissed. Sore wept the Dame, in no way the deed to do she wist. 360 He turned unto his daughters and he looked upon the two: “To the Spiritual Father, have I commended you. We must depart. God knoweth when we shall meet again.” Weeping most sore--for never hast thou beheld such pain As the nail from the flesh parteth, from each other did they part. 365 And Cid with all his vassals disposed himself to start, And as he waited for them anew he turned his head, Minaya AIvar Fañez then in good season said: “Cid! Where is now thy courage? Upon a happy day Wast thou born. Let us bethink us of the road and haste away. 370 A truce to this. Rejoicing out of these griefs shall grow. The God who gave us spirits shall give us aid also.” Don Sancho the good Abbot, they charged him o’er again To watch and ward Xiména and likewise her daughters twain, And the ladies that were with them. That he shall have no lack 375 Of guerdon let the Abbot know. By this was he come back, Then out spake Alvar Fañez: “Abbot, if it betide That men should come desirous in our company to ride, Bid them follow but be ready on a long road to go Through the sown and through the desert; they may overtake us so.” 380 They got them upon horseback, they let the rein go slack. The time drew near when on Castile they needs must turn the back. Spinaz de Can, it was the place where the Cid did alight. And a great throng of people welcomed him there that night. On the next day at morning, he got to horse once more, 385 And forth unto his exile rode the true Campeador. To the left of San Estévan the good town did he wheel. He marched through Alcobiella the frontier of Castile. O’er the highway to Quinéa his course then has he bent. Hard by Navas de Palos o’er Duéro stream he went. 390 All night at Figueruéla did my lord the Cid abide. And very many people welcomed him on every side.
XIX When it was night the Cid lay down. In a deep sleep he fell, And to him in a vision came the angel Gabriel: “Ride, Cid, most noble Campeador, for never yet did knight 395 Ride forth upon an hour whose aspect was so bright. While thou shalt live good fortune shall be with thee and shine.” When he awoke, upon his face he made the holy sign.
XX He crossed himself, and unto God his soul commended then, he was glad of the vision that had come into his ken 400
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The next day at morning they began anew to wend. Be it known their term of sufferance at the last has made an end. In the mountains of Miédes the Cid encamped that night, With the towers of Atiénza where the Moors reign on the right.
XXI ‘Twas not yet come to sunset, and lingered still the day. 405 My lord the Cid gave orders his henchmen to array. Apart from the footsoldiers, and valiant men of war, There were three hundred lances that each a pennon bore.
XXII “Feed all the horses early, so may our God you speed. Let him eat who will; who will not, let him get upon the steed. 410 We shall pass the mountain ranges rough and of dreadful height. The land of King Alfonso we can leave behind tonight. And whosoe’er will seek us shall find us ready then.” By night the mountain ranges he traversed with his men. Morn came. From the hills downward they were about to fare. 415 In a marvelous great forest the Cid bade halt them there, And to feed the horses early; and he told them all aright In what way he was desirous that they should march by night. They all were faithful vassals and gave assent thereto; The behests of their great captain it behooved them all to do. 420 Ere night, was every man of them unto the riding fit. So did the Cid that no man might perchance get wind of it. They marched all through the night-tide and rested not at all. Near Henáres a town standeth that Castejón men call. There the Cid went into ambush with the men of his array. 425
XXIII He couched there in the ambush till the breaking of the day. This Minaya Alvar Fañez had counselled and had planned: “Ha, Cid, in happy hour thou girdedst on the brand. Thou with an hundred henchmen shalt abide to hold the rear. Till we have drawn forth Castejón unto the bushment here. 430 But give me now two hundred men on a harrying raid to ride. We shall win much if thy fortune and our God be on our side. “Well didst thou speak, Minaya,” the Campeador he said, “Do thou with the two hundred ride on a harrying raid. With Alvar Salvadórez, Alvar Alvarez shall advance, 435 likewise Galínd Garcíaz, who is a gallant lance. Let them ride beside Minaya, each valiant cavalier. Let them ride unfearing forward and turn from naught for fear. Out unto Guadalajára, from Hita far and wide, To Alcalá the city forth let the harriers ride. 440 That they bring all the booty let them be very sure, Let them leave naught behind them for terror of the Moor. Here with an hundred lances in the rear will I remain, And capture Castejón good store of provender to gain. If thou come in any danger as thou ridest on the raid, 445 Send swiftly hither, and all Spain shall say how I gave aid.” Now all the men were chosen who on the raid should ride, And those who in the rearguard with the lord Cid should abide. And now the dawn was breaking and morning coming on,
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And the sun rising. Very God! how beautifully it shone! 450 All men arose in Castejón, and wide they threw the gates; And forth they went to oversee their farmlands and estates. All were gone forth, and the gates stand open as they were thrown, And but a little remnant were left in Castejón. Round the city were the people scattered the whole country o’er. 455 Then forth out of the ambush issued the Campeador. And without fail round Castejón he rushed along his way. The Moors, both men and women, he took them for a prey, And of their flocks as many as thereabouts there strayed. My lord Cid don Rodrigo straight for the gateway made, 460 And they that held it, when they saw that swift attack begin, Fled in great fear, and through the gates Roy Diaz entered in With the sword naked in his hand; and fifteen Moors he slew Whom he ran down. In Castejón much gold, and silver too, He captured. Then unto him his knights the booty brought. 465 To my lord Cid they bore it. The spoil they valued naught. Lo! the two hundred men and three to plunder that rode out, Sped fearlessly, and ravaged the country roundabout. For the banner of Minaya unto Alcalá did gleam. Then they bore home the booty up the Henáres stream 470 Past Guadalajára. Booty exceeding great they bore Of sheep and kine and vesture and of other wealth good store. Straightway returned Minaya. None dared the rear attack. With the treasure they had taken his company turned back. Lo, they wore come to Castejón, where the Campeador abode. 475 He left the hold well guarded. Out from the place he rode. With all his men about him to meet them did he come, And with arms wide asunder welcomed Minaya home: “Thou art come, Alvar Fañez, good lance thou art indeed. Whereso I send thee, in such wise I well may hope to speed. 480 Put straightway all together the spoil both shine and mine; The fifth part of all, Minaya, an thou so desire, is thine.”
XXIV “Much do I thank thee for it, illustrious Campeador. With what thou giv’st me, the fifth part of all our spoils of war, The King Alfonso of Castile full well content would be. 485 I renounce it in thy favor; and without a claim to thee. But I swear to God who dwelleth in the high firmament, That till upon my charger I gallop in content Against the Moors, and till I wield both spear and brand again, And till unto my elbow from the blade the blood doth drain 490 Before the Cid illustrious, howe’er so small it be, I will not take the value of a copper groat from thee. When through me some mighty treasure thou hast at thy command. I will take thy gift; till such a time, all else is in thine hand.”
XXV They heaped the spoil together. Pondered the Cid my lord, 495 He who in happy hour had girded on the sword, How tidings of his raiding to the King would come ere long, And Alfonso soon would seek him with his host to do him wrong. He bade his spoil-dividers make a division fair, And furthermore in writing give to each man his share. 500 The fortune of each cavalier had sped exceeding well,
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One hundred marks of silver to each of them there fell, And each of the foot soldiers the half of that obtained. A round fifth of the treasure for my lord the Cid remained But here he could not sell it, nor in gifts give it away. 505 No captives, men or women, he desired in his array. And with the men of Castejón he spoke to this intent To Hita and Guadalajára ambassadors he sent To find how high the ransom of the fifth part they would rate. Even as they assessed it, his profit would be great. 510 Three thousand marks of silver the Moors agreed to pay. The Cid was pleased. And duly was it paid on the third day. My lord the Cid determined with all his men of war That there within the castle they would abide no more, And that they would have held it, but that water sore it lacked: 515 “Ye Moors are friendly to the King; even so runs the pact, With his host will he pursue us. And I desire to flee From Castejón; Minaya and my men, so hark to me;
XXVI “Nor take it ill, mine utterance. For here we cannot stay. The king will come to seek us, for he is not far away; 520 But to destroy the castle seems in no way good to me. An hundred Moorish women in that place I will set free And of the Moors an hundred. Since there, as it befell, I captured them. Hereafter shall they all speak of me well. Ye all are paid; among you is no man yet to pay. 525 Let us on the morrow morning prepare to ride away, For against my lord AIfonso the strife I would not stir.” What the Cid said was pleasing to his every follower. Rich men they all departed from the hold that they had ta’en And the Moors both men and women blessed them o’er and o’er again. 530 Up the Henáres hastened they and hard they rode and strong. They passed through the Alcárrias, and swift they marched along, By the Caverns of Anquíta they hastened on their way. They crossed the stream. Into Taránz the great plain entered they, And on down through that region as hard as they might fare. 535 Twixt Faríza and Cetína would the Cid seek shelter there. And a great spoil he captured in the country as he went, For the Moors had no inkling whatso’er of his intent. On the next day marched onward the great Cid of Bivár, And he went by Alháma, and down the vale afar. 540 And he passed Bubiérca and Atéca likewise passed, And it was nigh to Alcocér that he would camp at last Upon a rounded hillock that was both strong and high. They could not rob him of water; the Jalón it flowed hard by. My lord Cid don Rodrigo planned to storm Alcocér. 545
XXVII He pitched a strong encampment upon the hillock there, Some men were toward the mountains, some by the stream arrayed. The gallant Cid, who in good hour had girded on the blade, Bade his men near the water dig a trench about the height, That no man might surprise them by day nor yet by night. 550 So might men know that there the Cid had taken up his stand.
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XXVIII And thereupon the tidings went out through all that land, How my lord Cid the Campeador had there got footing sure, He is gone forth from the Christians, he is come unto the Moor, In his presence no man dareth plough the farmlands as of yore. 555 Very merry with his vassals was the great Campeador. And Alcocér the Castle wider tribute had he laid.
XXIX In Alcocér the burghers to the Cid their tribute paid And all the dwellers in Terrér and Teca furthermore. And the townsmen of Calatayúd, know well, it irked them sore. 570 Full fifteen weeks he tarried there, but the town yielded not And when he saw it forthwith the Cid devised a plot. Save one left pitched behind him, he struck his every tent. Then with his ensign lifted, down the Jalón he went, With mail-shirts on and girded swords, as a wise man should him bear. 575 To draw forth to his ambush the men of Alcocér. And when they saw it, name of God! How glad was everyone! “The provender and fodder of my lord the Cid are gone. If he leaves one tent behind him, the burden is not light Of the others that he beareth. He ‘scapes like one in flight. 580 Let us now fall upon him, great profit shall we gain. We shall win a mighty booty before he shall be ta’en By them who have their dwelling in the city of Terrér; For if by chance they take him, in the spoil we shall not share. The tribute that he levied, double he shall restore.” 585 Forth from the town of Alcocér in wild haste did they pour. When the Cid saw them well without he made as if he fled; With his whole host in confusion down the Jalón he sped. “The prize ‘scapes,” cried the townsmen. Forth rushed both great and small, In the lust of conquest thinking of nothing else at all. 590 They left the gates unguarded, none watched them any more. And then his face upon them turned the great Campeador, He saw how twixt them and their hold there lay a mighty space; He made them turn the standard. They spurred the steeds apace. “Ho! cavaliers! Now swiftly let every man strike in, 595 By the Creator’s favor this battle we shall win.” And there they gave them battle in the midmost of the mead. Ah God! is the rejoicing on this morning great indeed. The Cid and Alvar Fañez went spurring on ahead; Know ye they had good horses that to their liking sped. 600 ‘Twixt the townsmen and the castle swiftly the way they broke. And the Cid’s henchmen merciless, came striking stroke on stroke, In little space three hundred of the Moors they there have slain. Loud was the shouting of the Moors in the ambush that were ta’en. But the twain left them; on they rushed. Right for the hold they made 605 And at the gate they halted, each with a naked blade. Then up came the Cid’s henchmen for the foe were all in flight. Know ye the Cid has taken Alcocér by such a sleight.
XXX Per Vermudóz came thither who the Cid’s flag did bear. On the high place of the city he lifted it in air. 610 Outspoke the Cid Roy Diaz. Born in good hour was he:
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“To God in Heaven and all his saints great thanks and praises be. We shall better now our lodging for cavalier and steed.”
XXXI Alvar Fañez and all ye my knights, now hearken and give heed We have taken with the castle a booty manifold. 615 Dead are the Moors. Not many of the living I behold Surely we cannot sell them the women and the men; And as for striking off their heads, we shall gain nothing then. In the hold let us receive them, for we have the upper hand. When we lodge within their dwellings, they shall do as we 620 command.”
XXXII The Cid with all his booty lieth in Alcocér. He let the tent be sent for, that he left behind him there. It irked the men of Teca, wroth in Terrér were they; Know ye on all Calatayúd sorely the thing did weigh. 625 To the Sovereign of Valencia they sent the news apace: How that the King Alfonso hath banished in disgrace One whom men call my lord the Cid, Roy Diaz of Bivár, He came to lodge by Alcocér, and strong his lodgings are. He drew them out to ambush; he has won the castle there. 630 “If thou aidest not needs must thou lose both Teca and Terrér, Thou wilt have lost Calatayúd that cannot stand alone. All things will go to ruin on the banks of the Jalón, And round about Jilóca on the far bank furthermore.” When the King Tamín had heard it, his heart was troubled sore: 635 “Here do I see three Moorish kings. Let two without delay With three thousand Moors and weapons for the fight ride there away; Likewise they shall be aided by the men of the frontier. See that ye take him living and bring him to me here. He must pay for the realm’s trespass till I be satisfied.” 640 Three thousand Moors have mounted and fettled them to ride. All they unto Segórbe have come to lodge that night. The next day they got ready to ride at morning light. In the evening unto Celfa they came the night to spend. And there they have determined for the borderers to send. 645 Little enow they tarried; from every side they came. Then they went forth from Celfa (of Canál it has its name), Never a whit they rested, but marched the livelong day. And that night unto their lodging in Calatayúd came they. And they sent forth their heralds through the length of all the land. 650 A great and sovran army they gathered to their hand. With the two Kings Fáriz and Gálve (these are the names they bear). They will besiege my noble lord the Cid in Alcocér.
XXXIII They pitched the tents and got them to their lodging there and then. Strong grew their bands for thereabouts was found great store of men. 655 Moreover all the outposts, which the Moors set in array, Marched ever hither and thither in armour night and day. And many are the outposts, and great that host of war. From the Cid’s men, of water have they cut off all the store. My lord the Cid’s brave squadrons great lust to fight they had, 660
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But he who in good hour was born firmly the thing forbade. For full three weeks together they hemmed the city in.
XXXIV When three weeks were well nigh over and the fourth would soon begin, My lord Cid and his henchmen agreed after this guise: “They have cut us off from water; and our food must fail likewise. 665 They will not grant unto us that we depart by night, And very great is their power for us to face and fight. My knights what is your pleasure, now say, that we shall do? Then first outspake Minaya the good knight and the true: “Forth from Castile the noble unto this place we sped; 670 If with the Moors we fight not, they will not give us bread. Here are a good six hundred and some few more beside. In the name of the Creator let nothing else betide: Let us smite on them tomorrow.” The Campeador said he: 675 “Minaya Alvar Fañez, thy speaking liketh me. Thou hast done thyself much honor, as of great need thou must.” All the Moors, men and women, he bade them forth to thrust That none his secret counsel might understand aright And thereupon they armed them all through that day and night. 680 And the next day in the dawning when soon the sun should rise, The Cid was armed and with him all the men of his emprise. My lord the Cid spake to them even as you shall hear. “Let all go forth, let no one here tarry in the rear, Save only two footsoldiers the gates to watch and shield. 685 They will capture this our castle, if we perish in the field; But if we win, our fortunes shall grow both great and fair. Per Vermudóz, my banner I bid thee now to bear; As thou art very gallant, do thou keep it without stain. But unless I so shall order thou shalt not loose the rein.” 690 He kissed the Cid’s hand. Forth he ran the battle-flag to take. They oped the gates, and outward in a great rush did they break. And all the outposts of the Moor beheld them coming on, And back unto the army forthwith they got them gone. What haste there was among the Moors! To arm they turned them back. 695 With the thunder of the war-drum the earth was like to crack. There might you see Moors arming, that swift their ranks did close. Above the Moorish battle two flags-in-chief arose, But of their mingling pennons the number who shall name? Now all the squadrons of the Moors marching right onward came, 700 That the Cid and all his henchmen they might capture out of hand. “My gallant men here in this place see that ye firmly stand, Let no man leave the war-ranks till mine order I declare.” Per Vermudóz, he found it too hard a thing to bear, He spurred forth with the banner that in his hand he bore: 705 “May the Creator aid thee, thou true Cid Campeador, Through the line of battle yonder thy standard I will take; I shall see how you bring succor, who must for honor’s sake.” Said the Campeador: “Of charity, go not to the attack.” For answer said Per Vermudóz: “Is naught shall hold me back.” 710 Spurring the steed he hurled him through the strong line of the foes. The serried Moors received him and smote him mighty blows, To take from him the banner; yet they could not pierce his mail. Said the Campeador: “Of charity go help him to prevail.”
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XXXV Before their breasts the war-shields there have they buckled strong, 715 The lances with the pennons they laid them low along, And they have bowed their faces over the saddlebow, And thereaway to strike them with brave hearts did they go. He who in happy hour was born with a great voice did call: “For the love of the Creator, smite them, my gallants ah. 720 I am Roy Diaz of Bivár, the Cid, the Campeador.” At the rank where was Per Vermudóz the mighty strokes they bore. They are three hundred lances that each a pennon bear. At one blow every man of them his Moor has slaughtered there, And when they wheeled to charge anew as many more were slain. 725
XXXV You might see great clumps of lances lowered and raised again, And many a shield of leather pierced and shattered by the stroke, And many a coat of mail run through, its meshes all to-broke, And many a white pennon come forth all red with blood, And running without master full many a charger good. 730 Cried the Moors “Mahound!” The Christians shouted on Saint James of grace. On the field Moors thirteen hundred were slain in little space.
XXXVII On his gilded selle how strongly fought the Cid, the splendid knight. And Minaya Alvar Fañez who Zoríta held of right, And brave Martin Antolínez that in Burgos did abide, 735 And likewise Muño Gustióz, the Cid’s esquire tried! So also Martin Gustióz who ruled Montemayór, And by Alvar Salvadórez Alvar Alvarez made war And Galínd Garcíaz the good knight that came from Aragon, There too came Felez Múñoz the Cid his brother’s son. 740 As many as were gathered there straightway their succor bore, And they sustained the standard and the Cid Campeador.
XXXVIII Of Minaya Alvar Fañez the charger they have slain The gallant bands of Christians came to his aid amain. His lance was split and straightway he set hand upon the glaive, 745 What though afoot, no whit the less he dealt the buffets brave. The Cid, Roy Diaz of Castile, saw how the matter stood. He hastened to a governor that rode a charger good. With his right hand he smote him such a great stroke with the sword That the waist he clave; the half of him he hurled unto the sward. 750 To Minaya Alvar Fañez forthwith he gave the steed. “Right arm of mine, Minaya, now horse thee with all speed! I shall have mighty succor from thee this very day. The Moors leave not the battle; firm standeth their array, And surely it behooves us to storm their line once more.” 755 Sword in hand rode Minaya; on their host he made great war, Whom he overtook soever, even to death he did. He who was born in happy hour, Roy Diaz, my lord Cid, Thrice smote against King Fáriz. Twice did the great strokes fail, But the third found the quarry. And down his shirt of mail 760 Streamed the red blood. To leave the field he wheeled his horse away. By that one stroke the foeman were conquered in the fray.
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XXXIX And Martin Antolínez a heavy stroke let drive At Gálve. On his helmet the rubies did he rive; The stroke went through the helmet for it reached unto the flesh. 765 Be it known, he dared not tarry for the man to strike afresh. King Fáriz and King Gálve, but beaten men are they. What a great day for Christendom! On every side away Fled the Moors. My lord Cid’s henchmen still striking gave them chase. Into Terrér came Fáriz, but the people of the place 770 Would not receive King Gálve. As swiftly as he might Onward unto Calatayúd he hastened in his flight. And after him in full pursuit came on the Campeador. Till they came unto Calatayúd that chase they gave not o’er.
XL Minaya Alvar Fañez hath a horse that gallops well. 775 Of the Moors four and thirty that day before him fell. And all his arm was bloody, for ‘tis a biting sword; And streaming from his elbow downward the red blood poured. Said Minaya: “Now am I content; well will the rumor run To Castile, for a pitched battle my lord the Cid hath won.” 780 Few Moors are left, so many have already fallen dead, For they who followed after slew them swiftly as they fled. He who was born in happy hour came with his host once more. On his noble battle-charger rode the great Campeador. His coif was wrinkled. Name of God! but his great beard was fair. 785 His mail-hood on his shoulders lay. His sword in hand he bare. And he looked upon his henchmen and saw them drawing nigh: “Since we ha’ won such a battle, glory to God on high!” The Cid his henchmen plundered the encampment far and wide Of the shields and of the weapons and other wealth beside. 790 Of the Moors they captured there were found five hundred steeds and ten. And there was great rejoicing among those Christian men, And the lost of their number were but fifteen all told. They brought a countless treasure of silver and of gold. Enriched were all those Christians with the spoil that they had ta’en 795 And back unto their castle they restored the Moors again; To give them something further he gave command and bade. With all his train of henchmen the Cid was passing glad. He gave some monies, some much goods to be divided fair, And full an hundred horses fell to the Cid’s fifth share. 800 God’s name! his every vassal nobly did he requite, Not only the footsoldiers but likewise every knight. He who in happy hour was born wrought well his government, And all whom he brought with him therewith were well content. “Harken to me, Minaya, my own right arm art thou. 805 Of the wealth, wherewith our army the Creator did endow, Take in thine hand whatever thou deemest good to choose. To Castile I fain would send thee to carry there the news Of our triumph. To Alphonso the King who banished me A gift of thirty horses I desire to send with thee. 810 Saddled is every charger, each steed is bridled well. There hangeth a good war-sword at the pommel of each selle.” Said Minaya Alvar Fañez: “I will do it with good cheer.
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XLI “Of the gold and the fine silver, behold a bootful here Nothing thereto is lacking. Thou shalt pay the money down 815 At Saint Mary’s Church for masses fifty score in Burgos town; To my wife and to my daughters the remainder do thou bear. Let them offer day and night for me continually their prayer. If I live, exceeding wealthy all of those dames shall be.
XLII Minaya Alvar Fañez, therewith content was he. 820 They made a choice of henchmen along with him to ride. They fed the steeds. Already came on the eventide. Roy Diaz would decide it with his companions leal.
XLIII “Dost thou then go, Minaya, to the great land of Castile And unto our well-wishers with a clear heart canst thou say: 825 ‘God granted us his favor, and we conquered in the fray?’ If returning thou shalt find us here in this place, ‘tis well; If not, where thou shalt hear of us, go seek us where we dwell. For we must gain our daily bread with the lance and with the brand, Since otherwise we perish here in a barren land. 830 And therefore as methinketh, we must get hence away.”
XLIV So was it, and Minaya went at the break of day. But there behind the Campeador abode with all his band. And waste was all the country, an exceeding barren land. Each day upon my lord the Cid there in that place they spied, 835 The Moors that dwelt on the frontier and outlanders beside. Healed was King Fáriz. With him they held a council there, The folk that dwelt in Teca and the townsmen of Terrér, And the people of Calatayúd, of the three the fairest town. In such wise have they valued it and on parchment set it down 840 That for silver marks three thousand Alcocér the Cid did sell.
XLV Roy Diaz sold them Alcocér. How excellently well He paid his vassals! Horse and foot he made them wealthy then, And a poor man you could not find in all his host of men. In joy he dwelleth aye who serves a lord of noble heart. 845
XLVI When my lord the Cid was ready from the Castle to depart, The Moors both men and women cried out in bitter woe: “Lord Cid art thou departing? Still may our prayers go Before thy path, for with thee we are full well content.” For my lord the great Cid of Bivár, when from Alcocér he went, 850 The Moors both men and women made lamentation sore. He lifted up the standard, forth marched the Campeador. Down the Jalón he hastened, on he went spurring fast. He saw birds of happy omen, as from the stream he passed. Glad were the townsmen of Terrér that he had marched away, 855 And the dwellers in Calatayúd were better pleased than they.
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But in the town of Alcocér ‘twas grief to all and one, For many a deed of mercy unto them the Cid had done. My lord the Cid spurred onward. Forward apace he went; ‘Twas near to the hill Monreál that he let pitch his tent. 860 Great is the hill and wondrous and very high likewise. Be it known from no quarter doth he need to dread surprise. And first he forced Doróca tribute to him to pay, And then levied on Molína on the other side that lay, Teruél o’er against him to submit he next compelled 865 And lastly Celfa de Canál within his power he held.
XLVII May my lord the Cid, Roy Diaz, at all times God’s favor feel. Minaya Alvar Fañez has departed to Castile. To the King thirty horses for a present did he bring. And when he had beheld them beautifully smiled the King: 870 “Who gave thee these, Minaya, so prosper thee the Lord?” “Even the Cid Roy Diaz, who in good hour girded sword. Since you banished him, by cunning has he taken Alcocér. To the King of Valencia the tidings did they bear. He bade that they besiege him; from every water-well 875 They cut him off. He sallied forth from the citadel, In the open field he fought them, and he beat in that affray Two Moorish kings he captured, sire, a very mighty prey. Great King, this gift he sends thee. Thine hands and feet also He kisses. Show him mercy; such God to thee shall show.” 880 Said the King: “‘Tis over early for one banished, without grace In his lord’s sight, to receive it at the end of three week’s space. But since ‘tis Moorish plunder to take it I consent. That the Cid has taken such a spoil, I am full well content. 885 Beyond all this. Minaya. thine exemption I accord, For all thy lands and honors are unto thee restored. Go and come! Henceforth my favor I grant to thee once more. But to thee I say nothing of the Cid Campeador.
XLVIII “Beyond this, Alvar Fañez, I am fain to tell it thee 890 That whosoever in my realm in that desire may be, Let them, the brave and gallant, to the Cid betake them straight. I free them and exempt them both body and estate.” Minaya Alvar Fañez has kissed the King’s hands twain: “Great thanks, as to my rightful lord I give thee, King, again. 895 This dost thou now, and better yet as at some later hour. We shall labor to deserve it, if God will give us power.” Said the King: “Minaya, peace for that. Take through Castile thy way. None shall molest. My lord the Cid seek forth without delay.”
Cantar II The Marriage of the Cid’s Daughters
XCVIII O’er the mountains, o’er the rivers, o’er the hills they took the road. And at length before Valladolíd where the King lay they were.
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Minaya and Per Vermudóz sent tidings to him there, That reception to their followers he might bid his men extend. “My lord Cid of Valencia presents with us doth send.” 5
XCIX Glad was the King. Man gladder you never yet did see. He commanded all his nobles to ride forth hastily. And forth among the first of them did King Alfonso go, Of him who in good hour was born the tidings for to know. Know you the Heirs of Carrión happed in that place to be, 10 Also Count don García the Cid’s worst enemy. Of the tidings some were merry, and some were all folorn. They caught sight of his henchmen who in happy hour was born. They feared it was an army for no herald came before. Straightway the King Alfonso crossed himself o’er and o’er. 15 Minaya and Per Vermudóz came forward with all speed, They leaped from the saddle, they dismounted from the steed. Before the King Alfonso upon their knees they fell. They kissed the ground beneath him, the kissed his feet as well: “Now a boon, King Alfonso. Thou art great and glorious. 20 For my lord Cid the Campeador do we embrace thee thus. He holds himself thy vassal; he owns thee for his lord. He prizes high the honor thou didst to him accord. O King, but a few days agone in the fight he overcame The King out of Morocco, Yússuf (that is his name), 25 With a host of fifty thousand from the field he drove away. The booty that he captured was a great and sovran prey. Great wealth unto his followers because of this did fall. He sends thee twoscore horses and doth kiss thy hands withal. Said King Alfonso: 30 “Gladly to accept them am I fain. To the Cid who sent me such a gift I send my thanks again. When I do unto his liking, may he live to see the day.” Thereat were many of good cheer and kissed his hands straightway. Grieved was Count don García. Wroth was his heart within. 35 Apart he wells a little with ten men of his kin: “A marvel is this matter of the Cid, so grows his fame. Now by the honor that he hath we shall be put to shame. Kings he o’erthroweth lightly, and lightly bringeth steeds As though he dead had found them; we are minished by his deeds.” 40
C Hear now of King Alfonso what he said upon this score: “Thanks be to the Creator and the lord Saint Isidore
Image 5.29: The Cid’s Signature | An autographed signature of the Cid.
Author: User “Escarlati” Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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For the two hundred horses that the Cid to me hath sent. Yet shall he serve me better in this my government. To Minaya Alvar Fañez and Per Vermudóz I say 45 That you forthwith clothe your bodies in honorable array, And as you shall require it of me take battle-gear Such as before Roy Diaz in good manner shall appear. Take then the gift I give you even these horses three. As it seems to my avisement, as my heart telleth me, 50 Out of all these adventures some good will come to light.”
CI They kissed his hands and entered to take their rest that night. In all things that they needed he bade men serve them well. Of the two Heirs of Carrión now am I fain to tell, How secretly they counselled what thing should be their cast: 55 “Of my lord Cid the high affairs go forward wondrous fast. Let us demand his daughters that with them we may wed. Our fortune and our honor thereby may be well sped.” Unto the King Alfonso with their secret forth went they.
CII “As from our King and master a boon of thee we pray 60 By favor of thy counsel we desire to obtain That thou ask for us in marriage of the Cid his daughters twain. With honor and with profit shall the match for then, be fraught.”
Cantar III The Affront of Corpes
CXXIV “Now of the Cid the Campeador let us demand our wives. Let us say that we will bear them to the lands of Carrión. The place where they are heiresses shall unto them be shown. We shall take them from Valencia, from the Campeador his reach. And then upon the journey we shall work our will on each, 5 Ere the matter of the lion for a sore reproach and scorn They turn to our discomfort who are heirs of Carrión born. We shall bear with us of treasure nigh priceless a fair stock. Of the daughters of the Campeador we two shall make our mock. We shall be rich men always who possess such valiant things, 10 And fit to marry daughters of emperors or kings, Who art the Counts of Carrión by virtue of our birth. The Campeador his daughters we shall mock at in our mirth. Ere the matter of the lion they throw at us in disdain.” When this they had decided the two returned again. 15 Ontspake Ferránd Golzalvez for silence in the Court: “Cid Campeador, so may our God abide thy strong support, May it please Dame Xiména, but first seem good to thee, And Minaya Alvar Fañez and all men here that be Give us our wives. By marriage are they ours in very deed. 20 Unto our lands in Carrión those ladies we will lead. With the dower-lands to enfeoff them that we gave for bridal right Of the lands of our possession, thy daughters shall have sight, And those wherein the children to be born to us shall share.”
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The Cid my lord the Campeador scented no insult there: 25 “I shall give you my daughters and of my wealth dispone. Ye gave them glebe of dowry in the lands of Carrión, Three thousands marks of dower shall to my girls belong. I will give mules and palfreys both excellent and strong, And great steeds of battle swift and of mighty thew, 30 And cloth and silken garments with the gold woven through. Coláda and Tizón the swords I will give to you likewise Full well ye know I got them in very gallant guise. My sons ye are, for to you do I give my daughters two. My very heart’s blood thither ye carry home with you. 35 In León and in Galicia and Castile let all men hear How I sent forth my sons-in-law with such abundant gear. And serve you well my daughters, your wedded wives that be. An you serve them well rich guerdon ye shall obtain of me.” To this the heirs of Carrión their full assent made plain. 40 The daughters of the Campeador were given them and ta’en, And they began receiving as the Cid’s orders went. When of all their heart’s desire they were at last content, Then Carrión’s heirs commanded that the packs be loaded straight, Through Valencia the city was the press of business great, 45 And all have taken weapons and all men gallop strong, For they must forth the daughters of the Cid to speed along Unto the lands of Carrión. To mount all men prepare, Farewell all men are saying. But the two sisters there, Dame Sol and Dame Elvíra, kneeled to the Cid Campeador: 50 “A boon, so may God keep thee, O father, we implore. Thou begottest us. Our mother she brought us forth in pain. Our liege-lord and our lady, here do ye stand ye twain. Now to the lands of Carrión to send us is your will; It is our bounden duty thy commandment to fulfil. 55 And so we two together ask but this boon of thee, That in the lands of Carrión thy tidings still may be.” My lord the Cid has clasped them, and he has kissed the twain.
CXXV This hath he done. Their mother hath doubled it again. “Go, daughters! the Creator of you henceforth have care 60 Mine and your father’s blessing you still with you shall bear. Go forth where you are dowered in Carrión to dwell. I have, after my thinking, married you passing well.” The hands of their father and their mother kissed the two. Blessing and benediction they gave to them anew. 65 My lord Cid and the others have fettled them to ride, With armor and with horses and caparisons of pride. From Valencia the splendid were the Heirs departing then. They took leave of the ladies and all their bands of men. Through the meadow of Valencia forth under arms they went. 70 The Cid and all his armies were very well content. He who in good hour belted brand in signs had seen it plain That these marriages in no way should stand without a stain. But since the twain are married, he may not repent him now.
CXXVI “My nephew Felez Múñoz, I prithee where art thou? 75 Thou art my daughters’ cousin in thy soul and in thine heart.
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With them even unto Carrión I command thee to depart. Thou shalt see what lands for dower to my girls are given o’er, And shalt come again with tidings unto the Campeador.’’ Quoth Felez Múñoz: “Heart and soul that duty pleases me.” 80 Minaya Alvar Fañez before the Cid came he: “Back to the town of Valencia, Oh Cid, now let us go; For if our God and Father the Creator’s will be so, To Carrión’s lands thy daughters to visit we shall wend. Dame Sol and Dame Elvíra, to God do we commend. 85 Such things may you accomplish as will make us glad and fain.” The sons-in-law gave answer: “Now that may God ordain.” They lamented much at parting. Daughters and sire wept sore, So also wept the cavaliers of the Cid Campeador. “Thou, cousin, Felez Múñoz, now hark to this aright. 90 Thou shalt go by Molína, and there shalt lie one night, And greet fair the Morisco Avengalvón my friend; That he may most fair reception to my sons-in-law extend. Tell him I send my daughters to the lands of Carrión, In all their needs his courtesy as beseemeth shall be shown. 95 Let him ward them to Medína for the love he beareth me. For all that he cloth for them I will give him a rich fee.” They parted then, as when the nail out of the flesh is torn. He turned back to Valencia who in happy hour was born. And now the Heirs of Carrión have fettled them to fare. 100 Saint Mary of Alvarrazín, their halting-place was there. From thence the Heirs of Carrión plied furiously the spur. Ho! in Molína with the Moor Avengalvón they were. The Morisco when he heard it in his heart was well content, And forth with great rejoicings to welcome them he went. 105 Ah, God! how well he served them in what e ‘er their joy might be! The next day in the morning to horse with them got he. He bade two hundred horsemen for escort forth to ride. They crossed the mountains of Luzón (so are they signified), And the Vale of Arbujuélo to the Jalón they came. 110 The place where they found lodging, Ansaréra is its name. Unto the daughters of the Cid, the Moor fair presents gave, And to either Heir of Carrión beside a charger brave. For the love he bore the Campeador, all this for them he wrought. They looked upon the riches that the Moor with him had brought 115 And then together treason did the brothers twain concert. “Since the daughters of the Campeador we shortly shall desert, If but we might do unto death Aengalvon the Moor, The treasure he possesses for ourselves we should secure Safe as our wealth in Carrión those goods we will maintain. 120 And ne’er will the Cid Campeador avenge on us the stain.” While they of Carrión this shame complotted each with each, In the midst a Moor o’erheard them, that could of Latin speech. He kept no secret. With it to Avengalvón he ran: “Thou art my lord. Be wary of these persons, Castellan. 125 I heard the heirs of Carrión that plotted death for thee.”
CXXVII This same Avengalvón the Moor, a gallant man was he He got straightway on horseback with servitors ten score. He brandished high his weapons, he came the Heirs before. And the two Heirs with what he said but little pleased they are: 130
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“If for his sake I forebore not, my lord Cid of Bivár, I would do such deeds upon you as through all the world should ring, And then to the true Campeador his daughters would I bring. And unto Carrión never should you enter from that day.
CXXVIII What I have done against you, ho! Heirs of Carrión, say, 135 For without guile I served you, and lo, my death ye plot. For wicked men and traitors I will leave you on the spot. Dame Sol and Dame Elvíra with your good leave I go; For of these men of Carrión I rate the fame but low. God will it and command it, who is Lord of all the Earth. 140 That the Campeador hereafter of this match have joy and mirth.” That thing the Moor has told them, and back he turned him there. When he crossed over thee Jalón, weapon he waved in air. He returned unto Molína like a man of prudent heart. And now from Ansaréra did Carrión’s Heirs depart; 145 And they began thereafter to travel day and night. And they let Atiénza on the left, a craggy height. The forest of Miédes, now have they overpassed, And on through Montes Claros they pricked forward spurring fast. And then passed Griza on the left that Alamos did found. 150 There be the caves where Elpha he imprisoned underground. And they left San Estévan, on their right that lay afar. Within the woods of Corpes, the Heirs of Carrión are. And high the hills are wooded, to the clouds the branches sweep, And savage are the creatures that roundabout them creep; 155 And there upon a bower with a clear spring they light And there the Heirs of Carrión bade that their tent be pight. There with their men about them, that night they lay at rest. With their wives clasped to their bosom their affection they protest, But ill the twain fulfilled it, when the dawn came up the East. 160 They bade put goods a plenty on the back of every beast. Where they at night found lodging, now have they struck the tent. The people of their household far on before them went. Of the two Heirs of Carrión so the commandment ran, That none behind should linger, a woman or a man. 165 But Dame Sol and Dame Elvíra their wives shall tarry still, With whom it is their pleasure to dally to their fill. The others have departed. They four are left alone. Great evil had been plotted by the Heirs of Carrión. “Dame Sol and Dame Elvíra, ye may take this for true: 170 Here in the desert wildwood shall a mock be made of you. Today is our departure, we will leave you here behind. And in the lands of Carrión no portion shall you find. Let them hasten with these tidings to the Cid Campeador. Thus, the matter of the lion, we avenge ourselves therefor.” 175 Their furs and their mantles, from the ladies they have whipped. In their shifts and their tunics they left the ladies stripped. With spur on heel before them those wicked traitors stand, And saddle-girths both stout and strong they have taken in the hand. When the ladies had beheld it, then out spake Sol the dame: 180 “Don Diégo, don Ferrándo, we beeech you in God’s name. You have two swords about you, that for strength and edge are known. And one they call Coláda, the other is Tizón. Strike off our heads together, and martyrs we shall die.
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The Moriscos and the Christians against this deed shall cry. 185 It stands not with our deserving that we should suffer thus. So evil an example, then do not make of us. Unto our own abasement, if you scourge us, you consent, That men will bring against you in parle and parliament.” Naught profits it the ladies, however hard they pray. 190 And now the Heirs of Carrión upon them ‘gan to lay. With the buckled girths they scourged them in fashion unbeseen, And exceeding was their anguish from the sharp spurs and keen. They rent the shifts and wounded the bodies of the two, And forth upon the tunics the clear blood trickled through. 195 In their very hearts the ladies have felt that agony. What a fair fortune were it, if God’s will it might be, Had then appeared before them the Cid the Campeador. Powerless were the ladies, and the brothers scourged them sore. Their shifts and their sullies throughout the blood did stain. 200 Of scourging the two ladies wearied the brothers twain, Which man should smite most fiercely they had vied each with each. Dame Sol and Dame Elvíra had no longer power of speech. Within the wood of Corpes for dead they left the pair.
CXXIX Their cloaks and furs of ermine along with them they bare, 205 In their shifts and tunics, fainting, they left them there behind, A prey to every wild-fowl and beast of savage kind. Know you, for dead, not living, they left them in such cheer. Good hap it were if now the Cid, Roy Diaz, should appear.
CXXX The Heirs of Carrión for dead have left them thus arrayed, 210 For the one dame to the other, could give no sort of aid. They sang each other’s praises as they journeyed through the wood: “For the question of our marriage we have made our vengeance good. Unbesought, to be our lemans we should not take that pair, Because as wedded consorts for our arms unfit they were. 215 For the insult of the lion vengeance shall thus be ta’en.”
CXXXI They sang each other’s praises, the Heirs of Carrión twain. But now of Felez Múñoz will I tell the tale once more. Even he that was nephew to the Cid Campeador. They had bidden him ride onward, but he was not well content. 220 And his heart smote within him as along the road he went. Straightway from all the others’ a space did he withraw. There Felez Múñoz entered into a thick-grown straw, Till the coming of his cousins should be plain to be perceived Or what the Heirs of Carrión as at that time achieved. 225 And he beheld them coming, and heard them say their say, But they did not espy him, nor thought of him had they. Be it known death he had not scaped, had they on him laid eye. And the two Heirs rode onward, pricking fast the spur they ply. On their trail Felez Múñoz has turned him back again. 230 He came upon his cousins. In a swoon lay the twain. And crying “Oh my cousins!” straightway did he alight. By the reins the horse he tethered, and went to them forthright. “Dame Sol and Dame Elvíra, cousins of mine that be,
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The two Heirs of Carrión have borne them dastardly. 235 Please God that for this dealing they may get a shameful gain.” And straightway he bestirred him to life to bring the twain. Deep was their swoon. Of utterance all power they had forlorn. Of his heart the very fabric thereby in twain was torn. “Oh my cousins Dame Elvíra and Dame Sol,” he cried and spake, 240 “For the love of the Creator, my cousins twain, awake, While yet the day endureth, ere falls the evening-hour, Lest in the wood our bodies the savage beast devour.” In Dame Sol and Dame Elvíra fresh life began to rise; And they looked on Felez Múñoz when at last they oped their eyes: 245 “For the love of God my cousins, now be of courage stout. From the time the Heirs of Carrión shall miss me from their rout, With utmost speed thereafter will they hunt me low and high. And if God will not help us, in this place we then must die.” To him out spoke the Lady Sol in bitter agony: 250 “If the Campeador, our father, deserveth well of thee, My cousin give us water, so may God help thee too.” A hat had Felez Múñoz, from Valencia, fine and new, Therein he caught the water, and to his cousins bore. To drink their fill he gave them, for they were stricken sore. 255 Till they rose up, most earnestly he begged them and implored. He comforts them and heartens them until they are restored. He took the two and quickly set them a-horse again. He wrapped them in his mantle. He took the charger’s rein And sped them on, and through Corpes Wood they took their way. 260 They issued from the forest between the night and day. The waters of Duéro they at the last attain. At Dame Urráca’s tower he left behind the twain, And then unto Saint Stephen’s did Felez Múñoz fare. He found Diégo Tellez, Alvar Fañez’ vassal, there. 265 When he had heard those tidings on his heart great sorrow fell. And he took beasts of burden and garments that excel. Dame Sol and Dame Elvíra to welcome did he go. He lodged the in Saint Stephen’s. Great honor did he show Those ladies. In Saint Stephen’s very gentle are the men, 270 When they had heard the tidings their hearts were sorry then. To the Cid’s daughters tribute of plenteous fare they yield. In that place the ladies tarried, till the time when they were healed. Loud they sang each other’s praises, those Heirs of Carrión, And of their deeds the tidings through all these lands were known. 275 Of the good King don Alfonso the heart for grief was torn. To Valencia the city now are the tidings borne. To my lord Cid the Campeador that message when they brought, Thereon for a full hour’s space, he pondered and he thought. His hand he has uplifted and gripped his beard amain: 280 “Now unto Christ be glory who o’er all the earth doth reign. Since thus sought they of Carrión to keep mine honor whole. Now by this beard that never was plucked by living soul, Thereby the Heirs of Carrión no pleasure shall they gain. As for the dames my daughters, I shall marry well the twain. 285 The Cid and all his courtiers were sorry grievously, Heart and soul Alvar Fañez a sad man was he. Minaya with Per Vermudóz straightway the steed bestrode, And good Martin Antolínez in Burgos that abode, With ten score horse that to that end the Cid set in array. 290 Most earnestly he charged them to ride both night and day, And to the town Valencia his daughters twain to bring.
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About their lord’s commandment there was no tarrying. Swiftly they got on horseback and rode both day and night. Into Gormaz they entered, a strong place of might. 295 In sooth one night they lodged there. To Saint Stephen’s tidings flew That Minaya was come thither to bring home his cousins two. The dwellers in Saint Stephen’s, as becomes the true and brave, To Minaya and his henchmen a noble welcome gave, And for tribute to Minaya brought that night of cheer good store. 300 He desired not to accept it, but he thanked them well therefor; “Thanks, stout men of Saint Stephen’s, for ye bear you wise and well. For the honor that ye did us, for the thing that us befel, Where bides the Cid the Campeador he gives true thanks to you, As I do here. May God on high give you your payment due.” 305 Therewith they thanked him greatly, with him were all content Then swiftly to their lodging to rest that night they went. Where bode his kin, Minaya to see them went his ways. Dame Sol and Dame Elvíra upon him fixed their gaze: “So heartily we thank thee, as our eyes on God were set, 310 And prithee thank Him for it, since we are living yet. In the days of ease thereafter, in Valencia when we dwell, The tale of our affliction, we shall have strength to tell.
CXXXII The dames and Alvar Fañez, the tears flowed from their eyes. Per Vermudóz because of them was sorely grieved likewise. 315 “Dame Sol and Dame Elvíra, be not down-hearted still, Since you are well and living and without other ill. Ye have lost a good marriage, better matches shall ye make.
Image 5.30: Jura de Santa Gadea | The “Santa Gadea Oath,” where the man in the center with the red cape swears on the Bible that he did not murder his brother, while the Cid stands witness.
Author: Marcos Hiráldez Acosta Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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Oh may we soon behold the day when vengeance we shall take!” So all that night they lay there keeping a merry tide. 320 The next day in the morning they fettled them to ride. The people of Saint Stephen’s their party escort bore, With every sort of solace e’en to Riodamor. There they took leave, and got them in stead to travel back. Minaya and the ladies rode forward on the track. 325 They have passed Alcoceva. On the right Gormaz left they. They have come o’er the river in the place called Vadorrey, And in the town Berlanga their lodging have they made. The next day in the morning set forth the cavalcade. In the place called Medína their shelter have they sought. 330 From Medína to Molína on the next day were they brought. And there the Moor Avengalvón was pleased in heart thereby. Forth with good will he issued to give them welcome high, For my lord Cid’s love a supper he gave them rich and great. Thence on unto Valencia they have departed straight. 335 When to him who in good honor was born the news of it was sent, Swiftly he got on horseback, and forth to greet them went. As he rode he brandished weapons; very joyful was his face. My lord the Cid came forward his daughters to embrace. And after he had kissed them he smiled upon the two: 340 “Are ye then come my daughters? ‘Gainst ill God succor you. This marriage I accepted, daring not say otherwise. May the Creator grant it, who dwelleth in the skies, That you with better husbands hereafter I may see. God! on my sons of Carrión grant me avenged to be. 345 “The hands of their father to kiss, the two bent down. And under arms they hastened and came into the town. Their mother Dame Xiména with them good cheer she made. And he who in good hour was born, he tarried not nor stayed, But there unto his comrades so privily he spake: 350 To King Alfonso of Castile those tidings shall they take.
CL
The Cid then put spur to the charger and made him gallop so fast that all were astonished at the career he ran. The King with hand uplifted signed the cross upon his face. “By San Isidro of León, I swear it by his grace 355 Is no nobleman so mighty our whole country o’er.” My lord Cid on the charger came then the King before, And of his lord Alfonso there has he kissed the hand. “To start fleet Baviéca thou gavest me command. Today no Moor nor Christian has a horse so strong and swift. 360 Sire, unto thee I give him. Say thou wilt accept the gift.” Then said the King: “No pleasure would I have therein indeed. If I took him, then less glorious were the master of the steed. But a horse like this befitteth too well a man like thee, 365 Swift to chase the Moors ye routed in the battle, when they flee. Who that war-horse taketh from thee, God succor not again, For by thee and by the charger to great honor we attain.” Their leave then have they taken. He left the Court forthright. The Campeador most wisely counselled them who were to fight: 370 “Ha, Martin Antolínez! Per Vermudóz thou, too, So likewise Muño Gustióz, my tried man and true. Be resolute in combat like the gentlemen ye be.
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See that of you good tidings in Valencia come to me.” Said Martin Antolínez: “Oh sire, what sayest thou? 375 For we must bear the burden we accepted even now. Thou shalt hear naught of the vanquished, though haply of the slain.” He who in happy hour was born, thereof was glad and fain. Of all his leave he taketh that for his friends are known. Went my lord Cid to Valencia, and the King to Carrión. 380 But now the three weeks’ respite of the term is past and o’er. Lo! at the time appointed, they who serve the Campeador, The debt their lord laid on them they were very fain to pay. In safe-keeping of Alfonso, King of León, were they. There for the Heirs of Carrión for two days’ space they stayed. 385 With horses and caparisons, came the Heirs there well arrayed. And in close compact with them have agreed their kinsmen all, On the Campeador his henchmen, if in secret they might fall, To slay them in the meadows, because their lords were silent. They did not undertake it, though foul was their intent, 390 For of Alfonso of León they stood in mighty dread. Watch o’er their arms they kept that night. And prayers to God they said. At last has night passed over, and breaketh now the dawn, And many worthy nobles there to the place have drawn, For to behold that combat, wherefore their mirth was high. 395 Moreover King Alfonso above all men is by, Since he desireth justice and that no wrong should be done. The men of the good Campeador, they get their armour on. All three are in agreement for one lord’s men are they. The Heirs of Carrión elsewhere have armed them for the fray. 400 The Count García Ordoñez sate with them in counsel there. What suit they planned unto the King Alfonso they declare, That neither should Coláda nor Tizón share in that war, That in fight they might not wield them, who served the Campeador That the brands were given over, they deemed a bitter ill; 405 Unto the King they told it. He would not do their will: “When we held the court exception unto no sword did ye take; But if ye have good weapons, your fortune they will make. For them who serve the Campeador the swords e’en so will do. Up, Carrión’s Heirs, to battle now get you forth, ye two! 410 Like noblemen this combat, ye ought duly to achieve, For the Campeador his henchmen naught undone therein will leave. If forth, ye come victorious, then great shall be your fame; But if that ye are vanquished, impute to us no blame. All know ye sought it.” 415 Carrión’s Heirs were filled with grief each one. And greatly they repented the thing that they had done. Were it undone fain were they to give all Carrión’s fee. The henchmen of the Campeador are fully armed all three. Now was the King Alfonso come forth to view them o’er. 420 Then spake to him the henchmen that served the Campeador: “We kiss thy hands as vassals to their lord and master may, ‘Twixt our party and their party thou shalt be judge this day. For our succor unto justice but not to evil stand. Here Carrión’s Heirs of henchmen have gathered them a band. 425 What, or what not, we know not, that in secret they intend; But our lord in thine hand left us our safety to defend. For the love of the Creator justly maintain our part.” Said then the King in answer: “With all my soul and heart.” They brought for them the chargers of splendid strength and speed. 430 They signed the cross upon the selles. They leaped upon the steed.
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The bucklers with fair bosses about their necks are cast. And the keen pointed lances, in the hand they grip them fast. Each lance for each man of the three doth its own pennon bear. And many worthy nobles have gathered round them there. 435 To the field where were the boundaries, accordingly they went. The three men of the Campeador were all of one intent, That mightily his foeman to smite each one should ride. Lo! were the Heirs of Carrión upon the other side, With stores of men, for many of their kin were with the two. 440 The King has given them judges, justice and naught else to do, That yea or nay they should not any disputation make. To them where in the field they sate the King Alfonso spake: “Hearken, ye Heirs of Carrión, what thing to you I say: In Toledo ye contrived it, but ye did not wish this fray. 445 Of my lord Cid the Campeador I brought these knights all three To Carrión’s land, that under my safe-conduct they might be. Wait justice. Unto evil no wise turn your intent. Whoso desireth evil with force will I prevent; Such a thing throughout my kingdom he shall bitterly bemoan.” 450 How downcast were the spirits of the Heirs of Carrión! Now with the King the judges have marked the boundaries out. They have cleared all the meadow of people roundabout. And unto the six champions the boundaries have they shown— Whoever went beyond them should be held for overthrown. 455 The folk that round were gathered now all the space left clear; To approach they were forbiddden within six lengths of a spear. ‘Gainst the sun no man they stationed, but by lot gave each his place. Forth between them came the judges, and the foes are face to face. Of my lord Cid the henchmen toward the Heirs of Carrión bore, 460 And Carrión’s Heirs against them who served the Campeador. The glance of every champion fixes on his man forthright; Before their breasts the bucklers with their hands have they gripped tight, The lances with the pennons now have they pointed low, And each bends down his countenance over the saddlebow; 465 Thereon the battle-chargers with the sharp spurs smote they, And fain the earth had shaken where the steeds sprang away. The glance of every champion fixes on his man forthright. Three against three together now have they joined the fight. Whoso stood round for certain deemed that they dead would fall. 470 Per Vermudóz the challenge who delivered first of all, Against Ferránd Gonzálvez there face to face he sped. They smote each other’s bucklers withouten any dread. There has Ferránd Gonzálvez pierced don Pero’s target through. Well his lance-shaft in two places he shattered it in two. 475 Unto the flesh it came not, for there glanced off the steel. Per Vermudóz sat firmly, therefore he did not reel. For every stroke was dealt him, the buffet back he gave, He broke the boss of the buckler, the shield aside he drave. He clove through guard and armour, naught availed the man his gear. 480 Nigh the heart into the bosom he thrust the battle-spear. Three mail-folds had Ferrándo, and the third was of avail. Two were burst through, yet firmly held the third fold of mail. Ferrándo’s shirt and tunic, with the unpierced iron mesh, A handsbreadth by Per Vermudóz were thrust into the flesh. 485 And forth from his mouth straightway a stream of blood did spout. His saddle-girths were broken; not one of them held out. O’er the tail of the charger he hurled him to the ground. That his death stroke he had gotten thought all the folk around.
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He left the war-spear in him, set hand his sword unto. 490 When Ferránd Gonzálvez saw it, then well Tizón he knew. He shouted, “I am vanquished,” rather than the buffet bear. Per Vermudóz, the judges so decreeing, left him there.
CLI With Dídago Gonzálvez now doth don Martin close The spears. They broke the lances so furious were the blows. 495 Martin Antolínez on sword his hand he laid. The whole field shone, so brilliant and flawless was the blade. He smote a buffet. Sidewise it caught him fair and right. Aside the upper helmet the glancing stroke did smite. It clove the helmet laces. Through the mail-hood did it fall, 500 Unto the coif, hard slashing through coif and helm and all, And scraped the hair upon his brow. Clear to the flesh it sped. Of the helm a half fell earthward and half crowned yet his head. When the glorious Coláda such a war-stroke had let drive, Well knew Dídago Gonzálvez that he could not ‘scape alive. 505 He turned the charger’s bridle rein, and right about he wheeled. A blade in hand he carried that he did not seek to wield. From Martin Antolínez welcome with the sword he got. With the flat Martin struck him. With the edge he smote him not. Thereon that Heir of Carrión, a mighty yell he gave: 510 “Help me, Oh God most glorious, defend me from that glaive.” Wheeling his horse, in terror he fled before the blade. The steed bore him past the boundary. On the field don Martin stayed. Then said the King: “Now hither come unto my meinie. Such a deed thou hast accomplished as has won this fight for thee.” 515 That a true word he had spoken so every judge deemed well.
CLII The twain had won. Now let us of Muño Gustióz tell, How with Ansuór Gonzálvez of himself account he gave. Against each other’s bucklers the mighty strokes they drave. Was Ansuór Gonzálvez a gallant man of might. 520 Against don Muño Gustióz on the buckler did he smite, And piercing through the buckler, right through the cuirass broke. Empty went the lance; his body was unwounded by the stroke. That blow struck, Muño Gustióz has let his buffet fly. Through the boss in the middle was the buckle burst thereby. 525 Away he could not ward it. Through his cuirass did it dart. Through one side was it driven though not nigh unto the heart. Through the flesh of his body he thrust the pennoned spear, On the far side he thrust it a full fathom clear. He gave one wrench. Out of the selle that cavalier he threw. 530 Down to the earth he cast him, when forth the lance he drew. And shaft and lance and pennon all crimson came they out. All thought that he was wounded to the death without a doubt. The lance he has recovered, he stood the foe above. Said Gonzálvo Ansuórez: “Smite him not for God his love. 535 Now is won out the combat for all this game is done.” “We have heard defeat conceded,” said the judges every one. The good King don Alfonso bade them clear the field straightway. For himself he took the armour upon it yet that lay. In honor have departed they who serve the Campeador. 540 Glory be to the Creator, they have conquered in the war.
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Throughout the lands of Carrión was sorrow at the height. The King my lord Cid’s henchmen has sent away by night, That they should not be frightened or ambushed on the way, Like men of prudent spirit they journeyed night and day. 545 Ho! in Valencia with the Cid the Campeador they stand. On Carrión’s Heirs of knavery the three have put the brand, And paid the debt the lord Cid set upon them furthermore. On that account right merry was the Cid Campeador. Upon the heirs of Carrión is come a mighty smirch. 550 Who flouts a noble lady and leaves her in the lurch, May such a thing befall him, or worse fortune let him find. Of Carrión’s Heirs the dealings let us leave them now behind. For what has been vouchsafed them now were they all forlorn. Of this man let us make mention who in happy hour was born. 555 And great are the rejoicings through Valencia the town, Because the Campeador his men had won such great renown. His beard their lord Roy Diaz hard in his hand has ta’en: “Thanks to the King of Heaven, well are ‘venged my daughters twain. Now may they hold their Carrión lands. Their shame is wiped away. 560 I will wed them in great honor, let it grieve whom it may.” They of Navarre and Aragon were busied now to treat, And with Alfonso of León in conference they meet. Dame Sol and Dame Elvíra in due course wedded are. Great were their former matches, but these are nobler far. 565 He gave with greater honor than before the twain to wed; He who in happy hour was born still doth his glory spread, Since o’er Navarre and Aragon as queens his daughters reign; Today are they kinswomen unto the kings of Spain. From him came all that honor who in good hour had birth. 570 The Cid who ruled Valencia has departed from the earth At Pentecost. His mercy may Christ to him extend. To us all, just men or sinners, may He yet stand our friend. Lo! the deeds of the Cid Campeador! Here takes the book an end.
THE TRAVELS OF MARCO POLO
S. Rustichello and Marco Polo (ca. 1254-1324 C.E.)
Written ca. 1298 C.E. Italy
Marco Polo’s father Niccolò and his uncle Maffeo were merchants and adventurers from Venice, who traded with the Middle East for a long time and traveled to Bukhara (currently, the capital of Uzbekistan) ca. 1250, estab- lishing friendly relations with Kublai Khan of the Mongol empire. Kublai Khan’s empire, which ranged from the Pacific to the Black Sea, occupied all of China and other neighboring regions, and officially established the Yuan dynasty (1271-1368) in China. When Niccolò and Maffeo left for the Mongol Court the second time in 1271, they took Marco, who was about sixteen or seventeen years old. After staying in China and serving the emperor for seventeen years, they returned to Venice in 1295. Soon after his return to Venice, Marco was imprisoned by the Genoese, having joined the battle between Venice and Genoa. In prison, he met Rustichello from Pisa, a writer of romances and chivalry literature. Marco Polo dictated his travel story and Rustichello wrote it down in Franco-Ital- ian. The result was meant to be a “description of the world,” and it became an instant success. The title of a popular version of the manuscript was titled “Il Milione (The Million),” and it is known as The Travels of Marco Polo in English. A classic of travel literature, it was particularly influential in Europe in the 15th and 16th centuries, notably to Christopher Columbus.
Written by Kyounghye Kwon
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Image 5.31: The Travels of Marco Polo | Title page for The Travels of Marco Polo published in 1858 by Harper & Brothers.
Author: Hugh Murray Source: HathiTrust Digital Library License: Public Domain
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The Travels of Marco Polo
Travels of Marco Polo
Marco Polo, Translated by Hugh Murray
Preliminary Notice At the time when the events now related took place, ties of a more salutary nature connected Europe with the
Eastern world. The Italian towns had become conspicuous as the scenes where arts and commerce, after being nearly crushed by the inroad of the barbarous nations, first began to revive. Their manufacturing industry, indeed, though very considerable, was surpassed by that of the Low Countries; still they formed almost the sole channel by which intercourse was maintained with Asia, whence at that time were imported all articles of luxury,—precious stones, pearls, spices, and cloths of unrivalled fineness. Venice, Genoa, and Pisa contended with each other in this career; but the first, owing to her situation and superior power, held the principal place. Her position was much advanced by a very extraordinary event, which occurred in the beginning of the thirteenth century. A crusade had been organized in France among a number of the nobles, who, proceeding to Venice, procured the necessary ship- ping by inducing Dandolo, the doge, a gallant chief, with other distinguished persons, to share in the enterprise. On reaching the shores of the Levant, their views took a very singular direction; for instead of advancing to the Holy Land, they turned their arms against Constantinople, carried that capital by storm, and placed Bald win, count of Flanders, on the imperial throne of the East. The Venetians shared, not only the booty, but also the power acquired by this wicked achievement. They were allowed to occupy an extensive quarter of the city, and to maintain there a podesta or bailo, in vested with very ample jurisdiction.
There had never been wanting native merchants, ready to bring the desired commodities from the remoter provinces of Asia to the contiguous parts of Europe. But the Venetian traders, encouraged by their increasing pros- perity, and the advantageous position now attained, began to aim at penetrating into the interior, and obtaining the goods on better terms in the country where they were produced. The dominions of the caliph, the head of the Mo- hammedan faith, opposed, it is true, a powerful obstacle to their taking the most direct route. But the successors of Gengis, though so terrible and merciless in the field, welcomed in their tented cities, without the least distinction of country or religion, all who brought articles that were either ornamental or useful. We have seen from Rubruquis, how Christian merchants, on paving their way with presents, passed unmolested through the camps of Sartach and Baatu. There were soon found distinguished citizens of Venice ready to follow in the same track.
Nicolo and Maffio Polo, two individuals who united the character, then common, of nobles and traffickers, in the middle of the thirteenth century, set out for Constantinople, whence they proceeded to the shores of the Crimea. There they were encouraged to visit a great Tartar chief on the Volga, where a series of events, for which we shall refer to the following narrative, led them on eastwards as far as China. After a short stay, they returned to Venice; and two years later, went back, according to engagement, carrying with them Marco, son to Nicolo, a prom- ising youth. They spent twenty-four years in the East, chiefly at the court of the great khan, the Tartar monarch who ruled over China. At the end of that time they finally returned; but, on reaching Venice, were so completely altered,—their dress, appearance, and even language had become so foreign,—that their nearest friends were unable to recognise them. After obtaining with difficulty access to their paternal mansion, they determined by a public display to satisfy their countrymen as to the happy results of their journey. All their relations and acquaintances were invited to a magnificent feast. They then presented themselves in splendid dresses, first of crimson satin, next of damask, and lastly of velvet bearing the same colour, which they successively threw off and distributed among the company. Returning in their ordinary attire, Marco produced the rags in which they had been disguised, ripped them open, and exhibited such a profusion of diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and precious jewels, as completely daz- zled the spectators. Mr Marsden questions this anecdote, as unsuitable to the dignity of their characters; yet there is no reason to suppose in them any indifference to display; and Ramusio assures us, that about 200 years after, when he was a boy, he had been told it by Malipiero, an aged and respectable senator, who had heard the story from his own grandfather. It appears certain, that on the news of their wealth and adventures, persons of all ranks, ages, and professions, flocked to the house with congratulations and inquiries. Marco, whose society was courted by all the distinguished youths, stood forth as principal orator. Having often occasion in his enumerations of people and treasure, to repeat the term million, then not very common in Europe, the surname of Millione was applied to him, first in jest, but Ramusio says he has seen him thus named in the records of the republic; and the house in which he lived, down to that day, bore the title of the Corte del Millione. Count Boni has even adopted this as the title of his learned work on the subject.
Meantime, he appears not to have thought of committing his observations to writing; and the fruits of his travels would probably never have reached posterity, but for a severe misfortune by which he was overtaken. Venice and Genoa, those two mighty rivals, were then at open war; and news arrived that a fleet belonging to the latter had appeared on the coast of Dalmatia. Andrea Dandolo was immediately sent against them, when Marco, with
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characteristic spirit, offered his services, and was appointed to the command of a galley. The squadrons encountered near the island of Curzola; and it was a disastrous day for Venice. Her fleet was completely defeated; and Dandolo himself, who was made prisoner, escaped only by a voluntary death the ignominy of being carried in triumph to Genoa. Marco, also, was wounded and taken; but, too wise to imitate the rash example of his commander, he was conveyed to that city, and lodged in prison. Here, according to Ramusio, his character and adventures excited an extraordinary interest; and being visited by the principal inhabitants, his captivity was rendered as mild as possible. A more important circumstance was, that he had a fellow-prisoner, Rusticians, a citizen of Pisa, though of French origin, who was imbued with an enthusiastic love of legendary and romantic lore. One of such a temper could not but listen with rapture to the wondrous tale of his companion; and it was soon agreed between them, that it would be most unjust to the world to with hold from it the knowledge of so many marvellous scenes as those which he had witnessed. Marco, we suspect, was no great penman; but his companion was fond of composition, though with- out having attained very high proficiency. We quite agree with Count Boni, from the tenor of the narrative, that the traveller wrote no part of it, but merely dictated; nay, we doubt much if there was any such regular or author-like process as this term would imply. We should rather say that he talked it to his companion, who wrote it down as he best could. The frequent change from the first to the third person seems to prove, that while some parts were thus committed to paper, others were written from memory after the conversation. Thus, by a curious combination of circumstances, was produced, in a foreign language and an irregular form, this extraordinary history. It was still a sealed book to the traveller’s countrymen; but there seems every reason to believe that it soon received an Italian dress, under which it was rapidly circulated. On the 12th May 1299, peace was concluded between the two rival cities; and Marco in consequence regained his liberty.” On his arrival, he found a considerable change in the fam- ily. His father, dreading, it is said, that through the son’s captivity there should be no heirs to his great wealth, had taken a young wife; not being, perhaps, unwilling to excuse, on this ground, a step which might seem unsuitable to his age. Hence Marco found on his return three young brothers who had been born during his absence. He had too much discretion to take umbrage at this circumstance, or the consequent diminution of riches, which, indeed, were still sufficiently ample for all parties. Following soon after the example of his parent, he became the father of two daughters, named Moretta and Fantina. The rest of his life was spent in Venice; but modern inquirers have in vain sought to trace in it a single incident. It has only been discovered, that his will was made in 1323, proving him to have at least exceeded the age of sixty-six.
Introductory Narrative of the Journey Prologue—Journey of Nicolo and Maffio Polo into the East—Their Arrival at the Court of Kublai, the Tartar Emperor
of China—Sent back on a Mission to the Pope—Return, carrying Marco with them—Final Departure, and Voyage through the Indian Ocean to Persia—Arrival at Venice.
Prologue Emperors, kings, dukes, marquises, counts, knights, and all persons wishing to know the various generations
of men in the world, also the kingdoms, provinces, and all the regions of the East, read this book: in it you will find very great and wonderful things of the nations, chiefly of Armenia, Persia, and Tartary, India, and various other provinces. In the present work Messer Marco Polo, a prudent and learned citizen of Venice, relates in order the various things which he himself saw, or heard from men of honour and truth. And those who read this book may be assured that all things in it are true. For I would have you to know that, from the creation of Adam to the pres- ent day, no Pagan, or Saracen, or Christian, or any other person of whatever race or generation, explored so many parts of the world, or saw such great wonders, as this Messer Marco Polo. He being in the year of our Lord 1295 shut up as a captive in the prisons of Genoa, thought with himself what a great evil it would be, if the wonders seen and heard by him should not be known to those who could not view them with their own eyes. He therefore caused the accounts here contained to be written by Messer S. Rusticians of Pisa, who was confined with him in the same prison, in the year of our Lord 1298.
I—Nicolo and Maffio Polo travel into the East In the year of our Lord 1250, the Emperor Baldwin reigning at Constantinople, Nicolo Polo, father of the said
Marco, and Maffio, brother of Nicole, entered a ship, laden with divers costly goods; and, spreading their sails, committed themselves to the deep. They arrived in safety at Constantinople, where they disposed of their cargo with advantage. They then determined to proceed together, in search of farther profit, to the Greater Sea and, hav- ing purchased many precious jewels, departed from Constantinople, and, entering a ship, sailed to Soldaia. After remaining there some days, they resolved to proceed farther, and, mounting on horseback, came by continued jour-
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neys to Sara, the residence of Barka Khan, king and lord of the Tartars, who then inhabited Bulgaria. That prince, who was much rejoiced at their arrival, received them very honourably and kindly. They gave him all the jewels brought from Constantinople, which he gladly accepted, and bestowed in return double their value. After they had dwelt in this city a year, a most furious war arose between Barka and Alau, the ruler of Eastern Tartary. Their forces were led against each other; and, after a very sharp contest and much slaughter on both sides, Alau was victorious.) This war rendered it impossible for the Venetians to return with safety by the same road, and they thought it advis- able to proceed eastward, and endeavour by another route to find their way back to Venice. Departing from Barka they happily reached a certain city named Oukaka, subject to the dominion of a western chief. Thence they passed a river named Tigris, and wandered through a desert during seventeen successive days, finding no inhabitants, except Tartars dwelling in tents and subsisting by their cattle. They then came to a city in the province of Persia, named Bokhara, the noblest in that country, governed by a king called Barak. Here, being unable to proceed, they remained three full years.
II—They arrive at the Court of the Tartar Emperor of China While the brothers sojourned in Bokhara, it happened that Alau, lord of the East, despatched ambassadors to
the sovereign of all the Tartars, who in their language is called the great khan, meaning the king of kings, and whose name was Kublai. They, on meeting the brothers, felt not a little wonder, having never seen any men from the Latin countries. And dressing them courteously, they besought that they would accompany the embassy to the khan, promising much honour and wealth, since, though wonderfully desirous, he had never seen one of their nation. The Venetians made a suitable answer, and frankly agreed to comply with the request. They set out and continued a whole year travelling in a north-eastern direction; and though much delayed by heavy snows and the swelling of rivers, at length reached the residence of that mighty monarch, having beheld on their way many wonderful objects, which will be described hereafter in this book.
III—Their Reception Kublai, illustrious for his benignity, received the brothers kindly and joyfully, being very desirous to see Lat-
ins. He urgently inquired what sort of emperor they had, how he lived and administered justice; asking questions also respecting the supreme pontiff, and all the acts and manners of the Christians—to which they made judicious replies in the Tartar language, which they had learned.
IV—Sent back on an Embassy to the Pope This great king and master of all the Tartars in the world, and of all those regions, being informed respecting
the actions of the Latins, was greatly pleased. Calling a council of his barons, he informed them, that he wished to send messengers to the pope, the lord of the Christian; which they unanimously approved. He then asked the brothers in friendly terms to be the bearers of his message; and this they prudently declared themselves ready and willing to undertake. He next ordered letters to be written, to be conveyed by them in company with a certain baron named Kogotal, whom he assigned as a companion. He instructed them, after the necessary salutations, to request of his holiness to send a hundred wise men, learned in all the seven arts, who might show to the idolaters, and oth- ers subject to his dominion, the diabolical nature of their law, and how that of the Christians was superior. Farther, he piously enjoined them to bring a portion of the oil of the lamp burning in Jerusalem before the sepulchre of our Saviour. Moreover, he gave to them a golden tablet marked with his seal, containing an express order, that wherever they went they should have their necessities supplied. Having received this, and taken leave of the king, barons, and the whole court, they mounted their horses and commenced their journey. After some days, Kogotal, the baron, at a city named Alau, fell sick and could not proceed; but the brothers went on till they came safely to Laias in Arme- nia. In this journey, however, owing to the bad roads, and the large rivers which they could not cross on horseback, three years were consumed. Wherever they went, on showing the golden tablet, they were received with the greatest honours, and supplied with whatever they wanted.
V—Find him dead, and await a new Election Departing from Laias in April 1269, the brothers arrived at Acre, where they learned with much grief that his
holiness Clement IV was dead. They there fore went to Theobald, viscount of Piacenza, who resided there as legate of the apostolical see, and was a man of high authority and virtue. They related to him the cause why they wished to visit the supreme pontiff. He was struck with admiration, and revolving in his mind, that the holy Roman church and the Christian faith might hence derive the greatest benefit, advised them to wait till another pope should be named, to whom they might deliver their embassy. They there fore determined to spend the interval in visiting their families
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at Venice. Departing from Acre, they proceeded to Negropont, and thence to their native city. Here Messer Nicolo found that his wife, whom he left pregnant, had died, leaving a son named Marco, the same who wrote this book.
Waiting the appointment of another pope, the travellers spent two full years at Venice.
VI—Their Return to Kublai At last seeing that no pontiff was elected, and unwilling to delay their return to the great khan, they departed,
taking with them Marco, son of Nicolo. They repaired to Acre, and told the legate, that having tarried too long, and there being no appearance of an election, they must beg permission, in conformity with that monarch’s injunctions, to take the portion of oil from the lamp burning before the sepulchre. Having obtained his consent, they went to Jerusalem, took what they desired, and returned, when he gave them letters, with permission to depart. They proceeded from Acre to Laias; but during their stay there, were informed that the legate himself had been appoint- ed pope, under the name of Gregory X of Piacenza, being the same who afterwards held a council at Lyons, on the Rhone. The new pontiff sent a messenger after them, desiring their immediate return; and they joyfully obeyed, making the voyage in a galley prepared for them by the King of Armenia. They paid their homage to his holiness, who received them graciously, loaded them with many honours, and gave them two very learned friars, of the order of preachers, the wisest that could be found in those parts, named Nicolo of Vicenza and William of Tripoli, to accompany them to the great khan. He bestowed on them letters and privileges, instructed them in the message which he wished to be conveyed to that monarch, and gave his benediction to Nicolo, Maffio, Marco, and the two friars. They then proceeded together to Laias; but while there, the Soldan of Babylonia, named Bonduchdaree, came with a mighty army to attack the city. In these circumstances, the preachers, struck with the fear of war, and with the dangers already encountered, gave to Nicolo and Maffio certain letters, and resolved to proceed no farther. Then the brothers commenced their journey, and by constant marches arrived safely at a very rich and powerful city named Clemenfu, where the great khan resided. The observations made by them on this expedition will be narrated afterwards in the proper place; but on account of the severe weather, as well as the difficulty and danger of passing the rivers, they consumed in it three years and a half. When their return became known to the khan, he rejoiced exceedingly, and ordered forty of his messengers to go to meet them, by whom they were supplied with every neces- sary, and loaded with honours.
VII—They are honourably received Having reached this great city, where the monarch had his abode, they went to his palace, presenting them-
selves most humbly on bended knees. He desired them to rise, and asked how they did; they replied, that, by the grace of God, they were well, especially since they had found him healthy and cheerful. He then inquired about their transactions with the supreme pontiff, when they explained to him all that they had done, delivering the letters confided to them by Pope Gregory. He received them graciously, commending them for their fidelity and attention. They next presented the oil from the sepulchre, which he reverently accepted. He inquired, who was that young man with them, to which Nicole replied: “my lord, he is your servant, my son.” “Then,” said the great khan, “he is welcome, I am much pleased with him.” He celebrated their return by a joyful feast; and while they remained in his court, they were honoured before all his barons.
VIII—Employments and Missions of Marco During this stay, Messer Marco acquired the Tartar and four other languages, so as to speak and write them
well; he learned also their manners, and became in all things exceedingly sensible and sagacious. When the great khan saw him display so much worth and prudence, he sent him as his messenger to a very distant land, which it required six months to reach. He returned and reported his embassy very sensibly, relating many new things respecting the countries through which he had travelled; while other ambassadors, being able to say nothing, except about the special message intrusted to them, were accounted foolish and ignorant by the khan, who was greatly delighted to become acquainted with the varieties of nations. Messer Marco, aware of this, studied all these strange objects, and thus pleased beyond measure his majesty and the barons, who predicted that, if he lived, he would become an eminent man. In short, he remained in the court of the khan seventeen years, and never ceased to be employed as an ambassador. The other chiefs then began to envy the honours paid to him, and his knowledge of the country, which exceeded that of any other person who ever visited it.
IX—They seek to return Home After Nicolo, Maffio, and Marco had remained long at the court of the great khan, and accumulated very con-
siderable wealth in gold and jewels, they felt a strong desire to revisit their native country. Nicolo therefore took
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an opportunity one day, when the monarch seemed in particularly good humour, to throw himself at his feet, and solicit for them all permission to depart; but the sovereign was now so much attached to his visitors that he would by no means listen to this proposal. It happened, however, that the Queen Bolgana, the spouse of Argon, lord of the East, died, and in her last will enjoined that he should receive no wife unless of her family. He therefore sent as am- bassadors to the khan three barons, Aulatam, Alpusca, and Goza, with a great train, requesting a lady of the same lineage with the deceased queen. The monarch received the embassy with joy, and selected a young princess of that house. Every thing being arranged, and a numerous train of attendants appointed, they were graciously dismissed, and began their return; but after travelling eight months, their advance was rendered impossible by fresh wars that had arisen among the Tartar princes. They were therefore very reluctantly obliged to retrace their steps, and state the cause that had arrested their progress. It happened that at that time Marco arrived from a voyage to India, and, by relating the novelties he had observed, pleased those envoys very much, proving himself well fitted to guide them by this route, which he recommended as shorter and easier than that by land. They therefore besought as a favour of the khan, that the Latins might accompany them and the queen. The sovereign granted this favour, yet unwillingly, on account of his love for them.
X—Voyage, and Arrival at Venice When that great monarch saw that they were about to depart, he called them before him, and delivering golden
tablets signed with the royal seal, ordered that they should have free passage through his land, and that their charges, with those of all their family, should be every where defrayed. He caused to be prepared fourteen ships, each with four masts, and many with twelve sails; upon which the barons, the lady, and the three brothers took leave, and, with numerous attendants, went on board. The prince gave them their expenses for two years; and after sailing three months, they came to a certain island named Java, where are many wonderful things, which I shall relate in this book. They then departed from it; and I must tell you that they sailed through the seas of India full eighteen months, and saw many strange objects, which will also be hereafter described. At length they came to the court of King Argon, but found that he was already dead, when it was determined to give the princess in marriage to Casan, his son. I must tell you, that though in that vessel there embarked full 600 persons, exclusive of mariners, all died except eighteen and they found the dominion of the land of Argon held by Achatu, to whom they very tenderly recom- mended the lady on the part of the great khan. Casan was then at a place on the borders of Persia, which has its name from the arbor secco, where an army of 60,000 men was assembled to guard certain positions against hostile irrup- tion. They accordingly went thither, fulfilled their mission, and then returned to the residence of Achatu, where they reposed during the space of nine months. They then took leave and went on their way, when the monarch presented four golden tablets, with instructions that they should be honoured, and all the expenses of themselves and their family defrayed. This was fully executed, so that they frequently went accompanied by 200 horsemen. I have also to tell you to the honour of those three Latins, in whom the great khan had placed such confidence, appointing them to conduct the Queen Cocacin, with a daughter of the King of Manji, to Argon, the lord of the East;—that those two young and beautiful ladies were guarded by them as if they had been their daughters, and bestowed upon them the veneration due to fathers. Indeed, Cocacin and her husband Casan, now reigning, treated the messengers with such kindness, that there was nothing they would not have done for them; and when they were about to depart, the queen grieved very much, and even shed tears. Thus, after much time and many labours, by the grace of God they came to Trebisond, then to Constantinople, Negropont, and finally to Venice. They arrived in the year 1295, bringing with them great riches, and giving thanks to God, who had delivered them from many labours and dangers.
Part I Description of China, and of the Court of the Emperor Kublai.
Kublai, Great Khan of the Tartars, and Emperor of China—His War with Nayan—Favour for the Christians— Description of Kambalu (Peking)—An Insurrection there—Great Festivals celebrated by the Emperor—Their Order and Pomp—His extensive Hunting Expeditions—Leopards, Falcons, and other Animals employed—Mode of pursuing and taking the Game—Hunting Palace at Shanduin Tartary—At Cianganor—Paper Money—Large Reve- nue—Arrangement of his Government and Officers—Bounty towards the People—Manners and Superstitions of the Chinese—Marco Polo’s Journey through the Western Provinces—Thibet, Bengal, and the neighbouring Countries— Return to the Vicinity of Peking Journey through the Eastern Provinces—The Yellow River—Manjior Southern China—Its Conquest by Kublai—Character of the deposed king—Nan-king and other great Cities—The Kiang—Its immense Trade and Shipping—Kin-sai, the Capital—Its extra ordinary Extent and Magnificence—Splendour of its Palace—Journey through Tche-kiang and Fo-kien—The Porcelain Manufacture—Arrival at Zai-tun or Amoy.
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I—Power and Magnificenco of Kublai Now I am to give you a wonderful account of the greatest king of the Tartars, still reigning, named Kublai, or
lord of lords. That name is assuredly well merited, since he is the most powerful in people, in lands, and in treasure, that is, or ever was, from the creation of Adam to the present day; and by the statements to be made in this book, every man shall be satisfied that he really is so. Whosoever descends in the direct line from Gengis is entitled to be master of all the Tartars, and Kublai is the sixth great khan. He began to reign in the year of our Lord 1256, and maintained the dominion by his valour, address, and wisdom. His brothers sought to oppose his succession, but by bravery and right he triumphed over them. From the beginning of his reign, forty-two years have elapsed to the present day, in the year 1298. He is now full eighty-five years old, and before his accession commanded many armies, when he approved himself good at weapons, and a brave captain. But since that time he has joined the army only once, which was in the year 1286, and I will tell you on what occasion.
II—Insurrection raised by Nayan You must understand that a certain cousin of his, named Nayan, who, like his ancestors, was his vassal, yet had
many lands and provinces of his own, and could raise 400,000 horsemen, being thirty years old, refused to remain longer in subjection, and assumed the whole sovereignty to himself. He sent to a certain great lord, named Kaidu, a nephew of that monarch, but in rebellion against him, and desirous of doing him the greatest injury. To him Nayan proposed to attack the monarch on one side, while he himself advanced on another, so that they might acquire the dominion over his whole territory. Kaidu declared himself well pleased, and promised to be ready at the time appointed. He could bring into the field 100,000 cavalry; and those two assembled a mighty army on horseback and foot, and marched against the great khan.
III—Kublai prepares to meet him When Kublai learned these things, he was not at all alarmed, but declared, that he wished he might never wear
a crown, nor hold sway over a kingdom, if he did not bring the traitors to an evil death. He therefore made his whole army be prepared in twenty-two days, and so secretly, that nothing was known beyond his own council. He raised full 360,000 mounted soldiers, and 100,000 infantry; and the reason of their number not being greater, was, that they consisted only of his huntsmen, and those immediately round his person, the rest being employed in car- rying on distant wars; for if he could have assembled his whole host, the multitude would have been such as no man could have numbered. He then called his astrologers, and asked of them if he would be victorious; they answered, that he would do to his enemies according to his pleasure.
IV—Description of the Battle The great khan having assembled these forces, took his departure, and in twenty days came to a vast plain,
where Nayan had assembled all his troops, amounting to 400,000 warriors. The khan took much care to scour the paths, and intercept all who could have carried the intelligence; so that when he approached at dawn of day, the reb- el was lying asleep in bed with a favourite wife, not having the least dread of his arrival, and, consequently, no guard on any side of the camp. Kublai then advanced, having a tower fixed upon four elephants, whereon were placed his ensigns, so that he could be seen by the whole army. His men, divided into bands of twenty thousand, surrounded in a moment the adverse force, each soldier having a footman on the crupper behind him, with a bow in his hand. When Nayan and his men saw their camp thus encircled by the khan and his host, they were seized with amaze; yet they ran to arms, formed themselves in order of battle, and were soon prepared to strike. Then began the beating on many instruments, and singing with loud voices; for it is the custom of the Tartars, that until the horn termed nac- car is winded the troops do not engage. But when that grand trumpet of the great khan was sounded, all the other performers began playing, and raising their voices very loud, making a noise that was truly most wonderful. Then the two armies rushed against each other with sword, spear, and lance, while the footmen were prepared with bow and quiver. The battle was fierce and cruel; the arrows filled the air like rain; horses and horsemen were seen falling to the ground; and the tumult was such, that if Jove had thundered, he could not have been heard. Nayan was a baptized Christian, and therefore had the cross upon his standard. Never, in our day, was there so hard and terrible a combat, nor so many assembled on one field, especially of horsemen; and the number who fell on both sides was fearful to behold. The battle continued from nine in the morning till mid day; but the great khan at last remained master of the field. When Nayan and his men saw that they could hold out no longer, they betook themselves to flight; but it availed them nothing; he was taken, and all his troops surrendered.
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V—The Death of Nayan When that great monarch heard that Nayan was taken, he ordered him to be put to death in the manner I am
now to tell you. He was wrapped in a carpet, and violently tossed to and fro till he died. This mode was adopted, that, being of imperial lineage, his blood might not be shed on the ground, nor his cries ascend into the air. When that battle was gained, four of his provinces paid tribute and homage to the great khan. These were Cicorcia, Cauli, Bastol, and Suchintin.
VI—Kublai silences the Mockery of the Jews and Saracens When the monarch had achieved this triumph, the Saracens, Pagans, Jews, and other generations of men who
believe not in God, expressed wonder at the cross which the vanquished leader had carried on his standard, and said in derision of the Christians,—“see how the cross of your God has aided Nayan and his people.” They made such a noise on this subject, that it came to the ears of the prince, who was much displeased, and sending for the Christians, said to them,—“if your God did not assist Nayan, he acted with great justice, because he is a good and righteous God. Nayan was a traitor and rebel against his lord, and there fore God did well in not assisting him.” Then the Christians replied,—“O, great sire! thou hast spoken the truth, for the cross will aid nothing unjust, and he met only what he well deserved.” Having gained this victory, the great khan returned to his capital, Kambalu, with much festival and rejoicing. When the other king, named Kaidu, heard how his ally had been worsted, he was struck with fear, and did not attempt to lead his army against the monarch. Now you have seen how that prince went to battle, and for what cause, while on all other occasions he sent his son and his barons; but this war was of such magnitude that it seemed to deserve his own immediate presence.
VII—His Opinions as to the Christian Religion The grand khan, having obtained this splendid victory, returned with great pomp and triumph to his capital of
Kambalu. He arrived there in November, and remained till after March, in which month our festival of Easter oc- curred. Aware that this was one of our most solemn periods, he commanded all the Christians to attend him, bring- ing with them their book containing the four gospels. He caused it, in a very respectful manner, to be repeatedly per- fumed with incense, ordering all his nobles present to do the same. Such was the custom upon each of the two great festivals of Easter and Christmas; and he followed the same course as that pursued by the Saracens, Jews, and idola- ters. Being asked the reason of this conduct, he replied,—“there are four great prophets revered and worshipped by different classes of mankind. The Christians hold Christ as their divinity; the Saracens, Mohammed; the Jews, Moses; and the idolaters, Sogomombar Khan, their most distinguished idol. I honour and respect all the four, and seek aid from them, as any one of them may really be supreme in heaven.” Yet, from the behaviour of his majesty towards the Christians, he evidently believed their faith the best and truest; observing, that it enjoined nothing on its professors that was not full of virtue and holiness. He would not indeed allow the cross to be borne before them in processions, because, as he said, on it so exalted a person had been nailed and put to death. Some may ask, why if thus partial to the true faith, he did not openly embrace it? He stated his reason to Nicolo and Maffio Polo, when, on his sending them ambassadors to the Pope, they ventured to address to him a few words on the subject. “Why,” said he,” should I become a Christian? You must yourselves see that the professors of that faith now in this country are ignorant and weak, unable to do anything extraordinary, while the idolaters have power to do whatever they please. While I am seated at table, the cups, filled with wine or other beverage, come to me from the middle of the hall spontaneously, without being touched by any human hand. They are able to control bad weather, and force it to retire to any quarter of the heavens; they can perform other wonderful things of the same nature. You have witnessed their idols exercis- ing the faculty of speech, and predicting whatever events are inquired into. Should I become a convert and profess Christianity, the nobles of my court, and others disinclined to the faith, will ask what adequate motives have induced me to be baptized. What wonders, what miracles, they will say, have its ministers performed? But the idolaters de- clare, that their exhibitions are made through their own holiness and the might of their idols. To this I shall be unable to make any answer, and be considered as labouring under a grievous mistake, while the heathen teachers, by the profound art which they display, may easily accomplish my death. Return, however, to your pontiff, and present to him my request, that he would send a hundred persons learned in your law, who, when confronted with the others, will be able to control them, and while proving themselves endowed with similar skill, shall render their antagonists unable in their presence to carry on these practices. On witnessing this, I will interdict the exercise of their religion, and suffer myself to be baptized. This example will be followed by all my nobility, and by my subjects in general; so that the Christians in these regions will become more numerous than those inhabiting your own country.” From this language it evidently appears that had the pope sent out persons duly qualified to preach the gospel, the great khan would have embraced that faith, for which he certainly entertained a strong predilection.
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VIII—Rewards bestowed on his Soldiers Now let us tell of the officers and barons of the great khan, and how he rewarded those who fought with him
in the battle against Nayan. To those who commanded 100 men, he gave the command of 1,000, and to those of 1,000 that of 10,000; and he bestowed, according to their rank, tablets of gold or of silver, on all of which was writ- ten,—“By the might of the great God, and by the favour which he gave to our emperor: may that prince be blessed, and may all those who do not obey him die and be destroyed.” Those who hold these documents enjoy certain privileges, with written instructions how they are to exercise their authority. He who commands 100,000 men re- ceives a golden one, weighing 300 saggi, under which is sculptured a lion on one side, and on the other the sun and moon. Those who bear these noble tablets have instructions, that whenever they ride they should bear above their head an umbrella of gold, and as often as they are seated, it should be upon silver. There are also tablets whereon is sculptured a gerfalcon, which he gives to three great barons, who have then equal authority with himself. They can take, whenever they please, and lead from place to place, the troops and horses of any prince or king; and whoever dares to disobey in any thing their will and mandate, must die as a rebel to the sovereign.” Now let us speak of the outward form and manners of this mighty prince.
IX—The Person of Kublai—His Wives, Concubines, and Sons The great khan, lord of lords, named Kublai, is of a fine middle size, neither too tall nor too short; he has a
beautiful fresh complexion, and well-proportioned limbs. His colour is fair and vermeil like the rose, his eyes dark and fine, his nose well formed and placed. He has four ladies, who always rank as his wives; and the eldest son, born to him by one of them, succeeds as the rightful heir of the empire. They are named empresses; each bears his name, and holds a court of her own; there is not one who has not 300 beautiful maidens, with eunuchs, and many other male and female attendants, so that some of the courts of these ladies contain 10,000 persons; and when he wishes to visit any one, he makes her come to his apartment, or sometimes goes to hers. He maintains also a number of concubines. There is a race of Tartars who are called Migrat or Ungrat, and are a very handsome people. From them are selected 100 girls, the most beautiful in all their country, who are conducted to court. He makes them be guard- ed by the ladies of the palace; and they are examined if they have a sweet breath, and be sound in all their limbs. Those that are approved in every respect wait upon their great lord in the following order: six of them attend every three days, then other six come in their place, and so on throughout the year. It may be asked, if the people of this province do not feel aggrieved by having their children thus forcibly taken away. Assuredly not: on the contrary, they regard it as a favour and an honour; and the fathers feel highly gratified when their daughters are thus selected. If, says one, my daughter is born under an auspicious planet, his majesty can best fulfil her destiny by marrying her more nobly than I can do. On the contrary, if the young lady, by bad conduct or any misfortune, be found dis- qualified, he attributes the dis appointment to her malignant stars. Know, too, that the great khan has by his wives twenty-two sons; the elder was named Gyngym Khan, and was to be lord of all the empire after his father; but he died, leaving a son named Temur, who in time will succeed; he is a wise and good man, tried in many battles. The monarch has also twenty-five sons by his concubines; and each is a great baron; and of the twenty-two sons by his four wives, seven reign over large kingdoms, like wise and good men, because they resemble their father,—and he is the best ruler of nations and conductor of wars in the world. Now I have told you about himself, his wives, sons, and concubines; next I will relate how he holds his court.
X—His magnificent Palace in Kambaln He resides in the vast city of Kambalu, three months in the year, December, January, and February, and has here
his great palace, which I will now describe. It is a complete square, a mile long on every side, so that the whole is four miles in circuit; and in each angle is a very fine edifice, containing bows, arrows, cords, saddles, bridles, and all other implements of war. In the middle of the wall between these four edifices are others, making altogether eight, filled with stores, and each containing only a single article. Towards the south are five gates, the middle one very large, never opened nor shut unless when the great khan is to pass through; while on the other side is one by which all enter in common. Within that wall is another, containing eight edifices similarly constructed; in which is lodged the wardrobe of the sovereign. These walls enclose the palace of that mighty lord, which is the greatest that ever was seen. The floor rises ten palms above the ground, and the roof is exceedingly lofty. The walls of the cham- bers and stairs are all covered with gold and silver, and adorned with pictures of dragons, horses, and other races of animals. The hall is so spacious that 6,000 can sit down to banquet; and the number of apartments is incredible. The roof is externally painted with red, blue, green, and other colours, and is so varnished that it shines like crys- tal, and is seen to a great distance around. It is also very strongly and durably built. Between the walls are pleasant meadows filled with various living creatures, as white stags, the musk animal, deer, wild goats, ermines, and other
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beautiful creatures. The whole enclosure is full of animals, except the path by which men pass. On the other side, towards the south, is a magnificent lake, whither many kinds of fish are brought and nourished. A river enters and flows out; but the fish are retained by iron gratings. Towards the north, about a bowshot from the palace, Kublai has constructed a mound, full a hundred paces high and a mile in circuit, all covered with evergreen trees which never shed their leaves. When he hears of a beautiful tree, he causes it to be dug up, with all the roots and the earth round it, and to be conveyed to him on the backs of elephants, whence the eminence has been made verdant all over, and is called the green mountain. On the top is a palace, also covered with verdure; it and the trees are so lovely that all who look upon them feel delight and joy. In the vicinity is another palace, where resides the grandson of the great khan, Temur, who is to reign after him, and who follows the same life and customs as his grandsire. He has already a golden bull and the imperial seal; but he has no authority while his grandfather lives.
XI—Description of the City of Kambalu Having described to you the palaces, I will tell you of the great city of Cathay, which contains them. Near it is
another large and splendid one, also named Kambalu, which means in our language city of the lord; but the mon- arch, finding by astrology that this town would rebel, built another near it, divided only by a river, and bearing the same name, to which its inhabitants were compelled to remove. It forms a regular square, six miles on each side, and thus twenty-four miles in circumference. It is surrounded by walls of earth, ten paces thick and twenty in height; yet the upper part becomes gradually thinner, so that at top the breadth is only three paces. There are twelve gates, each containing an edifice, making one in each square of that wall, and filled with men, who guard the place. The streets are so broad and so straight that from one gate an other is visible. It contains many beautiful houses and palaces, and a very large one in the midst, containing a steeple with a large bell, which at night sounds three times; after which no man must leave the city without some urgent necessity, as of sickness, or a woman about to bear a child. At each gate a thousand men keep guard, not from dread of any enemy, but in reverence of the monarch who dwells within it, and to prevent injury by robbers.
XII—The Suburbs—Merchants When the monarch comes to his chief city, he remains in his noble palace three days and no more, when he
holds a great court, making high festival and rejoicing with his ladies. There is a vast abundance of people through all the suburbs of Kambalu, which are twelve in number, one corresponding to each gate; no one can count the number of residents; and they contain as stately edifices as any in the city, except the king’s palace. No one is al- lowed to be buried within the city; and no females of bad character can reside there, but most have their dwellings in the suburbs, where there are said to be no fewer than 20,000. There are brought also to Kambalu the most costly articles in the world, the finest productions of India, as precious stones and pearls, with all the produce of Cathay and the surrounding countries, in order to supply the lords and the barons and ladies who reside there. Numerous merchants, likewise, bring more than a thousand wagons laden with grain; and all who are within a hundred miles of the city come thither to purchase what they want.”
XIII—Wicked Administration of Achmac—Insurrection I will hereafter particularly mention a council of twelve persons, having power to dispose at will of the lands,
governments, and all things belonging to the state. One of these, a Saracen, named Achmac, had acquired an extraordinary influence with the great khan; indeed his master was so infatuated with him that he allowed him the most uncontrolled license. It was even discovered after his death that he had employed spells to fascinate the khan, and compel him to give full credit to what was told him by his favourite, who was thus enabled to conduct public affairs according to his pleasure. He disposed of all the commands and public offices; passed sentence upon offend- ers; and when desirous to inflict an injury on any one whom he hated, needed only to go to the emperor and say, “such a man has been guilty of an offence against your majesty, and deserves death.” The monarch usually replied, do as you judge best, and Achmac then ordered him to be immediately executed. So manifest were the proofs of his influence, and of the sovereign’s implicit reliance on his statements, that no one dared to contradict him on any occasion; even those highest in office stood in awe of him. Any one charged by him with a capital offence, whatever means he might employ to justify himself and refute the accusation, could not find an advocate; for none dared to oppose the purpose of Achmac. Thus he caused unjustly the death of many, and was also en abled to indulge his un- lawful propensities. Whenever he saw a woman who pleased him, he contrived either to add her to the number of his wives, or to lead her into a criminal intimacy. On receiving information of any man having a beautiful daughter, he despatched emissaries with instructions to say to him, “what are your views with regard to this handsome girl? the best thing you can do is to give her to the lord-vice gerent;” for so they termed Achmac, implying that he was
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his majesty’s representative; “we will induce him to appoint you to a certain government or office for three years.” The father was thus tempted to give away his child; and as soon as the affair was arranged, the other went and informed the emperor that a government was vacant, or would become so on a particular day, and recommended the parent as well qualified to discharge its duties. His majesty consented; and the appointment was immediately made. Thus, either through ambition to hold high office, or dread of his power, he obtained possession of the fairest females, under the denomination of wives or of concubines. Besides, he had twenty-five sons, who held the highest offices in the state, and, availing themselves of his authority, were guilty of similar violent and licentious proceed- ings. He had likewise accumulated great wealth, since every one who obtained an appointment found it requisite to make him a liberal present.
During a period of twenty-two years, he exercised this absolute authority. At length the Kataians, natives of the country, unable to endure longer his multiplied acts of injustice and violation of domestic rights, began to devise means of bringing about his death and the overthrow of the government. Among the leading persons in this plot was Chenku, a commander of 6,000 men, in whose family his dissolute conduct had spread dishonour. He proposed the measure to one of his nation, named Vanku, who commanded 10,000 men, and suggested for its execution the period when the great khan, having completed his three months’ residence in Kambalu, should have departed for his palace at Shandu, while his son Gengis had also retired to the place usually visited by him at that season. The charge of the city was then intrusted to Achmac, who communicated all affairs that occurred during his master’s absence, and received the necessary instructions. Vanku and Chenku, having thus consulted together, imparted the design to some leading persons among the Kataians, and also to their friends in various other cities. They formed an agreement, that on a certain day, immediately on perceiving a signal made by fire, they should rise and put to death all persons wearing beards. This distinction was made be cause they themselves naturally wanted this append age, which characterized the Tartars, the Saracens, and the Christians. The grand khan, having ac- quired the sovereignty of Kataia, not by any legitimate right, but solely by force of arms, placed no confidence in the natives, and therefore intrusted all the provincial governments to Tartars, Saracens, Christians, and other foreigners belonging to his household. From this cause his reign was universally detested by the people, who found themselves treated as slaves by the Tartars, and still worse by the Saracens.
Vanku and Chenku, having thus arranged their plans, succeeded at night in entering the palace; when the for- mer placed himself on one of the royal seats, made the apartment be lighted up, and sent a messenger to Achmac, then residing in the old city. He professed to come from Gengis, the emperor’s son, who, he said, had unexpectedly arrived, and required his immediate attendance. The viceroy was much surprised by this intelligence; but, as he stood in awe of the prince, he presently obeyed. On passing the gate of the new city, he met the Tartar officer named Kogatai, who commanded the guard of 12,000 men, and who asked him whither he was going at that late hour. He stated his intention of waiting upon Gengis, whose arrival had just been announced to him. “It is very surprising,” said the officer, “how he should have come so secretly that I was not apprized of it, so as to send a party of guards to attend him.” The two Kataians, meantime, felt confident, that if they could succeed in despatching Achmac, they had nothing farther to fear. On entering the palace, and seeing so many lights blazing, he prostrated himself before Vanku, whom he supposed to be the prince, when Chenku, who held a sword ready in his hand, severed his head from his body. Kogatai had stopped at the door; but, seeing this catastrophe, he exclaimed that treason was at work, and presently discharged an arrow, which slew Vanku as he sat upon the throne. He then caused his men to seize the other, and despatched an order to the city to kill every one who should be found abroad. The Kataians, however, seeing the conspiracy discovered, one of their chiefs killed, and the survivor a prisoner, remained in their houses, and could not make the concerted signals to the other towns. Kogatai lost no time in sending messengers with a particular relation of these events to the khan, who, in reply, ordered him diligently to investigate the conspiracy, and to punish according to the degree of their guilt those found implicated in it. Next day, after receiving this com- mand, he examined all the Kataians, and inflicted the punishment of death on the ringleaders. Other cities known to have participated in the guilt suffered similar inflictions.
When his majesty returned to Kambalu, he inquired eagerly into the cause of this disturbance, and learned that the infamous Achmac and seven of his sons (the others being less culpable) had committed several enormities. He gave orders that the treasure, which he had accumulated to an incredible amount, should be removed from his place of residence to the new city, where it was lodged in his own treasury. He directed even that his corpse should be disinterred, and thrown into the street, where the dogs might tear it in pieces. The sons, who had pursued the same criminal course with their father, were ordered to be flayed alive. Considering also the principles of the accursed sect of the Saracens, which allow them to indulge in the commission of every crime, and even to murder those who differ from them on points of belief, whence even the detestable Achmac and his sons might have imagined them- selves guiltless, he regarded the whole body with contempt and abomination. Summoning them to his presence, he forbade the continuance of many practices enjoined in their law, ordering that in future their marriages should be
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arranged according to the Tartar custom; and that, in killing animals for food, instead of cutting their throats, they should rip open the stomach. Marco Polo was on the spot when these events took place.
XIV—Guards of the Great Khan When the great khan holds a court, he is guarded, on account of his excellency and honour, by 12,000 horse-
men, who are called quiesitan, that is, faithful servants of their lord; and this he does not from fear but regard to his high dignity. Over these 12,000 are four captains, so that each commands 3,000; and they keep guard in turn three days and three nights, eating and drinking at the expense of the prince. Then they go away, and another party comes; and so they proceed throughout the whole year.
XV—The Magnificence of his Festivals When the khan wishes to celebrate a splendid festival, the tables are so arranged that his is much higher than
the others, and he sits on the north, with his face toward the south. His first wife is seated beside him on the left, while, on the right, are his sons and nephews, and all those of imperial lineage, who are so stationed that their head is on a level with the feet of the monarch. The barons sit still lower; while the ladies, daughters, and female relations of the khan are placed beneath the queen on the left side, and under them all the wives of the barons; every class knows the spot where they ought to sit. The tables are so arranged that the monarch can see all the company, who are very numerous; and outside of that hall there eat more than 40,000 persons, who have come with presents or remarkable objects from foreign parts, and attend on the days when he holds a court or celebrates a marriage. In the midst of this hall is a very large vessel of fine gold, containing wine, and on each side two smaller ones, whence the liquor is poured out into flagons, each containing fully enough for eight men; and one of these is placed between every two guests, who have besides separate cups of gold to drink out of. This supply of plate is of very great value, and indeed the khan has so many vessels of gold and silver that none without seeing could possibly believe it.
At each door of the great hall, or of any part of the palace occupied by his majesty, stand two officers of gigantic height, holding in their hands staves, to prevent persons who enter from touching the threshold. If any one chances to commit this offence, they take from him his garment, which he must redeem by a payment, or if they spare his dress, inflict at least a number of blows fixed by authority. As strangers may not be aware of this prohibition, officers are appointed to warn them of it at the time of introduction. Since, however, some of the company, on leaving the hall, may be so affected with liquor as to be unable to guard against the accident, it is not then severely punished. Those who serve the khan at table are great barons, who hold their mouths carefully wrapped in rich towels of silk and gold, that their breath may not blow upon the dishes. When he begins to drink, all the instruments, which are very numerous, are sounded, and while the cup is in his hand, the barons and others present fall on their knees, and make signs of great humility; this is done every time he drinks, or when new viands are brought in. These I shall not attempt to recount, since any one may believe that he will have the greatest variety of beasts and birds, wild and domestic, and of fishes in their season, and in the greatest abundance, prepared most delicately in various modes suitable to his magnificence and dignity. Every baron or knight brings his wife, and she sits at table along with the other ladies. When the great sire has eaten, and the tables are removed, a number of jesters, players, and other witty persons perform various pieces, exciting much mirth and pleasure among the company, who then all depart and go to their homes.
XVI—Great Festival at the King’s Birthday The Tartars celebrate a festival on the day of their nativity. The birthday of the khan is on the 28th September,
and is the greatest of all, except that at the beginning of the year. On this occasion he clothes himself in robes of beaten gold, and his twelve barons and 12,000 soldiers wear like him dresses of a uniform colour and shape; not that they are so costly, but similarly made of silk, gilded, and bound by a cincture of gold. Many have these robes adorned with precious stones and pearls, so as to be worth 10,000 golden bezants. The great khan, twelve times in the year, presents to those barons and knights robes of the same colour with his own; and this is what no lord in the world can do. On the day of his nativity, all the Tartars from every province of the world, who hold lands under him, celebrate a festival, and bring presents suited to their station. The same is done by every individual who asks from him any favour or office. He has twelve barons who bestow commands on such persons as they think proper. On that day, the Christians, Saracens, and all the races of men who are subject to him, make prayers to their gods that they will preserve, and grant him a long, healthy, and happy life. I will tell you no more of this festival, but of another which they celebrate at the beginning of the year, called the White Feast.
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XVII—Festival of the New Year The Tartars begin their year in February, when the khan and his people celebrate a feast, where all, both men
and women, are clothed in white robes. They consider these as signifying joy and good fortune, and that hence all prosperity will happen to them throughout the year. On that day, all who hold land or any dominion under him, make the most magnificent presents in their power, consisting of gold, silver, pearls, precious stones, and rich white cloths; so that, during the whole year, he may have abundance of treasures, and of the means of enjoying himself. They present also more than 5,000 camels, with about 100,000 beautiful white horses. On that day, too, he is grat- ified with at least 5,000 elephants covered with cloths of silk and gold, finely wrought with figures of beasts and birds, and each having on his back a box filled with vessels of gold and silver, and other things necessary for the feast. They all pass before the great khan, and form the most brilliant spectacle ever seen in this world. In the morn- ing of that festal day, before the tables are spread, the kings, generals, counts, astrologers, physicians, falconers, and many other officers and rulers, repair to the hall of the sovereign, and those who are not admitted remain without the palace in a place where the monarch can fully see them. They are in the following order:—Foremost, his sons, nephews, and others of his lineage, then kings, generals, and others according to their rank. As soon as each has taken his place, a great prelate rises and says, with a loud voice, “incline and adore;” and presently all bend down, strike their foreheads on the earth, and make prayers to their master, adoring him as a god.” This they do four times, and then go to an altar, on which is written the name of the great khan. Then, out of a beautiful box, they pour incense on that table in reverence of him, and return to their place; they next make those rich and valuable presents which I have described. When all these things have been done, and the prince has seen them all, the tables are placed, and they sit down, when the feast is ordered and celebrated in the manner already explained. Now that I have described to you the joy of the White Feast, I will tell you of a most noble thing done by this monarch; for he has ordered vestments to be bestowed upon the barons there present.
XVIII—Robes bestowed by the Great Khan He has twelve barons, who are called quiesitan, or the faithful men of the supreme lord. He gives to each
thirteen vestments, differing in colour, and adorned with precious stones, pearls, and other great and most valu- able articles; also a golden girdle, and sandals worked with threads of silver, so that each, in these several dresses, appears like a king; and there is a regulation what dress ought to be worn at each of the feasts. The monarch has thirteen robes of the same colour with those of his barons, but more costly. And now I will relate a most wonderful thing, namely, that a large lion is led into his presence, which, as soon as it sees him, drops down, and makes a sign of deep humility, owning him for its lord, and moving about without any chain. Now you shall hear of the great huntings made by this powerful ruler.
XIX—Profusion of Game supplied to his Court He resides in the city of Cathay, that is Kambalu, three months, December, January, and February, and has com-
manded that, for forty days’ journey round, all the people should engage in hunting and falconry. The various lords of nations and lands are ordered to bring to him large beasts, stags, boars, wild-goats, and other animals. Those at the distance of thirty days’ journey send the bodies preserved with the entrails taken out, while those at forty send only the skins, which are employed as furniture for his army.
XX—Leopards and other wild Animals kept for Hunting Now let us tell of the beasts which his majesty keeps for hunting. Among these are leopards and lynxes, or
stag-wolves, well fitted for that purpose. He has also many lions larger than those of Babylon, of a beautiful hair and colour, striped lengthways, black, red, and white, and trained to catch stags, wild-oxen, hogs, wild-goats, and asses; and it is delightful to see one of these chases, where the hunters go out, carrying the lion in a cage, and with him a small dog. They have likewise abundance of eagles, with which they capture hares, foxes, and even wolves; those which are trained to catch these last are very large, and of great weight, so that no wolf can escape them.
XXL—His numerous Dogs and splendid Hunting Expeditions Now let us speak of the dogs kept by this monarch. He has two barons who are brothers, named Bayam and
Migam; they are called cinuci, that is, the keepers of mastiff dogs, and each commands a party of 10,000 men, one clothed in vermilion, and the other in blue; whenever they go out with the monarch they are dressed in these vest- ments. In each party there are 2,000 of the men, who guide respectively one, two, or more large mastiffs, making altogether a vast multitude. When his majesty goes to hunt, these two brothers attend him on opposite sides, each
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with 10,000 men and 5,000 dogs; and they hunt thus a day’s journey distant from each other, and never pursue any animal which is not captured. It is indeed beautiful to see the speed of these dogs and the hunters, for when the prince goes out with his barons, boars and other animals are running on every side, and the dogs pursuing.
XXII—Falconry and the Chase after Birds When the monarch has remained in Kambalu these three months, he departs and goes southward to the ocean
two days’ journey distant. He leads with him 10,000 falconers, conveying full 5,000 gerfalcons, peregrine falcons in abundance, and also many vultures; but do not imagine that these are all kept in one place; there are 200 here, 300 there, and so on. The birds caught are mostly presented to the great sire, and when he goes to hunt with his ger- falcons, vultures, and falcons, 10,000 men are ranged, two together, so as to enclose much ground; these are called toscaor, meaning in our language men who remain on the watch, and each has a call and a hood to invite the birds. And when any falconer, by order of his majesty, sends forth a falcon, he has no need to follow it, because wherever it may go, it is watched by the men ranged in double order, who can either catch it again, or if necessary afford it succour. Each of the birds belonging to the sovereign and barons has a tablet of silver on its feet, with its name and that of the owner inscribed, so that wherever caught, it can be returned to him. If he is unknown, the animal must be carried to a chief named bulangazi, or guardian of things that are lost, who stands with his flag on an elevated spot, and all who have missed any thing go to him and recover it. Whoever finds a horse, a bird, a sword, or any thing else, and does not carry it to the owner or to this officer, is treated as a robber; thus scarcely any thing is ever lost. When the monarch goes upon these excursions, he has with him four elephants, and a chamber prepared, covered within with cloth of beaten gold, and outwardly with lions’ skins, where he keeps twelve of his very best gerfalcons, with twelve barons to amuse him by their society. As the falconers ride by, they call, “Sire, the birds are passing,” when he throws open the chamber, and seeing the object, selects the gerfalcons that please him, and sends them forth against the birds, few of which ever escape. Lying on his couch, he can view and enjoy the chase. Thus, I think, there is not, and never will be, any lord in the world, who has or can have so much diversion as the great khan.
XXIII—Magnificent Tents of the Great Khan When this mighty monarch comes to one of his places, named Chaccia, he causes his tents to be pitched, with
those of his sons and barons. These exceed 10,000 in number, and are very beautiful and rich. That in which he keeps his court is so large that 1,000 knights can dwell in it; this is for his nobles and other attendants. He himself resides in another, looking west ward, where those to whom he wishes to speak are introduced; while there is an interior chamber in which he sleeps. The two halls have each three fine columns of aromatic wood, and are covered outwardly with beautiful lions’ hides, all striped with black, white, and vermilion, so that water cannot enter. The inside is lined with skins of ermine and zibelline, of the highest value, especially the latter, of which a robe suitable for a man would be worth 2,000 golden bezants, while a common one would be worth 1,000. The Tartars call them royal skins, and they are as large as those of a fawn; the whole hall is covered with them, worked most delicately in intaglio. These apartments contain furniture of such value that a little king could not purchase them. Around are large tents for his ladies, and for his gerfalcons and other beasts and birds; for he brings all his train, doctors, as- tronomers, hunters, and other officials, so that the whole appears a large and crowded city. He remains there till the feast of the Resurrection, during which time he does nothing but chase cranes, swans, and other birds, when those who catch any bring them to him, and thus the sport is beyond what any one can describe. No baron, nor lord, nor husbandman, can keep a dog or falcon for twenty days’ journey round his residence; beyond that distance they may do what they please. No person, too, of whatever condition, must, from March to October, take any game, but leave them to multiply their kind; so that hares and stags become so fearless as frequently to come up to men, yet are not taken. The great khan then returns to the city of Kambalu by the same road, hawking and sporting.
XXIV—Hunting Palace at Shandu in Tartary At Shandu in Tartary, near the western frontier of China, he has built a very large palace of marble and oth-
er valuable stones. The halls are gilded all over and wonderfully beautiful, and a space sixteen miles in circuit is surrounded by a wall, within which are fountains, rivers, and meadows. Here he finds stags, deer, and wild-goats to give for food to the falcons and gyrfalcons, which he keeps in cages, and goes out once a week to sport with them. Frequently he rides through that enclosure, having a leopard on the crupper of his horse, which, whenever he is inclined, he lets go, and it catches a stag, deer, or wild-goat, which is given to the gerfalcons in the cage. In this park, too, the monarch has a large palace framed of cane, the interior gilded all over, having pictures of beasts and birds most skilfully worked on it. The roof is of the same material, and so richly varnished that no water can penetrate. I assure you these canes are more than three palms thick, and from ten to fifteen paces long. They are cut length
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ways, from one knot to the other, and then arranged so as to form the roof. The whole structure is so disposed that the khan, when he pleases, can order it to be taken down, for it is supported by more than 200 cords of silk. His majesty remains there three months of the year, June, July, and August, the situation being cool and agreeable; and during this period his palace of cane is set up, while all the rest of the year it is down. On the 28th of August, he departs thence, and for the following purpose:—There are a race of marcs white as snow, with no mixture of any other colour, and in number 10,000, whose milk must not be drunk by any one who is not of imperial lineage. Only one other race of men can drink it, called Boriat, because they gained a victory for Gengis Khan. When one of these white animals is passing, the Tartars pay respect to it as to a great lord, standing by to make way for it. The astrolo- gers and idolaters, too, have told the khan, that on the 28th August this milk must be sprinkled through the air, and over the earth, that the spirits may drink plentifully, and may preserve all that belong to him, men, women, beasts, birds, and other things. But there is a wonderful circumstance that I had forgotten. When the monarch remained in that palace, and there came on rain, fog, or any bad weather, he had skilful astronomers and enchanters, who made these mischiefs fly away from his palace, so that none of them could approach it. These wise men are called Tebet and Quesmur; they are idolaters, and more skilful in diabolical arts and enchantments than any other generation; and though they do it by the art of the devil, they make other men believe that it is through their great sanctity and by the power of God. I must tell you, too, another of their customs, that when any man is judged and condemned to death by his lord, they cook and eat him, but not when he dies a natural death. I will tell you, too, a great wonder which these baksi do by their enchantments. When the monarch sits at table in his hall of state, and the cups are ten paces distant, full of wine, milk, and other beverages, they cause them, by their magical spells, to rise from the pave- ment and place themselves before the prince, without any one touching them; this is done in the presence of 10,000 men; and the fact is real and true, without any lie. These baksi, when the festivals of their idols come round, go to his majesty and say, “Great sire, you know the feast of such an idol approaches, and are aware that he can cause bad weather and much mischief to your cattle and grain. We pray, therefore, that you will give us all the sheep with black heads, also incense, aloe-wood, and such and such other things.” This they tell to the barons, who repeat it to the khan, and he gives what they demand. Then they go to the image and raise in his presence a delicious fragrance, with incense and spices, cook the flesh, and place it with bread before him. Thus every god has his day of commem- oration in the same manner as our saints. They have also extensive abbeys and monasteries, one of which here re- sembles a little city, containing upwards of 2,000 monks, who are clothed in a particular dress, which is handsomer than that of other men. They worship their idols by the grandest feasts, songs, and lights that ever were seen. And I may tell you that many of these baksi, according to their order, may take wives, do so, and have a number of chil- dren. Yet there is another kind of religious men called sensi, who observe strict abstinence; they eat nothing but the husks of corn boiled in warm water, fast often in the course of the year, have many large idols, and sometimes adore fire. Their observances differ from those of every other sect; they would not take a wife for any thing in the world. They shave the head and beard, wear black and blue dresses of coarse canvas, sleep upon mats, and lead the hardest life of any men on earth. Their monasteries and their idols all bear the names of women.
XXV—Palace at Cianganor At Cianganor, too, three days’ journey distant, the khan has a large palace, where he is fond of residing, because
there are many lakes and rivers, as well as fine plains, abounding in cranes, pheasants, partridges, and other birds. Here, therefore, he has delightful hawking, and abundant exercise for his falcons and gyrfalcons. There are five kinds of cranes which I must describe. The first are black like crows, and very large. The second are white, and very beautiful, for all the feathers are full of round eyes, like those of the peacock, and glitter like gold. The head is white, black, and red all round, and they are larger than any of the others. The third species resemble ours. The fourth are small, and have in their ears very magnificent red and black feathers. The fifth are all gray, with handsome red and black heads, and are very large. Near this city is a valley where the khan has ordered the erection of various small houses, in which are kept flocks of partridges, and he employs a number of men to guard these birds, so that they are in abundance; and whenever he comes into this palace, he finds as many as he desires.
XXVI—Paper Money—Immense Wealth of the Great Khan With regard to the money of Kambalu, the great khan may be called a perfect alchymist, for he makes it him-
self. He orders people to collect the bark of a certain tree, whose leaves are eaten by the worms that spin silk. The thin rind between the bark and the interior wood is taken, and from it cards are formed like those of paper, all black. He then causes them to be cut into pieces, and each is declared worth respectively half a livre, a whole one, a silver grosso of Venice, and so on to the value of ten bezants. All these cards are stamped with his seal, and so many are fabricated, that they would buy all the treasuries in the world. He makes all his payments in them, and circulates them through the kingdoms and provinces over which he holds dominion; and none dares to refuse
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them under pain of death. All the nations under his sway receive and pay this money for their merchandise, gold, silver, precious stones, and whatever they transport, buy, or sell. The merchants often bring to him goods worth 400,000 bezants, and he pays them all in these cards, which they willingly accept, because they can make purchases with them through out the whole empire. He frequently commands those who have gold, silver, cloths of silk and gold, or other precious commodities, to bring them to him. Then he calls twelve men skilful in these matters, and commands them to look at the articles, and fix their price. What ever they name is paid in these cards, which the merchant cordially receives. In this manner the great sire possesses all the gold, silver, pearls, and precious stones in his dominions. When any of the cards are torn or spoiled, the owner carries them to the place whence they were issued, and receives fresh ones, with a deduction of 3 per cent. If a man wishes gold or silver to make plate, girdles, or other ornaments, he goes to the office, carrying a sufficient number of cards, and gives them in payment for the quantity which he requires. This is the reason why the khan has more treasure than any other lord in the world; nay, all the princes in the world together have not an equal amount.
XXVII—The Twelve Governors of Provinces and their Duty He has appointed twelve very great barons, who hold command over all things in the thirty-four provinces.
They reside in a palace within the city of Kambalu, large and beautiful, containing many halls and apartments; and for every province there is an agent and a number of writers or notaries, having each a house to himself. They manage all the provincial affairs according to the will and pleasure of the twelve barons. The latter have power to appoint the lords of the provinces above mentioned; and having chosen the one whom they judge best qualified, they name him to the great khan, who confirms him, and bestows a golden tablet corresponding to his command. These twelve barons are called in the Tartar language scieng, that is, the greater officers of state. They order the army to go where and in what numbers they please, but all according to the commands of the great sire; and they do every other thing necessary for the provinces. The palace in which they dwell is called scien, and is the largest in all the court; they have the power of doing much good to any one whom they favour.
XXVIII—The Couriers of the Great Khan and their Stations I must now inform you, that from the city of Kambalu, many messengers are sent to divers provinces, and on all
the roads they find, at every twenty-five miles, a post called jamb, where the imperial envoys are received. At each is a large edifice, containing a bed covered with silk, and every thing useful and convenient for a traveller; so that if a king were to come, he would be well accommodated. Here, too, they find full 400 horses whom the prince has ordered to be always in waiting to convey them when sent into any quarter, along the principal roads. When they have to go through any district where there is no habitation, the monarch has caused such edifices to be reared at the distance of thirty-five or at most forty miles; thus they go through all the provinces, finding every where inns and horses for their reception. This is the greatest establishment that ever was kept by any king or emperor in the world; for at those places there are maintained more than 200,000 horses. Also the edifices, furnished and prepared in the manner now described, amount to more than 10,000. Moreover, in the intervals between these stations, at every three miles, are erected villages of about forty houses, inhabited by foot-runners, also employed on these despatches. They wear a large girdle, set round with bells, which are heard at a great distance. When one of them receives a letter or packet, he runs full speed to the next village, where his approach being announced by the bells, another is ready to start and proceed to the next, and so on. By these pedestrian messengers the khan receives news in one day and night from places distant ten days’ journey; in two, from those distant twenty; and in ten, from those distant a hundred. From them he exacts no tribute, but gives them horses and many other things. When his messengers go on horseback to carry intelligence into the provinces or bring tidings from distant parts, and, more especially, respecting any district that has rebelled, they ride in one day and night 200, 250, or even 300 miles; and when there are two, they receive two good horses, bind themselves round the head and body, and gallop full speed from one station to the next at twenty-five miles’ distance, where they find two others fresh and ready harnessed, on which they proceed with the same rapidity. They stop not for an instant day nor night, and are thus enabled to bring news in so short a period. Now, I will tell you the great bounty which the monarch bestows twice in the year.
XXIX—The Care and Bounty of the Monarch towards his Subjects He sends his messengers through all his kingdoms and provinces, to know if any of his subjects have had their
crops injured through bad weather or any other disaster; and if such injury has happened, he does not exact from them any tribute for that season or year; nay, he gives them corn out of his own stores to subsist upon, and to sow their fields. This he does in summer; in winter he inquires if there has been a mortality among the cattle, and in that case grants similar exemption and aid. When there is a great abundance of grain, he causes magazines to be formed, to contain wheat, rice, millet, or barley, and care to be taken that it be not lost or spoiled; then when a scarcity
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occurs, this grain is drawn forth, and sold for a third or fourth of the current price. Thus there cannot be any severe famine; for he does it through all his dominions; he bestows also great charity on many poor families in Kambalu; and when he hears of individuals who have not food to eat, he causes grain to be given to them. Bread is not refused at the court throughout the whole year to any who come to beg for it; and on this account he is adored as a god by his people. His majesty provides them also with raiment out of his tithes of wool, silk, and hemp. These materials he causes to be woven into different sorts of cloth, in a house erected for that purpose, where every artisan is obliged to work one day in the week for his service. Garments made of the stuffs thus manufactured are given to destitute families for their winter and summer dresses. A dress is also prepared for his armies; and in every city a quantity of woollen cloth is woven, being defrayed from the tithes there levied. It must be observed, that the Tartars, according to their original customs, when they had not yet adopted the religion of the idolaters, never bestowed alms; but when applied to by any necessitous person, repelled him with reproachful expressions, saying,—begone with your complaints of a bad season, God has sent it to you, and had he loved you, as he evidently loves me, you would have similarly prospered. But since some of the wise men among the idolaters, especially the baksi, have represented to his majesty, that to provide for the poor is a good work and highly grateful to their deities, he has bestowed charity in the manner now described, so that, at his court, none are denied food who come to ask for it. He has also so ar- ranged that in all the highways by which messengers, merchants, and other persons travel, trees are planted at short distances on both sides of the road, and are so tall that they can be seen from a great distance. They serve thus both to show the way and afford a grateful shade. This is done whenever the nature of the soil admits of plantation; but when the route lies through sandy deserts or over rocky mountains, he has ordered stones to be set up, or columns erected, to guide the traveller. Officers of rank are appointed, whose duty it is to take care that these matters be properly arranged, and the roads kept constantly in good order. Besides other motives, the great khan is influenced by the declaration of his soothsayers and astrologers, that those who plant trees receive long life as their reward.
XXX—Liquor used for Wine in Cathay You must know that the greater part of the people of Cathay drink a wine made of rice and many good spices,
and prepare it in such a way that it is more agreeable to drink than any other liquid. It is clear and beautiful, and it makes a man drunk sooner than any other wine, for it is extremely hot.
XXXI—Stones which are burnt instead of Wood It may be observed, also, that throughout the whole province of Cathay, there are a kind of black stones cut
from the mountains in veins, which burn like logs. They maintain the fire better than wood. If you put them on in the evening, they will preserve it the whole night, and will be found burning in the morning. Throughout the whole of Cathay this fuel is used. They have also wood indeed; but the stones are much less expensive.
XXXII—The Astrologers of Kambalu—the Tartar Computation of Time The city of Kambalu contains, inclusive of Christians, Saracens, and Kataians, about 5,000 astrologers and
soothsayers, whom the emperor provides with food and clothing, as he does the poor families; and they are con- stantly practising their art. They have astrolabes, on which are delineated the planetary signs, the hours of passing the meridian, and their successive aspects during the whole year. The astrologers of each separate sect annually examine their respective tables, to ascertain thence the course of the heavenly bodies, and their relative positions for every lunation. From the paths and configurations of the planets in the several signs, they foretell the state of the weather and the peculiar phenomena which are to occur in each month. In one, for instance, there will be thunder and storms; in another earthquakes; in a third violent lightning and rain; in a fourth pestilence, mortality, war, dis- cord, conspiracy. What they find in their astrolabes they predict, adding, however, that God may at his pleasure do either more or less than they have announced.
Their annual prophecies are written on small squares called takuini, which are sold at a moderate price to all persons anxious to search into futurity. Those whose announcements prove more generally correct are accounted the most perfect masters of their art, and consequently held in the highest honour. When any one projects a great work, a long journey for commercial purposes, or any other undertaking, the probable success of which he is desir- ous to learn, he goes to one of these astrologers, informs him of the time at which he intends to set out, and inquires what aspect the heavens then exhibit. The astrologer replies, that before he can answer, he must be informed of the year, month, and hour of his nativity, on learning which he examines how the constellation that was then in the ascendant corresponds with the aspect of the celestial bodies at the time of the inquiry. Upon this comparison he founds his prediction as to the favourable or unfavourable issue of the enterprise.
The Tartars compute time by a cycle of twelve years, the first of which they name the lion; the second, the ox;
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the third, the dragon; the fourth, the dog; and so on till all the twelve have elapsed. When any one, therefore, is asked the year in which he was born, he answers, it was in that of the lion, on such a day, and at such an hour and minute; all of which had been care fully noted in a book. When the years of the cycle are completed, they begin again with the first, and constantly go over the same ground.
XXXIII—Religion and Customs of the Tartars (Chinese) These people are idolaters, and each person has, for the object of worship, a tablet fixed against an elevated part
of the wall of his apartment, having a name written on it which denotes the high, heavenly, and mighty God, and this they daily worship, burning incense before it. Raising their hands, and beating their faces three times against the floor, they entreat from him the blessings of sound understanding and bodily health, addressing no other peti- tion. Below, on the floor, they have a statue named Natigai, considered as the god of terrestrial objects, or of what- ever is produced on the earth. They suppose him to have a wife and children, and worship him in the same manner with incense, lifting their hands, and bending to the ground. They pray to him for good weather, plentiful crops, increase of family, and other such objects. They believe the soul to be so far immortal, that immediately after death it enters another body, and according as a man’s actions in this life have been virtuous or wicked, his future state will be progressively more or less fortunate. If he has been poor, yet acted worthily and respectably, he will be born anew, first of a lady, becoming himself a gentleman; then of a woman of rank, becoming a noble man, and he will continually ascend in the scale of existence till he becomes united with the divinity. On the contrary, if a gentle- man’s son have acted unworthily, he will, at his next birth, become a clown, and at length a dog; descending always to a condition more vile than the former.
They converse courteously, accosting each other with politeness and with countenances expressive of pleasure; they have a well-bred air, and a manner of eating particularly cleanly. The utmost reverence is shown to parents; and should any child treat his with disrespect, or neglect to assist them, there is a public tribunal having for its es- pecial object to punish the crime of filial ingratitude. Malefactors, when found guilty, after being apprehended and thrown into prison, are strangled; but such as remain till the expiry of three years, a time appointed by his majesty for a general release, are set at liberty, having however a brand fixed on one of the cheeks, by which they may be recognised.
The great khan has prohibited all gambling and other species of fraud, to which this people are addicted beyond any other upon earth; and as a reason for this prohibition, he tells them in his edict, “I subdued you by the power of my sword, and consequently whatever you possess belongs of right to me; in gambling, there fore, you sport with my property.” Yet he does not, by the right thus claimed, take any thing on an arbitrary principle. The orderly and regular manner in which all ranks present themselves before him deserves notice. On approaching within half a mile of his residence, they testify their reverence for his exalted rank by an humble, subdued, and quiet demeanour, so that not the least noise is heard, nor does any one call, or even speak aloud. Every man of rank carries with him, while he continues in the hall of audience, a vessel into which he spits, that he may not soil the floor; and having done so, he replaces the cover, and makes a bow. They usually take with them handsome buskins of white leather, and on reaching the court, before entering the hall, where they wait to be summoned by his majesty, put them on, giving those worn in walking to the care of the servants. This precaution is taken that they may not sully the beauti- ful carpets, curiously wrought with silk and gold, and exhibiting a variety of colours.
XXXIV—Marco Polo’s Journey—The River Pulisangan and its beautiful Bridge I have now to inform you that the great khan having sent Messer Marco as his ambassador into the western
provinces, he departed from Kambalu, and travelled in that direction full four months. You shall now hear all that he saw on that journey going and returning. When a man leaves Kambalu and has gone ten miles, he finds a river called Pulisangan, which flows on to the ocean, and is crossed by many merchants with their goods. Over it is a grand stone bridge, which has not its equal in the world; it is 300 paces long and eight broad, and ten horsemen can ride abreast over it. It has twenty-four arches, supported by piers in the water, and is wholly of marble, finely wrought into columns in the manner that I will tell you. At the head of the bridge is a column of marble, above and beneath which are beautifully carved lions of the same material, and about a pace distant is another column, with its lions, and between the two are slabs of gray marble, to secure passengers from falling into the water; and the whole bridge thus formed is the most magnificent object in the world.
XXXV—The great City of Gco-gui After leaving that bridge a man travels thirty miles westward, finding every where fine trees, villages, and inns,
and then comes to a city which is named Geo-gui. The country is rich in grain, the people are all idolaters; they
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live by merchandise and the arts, making cloth of gold, as well as silk, and beautiful linen. There are also numerous houses for the reception of strangers. A mile beyond that city are two roads, one leading westward through Cathay, the other southward to the great province of Manji. In riding westward through Cathay full ten days, you find al- ways handsome cities and castles, abundance of arts and merchandise, fine inns, trees, vines, and a civilized people.
XXXVI—The Cities of Ta-in-fu and Pi-an-fu At the end of this journey is a kingdom named Ta-in-fu, with a capital of the same name. It contains many arts
and much merchandise, with a large supply of stores necessary for the imperial army. The district presents numer- ous vineyards, and being the only part of Cathay where wine is made, supplies it to the surrounding provinces. It yields also much silk, abounding in the trees on which the worms are fed. A degree of civilisation prevails among all the people of this country, in consequence of their frequent intercourse with the numerous towns which lie very near each other. The merchants are constantly carrying their goods from one to another, as fairs are successively held at each. Five days’ journey beyond the ten already mentioned, there is said to be another city still larger and handsomer, named Achbaluch, where are the limits of his majesty’s hunting-ground, within which no person must sport, except princes of his family, and others whose names are inscribed on the grand falconer’s list; beyond, all persons qualified by their rank have that liberty. The khan scarcely ever follows the chase in this quarter; hence the wild animals, especially hares, multiply to such a degree, as to cause the destruction of all the growing corn. This having come to his knowledge, he was induced to repair thither with his whole court, and prodigious quantities of game were then taken. Leaving Ta-in-fu, and riding westward full seven days through very fine districts, amid numerous merchants, you find a large town, named Pi-an-fu, supported by commerce and the silk manufacture.
XXXVII—The Castle of Caya-fu—Story of its King and Prester John Two miles west of Pi-an-fu is a famous castle, named Caya-fu, built anciently by a king named Dor. In this
castle is a very beautiful palace, with a great hall, containing portraits, beautifully painted, of all the kings who formerly reigned in these provinces. Having mentioned this King Dor, I will tell you a curious story of what passed between him and Prester John. The two sovereigns being at war, Dor was in so strong a situation that the other could not reach him, and was therefore much chagrined; upon which seven of his servants said that they would bring before him his adversary, and if he wished even alive. He said he should be very much obliged to them. Having obtained this permission, they went to the king and presented themselves as strangers desirous to serve him. He gave them an honourable welcome, and they began their duties with the utmost zeal, rendering themselves extremely acceptable. After they had remained two years, he became greatly attached to them, and confided in their love as if they had been his sons. Now hear what these wicked fellows did, and how difficult it is to find defence against a traitor. The king happened to go out on an excursion with a small number of persons, among whom were these seven. When they had passed a river distant from the palace, seeing that the king had not attendants enough to defend him, they laid hands on him, drew their swords, and threatened to kill him unless he instantly went along with them. He was greatly surprised, and said to them,—“What mean you by this, my sons!—what are you saying—whither do you wish me to go!” They replied:—“We wish you to come with us to Prester John, who is our master.” When Dor heard this, he almost died with grief, and said,—“ha! my good friends, have I not honoured and treated you as children; why will you betray me into the hands of my enemy! This would be a most wicked and disloyal action.” They replied that it must be so. They led him to their sovereign, who rejoiced greatly, and addressed the king in very rough language. He made no reply, not knowing what to answer; upon which, the other set him to keep his cattle, as a mark of disgrace and contempt, and during two years he performed this menial office. After that time Prester John was appeased, and resolved to spare his captive. He bestowed on him splendid regal vestments, paying him great honour, and saying,—“Now own you were not a man capable of making war against me.” The king then replied,—“Sire, I always knew that I was unable to contend with you; I repent much of my former bad con- duct, and promise faithfully that I will always be your friend.” Then said the Christian prince,—“I will impose upon you no more hardship and grief; you shall receive favour and honour.” Having then supplied him with many horses handsomely equipped, and a numerous attendance, he permitted him to go. Dor then returned to his kingdom, and from that time was a faithful friend and servant of Prester John.
XXXVIII—The great River Kara-moran, and the City Ca-cian-fu Twenty miles westward from that castle is a river called Kara-moran, so large and broad that it cannot be
crossed by a bridge, and flows on even to the ocean. On its banks are many cities and castles, likewise many mer- chants and manufactured goods; and in the country around ginger grows in great abundance. The number of birds is wonderful, so that for a Venetian grosso one can buy three pheasants; and after travelling three days, you find a
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noble city named Ca-cian-fu. The people are idolaters, as likewise those of Cathay. It is a city of great merchandise and many arts. They have abundance of silk, with cloth of gold of all fashions. I will go on to tell you of the capital of the kingdom.
XXXIX—The City of Quen-gian-fu When a man has left the city of Ca-cian-fu, and travel led eight days westward, he finds always cities and cas-
tles, merchandise and arts, pleasure-grounds and houses; and the whole country is full of mulberries, producing abundance of silk. The men are idolaters and live by labouring the ground, hunting, and hawking. At the end of the eight days he comes to the noble city of Quen-gian-fu, capital of a kingdom anciently magnificent and powerful, and which had many noble and valiant kings. At present the crown is held by Mangalu, a son of the great khan. That city is rich in merchandise and manufactures, particularly of implements for the supply of an army; likewise every thing necessary for the subsistence of man. The people are all idolaters. Westward is a beautiful palace of King Mangalu, which I will describe to you. It lies in a great plain watered by a river, as also by many lakes and fountains. A wall five miles in circuit, surrounded with battlements, and well built, encloses this splendid edifice, having halls and chambers adorned with beaten gold. Mangalu exercises his dominion with great justice, and is much beloved by his people; the residents in the district enjoy great amusement in hawking and hunting.
XL—The Province of Cun-chin A man departing from this palace travels three days westward through a very fine plain, always finding villages
and castles, with men living by merchandise and rearing silk in great abundance. He then comes to great mountains and valleys belonging to the province of Cun-chin; the people are all idolaters, and subsist by agriculture and hunt- ing, having many forests full of various wild animals. Thus a man rides for twenty days through mountains, valleys, and woods, always finding cities, castles, and good inns.
XLI—The Province of Achalech-Manji After this journey, he enters a province named Acha lech-Manji, entirely level, and full of cities and castles. The
people are all idolaters, and live by merchandise and art, and the province yields such a quantity of ginger, that it is distributed throughout Cathay, to the great profit of the inhabitants. The land also yields rice, wheat, and other grain, and is rich in all productions. The principal country is called Achalech-Manji, which means in our language one of the borders of Manji. This plain lasts for two days, and we then travel twenty through mountains, valleys, and woods, seeing many cities and castles. These people are idolaters, and live on the fruits of the earth and the flesh of birds and beasts; for there are abundance of lions, bears, wolves, stags, deer, and particularly of those animals which yield the musk.
XLII—The Province and City of Sin-din-fu When a man has left this country and travelled twenty days westward, he approaches a province on the borders
of Manji named Sin-din-fu. The capital, bearing the same name, was anciently very great and noble, governed by a mighty and wealthy sovereign. He died, leaving three sons, who divided the city into three parts, and each enclosed his portion with a wall, which was within the great wall of twenty miles in circuit. They ranked still as kings, and had ample possessions; but the great khan overcame them, and took full possession of their territory. Through the city, a large river of fresh water, abounding with fish, passes and flows on to the ocean, distant eighty or a hundred days’ journey; it is called Quian-su. On that current is a very great number of cities and castles, and such a multi- tude of ships, as no one who has not seen could possibly believe. Equally wonderful is the quantity of merchandise conveyed; indeed it is so broad as to appear a sea and not a river. Within the city, it is crossed by a bridge, wholly of marble, half a mile long and eight paces broad; the upper part is supported by marble columns, and richly painted; and upon it are many houses where merchants expose goods for sale; but these are set up in the morning and taken down in the evening. At one of them, larger than the others, stands the chamberlain of the khan, who receives the duty on the merchandise sold, which is worth annually a thousand golden bezants. The inhabitants are all idolaters; and from that city a man goes five days’ journey through castles, villages, and scattered houses. The people subsist by agriculture, and the tract abounds with wild beasts. There are also large manufactures of gauzes and cloth of gold. After travelling these five days, he comes to Thibet.
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XLIII—The Province of Thibet This is a very large province; the men have a language of their own, and are idolaters. They border upon Manji
and many other countries, and are very great robbers; the extent is such, that it contains eight kingdoms and many cities and castles. There are also extensive rivers, lakes, and mountains, where is found a vast quantity of gold. Cinnamon and coral occur, which last is very dear, because they place it round the neck of their women and their idols, and hold it as a precious jewel. Here are made camlets, and other cloths of silk and gold. There are very skilful enchanters and astrologers, but extremely wicked men, who perform works of the devil, which it were unlawful to relate, they would strike with such amazement. They have mastiff dogs as large as asses, and excellent in taking wild animals. This province was entirely destroyed by Mangou, the fifth great khan, in his wars; and its many villages and castles are all demolished. Here grow large canes, fifteen paces long and four palms thick, while from one knot to the other is full three palms. The merchants and travellers, who pass through that country in the night, take these canes and set them on fire, when they make such a loud crackling noise that lions, bears, and other destructive ani- mals are terrified, and dare not approach. They also split them in the middle, and produce thus so mighty a sound, that it would be heard in the night at the distance of five miles; and the explosion is so alarming, that horses unac- customed to it often break their reins and harness, and take to flight. For this reason, travellers, riding such horses, bind them by the feet, and stop their eyes and ears. A man travels twenty days through these countries without finding either inns or victuals; he must therefore carry with him food for himself and his cattle during the whole of that space, meeting always, too, ferocious wild beasts, which are very dangerous.
XLIV—Another Part of Thibet The traveller then comes to a part of Thibet where there are houses and castles; but the people have a bad cus-
tom. None of them for the whole world will marry a virtuous maiden, saying that she is worth nothing without hav- ing had many lovers. When strangers, therefore, pass through, and have pitched their tents, or taken their lodging in inns, the old women bring their daughters, often to the number of thirty or forty, and offer them as wives during their stay; but they must not carry them thence, either back or forward. When the merchant is about to depart, he gives to the lady some toy or jewel as a testimony that she has lived with him. These jewels she hangs to her neck, and is anxious to have at least twenty; for the more she can show, the higher is she valued, and the more readily ob- tains a husband. After being married, she is strictly watched, and any infidelity is deeply resented. These people are idolatrous and wicked, not holding it sinful to commit wrong and robbery; in short, they are the greatest thieves in the world. They live on the fruits of the earth, but mostly by hunting and falconry; and the country contains many of those animals which produce musk, and are called in the Tartar language gudderi. That sinful people have many good dogs, which they employ in the pursuit of wild animals. They have neither the cards nor money circulated by the great khan, but make money of salt. They are poorly clad with the skins of beasts, canvass, and buckram; they have a language of their own, which they call Tebet. Now I will tell you of Kain-du.
XLV—The Province of Kain-du This is a province lying to the west, having only one king, the inhabitants idolaters, and subject to the great
khan. It contains a number of cities and castles, with a lake, in which are found many pearls; but the monarch forbids them, under a severe penalty, to be removed except for his own use; because, if any one were allowed to take them, they would become worth almost nothing. There is also a mountain, whence are quarried turquoise stones in great abundance, very large and beautiful; but he does not allow them to be removed unless by his mandate. In this province they have a strange and base custom, that a man thinks there is no disgrace in an improper intimacy between his wife or sister and a stranger or other person. On the contrary, when such a one comes to reside in his house, the master presently goes out, and leaves him with his wife. The visiter remains often three days, and places a hat or something else at the window as a signal; and the husband never returns till he sees this taken away. This is said to be done in honour of their idols, who on that account bestow on them many blessings. Their gold is in small rods,—the value being determined according to the weight, and not marked by any stamp. The small money is thus made: they take salt, form it into a shape, so that it weighs about half a pound, and eighty of these are worth a rod of gold. They have a very great number of the animals which yield the musk; likewise fishes from the same lake whence the pearls are drawn; also the usual kinds of wild birds and beasts. No wine is obtained from vines, but it is made from grain or rice with many spices, which makes a good liquor. In that province also grows a tree called garofol; it is small, with leaves like a laurel, but longer and narrower; it bears a small white flower. It yields ginger, cinnamon, and other spices, which come into our country; but I have now said to you enough of Kain-du. After travelling ten days you come to a river which bounds it, named Brius. In it is found a great quantity of gold dust; and on its banks abundance of cinnamon; it flows on to the ocean. Now let us tell you of Caraian.
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XLVI—The Province of Caraian When a man has departed and crossed the river, he enters this province, which is large, and contains seven
kingdoms extending westward. The people are all idolaters, and under the dominion of the great khan. The king is a son of his, named Essetemur, and is great, rich, and powerful. He is also brave and upright, ruling his country with much justice.” When the traveller has crossed the river, he passes, during a journey of five days, through a country where there is abundance of cities and castles, with many very good horses; and the people are supported by cattle and the produce of land. Their language is extremely difficult to understand. At the end of these five days, he comes to the capital of the country, named Yaci, which is particularly great and noble, with many merchants and numerous arts. There are here various sects, Saracens, idolaters, and Nestorian Christians. There is a good deal of grain and rice, yet the country is not very fertile. They make a drink of the latter which intoxicates like wine. Money is formed of porcelain, such as is found in the sea, and eighty pieces are worth one bar of gold, or eight of silver. They have pits whence they draw vast quantities of salt, from which the king derives a great revenue. Adultery is not considered as a crime, unless when accompanied with violence. There is a lake here extending a hundred miles, and containing many large fishes, the best in the world. They use the raw flesh of all fowls and beasts; for the poor people go to the market and get it newly taken from the animal, put it in garlic sauce, then eat it; the rich likewise eat it raw, but previously cut into small pieces, and the sauce mixed with good spices.
XLVII—The Province of Karazan and its great Serpents When a man leaves Yaci, or Chiaci, and goes ten days westward, he finds the province of Karazan, with a capital
of the same name. The people are all idolaters, and subject to the great khan; the king is a son of that monarch, named Kogatin. Gold dust is found in the river, and on the mountains in large pieces so abundantly that a bar is given for six of silver. The porcelain, too, formerly described circulates for money, but is procured from India. Here are snakes and serpents so huge as to strike all men with astonishment; they are ten paces long, ten palms broad, and have no feet, but only a hoof like that of the lion; the nose is like a loaf of bread, the mouth so huge that it would swallow at once a man whole; the teeth are immense, nor is there any wild beast whom they do not strike with terror. There are smaller ones eight paces long and six palms broad. The mode of catching them is this:—They remain during the day in great caverns under the earth, to avoid the heat, but at night go out to feed, and seize all the animals whom they can reach; they also seek drink at the rivers, fountains, and lakes, and then make a deep track in the sand, as if a barrel had been dragged through it. In it the people fix a stake, fasten to it a steel instru- ment sharpened like a razor, and cover it over with sand. When the serpent comes through the track, and strikes against the steel, he is pierced with such violence, that his body is divided from one side to the other, as high as the umbilical cord, and he presently dies. They then take the body and extract the gall-bladder, which they sell very dear, being an excellent medicine for the bite of a mad dog, when administered in small dozes. It is also valuable in childbirth, and when given to the woman, a safe delivery immediately follows. The flesh also is sold at a high price, being considered delicate food. The serpent also enters the dens of lions, bears, and other fierce animals, and devours their whelps, when he can get at them. Here, too, are very large horses, which are carried into India to be sold. They cut two or three nerves from the tail, so that they may not strike with it the man who rides, which is considered disgraceful. These people ride like the French, with long staffs, have arms covered with buffalo hide, and carry lances, spears, and poisoned arrows. Before the great khan conquered them they had a wicked custom, that when any stranger came to lodge with them who was agreeable, wise, and opulent, they killed him during the night by poison or some other mode. This was not out of enmity or with the view of taking his money, but because they imagined that his wisdom and other good qualities would thus remain with them. However, about thirty-five years ago, after that monarch conquered the country, he prohibited this crime, which, from fear of him, they no longer commit. Now let us tell of another province called Kardandan.
XLVIII—The Province of Kardandan When a man departs from Karazan, and travels to the westward, he enters a province named Kardandan,
inhabited by idolaters, and subject to the great khan. The chief city is called Vociam. All the people have their teeth, both upper and lower, covered with gold, which thus appear to be made of that metal. The men are soldiers, and re- gard nothing but war; the women, with the slaves, perform all the work. When any lady has been delivered of a boy, the husband goes to bed, taking the child with him, and remains there forty days. He thus allows rest to the mother, who is only obliged to suckle the infant. All his friends then come and make a festival, when the wife rises, manag- es the domestic affairs, and serves her husband, still lying in bed. They eat all kinds of flesh, both raw and cooked, and rice dressed along with it, and make a very good wine of rice and spices. They have money of gold and porce- lain, and give a bar of gold for five of silver, having no mines of the latter metal within five days’ distance; by this
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exchange the merchants make great profit. This people have neither idols nor churches, but adore the master of the house, and say of him, “we are his; and he is our god.” They have neither letters nor writing, which is not wonder- ful, because they live in an unfrequented place, that cannot be visited in the summer on account of the air, which is then so corrupted and pestilent that no foreigner can live there. Whenever they have dealings together, they select a piece of timber, square or round, cleave it in the middle, and each takes a half; this must be done before two, three, or four witnesses. When the payment comes to be made, the one receives the money and gives his half of the wood. In all those provinces there is no physician, but when any one is sick, doctors and exorcists of evil spirits are sent for, who, on coming to the patient, begin their incantations, beating instruments, singing and dancing. In a short time one of them falls to the ground, foams at the mouth, and becomes half-dead, when the devil enters into his body. The other magicians then ask the half-dead man what is the cause of the patient’s illness. The demon answers from his mouth that the sufferer has given displeasure to such or such a spirit, who is therefore tormenting him. They then say, “we beseech you to pardon him, and take in compensation for his blood the presents which we now exhibit.” Then if the sick man is to die, the fiend in the body of the magician says,—“the spirit has been wronged and displeased to such a degree, that he will not spare him for any thing in the world.” If on the contrary a cure is to take place, the devil from the body says, “take so many sheep and so many dishes of rich pottage, and make a sacrifice of them to the angry spirit.” The relations of the patient do every thing thus ordered, killing the sheep, sprinkling the blood, and preparing the dishes of pottage. A great assemblage is made of men and women, who hold a joyous feast, dancing and singing songs in praise of the spirit. They burn incense and myrrh, with which they fumigate and illuminate the whole house. When they have acted thus for about an hour, the first magician again falls down, and they inquire if the sick man is now pardoned and will be cured. It is then answered that he is not yet pardoned, but something more must be done, after which forgiveness will be granted. This order is obeyed, when he says, “he is pardoned, and will be immediately cured.” The company then exclaim, “the spirit is on our side,” and having eaten the sheep and drunk the pottage with great joy and festivity, they return to their homes.
XLIX—Of the great Battle fought between the Tartars and the King of Mien Now I must mention a very great battle which was fought in the kingdom of Vociam, and you shall hear all
how it happened. In the year of our Lord 1272, the great khan sent a mighty captain, named Nescardin, with 12,000 men, to defend the province of Caraian. He was a prudent man, very strong in arms and skilful in war; and the soldiers with him were good and very brave warriors. Now the King of Mien and of Ban-gala were afraid lest he should invade their territory; yet they thought they were able to overcome and destroy the whole army in such a manner that the great khan might never feel inclined to send another into the same quarter. They assembled, therefore, 60,000 horse and foot, with 2,000 elephants, each of which had on its back a castle well fortified and defended by twelve, fourteen, or sixteen men. The King of Mien came with the above army to the city of Vociam, where was the array of the Tartars, and took post in a plain at the distance of three days’ journey. Nescardin was somewhat alarmed, considering how small a force he had in comparison with the host of the King of Mien; but he took courage, reflecting that his troops were brave and most valiant warriors. He therefore marched to meet them in the plain of Vociam, and pitched his camp near a great forest, filled with lofty trees, into which he was aware that elephants could not enter. The King of Mien, seeing the army of Nescardin, advanced to attack it. The Tartars went with great boldness to meet them, but when their horses saw the elephants with the wooden castles upon them, stationed and arranged in the first line, they were struck with such terror that the riders could not, either by force or any contrivance, make them approach. They, therefore, immediately alighted, and tied them to the trees, when the infantry returned to the line of elephants, and began to discharge their arrows with the utmost violence. Those who were on the backs of the animals fought bravely; but the Tartars were stronger, and more accustomed to battle. They wounded very severely with these missiles a multitude of the elephants, which, being terrified, took to flight and rushed with violence into the adjacent wood. As they could not be restrained from entering, and rushing backward and forward through the thick trees in confusion, they broke the wooden castles on their backs, and destroyed all their equipments. When the Tartars saw these animals disposed of, they ran to their horses, which were bound to the trees, mounted them, and rushed upon the warriors of the King of Mien. They began the attack with a shower of arrows, but as the king and his troops still defended themselves valiantly, they drew their swords, and rushed into close combat. Now mighty blows were struck; swords and spears were fiercely thrust on both sides; heads, arms, and hands were struck off; and many warriors fell to the earth dead and dying. The noise and cries would have drowned the loudest thunder. At length, after mid day, the host of Mien gave way; and the king, with all who sur- vived the battle, took to flight, pursued by the Tartars, who killed many of the fugitives. When satisfied with pursuit, they returned to the wood to catch the elephants. They endeavoured to stop the flight of these animals by cutting down the trees and laying them across; yet they are so intelligent, that the soldiers would not have succeeded but for the aid of some of the captives taken in battle, through whose means they were able to recover two hundred. From
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this time the great khan began to employ elephants in his army, which he had not hitherto done. Afterwards that monarch conquered the lands of Mien, and added them to his dominion.
L—Of the great Descent When you have departed from the said province of Caraian, there begins a great descent, which continues
for two days and a half; and in all this journey nothing occurs worthy of notice, except that there is a great space in which a market is held on certain days of the year. Thither come many merchants from divers countries and districts, some of whom bring gold and silver to exchange; and they give an ounce of the former for five of the latter. None but those who bring the gold can penetrate into the countries where it is produced, so difficult and intricate are the roads. When a man has travelled these two days and a half, he comes to a district which is called Anniz, on the borders of India, towards the south, and then he goes for fifteen days through a region covered with woods filled with elephants, unicorns, and other savage beasts, but not containing any human habitation.
LI—Of the City of Men, and the most beautiful Tomb of the King At the termination of these wild and pathless tracts is a large and noble city called Mien, the capital of the prov-
ince. The people are all idolaters, with a language peculiar to themselves, and are subject to the great khan. About this city I will tell you a thing very remarkable. There was anciently in it a rich and powerful king, who, being about to die, commanded that on his tomb should be erected two towers, one of gold, and the other of silver. They are full ten paces high, and of a suitable thickness; the first, being composed of stone, is covered all over with gold to the thickness of a finger, so that to the spectator it appears wholly of that metal. The summit is round, and filled with little golden bells, which the wind, whenever it strikes them, causes to ring. The other tower is similarly formed, but is coated with silver, and has silver bells. By these buildings the king intended to display his greatness and dignity, and they are the most beautiful and valuable to be seen in the world. Between them he caused the sepulchre to be constructed, where he is now buried. When the great khan conquered that city, he desired all the players and buf- foons, of whom there were a great number in his court, to go and achieve the conquest, offering them a captain and some warlike aid. The jesters willingly undertook the affair, and setting out with the proffered assistance, subdued this province of Mien. When they came to that noble city, and saw these splendid edifices, they admired exceeding- ly, and sent to the great khan an account of their beauty, and of the manner in which they were constructed, asking if he wished them to be demolished, and the gold and silver sent to him. The monarch, on hearing this, command- ed that they should not be destroyed, since the king had erected them to commemorate his greatness, and no Tartar touches any thing belonging to a dead man. They were therefore to continue in the same condition as they now stood. This province contains elephants, wild oxen large and beautiful, stags, deer, and other animals. Now, let me tell you of another which is called Bangala.
LII—Of the Province of Bangala This is a province towards the south, which, in the year 1290, while I, Marco, was at the court of the great khan,
was not yet conquered, but the army was there, ready to march for that purpose. It has a king and languages of its own, and the people are most wicked idolaters. They are on the confines of India. The barons and lords of that country have oxen as tall as elephants, but not so weighty; and live on flesh and rice. They have great abundance of silk, with which they carry on extensive manufactures; also ginger, sugar, and many other costly spices. This place is visited by numerous merchants, who purchase slaves, make them eunuchs, and then either sell or convey them to other places.
LIU—Of the Province of Kangigu Kangigu is a province towards the east, subject to a king; the people are all idolaters; have a language of their
own; and owning the supremacy of the great khan, they pay him an annual tribute. The king is so luxurious as to have 300 wives, for as soon as he hears of a beautiful woman in the country he takes her to himself. The people have much gold and many precious spices; but being far from the sea, their commodities do not bring the full value. They have many elephants and beasts of various other kinds. All the men and women paint their bodies, the colours being worked in with the claws of lions, dragons, and eagles, and thus never effaced. In this manner they stain their neck, breast, hands, limbs, and indeed their whole person. This is considered extremely genteel, and the more any one is painted, the higher is his rank considered. Now let us tell you of another province named Amu.
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LIV—Of the Province of Amu Amu is also a province towards the east, subject to the great khan. The people are idolaters, live by pasturage
and agriculture, and have a language of their own. The ladies wear on their arms and legs valuable bracelets of gold and silver, and the men have these still finer and rarer. They have good horses in considerable numbers, many of which the Indians purchase and sell again to much advantage. They have also abundance of oxen and buffaloes, because they have extensive and good pastures; in short, they have plenty of the means of subsistence. From Amu to Kangigu, are fifteen days, and thence to Bangala, which is the third province behind, are thirty days. Now let us come to another province, which is called Tholoman, and lies eight journeys from this to the east.
LV—Of the Province of Tholoman Tholoman is a third province towards the east. All the people are idolaters, have a language of their own, and
are under the great khan. They are handsome, of rather a brown complexion, good men at arms, and have a number of cities, castles, and forts, on the top of very high mountains. When they die, the bodies are burned, and the bones which cannot be consumed are placed in chests and carried to the caverns of high mountains, where they are kept suspended, so that neither man nor beast can touch them. Gold is found here; but the smart money is of porcelain, which circulates in all these provinces. The merchants, though few, are rich; the people live on flesh and rice, and have many good spices.
LVI—Of the Province of Cyn-gui and its Lions Cyn-gui is a province likewise situated towards the east, and when a man leaves Tholoman, he goes twelve days
along a river, where there are towns and castles, but nothing else worth mentioning. At the end of these twelve days, he finds the city Sinugul, very large and noble. The inhabitants are all idolaters, and subject to the great khan. They live by merchandise and arts, and weave cloths of the bark of trees, which make fine summer dresses. They are good men at arms; but they have no money except paper. There are in this country so many lions, that if a man were to sleep out of doors, he would presently be killed and eaten by them; and at night, when a bark sails along the river, if it were not kept at a good distance from the bank, they would rush in and carry off the crew. However, though these animals be so large and dangerous, the natives have a wonderful manner of defending themselves; for the dogs of that country are so daring, that they will assault a large one, and, seconded by a man, will kill him. I will tell you how: when a man is on horseback with two of these dogs, as soon as they see a lion, they throw themselves behind him, and bite his thighs and body. The lion turns furiously round, but they wheel about with him so swiftly, that he cannot reach them. He then retreats till he comes to a tree, against which he places his back, and turns his face to the dogs; but they continue always biting him from behind, and making him turn round and round. Meantime the man discharges arrows without ceasing, till the animal falls down dead, and thus one man and two spirited dogs are sufficient to kill a large lion. The inhabitants of this province have a good deal of silk, and a great trade is carried on to all quarters along the river.
LVII—Arrival at Sin-din-fu, and Journey back to Gin-gui Continuing to journey on its banks for twelve days more, we discover a number of cities and castles. The people
are idolaters, subject to the great khan, and use paper money. Some are good at arms, others are merchants and artificers. At the end of the twelve days, the traveller comes to Sin-din-fu, of which mention has been made above. He then rides seventy days through provinces and lands which we formerly went over, and have already described. At the end of that period, he comes to Gin-gui, where we formerly were.
LVIII—Cities of Ca-cian-fu, Cian-glu, and Cian-gli From Gin-gui or Geo-gui a man travels four days, finding a variety of cities and castles. The people are great
artificers and merchants, subject to the mighty khan, and use paper money. At the end of the four days you come to Ca-cian-fu, a large and noble city, lying to the south, in the province of Cathay. The inhabitants are subject to the same monarch, are all idolaters, and burn the bodies of their dead. They have a good supply of silk, which they make into different kinds of cloth. A large river flows past it, along which great abundance of merchandise is con- veyed to Kambalu, with which it is made to communicate by the digging of many canals. Now let us pass to another city called Cian-glu. The natives are idolaters, subject to the khan, use paper money, and burn the bodies of their dead. In that city, salt is made very extensively, and I will tell you how. There is a species of earth full of it, and they pile it up in heaps, upon which they throw a great quantity of water, to saturate it with the mineral. They next boil it in large cauldrons of iron, till it evaporates, and leaves a white and minute salt, which is exported to all the countries
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round. Five days’ journey from Cian-glu is Cian-gli, where are many cities and castles. It is a town of Cathay, and the whole people are idolaters, subject to the khan, and use paper money. Through the middle of that territory flows a great river, on which is conveyed much merchandise of various kinds.
LIX—Condi-fu—Rebellion against the Great Khan In departing from Cian-gli, we come in six days to Condi-fu, a great city, which the khan conquered by force of
arms, but still it is the noblest in the province. There is a wonderful abundance of silk, as well as orchards with many delicate fruits, and the situation is delightful; it has also under it fifteen other cities of great importance and commerce, whence it derives high honour and dignity. In the year 1273, the khan gave to Litan, one of his barons, 70,000 horse to defend and secure that city; but when the said baron had remained some time in the country, he arranged with certain men to betray it, and rebel against his lord. When the khan knew this, he sent two of his commanders, Aguil and Mongatai, with many troops, against the traitor. On their approach, the rebel went forth to meet them with his forces, consisting of a hundred thousand cavalry and many infantry, both of the country and of those he had brought with him; and there was a very great battle between him and those two chiefs. Litan was killed, with many others; and the khan caused all those who had been guilty to be put to death, and spared the lives of the rest. Now let us tell of another country named Sin-gui.
LX—Cities of Sin-gui, Lin-gui, Pin-gui, and Cin-gui When a man has gone south from Condi-fu, he finds cities and castles, many animals of the chase and birds,
with a vast abundance of all productions, and then comes to Sin-gui, which is noble, great, and beautiful, with much merchandise and many arts; the whole people are idolaters, subject to the khan, and use paper money. They have a river which is of great utility, because the people of the country have divided the stream which comes from the south into two parts; one goes eastward towards Manji, the other westward towards Cathay; and the land has thus a wonderful number of ships, though not of large size, with which they convey goods to other provinces, and bring thence an almost in credible quantity of merchandise. When a man departs from Sin-gui and goes eight days to the south, he finds many rich cities and castles. The people are idolaters, subject to the khan; they burn the bod- ies of their dead, and use paper money. At the end of eight days he arrives at a town named Lin-gui, great and no- ble, with men-at-arms, and also arts and merchandise. Here are wild animals and every kind of provision in abun- dance. When he departs from Lin-gui, he goes three days to the south, finding cities and castles under the powerful khan; the people idolatrous, and burning the bodies of their dead. There is much excellent hunting of birds and beasts. At the end of these three days, he discovers a very good city named Pin-gui. The people have all things nec- essary for subsistence, raise much silk, and pay a large revenue to the sovereign. A great quantity of merchandise is laden here for the province of Manji. When a man has departed from Pin-gui, and travelled two days with his face to the south, through beautiful and rich countries, he finds the city of Cin-gui, very large, and full of merchandise and arts. The people are wholly idolatrous, burn the bodies of their dead, their money is paper, and they are under the khan. They have much grain and grass. When a man leaves Cin-gui, he finds cities, villages, and castles, with handsome dogs and good pasturage; the people being such as are above described.
LXI—Of the great River Kara-moran At the end of two days a man finds the great river called Kara-moran, coming from the lands of Prester John.
It is full, broad, and so deep that a large ship can pass through its channel; and there are on it full 15,000 vessels, all belonging to the khan, meant for conveying his goods when he goes to the islands of the sea, which is distant about a day’s journey. And each of these ships requires fifteen mariners, and carries fifteen horses with their riders, provi- sions, and every thing else necessary for them. When a man passes that river, he enters the province of Manji, and I will tell you how it was conquered by the khan.
LXII—Of the Province of Manji, and how it was made subject to the Great Khan In the extensive province of Manji there was a lord and king named Facfur, who, excepting the great khan,
was the mightiest sovereign in the world, the most powerful in money and people; but the men are not good at arms, nor have horses trained to war, nor experience in battle and military operations, otherwise they would never have lost so strong a country. All the lands are surrounded by waters so deep that they cannot be passed unless by bridges, and the chief cities are encompassed by broad ditches filled with water. The khan, however, in the year of our Lord 1273, sent one of his barons, Bayam Cinqsan, which means Bayam with the Hundred Eyes: for the King of Manji had found out by astrology, that he could lose his kingdom only by a man having a hundred eyes. This Bayam marched with a very great force, many ships, horse and foot, and came to the first city of Manji, called Koi-gan-zu,
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which we will presently describe. He called upon it to surrender; but the people refused. He then went to another city, which also refused, and so he passed five, leaving them behind, because he knew that the khan was sending a large additional force. He took, however, the sixth by storm, and then successively reduced other twelve; after which he marched direct to the capital of the kingdom, called Kin-sai, where the king and queen resided. When the monarch saw this great army, he was struck with such terror that he fled from the continent with many of his people, having 1,000 ships, and sought refuge among the islands. The queen, however, remained and defended herself as well as she could against Bayam. But having at length asked what was the name of that commander, and being told it was Bayam with the Hundred Eyes, she remembered the prophecy mentioned above, and immediately surrendered the city to him. Presently all the cities of Manji yielded, and the whole world does not contain such a kingdom, and I will now describe its magnificence.
LXIII—Of the Piety and Justice of the King towards his Subjects This King Facfur maintained 15,000 poor children, because in that province many are exposed as soon as they
are born by parents who cannot support them; so, when a rich man had no issue, he went to the king and got as many as he pleased. And when the boys and girls came of age, the king married them together, and gave them the means of living; and thus were educated 20,000 males or females annually. He did another thing: when he went through any place and saw two fine houses, and by the side of them a small one, he inquired why the first were greater than the other; and being told that it be longed to a poor man, who could not afford to build one larg- er, presently he gave him money enough to enable him to do so. He made himself be served by more than 1,000 domestic servants of both sexes. He maintained his kingdom in such justice, that no evil was done, and all com- modities could be left unguarded except by the royal equity. Now I have given you an account of the king; I will tell you of the queen. She was led to the great khan, who made her be honoured and served as a powerful sovereign; but the king, her husband, never came out of the islands of the ocean, and died there, and thus the whole kingdom remained with the khan. Now let us tell of the province of Manji, and the manners and customs of the people; be- ginning with the city of Koi-gan-zu.
LXIV—Of the Cities of Koi-gan-zu, Pau-chym, and Chaym Koi-gan-zu is a great, rich, and noble city, at the entrance of the province of Manji, lying to the south. The
whole people are subject to the khan; they are idolaters, and burn the bodies of their dead. It lies on the river Ka- ra-moran, and hence is full of ships; for many merchants bring their commodities thither to be distributed through- out other cities. It is the capital of the province. Here is made a very great quantity of salt, which is supplied thence to forty different towns; the khan has a large revenue from this and other trades here carried on. And now let me tell you of another city called Pau-chym. When a man departs from Koi-gan-zu, he goes a whole day along a cause- way finely built of stone, and on each side is a large water, so that it is impossible to enter the province unless by this causeway. He then finds a city called Pau-chym; all the people are idolaters, burn the bodies of their dead, and are under the great khan. They are artificers and merchants, have abundance of silk, and make much cloth of it mixed with gold, and thus earn a sufficient livelihood. Through all that country the paper money of the khan is circulated.
When a man sets out from Pau-chym, he travels a day and discovers a very large city named Chaym. There is great abundance of the necessaries of life; fish beyond measure, beasts and birds for sport in great numbers, so that for a Venetian silver grosso you may purchase three pheasants.
LXV—Of the City of Tin-gui, and its great Saltworks Tin-gui is a pretty agreeable city, a full day’s journey from Chaym. The people are idolaters, subject to the khan,
and use paper money; they have merchandise and arts, and numerous ships belonging to them. It lies to the south- east, and on the left, nearly three days’ journey to the eastward, is the ocean, where salt is made in great quantities. Here is a city named Cyn-gui, large, rich, and noble, to which all the salt is brought, and the khan draws from it a revenue so wonderful that it could not be believed.
LXVI—Of the great City of Yan-gui When a man leaves Tin-gui he proceeds a day towards the south-east, through a very fine country, finding
towns and castles, and then comes to Yan-gui, a large and beautiful city, which has under it twenty-four, all good and of great trade. Its affairs are administered by one of the twelve barons of the khan; Messer Marco Polo, of whom this book treats, governed it three years. Here are made many arms and other equipments for knights and men of war; for in this place and around it numerous troops are quartered. I will now tell you of two great provinces lying to the west, and as I shall have much to say, I will begin with Nan-ghin.
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LXVII—Of the great City of Nan-ghin Nan-ghin is a province towards the west, belonging to Manji, and is very noble and rich. The people are idola-
ters, use paper money, and are subject to the great khan. They live by merchandise and arts, have silk in abundance, and make cloths of it interwoven with gold, in all fashions. They have an ample supply of every kind of grain and provisions; for the land is very fruitful. There are also lions and animals for hunting. There are many rich merchants who carry on much trade, and pay a large revenue to the great sire. But I will now go to the noble city of Sa-yan-fu, respecting which I shall have much to say.
LXVIII—Of the City of Sa-yan-fu, and how it was taken Sa-yan-fu is a large and magnificent city, having under it twelve others also great and noble; it is the seat of
many valuable arts and of much merchandize. The inhabitants are idolaters; they use paper money, are subject to the khan, and burn the bodies of their dead. This city held out three years after all the rest of the province had yield- ed to the conqueror, who besieged it with a mighty army; but he could approach it only on the side which lies to the north, because it was elsewhere surrounded by a large and deep lake, by which the besieged obtained abundance of provisions. The army was therefore about to abandon the siege in much grief and wrath, and this news was just brought to the khan, when Messeri Nicolo, Maffio, and Marco Polo said,—“we shall find a way by which the city shall be made to surrender.” The monarch, who was most eagerly bent on its capture, readily listened. Then said the two brothers and their son Marco,—“Great sire, we have with us in our train men who will make such an engine as will discharge large stones, which the citizens will not be able to endure, and will be obliged to yield.” The khan was much rejoiced, and desired that they should execute their plan as soon as possible. Now, they had in their company a German and a Nestorian Christian who were skilful in such works, and made two or three machines sufficient to throw stones of 300 pounds weight. When these were conveyed to the army and set up, they appeared to the Tartars the greatest wonder of the world. They then began discharging stones into the city, which struck the houses, broke and destroyed every thing, and caused the utmost noise and alarm. When the inhabitants saw a calamity such as they had never witnessed before, they knew not what to think or say. They met in council, and concluded that they must be all killed, unless they submitted. They therefore intimated to the lord of the host that they would surrender on the same terms that others had done. This was agreed to, and Sa-yan-fu came under the power of the great khan, through the interposition of Messeri Nicolo, Maffio, and Marco; and it was not a small service, for this town and province are among the best in his possession, and he draws from them a great revenue. Now, we shall leave this subject and treat of a city called Sin-gui.
LXIX—Of the City of Sin-gui and the River Kiang, and the Multitude of Cities on that River When a man leaves Yan-gui and goes fifteen miles south-east, he perceives a certain city named Sin-gui, which
is not very extensive, but has great merchandise and much shipping. The people are idolaters, use paper money, and are subject to the khan. That city stands upon a river, named Kiang, which is the largest in the world; being in some places ten miles broad, and up wards of a hundred days’ journey in length. Through it the inhabitants have a lucra- tive trade, which yields a large revenue to the khan. And on account of the many cities on it, the ships navigating and the goods conveyed by means of it are more numerous and valuable than in all the rivers of Christendom and the adjacent seas beside. I tell you I have seen at that city no fewer than 5,000 ships sailing at once on its stream. For that river flows through sixteen provinces, and has more than two hundred great towns on its banks. The ships are covered, and have only one mast; yet they are of heavy burden, and carry each from 4,000 to 12,000 cantars. They have ropes composed of cane for drawing them through the water; those belonging to the larger vessels are thick, and fifteen paces in length, being cloven at the end, and bound together in such a way as to make a cord 300 paces long.
LXX—Of the City of Cai-gui Cai-gui is a small city towards the south-east, situated upon the bank of the above-mentioned river; all the
people are idolaters, subject to the khan, and use paper money. Here are collected large quantities of corn and rice; and there is a passage by water to the city of Kampala and the court of the khan; grain from this place forms a considerable part of the provision required by his court. The monarch made this communication by digging long and deep canals from one river to another, and from lake to lake, so that a large ship may pass through. And by the side of this water-channel goes a road, so that you may take either the one or the other, as is most convenient. In the middle of that river, opposite the city, is an isle of rocks, on which is a monastery of idolaters, where there are 200 monks, who serve a very great number of gods. Now, let us cross the river, and tell of a city named Cin-ghian-fu.
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LXXI—Of the City of Cin-ghian-fu Cin-ghian-fu is a city of Manji, and the people are such as we have already described, idolaters, and subjects
of the great khan. They are artificers, merchants, and hunters, raise much grain, and make cloths of silk and gold. Here are two churches of Nestorian Christians, formed in the year 1278; which happened because at that time the governor under the khan was a Nestorian, named Marsarchis, and he caused these two edifices to be built. Now, let us go to the great city of Cin-ghin-gui.
LXXII—Of the City of Cin-ghin-gui, and of a dreadful Slaughter When a man leaves Cin-ghian-fu, and travels three or four days south-east, he always discovers cities and cas-
tles, with much merchandise; the people are all idolaters, subject to the khan, and use paper money. Then he comes to the city of Cin-ghin-gui great and noble, the people idolaters, and subject to the khan; they have abundance of provisions, produce and manufacture a vast quantity of silk. And here I will tell you a wicked thing which the people of this city did, but it cost them dear. When Bayam, called the chief of the Hundred Eyes, conquered all the province, and took the capital itself, he sent a body of troops to reduce this place. It surrendered, and the soldiers entered and found such good wine, that they drank till they were intoxicated, and became quite insensible. When the men of the city saw them in this condition, that very night they slew them all, so that not one escaped. When Bayam the commander heard of this disloyal conduct, he sent an army who took the town, and put all the inhabi- tants to the sword. Now, let us go on, and I will tell you of another named Sin-gui.
LXXIII—Of the City of Sin-gui, of Un-gui, and of Ughim Sin-gui is a very great and noble city. The people are idolaters, subject to the great khan, and use paper money.
Most of them live by merchandise and arts, raise much silk, make cloths of it interwoven with gold very costly and fine. The town is forty miles in circuit, and the number of inhabitants is so great, that no person can count them, and if they were men-at-arms, those of the province of Manji would conquer the whole world; they are not so, how- ever, but prudent merchants, and, as already observed, skilful in all the arts. They have also many persons learned in natural science, good physicians, and able philosophers. The city has 1,600 stone bridges under which a galley might pass; and in the mountains adjacent grow rhubarb and ginger in such abundance, that for a Venetian grosso you may buy forty pounds of the latter, fresh and good. Sin-gui has under it sixteen large cities of arts and trade. Its name signifies the earth, and another large town near it is called heaven, and these appellations they derive from their great nobleness. Now, let us depart from this place, and I will tell you of another city called Un-gui. It is a day’s journey from Sin-gui, and is large and good, with merchandise and arts; but there is nothing so remarkable about it as to be worth describing; therefore we shall go on to delineate another called Ughim. It is great and rich; the men are idolaters, subject to the great khan, use paper money, and have abundance of all things. There is nothing else worth mentioning; therefore I will go on to tell you of the noble city of Kin-sai, which is the capital of the kingdom of Manji.
LXXIV—Of the most noble and wonderful City of Kin-sai; and of its Population, Trades, Lake, Villas, and splendid Palace
When a man leaves Ughim, and goes three days, he observes many noble and rich cities and castles, with great merchandise. The people are all idolaters, subject to the khan, use paper money, and have abundant means of subsistence. At the end of these three days, he finds a very noble city named Kin-sai, which means in our language the city of heaven. And now I will tell you all its nobleness; for without doubt it is the largest city in the world. And I will give you the account which was written by the Queen of Manji to Bayam, who conquered that kingdom, to be transmitted to his master, who thereby might be persuaded not to destroy it. And this letter contained the truth, as I Marco saw with my own eyes. It related, that the city of Kin-sai is 100 miles in circumference, and has 12,000 stone bridges; and beneath the greater part of these a large ship might pass, and beneath the others a smaller one. And you need not wonder there are so many bridges; because the city is wholly on the water, and surrounded by it like Venice. It contains twelve arts or trades, and each trade has 12,000 stations or houses; and in each station there are of masters and labourers at least ten, in some fifteen, thirty, and even forty, because this town supplies many others round it. The merchants are so numerous and so rich, that their wealth can neither be told nor believed. They, their ladies, and the heads of the trades do nothing with their own hands, but live as cleanly and delicately as if they were kings. These females also are of angelic beauty, and live in the most elegant manner. But it is established that no one can practise any other art than that which his father followed, even though he were worth 100,000 bezants. To the south of that city is a lake, full thirty miles in circuit; and all around it are beautiful palaces and houses, so wonderfully built that nothing can possibly surpass them; they belong to the great and noble men of the city. There
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are also abbeys and monasteries of idolaters in great numbers. In the middle of the lake are two islands, on one of which stands a palace, so wonder fully adorned that it seems worthy of belonging to the emperor. Whoever wishes to celebrate a marriage or other festival, goes thither, where he finds dishes, plates, and all implements necessary for the occasion. The city of Kin-sai contains many beautiful houses, and one great stone tower, to which the people convey all their property when the houses take fire, as often happens, because many of them are of wood. They are idolaters, subject to the great khan, and use paper money. They eat the flesh of dogs and other beasts, such as no Christian would touch for the world. On each of the said 12,000 bridges, ten men keep guard day and night, so that no one may dare to raise a disturbance, or commit theft or homicide. I will tell you another thing, that in the middle of the city is a mound, on which stands a tower, wherein is placed a wooden table, against which a man strikes with a hammer, so that it is heard to a great distance; this he does when there is an alarm of fire, or any kind of danger or disturbance. The great khan causes that city to be most strongly guarded, because it is the capital of all the province of Manji, and he derives from it vast treasure and revenue; he is likewise afraid of any revolt. All the streets are paved with stones and bricks; and so are the high roads of Manji, on which account men may travel very pleasantly either on horse back or on foot. In this city, too, are 4,000 baths, in which the citizens, both men and women, take great delight, and frequently resort thither, because they keep their persons very cleanly. They are the largest and most beautiful baths in the world, insomuch that 100 of either sex may bathe in them at once. Twen- ty-five miles from thence is the ocean, between south and east; and there is a city named Gan-fu, which has a very fine port, with large ships, and much merchandise of immense value from India and other quarters. Past this city to the port flows a stately river, by which the ships can come up to it, and which runs thither from a great distance. The khan has divided the whole province of Manji into nine large kingdoms, all of which pay him annual tribute. In Gan-fu resides one of the kings, who has under him 140 cities. I will tell you a thing you will much wonder at, that in this province there are 1,200 towns, and in each a garrison amounting to 1,000, 10,000, 20,000, and in some instances to 30,000 men. But do not suppose these are all Tartar cavalry; for part are infantry and sent from Cathay. But the riches and profit which the khan derives from the province of Manji is so great that no man could dare to mention it, nor would any one believe him; and therefore I shall be silent. I will tell you, however, some of the customs of Manji. One is, that whenever a boy or girl is born, the day, hour, and minute are written down, also the sign and planet under which the birth takes place, so that all may know their nativity. And when any one wishes to undertake a journey, or do any thing else of importance, he repairs to the astrologer, states these particulars, and asks if he should go or act otherwise. And they are often thus diverted from their journeys and other designs; for these astrologers are skilful in their arts and diabolical enchantments, and tell them many things which they im- plicitly believe. Another custom is, that when a body is to be burned, all the relations dress them selves in canvass to express grief, and go with the corpse, beating instruments, and making songs and prayers to their idols. When they come to the place where the ceremony is to be performed, they frame images of men, women, camels, horses, clothes, money, and various other things, all of cards. When the fire is fully lighted, they throw in all these things, saying that the dead will enjoy them in the other world, and that the honour now done to him will be done there also by idols. In this city of Kin-sai is a palace of the king who fled, which is the noblest and most beautiful in the world. It is a square, ten miles in circuit, surrounded by a lofty wall, within which are gardens abounding in all the most delicate fruits, fountains, and lakes supplied with many kinds of fish. In the middle is the edifice itself, large and beautiful, with a hall so extensive that a vast number of persons can sit down at table. That hall is painted all over with gold and azure, representing many stories, in which are beasts, birds, knights, ladies, and various won- ders. Nothing can be seen upon the walls and roof but these ornaments. There are twenty others of similar dimen- sions, such that 10,000 men can conveniently sit at table; and they are covered and worked in gold very nobly. This palace contains also 1,000 chambers. In the city are 160 toman of fires, that is, of houses; and the toman is 10,000, making 1,600,000 houses, among which are many great and rich palaces. There is only one church of Nestorian Christians. Each man of that city, as also of the others, has written on his door the name of his wife, his children, of his sons’ wives, his slaves, and of all his household; and when any one is born, he adds the name, and when he dies, takes it away. Thus the governor of each city knows the names of every person in it; and this practice is followed in all the towns of Manji and Cathay. The same account is given of the strangers who reside for a time in their houses, both when they come and when they go; and by that means the great khan knows whoever arrives and departs, which is of great advantage.
LXXV—Farther Particulars of that City There are within the city ten principal squares or market-places, besides which, numberless shops run along
the streets. These squares are each half a mile in length, and have in front the main street, forty paces wide, and reaching in a straight line from one end of the city to the other. Thus they are, altogether, two miles in circuit, and four miles distant from each other. The street is crossed by many low and convenient bridges. Parallel to it, but
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on the opposite side to the squares, is a very large canal, and on its bank capacious warehouses, built of stone, to accommodate the merchants from India and other countries, and receive their goods; this situation being chosen as convenient with regard to the market-squares. Each of these, on three days in every week, contains an assemblage of from 40,000 to 50,000 persons, who bring for sale every desirable article of provision. There appears abundance of all kinds of game, roebucks, stags, fallow-deer, hares, and rabbits, with partridges, pheasants, francolins, quails, common fowls, capons, ducks and geese almost innumerable; these last being so easily bred on the lake, that for a Venetian silver grosso you may buy a couple of geese and two pairs of ducks. In the same place are also the sham- bles, where cattle, as oxen, calves, kids, and lambs, are killed for the tables of the rich and of magistrates. These markets afford at all seasons a great variety of herbs and fruits; in particular, uncommonly large pears, weighing each ten pounds, white in the inside like paste, and very fragrant. The peaches also, both yellow and white, are in their season of delicious flavour. Grapes are not cultivated, but very good ones are brought dried from other dis- tricts. Wine is not esteemed by the natives, who are accustomed to their own liquor, prepared from rice and vari- ous spices. From the sea, twenty-five miles distant, a vast supply of fish is conveyed on the river; and the lake also contains abundance, the taking of which affords constant employment to numerous fishermen. The species vary according to the season, and the offal carried thither from the city renders them large and rich. In short, the quan- tity in the market is so immense, that you would think it impossible it could find purchasers; yet in a few hours it is all disposed of, so many inhabitants are there who can afford to indulge in such luxuries. They eat fish and flesh at one meal. Each of the ten squares is surrounded with lofty dwelling-houses; the lower part being made into shops, where manufactures of every kind are carried on, and imported articles are sold, as spices, drugs, toys, and pearls. In some shops is kept only the country wine, which is constantly made fresh, and served out at a moderate price. In the several streets connected with the squares are numerous baths, attended by servants of both sexes, to perform the functions of ablution for the male and female visiters, who from their childhood are accustomed to bathe in cold water, as being highly conducive to health. Here, too, are apartments provided with warm water for the use of strangers, who, from want of use, cannot endure the shock of the cold. All are in the daily habit of washing their persons, especially before meals.
In other streets reside the females of bad character, who are extremely numerous; and not only in the streets near the squares, which are specially appropriated to them, but in every other quarter they appear, highly dressed out and perfumed, in well furnished houses, and with a train of domestics. They are perfectly skilled in all the arts of seduction, which they can adapt to persons of every description; so that strangers who have once yielded to their fascination are said to be like men bewitched, and can never get rid of the impression. Intoxicated with these unlawful pleasures, even after returning home, they always long to revisit the place where they were thus seduced. In other streets reside the physicians and the astrologers, who also teach reading and writing, with many other arts. On opposite sides of the squares are two large edifices, where officers appointed by his majesty promptly decide any differences that arise between the foreign merchants and the inhabitants. They are bound also to take care that the guards be duly stationed on the neighbouring bridges, and in case of neglect, to inflict a discretionary punishment on the delinquent.
On each side of the principal street, mentioned as reaching across the whole city, are large houses and man- sions with gardens; near to which are the abodes and shops of the working artisans. At all hours you observe such multitudes of people passing backwards and forwards on their various avocations, that it might seem impossible to supply them with food. A different judgment will, however, be formed, when every market-day the squares are seen crowded with people, and covered with provisions brought in for sale by carts and boats. To give some idea of the quantity of meat, wine, spices, and other articles brought for the consumption of the people of Kin-sai, I shall instance the single article of pepper. Marco Polo was informed by an officer employed in the customs, that the daily amount was forty-three loads, each weighing 243 pounds.
The houses of the citizens are well built, and richly adorned with carving, in which, as well as in painting and ornamental buildings, they take great delight, and lavish enormous sums. Their natural disposition is pacific, and the example of their former unwarlike kings has accustomed them to live in tranquillity. They keep no arms in their houses, and are unacquainted with their use. Their mercantile transactions are conducted in a manner per- fectly upright and honourable. They also behave in a friendly manner to each other, so that the inhabitants of the same neighbourhood appear like one family. In their domestic relations, they show no jealousy or suspicion of their wives, but treat them with great respect. Any one would be held as infamous that should address indecent expressions to married women. They behave with cordiality to strangers who visit the city for commercial purposes, hospitably entertain them, and afford their best assistance in their business. On the other hand, they hate the very sight of soldiers, even the guards of the great khan; recollecting, that by their means they have been deprived of the government of their native sovereigns.
On the lake above mentioned are a number of pleasure-barges, capable of holding from ten to twenty persons, being from fifteen to twenty paces long, with a broad level floor, and moving steadily through the water. Those who
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delight in this amusement, and propose to enjoy it, either with their ladies or companions, engage one of these barges, which they find always in the very best order, with seats, tables, and every thing necessary for an entertain- ment. The boatmen sit on a flat upper deck, and with long poles reaching to the bottom of the lake, not more than two fathoms deep, push along the vessels to any desired spot. These cabins are painted in various colours, and with many figures; the exterior is similarly adorned. On each side are windows, which can at pleasure be kept open or shut, when the company seated at table may delight their eyes with the varied beauty of the passing scenes. Indeed, the gratification derived from these water-excursions exceeds any that can be enjoyed on land; for as the lake ex- tends all along the city, you discover, while standing in the boat, at a certain distance from the shore, all its grandeur and beauty, palaces, temples, convents, and gardens, while lofty trees reach down to the water’s edge. At the same time are seen other boats continually passing, similarly filled with parties of pleasure. Generally, indeed, the inhab- itants, when they have finished the labours of the day, or closed their mercantile transactions, think only of seeking amusement with their wives or mistresses, either in these barges or driving about the city in carriages. The main street already mentioned is paved with stone and brick to the width of ten paces on each side, the interval being filled up with small gravel, and having arched drains to carry off the water into the canals, so that it is always kept dry. On this road the carriages are constantly driving. They are long, covered at top, have curtains and cushions of silk, and can hold six persons. Citizens of both sexes, desirous of this amusement, hire them for that purpose, and you see them at every hour moving about in vast numbers. In many cases the people visit gardens, where they are introduced by the managers of the place into shady arbours, and remain till the time of returning home.
The palace already mentioned had a wall with a passage dividing the exterior court from an inner one, which formed a kind of cloister, supporting a portico that surrounded it, and led to various royal apartments. Hence you entered a covered passage or corridor, six paces wide, and so long as to reach to the margin of the lake. On each side were corresponding entrances to ten courts, also resembling cloisters with porticos, and each having fifty private rooms, with gardens attached,—the residence of a thousand young females, whom the king maintained in his service. In the company either of his queen or of a party of those ladies he used to seek amusement on the lake, visiting the idol-temples on its banks. The other two portions of this seraglio were laid out in groves, pieces of water, beautiful orchards, and enclosures for animals suited for the chase, as antelopes, deer, stags, hares, and rabbits. Here, too, the king amused himself,—his damsels accompanying him in carriages or on horseback. No man was allowed to be of the party, but the females were skilled in the art of coursing and pursuing the animals. When fatigued they retired into the groves on the margin of the lake, and, quitting their dresses, rushed into the water, when they swam sportively in different directions,—the king remaining a spectator of the exhibition. Sometimes he had his repast provided beneath the dense foliage of one of these groves, and was there waited upon by the damsels. Thus he spent his time in this enervating society, profoundly ignorant of martial affairs; hence the grand khan, as already mentioned, was enabled to deprive him of his splendid possessions, and drive him with ignominy from his throne. All these particulars were related to me by a rich merchant of Kin-sai, who was then very old; and, having been a confidential servant of King Facfur, was acquainted with every circumstance of his life. He knew the palace in its former splendour, and desired me to come and take a view of it. Being then the residence of the khan’s viceroy, the colonnades were preserved entire, but the chambers had been allowed to go to ruin,—only their foundations remaining visible. The walls, too, including the parks and gardens, had been left to decay, and no longer contained any trees or animals.
LXXVI—Revenues of the Great Khan from Kin-sai and Manji I will now tell you of the large revenue which the khan draws from this city, and the territory under its juris-
diction, which is the ninth part of the province of Manji. The salt of that country yields to him in the year eighty tomans of gold, and each toman is 70,000 saiks, which amount to 5,600,000, and each saik is worth more than a gold florin; and is not this most great and wonderful! In that country, too, there grows more sugar than in the whole world besides, and it yields a very large revenue. I will not state it particularly, but remark that, taking all spices together, they pay 3 1/3 per cent, which is levied too on all other merchandise. Large taxes are also derived from wine, rice, coal, and from the twelve arts, which, as already mentioned, have each twelve thousand stations. On every thing a duty is imposed; and on silk especially and other articles is paid ten per cent. But I, Marco Polo, tell you, because I have often heard the account of it, that the revenue on all these commodities amounts every year to 210 tomans, or 14,700,000 saiks, and that is the most enormous amount of money that ever was heard of, and yet is paid by only the ninth part of the province of Manji. Now let us depart from this city of Kin-sai, and go to another called Tam-pin-gui.
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LXXVII—Tam-pin-gui and other Cities When a man departs from Kin-sai, and goes a day to the south-east, he finds always most pleasant houses and
gardens, and all the means of living in great abundance. At the end of the day he discovers the city already named, which is very large and beautiful, and is dependent on Kin-sai. The people are subject to the khan, use paper mon- ey, are idolaters, and burn the bodies of their dead in the manner already described. They live by merchandise and arts, and have an ample supply of provisions. And when a man goes three days to the south-east, seeing very large cities and castles, and much trade, he comes to the city of Un-gui, under the government of Kin-sai, and otherwise like the former. When he departs from Un-gui and goes two days south-east, he every where perceives towns and castles, so that he seems to be going through a city. Every thing is in abundance; and here are the largest and longest canes in all the country, for know that some are four palms in circuit and fifteen paces long. At the end of the two days he comes to Chen-gui, which is large and beautiful. The people, who are idolaters, are under the great khan and the jurisdiction of Kin-sai, and have abundance of silk and provisions. In going four days south-east he finds cities and castles, and all things in the utmost plenty. There are birds and beasts for the chase, with lions very large and fierce. Throughout all the province of Manji there are neither sheep nor lambs, but oxen, goats, and hogs in great variety. At the end of the four days he finds Cian-cian, a town situated on a mountain, which divides the river into two parts, each flowing in a different direction. The people are like the former; and, at the end of three days more we reach the city of Can-giu, large and beautiful; and this is the last under the jurisdiction of Kin-sai; for now commences another kingdom, which is one of the nine parts of Manji, and is called Fu-gui.
LXXVIII—The Kingdom of Fu-gui When a man goes from the last-mentioned city of Kin-sai he enters the kingdom of Fu-gui and, after travelling
seven days, he finds houses and villages, the inhabitants of which are all idolaters, and under the jurisdiction of Fu-gui. They have provisions in great abundance, with numerous wild beasts for hunting; also large and fierce lions. They have ample supplies of ginger and galanga, so that for a Venetian grosso you can buy eighty pounds. And there is a fruit or flower having the appearance of saffron, and though not really so, yet of equal value, being much employed in manufacture. They eat the flesh of the filthiest animals, and even that of a man, provided he has not died a natural death; but if he has been killed, they account his flesh extremely delicate. When they go to war they cut their hair very close, and paint their faces an azure colour like the iron of a lance. They fight all on foot except their chief; and are the most cruel race in the world, because they go about the whole day killing men, drinking their blood, and eating their flesh.
LXXIX—Of the Cities of Que-lin-fu and Un-quem In the middle of these seven days you come to a city called Que-lin-fu, which is very large and beautiful, subject to
the great khan. It has three bridges, the largest and most magnificent in the world; for each is a mile long and ten paces broad, and all supported by columns of marble. The people live by merchandise and arts, and have abundance of silk and ginger. The ladies here are very beautiful. They have another strange thing, hens that have no feathers, but skins like a cat. They lay eggs like those of our hens, and are very good eating. And in the remainder of the seven days’ jour- ney we discover many cities and castles, merchants and merchandise, and men of art. There are lions, great and fierce, doing much injury to the passengers, who on this account cannot travel without imminent danger. At the end of the journey is found a city called Un-quem, where there is made such a quantity of sugar, that the whole court of the khan is thence supplied, which is worth a vast treasure. Beyond it is the large city of Fu-gui, capital of this kingdom.
LXXX—Of the City of Fu-gui Fu-gui, as just stated, is the capital of the kingdom of Con-cha, which is one of the nine parts of Manji. In that
city is much merchandise and art; the people are idolatrous, and subject to the great khan. He keeps there a strong army, because the towns and castles often revolt, and whenever they do so the troops hasten thither, take, and destroy them. Through the middle of that city flows a river a mile broad; here much sugar is made, and an extensive trade is carried on in precious stones and pearls, which are brought by merchants from India and its isles. It is also near the port of Zai-tun on the ocean, whither come many ships from Hindostan with much merchandise; and they ascend by the great river to Fu-gui. The people have abundance of all things necessary for subsistence; fine gardens, with good fruit; and the city is wonderfully well ordered in all respects. But we will now go on to other matters.
LXXXI—Of the most noble Port of Zai-tun, and of Ti-min-gui When one departs from Fu-gui, passes the river, and goes five days south-east, he finds cities and castles, where
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there is abundance of all things, woods, birds, and beasts, with the tree which bears camphor. The people are all idol- aters, under the great khan and the jurisdiction of Fu-gui. At the end of the five days he finds a city called Zai-tun, which is a noble port, where all the ships of India arrive, and for one laden with pepper which comes from Alexan- dria to be sold throughout Christendom, there go to that city a hundred. It is one of the two best ports in the world, and the most frequented by merchants and merchandise. Know, too, that the khan draws thence a large revenue, because all the ships from India pay upon their several kinds of goods, stones, and pearls, ten per cent, that is one in ten. The ships take for their height, on small merchandise, thirty per cent.; on pepper, forty-four; on lignum, aloes, sandalwood, and other bulky articles, forty; so that merchants, between the height and the duty, pay a full half of all commodities brought into that port. Those of this country are all idolaters, and have great abundance of every thing necessary for the human body. In that province is a city, named Ti-min-gui, where they make the most beautiful cups in the world; they are of porcelain, and are manufactured in no other part of the earth besides that city; for a Vene- tian grosso you may purchase three cups of this most elegant ware. The people of Fu-gui have a language of their own. Now, I have told you of this kingdom, which is one of the nine, and the great khan draws from it as much duty and revenue as from that of Kin-sai. We have not told you of the nine kingdoms of Manji, but only of three, Manji, Kin-sai, and Fu-gui, and of these you have heard fully; but the others I cannot now describe, because it would be too tedious, and our book has not yet treated of other things which I wish to write about; for I have to tell you of the Indians, who are well worthy of being known. Their country contains many wonderful things found in none of the other parts of the world, which it will be good and profitable to write. And, I assure you, Marco remained so long in India, and saw so much of its produce, customs, and merchandise, that no man could better tell the truth. Therefore I will put them in writing, precisely as Messer Marco truly said them to me.
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The selections in this chapter are from both Persian and Arabic sources. The center of the Persian Empire was located in what is modern-day Iran, and there was a long history of classical Persian literature before the Islam- ic invasion in the mid-seventeenth century C.E. After the violent overthrow of the Sassanid Empire by nomadic Arab tribes, the library in Ctesiphon (the capital city) was burned, as were libraries in other major cities. Although many pre-invasion Persian works were lost, some stories are recorded in later works. Abolqasem Ferdowsi, in his Shahnameh, writes the history of Persia from the creation of the world to the Islamic invasion; while Ferdowsi was Muslim, he writes in Persian, and his epic preserves the stories of Persia’s Zoroastrian heroes (Zoroastrianism was the state religion of Persia before the invasion).
Medieval Persian authors often wrote in both Persian and Arabic, and the most prestigious literary form was poetry. In many cases, prose writing was combined with poetry, with lines of poetry appearing at regular intervals in the prose. The emphasis was on works that were educational or enlightening, rather than simply entertaining, so works such as the Rose Garden of Sa’di combined wise sayings and stories with humor and wit, demonstrating Sa’di’s talents in both prose and poetry.
Sa’di often admires Sufi dervishes (similar to Christian mendicant friars in their poverty and austerity) in his works; an offshoot of Islam, Sufism combines Islamic, Christian, and Buddhist beliefs. The focus is on connecting with God; since humans are unable to understand God fully with their rational minds, Sufis attempt an emotional connection. Sa’di admired their willingness to confront rulers fearlessly about their (less-than) moral behavior, since death would only reunite them with God. Jalal al-Din Rumi, one of the finest poets in Persian literature, was also a founder of a Sufi order of dervishes (sometimes called “whirling dervishes” because of the spinning that they do to achieve a trance-like state of meditation). Although seemingly conventional on the surface, his love poetry ulti- mately is about longing for a spiritual union with God.
The Qur’an is the most important work in Arabic. Believed by Muslims to be the word of God as dictated to Mohammed through the angel Jibreel (Gabriel), its influence on Arabic literature and culture is immeasurable. Only the Qur’an in Arabic is considered to be the true Qur’an; any translation alters the actual words of the text, so followers are expected to read the text in the original language. Therefore, the text presented in this anthology is not the true document, but an approximation in English.
The other major work in Arabic in this chapter is secular: The Thousand and One Nights (also known as The Arabian Nights). Technically, this sort of storytelling would not have been considered “high” literature at the time, since it was not poetry, religious, or a collection of wise sayings. Its impact on literature, however, has been con- siderable, both in the Middle East and Europe. The stories are drawn from Arabic, Persian, and Indian folktales (among others). Thanks to early translations, many of the individual stories are well known around the world.
As you read, consider the following questions:
• What kind of relationship do the heroes have to their societies, their leaders (rulers), their families, and their religion?
• How is the frame tale found in The Thousand and One Nights similar to the frame tales in Chaucer and Boccaccio?
• What is similar and different about the poetry of Rumi and Dante? • How is the Shahname similar to and different from the epics from the Ancient World (such as The Iliad, The
Mahabharata, and The Aeneid)? • How has the role of religion changed in the stories, now that there are no pantheons of gods?
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THE ROSE GARDEN (GOLESTAN or GULISTAN)
Sa’di (ca. 1213-1291 C.E.)
Published 1258 C.E. Iran
Musharrif al-Dīn ibn Muṣlih al-Dīn, known as Sa’di or Saadi, wrote both poetry and prose in Persian. The Rose Garden is a combination of the two genres: mostly prose, with poems and lines of poetry scattered throughout. The stories and anecdotes in The Rose Garden offer examples of wisdom drawn from history and literature. Sa’di clearly admired Sufis, and he devotes a section of the work to “The Wisdom of Dervishes”; in it, the Sufi dervishes chal- lenge rulers to behave morally, unafraid of earthly consequences. There are examples of rulers who are driven from power because of their cruelty, greed, or even stupidity. In other anecdotes, people are advised to avoid conflict when possible: suggesting, in one famous example, that a kind lie sometimes might be better than a harmful truth. The Rose Garden influenced authors such as Johannes Wolfgang Goethe, Victor Hugo, and Ralph Waldo Emerson, and it is still popular today.
Written by Laura J. Getty
The Rose Garden of Sa’di
Saʻdī, Translated by L. Cranmer-Byng and S. A. Kapadia
Chapter I The Manners of Kings
Faithlessness of the World This was written over the portico of the Palace of King Feridun.
The world, O brother! may with none abide. Look to thy God, let Him suffice alone! This world that cherished thee will cast aside: A little while and all thy wealth is flown. What matter when depart thou must, If death should find thee in the dust, Or call thee from thy throne!
A Vision of Sultan Mahmud One of the Kings of Khorasan in a dream beheld the vision of Sultan Mahmud, an hundred years after he had
died. His whole body seemed to have crumbled and turned to dust, save only his eyes, which were moving in their sockets and looking about them. All the learned ones failed to interpret this, except a Dervish, who made obeisance and said: “He is still looking to see how it came to pass that his kingdom belongs to others.”
Verses Many are they, once famed, beneath the ground, That left no record of their little worth, And the old corse surrendered, earth to earth, Was so consumed that not a bone is found. The glories of King Nusherwan remain, And time remembers his munificence.
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Be generous, O friend! ere passing hence, They shall proclaim thee with the moons that wane.
On the Deception of Appearances The man that never will declare his thought Conceals a soul of honour or of sin. Dost think yon silent jungle holdeth naught? Perchance a lurking tiger sleeps therein.
Friendship He is no friend who in thine hour of pride Brags of his love and calls himself thy kin. He is a friend who hales his fellow in, And clangs the door upon the wolf outside.
Retirement and Peace A vezier, having been deprived of his post, joined the brother-
hood of Dervishes. The blessing of their society was such upon him that he acquired content once more. The Sultan became well dis- posed towards him, and bade him resume his office; but he refused, saying: “It is better to be retired than busy.”
Verses Those that have sought the hermit’s cell where
quiet seasons rule Have drawn the venom of the dog, the malice of
the fool; They tore their controversies up, the pen away
they flung, And so escaped the critic’s lash, and foiled the
slanderer’s tongue.
The king said: “Verily we are in need of one sufficiently intelligent who is able to carry on the affairs of the gov- ernment.” He answered: “It is a sign of sufficient intelligence not to meddle with such matters.”
Toil and Servitude There were two brothers in Egypt, one of them in the service of the Sultan, the other living by his own industry.
The rich man once asked his poor brother why he did not serve the Sultan, in order to be released from the hardships of toil? He answered: “Why dost thou not labour, in order to be free from the baseness of service, since wise men have said it is better to eat barley-bread and sit at ease than to be girt with a golden girdle and stand in service?”
On Rejoicing Over a Fallen Foe A certain person told Nusherwan the Just that God Most High had taken from this world an enemy of his. He
asked: “Hast thou heard by any means that He intendeth to spare me?”
Exult not o’er the dying foe! One day Thou too must quit thy tenement of clay.
Image 6.1: Saadi in a Rose Garden | Saadi (also Sa’di) stands in a garden with another man, surrounded by flowers with a mountain the back- ground.
Author: Govardhan Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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Chapter II The Morals of Dervishes
Fault-Finding and Self-Conceit I remember being pious in my youth, given to night vigils, prayers, and abstinence. One night I was sitting with
my father, on whom God have mercy, keeping awake and holding the precious Koran in my lap, whilst the company around us slept. I said: “Of these people not one lifts up the head or bows the knee (in prayer). They are all sound asleep, as though they were dead.” He answered: “Little one of thy father, would that thou wert also asleep, rather than proclaiming the faults of others.”
Verses The braggart sees himself alone, Since he is veiled in self-conceit; Were God’s all-seeing eye his own, He would no weaker braggart meet.
Forbearance A band of vagabonds meeting a Dervish spoke evilly to him, beat him and ill-used him, where- upon he
brought his complaint to his superior. The Director replied: “My son! the patched gown of the Dervishes is the garb of resignation, and he who, wearing it, cannot bear with injury, is but a pretender to whom our garb is forbidden.”
Distich Thou canst not stir the river’s bed with stones: Wisdom aggrieved is but’a shallow brook.
Verses If any injure thee, thy spleen control, Since by forgiveness thou shalt cleanse thy soul. O brother, since the end of all is dust, Be dust, ere unto dust return thou must.
Humility Hark to my tale, how once a quarrel rose Betwixt a flag and curtain in Bagdad,— How, drooping from the march, the dusty flag Reproached the curtain: “Art not thou and I Both servants in the Sultan’s court? I know No respite from his service. From the light Of cock-crow to the gloom of nightingales I travel, travel: thou hast neither siege Nor battle to endure, nor whirling sand, Nor wind, nor heat to suffer; while my step Is ever on the march. Why art thou held More honoured? Thou art cherished by slim boys Of moon-pale beauty, jasmine-scented maids Touch thee caressingly; while I am rolled By raw recruits, and ofttimes on the trail Carried head downwards.”
Then the curtain spake: “My head is humbly on the threshold laid, Unlike thine own, that flaunting would defy The golden-armoured sun. Whoever rears The neck of exaltation shall descend Most speedily neck level with the dust.”
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The Dervish Way The way of dervishes is gratefulness, praise, worship, obedience, contentment, and charity, believing in the unity of God, faith, submission, and patience. Whoever hath these qualities is indeed a Dervish, though he may wear fine raiment; whereas the idler, who neglecteth prayer, who goeth after ease and pleasure, turneth day into night in the bondage of desire, and night into day in the slumber of forgetfulness, eateth whatever he layeth hold on, and speaketh that which is uppermost, he is an evil-doer, though he may wear the garb of the Dervishes.
Verses Thou who within of good resolve art bare, Yet dost the mantle of the righteous wear; Thou who hast but a reed-mat to thy floor, Hang not the rainbow-curtain on the door.
Chapter III The Preciousness of Contentment
Wisdom and Worldly Power Two sons of princes lived in Egypt, the one given to the study of science, the other heaping up riches, till the
former became the wise man of the age, and the latter the King of Egypt. Then the rich man looked with the eye of scorn upon the philosopher, and said: “I have reached the sovereign power whilst thou remainest poor as before.” He replied: “O brother! I must needs be grateful to the Most High Creator, that I have found the inheritance of the prophets, while thou hast obtained the inheritance of Pharaoh and Haman —the Kingdom of Egypt.”
Mesnevi I am that ant which under foot is trod. No wasp am I, for man to curse my sting. How can I rightly thank Almighty God That I am harmless both to clown and king?
Frugality It is written in the annals of Ardeshir Babekan that he asked an Arabian physician how much food ought to be
taken daily. He answered: “The weight of one hundred dirrhems were enough.” The king asked him: “What strength will this quantity give me?” He replied: “This quantity will carry thee; but whatever’ more is taken, thou wilt be the carrier of it.”
Eat to live, thy prayers repeating; Think not life was made for eating.
Self-Dependence They asked of Hâtim Tai if he had seen any one in the world of nobler sentiments than himself. He replied: “Yes,
one day I slew forty camels to give a banquet to Arab chieftains. I went forth upon some affair to a corner of the desert, where I saw a gatherer of sticks, who had piled up a heap of brushwood. I asked him why he had not become a guest of Hâtim, seeing that many people had gathered around his carpet. But he replied:
‘He that hath bread procured by honest sweat, To Hâtim will not bear to be in debt.’
Then I perceived that his sentiments were nobler than mine own.”
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Pearls and Starvation I saw an Arab sitting amid a circle of jewelers at Bosrah, and telling them tales. He said: “Once I lost my way in
the desert, and had consumed all my provisions. I was prepared to die, when suddenly I beheld a bag of pearls. Nev- er shall I forget the joy I felt, deeming them to be parched grain, nor the bitterness and despair with which I found them to be pearls.”
Verses In deserts, amid shifting sand and drouth, Nor pearl nor shell is manna to the mouth. Ah! what avails, when food and strength are
gone, The girdle with its pearls or pebbles strown?
Chapter IV The Blessing of Silence
On the Choice of Words Subhân Vail is held to have had no peer in oratory, since he had spoken before an assembly for a whole year
without using the same phrase twice; but if the same meaning happened to occur, he expressed it in another way: and this is one of the accomplishments of courtiers and princes.
Mesnevi A word, if binding on the heart and sweet, Is worthy of belief and approbation. What thou hast said ne’er let thy tongue repeat: We do not twice partake the same collation.
On Interruptions I once heard a philosopher say that no one has ever confessed his own ignorance, save him who begins to talk
whilst another has not yet finished.
Mesnevi Words have a head, O shrewd man, and a tail; Into no other’s discourse fit thine own. The man of sound discretion will not fail To bide his time and hold the floor alone.
On Hearing Ourselves A certain preacher was wont to think that his harsh voice gave pleasure, and often he shouted aloud and need-
lessly. Thou mightest have said that the raven of separation was the burden of his song; and the verse, for the most detestable of voices is surely the voice of asses, appears to have fitted him. This distich is also concerning him:
When Abu-l-Fares brays of Heaven’sbliss, He rocks the ruins of Persepolis.
By reason of his rank the people of the place endured this defect, and did not think fit to distress him. Af- terwards, however, another preacher of those parts arrived, who bore a secret grudge against him, and said: “I have dreamed about thee, and may it prove fortunate!” “What hast thou dreamed?” “I dreamed that thy voice had become melodious, and that the people had ease during thy sermons.” For a little while the preacher pondered on these words; then made answer: “Truly thou hast dreamed a blessed dream, since thou hast made me aware of my weakness. Now I know that my voice is harsh, and that the people are distressed with my loud reading; accordingly I have vowed that henceforth I will not preach save with the tones of moderation.”
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Chapter VII The Effects of Education
Knowledge is Wealth A philosopher was teaching boys, and said to them: “O darlings of your fathers, learn a trade, since no reliance may
be placed upon the possessions and riches of the world: for silver and gold are a source of peril, since either a thief may steal them at once or the owner waste them by degrees; but a profession is a living spring and wealth enduring. Al- though a professional man may lose his fortune, he need not grieve, for his knowledge is wealth of itself, and wherever he go he will be honoured, and sit in the upper seat: but he who has no calling will glean the crumbs and suffer want.”
Distich He finds not easy to obey whose word was man’s behest, Nor will he bear with insolence whom all men have caressed.
Verses Once confusion filled Damascus, Each one left his quiet corner; Learned sons of lusty peasants Were the veziers of the Caliphs: While the silly sons of veziers Begged their bread through every village.
Verses Dost want thy sire’s inheritance? Acquire his business ways, Since all the gold that feeds thy glance May melt within ten days.
The Lilies of Immortality A certain illustrious man had a worthy son who died. When they asked him what he desired should be written
upon the urn of the tomb, he answered: “The verses of the Holy Book are deserving of more reverence than to be written in such a place, where they might be effaced by time, or trodden upon by men, or defiled by dogs. If it is needful to write anything, let this suffice:
How gladly when the lilies bloomed, My heart the loaded ways did roam! Pass with the spring, O friend, and, lo! The lilies breaking through my loam.”
THE QURAN
Compiled ca. 632-651 C.E. Mecca, Arabia (what is now Saudi Arabia)
The Quran (a.k.a. Qur’an or Koran), meaning “the recitation,” is the sacred scripture of Islam, or the word of God, and is meant to be musically read aloud. Islam, rooted in the Arabic word “salema” (meaning “peace”), means “obedi- ence” and “submission.” Muslims believe that the Quran was revealed through the angel Gabriel to the prophet Mu- hammad in the seventh century. Existing only as an oral recitation during Muhammad’s time, the Quran was compiled in written form under the first several caliphs. The holy book is written in Arabic, Islam’s sacred language, and has 114 suras, or chapters. Translations of the Quran, although they are helpful for understanding the original, are not regard- ed as the same as the holy book in Arabic. As part of Abrahamic religions, the Quran shows connections to Jewish and Christian biblical characters and stories.
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Selections from The Quran with Surah Introductions
Saheeh International Translation
Edited by A. B. al-Mehri
Sūrah 1: al-Fātihah 1. In the name of God, the Entirely Merciful, the Especially Merciful. 2. [All] praise is [due] to God, Lord of the worlds— 3. The Entirely Merciful, the Especially Merciful, 4. Sovereign of the Day of Recompense. 5. It is You we worship and You we ask for help. 6. Guide us to the straight path— 7. The path of those upon whom You have bestowed favor, not of those who have evoked [Your] anger or of
those who are astray.
Image 6.2: The Quran | A copy of the Quran from the Chester Beatty Library.
Author: User “Jonsafari” Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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The Quran
Sūrah 5: al-Mā’idah In the Name of God, the Most Compassionate, the Most Merciful
1. O you who have believed, fulfill [all] contracts. Lawful for you are the animals of grazing livestock except for that which is recited to you [in this Qur’ān]—hunting not being permitted while you are in the state of ihrām. Indeed, God ordains what He intends.
2. O you who have believed, do not violate the rites of God or [the sanctity of ] the sacred month or [neglect the marking of ] the sacrificial animals and garlanding [them] or [violate the safety of ] those coming to the Sacred House seeking bounty from their Lord and [His] approval. But when you come out of ihrām, then [you may] hunt. And do not let the hatred of a people for having obstructed you from al-Masjid al-Harām lead you to transgress. And cooperate in righteousness and piety, but do not cooperate in sin and aggres- sion. And fear God; indeed, God is severe in penalty.
3. Prohibited to you are dead animals, blood, the flesh of swine, and that which has been dedicated to other than God, and [those animals] killed by strangling or by a violent blow or by a head-long fall or by the gor- ing of horns, and those from which a wild animal has eaten, except what you [are able to] slaughter [before its death], and those which are sacrificed on stone altars, and [prohibited is] that you seek decision through divining arrows. That is grave disobedience. This day those who disbelieve have despaired of [defeating] your religion; so fear them not, but fear Me. This day I have perfected for you your religion and completed My favor upon you and have approved for you Islām as religion. But whoever is forced by severe hunger with no inclination to sin—then indeed, God is Forgiving and Merciful.
4. They ask you, [O Muhammad], what has been made lawful for them. Say, “Lawful for you are [all] good foods and [game caught by] what you have trained of hunting animals which you train as God has taught you. So eat of what they catch for you, and mention the name of God upon it, and fear God.” Indeed, God is swift in account.
5. This day [all] good foods have been made lawful, and the food of those who were given the Scripture is law- ful for you and your food is lawful for them. And [lawful in marriage are] chaste women from among the believers and chaste women from among those who were given the Scripture before you, when you have given them their due compensation, desiring chastity, not unlawful sexual intercourse or taking [secret] lovers. And whoever denies the faith—his work has become worthless, and he, in the Hereafter, will be among the losers.
6. O you who have believed, when you rise to [perform] prayer, wash your faces and your forearms to the elbows and wipe over your heads and wash your feet to the ankles. And if you are in a state of janābah, then purify yourselves. But if you are ill or on a journey or one of you comes from the place of relieving himself or you have contacted women and do not find water, then seek clean earth and wipe over your faces and hands with it. God does not intend to make difficulty for you, but He intends to purify you and complete His favor upon you that you may be grateful.
7. And remember the favor of God upon you and His covenant with which He bound you when you said, “We hear and we obey”; and fear God. Indeed, God is Knowing of that within the breasts.
8. O you who have believed, be persistently standing firm for God, witnesses in justice, and do not let the ha- tred of a people prevent you from being just. Be just; that is nearer to righteousness. And fear God; indeed, God is Acquainted with what you do.
9. God has promised those who believe and do righteous deeds [that] for them there is forgiveness and great reward.
10. But those who disbelieve and deny Our signs—those are the companions of Hellfire. 11. O you who have believed, remember the favor of God upon you when a people determined to extend their
hands [in aggression] against you, but He withheld their hands from you; and fear God. And upon God let the believers rely.
12. And God had already taken a covenant from the Children of Israel, and We delegated from among them twelve leaders. And God said, “I am with you. If you establish prayer and give zakāh and believe in My messengers and support them and loan God a goodly loan, I will surely remove from you your misdeeds and admit you to gardens beneath which rivers flow. But whoever of you disbelieves after that has certainly strayed from the soundness of the way.”
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13. So for their breaking of the covenant We cursed them and made their hearts hard. They distort words from their [proper] places [i.e., usages] and have forgotten a portion of that of which they were reminded. And you will still observe deceit among them, except a few of them. But pardon them and overlook [their mis- deeds]. Indeed, God loves the doers of good.
14. And from those who say, “We are Christians” We took their covenant; but they forgot a portion of that of which they were reminded. So We caused among them animosity and hatred until the Day of Resurrection. And God is going to inform them about what they used to do.
15. O People of the Scripture, there has come to you Our Messenger making clear to you much of what you used to conceal of the Scripture and overlooking much. There has come to you from God a light and a clear Book [i.e., the Qur’ān]
16. By which God guides those who pursue His pleasure to the ways of peace and brings them out from dark- nesses into the light, by His permission, and guides them to a straight path.
17. They have certainly disbelieved who say that God is Christ, the son of Mary. Say, “Then who could prevent God at all if He had intended to destroy Christ, the son of Mary, or his mother or everyone on the earth?” And to God belongs the dominion of the heavens and the earth and whatever is between them. He creates what He wills, and God is over all things competent.
18. But the Jews and the Christians say, “We are the children of God and His beloved.” Say, “Then why does He punish you for your sins?” Rather, you are human beings from among those He has created. He forgives whom He wills, and He punishes whom He wills. And to God belongs the dominion of the heavens and the earth and whatever is between them, and to Him is the [final] destination.
19. O People of the Scripture, there has come to you Our Messenger to make clear to you [the religion] after a period [of suspension] of messengers, lest you say, “There came not to us any bringer of good tidings or a war- ner.” But there has come to you a bringer of good tidings and a warner. And God is over all things competent.
20. And [mention, O Muhammad], when Moses said to his people, “O my people, remember the favor of God upon you when He appointed among you prophets and made you possessors and gave you that which He had not given anyone among the worlds.
21. O my people, enter the Holy Land [i.e., Palestine] which God has assigned to you and do not turn back [from fighting in God’s cause] and [thus] become losers.”
22. They said, “O Moses, indeed within it is a people of tyrannical strength, and indeed, we will never enter it until they leave it; but if they leave it, then we will enter.”
23. Said two men from those who feared [to disobey] upon whom God had bestowed favor, “Enter upon them through the gate, for when you have entered it, you will be predominant. And upon God rely, if you should be believers.”
24. They said, “O Moses, indeed we will not enter it, ever, as long as they are within it; so go, you and your Lord, and fight. Indeed, we are remaining right here.”
25. [Moses] said, “My Lord, indeed I do not possess [i.e., control] except myself and my brother, so part us from the defiantly disobedient people.”
26. [God] said, “Then indeed, it is forbidden to them for forty years [in which] they will wander throughout the land. So do not grieve over the defiantly disobedient people.”
27. And recite to them the story of Adam’s two sons, in truth, when they both offered a sacrifice [to God], and it was accepted from one of them but was not accepted from the other. Said [the latter], “I will surely kill you.” Said [the former], “Indeed, God only accepts from the righteous [who fear Him].
28. If you should raise your hand against me to kill me—I shall not raise my hand against you to kill you. In- deed, I fear God, Lord of the worlds.
29. Indeed, I want you to obtain [thereby] my sin and your sin so you will be among the companions of the Fire. And that is the recompense of wrongdoers.”
30. And his soul permitted to him the murder of his brother, so he killed him and became among the losers. 31. Then God sent a crow searching [i.e., scratching] in the ground to show him how to hide the disgrace of his
brother. He said, “O woe to me! Have I failed to be like this crow and hide the disgrace [i.e., body] of my brother?” And he became of the regretful.
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32. Because of that, We decreed upon the Children of Israel that whoever kills a soul unless for a soul or for corruption [done] in the land—it is as if he had slain mankind entirely. And whoever saves one—it is as if he had saved mankind entirely. And our messengers had certainly come to them with clear proofs. Then indeed many of them, [even] after that, throughout the land, were transgressors.
33. Indeed, the penalty for those who wage war against God and His Messenger and strive upon earth [to cause] corruption is none but that they be killed or crucified or that their hands and feet be cut off from opposite sides or that they be exiled from the land. That is for them a disgrace in this world; and for them in the Hereafter is a great punishment,
34. Except for those who return [repenting] before you overcome [i.e., apprehend] them. And know that God is Forgiving and Merciful.
35. O you who have believed, fear God and seek the means [of nearness] to Him and strive in His cause that you may succeed.
36. Indeed, those who disbelieve—if they should have all that is in the earth and the like of it with it by which to ransom themselves from the punishment of the Day of Resurrection, it will not be accepted from them, and for them is a painful punishment.
37. They will wish to get out of the Fire, but never are they to emerge therefrom, and for them is an enduring punishment.
38. [As for] the thief, the male and the female, amputate their hands in recompense for what they earned [i.e., committed] as a deterrent [punishment] from God. And God is Exalted in Might and Wise.
39. But whoever repents after his wrongdoing and reforms, indeed, God will turn to him in forgiveness. In- deed, God is Forgiving and Merciful.
40. Do you not know that to God belongs the dominion of the heavens and the earth? He punishes whom He wills and forgives whom He wills, and God is over all things competent.
41. O Messenger, let them not grieve you who hasten into disbelief of those who say, “We believe” with their mouths, but their hearts believe not, and from among the Jews. [They are] avid listeners to falsehood, lis- tening to another people who have not come to you. They distort words beyond their [proper] places [i.e., usages], saying “If you are given this, take it; but if you are not given it, then beware.” But he for whom God intends fitnah—never will you possess [power to do] for him a thing against God. Those are the ones for whom God does not intend to purify their hearts. For them in this world is disgrace, and for them in the Hereafter is a great punishment.
42. [They are] avid listeners to falsehood, devourers of [what is] unlawful. So if they come to you, [O Muham- mad], judge between them or turn away from them. And if you turn away from them—never will they harm you at all. And if you judge, judge between them with justice. Indeed, God loves those who act justly.
43. But how is it that they come to you for judgement while they have the Torah, in which is the judgement of God? Then they turn away, [even] after that; but those are not [in fact] believers.
44. Indeed, We sent down the Torah, in which was guidance and light. The prophets who submitted [to God] judged by it for the Jews, as did the rabbis and scholars by that with which they were entrusted of the Scrip- ture of God, and they were witnesses thereto. So do not fear the people but fear Me, and do not exchange My verses for a small price [i.e., worldly gain]. And whoever does not judge by what God has revealed— then it is those who are the disbelievers.
45. And We ordained for them therein a life for a life, an eye for an eye, a nose for a nose, an ear for an ear, a tooth for a tooth, and for wounds is legal retribution. But whoever gives [up his right as] charity, it is an expiation for him. And whoever does not judge by what God has revealed—then it is those who are the wrongdoers [i.e., the unjust].
46. And We sent, following in their footsteps, Jesus, the son of Mary, confirming that which came before him in the Torah; and We gave him the Gospel, in which was guidance and light and confirming that which preceded it of the Torah as guidance and instruction for the righteous.
47. And let the People of the Gospel judge by what God has revealed therein. And whoever does not judge by what God has revealed then it is those who are the defiantly disobedient.
48. And We have revealed to you, [O Muhammad], the Book [i.e., the Qur’ān] in truth, confirming that which
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preceded it of the Scripture and as a criterion over it. So judge between them by what God has revealed and do not follow their inclinations away from what has come to you of the truth. To each of you We prescribed a law and a method. Had God willed, He would have made you one nation [united in religion], but [He in- tended] to test you in what He has given you; so race to [all that is] good. To God is your return all togeth- er, and He will [then] inform you concerning that over which you used to differ.
49. And judge, [O Muhammad], between them by what God has revealed and do not follow their inclinations and beware of them, lest they tempt you away from some of what God has revealed to you. And if they turn away—then know that God only intends to afflict them with some of their [own] sins. And indeed, many among the people are defiantly disobedient.
50. Then is it the judgement of [the time of ] ignorance they desire? But who is better than God in judgement for a people who are certain [in faith].
51. O you who have believed, do not take the Jews and the Christians as allies. They are [in fact] allies of one another. And whoever is an ally to them among you—then indeed, he is [one] of them. Indeed, God guides not the wrongdoing people.
52. So you see those in whose hearts is disease [i.e., hypocrisy] hastening into [association with] them, saying, “We are afraid a misfortune may strike us.” But perhaps God will bring conquest or a decision from Him, and they will become, over what they have been concealing within themselves, regretful.
53. And those who believe will say, “Are these the ones who swore by God their strongest oaths that indeed they were with you?” Their deeds have become worthless, and they have become losers.
54. O you who have believed, whoever of you should revert from his religion—God will bring forth [in place of them] a people He will love and who will love Him [who are] humble toward the believers, powerful against the disbelievers; they strive in the cause of God and do not fear the blame of a critic. That is the favor of God; He bestows it upon whom He wills. And God is all-Encompassing and Knowing.
55. Your ally is none but God and [therefore] His Messenger and those who have believed—those who estab- lish prayer and give zakāh, and they bow [in worship],
56. And whoever is an ally of God and His Messenger and those who have believed—indeed, the party of God—they will be the predominant.
57. O you who have believed, take not those who have taken your religion in ridicule and amusement among the ones who were given the Scripture before you nor the disbelievers as allies. And fear God, if you should [truly] be believers.
58. And when you call to prayer, they take it in ridicule and amusement. That is because they are a people who do not use reason.
59. Say, “O People of the Scripture, do you resent us except [for the fact] that we have believed in God and what was revealed to us and what was revealed before and because most of you are defiantly disobedient?”
60. Say, “Shall I inform you of [what is] worse than that as penalty from God? [It is that of ] those whom God has cursed and with whom He became angry and made of them apes and pigs and slaves of taghūt. Those are worse in position and further astray from the sound way.”
61. And when they come to you, they say, “We believe.” But they have entered with disbelief [in their hearts], and they have certainly left with it. And God is most knowing of what they were concealing.
62. And you see many of them hastening into sin and aggression and the devouring of [what is] unlawful. How wretched is what they have been doing.
63. Why do the rabbis and religious scholars not forbid them from saying what is sinful and devouring what is unlawful? How wretched is what they have been practicing.
64. And the Jews say, “The hand of God is chained.” Chained are their hands, and cursed are they for what they say. Rather, both His hands are extended; He spends however He wills. And that which has been revealed to you from your Lord will surely increase many of them in transgression and disbelief. And We have cast among them animosity and hatred until the Day of Resurrection. Every time they kindled the fire of war [against you], God extinguished it. And they strive throughout the land [causing] corruption, and God does not like corrupters.
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65. And if only the People of the Scripture had believed and feared God, We would have removed from them their misdeeds and admitted them to Gardens of Pleasure.
66. And if only they upheld [the law of ] the Torah, the Gospel, and what has been revealed to them from their Lord [i.e., the Qur’ān], they would have consumed [provision] from above them and from beneath their feet. Among them are a moderate [i.e., acceptable] community, but many of them—evil is that which they do.
67. O Messenger, announce that which has been revealed to you from your Lord, and if you do not, then you have not conveyed His message. And God will protect you from the people. Indeed, God does not guide the disbelieving people.
68. Say, “O People of the Scripture, you are [standing] on nothing until you uphold [the law of ] the Torah, the Gospel, and what has been revealed to you from your Lord [i.e., the Qur’ān].” And that which has been revealed to you from your Lord will surely increase many of them in transgression and disbelief. So do not grieve over the disbelieving people.
69. Indeed, those who have believed [in Prophet Muhammad] and those [before him] who were Jews or Sa- beans or Christians—those [among them] who believed in God and the Last Day and did righteousness— no fear will there be concerning them, nor will they grieve.
70. We had already taken the covenant of the Children of Israel and had sent to them messengers. Whenever there came to them a messenger with what their souls did not desire, a party [of messengers] they denied, and another party they killed.
71. And they thought there would be no [resulting] punishment, so they became blind and deaf. Then God turned to them in forgiveness; then [again] many of them became blind and deaf. And God is Seeing of what they do.
72. They have certainly disbelieved who say, “God is the Messiah, the son of Mary” while the Messiah has said, “O Children of Israel, worship God, my Lord and your Lord.” Indeed, he who associates others with God—God has forbidden him Paradise, and his refuge is the Fire. And there are not for the wrongdoers any helpers.
73. They have certainly disbelieved who say, “God is the third of three.” And there is no god except one God. And if they do not desist from what they are saying, there will surely afflict the disbelievers among them a painful punishment.
74. So will they not repent to God and seek His forgiveness? And God is Forgiving and Merciful. 75. The Messiah, son of Mary, was not but a messenger; [other] messengers have passed on before him. And
his mother was a supporter of truth. They both used to eat food. Look how We make clear to them the signs; then look how they are deluded.
76. Say, “Do you worship besides God that which holds for you no [power of ] harm or benefit while it is God who is the Hearing, the Knowing?”
77. Say, “O People of the Scripture, do not exceed limits in your religion beyond the truth and do not follow the inclinations of a people who had gone astray before and misled many and have strayed from the soundness of the way.”
78. Cursed were those who disbelieved among the Children of Israel by the tongue of David and of Jesus, the son of Mary. That was because they disobeyed and [habitually] transgressed.
79. They used not to prevent one another from wrongdoing that they did. How wretched was that which they were doing.
80. You see many of them becoming allies of those who disbelieved [i.e., the polytheists]. How wretched is that which they have put forth for themselves in that God has become angry with them, and in the punishment they will abide eternally.
81. And if they had believed in God and the Prophet and in what was revealed to him, they would not have taken them as allies; but many of them are defiantly disobedient.
82. You will surely find the most intense of the people in animosity toward the believers [to be] the Jews and those who associate others with God; and you will find the nearest of them in affection to the believers those who say, “We are Christians.” That is because among them are priests and monks and because they are not arrogant.
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83. And when they hear what has been revealed to the Messenger, you see their eyes overflowing with tears because of what they have recognized of the truth. They say, “Our Lord, we have believed, so register us among the witnesses.
84. And why should we not believe in God and what has come to us of the truth? And we aspire that our Lord will admit us [to Paradise] with the righteous people.”
85. So God rewarded them for what they said with gardens [in Paradise] beneath which rivers flow, wherein they abide eternally. And that is the reward of doers of good.
86. But those who disbelieved and denied Our signs—they are the companions of Hellfire. 87. O you who have believed, do not prohibit the good things which God has made lawful to you and do not
transgress. Indeed, God does not like transgressors. 88. And eat of what God has provided for you [which is] lawful and good. And fear God, in whom you are
believers. 89. God will not impose blame upon you for what is meaningless in your oaths, but He will impose blame
upon you for [breaking] what you intended of oaths. So its expiation is the feeding of ten needy people from the average of that which you feed your [own] families or clothing them or the freeing of a slave. But whoever cannot find [or afford it]—then a fast of three days [is required]. That is the expiation for oaths when you have sworn. But guard your oaths. Thus does God make clear to you His verses [i.e., revealed law] that you may be grateful.
90. O you who have believed, indeed, intoxicants, gambling, [sacrificing on] stone alters [to other than God], and divining arrows are but defilement from the work of Satan, so avoid it that you may be successful.
91. Satan only wants to cause between you animosity and hatred through intoxicants and gambling and to avert you from the remembrance of God and from prayer. So will you not desist?
92. And obey God and obey the Messenger and beware. And if you turn away—then know that upon Our Messenger is only [the responsibility for] clear notification.
93. There is not upon those who believe and do righteousness [any] blame concerning what they have eaten [in the past] if they [now] fear God and believe and do righteous deeds, and then fear God and believe, and then fear God and do good; and God loves the doers of good.
94. O you who have believed, God will surely test you through something of the game that your hands and spears [can] reach, that God may make evident those who fear Him unseen. And whoever transgresses after that—for him is a painful punishment.
95. O you who have believed, do not kill game while you are in the state of ihrām. And whoever of you kills it intentionally—the penalty is an equivalent from sacrificial animals to what he killed, as judged by two just men among you as an offering [to God] delivered to the Ka’bāh, or an expiation: the feeding of needy peo- ple or the equivalent of that in fasting, that he may taste the consequence of his matter [i.e., deed]. God has pardoned what is past; but whoever returns [to violation], then God will take retribution from him. And God is Exalted in Might and Owner of Retribution.
96. Lawful to you is game from the sea and its food as provision for you and the travelers, but forbidden to you is game from the land as long as you are in the state of ihrām. And fear God to whom you will be gathered.
97. God has made the Ka’bāh, the Sacred House, standing for the people and [has sanctified] the sacred months and the sacrificial animals and the garlands [by which they are identified]. That is so you may know that God knows what is in the heavens and what is in the earth and that God is Knowing of all things.
98. Know that God is severe in penalty and that God is Forgiving and Merciful. 99. Not upon the Messenger is [responsibility] except [for] notification. And God knows whatever you reveal
and whatever you conceal. 100. Say, “Not equal are the evil and the good, although the abundance of evil might impress you.” So fear God,
O you of understanding, that you may be successful. 101. O you who have believed, do not ask about things which, if they are shown to you, will distress you. But if
you ask about them while the Qur’ān is being revealed, they will be shown to you. God has pardoned it [i.e., that which is past]; and God is Forgiving and Forbearing.
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102. A people asked such [questions] before you; then they became thereby disbelievers. 103. God has not appointed [such innovations as] bahirah or sā’ibah or wasīlah or hām. But those who disbe-
lieve invent falsehood about God, and most of them do not reason. 104. And when it is said to them, “Come to what God has revealed and to the Messenger,” they say, “Sufficient
for us is that upon which we found our fathers.” Even though their fathers knew nothing, nor were they guided?
105. O you who have believed, upon you is [responsibility for] yourselves. Those who have gone astray will not harm you when you have been guided. To God is your return all together; then He will inform you of what you used to do.
106. O you who have believed, testimony [should be taken] among you when death approaches one of you at the time of bequest—[that of ] two just men from among you or two others from outside if you are travel- ing through the land and the disaster of death should strike you. Detain them after the prayer and let them both swear by God if you doubt [their testimony, saying], “We will not exchange it [i.e., our oath] for a price [i.e., worldly gain], even if he should be a near relative, and we will not withhold the testimony of [i.e., ordained by] God. Indeed, we would then be of the sinful.”
107. But if it is found that those two were guilty of sin [i.e., perjury], let two others stand in their place [who are] foremost [in claim] from those who have a lawful right. And let them swear by God, “Our testimony is truer than their testimony, and we have not transgressed. Indeed, we would then be of the wrongdoers.”
108. That is more likely that they will give testimony according to its [true] objective, or [at least] they would fear that [other] oaths might be taken after their oaths. And fear God and listen [i.e., obey Him]; and God does not guide the defiantly disobedient people.
109. [Be warned of ] the Day when God will assemble the messengers and say, “What was the response you received?” They will say, “We have no knowledge. Indeed, it is You who is Knower of the unseen”—
110. [The Day] when God will say, “O Jesus, Son of Mary, remember My favor upon you and upon your moth- er when I supported you with the Pure Spirit [i.e., the angel Gabriel] and you spoke to the people in the cradle and in maturity; and [remember] when I taught you writing and wisdom and the Torah and the Gospel; and when you designed from clay [what was] like the form of a bird with My permission, then you breathed into it, and it became a bird with My permission; and you healed the blind [from birth] and the leper with My permission; and when you brought forth the dead with My permission; and when I re- strained the Children of Israel from [killing] you when you came to them with clear proofs and those who disbelieved among them said, “This is not but obvious magic.”
111. And [remember] when I inspired to the disciples, “Believe in Me and in My messenger [i.e., Jesus].” They said, “We have believed, so bear witness that indeed we are Muslims [in submission to God].”
112. [And remember] when the disciples said, “O Jesus, Son of Mary, can your Lord send down to us a table [spread with food] from the heaven? [Jesus] said, “Fear God, if you should be believers.”
113. They said, “We wish to eat from it and let our hearts be reassured and know that you have been truthful to us and be among its witnesses.”
114. Said Jesus, the son of Mary, “O God, our Lord, send down to us a table [spread with food] from the heaven to be for us a festival for the first of us and the last of us and a sign from You. And provide for us, and You are the best of providers.”
115. God said, “Indeed, I will send it down to you, but whoever disbelieves afterwards from among you—then indeed will I punish him with a punishment by which I have not punished anyone among the worlds.”
116. And [beware the Day] when God will say, “O Jesus, Son of Mary, did you say to the people, ‘Take me and my mother as deities besides God?’” He will say, “Exalted are You! It was not for me to say that to which I have no right. If I had said it, You would have known it. You know what is within myself, and I do not know what is within Yourself. Indeed, it is You who is Knower of the unseen.
117. I said not to them except what You commanded me—to worship God, my Lord and your Lord. And I was a witness over them as long as I was among them; but when You took me up, You were the Observer over them, and You are, over all things, Witness.
118. If You should punish them—indeed they are Your servants; but if You forgive them—indeed it is You who is the Exalted in Might, the Wise.”
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119. God will say, “This is the Day when the truthful will benefit from their truthfulness.” For them are gardens [in Paradise] beneath which rivers flow, wherein they will abide forever, God being pleased with them, and they with Him. That is the great attainment.
120. God belongs the dominion of the heavens and the earth and whatever is within them. And He is over all things competent.
Sūrah 10: Yūnus In the Name of God, the Most Compassionate, the Most Merciful
1. Alif, Lām, Rā. These are the verses of the wise Book. 2. Have the people been amazed that We revealed [revelation] to a man from among them, [saying], “Warn
mankind and give good tidings to those who believe that they will have a [firm] precedence of honor with their Lord”? [But] the disbelievers say, “Indeed, this is an obvious magician.”
3. Indeed, your Lord is God, who created the heavens and the earth in six days and then established Himself above the Throne, arranging the matter [of His creation]. There is no intercessor except after His permis- sion. That is God, your Lord, so worship Him. Then will you not remember?
4. To Him is your return all together. [It is] the promise of God [which is] truth. Indeed, He begins the [process of ] creation and then repeats it that He may reward those who have believed and done righteous deeds, in justice. But those who disbelieved will have a drink of scalding water and a painful punishment for what they used to deny.
5. It is He who made the sun a shining light and the moon a derived light and determined for it phases—that you may know the number of years and account [of time]. God has not created this except in truth. He details the signs for a people who know.
6. Indeed, in the alternation of the night and the day and [in] what God has created in the heavens and the earth are signs for a people who fear God.
7. Indeed, those who do not expect the meeting with Us and are satisfied with the life of this world and feel secure therein and those who are heedless of Our signs—
8. For those their refuge will be the Fire because of what they used to earn. 9. Indeed, those who have believed and done righteous deeds—their Lord will guide them because of their
faith. Beneath them rivers will flow in the Gardens of Pleasure. 10. Their call therein will be, “Exalted are You, O God,” and their greeting therein will be, “Peace.” And the last
of their call will be, “Praise to God, Lord of the worlds!” 11. And if God was to hasten for the people the evil [they invoke] as He hastens for them the good, their term
would have been ended for them. But We leave the ones who do not expect the meeting with Us, in their transgression, wandering blindly.
12. And when affliction touches man, he calls upon Us, whether lying on his side or sitting or standing; but when We remove from him his affliction, he continues [in disobedience] as if he had never called upon Us to [remove] an affliction that touched him. Thus is made pleasing to the transgressors that which they have been doing.
13. And We had already destroyed generations before you when they wronged, and their messengers had come to them with clear proofs, but they were not to believe. Thus do We recompense the criminal people.
14. Then We made you successors in the land after them so that We may observe how you will do. 15. And when Our verses are recited to them as clear evidences, those who do not expect the meeting with Us
say, “Bring us a Qur’ān other than this or change it.” Say, [O Muhammad], “It is not for me to change it on my own accord. I only follow what is revealed to me. Indeed I fear, if I should disobey my Lord, the punish- ment of a tremendous Day.”
16. Say, “If God had willed, I would not have recited it to you, nor would He have made it known to you, for I had remained among you a lifetime before it. Then will you not reason?”
17. So who is more unjust than he who invents a lie about God or denies His signs? Indeed, the criminals will not succeed.
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18. And they worship other than God that which neither harms them nor benefits them, and they say, “These are our intercessors with God.” Say, “Do you inform God of something He does not know in the heavens or on the earth?” Exalted is He and high above what they associate with Him.
19. And mankind was not but one community [united in religion], but [then] they differed. And if not for a word that preceded from your Lord, it would have been judged between them [immediately] concerning that over which they differ.
20. And they say, “Why is a sign not sent down to him from his Lord?” So say, “The unseen is only for God [to administer], so wait; indeed, I am with you among those who wait.”
21. And when We give the people a taste of mercy after adversity has touched them, at once they conspire against Our verses. Say, “God is swifter in strategy.” Indeed, Our messengers [i.e., angels] record that which you conspire.
22. It is He who enables you to travel on land and sea until, when you are in ships and they sail with them by a good wind and they rejoice therein, there comes a storm wind and the waves come upon them from everywhere and they assume that they are surrounded [i.e., doomed], supplicating God, sincere to Him in religion, “If You should save us from this, we will surely be among the thankful.”
23. But when He saves them, at once they commit injustice upon the earth without right. O mankind, your injustice is only against yourselves, [being merely] the enjoyment of worldly life. Then to Us is your return, and We will inform you of what you used to do.
24. The example of [this] worldly life is but like rain which We have sent down from the sky that the plants of the earth absorb—[those] from which men and livestock eat—until, when the earth has taken on its adornment and is beautified and its people suppose that they have capability over it, there comes to it Our command by night or by day, and We make it as a harvest, as if it had not flourished yesterday. Thus do We explain in detail the signs for a people who give thought.
25. And God invites to the Home of Peace [i.e., Paradise] and guides whom He wills to a straight path. 26. For them who have done good is the best [reward]—and extra. No darkness will cover their faces, nor hu-
miliation. Those are companions of Paradise; they will abide therein eternally. 27. But they who have earned [blame for] evil doings—the recompense of an evil deed is its equivalent, and
humiliation will cover them. They will have from God no protector. It will be as if their faces are covered with pieces of the night—so dark [are they]. Those are the companions of the Fire; they will abide therein eternally.
28. And [mention, O Muhammad], the Day We will gather them all together—then We will say to those who associated others with God, “[Remain in] your place, you and your ‘partners.’” Then We will separate them, and their “partners” will say, “You did not used to worship us,
29. And sufficient is God as a witness between us and you that we were of your worship unaware.” 30. There, [on that Day], every soul will be put to trial for what it did previously, and they will be returned to
God, their master, the Truth, and lost from them is whatever they used to invent. 31. Say, “Who provides for you from the heaven and the earth? Or who controls hearing and sight and who
brings the living out of the dead and brings the dead out of the living and who arranges [every] matter?” They will say, “God,” so say, “Then will you not fear Him?”
32. For that is God, your Lord, the Truth. And what can be beyond truth except error? So how are you averted? 33. Thus the word [i.e., decree] of your Lord has come into effect upon those who defiantly disobeyed—that
they will not believe. 34. Say, “Are there of your ‘partners’ any who begins creation and then repeats it?” Say, “God begins creation
and then repeats it, so how are you deluded?” 35. Say, “Are there of your ‘partners’ any who guides to the truth?” Say, “God guides to the truth. So is He who
guides to the truth more worthy to be followed or he who guides not unless he is guided? Then what is [wrong] with you—how do you judge?”
36. And most of them follow not except assumption. Indeed, assumption avails not against the truth at all. Indeed, God is Knowing of what they do.
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37. And it was not [possible] for this Qur’ān to be produced by other than God, but [it is] a confirmation of what was before it and a detailed explanation of the [former] Scripture, about which there is no doubt, from the Lord of the worlds.
38. Or do they say [about the Prophet], “He invented it?” Say, “Then bring forth a sūrah like it and call upon [for assistance] whomever you can besides God, if you should be truthful.”
39. Rather, they have denied that which they encompass not in knowledge and whose interpretation has not yet come to them. Thus did those before them deny. Then observe how was the end of the wrongdoers.
40. And of them are those who believe in it, and of them are those who do not believe in it. And your Lord is most knowing of the corrupters.
41. And if they deny you, [O Muhammad], then say, “For me are my deeds, and for you are your deeds. You are disassociated from what I do, and I am disassociated from what you do.”
42. And among them are those who listen to you. But can you cause the deaf to This phrase refers back to the Qur’ān hear [i.e., benefit from this hearing], although they will not use reason?
43. And among them are those who look at you. But can you guide the blind although they will not [attempt to] see?
44. Indeed, God does not wrong the people at all, but it is the people who are wronging themselves. 45. And on the Day when He will gather them, [it will be] as if they had not remained [in the world] but an
hour of the day, [and] they will know each other. Those will have lost who denied the meeting with God and were not guided.
46. And whether We show you some of what We promise them, [O Muhammad], or We take you in death, to Us is their return; then, [either way], God is a witness concerning what they are doing.
47. And for every nation is a messenger. So when their messenger comes, it will be judged between them in justice, and they will not be wronged.
48. And they say, “When is [the fulfillment of ] this promise, if you should be truthful?” 49. Say, “I possess not for myself any harm or benefit except what God should will. For every nation is a [speci-
fied] term. When their time has come, then they will not remain behind an hour, nor will they precede [it].” 50. Say, “Have you considered: if His punishment should come to you by night or by day—for which [aspect] of
it would the criminals be impatient?” 51. Then is it that when it has [actually] occurred you will believe in it? Now? And you were [once] for it impa-
tient. 52. Then it will be said to those who had wronged, “Taste the punishment of eternity; are you being recom-
pensed except for what you used to earn?” 53. And they ask information of you, [O Muhammad], “Is it true?” Say, “Yes, by my Lord. Indeed, it is truth;
and you will not cause failure [to God].” 54. And if each soul that wronged had everything on earth, it would offer it in ransom. And they will confide
regret when they see the punishment; and they will be judged in justice, and they will not be wronged. 55. Unquestionably, to God belongs whatever is in the heavens and the earth. Unquestionably, the promise of
God is truth, but most of them do not know. 56. He gives life and causes death, and to Him you will be returned. 57. O mankind, there has come to you instruction from your Lord and healing for what is in the breasts and
guidance and mercy for the believers. 58. Say, “In the bounty of God and in His mercy—in that let them rejoice; it is better than what they accumu-
late.” 59. Say, “Have you seen what God has sent down to you of provision of which you have made [some] lawful
and [some] unlawful?” Say, “Has God permitted you [to do so], or do you invent [something] about God?” 60. And what will be the supposition of those who invent falsehood about God on the Day of Resurrection?
Indeed, God is full of bounty to the people, but most of them are not grateful.
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61. And, [O Muhammad], you are not [engaged] in any matter or recite any of the Qur’ān and you [people] do not do any deed except that We are witness over you when you are involved in it. And not absent from your Lord is any [part] of an atom’s weight within the earth or within the heaven or [anything] smaller than that or greater but that it is in a clear register.
62. Unquestionably, [for] the allies of God there will be no fear concerning them, nor will they grieve— 63. Those who believed and were fearing God. 64. For them are good tidings in the worldly life and in the Hereafter. No change is there in the words [i.e.,
decrees] of God. That is what is the great attainment. 65. And let not their speech grieve you. Indeed, honor [due to power] belongs to God entirely. He is the Hear-
ing, the Knowing. 66. Unquestionably, to God belongs whoever is in the heavens and whoever is on the earth. And those who
invoke other than God do not [actually] follow [His] “partners.” They follow not except assumption, and they are not but falsifying.
67. It is He who made for you the night to rest therein and the day, giving sight. Indeed in that are signs for a people who listen.
68. They have said, “God has taken a son.” Exalted is He; He is the [one] Free of need. To Him belongs whatev- er is in the heavens and whatever is in the earth. You have no authority for this [claim]. Do you say about God that which you do not know?
69. Say, “Indeed, those who invent falsehood about God will not succeed.” 70. [For them is brief ] enjoyment in this world; then to Us is their return; then We will make them taste the
severe punishment because they used to disbelieve. 71. And recite to them the news of Noah, when he said to his people, “O my people, if my residence and my
reminding of the signs of God has become burdensome upon you—then I have relied upon God. So resolve upon your plan and [call upon] your associates. Then let not your plan be obscure to you. Then carry it out upon me and do not give me respite.
72. And if you turn away [from my advice]—then no payment have I asked of you. My reward is only from God, and I have been commanded to be of the Muslims [i.e., those who submit to God].”
73. And they denied him, so We saved him and those with him in the ship and made them successors, and We drowned those who denied Our signs. Then see how was the end of those who were warned.
74. Then We sent after him messengers to their peoples, and they came to them with clear proofs. But they were not to believe in that which they had denied before. Thus We seal over the hearts of the transgressors.
75. Then We sent after them Moses and Aaron to Pharaoh and his establishment with Our sins, but they be- haved arrogantly and were a criminal people.
76. So when there came to them the truth from Us, they said, “Indeed, this is obvious magic.” 77. Moses said, “Do you say [thus] about the truth when it has come to you? Is this magic? But magicians will
not succeed.” 78. They said, “Have you come to us to turn us away from that upon which we found our fathers and so that
you two may have grandeur in the land? And we are not believers in you.” 79. And Pharaoh said, “Bring to me every learned magician.” 80. So when the magicians came, Moses said to them, “Throw down whatever you will throw.” 81. And when they had thrown, Moses said, “What you have brought is [only] magic. Indeed, God will expose
its worthlessness. Indeed, God does not amend the work of corrupters. 82. And God will establish the truth by His words, even if the criminals dislike it.” 83. But no one believed Moses, except [some] offspring [i.e., youths] among his people, for fear of Pharaoh and
his establishment that they would persecute them. And indeed, Pharaoh was haughty within the land, and indeed, he was of the transgressors.
84. And Moses said, “O my people, if you have believed in God, then rely upon Him, if you should be Muslims [i.e., submitting to him].”
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85. So they said, “Upon God do we rely. Our Lord, make us not [objects of ] trial for the wrongdoing people. 86. And save us by Your mercy from the disbelieving people.” 87. And We inspired to Moses and his brother, “Settle your people in Egypt in houses and make your houses
[facing the] qiblah and establish prayer and give good tidings to the believers.” 88. And Moses said, “Our Lord, indeed You have given Pharaoh and his establishment splendor and wealth in
the worldly life, our Lord, that they may lead [men] astray from Your way. Our Lord, obliterate their wealth and harden their hearts so that they will not believe until they see the painful punishment.”
89. [God] said, “Your supplication has been answered.” So remain on a right course and follow not the way of those who do not know.”
90. And We took the Children of Israel across the sea, and Pharaoh and his soldiers pursued them in tyran- ny and enmity until, when drowning overtook him, he said, “I believe that there is no deity except that in whom the Children of Israel believe, and I am of the Muslims.”
91. Now? And you had disobeyed [Him] before and were of the corrupters? 92. So today We will save you in body that you may be to those who succeed you a sign. And indeed, many
among the people, of Our signs, are heedless. 93. And We had certainty settled the Children of Israel in an agreeable settlement and provided them with
good things. And they did not differ until [after] knowledge had come to them. Indeed, your Lord will judge between them on the Day of Resurrection concerning that over which they used to differ.
94. So if you are in doubt, [O Muhammad], about that which We have revealed to you, then ask those who have been reading the Scripture before you. The truth has certainly come to you from your Lord, so never be among the doubters.
95. And never be of those who deny the signs of God and [thus] be among the losers. 96. Indeed, those upon whom the word [i.e., decree] of your Lord has come into effect will not believe, 97. Even if every sign should come to them, until they see the painful punishment. 98. Then has there not been a [single] city that believed so its faith benefited it except the people of Jonah?
When they believed, We removed from them the punishment of disgrace in worldly life and gave them enjoyment [i.e., provision] for a time.
99. And had your Lord willed, those on earth would have believed—all of them entirely. Then, [O Muham- mad], would you compel the people in order that they become believers?
100. And it is not for a soul [i.e., anyone] to believe except by permission of God, and He will place defilement upon those who will not use reason.
101. Say, “Observe what is in the heavens and earth.” But of no avail will be signs or warners to a people who do not believe.
102. So do they wait except for like [what occurred in] the days of those who passed on before them? Say, “Then wait; indeed, I am with you among those who wait.”
103. Then We will save Our messengers and those who have believed. Thus, it is an obligation upon Us that We save the believers.
104. Say, [O Muhammad], “O people, if you are in doubt as to my religion—then I do not worship those which you worship besides God; but I worship God, who causes your death. And I have been commanded to be of the believers
105. And [commanded], ‘Direct your face [i.e., self ] toward the religion, inclining to truth, and never be of those who associate others with God;
106. And do not invoke besides God that which neither benefits you nor harms you, for if you did, then indeed you would be of the wrongdoers.’”
107. And if God should touch you with adversity, there is no remover of it except Him; and if He intends for you good, then there is no repeller of His bounty. He causes it to reach whom He wills of His servants. And He is the Forgiving, the Merciful.
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108. Say, “O mankind, the truth has come to you from your Lord, so whoever is guided is only guided for [the benefit of ] his soul, and whoever goes astray
109. And follow what is revealed to you, [O Muhammad], and be patient until God will judge. And He is the best of judges.
Sūrah 12: Yūsuf In the Name of God, the Most Compassionate, the Most Merciful
1. Alif, Lam, Rā. These are the verses of the clear Book. 2. Indeed, We have sent it down as an Arabic Qur’ān that you might understand. 3. We relate to you, [O Muhammad], the best of stories in what We have revealed to you of this Qur’ān al-
though you were, before it, among the unaware. 4. [Of these stories mention] when Joseph said to his father, “O my father, indeed I have seen [in a dream]
eleven stars and the sun and the moon; I saw them prostrating to me.” 5. He said, “O my son, do not relate your vision to your brothers or they will contrive against you a plan. In-
deed Satan, to man, is a manifest enemy. 6. And thus will your Lord choose you and teach you the interpretation of narratives [i.e., events of dreams]
and complete His favor upon you and upon the family of Jacob, as He completed it upon your fathers be- fore, Abraham and Isaac. Indeed, your Lord is Knowing and Wise.”
7. Certainly were there in Joseph and his brothers signs for those who ask, [such as] 8. When they said, “Joseph and his brother are more beloved to our father than we, while we are a clan. In-
deed, our father is in clear error. 9. Kill Joseph or cast him out to [another] land; the countenance [i.e., attention] of your father will [then] be
only for you, and you will be after that a righteous people.” 10. Said a speaker among them, “Do not kill Joseph but throw him into the bottom of the well; some travelers
will pick him up—if you would do [something].” 11. They said, “O our father, why do you not entrust us with Joseph while indeed, we are to him sincere coun-
selors? 12. Send him with us tomorrow that he may eat well and play. And indeed, we will be his guardians.” 13. [Jacob] said, “Indeed, it saddens me that you should take him, and I fear that a wolf would eat him while
you are of him unaware.” 14. They said, “If a wolf should eat him while we are a [strong] clan, indeed, we would then be losers.” 15. So when they took him [out] and agreed to put him into the bottom of the well... But We inspired to him,
“You will surely inform them [someday] about this affair of theirs while they do not perceive [your identity].” 16. And they came to their father at night, weeping. 17. They said, “O our father, indeed we went racing each other and left Joseph with our possessions, and a wolf
ate him. But you would not believe us, even if we were truthful.” 18. And they brought upon his shirt false blood. [Jacob] said, “Rather, your souls have enticed you to some-
thing, so patience is most fitting. And God is the one sought for help against that which you describe.” 19. And there came a company of travelers; then they sent their water drawer, and he let down his bucket. He
said, “Good news! Here is a boy.” And they concealed him, [taking him] as merchandise; and God was knowing of what they did.
20. And they sold him for a reduced price—a few dirhams—and they were, concerning him, of those content with little.
21. And the one from Egypt who bought him said to his wife, “Make his residence comfortable. Perhaps he will benefit us, or we will adopt him as a son.” And thus, We established Joseph in the land that We might teach him the interpretation of events [i.e., dreams]. And God is predominant over His affair, but most of the people do not know.
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22. And when he [i.e., Joseph] reached maturity, We gave him judgment and knowledge. And thus We reward the doers of good.
23. And she, in whose house he was, sought to seduce him. She closed the doors and said, “Come, you.” He said, “[I seek] the refuge of God. Indeed, he is my master, who has made good my residence. Indeed, wrongdoers will not succeed.”
24. And she certainly determined [to seduce] him, and he would have inclined to her had he not seen the proof [i.e., sign] of his Lord. And thus [it was] that We should avert from him evil and immorality. Indeed, he was of Our chosen servants
25. And they both raced to the door, and she tore his shirt from the back, and they found her husband at the door. She said, “What is the recompense of one who intended evil for your wife but that he be imprisoned or a painful punishment?”
26. [Joseph] said, “It was she who sought to seduce me.” And a witness from her family testified, “If his shirt is torn from the front, then she has told the truth, and he is of the bars.
27. But if his shirt is torn from the back, then she has lied, and he is of the truthful.” 28. So when he [i.e., her husband] saw his shirt torn from the back, he said, “Indeed, it is of your [i.e., women’s]
plan. Indeed, your plan is great [i.e., vehement]. 29. Joseph, ignore this. And, [my wife], ask forgiveness for your sin. Indeed, you were of the sinful.” 30. And women in the city said, “The wife of al-‘Azeez is seeking to seduce her slave boy; he has impassioned
her with love. Indeed, we see her [to be] in clear error.” 31. So when she heard of their scheming, she sent for them and prepared for them a banquet and gave each
one of them a knife and said [to Joseph], “Come out before them.” And when they saw him, they greatly ad- mired him and cut their hands and said, “Perfect is God! This is not a man; this is none but a noble angel.”
32. She said, “That is the one about whom you blamed me. And I certainly sought to seduce him, but he firmly refused; and if he will not do what I order him, he will surely be imprisoned and will be of those debased.”
33. He said, “My Lord, prison is more to my liking than that to which they invite me. And if You do not avert from me their plan, I might incline toward them and [thus] be of the ignorant.”
34. So his Lord responded to him and averted from him their plan. Indeed, He is the Hearing, the Knowing. 35. Then it appeared to them after they had seen the signs that he [i.e., al-Azeez] should surely imprison him
for a time. 36. And there entered the prison with him two young men. One of them said, “Indeed, I have seen myself [in
a dream] pressing wine.” The other said, “Indeed, I have seen myself carrying upon my head [some] bread, from which the birds were eating. Inform us of its interpretation; indeed, we see you to be of those who do good.”
37. He said, “You will not receive food that is provided to you except that I will inform you of its interpretation before it comes to you. That is from what my Lord has taught me. Indeed, I have left the religion of a people who do not believe in God, and they, in the Hereafter, are disbelievers.
38. And I have followed the religion of my fathers, Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. And it was not for us to associate anything with God. That is from the favor of God upon us and upon the people, but most of the people are not grateful.
39. O [my] two companions of prison, are separate lords better or God, the One, the Prevailing? 40. You worship not besides Him except [mere] names you have named them, you and your fathers, for which
God has sent down no authority. Legislation is not but for God. He has commanded that you worship not except Him. That is the correct religion, but most of the people do not know.
41. O two companions of prison, as for one of you, he will give drink to his master of wine; but as for the other, he will be crucified, and the birds will eat from his head. The matter has been decreed about which you both inquire.”
42. And he said to the one whom he knew would go free, “Mention me before your master.” But Satan made him forget the mention [to] his master, and he [i.e., Joseph] remained in prison several years.
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43. And [subsequently] the king said, “Indeed, I have seen [in a dream] seven fat cows being eaten by seven [that were] lean, and seven green spikes [of grain] and others [that were] dry. O eminent ones, explain to me my vision, if you should interpret visions.”
44. They said, “[It is but] a mixture of false dreams, and we are not learned in the interpretation of dreams.” 45. But the one who was freed and remembered after a time said, “I will inform you of its interpretation, so
send me forth.” 46. [He said], “Joseph, O man of truth, explain to us about seven fat cows eaten by seven [that were] lean, and
seven green spikes [of grain] and others [that were] dry—that I may return to the people [i.e., the king and his court]; perhaps they will know [about you].”
47. [Joseph] said, “You will plant for seven years consecutively; and what you harvest leave in its spikes, except a little from which you will eat.
48. Then will come after that seven difficult [years] which will consume what you advanced [i.e., saved] for them, except a little from which you will store.
49. Then will come after that a year in which the people will be given rain and in which they will press [olives and grapes].”
50. And the king said, “Bring him to me.” But when the messenger came to him, [Joseph] said, “Return to your master and ask him what is the case of the women who cut their hands. Indeed, my Lord is Knowing of their plan.”
51. Said [the king to the women], “What was your condition when you sought to seduce Joseph?” They said, “Perfect is God! We know about him no evil.” The wife of al-Azeez said, “Now the truth has become evi- dent. It was I who sought to seduce him, and indeed, he is of the truthful.
52. That is so he [i.e., al-Azeez] will know that I did not betray him in [his] absence and that God does not guide the plan of betrayers.
53. And I do not acquit myself. Indeed, the soul is a persistent enjoiner of evil, except those upon which my Lord has mercy. Indeed, my Lord is Forgiving and Merciful.”
54. And the king said, “Bring him to me; I will appoint him exclusively for myself.” And when he spoke to him, he said, “Indeed, you are today established [in position] and trusted.”
55. [Joseph] said, “Appoint me over the storehouses of the land. Indeed, I will be a knowing guardian.” 56. And thus We established Joseph in the land to settle therein wherever he willed. We touch with Our mercy
whom We will, and We do not allow to be lost the reward of those who do good. 57. And the reward of the Hereafter is better for those who believed and were fearing God. 58. And the brothers of Joseph came [seeking food], and they entered upon him; and he recognized them, but
he was to them unknown. 59. And when he had furnished them with their supplies, he said, “Bring me a brother of yours from your
father. Do not you see that I give full measure and that I am the best of accommodators? 60. But if you do not bring him to me, no measure will there be [hereafter] for you from me, nor will you ap-
proach me.” 61. They said, “We will attempt to dissuade his father from [keeping] him, and indeed, we will do [it].” 62. And [Joseph] said to his servants, “Put their merchandise into their saddlebags so they might recognize it
when they have gone back to their people that perhaps they will [again] return.” 63. So when they returned to their father, they said, “O our father, [further] measure has been denied to us, so
send with us our brother [that] we will be given measure. And indeed, we will be his guardians.” 64. He said, “Should I entrust you with him except [under coercion] as I entrusted you with his brother before?
But God is the best guardian, and He is the most merciful of the merciful.” 65. And when they opened their baggage, they found their merchandise returned to them. They said, “O our
father, what [more] could we desire? This is our merchandise returned to us. And we will obtain supplies [i.e., food] for our family and protect our brother and obtain an increase of a camel’s load; that is an easy measurement.”
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66. [Jacob] said, “Never will I send him with you until you give me a promise [i.e., oath] by God that you will bring him [back] to me, unless you should be surrounded [i.e., overcome by enemies].” And when they had given their promise, he said, “God, over what we say, is Witness.”
67. And he said, “O my sons, do not enter from one gate but enter from different gates; and I cannot avail you against [the decree of ] God at all. The decision is only for God; upon Him I have relied, and upon Him let those who would rely [indeed] rely.”
68. And when they entered from where their father had ordered them, it did not avail them against God at all except [it was] a need [i.e., concern] within the soul of Jacob, which he satisfied. And indeed, he was a pos- sessor of knowledge because of what We had taught him, but most of the people do not know.
69. And when they entered upon Joseph, he took his brother to himself; he said, “Indeed, I am your brother, so do not despair over what they used to do [to me].”
70. So when he had furnished them with their supplies, he put the [gold measuring] bowl into the bag of his brother. Then an announcer called out, “O caravan, indeed you are thieves.”
71. They said while approaching them, “What is it you are missing?” 72. They said, “We are missing the measure of the king. And for he who produces it is [the reward of ] a camel’s
load, and I am responsible for it.” 73. They said, “By God, you have certainly known that we did not come to cause corruption in the land, and we
have not been thieves.” 74. They [the accusers] said, “Then what would be its recompense if you should be liars?” 75. The brothers] said, “Its recompense is that he in whose bag it is found—he [himself ] will be its recompense.
Thus do we recompense the wrongdoers.” 76. So he began [the search] with their bags before the bag of his brother; then he extracted it from the bag of
his brother. Thus did We plan for Joseph. He could not have taken his brother within the religion [i.e., law] of the king except that God willed. We raise in degrees whom We will, but over every possessor of knowl- edge is one [more] knowing.
77. They said, “If he steals—a brother of his has stolen before.” But Joseph kept it within himself and did not reveal it to them. He said, “You are worse in position, and God is most knowing of what you describe.”
78. They said, “O Azeez, indeed he has a father [who is] an old man, so take one of us in place of him. Indeed, we see you as a doer of good.”
79. He said, “[I seek] the refuge of God [to prevent] that we take except him with whom we found our posses- sion. Indeed, we would then be unjust.”
80. So when they had despaired of him, they secluded themselves in private consultation. The eldest of them said, “Do you not know that your father has taken upon you an oath by God and [that] before you failed in [your duty to] Joseph? So I will never leave [this] land until my father permits me or God decides for me, and He is the best of judges.
81. Return to your father and say, ‘O our father, indeed your son has stolen, and we did not testify except to what we knew. And we were not witnesses of the unseen.
82. And ask the city in which we were and the caravan in which we came—and indeed, we are truthful,’” 83. [Jacob] said, “Rather, your souls have enticed you to something, so patience is most fitting. Perhaps God
will bring them to me all together. Indeed, it is He who is the Knowing, the Wise.” 84. And he turned away from them and said, “Oh, my sorrow over Joseph,” and his eyes became white from
grief, for he was [of that] a suppressor. 85. They said, “By God, you will not cease remembering Joseph until you become fatally ill or become of those
who perish.” 86. He said, “I only complain of my suffering and my grief to God, and I know from God that which you do
not know. 87. O my sons, go and find out about Joseph and his brother and despair not of relief from God. Indeed, no
one despairs of relief from God except the disbelieving people.”
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88. So when they entered upon him [i.e., Joseph], they said, “O ‘Azeez, adversity has touched us and our family, and we have come with goods poor in quality, but give us full measure and be charitable to us. Indeed, God rewards the charitable.”
89. He said, “Do you know what you did with Joseph and his brother when you were ignorant?” 90. They said, “Are you indeed Joseph?” He said, “I am Joseph, and this is my brother. God has certainly fa-
vored us. Indeed, he who fears God and is patient, then indeed, God does not allow to be lost the reward of those who do good.”
91. They said, “By God, certainly has God preferred you over us, and indeed, we have been sinners.” 92. He said, “No blame will there be upon you today. God will forgive you; and He is the most merciful of
the merciful. 93. Take this, my shirt, and cast it over the face of my father; he will become seeing. And bring me your family,
all together.” 94. And when the caravan departed [from Egypt], their father said, “Indeed, I find the smell of Joseph [and
would say that he was alive] if you did not think me weakened in mind.” 95. They said, “By God, indeed you are in your [same] old error.” 96. And when the bearer of good tidings arrived, he cast it over his face, and he returned [once again] seeing.
He said, “Did I not tell you that I know from God that which you do not know?” 97. They said, “O our father, ask for us forgiveness of our sins; indeed, we have been sinners.” 98. He said, “I will ask forgiveness for you from my Lord. Indeed, it is He who is the Forgiving, the Merciful.” 99. And when they entered upon Joseph, he took his parents to himself [i.e., embraced them] and said, “Enter
Egypt, God willing, safe [and secure].” 100. And he raised his parents upon the throne, and they bowed to him in prostration. And he said, “O my fa-
ther, this is the explanation of my vision of before. My Lord has made it reality. And He was certainly good to me when He took me out of prison and brought you [here] from bedouin life after Satan had induced [estrangement] between me and my brothers. Indeed, my Lord is Subtle in what He wills. Indeed, it is He who is the Knowing, the Wise.
101. My Lord, You have given me [something] of sovereignty and taught me of the interpretation of dreams. Creator of the heavens and earth, You are my protector in this world and in the Hereafter. Cause me to die a Muslim and join me with the righteous.”
102. That is from the news of the unseen which We reveal, [O Muhammad], to you. And you were not with them when they put together their plan while they conspired.
103. And most of the people, although you strive [for it], are not believers. 104. And you do not ask of them for it any payment. It is not except a reminder to the worlds. 105. And how many a sign within the heavens and earth do they pass over while they, therefrom, are turning away. 106. And most of them believe not in God except while they associate others with Him. 107. Then do they feel secure that there will not come to them an overwhelming [aspect] of the punishment of
God or that the Hour will not come upon them suddenly while they do not perceive? 108. Say, “This is my way; I invite to God with insight, I and those who follow me. And exalted is God; and I am
not of those who associate others with Him.” 109. And We sent not before you [as messengers] except men to whom We revealed from among the people of
cities. So have they not traveled through the earth and observed how was the end of those before them? And the home of the Hereafter is best for those who fear God; then will you not reason?
110. [They continued] until, when the messengers despaired and were certain that they had been denied, there came to them Our victory, and whoever We willed was saved. And Our punishment cannot be repelled from the people who are criminals.
111. There was certainly in their stories a lesson for those of understanding. Never was it [i.e., the Qur’ān] a narration invented, but a confirmation of what was before it and a detailed explanation of all things and guidance and mercy for a people who believe.
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Sūrah 19: Maryam In the Name of God, the Most Compassionate, the Most Merciful
1. Kāf, Hā, Yā, ‘Ayn, Sād. 2. [This is] a mention of the mercy of your Lord to His servant Zechariah 3. When he called to his Lord a private call [i.e., supplication], 4. He said, “My Lord, indeed my bones have weakened, and my head has filled with white, and never have I
been in my supplication to You, my Lord, unhappy [i.e., disappointed]. 5. And indeed, I fear the successors after me, and my wife has been barren, so give me from Yourself an heir 6. Who will inherit me and inherit from the family of Jacob. And make him, my Lord, pleasing [to You].” 7. [He was told], “O Zechariah, indeed We give you good tidings of a boy whose name will be John. We have
not assigned to any before [this] name.” 8. He said, “My Lord, how will I have a boy when my wife has been barren and I have reached extreme old age?” 9. [An angel] said, “Thus [it will be]; your Lord says, ‘It is easy for Me, for I created you before, while you
were nothing.’” 10. [Zechariah] said, “My Lord, make for me a sign.” He said, “Your sign is that you will not speak to the people
for three nights, [being] sound.” 11. So he came out to his people from the prayer chamber and signaled to them to exalt [God] in the morning
and afternoon. 12. [God said], “O John, take the Scripture [i.e., adhere to it] with determination.” And We gave him judgement
[while yet] a boy 13. And affection from Us and purity, and he was fearing of God 14. And dutiful to his parents, and he was not a disobedient tyrant. 15. And peace be upon him the day he was born and the day he dies and the day he is raised alive. 16. And mention, [O Muhammad], in the Book [the story of ] Mary, when she withdrew from her family to a
place toward the east. 17. And she took, in seclusion from them, a screen. Then We sent to her Our Angel [i.e., Gabriel], and he rep-
resented himself to her as a well-proportioned man. 18. She said, “Indeed, I seek refuge in the Most Merciful from you, [so leave me], if you should be fearing of God.” 19. He said, “I am only the messenger of your Lord to give you [news of ] a pure boy [i.e., son].” 20. She said, “How can I have a boy while no man has touched me and I have not been unchaste?” 21. He said, “Thus [it will be]; your Lord says, ‘It is easy for Me, and We will make him a sign to the people and
a mercy from Us. And it is a matter [already] decreed.’” 22. So she conceived him, and she withdrew with him to a remote place. 23. And the pains of childbirth drove her to the trunk of a palm tree. She said, “Oh, I wish I had died before
this and was in oblivion, forgotten.” 24. But he called her from below her, “Do not grieve; your Lord has provided beneath you a stream. 25. And shake toward you the trunk of the palm tree; it will drop upon you ripe, fresh dates. 26. So eat and drink and be contented. And if you see from among humanity anyone, say, ‘Indeed, I have
vowed to the Most Merciful abstention, so I will not speak today to [any] man.’” 27. Then she brought him to her people, carrying him. They said, “O Mary, you have certainly done a thing
unprecedented. 28. O sister of Aaron, your father was not a man of evil, nor was your mother unchaste.” 29. So she pointed to him. They said, “How can we speak to one who is in the cradle a child?” 30. [Jesus] said, “Indeed, I am the servant of God. He has given me the Scripture and made me a prophet.
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31. And He has made me blessed wherever I am and has enjoined upon me prayer and zakāh as long as I re- main alive
32. And [made me] dutiful to my mother, and He has not made me a wretched tyrant. 33. And peace is on me the day I was born and the day I will die and the day I am raised alive.” 34. That is Jesus, the son of Mary—the word of truth about which they are in dispute. 35. It is not [befitting] for God to take a son; exalted is He! When He decrees an affair, He only says to it, “Be,”
and it is. 36. [Jesus said], “And indeed, God is my Lord and your Lord, so worship Him. That is a straight path.” 37. Then the factions differed [concerning Jesus] from among them, so woe to those who disbelieved—from
the scene of a tremendous Day. 38. How [clearly] they will hear and see the Day they come to Us, but the wrongdoers today are in clear error. 39. And warn them, [O Muhammad], of the Day of Regret, when the matter will be concluded; and [yet], they
are in [a state of ] heedlessness, and they do not believe. 40. Indeed, it is We who will inherit the earth and whoever is on it, and to Us they will be returned. 41. And mention in the Book [the story of ] Abraham. Indeed, he was a man of truth and a prophet. 42. [Mention] when he said to his father, “O my father, why do you worship that which does not hear and does
not see and will not benefit you at all? 43. O my father, indeed there has come to me of knowledge that which has not come to you, so follow me; I
will guide you to an even path. 44. O my father, do not worship [i.e., obey] Satan. Indeed Satan has ever been, to the Most Merciful, disobedient. 45. O my father, indeed I fear that there will touch you a punishment from the Most Merciful so you would be
to Satan a companion [in Hellfire].” 46. [His father] said, “Have you no desire for my gods, O Abraham? If you do not desist, I will surely stone you,
so avoid me a prolonged time.” 47. [Abraham] said, “Peace [i.e., safety] will be upon you. I will ask forgiveness for you of my Lord. Indeed, He
is ever gracious to me. 48. And I will leave you and those you invoke other than God and will invoke my Lord. I expect that I will not
be in invocation to my Lord unhappy [i.e., disappointed].” 49. So when he had left them and those they worshipped other than God, We gave him Isaac and Jacob, and
each [of them] We made a prophet. 50. And We gave them of Our mercy, and We made for them a mention [i.e., reputation] of high honour. 51. And mention in the Book, Moses. Indeed, he was chosen, and he was a messenger and a prophet. 52. And We called him from the side of the mount at [his] right and brought him near, confiding [to him]. 53. And We gave him out of Our mercy his brother Aaron as a prophet. 54. And mention in the Book, Ishmael. Indeed, he was true to his promise, and he was a messenger and a
prophet. 55. And he used to enjoin on his people prayer and zakāh and was to his Lord pleasing [i.e., accepted by Him], 56. And mention in the Book, Idrees. Indeed, he was a man of truth and a prophet. 57. And We raised him to a high station. 58. Those were the ones upon whom God bestowed favor from among the prophets of the descendants of
Adam and of those We carried [in the ship] with Noah, and of the descendants of Abraham and Israel [i.e., Jacob], and of those whom We guided and chose. When the verses of the Most Merciful were recited to them, they fell in pros-tration and weeping.
59. But there came after them successors [i.e., later generations] who neglected prayer and pursued desires; so they are going to meet evil—
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60. Except those who repent, believe and do righteousness; for those will enter Paradise and will not be wronged at all.
61. [Therein are] gardens of perpetual residence which the Most Merciful has promised His servants in the unseen. Indeed, His promise has ever been coming.
62. They will not hear therein any ill speech—only [greetings of ] peace—and they will have their provision therein, morning and afternoon.
63. That is Paradise, which We give as inheritance to those of Our servants who were fearing of God. 64. [Gabriel said], “And we [angels] descend not except by the order of your Lord. To Him belongs that before
us and that behind us and what is in between. And never is your Lord forgetful— 65. Lord of the heavens and the earth and whatever is between them—so worship Him and have patience for
His worship. Do you know of any similarity to Him?” 66. And man [i.e., the disbeliever] says, “When I have died, am I going to be brought forth alive?” 67. Does man not remember that We created him before, while he was nothing? 68. So by your Lord, We will surely gather them and the devils; then We will bring them to be present around
Hell upon their knees. 69. Then We will surely extract from every sect those of them who were worst against the Most Merciful in
insolence. 70. Then, surely it is We who are most knowing of those most worthy of burning therein. 71. And there is none of you except he will come to it. This is upon your Lord an inevitability decreed. 72. Then We will save those who feared God and leave the wrongdoers within it, on their knees. 73. And when Our verses are recited to them as clear evidences, those who disbelieve say to those who believe,
“Which of [our] two parties is best in position and best in association?” 74. And how many a generation have We destroyed before them who were better in possessions and [outward]
appearance? 75. Say, “Whoever is in error—let the Most Merciful extend for him an extension [in wealth and time] until,
when they see that which they were promised—either punishment [in this world] or the Hour [of resurrec- tion]—they will come to know who is worst in position and weaker in soldiers.”
76. And God increases those who were guided, in guidance, and the enduring good deeds are better to your Lord for reward and better for recourse.
77. Then, have you seen he who disbelieved in Our verses and said, “I will surely be given wealth and children [in the next life]?”
78. Has he looked into the unseen, or has he taken from the Most Merciful a promise? 79. No! We will record what he says and extend [i.e., increase] for him from the punishment extensively. 80. And We will inherit him [in] what he mentions, and he will come to Us alone. 81. And they have taken besides God [false] deities that they would be for them [a source of ] honour. 82. No! They [i.e., those “gods”] will deny their worship of them and will be against them opponents [on the
Day of Judgement]. 83. Do you not see that We have sent the devils upon the disbelievers, inciting them [to evil] with [constant]
incitement? 84. So be not impatient over them. We only count out [i.e., allow] to them a [limited] number. 85. On the Day We will gather the righteous to the Most Merciful as a delegation 86. And will drive the criminals to Hell in thirst 87. None will have [power of ] intercession except he who had taken from the Most Merciful a covenant. 88. And they say, “The Most Merciful has taken [for Himself ] a son.” 89. You have done an atrocious thing.
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90. The heavens almost rupture therefrom and the earth splits open and the mountains collapse in devastation 91. That they attribute to the Most Merciful a son. 92. And it is not appropriate for the Most Merciful that He should take a son. 93. There is no one in the heavens and earth but that he comes to the Most Merciful as a servant. 94. He has enumerated them and counted them a [full] counting. 95. And all of them are coming to Him on the Day of Resurrection alone. 96. Indeed, those who have believed and done righteous deeds—the Most Merciful will appoint for them
affection. 97. So, [O Muhammad], We have only made it [i.e., the Qur’ān] easy in your tongue [i.e., the Arabic language]
that you may give good tidings thereby to the righteous and warn thereby a hostile people. 98. And how many have We destroyed before them of generations? Do you perceive of them anyone or hear
from them a sound?
Sūrah 55: ar-Rahmān In the Name of God, the Most Compassionate, the Most Merciful
1. The Most Merciful 2. Taught the Qur’ān, 3. Created man, 4. [And] taught him eloquence. 5. The sun and the moon [move] by precise calculation, 6. And the stars and trees prostrate. 7. And the heaven He raised and imposed the balance 8. That you not transgress within the balance. 9. And establish weight in justice and do not make deficient the balance. 10. And the earth He laid [out] for the creatures. 11. Therein is fruit and palm trees having sheaths [of dates] 12. And grain having husks and scented plants. 13. So which of the favors of your Lord would you deny? 14. He created man from clay like [that of ] pottery. 15. And He created the jinn from a smokeless flame of fire. 16. So which of the favors of your Lord would you deny? 17. [He is] Lord of the two sunrises and Lord of the two sunsets. 18. So which of the favors of your Lord would you deny? 19. He released the two seas, meeting [side by side]; 20. Between them is a barrier [so] neither of them transgresses. 21. So which of the favors of your Lord would you deny? 22. From both of them emerge pearl and coral. 23. So which of the favors of your Lord would you deny? 24. And to Him belong the ships [with sails] elevated in the sea like mountains. 25. So which of the favors of your Lord would you deny? 26. Everyone upon it [i.e., the earth] will perish,
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27. And there will remain the Face of your Lord, Owner of Majesty and Honour. 28. So which of the favors of your Lord would you deny? 29. Whoever is within the heavens and earth asks Him; every day He is in [i.e., bringing about] a matter. 30. So which of the favors of your Lord would you deny? 31. We will attend to you, O prominent beings. 32. So which of the favors of your Lord would you deny? 33. O company of jinn and mankind, if you are able to pass beyond the regions of the heavens and the earth,
then pass. You will not pass except by authority [from God]. 34. So which of the favors of your Lord would you deny? 35. There will be sent upon you a flame of fire and smoke, and you will not defend yourselves. 36. So which of the favors of your Lord would you deny? 37. And when the heaven is split open and becomes rose-colored like oil— 38. So which of the favors of your Lord would you deny?— 39. Then on that Day none will be asked about his sin among men or jinn. 40. So which of the favors of your Lord would you deny? 41. The criminals will be known by their marks, and they will be seized by the forelocks and the feet. 42. So which of the favors of your Lord would you deny? 43. This is Hell, which the criminals deny. 44. They will go around between it and scalding water, heated [to the utmost degree]. 45. So which of the favors of your Lord would you deny? 46. But for he who has feared the position of his Lord are two gardens— 47. So which of the favors of your Lord would you deny?— 48. Having [spreading] branches. 49. So which of the favors of your Lord would you deny? 50. In both of them are two springs, flowing. 51. So which of the favors of your Lord would you deny? 52. In both of them are of every fruit, two kinds. 53. So which of the favors of your Lord would you deny? 54. [They are] reclining on beds whose linings are of silk brocade, and the fruit of the two gardens is hanging low. 55. So which of the favors of your Lord would you deny? 56. In them are women limiting [their] glances, untouched before them by man or jinn!— 57. So which of the favors of your Lord would you deny?— 58. As if they were rubies and coral. 59. So which of the favors of your Lord would you deny? 60. Is the reward for good [anything] but good? 61. So which of the favors of your Lord would you deny? 62. And below them both [in excellence] are two [other] gardens— 63. So which of the favors of your Lord would you deny?— 64. Dark green [in color]. 65. So which of the favors of your Lord would you deny? 66. In both of them are two springs, spouting.
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67. So which of the favors of your Lord would you deny? 68. In both of them are fruit and palm trees and pomegranates. 69. So which of the favors of your Lord would you deny? 70. In them are good and beautiful women 71. So which of the favors of your Lord would you deny?— 72. Fair ones reserved in pavilions— 73. So which of the favors of your Lord would you deny?— 74. Untouched before them by man or jinni— 75. So which of the favors of your Lord would you deny?— 76. Reclining on green cushions and beautiful fine carpets. 77. So which of the favors of your Lord would you deny? 78. Blessed is the name of your Lord, Owner of Majesty and Honour.
Sūrah 76: al-Insān In the Name of God, the Most Compassionate, the Most Merciful
1. Has there [not] come upon man a period of time when he was not a thing [even] mentioned? 2. Indeed, We created man from a sperm-drop mixture that We may try him; and We made him hearing
and seeing. 3. Indeed, We guided him to the way, be he grateful or be he ungrateful. 4. Indeed, We have prepared for the disbelievers chains and shackles and a blaze. 5. Indeed, the righteous will drink from a cup [of wine] whose mixture is of Kāfūr, 6. A spring of which the [righteous] servants of God will drink; they will make it gush forth in force [and
abundance]. 7. They [are those who] fulfill [their] vows and fear a Day whose evil will be widespread. 8. And they give food in spite of love for it to the needy, the orphan, and the captive, 9. [Saying], “We feed you only for the countenance [i.e., approval] of God. We wish not from you reward or
gratitude. 10. Indeed, We fear from our Lord a Day austere and distressful.” 11. So God will protect them from the evil of that Day and give them radiance and happiness 12. And will reward them for what they patiendy endured [with] a garden [in Paradise] and silk [garments]. 13. [They will be] reclining therein on adorned couches. They will not see therein any [burning] sun or
[freezing] cold. 14. And near above them are its shades, and its [fruit] to be picked will be lowered in compliance. 15. And there will be circulated among them vessels of silver and cups having been [created] clear [as glass], 16. Clear glasses [made] from silver of which they have determined the measure. 17. And they will be given to drink a cup [of wine] whose mixture is of ginger 18. [From] a fountain within it [i.e., Paradise] named Salsabeel. 19. There will circulate among them young boys made eternal. When you see them, you would think them [as
beautiful as] scattered pearls. 20. And when you look there [in Paradise], you will see pleasure and great dominion. 21. Upon them [i.e., the inhabitants] will be green garments of fine silk and brocade. And they will be adorned
with bracelets of silver, and their Lord will give them a purifying drink.
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22. [And it will be said], “Indeed, this is for you a reward, and your effort has been appreciated.” 23. Indeed, it is We who have sent down to you, [O Muhammad], the Qur’ān progressively. 24. So be patient for the decision of your Lord and do not obey from among them a sinner or ungrateful [dis-
believer]. 25. And mention the name of your Lord [in prayer] morning and evening 26. And during the night prostrate to Him and exalt [i.e., praise] Him a long [part of the] night. 27. Indeed, these [disbelievers] love the immediate and leave behind them a grave Day. 28. We have created them and strengthened their forms, and when We will, We can change their likenesses
with [complete] alteration. 29. Indeed, this is a reminder, so he who wills may take to his Lord a way. 30. And you do not will except that God wills. Indeed, God is ever Knowing and Wise. 31. He admits whom He wills into His mercy; but the wrongdoers—He has prepared for them a painful pun-
ishment.
Sūrah 112: al-Ikhlās In the Name of God, the Most Compassionate, the Most Merciful
1. Say, “He is God, [who is] One, 2. God, the Eternal Refuge. 3. He neither begets nor is born, 4. Nor is there to Him any equivalent.”
DIVANI SHAMSI TABRIZ and
MASNAVI
Jalal al-Din Rumi (1207-1273 C.E.)
Persian literature
Although Rumi was born in Afghanistan and lived in Turkey, his poetry was written mostly in Persian, and his Sufi religious beliefs transcended national bound- aries. Afghanistan was on the edge of the Persian Empire, and Rumi’s father was a traditional Islamic religious teacher who trained his son to follow in his footsteps. When he was forty, Rumi had a religious epiphany when he met Shams, a wandering Sufi, who was about sixty. Rumi became a Sufi, and the outpouring of poetry that followed was staggering. Sufism combines ideas from Islam, Christianity, and Bud- dhism, and it attempts to achieve union with God: not by logical means (which is beyond the ability of the human mind), but by emotional means. Rumi founded the Mevlevi order of dervishes, sometimes called whirling dervishes because of the spinning dance that they do to achieve a trance-like state. Despite the loss of Shams, who may have been murdered by Rumi’s jealous disciples, Rumi continued to write, amassing over forty thousand couplets of poet- ry over his lifetime. The Divani Shamsi Tabriz is a collection of individual poems, including poems in the ghazal form and the rubaiyat form (which are different ways to group couplets). The Masnavi (also spelled Mathnavi or Mathna- wi) is referred to as the “Quran in Persian”; it was meant to teach his followers the spirit of Sufi Islam, drawing on the Quran, folktales, and anecdotes (among other forms) for the prose sections between the poems. Unlike the Divani Shamsi Tabriz, the Masnavi is a cohesive collection, with a moral to each story. Today Rumi is the most important medieval Persian poet and one of the most widely-read mystical poets. Perhaps in part because of his emphasis on the positive, and his embrace of all religions, Rumi is now the best-selling poet in the United States (Ciabattari).
Written by Laura J. Getty
Image 6.3: Rumi | A portrait of Rumi (or Molavi, as he is known in Iran) well-dressed and with a white beard.
Author: User “Bellavista1957” Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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Selections from the Persian Mystics
Jalálu’d-Dín Rúmí, Edited by F. Hadland Davis, L. Cranmer-Byng, and S. A. Kapadia
Sorrow Quenched In The Beloved Through grief my days are as labour and sorrow. My days move on, hand in hand with anguish. Yet, though my days vanish thus, ‘tis no matter. Do Thou abide, Incomparable Pure One.
The Music Of Love Hail to thee, then, O love, sweet madness! Thou who healest all our infirmities! Who art the Physician of our pride and self-conceit! Who art our Plato and our Galen! Love exalts our earthly bodies to heaven, And makes the very hills to dance with joy! O lover, ‘twas Love that gave life to Mount Sinai, When “it quaked, and Moses fell down in a swoon.” Did my Beloved only touch me with His lips, 1 too, like a flute, would burst out into melody.
When The Rose Has Faded When the rose has faded and the garden is withered, The song of the nightingale is no longer to be heard. The BELOVED is all in all, the lover only veils Him; The BELOVED is all that lives, the lover a dead thing. When the lover feels no longer love’s quickening, He becomes like a bird who has lost its wings. Alas! How can I retain my senses about me, When the beloved shows not the Light of His countenance?
The Silence Of Love Love is the astrolabe of God’s mysteries. A lover may hanker after this love or that love, But at the last he is drawn to the king of Love. However much we describe and explain Love, When we fall in love we are ashamed of our words. Explanation by the tongue makes most things clear, But Love unexplained is better.
Earthly Love Essential To The Love Divine
In one ‘twas said, “Leave power and weakness alone; Whatever withdraws thine eyes from God is an idol.” In one ‘twas said, “Quench not thy earthy torch, That it may be a light to lighten mankind. If thou neglectest regard and care for it, Thou wilt quench at midnight the lamp of Union.”
The Eternal Spendour Of The Beloved Why dost Thou flee from the cries of us on earth? Why pourest Thou sorrow on the heart of the sorrowful? O Thou who, as each new morn dawns from the east,
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Art seen uprising anew, like a bright fountain! What excuse makest Thou for Thy witcheries? O Thou whose lips are sweeter than sugar. Thou that ever renewest the life of this old world. Hear the cry of this lifeless body and heart!
Woman Woman is a ray of God, not a mere mistress, The Creator’s Self, as it were, not a mere creature!
The Divine Union Mustafa became beside himself at that sweet call, His prayer failed on “the night of the early morning halt.” He lifted not head from that blissful sleep, So that his morning prayer was put off till noon. On that, his wedding night, in the presence of his bride. His pure soul attained to kiss her hands. Love and mistress are both veiled and hidden. Impute it not a fault if I call Him “Bride.”
“He Knows About It All” He who is from head to foot a perfect rose or lily. To him spring brings rejoicing. The useless thorn desires the autumn, That autumn may associate itself with the garden; And hide the rose’s beauty and the thorn’s shame, That men may not see the bloom of the one and the other’s shame; That common stone and pure ruby may appear all as one.
Resignation True, the Gardener knows the difference in the autumn, But the sight of One is better than the world’s sight.
Resignation The Way To Prefection Whoso recognises and confesses his own defects Is hastening in the way that leads to Perfection! But he advances not towards the Almighty Who fancies himself to be perfect.
Love The Source Of Light Rather Than Vanishing Form Whatsoever is perceived by sense He annuls, But He stablishes that which is hidden from the senses. The lover’s love is visible, his Beloved hidden. The Friend is absent, the distraction He causes present. Renounce these affections for outward forms, Love depends not on outward form or face. Whatever is beloved is not a mere empty form, Whether your beloved be of the earth or heaven. Whatever is the form you have fallen in love with— Why do you forsake it the moment life leaves it?
Image 6.4: Jalal al-Din Rumi Mathnavi-i Ma’navi | The pages of a Persian manuscript.
Author: Hussain ibn Shaikh ‘Ali Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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Divani Shamsi Tabriz and Masnavi
The Religion Of Love The form is still there; whence then this disgust at it? Ah! lover, consider well what is really your beloved. If a thing perceived by outward senses is the beloved, Then all who retain their senses must still love it; And since Love increases constancy, How can constancy fail while form abides? But the truth is, the sun’s beams strike the wall. And the wall only reflects that borrowed light. Why give your heart to mere stones, simpleton? Go! Seek the Source of Light which shineth alway!
The Religion Of Love The sect of lovers is distinct from all others, Lovers have a religion and a faith of their own. Though the ruby has no stamp, what matters it? Love is fearless in the midst of the sea of fear.
“Pain Is Treasure” Pain is a treasure, for it contains mercies; The kernel is soft when the rind is scraped off.
Image 6.5: Masnavi | Pages of a Persian manuscript with beautiful blue decorations around the text.
Author: Georges Jansoone Source: Wikimedia Commons License: CC BY 3.0
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Selections from the Flowers of the Persian Poets
Jalálu’d-Dín Rúmí, Edited by Nathan Haskell Dole and Belle M. Walker
“I To Myself Am Unknown” Lo, for I to myself am unknown, now in God’s name what must I do? I adore not the Cross nor the Crescent, I am not a Gianour nor a Jew. East nor West land nor sea is my home, I have kin nor with angel nor gnome, I am wrought not of fire nor of foam, I am shaped not of dust nor of dew. I was born not in China afar, not in Saqsin and not in Bulghar; Not in India, where five rivers are, nor ‘Iraq nor Khorasan I grew. Not in this world nor that world I dwell, not in Paradise, neither in Hell; Not from Eden and Rizwan I fell, not from Adam my lineage I drew. In a place beyond uttermost Place, in a tract without shadow of trace, Soul and body transcending, I live in the soul of my Loved One anew!
SHAHNAMEH
Abu’l-Qasim Ferdowsi (ca. 935-ca. 1020 C.E.)
Begun ca. 977 and finished 1010 C.E. Iran
Ferdowsi’s Shahnameh, or Book of Kings, is an epic that includes other material, stretching from the creation of the world, through the legendary heroes that are the protagonists of epic literature, to the historical kings of Persia (modern-day Iran) up to the Muslim invasion. Written in classical Persian, with very few Arabic words, the Shahnameh records the history of Persia at a time when its traditions were changing. The characters in the epic follow Zoroastrianism, the state religion of Persia from at least 1000 B.C.E. (and perhaps as early as 1500 B.C.E.) until the Muslim invasion in 650 C.E. Zoroastrianism is monotheistic; the one god is Ahura Mazda (also called Hormozd in the text), who is challenged by an evil spirit named Angra Mainyu (also called Ahriman in the text). In the story of “Sekander” (Alexander the Great), Ferdowsi rewrites history, making Alexander the (secret) son of a Persian king, so that his conquest of the Persian Empire is an internal struggle, rather than a Persian defeat by an outside invader. In “Rudabeh,” the meeting of Rudabeh and her true love includes the earliest written reference to a Rapunzel-like scene in literature. The other selection is from the story of Rostam and his son Sohrab, one of the most famous and frequently translated sections in the epic because of its subject matter: a father and son who unknowingly end up on opposite sides on a battlefield.
Written by Laura J. Getty
The Shah Nameh from Persian Literature, Volume 1
Firdusi, Translated by James Atkinson
Rúdábeh The chief of Kábul was descended from the family of Zohák. He was named Mihráb, and to secure the safety of
his state, paid annual tribute to Sám. Mihráb, on the arrival of Zál, went out of the city to see him, and was hospita- bly entertained by the young hero, who soon discovered that he had a daughter of wonderful attractions.
Her name Rúdábeh; screened from public view, Her countenance is brilliant as the sun; From head to foot her lovely form is fair As polished ivory. Like the spring, her cheek Presents a radiant bloom,—in stature tall, And o’er her silvery brightness, richly flow
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Dark musky ringlets clustering to her feet. She blushes like the rich pomegranate flower; Her eyes are soft and sweet as the narcissus, Her lashes from the raven’s jetty plume Have stolen their blackness, and her brows are bent Like archer’s bow. Ask ye to see the moon? Look at her face. Seek ye for musky fragrance? She is all sweetness. Her long fingers seem Pencils of silver, and so beautiful Her presence, that she breathes of Heaven and love.
Such was the description of Rúdábeh, which inspired the heart of Zál with the most violent affection, and imagination added to her charms.
Mihráb again waited on Zál, who received him graciously, and asked him in what manner he could promote his wishes. Mihráb said that he only desired him to become his guest at a banquet he intended to invite him to; but Zál thought proper to refuse, because he well knew, if he accepted an invitation of the kind from a relation of Zohák, that his father Sám and the King of Persia would be offended. Mihráb returned to Kábul disap- pointed, and having gone into his harem, his wife, Síndokht, inquired after the stranger from Zábul, the white-headed son of Sám. She wished to know what he was like, in form and feature, and what account he gave of his sojourn with the Símúrgh. Mihráb described him in the warmest terms of admiration—he was valiant, he said, accomplished and handsome, with no other defect than that of white hair. And so boundless was his praise, that Rúdábeh, who was present, drank every word with avidity, and felt her own heart warmed into admiration and love. Full of emotion, she afterwards said privately to her attendants:
“To you alone the secret of my heart I now unfold; to you alone confess The deep sensations of my captive soul. I love, I love; all day and night of him I think alone—I see him in my dreams— You only know my secret—aid me now, And soothe the sorrows of my bursting heart.”
The attendants were startled with this confession and entreaty, and ventured to remonstrate against so preposterous an attachment.
“What! hast thou lost all sense of shame, All value for thy honored name! That thou, in loveliness supreme, Of every tongue the constant theme, Should choose, and on another’s word. The nursling of a Mountain Bird! A being never seen before, Which human mother never bore! And can the hoary locks of age, A youthful heart like thine engage? Must thy enchanting form be prest To such a dubious monster’s breast? And all thy beauty’s rich array, Thy peerless charms be thrown away?”
Image 6.6: Statue of Ferdowsi | Marble statue of Ferdowsi seated.
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This violent remonstrance was more calculated to rouse the indignation of Rúdábeh than to induce her to change her mind. It did so. But she subdued her resentment, and again dwelt upon the ardor of her passion.
“My attachment is fixed, my election is made, And when hearts are enchained ‘tis in vain to upbraid. Neither Kízar nor Faghfúr I wish to behold, Nor the monarch of Persia with jewels and gold; All, all I despise, save the choice of my heart, And from his beloved image I never can part. Call him aged, or young, ‘tis a fruitless endeavour To uproot a desire I must cherish for ever; Call him old, call him young, who can passion control? Ever present, and loved, he entrances my soul. ‘Tis for him I exist—him I worship alone, And my heart it must bleed till I call him my own.”
As soon as the attendants found that Rúdábeh’s attachment was deeply fixed, and not to be removed, they changed their purpose, and became obedient to her wishes, anxious to pursue any measure that might bring Zál and their mistress together. Rúdábeh was delighted with this proof of their regard.
It was spring-time, and the attendants repaired towards the halting-place of Zál, in the neighborhood of the city. Their occupation seemed to be gathering roses along the romantic banks of a pellucid streamlet, and when they purposely strayed opposite the tent of Zál, he observed them, and asked his friends—why they presumed to gather roses in his garden. He was told that they were damsels sent by the moon of Kábulistán from the palace of Mihráb to gather roses, and upon hearing this his heart was touched with emotion. He rose up and rambled about for amusement, keeping the direction of the river, followed by a servant with a bow. He was not far from the damsels, when a bird sprung up from the water, which he shot, upon the wing, with an arrow. The bird happened to fall near the rose-gatherers, and Zál ordered his servant to bring it to him. The attendants of Rúdábeh lost not the opportunity, as he approached them, to inquire who the archer was. “Know ye not,” answered the servant, “that this is Ním-rúz, the son of Sám, and also called Dustán, the greatest warrior ever known.” At this the damsels smiled, and said that they too belonged to a person of distinction—and not of inferior worth—to a star in the palace of Mihráb. “We have come from Kábul to the King of Zábulistán, and should Zál and Rúdábeh be of equal rank, her ruby lips may become acquainted with his, and their wished-for union be effected.” When the servant returned, Zál was immediately informed of the conversation that had taken place, and in consequence presents were prepared.
They who to gather roses came—went back With precious gems—and honorary robes; And two bright finger-rings were secretly Sent to the princess.
Then did the attendants of Rúdábeh exult in the success of their artifice, and say that the lion had come into their toils. Rúdábeh herself, however, had some fears on the subject. She anxiously sought to know exactly the personal appearance of Zál, and happily her warmest hopes were realized by the description she received. But one difficulty remained—how were they to meet? How was she to see with her own eyes the man whom her fancy had depicted in such glowing colors? Her attendants, sufficiently expert at intrigue, soon contrived the means of gratify- ing her wishes. There was a beautiful rural retreat in a sequestered situation, the apartments of which were adorned with pictures of great men, and ornamented in the most splendid manner. To this favorite place Rúdábeh retired, and most magnificently dressed, awaiting the coming of Zál, whom her attendants had previously invited to repair thither as soon as the sun had gone down. The shadows of evening were falling as he approached, and the enam- oured princess thus addressed him from her balcony:—
“May happiness attend thee ever, thou, Whose lucid features make this gloomy night Clear as the day; whose perfume scents the breeze; Thou who, regardless of fatigue, hast come On foot too, thus to see me—”
Hearing a sweet voice, he looked up, and beheld a bright face in the balcony, and he said to the beautiful vision:
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“How often have I hoped that Heaven Would, in some secret place display
Thy charms to me, and thou hast given My heart the wish of many a day;
For now thy gentle voice I hear, And now I see thee—speak again!
Speak freely in a willing ear, And every wish thou hast obtain.”
Not a word was lost upon Rúdábeh, and she soon accomplished her object. Her hair was so luxuriant, and of such a length, that casting it loose it flowed down from the balcony; and, after fastening the upper part to a ring, she requested Zál to take hold of the other end and mount up. He ardently kissed the musky tresses, and by them quickly ascended.
Then hand in hand within the chambers they Gracefully passed.—Attractive was the scene, The walls embellished by the painter’s skill, And every object exquisitely formed, Sculpture, and architectural ornament, Fit for a king. Zál with amazement gazed Upon what art had done, but more he gazed Upon the witching radiance of his love, Upon her tulip cheeks, her musky locks, Breathing the sweetness of a summer garden; Upon the sparkling brightness of her rings, Necklace, and bracelets, glittering on her arms. His mien too was majestic—on his head He wore a ruby crown, and near his breast Was seen a belted dagger. Fondly she With side-long glances marked his noble aspect, The fine proportions of his graceful limbs, His strength and beauty. Her enamoured heart Suffused her cheek with blushes, every glance Increased the ardent transports of her soul. So mild was his demeanour, he appeared A gentle lion toying with his prey. Long they remained rapt in admiration Of each other. At length the warrior rose, And thus addressed her: “It becomes not us To be forgetful of the path of prudence, Though love would dictate a more ardent course, How oft has Sám, my father, counselled me, Against unseeming thoughts,—unseemly deeds,— Always to choose the right, and shun the wrong. How will he burn with anger when he hears This new adventure; how will Minúchihr Indignantly reproach me for this dream! This waking dream of rapture! but I call High Heaven to witness what I now declare— Whoever may oppose my sacred vows, I still am thine, affianced thine, for ever.”
And thus Rúdábeh: “Thou hast won my heart, And kings may sue in vain; to thee devoted, Thou art alone my warrior and my love.” Thus they exclaimed,—then Zál with fond adieus Softly descended from the balcony, And hastened to his tent.
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As speedily as possible he assembled together his counsellors and Múbids to obtain their advice on the present extraordinary occasion, and he represented to them the sacred importance of encouraging matrimonial alliances.
For marriage is a contract sealed by Heaven— How happy is the Warrior’s lot, amidst His smiling children; when he dies, his son Succeeds him, and enjoys his rank and name. And is it not a glorious thing to say— This is the son of Zál, or this of Sám, The heir of his renowned progenitor?
He then related to them the story of his love and affection for the daughter of Mihráb; but the Múbids, well knowing that the chief of Kábul was of the family of Zohák, the serpent-king, did not approve the union desired, which excited the indignation of Zál. They, however, recommended his writing a letter to Sám, who might, if he thought proper, refer the matter to Minúchihr. The letter was accordingly written and despatched, and when Sám received it, he immediately referred the question to his astrologers, to know whether the nuptials, if solemnized between Zál and Rúdábeh, would be prosperous or not. They foretold that the nuptials would be prosperous, and that the issue would be a son of wonderful strength and power, the conqueror of the world. This announcement delighted the heart of the old warrior, and he sent the messenger back with the assurance of his approbation of the proposed union, but requested that the subject might be kept concealed till he returned with his army from the expedition to Karugsár, and was able to consult with Minúchihr.
Zál, exulting at his success, communicated the glad tidings to Rúdábeh by their female emissary, who had hith- erto carried on successfully the correspondence between them. But as she was conveying an answer to this welcome news, and some presents to Zál, Síndokht, the mother of Rúdábeh, detected her, and, examining the contents of the packet, she found sufficient evidence, she thought, of something wrong.
“What treachery is this? What have we here! Sirbund and male attire? Thou, wretch, confess! Disclose thy secret doings.”
The emissary, however, betrayed nothing; but declared that she was a dealer in jewels and dresses, and had been only showing her merchandise to Rúdábeh. Síndokht, in extreme agitation of mind, hastened to her daughter’s apartment to ascertain the particulars of this affair, when Rúdábeh at once fearlessly acknowledged her unalterable affection for Zál,
“I love him so devotedly, all day, All night my tears have flowed unceasingly; And one hair of his head I prize more dearly Than all the world beside; for him I live; And we have met, and we have sat together, And pledged our mutual love with mutual joy And innocence of heart.”
Rúdábeh further informed her of Sám’s consent to their nuptials, which in some degree satisfied the mother. But when Mihráb was made acquainted with the arrangement, his rage was unbounded, for he dreaded the resent- ment of Sám and Minúchihr when the circumstances became fully known to them. Trembling with indignation he drew his dagger, and would have instantly rushed to Rúdábeh’s chamber to destroy her, had not Síndokht fallen at his feet and restrained him. He insisted, however, on her being brought before him; and upon his promise not to do her any harm, Síndokht complied. Rúdábeh disdained to take off her ornaments to appear as an offender and a sup- plicant, but, proud of her choice, went into her father’s presence, gayly adorned with jewels, and in splendid apparel. Mihráb received her with surprise.
“Why all this glittering finery? Is the devil United to an angel? When a snake Is met with in Arabia, it is killed!”
But Rúdábeh answered not a word, and was permitted to retire with her mother.
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When Minúchihr was apprised of the proceedings between Zál and Rúdábeh, he was deeply concerned, antici- pating nothing but confusion and ruin to Persia from the united influence of Zál and Mihráb. Feridún had purified the world from the abominations of Zohák, and as Mihráb was a descendant of that merciless tyrant, he feared that some attempt would be made to resume the enormities of former times; Sám was therefore required to give his advice on the occasion.
The conqueror of Karugsár and Mázinderán was received on his return with cordial rejoicings, and he charmed the king with the story of his triumphant success. The monarch against whom he had fought was descended, on the mother’s side, from Zohák, and his Demon army was more numerous than ants, or clouds of locusts, covering mountain and plain. Sám thus proceeded in his description of the conflict.
“And when he heard my voice, and saw what deeds I had performed, approaching me, he threw His noose; but downward bending I escaped, And with my bow I showered upon his head Steel-pointed arrows, piercing through the brain; Then did I grasp his loins, and from his horse Cast him upon the ground, deprived of life. At this, the demons terrified and pale, Shrunk back, some flying to the mountain wilds, And others, taken on the battle-field, Became obedient to the Persian king.”
Minúchihr, gratified by this result of the expedition, appointed Sám to a new enterprise, which was to destroy Kábul by fire and sword, especially the house of Mihráb; and that ruler, of the serpent-race, and all his adherents were to be put to death. Sám, before he took leave to return to his own government at Zábul, tried to dissuade him from this violent exercise of revenge, but without making any sensible impression upon him.
Meanwhile the vindictive intentions of Minúchihr, which were soon known at Kábul, produced the great- est alarm and consternation in the family of Mihráb. Zál now returned to his father, and Sám sent a letter to Minúchihr, again to deprecate his wrath, and appointed Zál the messenger. In this letter Sám enumerates his ser- vices at Karugsár and Mázinderán, and especially dwells upon the destruction of a prodigious dragon.
“I am thy servant, and twice sixty years Have seen my prowess. Mounted on my steed, Wielding my battle-axe, overthrowing heroes, Who equals Sám, the warrior? I destroyed The mighty monster, whose devouring jaws Unpeopled half the land, and spread dismay From town to town. The world was full of horror, No bird was seen in air, no beast of prey In plain or forest; from the stream he drew The crocodile; the eagle from the sky. The country had no habitant alive, And when I found no human being left, I cast away all fear, and girt my loins, And in the name of God went boldly forth, Armed for the strife. I saw him towering rise, Huge as a mountain, with his hideous hair Dragging upon the ground; his long black tongue Shut up the path; his eyes two lakes of blood; And, seeing me, so horrible his roar, The earth shook with affright, and from his mouth A flood of poison issued. Like a lion Forward I sprang, and in a moment drove A diamond-pointed arrow through his tongue, Fixing him to the ground. Another went Down his deep throat, and dreadfully he writhed. A third passed through his middle. Then I raised
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My battle-axe, cow-headed, and with one Tremendous blow, dislodged his venomous brain, And deluged all around with blood and poison. There lay the monster dead, and soon the world Regained its peace and comfort. Now I’m old, The vigour of my youth is past and gone, And it becomes me to resign my station, To Zál, my gallant son.”
Mihráb continued in such extreme agitation, that in his own mind he saw no means of avoiding the threat- ened desolation of his country but by putting his wife and daughter to death. Síndokht however had a better resource, and suggested the expediency of waiting upon Sám herself, to induce him to forward her own views and the nuptials between Zál and Rúdábeh. To this Mihráb assented, and she proceeded, mounted on a richly capar- isoned horse, to Zábul with most magnificent presents, consisting of three hundred thousand dínars; ten horses with golden, and thirty with silver, housings; sixty richly attired damsels, carrying golden trays of jewels and musk, and camphor, and wine, and sugar; forty pieces of figured cloth; a hundred milch camels, and a hundred others for burden; two hundred Indian swords, a golden crown and throne, and four elephants. Sám was amazed and embar- rassed by the arrival of this splendid array. If he accepted the presents, he would incur the anger of Minúchihr; and if he rejected them, Zál would be disappointed and driven to despair. He at length accepted them, and concurred in the wishes of Síndokht respecting the union of the two lovers.
When Zál arrived at the court of Minúchihr, he was received with honor, and the letter of Sám being read, the king was prevailed upon to consent to the pacific proposals that were made in favor of Mihráb, and the nuptials. He too consulted his astrologers, and was informed that the offspring of Zál and Rúdábeh would be a hero of matchless strength and valor. Zál, on his return through Kábul, had an interview with Rúdábeh, who welcomed him in the most rapturous terms:—
Be thou for ever blest, for I adore thee, And make the dust of thy fair feet my pillow.
In short, with the approbation of all parties the marriage at length took place, and was celebrated at the beauti- ful summer-house where first the lovers met. Sám was present at Kábul on the happy occasion, and soon afterwards returned to Sístán, preparatory to resuming his martial labors in Karugsár and Mázinderán.
As the time drew near that Rúdábeh should become a mother, she suffered extremely from constant indisposi- tion, and both Zál and Síndokht were in the deepest distress on account of her precarious state.
The cypress leaf was withering; pale she lay, Unsoothed by rest or sleep, death seemed approaching.
At last Zál recollected the feather of the Símúrgh, and followed the instructions which he had received, by placing it on the fire. In a moment darkness surrounded them, which was, however, immediately dispersed by the sudden appearance of the Símúrgh. “Why,” said the Símúrgh, “do I see all this grief and sorrow? Why are the tear- drops in the warrior’s eyes? A child will be born of mighty power, who will become the wonder of the world.”
The Símúrgh then gave some advice which was implicitly attended to, and the result was that Rúdábeh was soon out of danger. Never was beheld so prodigious a child. The father and mother were equally amazed. They called the boy Rustem. On the first day he looked a year old, and he required the milk of ten nurses. A likeness of him was immediately worked in silk, representing him upon a horse, and armed like a warrior, which was sent to Sám, who was then fighting in Mázinderán, and it made the old champion almost delirious with joy. At Kábul and Zábul there was nothing but feasting and rejoicing, as soon as the tidings were known, and thousands of dínars were given away in charity to the poor. When Rustem was five years of age, he ate as much as a man, and some say that even in his third year he rode on horseback. In his eighth year he was as powerful as any hero of the time.
In beauty of form and in vigour of limb, No mortal was ever seen equal to him.
Both Sám and Mihráb, though far distant from the scene of felicity, were equally anxious to proceed to Zábu- listán to behold their wonderful grandson. Both set off, but Mihráb arrived first with great pomp, and a whole army for his suite, and went forth with Zál to meet Sám, and give him an honorable welcome. The boy Rustem was
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mounted on an elephant, wearing a splendid crown, and wanted to join them, but his father kindly prevented him undergoing the inconvenience of alighting. Zál and Mihráb dismounted as soon as Sám was seen at a distance, and performed the ceremonies of an affectionate reception. Sám was indeed amazed when he did see the boy, and show- ered blessings on his head.
Afterwards Sám placed Mihráb on his right hand, and Zál on his left, and Rustem before him, and began to converse with his grandson, who thus manifested to him his martial disposition.
“Thou art the champion of the world, and I The branch of that fair tree of which thou art The glorious root: to thee I am devoted, But ease and leisure have no charms for me; Nor music, nor the songs of festive joy. Mounted and armed, a helmet on my brow, A javelin in my grasp, I long to meet The foe, and cast his severed head before thee.”
Then Sám made a royal feast, and every apartment in his palace was richly decorated, and resounded with mirth and rejoicing. Mihráb was the merriest, and drank the most, and in his cups saw nothing but himself, so vain had he become from the countenance he had received. He kept saying:—
“Now I feel no alarm about Sám or Zál-zer, Nor the splendour and power of the great Minúchihr; Whilst aided by Rustem, his sword, and his mace, Not a cloud of misfortune can shadow my face. All the laws of Zohák I will quickly restore, And the world shall be fragrant and blest as before.”
This exultation plainly betrayed the disposition of his race; and though Sám smiled at the extravagance of Mihráb, he looked up towards Heaven, and prayed that Rustem might not prove a tyrant, but be continually active in doing good, and humble before God.
Upon Sám departing, on his return to Karugsár and Mázinderán, Zál went with Rustem to Sístán, a province dependent on his government, and settled him there. The white elephant, belonging to Minúchihr, was kept at Sístán. One night Rustem was awakened out of his sleep by a great noise, and cries of distress when starting up and inquiring the cause, he was told that the white elephant had got loose, and was trampling and crushing the people to death. In a moment he issued from his apartment, brandishing his mace; but was soon stopped by the servants, who were anxious to expostulate with him against venturing out in the darkness of night to encounter a ferocious elephant. Impatient at being thus interrupted he knocked down one of the watchmen, who fell dead at his feet, and the others running away, he broke the lock of the gate, and escaped. He immediately opposed himself to the enor- mous animal, which looked like a mountain, and kept roaring like the River Nil. Regarding him with a cautious and steady eye, he gave a loud shout, and fearlessly struck him a blow, with such strength and vigor, that the iron mace was bent almost double. The elephant trembled, and soon fell exhausted and lifeless in the dust. When it was com- municated to Zál that Rustem had killed the animal with one blow, he was amazed, and fervently returned thanks to heaven. He called him to him, and kissed him, and said: “My darling boy, thou art indeed unequalled in valor and magnanimity.”
Then it occurred to Zál that Rustem, after such an achievement, would be a proper person to take vengeance on the enemies of his grandfather Narímán, who was sent by Feridún with a large army against an enchanted fort situated upon the mountain Sipund, and who whilst endeavoring to effect his object, was killed by a piece of rock thrown down from above by the besieged. The fort, which was many miles high, inclosed beautiful lawns of the freshest verdure, and delightful gardens abounding with fruit and flowers; it was also full of treasure. Sám, on hear- ing of the fate of his father, was deeply afflicted, and in a short time proceeded against the fort himself; but he was surrounded by a trackless desert. He knew not what course to pursue; not a being was ever seen to enter or come out of the gates, and, after spending months and years in fruitless endeavors, he was compelled to retire from the appalling enterprise in despair. “Now,” said Zál to Rustem, “the time is come, and the remedy is at hand; thou art yet unknown, and may easily accomplish our purpose.” Rustem agreed to the proposed adventure, and according to his father’s advice, assumed the dress and character of a salt-merchant, prepared a caravan of camels, and secreted arms for himself and companions among the loads of salt. Everything being ready they set off, and it was not long before they reached the fort on the mountain Sipund. Salt being a precious article, and much wanted, as soon as
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the garrison knew that it was for sale, the gates were opened; and then was Rustem seen, together with his warriors, surrounded by men, women, and children, anxiously making their purchases, some giving clothes in exchange, some gold, and some silver, without fear or suspicion.
But when the night came on, and it was dark, Rustem impatient drew his warriors forth, And moved towards the mansion of the chief— But not unheard. The unaccustomed noise, Announcing warlike menace and attack, Awoke the Kotwál, who sprung up to meet The peril threatened by the invading foe. Rustem meanwhile uplifts his ponderous mace, And cleaves his head, and scatters on the ground The reeking brains. And now the garrison Are on the alert, all hastening to the spot Where battle rages; midst the deepened gloom Flash sparkling swords, which show the crimson earth Bright as the ruby.
Rustem continued fighting with the people of the fort all night, and just as morning dawned, he discovered the chief and slew him. Those who survived, then escaped, and not one of the inhabitants remained within the walls alive. Rustem’s next object was to enter the governor’s mansion. It was built of stone, and the gate, which was made of iron, he burst open with his battle-axe, and advancing onward, he discovered a temple, constructed with infinite skill and science, beyond the power of mortal man, and which contained amazing wealth, in jewels and gold. All the warriors gathered for themselves as much treasure as they could carry away, and more than imagination can conceive; and Rustem wrote to Zál to know his further commands on the subject of the capture. Zál, overjoyed at the result of the enterprise, replied:
Thou hast illumed the soul of Narímán, Now in the blissful bowers of Paradise, By punishing his foes with fire and sword.
He then recommended him to load all the camels with as much of the invaluable property as could be removed, and bring it away, and then burn and destroy the whole place, leaving not a single vestige; and the command having been strictly complied with, Rustem retraced his steps to Zábulistán.
On his return Zál pressed him to his heart, And paid him public honors. The fond mother Kissed and embraced her darling son, and all Uniting, showered their blessings on his head.
Story of Sohráb O ye, who dwell in Youth’s inviting bowers, Waste not, in useless joy, your fleeting hours, But rather let the tears of sorrow roll, And sad reflection fill the conscious soul. For many a jocund spring has passed away, 5 And many a flower has blossomed, to decay; And human life, still hastening to a close, Finds in the worthless dust its last repose. Still the vain world abounds in strife and hate, And sire and son provoke each other’s fate; 10 And kindred blood by kindred hands is shed, And vengeance sleeps not—dies not, with the dead. All nature fades—the garden’s treasures fall,
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Young bud, and citron ripe—all perish, all.
And now a tale of sorrow must be told, 15 A tale of tears, derived from Múbid old, And thus remembered.—
With the dawn of day, Rustem arose, and wandering took his way, Armed for the chase, where sloping to the sky, 20 Túrán’s lone wilds in sullen grandeur lie; There, to dispel his melancholy mood, He urged his matchless steed through glen and wood. Flushed with the noble game which met his view, He starts the wild-ass o’er the glistening dew; 25 And, oft exulting, sees his quivering dart, Plunge through the glossy skin, and pierce the heart. Tired of the sport, at length, he sought the shade, Which near a stream embowering trees displayed, And with his arrow’s point, a fire he raised, 30 And thorns and grass before him quickly blazed. The severed parts upon a bough he cast, To catch the flames; and when the rich repast Was drest; with flesh and marrow, savory food, He quelled his hunger; and the sparkling flood 35 That murmured at his feet, his thirst represt; Then gentle sleep composed his limbs to rest.
Meanwhile his horse, for speed and form renown’d, Ranged o’er the plain with flowery herbage crown’d, Encumbering arms no more his sides opprest, 40 No folding mail confined his ample chest, Gallant and free, he left the Champion’s side, And cropp’d the mead, or sought the cooling tide; When lo! it chanced amid that woodland chase, A band of horsemen, rambling near the place, 45 Saw, with surprise, superior game astray, And rushed at once to seize the noble prey; But, in the imminent struggle, two beneath His steel-clad hoofs received the stroke of death; One proved a sterner fate—for downward borne, 50 The mangled head was from the shoulders torn. Still undismayed, again they nimbly sprung, And round his neck the noose entangling flung: Now, all in vain, he spurns the smoking ground, In vain the tumult echoes all around; 55 They bear him off, and view, with ardent eyes, His matchless beauty and majestic size; Then soothe his fury, anxious to obtain, A bounding steed of his immortal strain.
When Rustem woke, and miss’d his favourite horse, 60 The loved companion of his glorious course; Sorrowing he rose, and, hastening thence, began To shape his dubious way to Samengán; “Reduced to journey thus, alone!” he said, “How pierce the gloom which thickens round my head; 65 Burthen’d, on foot, a dreary waste in view,
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Where shall I bend my steps, what path pursue? The scoffing Turks will cry, ‘Behold our might! We won the trophy from the Champion-knight! From him who, reckless of his fame and pride, 70 Thus idly slept, and thus ignobly died,’” Girding his loins he gathered from the field, His quivered stores, his beamy sword and shield, Harness and saddle-gear were o’er him slung. Bridle and mail across his shoulders hung. 75 Then looking round, with anxious eye, to meet, The broad impression of his charger’s feet, The track he hail’d, and following, onward prest. While grief and hope alternate filled his breast.
O’er vale and wild-wood led, he soon descries. 80 The regal city’s shining turrets rise. And when the Champion’s near approach is known, The usual homage waits him to the throne. The king, on foot, received his welcome guest With preferred friendship, and his coming blest: 85 But Rustem frowned, and with resentment fired, Spoke of his wrongs, the plundered steed required. “I’ve traced his footsteps to your royal town, Here must he be, protected by your crown; But if retained, if not from fetters freed, 90 My vengeance shall o’ertake the felon-deed.” “My honored guest!” the wondering King replied— “Shall Rustem’s wants or wishes be denied? But let not anger, headlong, fierce, and blind, O’ercloud the virtues of a generous mind. 95 If still within the limits of my reign, The well known courser shall be thine again: For Rakush never can remain concealed, No more than Rustem in the battle-field! Then cease to nourish useless rage, and share 100 With joyous heart my hospitable fare.”
The son of Zál now felt his wrath subdued, And glad sensations in his soul renewed. The ready herald by the King’s command, Convened the Chiefs and Warriors of the land; 105 And soon the banquet social glee restored, And China wine-cups glittered on the board; And cheerful song, and music’s magic power, And sparkling wine, beguiled the festive hour. The dulcet draughts o’er Rustem’s senses stole, 110 And melting strains absorbed his softened soul. But when approached the period of repose, All, prompt and mindful, from the banquet rose; A couch was spread well worthy such a guest, Perfumed with rose and musk; and whilst at rest, 115 In deep sound sleep, the wearied Champion lay, Forgot were all the sorrows of the way.
One watch had passed, and still sweet slumber shed Its magic power around the hero’s head— When forth Tahmíneh came—a damsel held 120
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An amber taper, which the gloom dispelled, And near his pillow stood; in beauty bright, The monarch’s daughter struck his wondering sight. Clear as the moon, in glowing charms arrayed, Her winning eyes the light of heaven displayed; 125 Her cypress form entranced the gazer’s view, Her waving curls, the heart, resistless, drew, Her eye-brows like the Archer’s bended bow; Her ringlets, snares; her cheek, the rose’s glow, Mixed with the lily—from her ear-tips hung 130 Rings rich and glittering, star-like; and her tongue, And lips, all sugared sweetness—pearls the while Sparkled within a mouth formed to beguile. Her presence dimmed the stars, and breathing round Fragrance and joy, she scarcely touched the ground, 135 So light her step, so graceful—every part Perfect, and suited to her spotless heart. Rustem, surprised, the gentle maid addressed, And asked what lovely stranger broke his rest. “What is thy name,” he said—“what dost thou seek 140 Amidst the gloom of night? Fair vision, speak!”
“O thou,” she softly sigh’d, “of matchless fame! With pity hear, Tahmíneh is my name! The pangs of love my anxious heart employ, And flattering promise long-expected joy; 145 No curious eye has yet these features seen, My voice unheard, beyond the sacred screen. How often have I listened with amaze, To thy great deeds, enamoured of thy praise; How oft from every tongue I’ve heard the strain, 150 And thought of thee—and sighed, and sighed again. The ravenous eagle, hovering o’er his prey, Starts at thy gleaming sword and flies away: Thou art the slayer of the Demon brood, And the fierce monsters of the echoing wood. 155 Where’er thy mace is seen, shrink back the bold, Thy javelin’s flash all tremble to behold. Enchanted with the stories of thy fame, My fluttering heart responded to thy name; And whilst their magic influence I felt, 160 In prayer for thee devotedly I knelt; And fervent vowed, thus powerful glory charms, No other spouse should bless my longing arms. Indulgent heaven propitious to my prayer, Now brings thee hither to reward my care. 165 Túrán’s dominions thou hast sought, alone, By night, in darkness—thou, the mighty one! O claim my hand, and grant my soul’s desire; Ask me in marriage of my royal sire; Perhaps a boy our wedded love may crown, 170 Whose strength like thine may gain the world’s renown. Nay more—for Samengán will keep my word— Rakush to thee again shall be restored.”
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The damsel thus her ardent thought expressed, And Rustem’s heart beat joyous in his breast, 175 Hearing her passion—not a word was lost, And Rakush safe, by him still valued most; He called her near; with graceful step she came, And marked with throbbing pulse his kindled flame. And now a Múbid, from the Champion-knight, 180 Requests the royal sanction to the rite; O’erjoyed, the King the honoured suit approves, O’erjoyed to bless the doting child he loves, And happier still, in showering smiles around, To be allied to warrior so renowned. 185 When the delighted father, doubly blest, Resigned his daughter to his glorious guest, The people shared the gladness which it gave, The union of the beauteous and the brave. To grace their nuptial day—both old and young, 190 The hymeneal gratulations sung: “May this young moon bring happiness and joy, And every source of enmity destroy.” The marriage-bower received the happy pair, And love and transport shower’d their blessings 195
Ere from his lofty sphere the morn had thrown His glittering radiance, and in splendour shone, The mindful Champion, from his sinewy arm, His bracelet drew, the soul-ennobling charm; And, as he held the wondrous gift with pride, 200 He thus address’d his love-devoted bride! “Take this,” he said, “and if, by gracious heaven, A daughter for thy solace should be given, Let it among her ringlets be displayed, And joy and honour will await the maid; 205 But should kind fate increase the nuptial-joy, And make thee mother of a blooming boy, Around his arm this magic bracelet bind, To fire with virtuous deeds his ripening mind; The strength of Sám will nerve his manly form, 210 In temper mild, in valour like the storm; His not the dastard fate to shrink, or turn From where the lions of the battle burn; To him the soaring eagle from the sky Will stoop, the bravest yield to him, or fly; 215 Thus shall his bright career imperious claim The well-won honours of immortal fame!” Ardent he said, and kissed her eyes and face, And lingering held her in a fond embrace. When the bright sun his radiant brow displayed, 220 And earth in all its loveliest hues arrayed, The Champion rose to leave his spouse’s side, The warm affections of his weeping bride. For her, too soon the winged moments flew, Too soon, alas! the parting hour she knew; 225 Clasped in his arms, with many a streaming tear, She tried, in vain, to win his deafen’d ear;
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Still tried, ah fruitless struggle! to impart, The swelling anguish of her bursting heart.
The father now with gratulations due 230 Rustem approaches, and displays to view The fiery war-horse—welcome as the light Of heaven, to one immersed in deepest night; The Champion, wild with joy, fits on the rein, And girds the saddle on his back again; 235 Then mounts, and leaving sire and wife behind, Onward to Sístán rushes like the wind.
But when returned to Zábul’s friendly shade, None knew what joys the Warrior had delayed; Still, fond remembrance, with endearing thought, 240 Oft to his mind the scene of rapture brought.
When nine slow-circling months had roll’d away, Sweet-smiling pleasure hailed the brightening day— A wondrous boy Tahmíneh’s tears supprest, And lull’d the sorrows of her heart to rest; 245 To him, predestined to be great and brave, The name Sohráb his tender mother gave; And as he grew, amazed, the gathering throng, View’d his large limbs, his sinews firm and strong; His infant years no soft endearment claimed: 250 Athletic sports his eager soul inflamed; Broad at the chest and taper round the loins, Where to the rising hip the body joins; Hunter and wrestler; and so great his speed, He could overtake, and hold the swiftest steed. 255 His noble aspect, and majestic grace, Betrayed the offspring of a glorious race. How, with a mother’s ever anxious love, Still to retain him near her heart she strove! For when the father’s fond inquiry came, 260 Cautious, she still concealed his birth and name, And feign’d a daughter born, the evil fraught With misery to avert—but vain the thought; Not many years had passed, with downy flight, Ere he, Tahmíneh’s wonder and delight, 265 With glistening eye, and youthful ardour warm, Filled her foreboding bosom with alarm. “O now relieve my heart!” he said, “declare, From whom I sprang and breathe the vital air. Since, from my childhood I have ever been, 270 Amidst my play-mates of superior mien; Should friend or foe demand my father’s name, Let not my silence testify my shame! If still concealed, you falter, still delay, A mother’s blood shall wash the crime away.” 275 “This wrath forego,” the mother answering cried, “And joyful hear to whom thou art allied. A glorious line precedes thy destined birth, The mightiest heroes of the sons of earth. The deeds of Sám remotest realms admire, 280 And Zál, and Rustem thy illustrious sire!”
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In private, then, she Rustem’s letter placed Before his view, and brought with eager haste Three sparkling rubies, wedges three of gold, From Persia sent—“Behold,” she said, “behold 285 Thy father’s gifts, will these thy doubts remove The costly pledges of paternal love! Behold this bracelet charm, of sovereign power To baffle fate in danger’s awful hour; But thou must still the perilous secret keep, 290 Nor ask the harvest of renown to reap; For when, by this peculiar signet known, Thy glorious father shall demand his son, Doomed from her only joy in life to part, O think what pangs will rend thy mother’s heart!— 295 Seek not the fame which only teems with woe; Afrásiyáb is Rustem’s deadliest foe! And if by him discovered, him I dread, Revenge will fail upon thy guiltless head.”
The youth replied: “In vain thy sighs and tears, 300 The secret breathes and mocks thy idle fears. No human power can fate’s decrees control, Or check the kindled ardour of my soul. Then why from me the bursting truth conceal? My father’s foes even now my vengeance feel; 305 Even now in wrath my native legions rise, And sounds of desolation strike the skies; Káús himself, hurled from his ivory throne, Shall yield to Rustem the imperial crown, And thou, my mother, still in triumph seen, 310 Of lovely Persia hailed the honoured queen! Then shall Túrán unite beneath my hand, And drive this proud oppressor from the land! Father and Son, in virtuous league combined, No savage despot shall enslave mankind; 315 When Sun and Moon o’er heaven refulgent blaze, Shall little stars obtrude their feeble rays?”
He paused, and then: “O mother, I must now My father seek, and see his lofty brow; Be mine a horse, such as a prince demands, 320 Fit for the dusty field, a warrior’s hands; Strong as an elephant his form should be, And chested like the stag, in motion free, And swift as bird, or fish; it would disgrace A warrior bold on foot to show his face.” 325
The mother, seeing how his heart was bent, His day-star rising in the firmament, Commands the stables to be searched to find Among the steeds one suited to his mind; Pressing their backs he tries their strength and nerve, 330 Bent double to the ground their bellies curve; Not one, from neighbouring plain and mountain brought, Equals the wish with which his soul is fraught; Fruitless on every side he anxious turns, Fruitless, his brain with wild impatience burns, 335
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But when at length they bring the destined steed, From Rakush bred, of lightning’s winged speed, Fleet, as the arrow from the bow-string flies, Fleet, as the eagle darting through the skies, Rejoiced he springs, and, with a nimble bound, 340 Vaults in his seat, and wheels the courser round; “With such a horse—thus mounted, what remains? Káús, the Persian King, no longer reigns!” High flushed he speaks—with youthful pride elate, Eager to crush the Monarch’s glittering state; 345 He grasps his javelin with a hero’s might, And pants with ardour for the field of fight.
Soon o’er the realm his fame expanding spread, And gathering thousands hasten’d to his aid. His Grand-sire, pleased, beheld the warrior-train 350 Successive throng and darken all the plain; And bounteously his treasures he supplied, Camels, and steeds, and gold.—In martial pride, Sohráb was seen—a Grecian helmet graced His brow—and costliest mail his limbs embraced. 355 Afrásiyáb now hears with ardent joy, The bold ambition of the warrior-boy, Of him who, perfumed with the milky breath Of infancy, was threatening war and death, And bursting sudden from his mother’s side, 360 Had launched his bark upon the perilous tide.
The insidious King sees well the tempting hour, Favouring his arms against the Persian power, And thence, in haste, the enterprise to share, Twelve thousand veterans selects with care; 365 To Húmán and Bármán the charge consigns, And thus his force with Samengán combines; But treacherous first his martial chiefs he prest, To keep the secret fast within their breast:— “For this bold youth must not his father know, 370 Each must confront the other as his foe— Such is my vengeance! With unhallowed rage, Father and Son shall dreadful battle wage! Unknown the youth shall Rustem’s force withstand, And soon o’erwhelm the bulwark of the land. 375 Rustem removed, the Persian throne is ours, An easy conquest to confederate powers; And then, secured by some propitious snare, Sohráb himself our galling bonds shall wear. Or should the Son by Rustem’s falchion bleed, 380 The father’s horror at that fatal deed, Will rend his soul, and ‘midst his sacred grief, Káús in vain will supplicate relief.” The tutored chiefs advance with speed, and bring Imperial presents to the future king; 385 In stately pomp the embassy proceeds; Ten loaded camels, ten unrivalled steeds, A golden crown, and throne, whose jewels bright
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Gleam in the sun, and shed a sparkling light, A letter too the crafty tyrant sends, 390 And fraudful thus the glorious aim commends.— “If Persia’s spoils invite thee to the field, Accept the aid my conquering legions yield; Led by two Chiefs of valour and renown, Upon thy head to place the kingly crown.” 395 Elate with promised fame, the youth surveys The regal vest, the throne’s irradiant blaze, The golden crown, the steeds, the sumptuous load Of ten strong camels, craftily bestowed; Salutes the Chiefs, and views on every side, 400 The lengthening ranks with various arms supplied. The march begins—the brazen drums resound, His moving thousands hide the trembling ground; For Persia’s verdant land he wields the spear, And blood and havoc mark his groaning rear. 405
To check the Invader’s horror-spreading course, The barrier-fort opposed unequal force; That fort whose walls, extending wide, contained The stay of Persia, men to battle trained. Soon as Hujír the dusky crowd descried, 410 He on his own presumptuous arm relied, And left the fort; in mail with shield and spear, Vaunting he spoke—“What hostile force is here? What Chieftain dares our war-like realms invade?” “And who art thou?” Sohráb indignant said, 415 Rushing towards him with undaunted look— “Hast thou, audacious! nerve and soul to brook The crocodile in fight, that to the strife Singly thou comest, reckless of thy life?” To this the foe replied—“A Turk and I 420 Have never yet been bound in friendly tie; And soon thy head shall, severed by my sword, Gladden the sight of Persia’s mighty lord, While thy torn limbs to vultures shall be given, Or bleach beneath the parching blast of heaven.” 425 The youthful hero laughing hears the boast, And now by each continual spears are tost, Mingling together; like a flood of fire The boaster meets his adversary’s ire; The horse on which he rides, with thundering pace, 430 Seems like a mountain moving from its base; Sternly he seeks the stripling’s loins to wound, But the lance hurtless drops upon the ground; Sohráb, advancing, hurls his steady spear Full on the middle of the vain Hujír, 435 Who staggers in his seat. With proud disdain The youth now flings him headlong on the plain, And quick dismounting, on his heaving breast Triumphant stands, his Khunjer firmly prest, To strike the head off—but the blow was stayed—Trembling, 440 for life, the craven boaster prayed.
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That mercy granted eased his coward mind, Though, dire disgrace, in captive bonds confined, And sent to Húmán, who amazed beheld How soon Sohráb his daring soul had quelled. 445 When Gúrd-afríd, a peerless warrior-dame, Heard of the conflict, and the hero’s shame, Groans heaved her breast, and tears of anger flowed, Her tulip cheek with deeper crimson glowed; Speedful, in arms magnificent arrayed, 450 A foaming palfrey bore the martial maid; The burnished mail her tender limbs embraced, Beneath her helm her clustering locks she placed; Poised in her hand an iron javelin gleamed, And o’er the ground its sparkling lustre streamed; 455 Accoutred thus in manly guise, no eye However piercing could her sex descry; Now, like a lion, from the fort she bends, And ‘midst the foe impetuously descends; Fearless of soul, demands with haughty tone, 460 The bravest chief, for war-like valour known, To try the chance of fight. In shining arms, Again Sohráb the glow of battle warms; With scornful smiles, “Another deer!” he cries, “Come to my victor-toils, another prize!” 465 The damsel saw his noose insidious spread, And soon her arrows whizzed around his head; With steady skill the twanging bow she drew, And still her pointed darts unerring flew; For when in forest sports she touched the string, 470 Never escaped even bird upon the wing; Furious he burned, and high his buckler held, To ward the storm, by growing force impell’d; And tilted forward with augmented wrath, But Gúrd-áfríd aspires to cross his path; 475 Now o’er her back the slacken’d bow resounds; She grasps her lance, her goaded courser bounds, Driven on the youth with persevering might— Unconquer’d courage still prolongs the fight; The stripling Chief shields off the threaten’d blow, 480 Reins in his steed, then rushes on the foe; With outstretch’d arm, he bending backwards hung, And, gathering strength, his pointed javelin flung; Firm through her girdle belt the weapon went, And glancing down the polish’d armour rent. 485 Staggering, and stunned by his superior force, She almost tumbled from her foaming horse, Yet unsubdued, she cut the spear in two, And from her side the quivering fragment drew, Then gain’d her seat, and onward urged her steed, 490 But strong and fleet Sohráb arrests her speed: Strikes off her helm, and sees—a woman’s face, Radiant with blushes and commanding grace! Thus undeceived, in admiration lost, He cries, “A woman, from the Persian host! 495 If Persian damsels thus in arms engage, Who shall repel their warrior’s fiercer rage?”
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Then from his saddle thong—his noose he drew, And round her waist the twisted loop he threw— “Now seek not to escape,” he sharply said, 500 “Such is the fate of war, unthinking maid! And, as such beauty seldom swells our pride, Vain thy attempt to cast my toils aside.”
In this extreme, but one resource remained, Only one remedy her hope sustained— 505 Expert in wiles each siren-art she knew, And thence exposed her blooming face to view; Raising her full black orbs, serenely bright, In all her charms she blazed before his sight; And thus addressed Sohráb—“O warrior brave, 510 Hear me, and thy imperilled honour save, These curling tresses seen by either host, A woman conquered, whence the glorious boast? Thy startled troops will know, with inward grief, A woman’s arm resists their towering chief, 515 Better preserve a warrior’s fair renown, And let our struggle still remain unknown, For who with wanton folly would expose A helpless maid, to aggravate her woes; The fort, the treasure, shall thy toils repay, 520 The chief, and garrison, thy will obey, And thine the honours of this dreadful day.”
Raptured he gazed, her smiles resistless move The wildest transports of ungoverned love. Her face disclosed a paradise to view, 525 Eyes like the fawn, and cheeks of rosy hue— Thus vanquished, lost, unconscious of her aim, And only struggling with his amorous flame, He rode behind, as if compelled by fate, And heedless saw her gain the castle-gate. 530
Safe with her friends, escaped from brand and spear, Smiling she stands, as if unknown to fear. —The father now, with tearful pleasure wild, Clasps to his heart his fondly-foster’d child; The crowding warriors round her eager bend, 535 And grateful prayers to favouring heaven ascend.
Now from the walls, she, with majestic air, Exclaims: “Thou warrior of Túrán! forbear, Why vex thy soul, and useless strife demand! Go, and in peace enjoy thy native land.” 540 Stern he rejoins: “Thou beauteous tyrant! say, Though crown’d with charms, devoted to betray, When these proud walls, in dust and ruins laid, Yield no defence, and thou a captive maid, Will not repentance through thy bosom dart, 545 And sorrow soften that disdainful heart?”
Quick she replied: “O’er Persia’s fertile fields The savage Turk in vain his falchion wields; When King Káús this bold invasion hears,
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And mighty Rustem clad in arms appears! 550 Destruction wide will glut the slippery plain, And not one man of all thy host remain. Alas! that bravery, high as thine, should meet Amidst such promise, with a sure defeat, But not a gleam of hope remains for thee, 555 Thy wondrous valour cannot keep thee free. Avert the fate which o’er thy head impends, Return, return, and save thy martial friends!”
Thus to be scorned, defrauded of his prey, With victory in his grasp—to lose the day! 560 Shame and revenge alternate filled his mind; The suburb-town to pillage he consigned, And devastation—not a dwelling spared; The very owl was from her covert scared; Then thus: “Though luckless in my aim to-day, 565 To-morrow shall behold a sterner fray; This fort, in ashes, scattered o’er the plain.” He ceased—and turned towards his troops again; There, at a distance from the hostile power, He brooding waits the slaughter-breathing hour. 570
Meanwhile the sire of Gúrd-afríd, who now Governed the fort, and feared the warrior’s vow; Mournful and pale, with gathering woes opprest, His distant Monarch trembling thus addrest. But first invoked the heavenly power to shed 575 Its choicest blessings o’er his royal head. “Against our realm with numerous foot and horse, A stripling warrior holds his ruthless course. His lion-breast unequalled strength betrays, And o’er his mien the sun’s effulgence plays: 580 Sohráb his name; like Sám Suwár he shows, Or Rustem terrible amidst his foes. The bold Hujír lies vanquished on the plain, And drags a captive’s ignominious chain; Myriads of troops besiege our tottering wall, 585 And vain the effort to suspend its fall. Haste, arm for fight, this Tartar-power withstand, Let sweeping Vengeance lift her flickering brand; Rustem alone may stem the roaring wave, And, prompt as bold, his groaning country save. 590 Meanwhile in flight we place our only trust, Ere the proud ramparts crumble in the dust.”
Swift flies the messenger through secret ways, And to the King the dreadful tale conveys, Then passed, unseen, in night’s concealing shade, 595 The mournful heroes and the warrior maid.
Soon as the sun with vivifying ray, Gleams o’er the landscape, and renews the day; The flaming troops the lofty walls surround, With thundering crash the bursting gates resound. 600 Already are the captives bound, in thought, And like a herd before the conqueror brought;
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Sohráb, terrific o’er the ruin, views His hopes deceived, but restless still pursues. An empty fortress mocks his searching eye, 605 No steel-clad chiefs his burning wrath defy; No warrior-maid reviving passion warms, And soothes his soul with fondly-valued charms. Deep in his breast he feels the amorous smart, And hugs her image closer to his heart. 610 “Alas! that Fate should thus invidious shroud The moon’s soft radiance in a gloomy cloud; Should to my eyes such winning grace display, Then snatch the enchanter of my soul away! A beauteous roe my toils enclosed in vain, 615 Now I, her victim, drag the captive’s chain; Strange the effects that from her charms proceed, I gave the wound, and I afflicted bleed! Vanquished by her, I mourn the luckless strife; Dark, dark, and bitter, frowns my morn of life. 620 A fair unknown my tortured bosom rends, Withers each joy, and every hope suspends.”
Impassioned thus Sohráb in secret sighed, And sought, in vain, o’er-mastering grief to hide. Can the heart bleed and throb from day to day, 625 And yet no trace its inmost pangs betray? Love scorns control, and prompts the labouring sigh, Pales the red lip, and dims the lucid eye; His look alarmed the stern Túránian Chief, Closely he mark’d his heart-corroding grief;— 630 And though he knew not that the martial dame, Had in his bosom lit the tender flame; Full well he knew such deep repinings prove, The hapless thraldom of disastrous love. Full well he knew some idol’s musky hair, 635 Had to his youthful heart become a snare, But still unnoted was the gushing tear, Till haply he had gained his private ear:— “In ancient times, no hero known to fame, Not dead to glory e’er indulged the flame; 640 Though beauty’s smiles might charm a fleeting hour, The heart, unsway’d, repelled their lasting power. A warrior Chief to trembling love a prey? What! weep for woman one inglorious day? Canst thou for love’s effeminate control, 645 Barter the glory of a warrior’s soul? Although a hundred damsels might be gained, The hero’s heart shall still be free, unchained. Thou art our leader, and thy place the field Where soldiers love to fight with spear and shield; 650 And what hast thou to do with tears and smiles, The silly victim to a woman’s wiles? Our progress, mark! from far Túrán we came, Through seas of blood to gain immortal fame; And wilt thou now the tempting conquest shun, 655 When our brave arms this Barrier-fort have won? Why linger here, and trickling sorrows shed, Till mighty Káús thunders o’er thy head!
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Till Tús, and Gíw, and Gúdarz, and Báhrám, And Rustem brave, Ferámurz, and Rehám, 660 Shall aid the war! A great emprise is thine, At once, then, every other thought resign; For know the task which first inspired thy zeal, Transcends in glory all that love can feel. Rise, lead the war, prodigious toils require 665 Unyielding strength, and unextinguished fire; Pursue the triumph with tempestuous rage, Against the world in glorious strife engage, And when an empire sinks beneath thy sway (O quickly may we hail the prosperous day), 670 The fickle sex will then with blooming charms, Adoring throng to bless thy circling arms!”
Húmán’s warm speech, the spirit-stirring theme, Awoke Sohráb from his inglorious dream. No more the tear his faded cheek bedewed, 675 Again ambition all his hopes renewed: Swell’d his bold heart with unforgotten zeal, The noble wrath which heroes only feel; Fiercely he vowed at one tremendous stroke, To bow the world beneath the tyrant’s yoke! 680 “Afrásiyáb,” he cried, “shall reign alone, The mighty lord of Persia’s gorgeous throne!”
Burning, himself, to rule this nether sphere, These welcome tidings charmed the despot’s ear. Meantime Káús, this dire invasion known, 685 Had called his chiefs around his ivory throne: There stood Gurgín, and Báhrám, and Gushwád, And Tús, and Gíw, and Gúdárz, and Ferhád; To them he read the melancholy tale, Gust’hem had written of the rising bale; 690 Besought their aid and prudent choice, to form Some sure defence against the threatening storm. With one consent they urge the strong request, To summon Rustem from his rural rest.— Instant a warrior-delegate they send, 695 And thus the King invites his patriot-friend,
“To thee all praise, whose mighty arm alone, Preserves the glory of the Persian throne! Lo! Tartar hordes our happy realms invade; The tottering state requires thy powerful aid; 700 A youthful Champion leads the ruthless host, His savage country’s widely-rumoured boast. The Barrier-fortress sinks beneath his sway, Hujír is vanquished, ruin tracks his way; Strong as a raging elephant in fight, 705 No arm but thine can match his furious might. Mázinderán thy conquering prowess knew; The Demon-king thy trenchant falchion slew, The rolling heavens, abash’d with fear, behold Thy biting sword, thy mace adorned with gold! 710 Fly to the succour of a King distress’d, Proud of thy love, with thy protection blest.
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When o’er the nation dread misfortunes lower, Thou art the refuge, thou the saving power. The chiefs assembled claim thy patriot vows, 715 Give to thy glory all that life allows; And while no whisper breathes the direful tale, O, let thy Monarch’s anxious prayers prevail.”
Closing the fragrant page o’ercome with dread, The afflicted King to Gíw, the warrior, said:— 720 “Go, bind the saddle on thy fleetest horse, Outstrip the tempest in thy rapid course, To Rustem swift his country’s woes convey, Too true art thou to linger on the way; Speed, day and night—and not one instant wait, 725 Whatever hour may bring thee to his gate.”
Followed no pause—to Gíw enough was said, Nor rest, nor taste of food, his speed delayed. And when arrived, where Zábul’s bowers exhale Ambrosial sweets and scent the balmy gale, 730 The sentinel’s loud voice in Rustem’s ear, Announced a messenger from Persia, near; The Chief himself amidst his warriors stood, Dispensing honours to the brave and good, And soon as Gíw had joined the martial ring, 735 (The sacred envoy of the Persian King), He, with becoming loyalty inspired, Asked what the monarch, what the state required; But Gíw, apart, his secret mission told— The written page was speedily unrolled. 740
Struck with amazement, Rustem—“Now on earth A warrior-knight of Sám’s excelling worth? Whence comes this hero of the prosperous star? I know no Turk renowned, like him, in war; He bears the port of Rustem too, ‘tis said, 745 Like Sám, like Narímán, a warrior bred! He cannot be my son, unknown to me; Reason forbids the thought—it cannot be! At Samengán, where once affection smiled, To me Tahmíneh bore her only child, 750 That was a daughter?” Pondering thus he spoke, And then aloud—“Why fear the invader’s yoke? Why trembling shrink, by coward thoughts dismayed, Must we not all in dust, at length, be laid? But come, to Nírum’s palace, haste with me, 755 And there partake the feast—from sorrow free; Breathe, but awhile—ere we our toils renew, And moisten the parched lip with needful dew. Let plans of war another day decide, We soon shall quell this youthful hero’s pride. 760 The force of fire soon flutters and decays When ocean, swelled by storms, its wrath displays. What danger threatens! whence the dastard fear! Rest, and at leisure share a warrior’s cheer.”
In vain the Envoy prest the Monarch’s grief; 765
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The matchless prowess of the stripling chief; How brave Hujír had felt his furious hand; What thickening woes beset the shuddering land. But Rustem, still, delayed the parting day, And mirth and feasting rolled the hours away; 770 Morn following morn beheld the banquet bright, Music and wine prolonged the genial rite; Rapt by the witchery of the melting strain, No thought of Káús touch’d his swimming brain.
The trumpet’s clang, on fragrant breezes borne, 775 Now loud salutes the fifth revolving morn; The softer tones which charm’d the jocund feast, And all the noise of revelry, had ceased, The generous horse, with rich embroidery deckt, Whose gilded trappings sparkling light reflect, 780 Bears with majestic port the Champion brave, And high in air the victor-banners wave. Prompt at the martial call, Zúára leads His veteran troops from Zábul’s verdant meads.
Ere Rustem had approached his journey’s end, 785 Tús, Gúdarz, Gushwád, met their champion-friend With customary honours; pleased to bring The shield of Persia to the anxious King. But foaming wrath the senseless monarch swayed; His friendship scorned, his mandate disobeyed, 790 Beneath dark brows o’er-shadowing deep, his eye Red gleaming shone, like lightning through the sky And when the warriors met his sullen view, Frowning revenge, still more enraged he grew:— Loud to the Envoy thus he fiercely cried:— 795 “Since Rustem has my royal power defied, Had I a sword, this instant should his head Roll on the ground; but let him now be led Hence, and impaled alive.” Astounded Gíw Shrunk from such treatment of a knight so true; 800 But this resistance added to the flame, And both were branded with revolt and shame; Both were condemned, and Tús, the stern decree Received, to break them on the felon-tree. Could daring insult, thus deliberate given, 805 Escape the rage of one to frenzy driven? No, from his side the nerveless Chief was flung, Bent to the ground. Away the Champion sprung; Mounted his foaming horse, and looking round— His boiling wrath thus rapid utterance found:— 810 “Ungrateful King, thy tyrant acts disgrace The sacred throne, and more, the human race; Midst clashing swords thy recreant life I saved, And am I now by Tús contemptuous braved? On me shall Tús, shall Káús dare to frown? 815 On me, the bulwark of the regal crown? Wherefore should fear in Rustem’s breast have birth, Káús, to me, a worthless clod of earth! Go, and thyself Sohráb’s invasion stay, Go, seize the plunderers growling o’er their prey! 820
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Wherefore to others give the base command? Go, break him on the tree with thine own hand. Know, thou hast roused a warrior, great and free, Who never bends to tyrant Kings like thee! Was not this untired arm triumphant seen, 825 In Misser, Rúm, Mázinderán, and Chín! And must I shrink at thy imperious nod! Slave to no Prince, I only bow to God. Whatever wrath from thee, proud King! may fall, For thee I fought, and I deserve it all. 830 The regal sceptre might have graced my hand, I kept the laws, and scorned supreme command. When Kai-kobád and Alberz mountain strayed, I drew him thence, and gave a warrior’s aid; Placed on his brows the long-contested crown, 835 Worn by his sires, by sacred right his own; Strong in the cause, my conquering arms prevailed, Wouldst thou have reign’d had Rustem’s valour failed When the White Demon raged in battle-fray, Wouldst thou have lived had Rustem lost the day?” 840 Then to his friends: “Be wise, and shun your fate, Fly the wide ruin which o’erwhelms the state; The conqueror comes—the scourge of great and small, And vultures, following fast, will gorge on all. Persia no more its injured Chief shall view”— 845 He said, and sternly from the court withdrew.
The warriors now, with sad forebodings wrung, Torn from that hope to which they proudly clung, On Gúdarz rest, to soothe with gentle sway, The frantic King, and Rustem’s wrath allay. 850 With bitter grief they wail misfortune’s shock, No shepherd now to guard the timorous flock. Gúdarz at length, with boding cares imprest, Thus soothed the anger in the royal breast. “Say, what has Rustem done, that he should be 855 Impaled upon the ignominious tree? Degrading thought, unworthy to be bred Within a royal heart, a royal head. Hast thou forgot when near the Caspian-wave, Defeat and ruin had appalled the brave, 860 When mighty Rustem struck the dreadful blow, And nobly freed thee from the savage foe? Did Demons huge escape his flaming brand? Their reeking limbs bestrew’d the slippery strand. Shall he for this resign his vital breath? 865 What! shall the hero’s recompense be death? But who will dare a threatening step advance, What earthly power can bear his withering glance? Should he to Zábul fired with wrongs return, The plunder’d land will long in sorrow mourn! 870 This direful presage all our warriors feel, For who can now oppose the invader’s steel; Thus is it wise thy champion to offend, To urge to this extreme thy warrior-friend? Remember, passion ever scorns control, 875 And wisdom’s mild decrees should rule a Monarch’s soul.”
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Káús, relenting, heard with anxious ear, And groundless wrath gave place to shame and fear; “Go then,” he cried, “his generous aid implore, And to your King the mighty Chief restore!” 880
When Gúdarz rose, and seized his courser’s rein, A crowd of heroes followed in his train. To Rustem, now (respectful homage paid), The royal prayer he anxious thus conveyed. “The King, repentant, seeks thy aid again, 885 Grieved to the heart that he has given thee pain; But though his anger was unjust and strong, Thy country still is guiltless of the wrong, And, therefore, why abandoned thus by thee? Thy help the King himself implores through me.” 890 Rustem rejoined: “Unworthy the pretence, And scorn and insult all my recompense? Must I be galled by his capricious mood? I, who have still his firmest champion stood? But all is past, to heaven alone resigned, 895 No human cares shall more disturb my mind!” Then Gúdarz thus (consummate art inspired His prudent tongue, with all that zeal required); “When Rustem dreads Sohráb’s resistless power, Well may inferiors fly the trying hour! 900 The dire suspicion now pervades us all, Thus, unavenged, shall beauteous Persia fall! Yet, generous still, avert the lasting shame, O, still preserve thy country’s glorious fame! Or wilt thou, deaf to all our fears excite, 905 Forsake thy friends, and shun the pending fight? And worse, O grief ! in thy declining days, Forfeit the honours of thy country’s praise?” This artful censure set his soul on fire, But patriot firmness calm’d his burning ire; 910 And thus he said—“Inured to war’s alarms, Did ever Rustem shun the din of arms? Though frowns from Káús I disdain to bear, My threatened country claims a warrior’s care.” He ceased, and prudent joined the circling throng, 915 And in the public good forgot the private wrong.
From far the King the generous Champion viewed, And rising, mildly thus his speech pursued:— “Since various tempers govern all mankind, Me, nature fashioned of a froward mind; 920 And what the heavens spontaneously bestow, Sown by their bounty must for ever grow. The fit of wrath which burst within me, soon Shrunk up my heart as thin as the new moon; Else had I deemed thee still my army’s boast, 925 Source of my regal power, beloved the most, Unequalled. Every day, remembering thee, I drain the wine cup, thou art all to me; I wished thee to perform that lofty part, Claimed by thy valour, sanctioned by my heart; 930 Hence thy delay my better thoughts supprest,
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And boisterous passions revelled in my breast; But when I saw thee from my Court retire In wrath, repentance quenched my burning ire. O, let me now my keen contrition prove, 935 Again enjoy thy fellowship and love: And while to thee my gratitude is known, Still be the pride and glory of my throne.”
Rustem, thus answering said:—“Thou art the King, Source of command, pure honour’s sacred spring; 940 And here I stand to follow thy behest, Obedient ever—be thy will expressed, And services required—Old age shall see My loins still bound in fealty to thee.”
To this the King:—“Rejoice we then to-day, 945 And on the morrow marshal our array.” The monarch quick commands the feast of joy, And social cares his buoyant mind employ, Within a bower, beside a crystal spring, Where opening flowers, refreshing odours fling, 950 Cheerful he sits, and forms the banquet scene, In regal splendour on the crowded green; And as around he greets his valiant bands, Showers golden presents from his bounteous hands; Voluptuous damsels trill the sportive lay, 955 Whose sparkling glances beam celestial day; Fill’d with delight the heroes closer join, And quaff till midnight cups of generous wine.
Soon as the Sun had pierced the veil of night, And o’er the prospect shed his earliest light, 960 Káús, impatient, bids the clarions sound, The sprightly notes from hills and rocks rebound; His treasure gates are opened:—and to all A largess given; obedient to the call, His subjects gathering crowd the mountain’s brow, 965 And following thousands shade the vales below; With shields, in armor, numerous legions bend; And troops of horse the threatening lines extend. Beneath the tread of heroes fierce and strong, By war’s tumultuous fury borne along, 970 The firm earth shook: the dust, in eddies driven, Whirled high in air, obscured the face of heaven; Nor earth, nor sky appeared—all, seeming lost, And swallowed up by that wide-spreading host. The steely armour glitter’d o’er the fields, 975 And lightnings flash’d from gold emblazoned shields; Thou wouldst have said, the clouds had burst in showers, Of sparkling amber o’er the martial powers. Thus, close embodied, they pursued their way, And reached the Barrier-fort in terrible array. 980
The legions of Túrán, with dread surprise, Saw o’er the plain successive myriads rise; And showed them to Sohráb; he, mounting high The fort, surveyed them with a fearless eye;
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To Húmán, who, with withering terror pale, 985 Had marked their progress through the distant vale, He pointed out the sight, and ardent said:— “Dispel these woe-fraught broodings from thy head, I wage the war, Afrásiyáb! for thee, And make this desert seem a rolling sea.” 990 Thus, while amazement every bosom quell’d, Sohráb, unmoved, the coming storm beheld, And boldly gazing on the camp around, Raised high the cup with wine nectareous crowned: O’er him no dreams of woe insidious stole, 995 No thought but joy engaged his ardent soul.
The Persian legions had restrained their course, Tents and pavilions, countless foot and horse, Clothed all the spacious plain, and gleaming threw Terrific splendours on the gazer’s view. 1000 But when the Sun had faded in the west, And night assumed her ebon-coloured vest, The mighty Chief approached the sacred throne, And generous thus made danger all his own: “The rules of war demand a previous task, 1005 To watch this dreadful foe I boldly ask; With wary step the wondrous youth to view, And mark the heroes who his path pursue.” The King assents: “The task is justly thine, Favourite of heaven, inspired by power divine.” 1010 In Turkish habit, secretly arrayed, The lurking Champion wandered through the shade And, cautious, standing near the palace gate, Saw how the chiefs were ranged in princely state.
What time Sohráb his thoughts to battle turned, 1015 And for the first proud fruits of conquest burned, His mother called a warrior to his aid, And Zinda-ruzm his sister’s call obeyed. To him Tahmineh gave her only joy, And bade him shield the bold adventurous boy: 1020 “But, in the dreadful strife, should danger rise, Present my child before his father’s eyes! By him protected, war may rage in vain, Though he may never bless these arms again!” This guardian prince sat on the stripling’s right, 1025 Viewing the imperial banquet with delight. Húmán and Bármán, near the hero placed, In joyous pomp the full assembly graced; A hundred valiant Chiefs begirt the throne, And, all elate, were chaunting his renown. 1030 Closely concealed, the gay and splendid scene, Rustem contemplates with astonished mien; When Zind, retiring, marks the listener nigh, Watching the festal train with curious eye; And well he knew, amongst his Tartar host, 1035 Such towering stature not a Chief could boast— “What spy is here, close shrouded by the night? Art thou afraid to face the beams of light?” But scarcely from his lips these words had past,
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Ere, fell’d to earth, he groaning breathed his last; 1040 Unseen he perish’d, fate decreed the blow, To add fresh keenness to a parent’s woe.
Meantime Sohráb, perceiving the delay In Zind’s return, looked round him with dismay; The seat still vacant—but the bitter truth, 1045 Full soon was known to the distracted youth; Full soon he found that Zinda-ruzm was gone, His day of feasting and of glory done; Speedful towards the fatal spot he ran, Where slept in bloody vest the slaughtered man. 1050
The lighted torches now displayed the dead, Stiff on the ground his graceful limbs were spread; Sad sight to him who knew his guardian care, Now doom’d a kinsman’s early loss to bear; Anguish and rage devour his breast by turns, 1055 He vows revenge, then o’er the warrior mourns: And thus exclaims to each afflicted Chief:— “No time, to-night, my friends, for useless grief; The ravenous wolf has watched his helpless prey, Sprung o’er the fold, and borne its flower away; 1060 But if the heavens my lifted arm befriend, Upon the guilty shall my wrath descend— Unsheathed, this sword shall dire revenge pursue, And Persian blood the thirsty land bedew.” Frowning he paused, and check’d the spreading woe, 1065 Resumed the feast, and bid the wine-cup flow!
The valiant Gíw was sentinel that night, And marking dimly by the dubious light, A warrior form approach, he claps his hands, With naked sword and lifted shield he stands, 1070 To front the foe; but Rustem now appears, And Gíw the secret tale astonished hears; From thence the Champion on the Monarch waits. The power and splendour of Sohráb relates: “Circled by Chiefs this glorious youth was seen, 1075 Of lofty stature and majestic mien; No Tartar region gave the hero birth: Some happier portion of the spacious earth; Tall, as the graceful cypress he appears; Like Sám, the brave, his warrior-front he rears!” 1080 Then having told how, while the banquet shone, Unhappy Zind had sunk, without a groan; He forms his conquering bands in close array, And, cheer’d by wine, awaits the coming day.
When now the Sun his golden buckler raised, 1085 And genial light through heaven diffusive blazed, Sohráb in mail his nervous limbs attired, For dreadful wrath his soul to vengeance fired; With anxious haste he bent the yielding cord, Ring within ring, more fateful than the sword; 1090 Around his brows a regal helm he bound; His dappled steed impatient stampt the ground.
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Thus armed, ascending where the eye could trace The hostile force, and mark each leader’s place, He called Hujír, the captive Chief addressed, 1095 And anxious thus, his soul’s desire expressed: “A prisoner thou, if freedom’s voice can charm, And dungeon darkness fill thee with alarm, That freedom merit, shun severest woe, And truly answer what I ask to know! 1100 If rigid truth thy ready speech attend, Honours and wealth shall dignify my friend.”
“Obedient to thy wish,” Hujír replied, “Truth thou shalt hear, whatever chance betide; For what on earth to praise has better claim? 1105 Falsehood but leads to sorrow and to shame!”
“Then say, what heroes lead the adverse host, Where they command, what dignities they boast; Say, where does Káús hold his kingly state, Where Tús, and Gúdarz, on his bidding wait; 1110 Gíw, Gust’hem, and Báhrám—all known to thee, And where is mighty Rustem, where is he? Look round with care, their names and power display Or instant death shall end thy vital day.”
“Where yonder splendid tapestries extend, 1115 And o’er pavilions bright infolding bend, A throne triumphal shines with sapphire rays, And golden suns upon the banners blaze; Full in the centre of the hosts—and round The tent a hundred elephants are bound, 1120 As if, in pomp, he mocked the power of fate; There royal Káús holds his kingly state.
“In yonder tent which numerous guards protect, Where front and rear illustrious Chiefs collect; Where horsemen wheeling seem prepared for fight, 1125 Their golden armour glittering in the light; Tús lifts his banners, deck’d with royal pride, Feared by the brave, the soldier’s friend and guide.
“That crimson tent where spear-men frowning stand, And steel-clad veterans form a threatening band, 1130 Holds mighty Gúdarz, famed for martial fire, Of eighty valiant sons the valiant sire; Yet strong in arms, he shuns inglorious ease, His lion-banners floating in the breeze.
“But mark, that green pavilion; girt around 1135 By Persian nobles, speaks the Chief renowned; Fierce on the standard, worked with curious art, A hideous dragon writhing seems to start; Throned in his tent the warrior’s form is seen, Towering above the assembled host between! 1140 A generous horse before him snorts and neighs, The trembling earth the echoing sound conveys. Like him no Champion ever met my eyes,
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No horse like that for majesty and size; What Chief illustrious bears a port so high? 1145 Mark, how his standard flickers through the sky!”
Thus ardent spoke Sohráb. Hujír dismayed, Paused ere reply the dangerous truth betrayed. Trembling for Rustem’s life the captive groaned; Basely his country’s glorious boast disowned, 1150 And said the Chief from distant China came— Sohráb abrupt demands the hero’s name; The name unknown, grief wrings his aching heart, And yearning anguish speeds her venom’d dart; To him his mother gave the tokens true, 1155 He sees them all, and all but mock his view. When gloomy fate descends in evil hour, Can human wisdom bribe her favouring power? Yet, gathering hope, again with restless mien He marks the Chiefs who crowd the warlike scene. 1160
“Where numerous heroes, horse and foot, appear, And brazen trumpets thrill the listening ear, Behold the proud pavilion of the brave! With wolves emboss’d the silken banners wave. The throne’s bright gems with radiant lustre glow, 1165 Slaves rank’d around with duteous homage bow. What mighty Chieftain rules his cohorts there? His name and lineage, free from guile, declare!”
“Gíw, son of Gúdarz, long a glorious name, Whose prowess even transcends his father’s fame.” 1170
“Mark yonder tent of pure and dazzling white, Whose rich brocade reflects a quivering light; An ebon seat surmounts the ivory throne; There frowns in state a warrior of renown. The crowding slaves his awful nod obey, 1175 And silver moons around his banners play; What Chief, or Prince, has grasped the hostile sword? Fríburz, the son of Persia’s mighty lord.” Again: “These standards show one champion more, Upon their centre flames the savage boar; 1180 The saffron-hued pavilion bright ascends, Whence many a fold of tasselled fringe depends; Who there presides?”
“Guráz, from heroes sprung, Whose praise exceeds the power of mortal tongue.” 1185
Thus, anxious, he explored the crowded field, Nor once the secret of his birth revealed; Heaven will’d it so. Pressed down by silent grief, Surrounding objects promised no relief. This world to mortals still denies repose, 1190 And life is still the scene of many woes. Again his eye, instinctive turned, descried The green pavilion, and the warrior’s pride. Again he cries: “O tell his glorious name;
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Yon gallant horse declares the hero’s fame!” 1195 But false Hujír the aspiring hope repelled, Crushed the fond wish, the soothing balm withheld, “And why should I conceal his name from thee? His name and title are unknown to me.”
Then thus Sohráb—“In all that thou hast said, 1200 No sign of Rustem have thy words conveyed; Thou sayest he leads the Persian host to arms, With him has battle lost its boisterous charms? Of him no trace thy guiding hand has shown; Can power supreme remain unmark’d, unknown?” 1205
“Perhaps returned to Zábul’s verdant bowers, He undisturbed enjoys his peaceful hours, The vernal banquets may constrain his stay, And rural sports invite prolonged delay.”
“Ah! say not thus; the Champion of the world, 1210 Shrink from the kindling war with banners furled! It cannot be! Say where his lightnings dart, Show me the warrior, all thou know’st impart; Treasures uncounted shall be thy reward, Death changed to life, my friendship more than shared. 1215 Dost thou not know what, in the royal ear, The Múbid said—befitting Kings to hear? ‘Untold, a secret is a jewel bright, Yet profitless whilst hidden from the light; But when revealed, in words distinctly given, 1220 It shines refulgent as the sun through heaven.’”
To him, Hujír evasive thus replies: “Through all the extended earth his glory flies! Whenever dangers round the nation close, Rustem approaches, and repels its foes; 1225 And shouldst thou see him mix in mortal strife, Thou’dst think ‘twere easier to escape with life From tiger fell, or demon—or the fold Of the chafed dragon, than his dreadful hold— When fiercest battle clothes the fields with fire, 1230 Before his rage embodied hosts retire!”
“And where didst thou encountering armies see? Why Rustem’s praise so proudly urge to me? Let us but meet and thou shalt trembling know, How fierce that wrath which bids my bosom glow: 1235 If living flames express his boundless ire, O’erwhelming waters quench consuming fire! And deepest darkness, glooms of ten-fold night, Fly from the piercing beams of radiant light.”
Hujír shrunk back with undissembled dread, 1240 And thus communing with himself, he said— “Shall I, regardless of my country, guide To Rustem’s tent this furious homicide? And witness there destruction to our host? The bulwark of the land for ever lost! 1245
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What Chief can then the Tartar power restrain! Káús dethroned, the mighty Rustem slain! Better a thousand deaths should lay me low, Than, living, yield such triumph to the foe. For in this struggle should my blood be shed, 1250 No foul dishonour can pursue me, dead; No lasting shame my father’s age oppress, Whom eighty sons of martial courage bless! They for their brother slain, incensed will rise, And pour their vengeance on my enemies.” 1255 Then thus aloud—“Can idle words avail? Why still of Rustem urge the frequent tale? Why for the elephant-bodied hero ask? Thee, he will find—no uncongenial task. Why seek pretences to destroy my life? 1260 Strike, for no Rustem views th’ unequal strife!”
Sohráb confused, with hopeless anguish mourned, Back from the lofty walls he quick returned, And stood amazed.
Now war and vengeance claim, 1265 Collected thought and deeds of mighty name; The jointed mail his vigorous body clasps, His sinewy hand the shining javelin grasps; Like a mad elephant he meets the foe, His steed a moving mountain—deeply glow 1270 His cheeks with passionate ardour, as he flies Resistless onwards, and with sparkling eyes, Full on the centre drives his daring horse— The yielding Persians fly his furious course; As the wild ass impetuous springs away, 1275 When the fierce lion thunders on his prey. By every sign of strength and martial power, They think him Rustem in his direst hour; On Káús now his proud defiance falls, Scornful to him the stripling warrior calls: 1280 “And why art thou misnamed of royal strain? What work of thine befits the tented plain? This thirsty javelin seeks thy coward breast; Thou and thy thousands doomed to endless rest. True to my oath, which time can never change, 1285 On thee, proud King! I hurl my just revenge. The blood of Zind inspires my burning hate, And dire resentment hurries on thy fate; Whom canst thou send to try the desperate strife? What valiant Chief, regardless of his life? 1290 Where now can Fríburz, Tús, Gíw, Gúdarz, be, And the world-conquering Rustem, where is he?”
No prompt reply from Persian lip ensued— Then rushing on, with demon-strength endued, Sohráb elate his javelin waved around, 1295 And hurled the bright pavilion to the ground; With horror Káús feels destruction nigh, And cries: “For Rustem’s needful succour fly! This frantic Turk, triumphant on the plain,
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Withers the souls of all my warrior train.” 1300 That instant Tús the mighty Champion sought, And told the deeds the Tartar Chief had wrought; “‘Tis ever thus, the brainless Monarch’s due! Shame and disaster still his steps pursue!” This saying, from his tent he soon descried, 1305 The wild confusion spreading far and wide; And saddled Rakush—whilst, in deep dismay, Girgín incessant cried—“Speed, speed, away.” Rehám bound on the mace, Tús promptly ran, And buckled on the broad Burgustuwán. 1310 Rustem, meanwhile, the thickening tumult hears And in his heart, untouched by human fears, Says: “What is this, that feeling seems to stun! This battle must be led by Ahirmun, The awful day of doom must have begun.” 1315 In haste he arms, and mounts his bounding steed, The growing rage demands redoubled speed; The leopard’s skin he o’er his shoulders throws, The regal girdle round his middle glows. High wave his glorious banners; broad revealed, 1320 The pictured dragons glare along the field Borne by Zúára. When, surprised, he views Sohráb, endued with ample breast and thews, Like Sám Suwár, he beckons him apart; The youth advances with a gallant heart, 1325 Willing to prove his adversary’s might, By single combat to decide the fight; And eagerly, “Together brought,” he cries, “Remote from us be foemen, and allies, And though at once by either host surveyed, 1330 Ours be the strife which asks no mortal aid.”
Rustem, considerate, view’d him o’er and o’er, So wondrous graceful was the form he bore, And frankly said: “Experience flows with age, And many a foe has felt my conquering rage; 1335 Much have I seen, superior strength and art Have borne my spear thro’ many a demon’s heart; Only behold me on the battle plain, Wait till thou see’st this hand the war sustain, And if on thee should changeful fortune smile, 1340 Thou needst not fear the monster of the Nile! But soft compassion melts my soul to save, A youth so blooming with a mind so brave!”
The generous speech Sohráb attentive heard, His heart expanding glowed at every word: 1345 “One question answer, and in answering show, That truth should ever from a warrior flow; Art thou not Rustem, whose exploits sublime, Endear his name thro’ every distant clime?”
“I boast no station of exalted birth, 1350 No proud pretensions to distinguished worth; To him inferior, no such powers are mine, No offspring I of Nírum’s glorious line!”
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The prompt denial dampt his filial joy, All hope at once forsook the Warrior-boy, 1355 His opening day of pleasure, and the bloom Of cherished life, immersed in shadowy gloom. Perplexed with what his mother’s words implied;— A narrow space is now prepared, aside, For single combat. With disdainful glance 1360 Each boldly shakes his death-devoting lance, And rushes forward to the dubious fight; Thoughts high and brave their burning souls excite; Now sword to sword; continuous strokes resound, Till glittering fragments strew the dusty ground. 1365 Each grasps his massive club with added force, The folding mail is rent from either horse; It seemed as if the fearful day of doom Had, clothed in all its withering terrors, come. Their shattered corslets yield defence no more— 1370 At length they breathe, defiled with dust and gore; Their gasping throats with parching thirst are dry, Gloomy and fierce they roll the lowering eye, And frown defiance. Son and Father driven To mortal strife! are these the ways of Heaven? 1375 The various swarms which boundless ocean breeds, The countless tribes which crop the flowery meads, All know their kind, but hapless man alone Has no instinctive feeling for his own! Compell’d to pause, by every eye surveyed, 1380 Rustem, with shame, his wearied strength betrayed; Foil’d by a youth in battle’s mid career, His groaning spirit almost sunk with fear; Recovering strength, again they fiercely meet; Again they struggle with redoubled heat; 1385 With bended bows they furious now contend; And feather’d shafts in rattling showers descend; Thick as autumnal leaves they strew the plain, Harmless their points, and all their fury vain. And now they seize each other’s girdle-band; 1390 Rustem, who, if he moved his iron hand, Could shake a mountain, and to whom a rock Seemed soft as wax, tried, with one mighty stroke, To hurl him thundering from his fiery steed, But Fate forbids the gallant youth should bleed; 1395 Finding his wonted nerves relaxed, amazed That hand he drops which never had been raised Uncrowned with victory, even when demons fought, And pauses, wildered with despairing thought. Sohráb again springs with terrific grace, 1400 And lifts, from saddle-bow, his ponderous mace; With gather’d strength the quick-descending blow Wounds in its fall, and stuns the unwary foe; Then thus contemptuous: “All thy power is gone; Thy charger’s strength exhausted as thy own; 1405 Thy bleeding wounds with pity I behold; O seek no more the combat of the bold!”
Rustem to this reproach made no reply, But stood confused—meanwhile, tumultuously
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The legions closed; with soul-appalling force, 1410 Troop rushed on troop, o’erwhelming man and horse; Sohráb, incensed, the Persian host engaged, Furious along the scattered lines he raged; Fierce as a wolf he rode on every side, The thirsty earth with streaming gore was dyed. 1415 Midst the Túránians, then, the Champion sped, And like a tiger heaped the fields with dead. But when the Monarch’s danger struck his thought, Returning swift, the stripling youth he sought; Grieved to the soul, the mighty Champion view’d 1420 His hands and mail with Persian blood imbrued; And thus exclaimed with lion-voice—“O say, Why with the Persians dost thou war to-day? Why not with me alone decide the fight, Thou’rt like a wolf that seek’st the fold by night.” 1425
To this Sohráb his proud assent expressed— And Rustem, answering, thus the youth addressed. “Night-shadows now are thickening o’er the plain, The morrow’s sun must see our strife again; In wrestling let us then exert our might!” 1430 He said, and eve’s last glimmer sunk in night
Thus as the skies a deeper gloom displayed, The stripling’s life was hastening into shade!
The gallant heroes to their tents retired, The sweets of rest their wearied limbs required: 1435 Sohráb, delighted with his brave career, Describes the fight in Húmán’s anxious ear: Tells how he forced unnumbered Chiefs to yield, And stood himself the victor of the field! “But let the morrow’s dawn,” he cried, “arrive, 1440 And not one Persian shall the day survive; Meanwhile let wine its strengthening balm impart, And add new zeal to every drooping heart.” The valiant Gíw with Rustem pondering stood, And, sad, recalled the scene of death and blood; 1445 Grief and amazement heaved the frequent sigh, And almost froze the crimson current dry. Rustem, oppressed by Gíw’s desponding thought, Amidst his Chiefs the mournful Monarch sought; To him he told Sohráb’s tremendous sway, 1450 The dire misfortunes of this luckless day; Told with what grasping force he tried, in vain, To hurl the wondrous stripling to the plain: “The whispering zephyr might as well aspire To shake a mountain—such his strength and fire. 1455 But night came on—and, by agreement, we Must meet again to-morrow—who shall be Victorious, Heaven knows only:—for by Heaven, Victory or death to man is ever given.” This said, the King, o’erwhelmed in deep despair, 1460 Passed the dread night in agony and prayer.
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The Champion, silent, joined his bands at rest, And spurned at length despondence from his breast; Removed from all, he cheered Zúára’s heart, And nerved his soul to bear a trying part:— 1465 “Ere early morning gilds the ethereal plain, In martial order range my warrior-train; And when I meet in all his glorious pride, This valiant Turk whom late my rage defied, Should fortune’s smiles my arduous task requite, 1470 Bring them to share the triumph of my might; But should success the stripling’s arm attend, And dire defeat and death my glories end, To their loved homes my brave associates guide; Let bowery Zábul all their sorrows hide— 1475 Comfort my venerable father’s heart; In gentlest words my heavy fate impart. The dreadful tidings to my mother bear, And soothe her anguish with the tenderest care; Say, that the will of righteous Heaven decreed, 1480 That thus in arms her mighty son should bleed. Enough of fame my various toils acquired, When warring demons, bathed in blood, expired. Were life prolonged a thousand lingering years, Death comes at last and ends our mortal fears; 1485 Kirshásp, and Sám, and Narímán, the best And bravest heroes, who have ever blest This fleeting world, were not endued with power, To stay the march of fate one single hour; The world for them possessed no fixed abode, 1490 The path to death’s cold regions must be trod; Then, why lament the doom ordained for all? Thus Jemshíd fell, and thus must Rustem fall.”
When the bright dawn proclaimed the rising day, The warriors armed, impatient of delay; 1495 But first Sohráb, his proud confederate nigh, Thus wistful spoke, as swelled the boding sigh— “Now, mark my great antagonist in arms! His noble form my filial bosom warms; My mother’s tokens shine conspicuous here, 1500 And all the proofs my heart demands, appear; Sure this is Rustem, whom my eyes engage! Shall I, O grief ! provoke my Father’s rage? Offended Nature then would curse my name, And shuddering nations echo with my shame.” 1505 He ceased, then Húmán: “Vain, fantastic thought, Oft have I been where Persia’s Champion fought; And thou hast heard, what wonders he performed, When, in his prime, Mázinderán was stormed; That horse resembles Rustem’s, it is true, 1510 But not so strong, nor beautiful to view.”
Sohráb now buckles on his war attire, His heart all softness, and his brain all fire; Around his lips such smiles benignant played, He seemed to greet a friend, as thus he said:— 1515 “Here let us sit together on the plain,
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Here, social sit, and from the fight refrain; Ask we from heaven forgiveness of the past, And bind our souls in friendship that may last; Ours be the feast—let us be warm and free, 1520 For powerful instinct draws me still to thee; Fain would my heart in bland affection join, Then let thy generous ardour equal mine; And kindly say, with whom I now contend— What name distinguished boasts my warrior-friend! 1525 Thy name unfit for champion brave to hide, Thy name so long, long sought, and still denied; Say, art thou Rustem, whom I burn to know? Ingenuous say, and cease to be my foe!”
Sternly the mighty Champion cried, “Away— 1530 Hence with thy wiles—now practised to delay; The promised struggle, resolute, I claim, Then cease to move me to an act of shame.” Sohráb rejoined—“Old man! thou wilt not hear The words of prudence uttered in thine ear; 1535 Then, Heaven! look on.”
Preparing for the shock, Each binds his charger to a neighbouring rock; And girds his loins, and rubs his wrists, and tries Their suppleness and force, with angry eyes; 1540 And now they meet—now rise, and now descend, And strong and fierce their sinewy arms extend; Wrestling with all their strength they grasp and strain, And blood and sweat flow copious on the plain; Like raging elephants they furious close; 1545 Commutual wounds are given, and wrenching blows. Sohráb now clasps his hands, and forward springs Impatiently, and round the Champion clings; Seizes his girdle belt, with power to tear The very earth asunder; in despair 1560 Rustem, defeated, feels his nerves give way, And thundering falls. Sohráb bestrides his prey: Grim as the lion, prowling through the wood, Upon a wild ass springs, and pants for blood. His lifted sword had lopt the gory head, 1565 But Rustem, quick, with crafty ardour said:— “One moment, hold! what, are our laws unknown? A Chief may fight till he is twice o’erthrown; The second fall, his recreant blood is spilt, These are our laws, avoid the menaced guilt.” 1570
Proud of his strength, and easily deceived, The wondering youth the artful tale believed; Released his prey, and, wild as wind or wave, Neglecting all the prudence of the brave, Turned from the place, nor once the strife renewed, 1575 But bounded o’er the plain and other cares pursued, As if all memory of the war had died, All thoughts of him with whom his strength was tried.
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Húmán, confounded at the stripling’s stay, Went forth, and heard the fortune of the day; 1580 Amazed to find the mighty Rustem freed, With deepest grief he wailed the luckless deed. “What! loose a raging lion from the snare, And let him growling hasten to his lair? Bethink thee well; in war, from this unwise, 1585 This thoughtless act what countless woes may rise; Never again suspend the final blow, Nor trust the seeming weakness of a foe!” “Hence with complaint,” the dauntless youth replied, “To-morrow’s contest shall his fate decide.” 1590
When Rustem was released, in altered mood He sought the coolness of the murmuring flood; There quenched his thirst; and bathed his limbs, and prayed, Beseeching Heaven to yield its strengthening aid. His pious prayer indulgent Heaven approved, 1595 And growing strength through all his sinews moved; Such as erewhile his towering structure knew, When his bold arm unconquered demons slew. Yet in his mien no confidence appeared, No ardent hope his wounded spirits cheered. 1600
Again they met. A glow of youthful grace, Diffused its radiance o’er the stripling’s face, And when he saw in renovated guise, The foe so lately mastered; with surprise, He cried—“What! rescued from my power, again 1605 Dost thou confront me on the battle plain? Or, dost thou, wearied, draw thy vital breath, And seek, from warrior bold, the shaft of death? Truth has no charms for thee, old man; even now, Some further cheat may lurk upon thy brow; 1610 Twice have I shown thee mercy, twice thy age Hath been thy safety—twice it soothed my rage.” Then mild the Champion: “Youth is proud and vain! The idle boast a warrior would disdain; This aged arm perhaps may yet control, 1615 The wanton fury that inflames thy soul!”
Again, dismounting, each the other viewed With sullen glance, and swift the fight renewed; Clenched front to front, again they tug and bend, Twist their broad limbs as every nerve would rend; 1620 With rage convulsive Rustem grasps him round; Bends his strong back, and hurls him to the ground; Him, who had deemed the triumph all his own; But dubious of his power to keep him down, Like lightning quick he gives the deadly thrust, 1625 And spurns the Stripling weltering in the dust. —Thus as his blood that shining steel imbrues, Thine too shall flow, when Destiny pursues; For when she marks the victim of her power, A thousand daggers speed the dying hour. 1630 Writhing with pain Sohráb in murmurs sighed— And thus to Rustem—“Vaunt not, in thy pride;
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Upon myself this sorrow have I brought, Thou but the instrument of fate—which wrought My downfall; thou are guiltless—guiltless quite; 1635 O! had I seen my father in the fight, My glorious father! Life will soon be o’er, And his great deeds enchant my soul no more! Of him my mother gave the mark and sign, For him I sought, and what an end is mine! 1640 My only wish on earth, my constant sigh, Him to behold, and with that wish I die. But hope not to elude his piercing sight, In vain for thee the deepest glooms of night; Couldst thou through Ocean’s depths for refuge fly, 1645 Or midst the star-beams track the upper sky! Rustem, with vengeance armed, will reach thee there, His soul the prey of anguish and despair.”
An icy horror chills the Champion’s heart, His brain whirls round with agonizing smart; 1650 O’er his wan cheek no gushing sorrows flow, Senseless he sinks beneath the weight of woe; Relieved at length, with frenzied look, he cries: “Prove thou art mine, confirm my doubting eyes! For I am Rustem!” Piercing was the groan, 1655 Which burst from his torn heart—as wild and lone, He gazed upon him. Dire amazement shook The dying youth, and mournful thus he spoke: “If thou art Rustem, cruel is thy part, No warmth paternal seems to fill thy heart; 1660 Else hadst thou known me when, with strong desire, I fondly claimed thee for my valiant sire; Now from my body strip the shining mail, Untie these bands, ere life and feeling fail; And on my arm the direful proof behold! 1665 Thy sacred bracelet of refulgent gold! When the loud brazen drums were heard afar, And, echoing round, proclaimed the pending war, Whilst parting tears my mother’s eyes o’erflowed, This mystic gift her bursting heart bestowed: 1670 ‘Take this,’ she said, ‘thy father’s token wear, And promised glory will reward thy care.’ The hour is come, but fraught with bitterest woe, We meet in blood to wail the fatal blow.”
The loosened mail unfolds the bracelet bright, 1675 Unhappy gift! to Rustem’s wildered sight, Prostrate he falls—“By my unnatural hand, My son, my son is slain—and from the land Uprooted.”—Frantic, in the dust his hair He rends in agony and deep despair; 1680 The western sun had disappeared in gloom, And still, the Champion wept his cruel doom; His wondering legions marked the long delay, And, seeing Rakush riderless astray, The rumour quick to Persia’s Monarch spread, 1685 And there described the mighty Rustem dead. Káús, alarmed, the fatal tidings hears;
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His bosom quivers with increasing fears. “Speed, speed, and see what has befallen to-day To cause these groans and tears—what fatal fray! 1690 If he be lost, if breathless on the ground, And this young warrior, with the conquest crowned— Then must I, humbled, from my kingdom torn, Wander like Jemshíd, through the world forlorn.”
The army roused, rushed o’er the dusty plain, 1695 Urged by the Monarch to revenge the slain; Wild consternation saddened every face, Tús winged with horror sought the fatal place, And there beheld the agonizing sight— The murderous end of that unnatural fight. 1700 Sohráb, still breathing, hears the shrill alarms, His gentle speech suspends the clang of arms: “My light of life now fluttering sinks in shade, Let vengeance sleep, and peaceful vows be made. Beseech the King to spare this Tartar host, 1705 For they are guiltless, all to them is lost; I led them on, their souls with glory fired, While mad ambition all my thoughts inspired. In search of thee, the world before my eyes, War was my choice, and thou the sacred prize; 1710 With thee, my sire! in virtuous league combined, No tyrant King should persecute mankind. That hope is past—the storm has ceased to rave— My ripening honours wither in the grave; Then let no vengeance on my comrades fall, 1715 Mine was the guilt, and mine the sorrow, all; How often have I sought thee—oft my mind Figured thee to my sight—o’erjoyed to find My mother’s token; disappointment came, When thou denied thy lineage and thy name; 1720 Oh! still o’er thee my soul impassioned hung, Still to my father fond affection clung! But fate, remorseless, all my hopes withstood, And stained thy reeking hands in kindred blood.”
His faltering breath protracted speech denied: 1725 Still from his eye-lids flowed a gushing tide; Through Rustem’s soul redoubled horror ran, Heart-rending thoughts subdued the mighty man, And now, at last, with joy-illumined eye, The Zábul bands their glorious Chief descry; 1730 But when they saw his pale and haggard look, Knew from what mournful cause he gazed and shook, With downcast mien they moaned and wept aloud; While Rustem thus addressed the weeping crowd “Here ends the war! let gentle peace succeed, 1735 Enough of death, I—I have done the deed!” Then to his brother, groaning deep, he said— “O what a curse upon a parent’s head! But go—and to the Tartar say—no more, Let war between us steep the earth with gore.” 1740 Zúára flew and wildly spoke his grief, To crafty Húmán, the Túránian Chief,
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Who, with dissembled sorrow, heard him tell The dismal tidings which he knew too well; “And who,” he said, “has caused these tears to flow? 1745 Who, but Hujír? He might have stayed the blow, But when Sohráb his Father’s banners sought; He still denied that here the Champion fought; He spread the ruin, he the secret knew, Hence should his crime receive the vengeance due!” 1750 Zúára, frantic, breathed in Rustem’s ear, The treachery of the captive Chief, Hujír; Whose headless trunk had weltered on the strand, But prayers and force withheld the lifted hand. Then to his dying son the Champion turned, 1755 Remorse more deep within his bosom burned; A burst of frenzy fired his throbbing brain; He clenched his sword, but found his fury vain; The Persian Chiefs the desperate act represt, And tried to calm the tumult in his breast: 1760 Thus Gúdarz spoke—“Alas! wert thou to give Thyself a thousand wounds, and cease to live; What would it be to him thou sorrowest o’er? It would not save one pang—then weep no more; For if removed by death, O say, to whom 1765 Has ever been vouchsafed a different doom? All are the prey of death—the crowned, the low, And man, through life, the victim still of woe.” Then Rustem: “Fly! and to the King relate, The pressing horrors which involve my fate; 1770 And if the memory of my deeds e’er swayed His mind, O supplicate his generous aid; A sovereign balm he has whose wondrous power, All wounds can heal, and fleeting life restore; Swift from his tent the potent medicine bring.” 1775 —But mark the malice of the brainless King! Hard as the flinty rock, he stern denies The healthful draught, and gloomy thus replies: “Can I forgive his foul and slanderous tongue? The sharp disdain on me contemptuous flung? 1780 Scorned ‘midst my army by a shameless boy, Who sought my throne, my sceptre to destroy! Nothing but mischief from his heart can flow, Is it, then, wise to cherish such a foe? The fool who warms his enemy to life, 1785 Only prepares for scenes of future strife.”
Gúdarz, returning, told the hopeless tale— And thinking Rustem’s presence might prevail; The Champion rose, but ere he reached the throne, Sohráb had breathed the last expiring groan. 1790
Now keener anguish rack’d the father’s mind, Reft of his son, a murderer of his kind; His guilty sword distained with filial gore, He beat his burning breast, his hair he tore; The breathless corse before his shuddering view, 1795 A shower of ashes o’er his head he threw; “In my old age,” he cried, “what have I done?
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Why have I slain my son, my innocent son! Why o’er his splendid dawning did I roll The clouds of death—and plunge my burthened soul 1800 In agony? My son! from heroes sprung; Better these hands were from my body wrung; And solitude and darkness, deep and drear, Fold me from sight than hated linger here. But when his mother hears, with horror wild, 1805 That I have shed the life-blood of her child, So nobly brave, so dearly loved, in vain, How can her heart that rending shock sustain?”
Now on a bier the Persian warriors place The breathless Youth, and shade his pallid face; 1810 And turning from that fatal field away, Move towards the Champion’s home in long array. Then Rustem, sick of martial pomp and show, Himself the spring of all this scene of woe, Doomed to the flames the pageantry he loved, 1815 Shield, spear, and mace, so oft in battle proved; Now lost to all, encompassed by despair; His bright pavilion crackling blazed in air; The sparkling throne the ascending column fed; In smoking fragments fell the golden bed; 1820 The raging fire red glimmering died away, And all the Warrior’s pride in dust and ashes lay.
Káús, the King, now joins the mournful Chief, And tries to soothe his deep and settled grief; For soon or late we yield our vital breath, 1825 And all our worldly troubles end in death! “When first I saw him, graceful in his might, He looked far other than a Tartar knight; Wondering I gazed—now Destiny has thrown Him on thy sword—he fought, and he is gone; 1830 And should even Heaven against the earth be hurled, Or fire inwrap in crackling flames the world, That which is past—we never can restore, His soul has travelled to some happier shore. Alas! no good from sorrow canst thou reap, 1835 Then wherefore thus in gloom and misery weep?”
But Rustem’s mighty woes disdained his aid, His heart was drowned in grief, and thus he said: “Yes, he is gone! to me for ever lost! O then protect his brave unguided host; 1840 From war removed and this detested place, Let them, unharmed, their mountain-wilds retrace; Bid them secure my brother’s will obey, The careful guardian of their weary way, To where the Jihún’s distant waters stray.” 1845 To this the King: “My soul is sad to see Thy hopeless grief—but, since approved by thee, The war shall cease—though the Túránian brand Has spread dismay and terror through the land.”
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The King, appeased, no more with vengeance burned, 1850 The Tartar legions to their homes returned; The Persian warriors, gathering round the dead, Grovelled in dust, and tears of sorrow shed; Then back to loved Irán their steps the monarch led.
But Rustem, midst his native bands, remained, 1855 And further rites of sacrifice maintained; A thousand horses bled at his command, And the torn drums were scattered o’er the sand; And now through Zábul’s deep and bowery groves, In mournful pomp the sad procession moves. 1860 The mighty Chief on foot precedes the bier; His Warrior-friends, in grief assembled near: The dismal cadence rose upon the gale, And Zál astonished heard the piercing wail; He and his kindred joined the solemn train; 1865 Hung round the bier and wondering viewed the slain. “There gaze, and weep!” the sorrowing Father said, “For there, behold my glorious offspring dead!” The hoary Sire shrunk backward with surprise, And tears of blood o’erflowed his aged eyes; 1870 And now the Champion’s rural palace gate Receives the funeral group in gloomy state; Rúdábeh loud bemoaned the Stripling’s doom; Sweet flower, all drooping in the hour of bloom, His tender youth in distant bowers had past, 1875 Sheltered at home he felt no withering blast; In the soft prison of his mother’s arms, Secure from danger and the world’s alarms. O ruthless Fortune! flushed with generous pride, He sought his sire, and thus unhappy, died. 1880
Rustem again the sacred bier unclosed; Again Sohráb to public view exposed; Husbands, and wives, and warriors, old and young, Struck with amaze, around the body hung, With garments rent and loosely flowing hair; 1885 Their shrieks and clamours filled the echoing air; Frequent they cried: “Thus Sám the Champion slept! Thus sleeps Sohráb!” Again they groaned, and wept.
Now o’er the corpse a yellow robe is spread, The aloes bier is closed upon the dead; 1890 And, to preserve the hapless hero’s name, Fragrant and fresh, that his unblemished fame Might live and bloom through all succeeding days, A mound sepulchral on the spot they raise, Formed like a charger’s hoof. 1895
In every ear The story has been told—and many a tear, Shed at the sad recital. Through Túrán, Afrásiyáb’s wide realm, and Samengán, Deep sunk the tidings—nuptial bower, and bed, 1900 And all that promised happiness, had fled!
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But when Tahmíneh heard this tale of woe, Think how a mother bore the mortal blow! Distracted, wild, she sprang from place to place; With frenzied hands deformed her beauteous face; 1905 The musky locks her polished temples crowned. Furious she tore, and flung upon the ground; Starting, in agony of grief, she gazed— Her swimming eyes to Heaven imploring raised; And groaning cried: “Sole comfort of my life! 1910 Doomed the sad victim of unnatural strife, Where art thou now with dust and blood defiled? Thou darling boy, my lost, my murdered child! When thou wert gone—how, night and lingering day, Did thy fond mother watch the time away; 1915 For hope still pictured all I wished to see, Thy father found, and thou returned to me, Yes—thou, exulting in thy father’s fame! And yet, nor sire nor son, nor tidings, came: How could I dream of this? ye met—but how? 1920 That noble aspect—that ingenuous brow, Moved not a nerve in him—ye met—to part, Alas! the life-blood issuing from the heart Short was the day which gave to me delight, Soon, soon, succeeds a long and dismal night; 1925 On whom shall now devolve my tender care? Who, loved like thee, my bosom-sorrows share? Whom shall I take to fill thy vacant place, To whom extend a mother’s soft embrace? Sad fate! for one so young, so fair, so brave, 1930 Seeking thy father thus to find a grave. These arms no more shall fold thee to my breast, No more with thee my soul be doubly blest; No, drowned in blood thy lifeless body lies, For ever torn from these desiring eyes; 1935 Friendless, alone, beneath a foreign sky, Thy mail thy death-clothes—and thy father, by; Why did not I conduct thee on the way, And point where Rustem’s bright pavilion lay? Thou hadst the tokens—why didst thou withhold 1940 Those dear remembrances—that pledge of gold? Hadst thou the bracelet to his view restored, Thy precious blood had never stained his sword.”
The strong emotion choked her panting breath, Her veins seemed withered by the cold of death: 1945 The trembling matrons hastening round her mourned, With piercing cries, till fluttering life returned; Then gazing up, distraught, she wept again, And frantic, seeing ‘midst her pitying train, The favourite steed—now more than ever dear, 1950 The hoofs she kissed, and bathed with many a tear; Clasping the mail Sohráb in battle wore, With burning lips she kissed it o’er and o’er; His martial robes she in her arms comprest, And like an infant strained them to her breast; 1955 The reins, and trappings, club, and spear, were brought, The sword, and shield, with which the Stripling fought,
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These she embraced with melancholy joy, In sad remembrance of her darling boy. And still she beat her face, and o’er them hung, 1960 As in a trance—or to them wildly clung— Day after day she thus indulged her grief, Night after night, disdaining all relief; At length worn out—from earthly anguish riven, The mother’s spirit joined her child in Heaven. 1965
Sikander Failakús, before his death, placed the crown of sovereignty upon the head of Sikander, and appointed Aristú, who
was one of the disciples of the great Aflátún, his vizir. He cautioned him to pursue the path of virtue and rectitude, and to cast from his heart every feeling of vanity and pride; above all he implored him to be just and merciful, and said:—
“Think not that thou art wise, but ignorant, And ever listen to advice and counsel; We are but dust, and from the dust created; And what our lives but helplessness and sorrow!”
Sikander for a time attended faithfully to the instructions of his father, and to the counsel of Aristú, both in public and private affairs.
Upon Sikander’s elevation to the throne, Dárá sent an envoy to him to claim the customary tribute, but he received for answer: “The time is past when Rúm acknowledged the superiority of Persia. It is now thy turn to pay tribute to Rúm. If my demand be refused, I will immediately invade thy dominions; and think not that I shall be satisfied with the conquest of Persia alone, the whole world shall be mine; therefore prepare for war.” Dárá had no alternative, not even submission, and accordingly assembled his army, for Sikander was already in full march against him. Upon the confines of Persia the armies came in sight of each other, when Sikander, in the assumed character of an envoy, was resolved to ascertain the exact condition of the enemy. With this view he entered the Persian camp, and Dárá allowing the person whom he supposed an ambassador, to approach, enquired what mes- sage the king of Rúm had sent to him. “Hear me!” said the pretended envoy: “Sikander has not invaded thy empire for the exclusive purpose of fighting, but to know its history, its laws, and customs, from personal inspection. His object is to travel through the whole world. Why then should he make war upon thee? Give him but a free passage through thy kingdom, and nothing more is required. However if it be thy wish to proceed to hostilities, he appre- hends nothing from the greatness of thy power.” Dárá was astonished at the majestic air and dignity of the envoy, never having witnessed his equal, and he anxiously said:—
“What is thy name, from whom art thou descended? For that commanding front, that fearless eye, Bespeaks illustrious birth. Art thou indeed Sikander, whom my fancy would believe thee, So eloquent in speech, in mien so noble?” “No!” said the envoy, “no such rank is mine, Sikander holds among his numerous host Thousands superior to the humble slave Who stands before thee. It is not for me To put upon myself the air of kings, To ape their manners and their lofty state.”
Dárá could not help smiling, and ordered refreshments and wine to be brought. He filled a cup and gave it to the envoy, who drank it off, but did not, according to custom, return the empty goblet to the cup-bearer. The cup-bearer demanded the cup, and Dárá asked the envoy why he did not give it back. “It is the custom in my coun- try,” said the envoy, “when a cup is once given into an ambassador’s hands, never to receive it back again.” Dárá was still more amused by this explanation, and presented to him another cup, and successively four, which the envoy did not fail to appropriate severally in the same way. In the evening a feast was held, and Sikander partook of the delicious refreshments that had been prepared for him; but in the midst of the entertainment one of the persons present recognized him, and immediately whispered to Dárá that his enemy was in his power.
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Sikander’s sharp and cautious eye now marked The changing scene, and up he sprang, but first Snatched the four cups, and rushing from the tent, Vaulted upon his horse, and rode away. So instantaneous was the act, amazed The assembly rose, and presently a troop Was ordered in pursuit—but night, dark night, Baffled their search, and checked their eager speed.
As soon as he reached his own army, he sent for Aristátalís and his courtiers, and exultingly displayed to them the four golden cups. “These,” said he, “have I taken from my enemy, I have taken them from his own table, and before his own eyes. His strength and numbers too I have ascer- tained, and my success is certain.” No time was now lost in arrangements for the battle. The armies engaged, and they fought seven days without a decisive blow being struck. On the eighth, Dárá was compelled to fly, and his legions, defeated and harassed, were pursued by the Rúmís with great slaughter to the banks of the Euphrates. Sikander now returned to take possession of the capital. In the meantime Dárá collected his scat- tered forces together, and again tried his fortune, but he was again defeated. After his second success, the conqueror devoted himself so zealously to conciliate and win the affections of the people, that they soon ceased to remember their former king with any degree of attachment to his interests. Sikander said to them: “Persia indeed is my inheritance: I am no stranger to you, for I am myself descended from Dáráb; you may therefore safely trust to my justice and pa- ternal care, in everything that concerns your welfare.” The result was, that legion after legion united in his cause, and consolidated his power.
When Dárá was informed of the uni- versal disaffection of his army, he said to the remaining friends who were personally devoted to him: “Alas! my subjects have been deluded by the artful dissimulation and skill of Sikander; your next misfortune will be the captivity of your wives and children. Yes, your wives and children will be made the slaves of the conquerors.” A
few troops, still faithful to their unfortunate king, offered to make another effort against the enemy, and Dárá was too grateful and too brave to discountenance their enthusiastic fidelity, though with such little chance of success. A fragment of an army was consequently brought into action, and the result was what had been anticipated. Dárá was again a fugitive; and after the defeat, escaped with three hundred men into the neighboring desert. Sikander captured his wife and family, but magnanimously restored them to the unfortunate monarch, who, destitute of all further hope, now asked for a place of refuge in his own dominions, and for that he offered him all the buried treasure of his ancestors. Sikander, in reply, invited him to his presence; and promised to restore him to his throne,
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that he might himself be enabled to pursue other conquests; but Dárá refused to go, although advised by his no- bles to accept the invitation. “I am willing to put myself to death,” said he with emotion, “but I cannot submit to this degradation. I cannot go before him, and thus personally acknowledge his authority over me.” Resolved upon this point, he wrote to Faúr, one of the sovereigns of Ind, to request his assistance, and Faúr recommended that he should pay him a visit for the purpose of concerting what measures should be adopted. This correspondence having come to the knowledge of Sikander, he took care that his enemy should be intercepted in whatever direction he might proceed.
Dárá had two ministers, named Mahiyár and Jamúsipár, who, finding that according to the predictions of the astrologers their master would in a few days fall into the hands of Sikander, consulted together, and thought they had better put him to death themselves, in order that they might get into favor with Sikander. It was night, and the soldiers of the escort were dispersed at various distances, and the vizirs were stationed on each side of the king. As they travelled on, Jamúsipár took an opportunity of plunging his dagger into Dárá’s side, and Mahiyár gave anoth- er blow, which felled the monarch to the ground. They immediately sent the tidings of this event to Sikander, who hastened to the spot, and the opening daylight presented to his view the wounded king.
Dismounting quickly, he in sorrow placed The head of Dárá on his lap, and wept In bitterness of soul, to see that form Mangled with ghastly wounds.
Dárá still breathed; and when he lifted up his eyes and beheld Sikander, he groaned deeply. Sikander said, “Rise up, that we may convey thee to a place of safety, and apply the proper remedies to thy wounds.”—“Alas!” replied Dárá, “the time for remedies is past. I leave thee to Heaven, and may thy reign give peace and happiness to the empire.”—“Never,” said Sikander, “never did I desire to see thee thus mangled and fallen—never to witness this sight! If the Almighty should spare thy life, thou shalt again be the monarch of Persia, and I will go from hence. On my mother’s word, thou and I are sons of the same father. It is this brotherly affection which now wrings my heart!” Saying this, the tears chased each other down his cheeks in such abundance that they fell upon the face of Dárá. Again, he said, “Thy murderers shall meet with merited vengeance, they shall be punished to the uttermost.” Dárá blessed him, and said, “My end is approaching, but thy sweet discourse and consoling kindness have banished all my grief. I shall now die with a mind at rest. Weep no more—
“My course is finished, thine is scarce begun; But hear my dying wish, my last request: Preserve the honour of my family, Preserve it from disgrace. I have a daughter Dearer to me than life, her name is Roshung; Espouse her, I beseech thee—and if Heaven Should bless thee with a boy, O! let his name be Isfendiyár, that he may propagate With zeal the sacred doctrines of Zerdusht, The Zendavesta, then my soul will be Happy in Heaven; and he, at Náu-rúz tide, Will also hold the festival I love, And at the altar light the Holy Fire; Nor will he cease his labour, till the faith Of Lohurásp be everywhere accepted, And everywhere believed the true religion.”
Sikander promised that he would assuredly fulfil the wishes he had expressed, and then Dárá placed the palm of his brother’s hand on his mouth, and shortly afterwards expired. Sikander again wept bitterly, and then the body was placed on a golden couch, and he attended it in sorrow to the grave.
After the burial of Dárá, the two ministers, Jamúsipár and Mahiyár, were brought near the tomb, and executed upon the dar.
Just vengeance upon the guilty head, For they their generous monarch’s blood had shed.
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Sikander had now no rival to the throne of Persia, and he commenced his government under the most favor- able auspices. He continued the same customs and ordinances which were handed down to him, and retained every one in his established rank and occupation. He gladdened the heart by his justice and liberality. Keeping in mind his promise to Dárá, he now wrote to the mother of Roshung, and communicating to her the dying solicitations of the king, requested her to send Roshung to him, that he might fulfil the last wish of his brother. The wife of Dárá immediately complied with the command, and sent her daughter with various presents to Sikander, and she was on her arrival married to the conqueror, acceding to the customs and laws of the empire. Sikander loved her exceed- ingly, and on her account remained some time in Persia, but he at length determined to proceed into Ind to con- quer that country of enchanters and enchantment.
On approaching Ind he wrote to Kaid, summoning him to surrender his kingdom, and received from him the following answer: “I will certainly submit to thy authority, but I have four things which no other person in the world possesses, and which I cannot relinquish. I have a daughter, beautiful as an angel of Paradise, a wise minis- ter, a skilful physician, and a goblet of inestimable value!” Upon receiving this extraordinary reply, Sikander again addressed a letter to him, in which he peremptorily required all these things immediately. Kaid not daring to refuse, or make any attempt at evasion, reluctantly complied with the requisition. Sikander received the minister and the physician with great politeness and attention, and in the evening held a splendid feast, at which he espoused the beautiful daughter of Kaid, and taking the goblet from her hands, drank off the wine with which it was filled. After that, Kaid himself waited upon Sikander, and personally acknowledged his authority and dominion.
Sikander then proceeded to claim the allegiance and homage of Faúr, the king of Kanúj, and wrote to him to submit to his power; but Faúr returned a haughty answer, saying:—
“Kaid Indí is a coward to obey thee, But I am Faúr, descended from a race Of matchless warriors; and shall I submit, And to a Greek!”
Sikander was highly incensed at this bold reply. The force he had now with him amounted to eighty thousand men; that is, thirty thousand Iránians, forty thousand Rúmís, and ten thousand Indís. Faúr had sixty thousand horsemen, and two thousand elephants. The troops of Sikander were greatly terrified at the sight of so many ele- phants, which gave the enemy such a tremendous superiority. Aristátalís, and some other ingenious counsellors, were requested to consult together to contrive some means of counteracting the power of the war-elephants, and they suggested the construction of an iron horse, and the figure of a rider also of iron, to be placed upon wheels like a carriage, and drawn by a number of horses. A soldier, clothed in iron armor, was to follow the vehicle—his hands and face besmeared with combustible matter, and this soldier, armed with a long staff, was at an appointed signal, to pierce the belly of the horse and also of the rider, previously filled with combustibles, so that when the ignited point came in contact with them, the whole engine would make a tremendous explosion and blaze in the air. Sikander approved of this invention, and collected all the blacksmiths and artisans in the country to construct a thousand machines of this description with the utmost expedition, and as soon as they were completed, he prepared for action. Faúr too pushed forward with his two thousand elephants in advance; but when the Kanújians beheld such a formidable array they were surprised, and Faúr anxiously inquired from his spies what it could be. Upon being told that it was Sikander’s artillery, his troops pushed the elephants against the enemy with vigor, at which moment the combustibles were fired by the Rúmís, and the machinery exploding, many elephants were burnt and destroyed, and the remainder, with the troops, fled in confusion. Sikander then encountered Faúr, and after a severe contest, slew him, and became ruler of the kingdom of Kanúj.
After the conquest of Kanúj, Sikander went to Mekka, carrying thither rich presents and offerings. From thence he proceeded to another city, where he was received with great homage by the most illustrious of the nation. He enquired of them if there was anything wonderful or extraordinary in their country, that he might go to see it, and they replied that there were two trees in the kingdom, one a male, the other a female, from which a voice proceed- ed. The male-tree spoke in the day, and the female-tree in the night, and whoever had a wish, went thither to have his desires accomplished. Sikander immediately repaired to the spot, and approaching it, he hoped in his heart that a considerable part of his life still remained to be enjoyed. When he came under the tree, a terrible sound arose and rung in his ears, and he asked the people present what it meant. The attendant priest said it implied that fourteen years of his life still remained. Sikander, at this interpretation of the prophetic sound, wept and the burning tears ran down his cheeks. Again he asked, “Shall I return to Rúm, and see my mother and children before I die?” and the answer was, “Thou wilt die at Kashán.
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“Nor mother, nor thy family at home Wilt thou behold again, for thou wilt die, Closing thy course of glory at Kashán.”
Sikander left the place in sorrow, and pursued his way towards Rúm. In his progress he arrived at another city, and the inhabitants gave him the most honorable welcome, representing to him, however, that they were dreadfully afflicted by the presence of two demons or giants, who constantly assailed them in the night, devouring men and goats and whatever came in their way. Sikander asked their names; and they replied, Yájuj and Májuj (Gog and Ma- gog). He immediately ordered a barrier to be erected five hundred yards high, and three hundred yards wide, and when it was finished he went away. The giants, notwithstanding all their efforts, were unable to scale this barrier, and in consequence the inhabitants pursued their occupations without the fear of molestation.
To scenes of noble daring still he turned His ardent spirit—for he knew not fear. Still he led on his legions—and now came To a strange place, where countless numbers met His wondering view—countless inhabitants Crowding the city streets, and neighbouring plains; And in the distance presently he saw A lofty mountain reaching to the stars. Onward proceeding, at its foot he found A guardian-dragon, terrible in form, Ready with open jaws to crush his victim; But unappalled, Sikander him beholding With steady eye, which scorned to turn aside, Sprang forward, and at once the monster slew.
Ascending then the mountain, many a ridge, Oft resting on the way, he reached the summit, Where the dead corse of an old saint appeared Wrapt in his grave-clothes, and in gems imbedded. In gold and precious jewels glittering round, Seeming to show what man is, mortal man! Wealth, worldly pomp, the baubles of ambition, All left behind, himself a heap of dust!
None ever went upon that mountain top, But sought for knowledge; and Sikander hoped When he had reached its cloudy eminence, To see the visions of futurity Arise from that departed, holy man! And soon he heard a voice: “Thy time is nigh! Yet may I thy career on earth unfold. It will be thine to conquer many a realm, Win many a crown; thou wilt have many friends And numerous foes, and thy devoted head Will be uplifted to the very heavens. Renowned and glorious shalt thou be; thy name Immortal; but, alas! thy time is nigh!” At these prophetic words Sikander wept, And from that ominous mountain hastened down.
After that Sikander journeyed on to the city of Kashán, where he fell sick, and in a few days, according to the ora- cle and the prophecy, expired. He had scarcely breathed his last, when Aristú, and Bilniyás the physician, and his fami- ly, entered Kashán, and found him dead. They beat their faces, and tore their hair, and mourned for him forty days.
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THE THOUSAND AND ONE NIGHTS
First published ca. 879 C.E. Middle East and India
The Thousand and One Nights is a collection of mostly Middle Eastern and Indian stories, written in Arabic. Within a frame narrative, it contains numerous stories from different cultures in these regions. The first appearance of a physical fragment of The Thousand and One Nights dates from 879 C.E., and the next evidence was mentioned in the 10th century. By the mid-twentieth century, six different forms had been recognized. The French transla- tion in 1704 by Antoine Galland was the first European translation. English translations of the text began in the nineteenth century, and early English translations sanitized parts of the stories. Based on popular oral storytelling traditions, the stories tend to have improvisational, sensuous, and enchanting qualities.
Written by Kyounghye Kwon
Selections from Thousand and One Nights
Anonymous, Translated by Edward William Lane
Introduction In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful.
Praise be to God, the Beneficent King, the Creator of the universe, who hath raised the heavens without pil- lars, and spread out the earth as abed; and blessing and peace be on the lord of apostles, our lord and our master Moḥammad, and his Family; blessing and peace, enduring and constant, unto the day of judgment.
To proceed:—The lives of former generations are a lesson to posterity; that a man may review the remarkable events which have happened to others, and be admonished; and may consider the history of people of preceding ages, and of all that hath befallen them, and be restrained. Extolled be the perfection of Him who hath thus or- dained the history of former generations to be a lesson to those which follow. Such are the Tales of a Thousand and One Nights, with their romantic stories and their fables.
It is related (but God alone is all-knowing, as well as all-wise, and almighty, and all-bountiful,) that there was, in ancient times, a King of the countries of India and China, possessing numerous troops, and guards, and servants, and domestic dependents: and he had two sons; one of whom was a man of mature age; and the other, a youth. Both of these princes were brave horsemen; but especially the elder, who inherited the kingdom of his father; and governed his subjects with such justice that the inhabitants of his country and whole empire loved him. He was called King Shahriyár: his younger brother was named Sháh-Zemán, and was King of Samarḳand. The administra- tion of their governments was conducted with rectitude, each of them ruling over his subjects with justice during a period of twenty years with the utmost enjoyment and happiness. After this period, the elder King felt a strong desire to see his brother, and ordered his Wezeer to repair to him and bring him.
Having taken the advice of the Wezeer on this subject, he immediately gave orders to prepare handsome presents, such as horses adorned with gold and costly jewels, and memlooks, and beautiful virgins, and expensive stuffs. He then wrote a letter to his brother, expressive of his great desire to see him; and having sealed it, and given it to the Wezeer, together with the presents above mentioned, he ordered the minister to strain his nerves, and tuck up his skirts, and use all expedition in returning. The Wezeer answered, without delay, I hear and obey; and forth- with prepared for the journey: he packed his baggage, removed the burdens, and made ready all his provisions within three days; and on the fourth day, he took leave of the King Shahriyár, and went forth towards the deserts and wastes. He proceeded night and day; and each of the kings under the authority of King Shahriyár by whose residence he passed came forth to meet him, with costly presents, and gifts of gold and silver, and entertained him three days; after which, on the fourth day, he accompanied him one day’s journey, and took leave of him. Thus he continued on his way until he drew near to the city of Samarḳand, when he sent forward a messenger to inform King Sháh-Zemán of his approach. The messenger entered the city, inquired the way to the palace, and, introducing himself to the King, kissed the ground before him, and acquainted him with the approach of his brother’s Wezeer; upon which Sháh-Zemán ordered the chief officers of his court, and the great men of his kingdom, to go forth a day’s journey to meet him; and they did so; and when they met him, they welcomed him, and walked by his stirrups until they returned to the city. The Wezeer then presented himself before the King Sháh-Zemán, greeted him with a prayer for the divine assistance in his favour, kissed the ground before him, and informed him of his brother’s desire to see him; after which he handed to him the letter. The King took it, read it, and understood its contents; and
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Image 6.8: Sheherazade and Sultan Schariar | Sheherazade, the Sultan’s most recent wife, tells him one of her many stories.
Author: Ferdinand Keller Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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answered by expressing his readiness to obey the commands of his brother. But, said he (addressing the Wezeer), I will not go until I have entertained thee three days. Accordingly, he lodged him in a palace befitting his rank, accommodated his troops in tents, and appointed them all things requisite in the way of food and drink: and so they remained three days. On the fourth day, he equipped himself for the journey, made ready his baggage, and collected together costly presents suitable to his brother’s dignity.
These preparations being completed, he sent forth his tents and camels and mules and servants and guards, appointed his Wezeer to be governor of the country during his absence, and set out towards his brother’s domin- ions. At midnight, however, he remembered that he had left in his palace an article which he should have brought with him; and having returned to the palace to fetch it, he there beheld his wife sleeping in his bed, and attended by a male negro slave, who had fallen asleep by her side. On beholding this scene, the world became black before his eyes; and he said within himself, If this is the case when I have not departed from the city, what will be the conduct of this vile woman while I am sojourning with my brother? He then drew his sword, and slew them both in the bed: after which he immediately returned, gave orders for departure, and journeyed to his brother’s capital.
Shahriyár, rejoicing at the tidings of his approach, went forth to meet him, saluted him, and welcomed him with the utmost delight. He then ordered that the city should be decorated on the occasion, and sat down to enter- tain his brother with cheerful conversation: but the mind of King Sháh-Zemán was distracted by reflections upon the conduct of his wife; excessive grief took possession of him; and his countenance became sallow; and his frame,
The Thousand and One Nights
THE THOUSAND AND ONE NIGHTS
First published ca. 879 C.E. Middle East and India
The Thousand and One Nights is a collection of mostly Middle Eastern and Indian stories, written in Arabic. Within a frame narrative, it contains numerous stories from different cultures in these regions. The first appearance of a physical fragment of The Thousand and One Nights dates from 879 C.E., and the next evidence was mentioned in the 10th century. By the mid-twentieth century, six different forms had been recognized. The French transla- tion in 1704 by Antoine Galland was the first European translation. English translations of the text began in the nineteenth century, and early English translations sanitized parts of the stories. Based on popular oral storytelling traditions, the stories tend to have improvisational, sensuous, and enchanting qualities.
Written by Kyounghye Kwon
Selections from Thousand and One Nights
Anonymous, Translated by Edward William Lane
Introduction In the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful.
Praise be to God, the Beneficent King, the Creator of the universe, who hath raised the heavens without pil- lars, and spread out the earth as abed; and blessing and peace be on the lord of apostles, our lord and our master Moḥammad, and his Family; blessing and peace, enduring and constant, unto the day of judgment.
To proceed:—The lives of former generations are a lesson to posterity; that a man may review the remarkable events which have happened to others, and be admonished; and may consider the history of people of preceding ages, and of all that hath befallen them, and be restrained. Extolled be the perfection of Him who hath thus or- dained the history of former generations to be a lesson to those which follow. Such are the Tales of a Thousand and One Nights, with their romantic stories and their fables.
It is related (but God alone is all-knowing, as well as all-wise, and almighty, and all-bountiful,) that there was, in ancient times, a King of the countries of India and China, possessing numerous troops, and guards, and servants, and domestic dependents: and he had two sons; one of whom was a man of mature age; and the other, a youth. Both of these princes were brave horsemen; but especially the elder, who inherited the kingdom of his father; and governed his subjects with such justice that the inhabitants of his country and whole empire loved him. He was called King Shahriyár: his younger brother was named Sháh-Zemán, and was King of Samarḳand. The administra- tion of their governments was conducted with rectitude, each of them ruling over his subjects with justice during a period of twenty years with the utmost enjoyment and happiness. After this period, the elder King felt a strong desire to see his brother, and ordered his Wezeer to repair to him and bring him.
Having taken the advice of the Wezeer on this subject, he immediately gave orders to prepare handsome presents, such as horses adorned with gold and costly jewels, and memlooks, and beautiful virgins, and expensive stuffs. He then wrote a letter to his brother, expressive of his great desire to see him; and having sealed it, and given it to the Wezeer, together with the presents above mentioned, he ordered the minister to strain his nerves, and tuck up his skirts, and use all expedition in returning. The Wezeer answered, without delay, I hear and obey; and forth- with prepared for the journey: he packed his baggage, removed the burdens, and made ready all his provisions within three days; and on the fourth day, he took leave of the King Shahriyár, and went forth towards the deserts and wastes. He proceeded night and day; and each of the kings under the authority of King Shahriyár by whose residence he passed came forth to meet him, with costly presents, and gifts of gold and silver, and entertained him three days; after which, on the fourth day, he accompanied him one day’s journey, and took leave of him. Thus he continued on his way until he drew near to the city of Samarḳand, when he sent forward a messenger to inform King Sháh-Zemán of his approach. The messenger entered the city, inquired the way to the palace, and, introducing himself to the King, kissed the ground before him, and acquainted him with the approach of his brother’s Wezeer; upon which Sháh-Zemán ordered the chief officers of his court, and the great men of his kingdom, to go forth a day’s journey to meet him; and they did so; and when they met him, they welcomed him, and walked by his stirrups until they returned to the city. The Wezeer then presented himself before the King Sháh-Zemán, greeted him with a prayer for the divine assistance in his favour, kissed the ground before him, and informed him of his brother’s desire to see him; after which he handed to him the letter. The King took it, read it, and understood its contents; and
License: Public Domain
Image 6.8: Sheherazade and Sultan Schariar | Sheherazade, the Sultan’s most recent wife, tells him one of her many stories.
Author: Ferdinand Keller Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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emaciated. His brother observed his altered condition, and, imagining that it was occasioned by his absence from his dominions, abstained from troubling him or asking respecting the cause, until after the lapse of some days, when at length he said to him, O my brother, I perceive that thy body is emaciated, and thy countenance is become sallow. He answered, O brother, I have an internal sore:—and he informed him not of the conduct of his wife which he had witnessed. Shahriyár then said, I wish that thou wouldest go out with me on a hunting excursion; perhaps thy mind might so be diverted:—but he declined; and Shahriyár went alone to the chase.
Now there were some windows in the King’s palace commanding a view of his garden; and while his brother was looking out from one of these, a door of the palace was opened, and there came forth from it twenty females and twenty male black slaves; and the King’s wife, who was distinguished by extraordinary beauty and elegance, accompanied them to a fountain, where they all disrobed themselves, and sat down together. The King’s wife then called out, O Mes’ood! and immediately a black slave came to her, and embraced her; she doing the like. So also did the other slaves and the women; and all of them continued revelling together until the close of the day. When Sháh- Zemán beheld this spectacle, he said within himself, By Allah! my affliction is lighter than this! His vexation and grief were alleviated, and he no longer abstained from sufficient food and drink.
When his brother returned from his excursion, and they had saluted each other, and King Shahriyár observed his brother Sháh-Zemán, that his colour had returned, that his face had recovered the flush of health, and that he ate with appetite, after his late abstinence, he was surprised, and said, O my brother, when I saw thee last, thy countenance was sallow, and now thy colour hath returned to thee: acquaint me with thy state.—As to the change of my natural complexion, answered Sháh-Zemán, I will inform thee of its cause; but excuse my explaining to thee the return of my colour.—First, said Shahriyár, relate to me the cause of the change of thy proper complexion, and of thy weakness: let me hear it.—Know then, O my brother, he answered, that when thou sentest thy Wezeer to me to invite me to thy presence, I prepared myself for the journey, and when I had gone forth from the city, I remem- bered that I had left behind me the jewel that I have given thee; I therefore returned to my palace for it, and there I found my wife sleeping in my bed, and attended by a black male slave; and I killed them both, and came to thee: but my mind was occupied by reflections upon this affair, and this was the cause of the change of my complexion, and of my weakness: now, as to the return of my colour, excuse my informing thee of its cause.—But when his brother heard these words, he said, I conjure thee by Allah that thou acquaint me with the cause of the return of thy colour:—so he repeated to him all that he had seen. I would see this, said Shahriyár, with my own eye.—Then, said Sháh-Zemán, give out that thou art going again to the chase, and conceal thyself here with me, and thou shalt witness this conduct, and obtain ocular proof of it.
Shahriyár, upon this, immediately announced that it was his intention to make another excursion. The troops went out of the city with the tents, and the King followed them; and after he had reposed awhile in the camp, he said to his servants, Let no one come in to me:—and he disguised himself, and returned to his brother in the palace, and sat in one of the windows overlooking the garden; and when he had been there a short time, the women and their mistress entered the garden with the black slaves, and did as his brother had described, continuing so until the hour of the afternoon-prayer.
When King Shahriyár beheld this occurrence, reason fled from his head, and he said to his brother Sháh- Zemán, Arise, and let us travel whither we please, and renounce the regal state, until we see whether such a calami- ty as this have befallen any other person like unto us; and if not, our death will be preferable to our life. His brother agreed to his proposal, and they went out from a private door of the palace, and journeyed continually, days and nights, until they arrived at a tree in the midst of a meadow, by a spring of water, on the shore of the sea. They drank of this spring, and sat down to rest; and when the day had a little advanced, the sea became troubled before them, and there arose from it a black pillar, ascending towards the sky, and approaching the meadow. Struck with fear at the sight, they climbed up into the tree, which was lofty; and thence they gazed to see what this might be: and be- hold, it was a Jinnee, of gigantic stature, broad-fronted and bulky, bearing on his head a chest. He landed, and came to the tree into which the two Kings had climbed, and, having seated himself beneath it, opened the chest, and took out of it another box, which he also opened; and there came forth from it a young woman, fair and beautiful, like the shining sun. When the Jinnee cast his eyes upon her, he said, O lady of noble race, whom I carried off on thy wedding-night, I have a desire to sleep a little:—and he placed his head upon her knee, and slept. The damsel then raised her head towards the tree, and saw there the two Kings; upon which she removed the head of the Jinnee from her knee, and, having placed it on the ground, stood under the tree, and made signs to the two Kings, as though she would say, Come down, and fear not this ‘Efreet. They answered her, We conjure thee by Allah that thou excuse us in this matter. But she said, I conjure you by the same that ye come down; and if ye do not, I will rouse this ‘Efreet, and he shall put you to a cruel death. So, being afraid, they came down to her; and, after they had remained with her as long as she required, she took from her pocket a purse, and drew out from this a string, upon which were ninety-eight seal-rings; and she said to them, Know ye what are these? They answered, We know not.—The owners of these rings, said she, have, all of them, been admitted to converse with me, like as ye have, unknown to this fool-
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ish ‘Efreet; therefore, give me your two rings, ye brothers. So they gave her their two rings from their fingers; and she then said to them, This ‘Efreet carried me off on my wedding-night, and put me in the box, and placed the box in the chest, and affixed to the chest seven locks, and deposited me, thus imprisoned, in the bottom of the roaring sea, beneath the dashing waves; not knowing that, when one of our sex desires to accomplish any object, nothing can prevent her. In accordance with this, says one of the poets:—
Never trust in women; nor rely upon their vows; For their pleasure and displeasure depend upon their passions. They offer a false affection; for perfidy lurks within their clothing. By the tale of Yoosuf be admonished, and guard against their stratagems. Dost thou not consider that Iblees ejected Adam by means of woman?
And another poet says:—
Abstain from censure; for it will strengthen the censured, and increase desire into violent passion. If I suffer such passion, my case is but the same as that of many a man before me: For greatly indeed to be wondered at is he who hath kept himself safe fromwomen’s artifice.
When the two Kings heard these words from her lips, they were struck with the utmost astonishment, and said, one to the other, If this is an ‘Efreet, and a greater calamity hath happened unto him than that which hath befallen us, this is a circumstance that should console us:—and immediately they departed, and returned to the city.
As soon as they had entered the palace, Shahriyár caused his wife to be beheaded, and in like manner the wom- en and black slaves; and thenceforth he made it his regular custom, every time that he took a virgin to his bed, to kill her at the expiration of the night. Thus he continued to do during a period of three years; and the people raised an outcry against him, and fled with their daughters, and there remained not a virgin in the city of a sufficient age for marriage. Such was the case when the King ordered the Wezeer to bring him a virgin according to his custom; and the Wezeer went forth and searched, and found none; and he went back to his house enraged and vexed, fear- ing what the King might do to him.
Now the Wezeer had two daughters; the elder of whom was named Shahrazád; and the younger, Dunyázád. The former had read various books of histories, and the lives of preceding kings, and stories of past generations: it is asserted that she had collected together a thousand books of histories, relating to preceding generations and kings, and works of the poets: and she said to her father on this occasion, Why do I see thee thus changed, and oppressed with solicitude and sorrows? It has been said by one of the poets:—
Tell him who is oppressed with anxiety, that anxiety will not last: As happiness passeth away, so passeth away anxiety.
When the Wezeer heard these words from his daughter, he related to her all that had happened to him with regard to the King: upon which she said, By Allah, O my father, give me in marriage to this King: either I shall die, and be a ransom for one of the daughters of the Muslims, or I shall live, and be the cause of their deliverance from him.—I conjure thee by Allah, exclaimed he, that thou expose not thyself to such peril:—but she said, It must be so. Then, said he, I fear for thee that the same will befall thee that happened in the case of the ass and the bull and the husbandman.—And what, she asked, was that, O my father.
Know, O my daughter, said the Wezeer, that there was a certain merchant, who possessed wealth and cattle, and had a wife and children; and God, whose name be exalted, had also endowed him with the knowledge of the languages of beasts and birds. The abode of this merchant was in the country; and he had, in his house, an ass and a bull. When the bull came to the place where the ass was tied, he found it swept and sprinkled; in his manger were sifted barley and sifted cut straw, and the ass was lying at his ease; his master being accustomed only to ride him oc- casionally, when business required, and soon to return: and it happened, one day, that the merchant overheard the bull saying to the ass, May thy food benefit thee! I am oppressed with fatigue, while thou art enjoying repose: thou eatest sifted barley, and men serve thee; and it is only occasionally that thy master rides thee, and returns; while I am continually employed in ploughing, and turning the mill.—The ass answered, When thou goest out to the field, and they place the yoke upon thy neck, lie down, and do not rise again, even if they beat thee; or, if thou rise, lie down a second time; and when they take thee back, and place the beans before thee, eat them not, as though thou wert sick: abstain from eating and drinking a day, or two days, or three; and so shalt thou find rest from trouble and labour.—Accordingly, when the driver came to the bull with his fodder, he ate scarcely any of it; and on the morrow, when the driver came again to take him to plough, he found him apparently quite infirm: so the merchant said,
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Take the ass, and make him draw the plough in his stead all the day. The man did so; and when the ass returned at the close of the day, the bull thanked him for the favour he had conferred upon him by relieving him of his trouble on that day; but the ass returned him no answer, for he repented most grievously. On the next day, the ploughman came again, and took the ass, and ploughed with him till evening; and the ass returned with his neck flayed by the yoke, and reduced to an extreme state of weakness; and the bull looked upon him, and thanked and praised him. The ass exclaimed, I was living at ease, and nought but my meddling hath injured me! Then said he to the bull, Know that I am one who would give thee good advice: I heard our master say, If the bull rise not from his place, take him to the butcher, that he may kill him, and make a naṭạ of his skin:—I am therefore in fear for thee, and so I have given thee advice; and peace be on thee!—When the bull heard these words of the ass, he thanked him, and said, To-morrow I will go with alacrity:—so he ate the whole of his fodder, and even licked the manger.—Their master, meanwhile, was listening to their conversation.
On the following morning, the merchant and his wife went to the bull’s crib, and sat down there; and the driver came, and took out the bull; and when the bull saw his master, he shook his tail, and showed his alacrity by sounds and actions, bounding about in such a manner that the merchant laughed until he fell backwards. His wife, in sur- prise, asked him, At what dost thou laugh? He answered, At a thing that I have heard and seen; but I cannot reveal it; for if I did, I should die. She said, Thou must inform me of the cause of thy laughter, even if thou die.—I cannot reveal it, said he: the fear of death prevents me.—Thou laughedst only at me, she said; and she ceased not to urge and importune him until he was quite overcome and distracted. So he called together his children, and sent for the Ḳáḍee and witnesses, that he might make his will, and reveal the secret to her, and die: for he loved her excessively, since she was the daughter of his paternal uncle, and the mother of his children, and he had lived with her to the age of a hundred and twenty years. Having assembled her family and his neighbours, he related to them his story, and told them that as soon as he revealed his secret he must die; upon which every one present said to her, We con- jure thee by Allah that thou give up this affair, and let not thy husband, and the father of thy children, die. But she said, I will not desist until he tell me, though he die for it. So they ceased to solicit her; and the merchant left them, and went to the stable to perform the ablution, and then to return, and tell them the secret, and die.
Now he had a cock, with fifty hens under him, and he had also a dog; and he heard the dog call to the cock, and reproach him, saying, Art thou happy when our master is going to die? The cock asked, How so?—and the dog related to him the story; upon which the cock exclaimed, By Allah! our master has little sense: I have fifty wives; and I please this, and provoke that; while he has but one wife, and cannot manage this affair with her: why does he not take some twigs of the mulberry-tree, and enter her chamber, and beat her until she dies or repents? She would nev- er, after that, ask him a question respecting anything.—And when the merchant heard the words of the cock, as he addressed the dog, he recovered his reason, and made up his mind to beat her.—Now, said the Wezeer to his daugh- ter Shahrazád, perhaps I may do to thee as the merchant did to his wife. She asked, And what did he? He answered, He entered her chamber, after he had cut off some twigs of the mulberry-tree, and hidden them there; and then said to her, Come into the chamber, that I may tell thee the secret while no one sees me, and then die:—and when she had entered, he locked the chamber-door upon her, and beat her until she became almost senseless and cried out, I repent:—and she kissed his hands and his feet, and repented, and went out with him; and all the company, and her own family, rejoiced; and they lived together in the happiest manner until death.
When the Wezeer’s daughter heard the words of her father, she said to him, It must be as I have requested. So he arrayed her, and went to the King Shahriyár. Now she had given directions to her young sister, saying to her, When I have gone to the King, I will send to request thee to come; and when thou comest to me, and seest a convenient time, do thou say to me, O my sister, relate to me some strange story to beguile our waking hour:—and I will relate to thee a story that shall, if it be the will of God, be the means of procuring deliverance.
Her father, the Wezeer, then took her to the King, who, when he saw him, was rejoiced, and said, Hast thou brought me what I desired? He answered, Yes. When the King, therefore, introduced himself to her, she wept; and he said to her, What aileth thee? She answered, O King, I have a young sister, and I wish to take leave of her. So the King sent to her; and she came to her sister, and embraced her, and sat near the foot of the bed; and after she had waited for a proper opportunity, she said, By Allah! O my sister, relate to us a story to beguile the waking hour of our night. Most willingly, answered Shahrazád, if this virtuous King permit me. And the King, hearing these words, and being restless, was pleased with the idea of listening to the story; and thus, on the first night of the thousand and one, Shahrazád commenced her recitations.
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Chapter I Commencing with the first night, and ending with the part of the third.
The Story of the Merchant and the Jinnee It has been related to me, O happy King, said Shahrazád, that there was a certain merchant who had great
wealth, and traded extensively with surrounding countries; and one day he mounted his horse, and journeyed to a neighbouring country to collect what was due to him, and, the heat oppressing him, he sat under a tree, in a garden, and put his hand into his saddle-bag, and ate a morsel of bread and a date which were among his provisions. Having eaten the date, he threw aside the stone, and immediately there appeared before him an ‘Efreet, of enormous height, who, holding a drawn sword in his hand, approached him, and said, Rise, that I may kill thee, as thou hast killed my son. The merchant asked him, How have I killed thy son? He answered, When thou atest the date, and threwest aside the stone, it struck my son upon the chest, and, as fate had decreed against him, he instantly died.
The merchant, on hearing these words, exclaimed, Verily to God we belong, and verily to Him we must return! There is no strength nor power but in God, the High, the Great! If I killed him, I did it not intentionally, but without knowing it; and I trust in thee that thou wilt pardon me.—The Jinnee answered, Thy death is indispensable, as thou hast killed my son:—and so saying, he dragged him, and threw him on the ground, and raised his arm to strike him with the sword. The merchant, upon this, wept bitterly, and said to the Jinnee, I commit my affair unto God, for no one can avoid what He hath decreed:—and he continued his lamentation, repeating the following verses:—
Time consists of two days; this, bright; and that, gloomy: and life, of two moieties; this, safe; and that, fearful. Say to him who hath taunted us on account of misfortunes, Doth fortune oppose any but the eminent? Dost thou not observe that corpses float upon the sea, whilethe precious pearls remain in its furthest depths? When the hands of time play with us, misfortune is imparted to us by its protracted kiss. In the heaven are stars that cannot be numbered; but none is eclipsed save the sun and the moon. How many green and dry trees are on the earth; but none is assailed with stones save that which beareth fruit! Thou thoughtest well of the days when they went well with thee, and fearedst not the evil that destiny was bringing.
—When he had finished reciting these verses, the Jinnee said to him, Spare thy words, for thy death is unavoidable. Then said the merchant, Know, O ‘Efreet, that I have debts to pay, and I have much property, and children, and
a wife, and I have pledges also in my possession: let me, therefore, go back to my house, and give to every one his due, and then I will return to thee: I bind myself by a vow and covenant that I will return to thee, and thou shalt do what thou wilt; and God is witness of what I say.—Upon this, the Jinnee accepted his covenant, and liberated him; granting him a respite until the expiration of the year.
The merchant, therefore, returned to his town, accomplished all that was upon his mind to do, paid every one what he owed him, and informed his wife and children of the event which had befallen him; upon hearing which, they and all his family and women wept. He appointed a guardian over his children, and remained with his family until the end of the year; when he took his grave-clothes under his arm, bade farewell to his household and neigh- bours, and all his relations, and went forth, in spite of himself; his family raising cries of lamentation, and shrieking.
He proceeded until he arrived at the garden before mentioned; and it was the first day of the new year; and as he sat, weeping for the calamity which he expected soon to befall him, a sheykh, advanced in years, approached him, leading a gazelle with a chain attached to its neck. This sheykh saluted the merchant, wishing him a long life, and said to him, What is the reason of thy sitting alone in this place, seeing that it is a resort of the Jinn? The merchant therefore informed him of what had befallen him with the ‘Efreet, and of the cause of his sitting there; at which the sheykh, the owner of the gazelle, was astonished, and said, By Allah, O my brother, thy faithfulness is great, and thy story is wonderful! if it were engraved upon the intellect, it would be a lesson to him who would be admonished!—And he sat down by his side, and said, By Allah, O my brother, I will not quit this place until I see what will happen unto thee with this ‘Efreet. So he sat down, and conversed with him. And the merchant became almost senseless; fear entered him, and terror, and violent grief, and excessive anxiety. And as the owner of the gazelle sat by his side, lo, a second sheykh approached them, with two black hounds, and inquired of them, after saluting them, the reason of their sitting in that place, seeing that it was a resort of the Jánn: and they told him the story from beginning to end. And he had hardly sat down when there approached them a third sheykh, with a dap- ple mule; and he asked them the same question, which was answered in the same manner.
Immediately after, the dust was agitated, and became an enormous revolving pillar, approaching them from the midst of the desert; and this dust subsided, and behold, the Jinnee, with a drawn sword in his hand; his eyes casting forth sparks of fire. He came to them, and dragged from them the merchant, and said to him, Rise, that I may kill thee, as thou killedst my son, the vital spirit of my heart. And the merchant wailed and wept; and the three sheykhs also manifested their sorrow by weeping and crying aloud and wailing: but the first sheykh, who was the owner
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of the gazelle, recovering his self-possession, kissed the hand of the ‘Efreet, and said to him, O thou Jinnee, and crown of the kings of the Jánn, if I relate to thee the story of myself and this gazelle, and thou find it to be wonder- ful, and more so than the adventure of this merchant, wilt thou give up to me a third of thy claim to his blood? He answered, Yes, O sheykh; if thou relate to me the story, and I find it to be as thou hast said, I will give up to thee a third of my claim to his blood.
The Story of the First Sheykh and the Gazelle Then said the sheykh, Know, O ‘Efreet, that this gazelle is the daughter of my paternal uncle, and she is of my
flesh and my blood. I took her as my wife when she was young, and lived with her about thirty years; but I was not blessed with a child by her; so I took to me a concubine slave, and by her I was blessed with a male child, like the rising full moon, with beautiful eyes, and delicately-shaped eyebrows, and perfectly-formed limbs; and he grew up by little and little until he attained the age of fifteen years. At this period, I unexpectedly had occasion to journey to a certain city, and went thither with a great stock of merchandise.
Now my cousin, this gazelle, had studied enchantment and divination from her early years; and during my absence, she transformed the youth above mentioned into a calf; and his mother, into a cow; and committed them to the care of the herdsman: and when I returned, after a long time, from my journey, I asked after my son and his mother, and she said, Thy slave is dead, and thy son hath fled, and I know not whither he is gone. After hearing this, I remained for the space of a year with mourning heart and weeping eye, until the Festival of the Sacrifice; when I sent to the herdsman, and ordered him to choose for me a fat cow; and he brought me one, and it was my concubine, whom this gazelle had enchanted. I tucked up my skirts and sleeves, and took the knife in my hand, and prepared myself to slaughter her; upon which she moaned and cried so violently that I left her, and ordered the herdsman to kill and skin her: and he did so, but found in her neither fat nor flesh, nor anything but skin and bone; and I repented of slaughtering her, when repentance was of no avail. I therefore gave her to the herdsman, and said to him, Bring me a fat calf: and he brought me my son, who was transformed into a calf. And when the calf saw me, he broke his rope, and came to me, and fawned upon me, and wailed and cried, so that I was moved with pity for him; and I said to the herdsman, Bring me a cow, and let this—
Here Shahrazád perceived the light of morning, and discontinued the recitation with which she had been al- lowed thus far to proceed. Her sister said to her, How excellent is thy story! and how pretty! and how pleasant! and how sweet!—but she answered, What is this in comparison with that which I will relate to thee in the next night, if I live, and the King spare me! And the King said, By Allah, I will not kill her until I hear the remainder of her story. Thus they pleasantly passed the night until the morning, when the King went forth to his hall of judgment, and the Wezeer went thither with the grave-clothes under his arm: and the King gave judgment, and invested and displaced, until the close of the day, without informing the Wezeer of that which had happened; and the minister was greatly astonished. The court was then dissolved; and the King returned to the privacy of his palace.
[On the second and each succeeding night, Shahrazád continued so to interest King Shahriyár by her stories as to induce him to defer putting her to death, in expectation that her fund of amusing tales would soon be exhausted; and as this is expressed in the original work in nearly the same words at the close of every night, such repetitions will in the present translation be omitted.]
When the sheykh, continued Shahrazád, observed the tears of the calf, his heart sympathized with him, and he said to the herdsman, Let this calf remain with the cattle—Meanwhile, the Jinnee wondered at this strange story; and the owner of the gazelle thus proceeded.
O lord of the kings of the Jánn, while this happened, my cousin, this gazelle, looked on, and said, Slaughter this calf; for he is fat: but I could not do it; so I ordered the herdsman to take him back; and he took him and went away. And as I was sitting, on the following day, he came to me, and said, O my master, I have to tell thee something that thou wilt be rejoiced to hear; and a reward is due to me for bringing good news. I answered, Well:—and he said, O merchant, I have a daughter who learned enchantment in her youth from an old woman in our family; and yesterday, when thou gavest me the calf, I took him to her, and she looked at him, and covered her face, and wept, and then laughed, and said, O my father, hath my condition become so degraded in thy opinion that thou bringest before me strange men?—Where, said I, are any strange men? and wherefore didst thou weep and laugh? She an- swered, This calf that is with thee is the son of our master, the merchant, and the wife of our master hath enchanted both him and his mother; and this was the reason of my laughter; but as to the reason of my weeping, it was on ac- count of his mother, because his father had slaughtered her.—And I was excessively astonished at this; and scarcely was I certain that the light of morning had appeared when I hastened to inform thee.
When I heard, O Jinnee, the words of the herdsman, I went forth with him, intoxicated without wine, from the excessive joy and happiness that I received, and arrived at his house, where his daughter welcomed me, and kissed my hand; and the calf came to me, and fawned upon me. And I said to the herdsman’s daughter, Is that true which
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thou hast said respecting this calf ? She answered, Yes, O my master; he is verily thy son, and the vital spirit of thy heart.—O maiden, said I, if thou wilt restore him, all the cattle and other property of mine that thy father hath un- der his care shall be thine. Upon this, she smiled, and said, O my master, I have no desire for the property unless on two conditions: the first is, that thou shalt marry me to him; and the second, that I shall enchant her who enchanted him, and so restrain her; otherwise, I shall not be secure from her artifice. On hearing, O Jinnee, these her words, I said, And thou shalt have all the property that is under the care of thy father besides; and as to my cousin, even her blood shall be lawful to thee. So, when she heard this, she took a cup, and filled it with water, and repeated a spell over it, and sprinkled with it the calf, saying to him, If God created thee a calf, remain in this form, and be not changed; but if thou be enchanted, return to thy original form, by permission of God, whose name be exalted!— upon which he shook, and became a man; and I threw myself upon him, and said, I conjure thee by Allah that thou relate to me all that my cousin did to thee and to thy mother. So he related to me all that had happened to them both; and I said to him, O my son, God hath given thee one to liberate thee, and to avenge thee:—and I married to him, O Jinnee, the herdsman’s daughter; after which, she transformed my cousin into this gazelle. And as I hap- pened to pass this way, I saw this merchant, and asked him what had happened to him; and when he had informed me, I sat down to see the result.—This is my story. The Jinnee said, This is a wonderful tale; and I give up to thee a third of my claim to his blood.
The second sheykh, the owner of the two hounds, then advanced, and said to the Jinnee, If I relate to thee the story of myself and these hounds, and thou find it to be in like manner wonderful, wilt thou remit to me, also, a third of thy claim to the blood of this merchant? The Jinnee answered, Yes.
The Story of the Second Sheykh and the Two Black Hounds Then said the sheykh, Know, O lord of the kings of the Jánn, that these two hounds are my brothers. My father
died, and left to us three thousand pieces of gold; and I opened a shop to sell and buy. But one of my brothers made a journey, with a stock of merchandise, and was absent from us for the space of a year with the caravans; after which, he returned destitute. I said to him, Did I not advise thee to abstain from travelling? But he wept, and said, O my brother, God, to whom be ascribed all might and glory, decreed this event; and there is no longer any profit in these words: I have nothing left. So I took him up into the shop, and then went with him to the bath, and clad him in a costly suit of my own clothing; after which, we sat down together to eat; and I said to him, O my brother, I will calculate the gain of my shop during the year, and divide it, exclusive of the principal, between me and thee. Ac- cordingly, I made the calculation, and found my gain to amount to two thousand pieces of gold; and I praised God, to whom be ascribed all might and glory, and rejoiced exceedingly, and divided the gain in two equal parts between myself and him.—My other brother then set forth on a journey; and after a year, returned in the like condition; and I did unto him as I had done to the former.
After this, when we had lived together for some time, my brothers again wished to travel, and were desirous that I should accompany them; but I would not. What, said I, have ye gained in your travels, that I should expect to gain? They importuned me; but I would not comply with their request; and we remained selling and buying in our shops a whole year. Still, however, they persevered in proposing that we should travel, and I still refused, until after the lapse of six entire years, when at last I consented, and said to them, O my brothers, let us calculate what prop- erty we possess. We did so, and found it to be six thousand pieces of gold: and I then said to them, We will bury half of it in the earth, that it may be of service to us if any misfortune befall us, in which case each of us shall take a thousand pieces, with which to traffic. Excellent is thy advice, said they. So I took the money and divided it into two equal portions, and buried three thousand pieces of gold; and of the other half, I gave to each of them a thousand pieces. We then prepared merchandise, and hired a ship, and embarked our goods, and proceeded on our voyage for the space of a whole month, at the expiration of which we arrived at a city, where we sold our merchandise; and for every piece of gold we gained ten.
And when we were about to set sail again, we found, on the shore of the sea, a maiden clad in tattered garments, who kissed my hand, and said to me, O my master, art thou possessed of charity and kindness? If so, I will requite thee for them. I answered, Yes, I have those qualities, though thou requite me not. Then said she, O my master, accept me as thy wife, and take me to thy country; for I give myself to thee: act kindly towards me; for I am one who re- quires to be treated with kindness and charity, and who will requite thee for so doing; and let not my present condi- tion at all deceive thee. When I heard these words, my heart was moved with tenderness towards her, in order to the accomplishment of a purpose of God, to whom be ascribed all might and glory; and I took her, and clothed her, and furnished for her a place in the ship in a handsome manner, and regarded her with kind and respectful attention.
We then set sail; and I became most cordially attached to my wife, so that, on her account, I neglected the society of my brothers, who, in consequence, became jealous of me, and likewise envied me my wealth, and the abundance of my merchandise; casting the eyes of covetousness upon the whole of the property. They therefore
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consulted together to kill me, and take my wealth; saying, Let us kill our brother, and all the property shall be ours:—and the devil made these actions to seem fair in their eyes; so they came to me while I was sleeping by the side of my wife, and took both of us up, and threw us into the sea. But as soon as my wife awoke, she shook herself, and became transformed into a Jinneeyeh. She immediately bore me away, and placed me upon an island, and, for a while, disappeared. In the morning, however, she returned, and said to me, I am thy wife, who carried thee, and rescued thee from death, by permission of God, whose name be exalted. Know that I am a Jinneeyeh: I saw thee, and my heart loved thee for the sake of God; for I am a believer in God and his Apostle, God bless and save him! I came to thee in the condition in which thou sawest me, and thou didst marry me; and see, I have rescued thee from drowning. But I am incensed against thy brothers, and I must kill them.—When I heard her tale, I was astonished, and thanked her for what she had done;—But, said I, as to the destruction of my brothers, it is not what I desire. I then related to her all that had happened between myself and them from first to last; and when she had heard it, she said, I will, this next night, fly to them, and sink their ship, and destroy them. But I said, I conjure thee by Allah that thou do it not; for the author of the proverb saith, O thou benefactor of him who hath done evil, the action that he hath done is sufficient for him:—besides, they are at all events my brothers. She still, however, said, They must be killed;—and I continued to propitiate her towards them: and at last she lifted me up, and soared through the air, and placed me on the roof of my house.
Having opened the doors, I dug up what I had hidden in the earth; and after I had saluted my neighbours, and bought merchandise, I opened my shop. And in the following night, when I entered my house, I found these two dogs tied up in it; and as soon as they saw me, they came to me, and wept, and clung to me; but I knew not what had happened until immediately my wife appeared before me, and said, These are thy brothers. And who, said I, hath done this unto them? She answered, I sent to my sister and she did it; and they shall not be restored until after the lapse of ten years. And I was now on my way to her, that she might restore them, as they have been in this state ten years, when I saw this man, and, being informed of what had befallen him, I determined not to quit the place until I should have seen what would happen between thee and him.—This is my story.—Verily, said the Jinnee, it is a wonderful tale; and I give up to thee a third of the claim that I had to his blood on account of his offence.
Upon this, the third sheykh, the owner of the mule, said to the Jinnee, As to me, break not my heart if I relate to thee nothing more than this:—
The Story of the Third Sheykh and the Mule The mule that thou seest was my wife: she became enamoured of a black slave; and when I discovered her with
him, she took a mug of water, and, having uttered a spell over it, sprinkled me, and transformed me into a dog. In this state, I ran to the shop of a butcher, whose daughter saw me, and, being skilled in enchantment, restored me to my original form, and instructed me to enchant my wife in the manner thou beholdest.—And now I hope that thou wilt remit to me also a third of the merchant’s offence. Divinely was he gifted who said,
Sow good, even on an unworthy soil; for it will not be lost wherever it is sown.
When the sheykh had thus finished his story, the Jinnee shook with delight, and remitted the remaining third of his claim to the merchant’s blood. The merchant then approached the sheykhs, and thanked them, and they con- gratulated him on his safety; and each went his way.
But this, said Shahrazád, is not more wonderful than the story of the fisherman. The King asked her, And what is the story of the fisherman? And she related it as follows:—
Chapter II Commencing with Part of the Third Night, and Ending with Part of the Ninth
The Story of the Fisherman There was a certain fisherman, advanced in age, who had a wife and three children; and though he was in indi-
gent circumstances, it was his custom to cast his net, every day, no more than four times. One day he went forth at the hour of noon to the shore of the sea, and put down his basket, and cast his net, and waited until it was motion- less in the water, when he drew together its strings, and found it to be heavy: he pulled, but could not draw it up: so he took the end of the cord, and knocked a stake into the shore, and tied the cord to it. He then stripped himself, and dived round the net, and continued to pull until he drew it out: whereupon he rejoiced, and put on his clothes; but when he came to examine the net, he found in it the carcass of an ass. At the sight of this he mourned, and exclaimed, There is no strength nor power but in God, the High, the Great! This is a strange piece of fortune!—And he repeated the following verse:—
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O thou who occupiest thyself in the darkness of night, and in peril! Spare thy trouble; for the support of Provi- dence is not obtained by toil!
He then disencumbered his net of the dead ass, and wrung it out; after which he spread it, and descended into the sea, and—exclaiming, In the name of God!—cast it again, and waited till it had sunk and was still, when he pulled it, and found it more heavy and more difficult to raise than on the former occasion. He therefore concluded that it was full of fish: so he tied it, and stripped, and plunged and dived, and pulled until he raised it, and drew it upon the shore; when he found in it only a large jar, full of sand and mud; on seeing which, he was troubled in his heart, and repeated the following words of the poet:—
O angry fate, forbear! or, if thou wilt not forbear, relent! Neither favour from fortune do I gain, nor profit from the work of my hands, I came forth to seek my sustenance, but have found it to be exhausted. How many of the ignorant are in splendour! and how many of the wise, in obscurity!
So saying, he threw aside the jar, and wrung out and cleansed his net; and, begging the forgiveness of God for his impatience, returned to the sea the third time, and threw the net, and waited till it had sunk and was motionless: he then drew it out, and found in it a quantity of broken jars and pots.
Upon this, he raised his head towards heaven, and said, O God, Thou knowest that I cast not my net more than four times; and I have now cast it three times! Then—exclaiming, In the name of God!—he cast the net again into the sea, and waited till it was still; when he attempted to draw it up, but could not, for it clung to the bottom. And he exclaimed, There is no strength nor power but in God!—and stripped himself again, and dived round the net, and pulled it until he raised it upon the shore; when he opened it, and found in it a bottle of brass, filled with some- thing, and having its mouth closed with a stopper of lead, bearing the impression of the seal of our lord Suleymán. At the sight of this, the fisherman was rejoiced, and said, This I will sell in the copper-market; for it is worth ten pieces of gold. He then shook it, and found it to be heavy, and said, I must open it, and see what is in it, and store it in my bag; and then I will sell the bottle in the copper-market. So he took out a knife, and picked at the lead until he extracted it from the bottle. He then laid the bottle on the ground, and shook it, that its contents might pour out; but there came forth from it nothing but smoke, which ascended towards the sky, and spread over the face of the earth; at which he wondered excessively. And after a little while, the smoke collected together, and was condensed, and then became agitated, and was converted into an ‘Efreet, whose head was in the clouds, while his feet rested upon the ground: his head was like a dome: his hands were like winnowing forks; and his legs, like masts: his mouth resembled a cavern: his teeth were like stones; his nostrils, like trumpets; and his eyes, like lamps; and he had di- shevelled and dust-coloured hair.
When the fisherman beheld this ‘Efreet, the muscles of his sides quivered, his teeth were locked together, his spittle dried up, and he saw not his way. The ‘Efreet, as soon as he perceived him, exclaimed, There is no deity but God: Suleymán is the Prophet of God. O Prophet of God, slay me not; for I will never again oppose thee in word, or rebel against thee in deed!—O Márid, said the fisherman, dost thou say, Suleymán is the Prophet of God? Suleymán hath been dead a thousand and eight hundred years; and we are now in the end of time. What is thy history, and what is thy tale, and what was the cause of thy entering this bottle? When the Márid heard these words of the fish- erman, he said, There is no deity but God! Receive news, O fisherman!—Of what, said the fisherman, dost thou give me news? He answered, Of thy being instantly put to a most cruel death. The fisherman exclaimed, Thou deservest, for this news, O master of the ‘Efreets, the withdrawal of protection from thee, O thou remote! Wherefore wouldst thou kill me? and what requires thy killing me, when I have liberated thee from the bottle, and rescued thee from the bottom of the sea, and brought thee up upon the dry land?—The ‘Efreet answered, Choose what kind of death thou wilt die, and in what manner thou shalt be killed.—What is my offence, said the fisherman, that this should be my recompense from thee? The ‘Efreet replied, Hear my story, O fisherman.—Tell it then, said the fisherman, and be short in thy words; for my soul hath sunk down to my feet.
Know then, said he, that I am one of the heretical Jinn: I rebelled against Suleymán the son of Dáood: I and Ṣakhr the Jinnee; and he sent to me his Wezeer, Áṣaf the son of Barkhiyà, who came upon me forcibly, and took me to him in bonds, and placed me before him: and when Suleymán saw me, he offered up a prayer for protection against me, and exhorted me to embrace the faith, and to submit to his authority; but I refused; upon which he called for this bottle, and confined me in it, and closed it upon me with the leaden stopper, which he stamped with the Most Great Name: he then gave orders to the Jinn, who carried me away, and threw me into the midst of the sea. There I remained a hundred years; and I said in my heart, Whosoever shall liberate me, I will enrich him for ever:—but the hundred years passed over me, and no one liberated me: and I entered upon another hundred years; and I said, Whosoever shall liberate me, I will open to him the treasures of the earth;—but no one did so: and four
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hundred years more passed over me, and I said, Whosoever shall liberate me, I will perform for him three wants:— but still no one liberated me. I then fell into a violent rage, and said within myself, Whosoever shall liberate me now, I will kill him; and only suffer him to choose in what manner he will die. And lo, now thou hast liberated me, and I have given thee thy choice of the manner in which thou wilt die.
When the fisherman had heard the story of the ‘Efreet, he exclaimed, O Allah! that I should not have liberated thee but in such a time as this! Then said he to the ‘Efreet, Pardon me, and kill me not, and so may God pardon thee; and destroy me not, lest God give power over thee to one who will destroy thee. The Márid answered, I must positively kill thee; therefore choose by what manner of death thou wilt die. The fisherman then felt assured of his death; but he again implored the ‘Efreet, saying, Pardon me by way of gratitude for my liberating thee.—Why, an- swered the ‘Efreet, I am not going to kill thee but for that very reason, because thou hast liberated me.—O Sheykh of the ‘Efreets, said the fisherman, do I act kindly towards thee, and dost thou recompense me with baseness? But the proverb lieth not that saith,—
We did good to them, and they returned us the contrary; and such, by my life, is the conduct of the wicked. Thus he who acteth kindly to the undeserving is recompensed in the same manner as the aider of Umm-’Ámir.
The ‘Efreet, when he heard these words, answered by saying, Covet not life, for thy death is unavoidable. Then said the fisherman within himself, This is a Jinnee, and I am a man; and God hath given me sound reason; there- fore, I will now plot his destruction with my art and reason, like as he hath plotted with his cunning and perfidy. So he said to the ‘Efreet, Hast thou determined to kill me? He answered, Yes. Then said he, By the Most Great Name engraved upon the seal of Suleymán, I will ask thee one question; and wilt thou answer it to me truly? On hearing the mention of the Most Great Name, the ‘Efreet was agitated, and trembled, and replied, Yes; ask, and be brief. The fisherman then said, How wast thou in this bottle? It will not contain thy hand or thy foot; how then can it con- tain thy whole body?—Dost thou not believe that I was in it? said the ‘Efreet. The fisherman answered, I will never believe thee until I see thee in it. Upon this, the ‘Efreet shook, and became converted again into smoke, which rose to the sky, and then became condensed, and entered the bottle by little and little, until it was all enclosed; when the fisherman hastily snatched the sealed leaden stopper, and, having replaced it in the mouth of the bottle, called out to the ‘Efreet, and said, Choose in what manner of death thou wilt die. I will assuredly throw thee here into the sea, and build me a house on this spot; and whosoever shall come here, I will prevent his fishing in this place, and will say to him, Here is an ‘Efreet, who, to any person that liberates him, will propose various kinds of death, and then give him his choice of one of them. On hearing these words of the fisherman, the ‘Efreet endeavoured to escape; but could not, finding himself restrained by the impression of the seal of Suleymán, and thus imprisoned by the fish- erman as the vilest and filthiest and least of ‘Efreets. The fisherman then took the bottle to the brink of the sea. The ‘Efreet exclaimed, Nay! nay!—to which the fisherman answered, Yea, without fail! yea, without fail! The Márid then addressing him with a soft voice and humble manner, said, What dost thou intend to do with me, O fisherman? He answered, I will throw thee into the sea; and if thou hast been there a thousand and eight hundred years, I will make thee to remain there until the hour of judgment. Did I not say to thee, Spare me, and so may God spare thee; and destroy me not, lest God destroy thee? But thou didst reject my petition, and wouldest nothing but treachery; therefore God hath caused thee to fall into my hand, and I have betrayed thee.—Open to me, said the ‘Efreet, that I may confer benefits upon thee. The fisherman replied, Thou liest, thou accursed! I and thou are like the Wezeer of King Yoonán and the sage Doobán.—What, said the ‘Efreet, was the case of the Wezeer of King Yoonán and the sage Doobán, and what is their story? The fisherman answered as follows:—
The Story of King Yoonán and the Sage of Doobán Know, O ‘Efreet, that there was, in former times, in the country of the Persians, a monarch who was called King
Yoonán, possessing great treasures and numerous forces, valiant, and having troops of every description; but he was afflicted with leprosy, which the physicians and sages had failed to remove; neither their potions, nor powders, nor ointments were of any benefit to him; and none of the physicians was able to cure him. At length there arrived at the city of this king a great sage, stricken in years, who was called the sage Doobán: he was acquainted with ancient Greek, Persian, modern Greek, Arabic, and Syriac books, and with medicine and astrology, both with respect to their scientific principles and the rules of their practical applications for good and evil; as well as the properties of plants, dried and fresh, the injurious and the useful: he was versed in the wisdom of the philosophers, and em- braced a knowledge of all the medical and other sciences.
After this sage had arrived in the city, and remained in it a few days, he heard of the case of the King, of the leprosy with which God had afflicted him, and that the physicians and men of science had failed to cure him. In consequence of this information, he passed the next night in deep study; and when the morning came, and diffused
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its light, and the sun saluted the Ornament of the Good, he attired himself in the richest of his apparel, and present- ed himself before the King. Having kissed the ground before him, and offered up a prayer for the continuance of his power and happiness, and greeted him in the best manner he was able, he informed him who he was, and said, O King, I have heard of the disease which hath attacked thy person, and that many of the physicians are unacquainted with the means of removing it; and I will cure thee without giving thee to drink any potion, or anointing thee with ointment. When King Yoonán heard his words, he wondered, and said to him, How wilt thou do this? By Allah, if thou cure me, I will enrich thee and thy children’s children, and I will heap favours upon thee, and whatever thou shalt desire shall be thine, and thou shalt be my companion and my friend.—He then bestowed upon him a robe of honour, and other presents, and said to him, Wilt thou cure me of this disease without potion or ointment? He answered, Yes; I will cure thee without any discomfort to thy person. And the King was extremely astonished, and said, O Sage, at what time, and on what day, shall that which thou hast proposed to me be done? Hasten it, O my Son.—He answered, I hear and obey.
He then went out from the presence of the King, and hired a house, in which he deposited his books, and medicines, and drugs. Having done this, he selected certain of his medicines and drugs, and made a goff-stick, with a hollow handle, into which he introduced them; after which he made a ball for it, skilfully adapted; and on the following day, after he had finished these, he went again to the King, and kissed the ground before him, and direct- ed him to repair to the horse-course, and to play with the ball and goff-stick. The King, attended by his Emeers and Chamberlains and Wezeers, went thither, and, as soon as he arrived there, the sage Doobán presented himself be- fore him, and handed to him the goff-stick, saying, Take this goff-stick, and grasp it thus, and ride along the horse- course, and strike the ball with it with all thy force, until the palm of thy hand and thy whole body become moist with perspiration, when the medicine will penetrate into thy hand, and pervade thy whole body; and when thou hast done this, and the medicine remains in thee, return to thy palace, and enter the bath, and wash thyself, and sleep: then shalt thou find thyself cured: and peace be on thee. So King Yoonán took the goff-stick from the sage, and grasped it in his hand, and mounted his horse; and the ball was thrown before him, and he urged his horse after it until he overtook it, when he struck it with all his force; and when he had continued this exercise as long as was necessary, and bathed and slept, he looked upon his skin, and not a vestige of the leprosy remained: it was clear as white silver. Upon this he rejoiced exceedingly; his heart was dilated, and he was full of happiness.
On the following morning he entered the council-chamber, and sat upon his throne; and the Chamberlains and great officers of his court came before him. The sage Doobán also presented himself; and when the King saw him, he rose to him in haste, and seated him by his side. Services of food were then spread before them, and the sage ate with the King, and remained as his guest all the day; and when the night approached, the King gave him two thousand pieces of gold, besides dresses of honour and other presents, and mounted him on his own horse, and so the sage returned to his house. And the King was astonished at his skill; saying, This man hath cured me by an external pro- cess, without anointing me with ointment: by Allah, this is consummate science; and it is incumbent on me to bestow favours and honours upon him, and to make him my companion and familiar friend as long as I live. He passed the night happy and joyful on account of his recovery, and when he arose, he went forth again, and sat upon his throne; the officers of his court standing before him, and the Emeers and Wezeers sitting on his right hand and on his left; and he called for the sage Doobán, who came, and kissed the ground before him; and the King rose, and seated him by his side, and ate with him, and greeted him with compliments: he bestowed upon him again a robe of honour and other presents, and, after conversing with him till the approach of night, gave orders that five other robes of honour should be given to him, and a thousand pieces of gold; and the sage departed, and returned to his house.
Again, when the next morning came, the King went as usual to his council-chamber, and the Emeers and Wezeers and Chamberlains surrounded him. Now there was, among his Wezeers, one of ill aspect, and of evil star; sordid, avaricious, and of an envious and malicious disposition; and when he saw that the King had made the sage Doobán his friend, and bestowed upon him these favours, he envied him this distinction, and meditated evil against him; agreeably with the adage which saith, There is no one void of envy;—and another, which saith, Tyran- ny lurketh in the soul: power manifesteth it, and weakness concealeth it. So he approached the King, and kissed the ground before him, and said, O King of the age, thou art he whose goodness extendeth to all men, and I have an important piece of advice to give thee: if I were to conceal it from thee, I should be a base-born wretch: therefore, if thou order me to impart it, I will do so. The King, disturbed by these words of the Wezeer, said, What is thy advice? He answered, O glorious King, it hath been said, by the ancients, He who looketh not to results, fortune will not at- tend him:—now I have seen the King in a way that is not right; since he hath bestowed favours upon his enemy, and upon him who desireth the downfall of his dominion: he hath treated him with kindness, and honoured him with the highest honours, and admitted him to the closest intimacy: I therefore fear, for the King, the consequence of this conduct.—At this the King was troubled, and his countenance changed; and he said, Who is he whom thou re- gardest as mine enemy, and to whom I shew kindness? He replied, O King, if thou hast been asleep, awake! I allude to the sage Doobán.—The King said, He is my intimate companion, and the dearest of men in my estimation; for he
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restored me by a thing that I merely held in my hand, and cured me of my disease which the physicians were unable to remove, and there is not now to be found one like to him in the whole world, from west to east. Wherefore, then, dost thou utter these words against him? I will, from this day, appoint him a regular salary and maintenance, and give him every month a thousand pieces of gold; and if I gave him a share of my kingdom it were but a small thing to do unto him. I do not think that thou hast said this from any other motive than that of envy. If I did what thou desirest, I should repent after it, as the man repented who killed his parrot.
The Story of the Husband and the Parrot There was a certain merchant, of an excessively jealous disposition, having a wife endowed with perfect beauty,
who had prevented him from leaving his home; but an event happened which obliged him to make a journey; and when he found his doing so to be indispensable, he went to the market in which birds were sold, and bought a par- rot, which he placed in his house to act as a spy, that, on his return, she might inform him of what passed during his absence; for this parrot was cunning and intelligent, and remembered whatever she heard. So, when he had made his journey, and accomplished his business, he returned, and caused the parrot to be brought to him, and asked her respecting the conduct of his wife. She answered, Thy wife has a lover, who visited her every night during thy ab- sence:—and when the man heard this, he fell into a violent rage, and went to his wife, and gave her a severe beating.
The woman imagined that one of the female slaves had informed him of what had passed between her and her paramour during his absence: she therefore called them together, and made them swear; and they all swore that they had not told their master anything of the matter; but confessed that they had heard the parrot relate to him what had passed. Having thus established, on the testimony of the slaves, the fact of the parrot’s having informed her husband of her intrigue, she ordered one of these slaves to grind with a hand-mill under the cage, another to sprinkle water from above, and a third to move a mirror from side to side, during the next night on which her hus- band was absent; and on the following morning, when the man returned from an entertainment at which he had been present, and inquired again of the parrot what had passed that night during his absence, the bird answered, O my master, I could neither see nor hear anything, on account of the excessive darkness, and thunder, and lightning, and rain. Now this happened during summer: so he said to her, What strange words are these? It is now summer, when nothing of what thou hast described ever happens.—The parrot, however, swore by Allah the Great that what she had said was true; and that it had so happened: upon which the man, not understanding the case, nor knowing the plot, became violently enraged, and took out the bird from the cage, and threw her down upon the ground with such violence that he killed her.
But after some days, one of his female slaves informed him of the truth; yet he would not believe it, until he saw his wife’s paramour going out from his house; when he drew his sword, and slew the traitor by a blow on the back of his neck: so also did he to his treacherous wife; and thus both of them went, laden with the sin which they had committed, to the fire; and the merchant discovered that the parrot had informed him truly of what she had seen; and he mourned grievously for her loss.
When the Wezeer heard these words of King Yoonán, he said, O King of great dignity, what hath this crafty sage—this man from whom nought but mischief proceedeth—done unto me, that I should be his enemy, and speak evil of him, and plot with thee to destroy him? I have informed thee respecting him in compassion for thee, and in fear of his despoiling thee of thy happiness; and if my words be not true, destroy me, as the Wezeer of Es-Sindibád was destroyed.—The King asked, How was that? And the Wezeer thus answered:—
The Story of the Envious Wezeer and the Prince and the Ghooleh The King above mentioned had a son who was ardently fond of the chase; and he had a Wezeer whom he
charged to be always with this son wherever he went. One day the son went forth to hunt, and his father’s Wezeer was with him; and as they rode together, they saw a great wild beast; upon which the Wezeer exclaimed to the Prince, Away after this wild beast! The King’s son pursued it until he was out of the sight of his attendants, and the beast also escaped from before his eyes in the desert; and while the Prince wandered in perplexity, not knowing whither to direct his course, he met in his way a damsel, who was weeping. He said to her, Who art thou?—and she answered, I am a daughter of one of the kings of India; I was in the desert, and slumber overtook me, and I fell from my horse in a state of insensibility, and being thus separated from my attendants, I lost my way. The Prince, on hearing this, pitied her forlorn state, and placed her behind him on his horse; and as they proceeded, they passed by a ruin, and the damsel said to him, O my master, I would alight here for a little while. The Prince therefore lifted her from his horse at this ruin; but she delayed so long to return, that he wondered wherefore she had loitered so, and entering after her, without her knowledge, perceived that she was a Ghooleh, and heard her say, My children, I have brought you to-day a fat young man:—on which they exclaimed, Bring him in to us, O mother! that we may fill our stomachs with his flesh. When the Prince heard their words, he felt assured of destruction; the muscles of his sides
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quivered, and fear overcame him, and he retreated. The Ghooleh then came forth, and, seeing that he appeared alarmed and fearful, and that he was trembling, said to him, Wherefore dost thou fear? He answered, I have an ene- my of whom I am in fear. The Ghooleh said, Thou assertest thyself to be the son of the King. He replied, Yes.—Then, said she, wherefore dost thou not give some money to thine enemy, and so conciliate him? He answered, He will not be appeased with money, nor with anything but life; and therefore do I fear him: I am an injured man. She then said to him, If thou be an injured man, as thou affirmest, beg aid of God against thine oppressor, and He will avert from thee his mischievous design, and that of every other person whom thou fearest. Upon this, therefore, the Prince raised his head towards heaven, and said, O thou who answerest the distressed when he prayeth to Thee, and dispellest evil, assist me, and cause mine enemy to depart from me; for Thou art able to do whatsoever Thou wilt!—and the Ghooleh no sooner heard his prayer, than she departed from him. The Prince then returned to his father, and informed him of the conduct of the Wezeer; upon which the King gave orders that the minister should be put to death.
Continuation of the Story of King Yoonán and the Safe Doobán And thou, O King, continued the Wezeer of King Yoonán, if thou trust in this sage, he will kill thee in the
foulest manner. If thou continue to bestow favours upon him, and to make him thine intimate companion, he will plot thy destruction. Dost thou not see that he hath cured thee of the disease by external means, by a thing that thou heldest in thy hand? Therefore thou art not secure against his killing thee by a thing that thou shalt hold in the same manner.—King Yoonán answered, Thou hast spoken truth: the case is as thou hast said, O faithful Wezeer: it is probable that this sage came as a spy to accomplish my death; and if he cured me by a thing I held in my hand, he may destroy me by a thing that I may smell: what then, O Wezeer, shall be done respecting him? The Wezeer answered, Send to him immediately, and desire him to come hither; and when he is come, strike off his head, and so shalt thou avert from thee his evil design, and be secure from him. Betray him before he betray thee.—The King said, Thou hast spoken right.
Immediately, therefore, he sent for the sage, who came, full of joy, not knowing what the Compassionate had decreed against him, and addressed the King with these words of the poet:—
If I fail any day to render thee due thanks, tell me for whom I have composed my verse and prose. Thou hast loaded me with favours unsolicited, bestowed without delay on thy part, or excuse. How then should I abstain from praising thee as thou deservest, and lauding thee both with my heart and voice? Nay, I will thank thee for thy benefits conferred upon me: they are light upon my tongue, though weighty to my back.
Knowest thou, said the King, wherefore I have summoned thee? The sage answered, None knoweth what is se- cret but God, whose name be exalted! Then said the King, I have summoned thee that I may take away thy life. The sage, in the utmost astonishment at this announcement, said, O King, wherefore wouldst thou kill me, and what of- fence hath been committed by me? The King answered, It hath been told me that thou art a spy, and that thou hast come hither to kill me: but I will prevent thee by killing thee first:—and so saying, he called out to the executioner, Strike off the head of this traitor, and relieve me from his wickedness,—Spare me, said the sage, and so may God spare thee; and destroy me not, lest God destroy thee.—And he repeated these words several times, like as I did, O ‘Efreet; but thou wouldst not let me go, desiring to destroy me.
King Yoonán then said to the sage Doobán, I shall not be secure unless I kill thee; for thou curedst me by a thing that I held in my hand, and I have no security against thy killing me by a thing that I may smell, or by some other means.—O King, said the sage, is this my recompense from thee? Dost thou return evil for good?—The King answered, Thou must be slain without delay. When the sage, therefore, was convinced that the King intended to put him to death, and that his fate was inevitable, he lamented the benefit that he had done to the undeserving. The executioner then advanced, and bandaged his eyes, and, having drawn his sword, said, Give permission. Upon this the sage wept, and said again, Spare me, and so may God spare thee; and destroy me not, lest God destroy thee! Wouldst thou return me the recompense of the crocodile?—What, said the King, is the story of the crocodile? The sage answered, I cannot relate it while in this condition; but I conjure thee by Allah to spare me, and so may He spare thee. And he wept bitterly. Then one of the chief officers of the King arose, and said, O King, give up to me the blood of this sage; for we have not seen him commit any offence against thee; nor have we seen him do aught but cure thee of thy disease, which wearied the other physicians and sages. The King answered, Ye know not the reason wherefore I would kill the sage: it is this, that if I suffered him to live, I should myself inevitably perish; for he who cured me of the disease under which I suffered by a thing that I held in my hand, may kill me by a thing that I may smell; and I fear that he would do so, and would receive an appointment on account of it; seeing that it is probable he is a spy who hath come hither to kill me; I must therefore kill him, and then shall I feel myself safe.—The sage then said again, Spare me, and so may God spare thee; and destroy me not, lest God destroy thee.
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But he now felt certain, O ‘Efreet, that the King would put him to death, and that there was no escape for him; so he said, O King, if my death is indispensable, grant me some respite, that I may return to my house, and acquit myself of my duties, and give directions to my family and neighbours to bury me, and dispose of my medical books; and among my books is one of most especial value, which I offer as a present to thee, that thou mayest treasure it in thy library.—And what, said the King, is this book? He answered, It contains things not to be enumerated; and the smallest of the secret virtues that it possesses is this; that, when thou hast cut off my head, if thou open this book, and count three leaves, and then read three lines on the page to the left, the head will speak to thee, and answer whatever thou shalt ask. At this the King was excessively astonished, and shook with delight, and said to him, O
Sage, when I have cut off thy head will it speak? He answered, Yes, O King; and this is a wonderful thing.
The King then sent him in the custody of guards; and the sage descended to his house, and settled all his affairs on that day; and on the following day he went up to the court: and the Emeers and Wezeers, and Chamberlains and Deputies, and all the great officers of the state, went thither also: and the court resembled a flower-garden. And when the sage had entered, he presented himself before the King, bearing an old book, and a small pot containing a powder: and he sat down, and said, Bring me a tray. So they brought him one; and he poured out the powder into it, and spread it. He then said, O King, take this book, and do nothing with it until thou hast cut off my head; and when thou hast done so, place it upon this tray, and order some one to press it down upon the powder; and when this is done, the blood will be stanched: then open the book. As soon as the sage had said this, the King gave orders to strike off his head; and it was done. The King then opened the book, and found that its leaves were stuck together; so he put his finger to his mouth, and moistened it with his spittle, and opened the first leaf, and the second, and the third; but the leaves were not opened without difficulty. He opened six leaves, and looked at them; but found upon them no writing. So he said, O Sage, there is nothing written in it. The head of the sage answered, Turn over more leaves. The King did so; and in a little while, the poison penetrated into his system; for the book was poisoned; and the King fell back, and cried out, The poison hath penetrated into me!—and upon this, the head of the sage Doobán repeated these verses:—
They made use of their power, and used it tyrannically; and soon it became as though it never had existed.
Had they acted equitably, they had experienced equity; but they oppressed; wherefore fortune oppressed them with calam- ities and trials.
Then did the case itself announce to them, This is the re- ward of your conduct, and fortune is blameless.
And when the head of the sage Doobán had uttered these words, the King immediately fell down dead.
Continuation of the Story of the Fisherman Now, O ‘Efreet, continued the fisherman, know that if King Yoonán had spared the sage Doobán, God had
spared him; but he refused, and desired his destruction; therefore God destroyed him: and thou, O ‘Efreet, if thou hadst spared me, God had spared thee, and I had spared thee; but thou desiredst my death; therefore will I put thee to death imprisoned in this bottle, and will throw thee here into the sea. The Márid, upon this, cried out, and said, I conjure thee by Allah, O fisherman, that thou do it not: spare me in generosity, and be not angry with me for what I did; but if I have done evil, do thou good, according to the proverb,—O thou benefactor of him who hath done evil,
Image 6.9: The Story of Seyf ol-Molûk and Badî`ol-Jamâl | This Indian manuscript with il- lustrations shares a common tale with The Thousand and One Nights.
Author: User “e-codices” Source: Flickr License: CC BY-NC
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the action that he hath done is sufficient for him:—do not therefore as Umámeh did to ‘Átikeh.—And what, said the fisherman, was their case? The ‘Efreet answered, This is not a time for telling stories, when I am in this prison; but when thou liberatest me, I will relate to thee their case. The fisherman said, Thou must be thrown into the sea, and there shall be no way of escape for thee from it; for I endeavoured to propitiate thee, and humbled myself before thee, yet thou wouldest nothing but my destruction, though I had committed no offence to deserve it, and had done no evil to thee whatever, but only good, delivering thee from thy confinement; and when thou didst thus unto me, I perceived that thou wast radically corrupt: and I would have thee know, that my motive for throwing thee into this sea, is, that I may acquaint with thy story every one that shall take thee out, and caution him against thee, that he may cast thee in again: thus shalt thou remain in this sea to the end of time, and experience varieties of torment.— The ‘Efreet then said, Liberate me, for this is an opportunity for thee to display humanity; and I vow to thee that I will never do thee harm; but, on the contrary, will do thee a service that shall enrich thee for ever.
Upon this the fisherman accepted his covenant that he would not hurt him, but that he would do him good; and when he had bound him by oaths and vows, and made him swear by the Most Great Name of God, he opened to him; and the smoke ascended until it had all come forth, and then collected together, and became, as before, an ‘Efreet of hideous form. The ‘Efreet then kicked the bottle into the sea. When the fisherman saw him do this, he made sure of destruction, and said, This is no sign of good:—but afterwards he fortified his heart, and said, O ‘Efreet, God, whose name be exalted, hath said, Perform the covenant, for the covenant shall be inquired into:—and thou has covenanted with me, and sworn that thou wilt not act treacherously towards me; therefore, if thou so act, God will recompense thee; for He is jealous; He respiteth, but suffereth not to escape; and remember that I said to thee as said the sage Doobán to King Yoonán, Spare me, and so may God spare thee.
The ‘Efreet laughed, and, walking on before him, said, O fisherman, follow me. The fisherman did so, not believing in his escape, until they had quitted the neighbourhood of the city, and ascended a mountain, and de- scended into a wide desert tract, in the midst of which was a lake of water. Here the ‘Efreet stopped, and ordered the fisherman to cast his net and take some fish; and the fisherman, looking into the lake, saw in it fish of different colours, white and red and blue and yellow; at which he was astonished; and he cast his net, and drew it in, and found in it four fish, each fish of a different colour from the others, at the sight of which he rejoiced. The ‘Efreet then said to him, Take them to the Sulṭán, and present them to him, and he will give thee what will enrich thee; and for the sake of God accept my excuse, for, at present, I know no other way of rewarding thee, having been in the sea a thousand and eight hundred years, and not seen the surface of the earth until now: but take not fish from the lake more than once each day: and now I commend thee to the care of God.—Having thus said, he struck the earth with his feet, and it clove asunder, and swallowed him.
The fisherman then went back to the city, wondering at all that had befallen him with the ‘Efreet, and carried the fish to his house; and he took an earthen bowl, and, having filled it with water, put the fish into it; and they struggled in the water: and when he had done this, he placed the bowl upon his head, and repaired to the King’s palace, as the ‘Efreet had commanded him, and, going up unto the King, presented to him the fish; and the King was excessively astonished at them, for he had never seen any like them in the course of his life; and he said, Give these fish to the slave cook-maid. This maid had been sent as a present to him by the King of the Greeks, three days before; and he had not yet tried her skill. The Wezeer, therefore, ordered her to fry the fish, and said to her, O maid, the King saith unto thee, I have not reserved my tear but for the time of my difficulty:—to-day, then, gratify us by a specimen of thy excellent cookery, for a person hath brought these fish as a present to the Sulṭán. After having thus charged her, the Wezeer returned, and the King ordered him to give the fisherman four hundred pieces of gold: so the Wezeer gave them to him; and he took them in his lap, and returned to his home and his wife, joyful and happy, and bought what was needful for his family.
Such were the events that befell the fisherman: now we must relate what happened to the maid.—She took the fish, and cleaned them, and arranged them in the frying-pan, and left them until one side was cooked, when she turned them upon the other side; and lo, the wall of the kitchen clove asunder, and there came forth from it a dam- sel of tall stature, smooth-cheeked, of perfect form, with eyes adorned with koḥl, beautiful in countenance, and with heavy, swelling hips; wearing a koofeeyeh interwoven with blue silk; with rings in her ears, and bracelets on her wrists, and rings set with precious jewels on her fingers; and in her hand was a rod of Indian cane: and she dipped the end of the rod in the frying-pan, and said, O fish, are ye remaining faithful to your covenant? At the sight of this, the cook-maid fainted. The damsel then repeated the same words a second and a third time; after which the fish raised their heads from the frying-pan, and answered, Yes, yes. They then repeated the following verse:—
If thou return, we return; and if thou come, we come; and if thou forsake, we verily do the same.
And upon this the damsel overturned the frying-pan, and departed by the way she had entered, and the wall of the kitchen closed up again. The cook-maid then arose, and beheld the four fish burnt like charcoal; and she ex-
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claimed, In his first encounter his staff broke!—and as she sat reproaching herself, she beheld the Wezeer standing at her head; and he said to her, Bring the fish to the Sulṭán:—and she wept, and informed him of what had hap- pened.
The Wezeer was astonished at her words, and exclaimed, This is indeed a wonderful event;—and he sent for the fisherman, and when he was brought, he said to him, O fisherman, thou must bring to us four fish like those which thou broughtest before. The fisherman accordingly went forth to the lake, and threw his net, and when he had drawn it in he found in it four fish as before; and he took them to the Wezeer, who went with them to the maid, and said to her, Rise, and fry them in my presence, that I may witness this occurrence. The maid, therefore, prepared the fish, and put them in the frying-pan, and they had remained but a little while, when the wall clove asunder, and the damsel appeared, clad as before, and holding the rod; and she dipped the end of the rod in the frying-pan, and said, O fish, O fish, are ye remaining faithful to your old covenant? Upon which they raised their heads, and answered as before; and the damsel overturned the frying-pan with the rod, and returned by the way she had entered, and the wall closed up again.
The Wezeer then said, This is an event which cannot be concealed from the King:—so he went to him, and informed him of what had happened in his presence; and the King said, I must see this with my own eyes. He sent, therefore, to the fisherman, and commanded him to bring four fish like the former; granting him a delay of three days. And the fisherman repaired to the lake, and brought the fish thence to the King, who ordered again that four hundred pieces of gold should be given to him; and then, turning to the Wezeer, said to him, Cook the fish thyself here before me. The Wezeer answered, I hear and obey. He brought the frying-pan, and, after he had cleaned the fish, threw them into it; and as soon as he had turned them, the wall clove asunder, and there came forth from it a negro, in size like a bull, or like one of the tribe of ‘Ád, having in his hand a branch of a green tree; and he said, with a clear but terrifying voice, O fish, O fish, are ye remaining faithful to your old covenant? Upon which they raised their heads, and answered as before, Yes, yes:
If thou return, we return; and if thou come, we come; and if thou forsake, we verily do the same.
The black then approached the frying-pan, and overturned it with the branch, and the fish became like char- coal, and he went away as he had come.
When he had thus disappeared from before their eyes, the King said, This is an event respecting which it is impossible to keep silence, and there must, undoubtedly, be some strange circumstance connected with these fish. He then ordered that the fisherman should be brought before him, and when he had come, he said to him, Whence came these fish? The fisherman answered, From a lake between four mountains behind this mountain which is without thy city. The King said to him, How many days’ journey distant? He answered, O our lord the Sulṭán, a journey of half-an-hour. And the Sulṭán was astonished, and ordered his troops to go out immediately with him and the fisherman, who began to curse the ‘Efreet. They proceeded until they had ascended the mountain, and descended into a wide desert tract which they had never before seen in their whole lives; and the Sulṭán and all the troops wondered at the sight of this desert, which was between four mountains, and at the fish, which were of four colours, red and white and yellow and blue. The King paused in astonishment, and said to the troops, and to the other attendants who were with him, Hath any one of you before seen this lake in this place? They all answered, No. Then said the King, By Allah, I will not enter my city, nor will I sit upon my throne, until I know the true history of this lake, and of its fish. And upon this he ordered his people to encamp around these mountains; and they did so. He then called for the Wezeer, who was a well-informed, sensible, prudent, and learned man; and when he had presented himself before him, he said to him, I desire to do a thing with which I will acquaint thee; and it is this:—I have resolved to depart alone this night, to seek for information respecting this lake and its fish: therefore, sit thou at the door of my pavilion, and say to the Emeers and Wezeers and Chamberlains, The Sulṭán is sick, and hath com- manded me not to allow any person to go in unto him:—and acquaint no one with my intention.
The Wezeer was unable to oppose his design; so the King disguised himself, and slung on his sword, and with- drew himself from the midst of his troops. He journeyed the whole of the night, until the morning, and proceeded until the heat became oppressive to him: he then paused to rest; after which he again proceeded the remainder of the day and the second night until the morning, when there appeared before him, in the distance, something black, at the sight of which he rejoiced, and said, Perhaps I shall there find some person who will inform me of the history of the lake and its fish. And when he approached this black object, he found it to be a palace built of black stones, and overlaid with iron; and one of the leaves of its doors was open, and the other shut. The King was glad, and he stood at the door, and knocked gently, but heard no answer; he knocked a second and a third time, but again heard no answer: then he knocked a fourth time, and with violence; but no one answered. So he said, It is doubtless empty:—and he took courage, and entered from the door into the passage, and cried out, saying, O inhabitants of the palace, I am a stranger and a traveller! have ye any provision? And he repeated these words a second and a third
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time; but heard no answer. And upon this he fortified his heart, and emboldened himself, and proceeded from the passage into the midst of the palace; but he found no one there, and only saw that it was furnished, and that there was, in the centre of it, a fountain with four lions of red gold, which poured forth the water from their mouths, like pearls and jewels: around this were birds; and over the top of the palace was extended a net which prevented their flying out. At the sight of these objects he was astonished, and he was grieved that he saw no person there whom he could ask for information respecting the lake, and the fish, and the mountains, and the palace. He then sat down between the doors, reflecting upon these things; and as he thus sat, he heard a voice of lamentation from a sorrow- ful heart, chanting these verses:—
O fortune, thou pitiest me not, nor releasest me! See my heart is straitened between affliction and peril! Will not you [O my wife] have compassion on the mighty whom love hath abased, and the wealthy who is
reduced to indigence? We were jealous even of the zephyr which passed over you: but when the divine decree is issued, the eye be-
cometh blind! What resource hath the archer when, in the hour of conflict, he desireth to discharge the arrow, but findeth his
bow-string broken. And when troubles are multiplied upon the noble-minded, where shall he find refuge from fate and from destiny?
When the Sulṭán heard this lamentation, he sprang upon his feet, and, seeking the direction whence it pro- ceeded, found a curtain suspended before the door of a chamber; and he raised it, and beheld behind it a young man sitting on a couch raised to the height of a cubit from the floor. He was a handsome youth, well-shaped, and of eloquent speech, with shining forehead, and rosy cheek, marked with a mole resembling ambergris. The King was rejoiced at seeing him, and saluted him; and the young man (who remained sitting, and was clad with a vest of silk, embroidered with gold, but who exhibited traces of grief ) returned his salutation, and said to him, O my master, excuse my not rising.—O youth! said the King, inform me respecting the lake, and its fish of various colours, and respecting this palace, and the reason of thy being alone in it, and of thy lamentation. When the young man heard these words, tears trickled down his cheeks, and he wept bitterly. And the King was astonished, and said to him, What causeth thee to weep, O youth? He answered, How can I refrain from weeping, when this is my state?—and so saying, he stretched forth his hand, and lifted up the skirts of his clothing; and lo, half of him, from his waist to the soles of his feet, was stone; and from his waist to the hair of his head, he was like other men. He then said, Know, O King, that the story of the fish is extraordinary; if it were engraved upon the intellect, it would be a lesson to him who would be admonished:—and he related as follows:—
The Story of the Young King of the Black Islands My father was king of the city which was here situate: his name was Maḥmood, and he was lord of the Black
Islands, and of the four mountains. After a reign of seventy years, he died, and I succeeded to his throne; whereup- on I took as my wife the daughter of my uncle; and she loved me excessively, so that when I absented myself from her, she would neither eat nor drink till she saw me again. She remained under my protection five years. After this, she went one day to the bath; and I had commanded the cook to prepare the supper, and entered this palace, and slept in my usual place. I had ordered two maids to fan me; and one of them sat at my head, and the other at my feet; but I was restless, because my wife was not with me; and I could not sleep. My eyes were closed, but my spirit was awake; and I heard the maid at my head say to her at my feet, O Mes’oodeh, verily our lord is unfortunate in his youth, and what a pity is it that it should be passed with our depraved, wicked mistress!—Perdition to unfaith- ful wives! replied the other: but (added she) such a person as our lord, so endowed by nature, is not suited to this profligate woman, who passes every night absent from his bed.—Verily, rejoined she at my head, our lord is careless in not making any inquiry respecting her.—Wo to thee! said the other: hath our lord any knowledge of her conduct, or doth she leave him to his choice? Nay, on the contrary, she contriveth to defraud him by means of the cup of wine which he drinketh every night before he sleepeth, putting benj into it; in consequence of which he sleepeth so soundly that he knoweth not what happeneth, nor whither she goeth, nor what she doeth; for, after she hath given him the wine to drink, she dresseth herself, and goeth out from him, and is absent until daybreak, when she retur- neth to him, and burneth a perfume under his nose, upon which he awaketh from his sleep.
When I heard this conversation of the maids, the light became darkness before my face, and I was hardly con- scious of the approach of night, when my cousin returned from the bath. The table was prepared, and we ate, and sat a while drinking our wine as usual. I then called for the wine which I was accustomed to drink before I lay down to sleep, and she handed to me the cup; but I turned away, and, pretending to drink it as I was wont to do, poured it into my bosom, and immediately lay down: upon which she said, Sleep on; I wish that thou wouldst never wake
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again! By Allah, I abhor thee, and abhor thy person, and my soul is weary of thy company!—She then arose, and attired herself in the most magnificent of her apparel, and, having perfumed herself, and slung on a sword, opened the door of the palace, and went out. I got up immediately, and followed her until she had quitted the palace, and passed through the streets of the city, and arrived at the city-gates, when she pronounced some words that I un- derstood not; whereupon the locks fell off, and the gates opened, and she went out, I still following her, without her knowledge. Thence she proceeded to a space among the mounds, and arrived at a strong edifice, in which was a ḳubbeh constructed of mud, with a door, which she entered. I then climbed upon the roof of the ḳubbeh, and, looking down upon her through an aperture, saw that she was visiting a black slave, whose large lips, one of which overlapped the other, gathered up the sand from the pebbly floor, while he lay, in a filthy and wet condition, upon a few stalks of sugar-cane.
She kissed the ground before this slave; and he raised his head towards her, and said, Wo to thee! Wherefore hast thou remained away until this hour? The other blacks have been here drinking wine, and each of them has gone away with his mistress; and I refused to drink on thy account.—She answered, O my master, and beloved of my heart, knowest thou not that I am married to my cousin, and that I abhor every man who resembles him, and hate myself while I am in his company? If I did not fear to displease thee, I would reduce the city to ruins, so that the owl and the raven should cry in it, and would transport its stones beyond Mount Ḳáf.—Thou liest, thou infa- mous woman, replied the slave; and I swear by the generosity of the blacks (and if I speak not truth, may our valour be as the valour of the whites), that if thou loiter as thou hast now done till this hour, I will no longer give thee my company, nor approach thy person, thou faithless one! Dost thou inconvenience me for the sake of thine own plea- sure, thou filthy wretch, and vilest of the whites?—When I heard (continued the King) their words, and witnessed what passed between them, the world became dark before my face, and I knew not where I was.—My cousin still stood weeping, and abasing herself before him, and said, O my beloved, and treasure of my heart, there remaineth to me none but thee for whom I care, and if thou cast me off, alas for me! O my beloved! O light of mine eye!—Thus she continued to weep, and to humble herself before him, until he became pacified towards her; upon which she rejoiced, and arose, and, having disrobed herself, said to him, O my master, hast thou here anything that thy maid may eat? He answered, Uncover the dough-pan; it contains some cooked rats’ bones: eat of them, and pick them; and take this earthen pot: thou wilt find in it some booẓah to drink. So she arose, and ate and drank, and washed her hands; after which she lay down by the side of the slave, upon the stalks of sugar-cane, and covered herself with his tattered clothes and rags.
When I saw her do this, I became unconscious of my existence, and, descending from the roof of the ḳubbeh, entered, and took the sword from the side of my cousin, with the intention of killing them both. I struck the slave upon his neck, and thought that he was killed; but the blow, which I gave with the view of severing his head, only cut the gullet and skin and flesh; and when I thought that I had killed him, he uttered a loud snore, upon which my cousin started up, and as soon as I had gone, took the sword, and returned it to its scabbard, and came back to the city and to the palace, and lay down again in my bed, in which she remained until the morning.
On the following day, I observed that my cousin had cut off her hair, and put on the apparel of mourning; and she said to me, O my cousin, blame me not for what I do; for I have received news that my mother is dead, and that my father hath been slain in a holy war, and that one of my two brothers hath died of a poisonous sting, and the other by the fall of a house: it is natural, therefore, that I should weep and mourn. On hearing these words, I abstained from upbraiding her, and said, Do what seemeth fit to thee; for I will not oppose thee. Accordingly, she continued mourning and weeping and wailing a whole year; after which she said to me, I have a desire to build for myself, in thy palace, a tomb, with a ḳubbeh, that I may repair thither alone to mourn, and I will call it the House of Lamentations. I replied, Do what thou seest fit. So she built for herself a house for mourning, with a ḳubbeh in the middle of it, like the tomb of a saint; after which she removed thither the slave, and there she lodged him. He was in a state of excessive weakness, and unable to render her any service, though he drank wine; and from the day on which I had wounded him, he had never spoken; yet he remained alive, because the appointed term of his life had not expired. My cousin every day visited him in this tomb early and late, to weep and mourn over him, and took to him wine to drink, and boiled meats; and thus she continued to do, morning and evening, until the expiration of the second year, while I patiently suffered her, till one day, I entered her apartment unawares, and found her weep- ing, and slapping her face, and repeating these verses:—
I have lost my existence among mankind since your absence; for my heart loveth none but you. Take my body, then, in mercy, to the place where you are laid; and there bury me by your side: And if, at my grave, you utter my name, the moaning of my bones shall answer to your call.
As soon as she had finished the recitation of these verses, I said to her, holding my drawn sword in my hand, This is the language of those faithless women who renounce the ties of affinity, and regard not lawful fellowship!—
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and I was about to strike her with the sword, and had lifted up my arm to do so, when she rose—for she knew that it was I who had wounded the slave—and, standing before me, pronounced some words which I understood not, and said, May God, by means of my enchantment, make thee to be half of stone, and half of the substance of man!—whereupon I became as thou seest, unable to move, neither dead nor alive; and when I had been reduced to this state, she enchanted the city and its markets and fields. The inhabitants of our city were of four classes; Mus- lims, and Christians, and Jews, and Magians; and she transformed them into fish: the white are the Muslims; the red, the Magians; the blue, the Christians; and the yellow, the Jews. She transformed, also, the four islands into four mountains, and placed them around the lake; and from that time she has continued every day to torture me, inflict- ing upon me a hundred lashes with a leathern whip, until the blood flows from my wounds; after which she puts on my upper half a vest of hair-cloth, beneath these garments.—Having said thus, the young man wept, and ejaculating the following verses:—
Give me patience, O Allah, to bear what Thou decreest! I will be patient, if so I may obtain thine approval. I am straitened, indeed, by the calamity that hath befallen me: but the Family of the favoured Prophet shall
intercede for me!
Upon this, the King, looking towards the young man, said to him, O youth, thou hast increased my anxiety. And where (he added) is this woman?—The young man answered, She is in the tomb where the slave is lying, in the ḳubbeh; and every day, before she visits him, she strips me of my clothing, and inflicts upon me a hundred lashes with the whip, while I weep and cry out, unable to move so as to repulse her. After thus torturing me, she repairs early to the slave, with the wine and boiled meat.—By Allah, O youth, said the King, I will do thee an act of kind- ness for which I shall be remembered, and a favour which historians shall record in a biography after me.
He then sat and conversed with him until the approach of night, upon which he arose, and waited till the first dawn of day, when he took off his clothes, and slung on his sword, and went to the place where the slave lay. After remarking the candles and lamps, and perfumes and ointments, he approached the slave, and with a blow of his sword slew him: he then carried him on his back, and threw him into a well which he found in the palace, and, re- turning to the ḳubbeh, clad himself with the slave’s clothes, and lay down with the drawn sword by his side. Soon af- ter, the vile enchantress went to her cousin, and, having pulled off his clothes, took the whip, and beat him, while he cried, Ah! it is enough for me to be in this state! Have pity on me then!—Didst thou shew pity to me, she exclaimed, and didst thou spare my lover?—She then put on him the hair-cloth vest and his outer garments, and repaired to the slave with a cup of wine, and a bowl of boiled meat. Entering the tomb, she wept and wailed, exclaiming, O my master, answer me! O my master, speak to me!—and poured forth her lamentation in the words of this verse:—
How long shall this aversion and harshness continue? Sufficient is the evil which my passion hath brought upon me!
Then, weeping as before, she exclaimed again, O my master, answer me, and speak to me! Upon this the King, speaking in a low voice, and adapting his tongue to the pronunciation of the blacks, ejaculated, Ah! Ah! there is no strength nor power but in God! On hearing these words, she screamed with joy, and fell down in a swoon; and when she recovered, she exclaimed, Possibly my master is restored to health! The King, again lowering his voice, as if from weakness, replied, Thou profligate wretch, thou deservest not that I should address thee.—Wherefore? said she. He answered, Because all the day long thou tormentest thy husband, while he calleth out, and imploreth the aid of God, so that thou hast prevented my sleeping from the commencement of darkness until morning: thy husband hath not ceased to humble himself, and to imprecate vengeance upon thee, till he hath distracted me; and had it not been for this, I had recovered my strength: this it is which hath prevented my answering thee.—Then, with thy per- mission, she replied, I will liberate him from his present sufferings.—Liberate him, said the King, and give us ease.
She replied, I hear and obey;—and immediately arose, and went out from the ḳubbeh to the palace, and, taking a cup, filled it with water, and pronounced certain words over it, upon which it began to boil like a cauldron. She then sprinkled some of it upon her cousin, saying, By virtue of what I have uttered, be changed from thy present state to that in which thou wast at first!—and instantly he shook, and stood upon his feet, rejoicing in his libera- tion, and exclaimed, I testify that there is no deity but God, and that Moḥammad is God’s Apostle; God bless and save him! She then said to him, Depart, and return not hither, or I will kill thee:—and she cried out in his face: so he departed from before her, and she returned to the ḳubbeh, and said, O my master, come forth to me that I may behold thee. He replied, with a weak voice, What hast thou done? Thou hast relieved me from the branch, but hast not relieved me from the root.—O my beloved, she said, and what is the root? He answered, The people of this city, and of the four islands: every night, at the middle hour, the fish raise their heads, and imprecate vengeance upon me and upon thee; and this is the cause that preventeth the return of vigour to my body; therefore, liberate them, and come, and take my hand, and raise me; for vigour hath already in part returned to me.
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On hearing these words of the King, whom she imagined to be the slave, she said to him with joy, O my mas- ter, on my head and my eye! In the name of Allah!—and she sprang up, full of happiness, and hastened to the lake, where, taking a little of its water, she pronounced over it some unintelligible words, whereupon the fish became agitated, and raised their heads, and immediately became converted into men as before. Thus was the enchantment removed from the inhabitants of the city, and the city became repeopled, and the market-streets re-erected, and every one returned to his occupation: the mountains also became changed into islands as they were at the first. The enchantress then returned immediately to the King, whom she still imagined to be the slave, and said to him, O my beloved, stretch forth thy honoured hand, that I may kiss it.—Approach me, said the King in a low voice. So she drew near to him; and he, having his keen-edged sword ready in his hand, thrust it into her bosom, and the point protruded from her back: he then struck her again, and clove her in twain, and went forth.
He found the young man who had been enchanted waiting his return, and congratulated him on his safety; and the young prince kissed his hand, and thanked him. The King then said to him, Wilt thou remain in thy city, or come with me to my capital?—O King of the age, said the young man, dost thou know the distance that is between thee and thy city? The King answered, Two days and a half.—O King, replied the young man, if thou hast been asleep, awake: between thee and thy city is a distance of a year’s journey to him who travelleth with diligence; and thou camest in two days and a half only because the city was enchanted: but, O King, I will never quit thee for the twinkling of an eye. The King rejoiced at his words, and said, Praise be to God, who hath in his beneficence given thee to me: thou art my son; for during my whole life, I have never been blest with a son:—and they embraced each other, and rejoiced exceedingly. They then went together into the palace, where the King who had been enchanted informed the officers of his court that he was about to perform the holy pilgrimage: so they prepared for him every- thing that he required; and he departed with the Sulṭán; his heart burning with reflections upon his city, because he had been deprived of the sight of it for the space of a year.
He set forth, accompanied by fifty memlooks, and provided with presents, and they continued their journey night and day for a whole year, after which they drew near to the city of the Sulṭán, and the Wezeer and the troops, who had lost all hope of his return, came forth to meet him. The troops, approaching him, kissed the ground before him, and congratulated him on his safe return; and he entered the city, and sat upon the throne. He then acquainted the Wezeer with all that had happened to the young King; on hearing which, the Wezeer congratulated the latter, also, on his safety; and when all things were restored to order, the Sulṭán bestowed presents upon a number of his subjects, and said to the Wezeer, Bring to me the fisherman who presented to me the fish. So he sent to this fisher- man, who had been the cause of the restoration of the inhabitants of the enchanted city, and brought him; and the King invested him with a dress of honour, and inquired of him respecting his circumstances, and whether he had any children. The fisherman informed him that he had a son and two daughters; and the King, on hearing this, took as his wife one of the daughters, and the young prince married the other. The King also conferred upon the son the office of treasurer. He then sent the Wezeer to the city of the young prince, the capital of the Black Islands, and invested him with its sovereignty, despatching with him the fifty memlooks who had accompanied him thence, with numerous robes of honour to all the Emeers: and the Wezeer kissed his hands, and set forth on his journey; while the Sulṭán and the young prince remained. And as to the fisherman, he became the wealthiest of the people of his age; and his daughters continued to be the wives of the Kings until they died.
But this (added Shahrazád) is not more wonderful than what happened to the porter.
China 7
423
This chapter introduces two types of representative works from the Chinese period from roughly the fifth century to the fifteenth century, a period that corresponds to the European Middle Age (although it should be noted that the European periodization is not accurate for non-European cultures). There are many noteworthy works from China during this period. Selected in this chapter are poetry from the Tang dynasty (618-960 C.E.) and vernacular fiction that emerged from the late phase of the Yuan dynasty (1271-1368 C.E.) and the early phase of the Ming dynasty (1368-1644 C.E.).
It is often said that the Tang dynasty was the golden age in Chinese literary history, and poetry was the most glorious literary form of the time. The verse forms of the past were refined, and new poetic forms developed. One new form perfected early in the dynasty, which consists of eight lines of five or seven syllables in accordance with tonal patterns, is called lüshi (“regulated verse”). Another poetic form popular during the period was the jueju (“truncated verse”), which is a shortened version of the lüshi. Du Fu (712-770 C.E.) and Li Bo (701-762 C.E.) from the Tang dynasty are considered the greatest poets in China. Du Fu, who was a high official in the 740s, was highly erudite, and he excelled in all verse forms, but his mastery was the best in the lüshi. When he was young, he flirted with Daoism and travelled with Li Bo, whom he strongly admired. Li Bo, on the other hand, did not sustain a high-ranking position but instead spent a lot of time wandering. Li Bo expressed his Daoist worldview in his deliberately older and freer verse forms, avoiding the lüshi. Other renowned poets during the Tang dynasty include Wang Wei (701-761 C.E.) and Bai Juyi (772-846 C.E.). The Tang dynasty was a period of economic growth and prosperity, and culturally, Buddhism, Daoism, and Confucianism continued to be influential.
The next major dynasty was the Song dynasty, during which literary productivity increased enormously, thanks to the improvement of printing (invented in the eighth century) and to the establishment of public schools throughout the empire. All the literary genres in verse and prose continued to develop during this period. The Song dynasty was later absorbed by the Yuan (or Mongol) dynasty. During the Yuan dynasty, dramatic literature blos- somed, possibly catalyzed by Indian and Iranian theatre models available in this period. Many writers turned to playwriting, especially the musical drama of four or five acts along with prologue, epilogue, and songs. Between the late Yuan dynasty and the early Ming dynasty, particularly noteworthy are the works of fiction in the vernacular. Sanguozhi yanyi (Romance of the Three Kingdoms) and Shuihuzhuan (The Water Margin), both acclaimed as masterpieces of the historical and picaresque (an early novelistic form of adventure narrative) genres, have been controversially attributed to Luo Guanzhong (ca. 1330-1400 C.E.). Romance of the Three Kingdoms is set at the end of the Han dynasty (206 B.C.E-220 C.E.) and the Three Kingdoms period (220-280 C.E.). All through the Song, Yuan, and Ming dynasties, Daoism, Buddhism, and Confucianism continued to be influential, especially increasingly in the new mixtures of these three thoughts.
As already indicated above, the selections in this chapter, Li Bo’s poems and Luo Guanzhong’s Romance of the Three Kingdoms, are good examples of the Tang dynasty and the Yuan/Ming dynasties, respectively. It will be useful to sit- uate these works in their historical and cultural contexts and examine the unique characteristics pertaining to each genre.
As you read, consider the following:
• Can you point out connections between Daoism and Li Bo’s poems? (Feel free to consult the video resource about Daoism below.)
• Select specific poems by Li Bo and develop your own interpretive thesis statement for each poem, along with supporting ideas.
Image 7.1: Kublai Khan | Portrait of Kublai Khan, grand- son of Genghis Khan, emperor of China.
Author: Anige of Nepal Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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• Do some quick research about major events in the Han dynasty, the Three Kingdoms period, and the Yuan/ Ming dynasties, and examine how Luo’s work incorporates elements of earlier and contemporary history and culture.
• What philosophical, religious, political, and personal values do you think Luo’s work conveys?
For more information, see the following sources:
• Go to the following website for an educational video about Daoism: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cZiasFYQSj8
• Go to the following websites for Chinese history and its timeline: http://archive.artsmia.org/art-of-asia/history/dynasty-ming.cfm.html http://www.bbc.com/news/world-asia-pacific-13017882
Written by Kyounghye Kwon
SELECTED POEMS
Li Bo (701-762 C.E.)
Composed ca. 716-762 C.E. China
Li Bo is regarded as China’s greatest poet, along with Du Fu. His name is also spelled Li Bai, Li Po, and Li Pai. His courtesy name is Taibai and his literary name is Qinglian Jushi. There are about a thousand extant poems by Li Bo, and many of them are written in older poetic forms, less regulated than those developed during the the Tang dynasty (618-907 C.E.). Also unorthodox is his incorporation of colloquial language and folk songs into his poetry. Importantly, Li Bo’s poetic world expresses Daoist views, emphasizing “the (Daoist) Way” and celebrating a free and wandering life. Buddhism (especially Chan Buddhism) is also essential to understanding Li Bo’s po- ems. On a side note, he is well known for his love of alcohol and wrote many poems about drinking. A popular legend says that Li Bo drowned because he was sitting drunk in a boat and was trying to seize the moon’s reflec- tion in the water.
Written by Kyounghye Kwon
Selections from The Poet Li Po A.D. 701-760
Bai Li, Translated by Arthur Waley
Fighting Last year we were fighting at the source of the San-kan; This year we are fighting at the Onion River road. We have washed our swords in the surf of Indian seas;
Image 7.2: Eighty Seven Celestials | Artwork by Wu Daozi depicting many angelic people walking along a path.
Author: Wu Daozi Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
License: Public Domain
Li Bo Poetry
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We have pastured our horses among the snows of T’ien Shan. Three armies have grown gray and old, Fighting ten thousand leagues away from home. The Huns have no trade but battle and carnage; They have no pastures or ploughlands, But only wastes where white bones lie among yellow sands. Where the house of Ch’in built the great wall that was to keep away the Tartars, There, in its turn, the house of Han lit beacons of war. The beacons are always alight; fighting and marching never stop. Men die in the field, slashing sword to sword; The horses of the conquered neigh piteously to Heaven. Crows and hawks peck for human guts, Carry them in their beaks and hang them on the branches of withered trees. Captains and soldiers are smeared on the bushes and grass; The General schemed in vain. Know therefore that the sword is a cursèd thing Which the wise man uses only if he must.
The Sun O Sun that rose in the eastern corner of Earth, Looking as though you came from under the ground, When you crossed the sky and entered the deep sea, Where did you stable your six dragon-steeds? Now and of old your journeys have never ceased: Strong were that man’s limbs Who could run beside you on your travels to and fro.
The grass does not refuse To flourish in the spring wind; The leaves are not angry At falling through the autumn sky. Who with whip or spur Can urge the feet of Time? The things of the world flourish and decay, Each at its own hour.
Hsi-ho, Hsi-ho, Is it true that once you loitered in the West While Lu Yang raised his spear, to hold The progress of your light; Then plunged and sank in the turmoil of the sea? Rebels against Heaven, slanderers of Fate; Many defy the Way. But I will put | the Whole Lump | of Life in my bag, And merge my being in the Primal Element.
The White River at Nan-Yang Wading at dawn the White River’s source, Severed a while from the common ways of men, To islands tinged with the colours of Paradise, Where the river sky drowns in limpid space. While my eyes were watching the clouds that travel to the sea. My heart was idle as the fish that swim in the stream. With long singing I put the sun to rest: Riding the moon, came back to my fields and home.
Image 7.3: Li Bai in Stroll | Ink illustration by Liang Kai of the poet Li Bai (also written as Li Bo).
Author: Liang Kai Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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Going Down Chung-Nan Mountain and Spending the Night Drinking with the Hermit Tou-Ssŭ At dusk we left the blue mountain-head; The mountain-moon followed our homeward steps. We looked round: the path by which we had come Was a dark cleft across the shoulder of the hill. Hand in hand we reached the walls of the farm; A young boy opened the wicker-gate. Through green bamboos a deep road ran Where dark creepers brushed our coats as we passed. We were glad at last to come to a place of rest, With wine enough to drink together to our fill, Long I sang to the tune of the Pine-tree Wind; When the song was over, the River-stars were few. I was drunk and you happy at my side; Till mingled joy drove the World from our hearts.
Drinking Alone by Moonlight A cup of wine, under the flowering-trees: I drink alone, for no friend is near. Raising my cup, I beckon the bright moon, For he, with my shadow, will make three men. The moon, alas! is no drinker of wine: Listless, my shadow creeps about at my side. Yet with the moon as friend and the shadow as slave I must make merry before the Spring is spent. To the songs I sing the moon flickers her beams; In the dance I weave my shadow tangles and breaks. While we were sober, three shared the fun; Now we are drunk, each goes his way.
Image 7.4: Going Up to Sun Terrace | The only surviving calligraphy of Li Bo’s own handwriting.
Author: Li Bo Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
Li Bo Poetry
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May we long share our odd, inanimate feast, And meet at last on the Cloudy River of the Sky.
In the third month the town of Hsien-yang Is thick-spread with a carpet of fallen flowers. Who in Spring can bear to grieve alone? Who, sober, look on sights like these? Riches and Poverty, long or short life, By the Maker of Things are portioned and disposed. But a cup of wine levels life and death And a thousand things obstinately hard to prove. When I am drunk, I lose Heaven and Earth; Motionless, I cleave to my lonely bed. At last I forget that I exist at all, And at that moment my joy is great indeed.
If High Heaven had no love for wine, There would not be a Wine Star in the sky. If Earth herself had no love for wine, There would not be a city called Wine Springs. Since Heaven and Earth both love wine, I can love wine, without shame before God. Clear wine was once called “a Saint;” Thick wine was once called “a Sage.” Of Saint and Sage I have long quaffed deep, What need for me to study spirits and hsien? At the third cup I penetrate the Great Way; A full gallon—Nature and I are one.... But the things I feel when wine possesses my soul I will never tell to those who are not drunk.
In the Mountains on a Summer Day Gently I stir a white feather fan, With open shirt, sitting in a green wood. I take off my cap and hang it on a jutting stone: A wind from the pine-trees trickles on my bare head.
Drinking Together in the Mountains Two men drinking together where mountain flowers grow: One cup, one cup, and again one cup. “Now I am drunk and would like to sleep: so please go away. Come back to-morrow, if you feel inclined, and bring your harp with you.”
Clearing up at Dawn The fields are chill; the sparse rain has stopped; The colours of Spring teem on every side. With leaping fish the blue pond is full; With singing thrushes the green boughs droop. The flowers of the field have dabbled their powdered cheeks; The mountain grasses are bent level at the waist. By the bamboo stream the last fragments of cloud Blown by the wind slowly scatter away.
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THE ROMANCE OF THE THREE KINGDOMS
Luo Guanzhong
Written in the 14th century C.E. China
The Romance of the Three Kingdoms is one of the stories known as the “Four Classic Novels” or “Four Great Masterpieces” of Chinese literature (the other three being Water Margin, Journey to the West, and Dream of the Red Chamber). Although it was written in the 14th century C.E., the story is based on historical events from a thousand years earlier: during the late Han dynasty and the Three Kingdoms Period (starting in 169 C.E. and ending in 280 C.E.). The story depicts the conflicts among the Wu, Wei, and Shu kingdoms. The characters are based on actual people, with the requisite alterations that are expected in fiction (such as the occasional warrior with superhuman strength, and other legendary and mythic elements). The story is 120 chapters long, with literally hundreds of char- acters to follow. The selections in the anthology begin with the introductory chapter, which includes how one group of heroes meets. The long selection is from the most well-known episode in the story: the Battle of Red Cliffs (208- 209 C.E.). The Romance of the Three Kingdoms continues to be a popular work, with movies, video games, comics, television series, and card games based on the story.
Written by Laura J. Getty
Romance of the Three Kingdoms
Luo Quanzhong, Translated by C. H. Brewitt-Taylor
Chapter 1
Three Heroes Swear Brotherhood In The Peach Garden; One Victory Shatters The Rebels In Battlegrounds. The world under heaven, after a long period of division, tends to unite; after a long period of union, tends to
divide. This has been so since antiquity. When the rule of the Zhou Dynasty weakened, seven contending kingdoms sprang up, warring one with another until the kingdom of Qin prevailed and possessed the empire. But when Qin’s destiny had been fulfilled, arose two opposing kingdoms, Chu and Han, to fight for the mastery. And Han was the victor.
The rise of the fortunes of Han began when Liu Bang the Supreme Ancestor slew a white serpent to raise the banners of uprising, which only ended when the whole empire belonged to Han (BC 202). This magnificent heri- tage was handed down in successive Han emperors for two hundred years, till the rebellion of Wang Mang caused a disruption. But soon Liu Xiu the Latter Han Founder restored the empire, and Han emperors continued their rule for another two hundred years till the days of Emperor Xian, which were doomed to see the beginning of the empire’s division into three parts, known to history as The Three Kingdoms.
But the descent into misrule hastened in the reigns of the two predecessors of Emperor Xian—Emperors Huan and Ling—who sat in the dragon throne about the middle of the second century.
Emperor Huan paid no heed to the good people of his court, but gave his confidence to the Palace eunuchs. He lived and died, leaving the scepter to Emperor Ling, whose advisers were Regent Marshal Dou Wu and Imperial Guardian Chen Fan. Dou Wu and Chen Fan, disgusted with the abuses of the eunuchs in the affairs of the state, plotted the destruction for the power-abusing eunuchs. But Chief Eunuch Cao Jie was not to be disposed of easily. The plot leaked out, and the honest Dou Wu and Chen Fan were put to death, leaving the eunuchs stronger than before.
It fell upon the day of full moon of the fourth month, the second year, in the era of Established Calm (AD 168), that Emperor Ling went in state to the Hall of Virtue. As he drew near the throne, a rushing whirlwind arose in the corner of the hall and, lo! from the roof beams floated down a monstrous black serpent that coiled itself up on the very seat of majesty. The Emperor fell in a swoon. Those nearest him hastily raised and bore him to his palace, while the courtiers scattered and fled. The serpent disappeared.
But there followed a terrific tempest, thunder, hail, and torrents of rain, lasting till midnight and working havoc on all sides. Two years later the earth quaked in Capital Luoyang, while along the coast a huge tidal wave rushed in which, in its recoil, swept away all the dwellers by the sea. Another evil omen was recorded ten years later, when the
License: Public Domain
Image 7.5: Peach Garden Ceremony | Several heroes from the story gather together in a garden to perform a sacrifice and swear and oath.
Author: Anonymous Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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THE ROMANCE OF THE THREE KINGDOMS
Luo Guanzhong
Written in the 14th century C.E. China
The Romance of the Three Kingdoms is one of the stories known as the “Four Classic Novels” or “Four Great Masterpieces” of Chinese literature (the other three being Water Margin, Journey to the West, and Dream of the Red Chamber). Although it was written in the 14th century C.E., the story is based on historical events from a thousand years earlier: during the late Han dynasty and the Three Kingdoms Period (starting in 169 C.E. and ending in 280 C.E.). The story depicts the conflicts among the Wu, Wei, and Shu kingdoms. The characters are based on actual people, with the requisite alterations that are expected in fiction (such as the occasional warrior with superhuman strength, and other legendary and mythic elements). The story is 120 chapters long, with literally hundreds of char- acters to follow. The selections in the anthology begin with the introductory chapter, which includes how one group of heroes meets. The long selection is from the most well-known episode in the story: the Battle of Red Cliffs (208- 209 C.E.). The Romance of the Three Kingdoms continues to be a popular work, with movies, video games, comics, television series, and card games based on the story.
Written by Laura J. Getty
Romance of the Three Kingdoms
Luo Quanzhong, Translated by C. H. Brewitt-Taylor
Chapter 1
Three Heroes Swear Brotherhood In The Peach Garden; One Victory Shatters The Rebels In Battlegrounds. The world under heaven, after a long period of division, tends to unite; after a long period of union, tends to
divide. This has been so since antiquity. When the rule of the Zhou Dynasty weakened, seven contending kingdoms sprang up, warring one with another until the kingdom of Qin prevailed and possessed the empire. But when Qin’s destiny had been fulfilled, arose two opposing kingdoms, Chu and Han, to fight for the mastery. And Han was the victor.
The rise of the fortunes of Han began when Liu Bang the Supreme Ancestor slew a white serpent to raise the banners of uprising, which only ended when the whole empire belonged to Han (BC 202). This magnificent heri- tage was handed down in successive Han emperors for two hundred years, till the rebellion of Wang Mang caused a disruption. But soon Liu Xiu the Latter Han Founder restored the empire, and Han emperors continued their rule for another two hundred years till the days of Emperor Xian, which were doomed to see the beginning of the empire’s division into three parts, known to history as The Three Kingdoms.
But the descent into misrule hastened in the reigns of the two predecessors of Emperor Xian—Emperors Huan and Ling—who sat in the dragon throne about the middle of the second century.
Emperor Huan paid no heed to the good people of his court, but gave his confidence to the Palace eunuchs. He lived and died, leaving the scepter to Emperor Ling, whose advisers were Regent Marshal Dou Wu and Imperial Guardian Chen Fan. Dou Wu and Chen Fan, disgusted with the abuses of the eunuchs in the affairs of the state, plotted the destruction for the power-abusing eunuchs. But Chief Eunuch Cao Jie was not to be disposed of easily. The plot leaked out, and the honest Dou Wu and Chen Fan were put to death, leaving the eunuchs stronger than before.
It fell upon the day of full moon of the fourth month, the second year, in the era of Established Calm (AD 168), that Emperor Ling went in state to the Hall of Virtue. As he drew near the throne, a rushing whirlwind arose in the corner of the hall and, lo! from the roof beams floated down a monstrous black serpent that coiled itself up on the very seat of majesty. The Emperor fell in a swoon. Those nearest him hastily raised and bore him to his palace, while the courtiers scattered and fled. The serpent disappeared.
But there followed a terrific tempest, thunder, hail, and torrents of rain, lasting till midnight and working havoc on all sides. Two years later the earth quaked in Capital Luoyang, while along the coast a huge tidal wave rushed in which, in its recoil, swept away all the dwellers by the sea. Another evil omen was recorded ten years later, when the
License: Public Domain
Image 7.5: Peach Garden Ceremony | Several heroes from the story gather together in a garden to perform a sacrifice and swear and oath.
Author: Anonymous Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
reign title was changed to Radiant Harmony (AD 178): Certain hens suddenly crowed. At the new moon of the sixth month, a long wreath of murky cloud wound its way into the Hall of Virtue, while in the following month a rainbow was seen in the Dragon Chamber. Away from the capital, a part of the Yuan Mountains collapsed, leaving a mighty rift in the flank.
Such were some of various omens. Emperor Ling, greatly moved by these signs of the displeasure of Heaven, issued an edict asking his ministers for an explanation of the calamities and marvels.
Court Counselor Cai Yong replied bluntly: “Falling rain- bows and changes of fowls’ sexes are brought about by the interference of empresses and eunuchs in state affairs.”
The Emperor read this memorial with deep sighs, and Chief Eunuch Cao Jie, from his place behind the throne, anx- iously noted these signs of grief. An opportunity offering, Cao Jie informed his fellows, and a charge was trumped up against Cai Yong, who was driven from the court and forced to retire to his country house.
With this victory the eunuchs grew bolder. Ten of them, rivals in wickedness and associates in evil deeds, formed a powerful party known as the Ten Regular Attendants—Zhang Rang, Zhao Zhong, Cheng Kuang, Duan Gui, Feng Xu, Guo Sheng, Hou Lan, Jian Shuo, Cao Jie, and Xia Yun.
One of them, Zhang Rang, won such influence that he became the Emperor’s most honored and trusted adviser. The Emperor even called him “Foster Father”. So the corrupt state administration went quickly from bad to worse, till the country was ripe for rebellion and buzzed with brigandage.
At this time in the county of Julu was a certain Zhang family, of whom three brothers bore the name of Zhang Jue, Zhang Ba, and Zhang Lian, respectively. The eldest Zhang Jue was an unclassed graduate, who devoted him- self to medicine. One day, while culling simples in the woods, Zhang Jue met a venerable old gentleman with very bright, emerald eyes and fresh complexion, who walked with an oak-wood staff. The old man beckoned Zhang Jue into a cave and there gave him three volumes of The Book of Heaven.
“This book,” said the old gentleman, “is the Essential Arts of Peace. With the aid of these volumes, you can con- vert the world and rescue humankind. But you must be single-minded, or, rest assured, you will greatly suffer.”
With a humble obeisance, Zhang Jue took the book and asked the name of his benefactor. “I am Saint Hermit of the Southern Land,” was the reply, as the old gentleman disappeared in thin air. Zhang Jue studied the wonderful book eagerly and strove day and night to reduce its precepts to practice. Be-
fore long, he could summon the winds and command the rain, and he became known as the Mystic of the Way of Peace.
In the first month of the first year of Central Stability (AD 184), there was a terrible pestilence that ran through- out the land, whereupon Zhang Jue distributed charmed remedies to the afflicted. The godly medicines brought big successes, and soon he gained the tittle of the Wise and Worthy Master. He began to have a following of disciples whom he initiated into the mysteries and sent abroad throughout all the land. They, like their master, could write charms and recite formulas, and their fame increased his following.
Zhang Jue began to organize his disciples. He established thirty-six circuits, the larger with ten thousand or more members, the smaller with about half that number. Each circuit had its chief who took the military title of General. They talked wildly of the death of the blue heaven and the setting up of the golden one; they said a new cycle was beginning and would bring universal good fortune to all members; and they persuaded people to chalk the symbols for the first year of the new cycle on the main door of their dwellings.
With the growth of the number of his supporters grew also the ambition of Zhang Jue. The Wise and Worthy Master dreamed of empire. One of his partisans, Ma Yuanyi, was sent bearing gifts to gain the support of the eu- nuchs within the Palace.
To his brothers Zhang Jue said, “For schemes like ours always the most difficult part is to gain the popular favor. But that is already ours. Such an opportunity must not pass.”
And they began to prepare. Many yellow flags and banners were made, and a day was chosen for the uprising. Then Zhang Jue wrote letters to Feng Xu and sent them by one of his followers, Tang Zhou, who alas! betrayed his trust and reported the plot to the court. The Emperor summoned the trusty Regent Marshal He Jin and bade him
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look to the issue. Ma Yuanyi was at once taken and beheaded. Feng Xu and many others were cast into prison. The plot having thus become known, the Zhang brothers were forced at once to take the field. They took up
grandiose titles: Zhang Jue the Lord of Heaven, Zhang Ba the Lord of Earth, and Zhang Lian the Lord of Human. And in these names they put forth this manifesto:
The good fortune of the Han is exhausted, and the Wise and Worthy Man has appeared. Discern the will of Heaven, O ye people, and walk in the way of righteousness, whereby alone ye may attain to peace.
Support was not lacking. On every side people bound their heads with yellow scarves and joined the army of the rebel Zhang Jue, so that soon his strength was nearly half a million strong, and the official troops melted away at a whisper of his coming.
Regent Marshal and Imperial Guardian, He Jin, memorialized for general preparations against the Yellow Scarves, and an edict called upon everyone to fight against the rebels. In the meantime, three Imperial Command- ers—Lu Zhi, Huangfu Song, and Zhu Jun—marched against them in three directions with veteran soldiers.
Meanwhile Zhang Jue led his army into Youzhou, the northeastern region of the empire. The Imperial Protector of Youzhou was Liu Yan, a scion of the Imperial House. Learning of the approach of the rebels, Liu Yan called in Commander Zhou Jing to consult over the position.
Zhou Jing said, “They are many and we few. We must enlist more troops to oppose them.” Liu Yan agreed, and he put out notices calling for volunteers to serve against the rebels. One of these notices
was posted up in the county of Zhuo, where lived one man of high spirit. This man was no mere bookish scholar, nor found he any pleasure in study. But he was liberal and amiable,
albeit a man of few words, hiding all feeling under a calm exterior. He had always cherished a yearning for high enterprise and had cultivated the friendship of humans of mark. He was tall of stature. His ears were long, the lobes touching his shoulders, and his hands hung down below his knees. His eyes were very big and prominent so that he could see backward past his ears. His complexion was as clear as jade, and he had rich red lips.
He was a descendant of Prince Sheng of Zhongshan whose father was the Emperor Jing (reigned BC 157-141), the fourth emperor of the Han Dynasty. His name was Liu Bei. Many years before, one of his forbears had been the governor of that very county, but had lost his rank for remissness in ceremonial offerings. However, that branch of the family had remained on in the place, gradually becoming poorer and poorer as the years rolled on. His father Liu Hong had been a scholar and a virtuous official but died young. The widow and orphan were left alone, and Liu Bei as a lad won a reputation for filial piety.
At this time the family had sunk deep in poverty, and Liu Bei gained his living by selling straw sandals and weaving grass mats. The family home was in a village near the chief city of Zhuo. Near the house stood a huge mulberry tree, and seen from afar its curved profile resembled the canopy of a wagon. Noting the luxuriance of its foliage, a soothsayer had predicted that one day a man of distinction would come forth from the family.
As a child, Liu Bei played with the other village children beneath this tree, and he would climb up into it, say- ing, “I am the Son of Heaven, and this is my chariot!” His uncle, Liu Yuanqi, recognized that Liu Bei was no ordi- nary boy and saw to it that the family did not come to actual want.
When Liu Bei was fifteen, his mother sent him traveling for his education. For a time he served Zheng Xuan and Lu Zhi as masters. And he became great friends with Gongsun Zan.
Liu Bei was twenty-eight when the outbreak of the Yellow Scarves called for soldiers. The sight of the notice saddened him, and he sighed as he read it.
Suddenly a rasping voice behind him cried, “Sir, why sigh if you do nothing to help your country?” Turning quickly he saw standing there a man about his own height, with a bullet head like a leopard’s, large
eyes, a swallow pointed chin, and whiskers like a tiger’s . He spoke in a loud bass voice and looked as irresistible as a dashing horse. At once Liu Bei saw he was no ordinary man and asked who he was.
“Zhang Fei is my name,” replied the stranger. “I live near here where I have a farm; and I am a wine seller and a butcher as well; and I like to become acquainted with worthy people. Your sighs as you read the notice drew me toward you.”
Liu Bei replied, “I am of the Imperial Family, Liu Bei is my name. And I wish I could destroy these Yellow Scarves and restore peace to the land, but alas! I am helpless.”
“I have the means,” said Zhang Fei. “Suppose you and I raised some troops and tried what we could do.” This was happy news for Liu Bei, and the two betook themselves to the village inn to talk over the project. As
they were drinking, a huge, tall fellow appeared pushing a hand-cart along the road. At the threshold he halted and entered the inn to rest awhile and he called for wine.
“And be quick!” added he. “For I am in haste to get into the town and offer myself for the army.” Liu Bei looked over the newcomer, item by item, and he noted the man had a huge frame, a long beard, a vivid
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face like an apple, and deep red lips. He had eyes like a phoenix’s and fine bushy eyebrows like silkworms. His whole appearance was dignified and awe-inspiring. Presently, Liu Bei crossed over, sat down beside him and asked his name.
“I am Guan Yu,” replied he. “I am a native of the east side of the river, but I have been a fugitive on the waters for some five years, because I slew a ruffian who, since he was wealthy and powerful, was a bully. I have come to join the army here.”
Then Liu Bei told Guan Yu his own intentions, and all three went away to Zhang Fei’s farm where they could talk over the grand project.
Said Zhang Fei, “The peach trees in the orchard behind the house are just in full flower. Tomorrow we will insti- tute a sacrifice there and solemnly declare our intention before Heaven and Earth, and we three will swear brother- hood and unity of aims and sentiments: Thus will we enter upon our great task.”
Both Liu Bei and Guan Yu gladly agreed. All three being of one mind, next day they prepared the sacrifices, a black ox, a white horse, and wine for liba-
tion. Beneath the smoke of the incense burning on the altar, they bowed their heads and recited this oath: “We three—Liu Bei, Guan Yu, and Zhang Fei—though of different families, swear brotherhood, and promise
mutual help to one end. We will rescue each other in difficulty; we will aid each other in danger. We swear to serve the state and save the people. We ask not the same day of birth, but we seek to die together. May Heaven, the all-rul- ing, and Earth, the all-producing, read our hearts. If we turn aside from righteousness or forget kindliness, may Heaven and Human smite us!”
They rose from their knees. The two others bowed before Liu Bei as their elder brother, and Zhang Fei was to be the youngest of the trio. This solemn ceremony performed, they slew other oxen and made a feast to which they invited the villagers. Three hundred joined them, and all feasted and drank deep in the Peach Garden.
The next day weapons were mustered. But there were no horses to ride. This was a real grief. But soon they were cheered by the arrival of two horse dealers with a drove of horses.
“Thus does Heaven help us!” said Liu Bei. And the three brothers went forth to welcome the merchants. They were Zhang Shiping and Su Shuang from
Zhongshan. They went northwards every year to buy horses. They were now on their way home because of the Yel- low Scarves. The brothers invited them to the farm, where wine was served before them. Then Liu Bei told them of the plan to strive for tranquillity. Zhang Shiping and Su Shuang were glad and at once gave the brothers fifty good steeds, and beside, five hundred ounces of gold and silver and one thousand five hundred pounds of steel fit for the forging of weapons.
The brothers expressed their gratitude, and the merchants took their leave. Then blacksmiths were summoned to forge weapons. For Liu Bei they made a pair of ancient swords; for Guan Yu they fashioned a long-handled, curve blade called Green-Dragon Saber, which weighed a full one hundred pounds; and for Zhang Fei they created a ten-foot spear called Serpent Halberd. Each too had a helmet and full armor.
When weapons were ready, the troop, now five hundred strong, marched to Commander Zhou Jing, who presented them to Imperial Protector Liu Yan. When the ceremony of introduction was over, Liu Bei declared his ancestry, and Liu Yan at once accorded him the esteem due to a relation.
Before many days it was announced that the rebellion had actually broken out, and a Yellow Scarves chieftain, Cheng Yuanzhi, had invaded the region with a body of fifty thousand rebels. Liu Yan bade Zhou Jing and the three brothers to go out to oppose them with the five hundred troops. Liu Bei joyfully undertook to lead the van and marched to the foot of the Daxing Hills where they saw the rebels. The rebels wore their hair flying about their shoulders, and their foreheads were bound with yellow scarves.
When the two armies had been drawn up opposite each other, Liu Bei rode to the front, Guan Yu to his left, Zhang Fei to his right.
Flourishing his whip, Liu Bei began to hurl reproaches at the rebels, crying, “O malcontents! Why not dismount and be bound?”
Their leader Cheng Yuanzhi, full of rage, sent out one general, Deng Mao, to begin the battle. At once rode forward Zhang Fei, his serpent halberd poised to strike. One thrust and Deng Mao rolled off his horse, pierced through the heart. At this Cheng Yuanzhi himself whipped up his steed and rode forth with sword raised ready to slay Zhang Fei. But Guan Yu swung up his ponderous green-dragon saber and rode at Cheng Yuanzhi. At the sight, fear seized upon Cheng Yuanzhi, and before he could defend himself, the great saber fell, cutting him in halves.
Two heroes new to war’s alarms, Ride boldly forth to try their arms. Their doughty deeds three kingdoms tell, And poets sing how these befell.
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Their leader fallen, the rebels threw away their weapons and fled. The official soldiers dashed in among them. Many thousands surrendered and the victory was complete. Thus this part of the rebellion was broken up.
On their return, Liu Yan personally met them and distributed rewards. But the next day, letters came from Imperial Protector Gong Jing of Qingzhou Region saying that the rebels were laying siege to the chief city and it was near falling. Help was needed quickly.
“I will go,” said Liu Bei as soon as he heard the news. And he set out at once with his own soldiers, reinforced by a body of five thousand under Zhou Jing. The rebels,
seeing help coming, at once attacked most fiercely. The relieving force being comparatively small could not prevail and retired some ten miles, where they made a camp.
“They are many and we but few,” said Liu Bei to his brothers. “We can only beat them by superior strategy.” So they prepared an ambush. Guan Yu and Zhang Fei, each with a goodly party, went behind the hills, right and
left, and there hid. When the gongs beat they were to move out to support the main army. These preparations made, the drums rolled noisily for Liu Bei to advance. The rebels also came forward. But Liu
Bei suddenly retired. Thinking this was their chance, the rebels pressed forward and were led over the hills. Then suddenly the gongs sounded for the ambush. Guan Yu and Zhang Fei poured out from right and left as Liu Bei faced around to meet the rebels. Under three-side attack, the rebels lost heavily and fled to the walls of Qingzhou City. But Imperial Protector Gong Jing led out an armed body to attack them, and the rebels were entirely defeated and many slain. Qingzhou was no longer in danger.
Though fierce as tigers soldiers be, Battles are won by strategy. A hero comes; he gains renown, Already destined for a crown.
After the celebrations in honor of victory were over, Commander Zhou Jing proposed to return to Youzhou. But Liu Bei said, “We are informed that Imperial Commander Lu Zhi has been struggling with a horde of rebels
led by Zhang Jue at Guangzong. Lu Zhi was once my teacher, and I want to go help him.” So Liu Bei and Zhou Jing separated, and the three brothers with their troops made their way to Guangzong.
They found Lu Zhi’s camp, were admitted to his presence, and declared the reason of their coming. The Command- er received them with great joy, and they remained with him while he made his plans.
At that time Zhang Jue’s one hundred fifty thousand troops and Lu Zhi’s fifty thousand troops were facing each other. Neither had had any success.
Lu Zhi said to Liu Bei, “I am able to surround these rebels here. But the other two brothers, Zhang Ba and Zhang Lian, are strongly entrenched opposite Huangfu Song and Zhu Jun at Yingchuan. I will give you a thousand more troops, and with these you can go to find out what is happening, and we can then settle the moment for con- certed attack.”
So Liu Bei set off and marched as quickly as possible to Yingchuan. At that time the imperial troops were at- tacking with success, and the rebels had retired upon Changshe. They had encamped among the thick grass.
Seeing this, Huangfu Song said to Zhu Jun, “The rebels are camping in the field. We can attack them by fire.” So the Imperial Commanders bade every man cut a bundle of dry grass and laid an ambush. That night the
wind blew a gale, and at the second watch they started a blaze. At the same time Huangfu Song and Zhu Jun’s troops attacked the rebels and set their camp on fire. The flames rose to the very heaven. The rebels were thrown into great confusion. There was no time to saddle horses or don armor: They fled in all directions.
The battle continued until dawn. Zhang Lian and Zhang Ba, with a group of flying rebels, found a way of escape. But suddenly a troop of soldiers with crimson banners appeared to oppose them. Their leader was a man of medium stature with small eyes and a long beard. He was Cao Cao, a Beijuo man, holding the rank of Cavalry Commander. His father was Cao Song, but he was not really a Cao. Cao Song had been born to the Xiahou family, but he had been brought up by Eunuch Cao Teng and had taken this family name.
As a young man Cao Cao had been fond of hunting and delighted in songs and dancing. He was resourceful and full of guile. An uncle, seeing the young fellow so unsteady, used to get angry with him and told his father of his misdeeds. His father remonstrated with him.
But Cao Cao made equal to the occasion. One day, seeing his uncle coming, he fell to the ground in a pretended fit. The uncle alarmed ran to tell his father, who came, and there was the youth in most perfect health.
“But your uncle said you were in a fit. Are you better?” said his father. “I have never suffered from fits or any such illness,” said Cao Cao. “But I have lost my uncle’s affection, and he
has deceived you.”
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Thereafter, whatever the uncle might say of his faults, his father paid no heed. So the young man grew up licen- tious and uncontrolled.
A man of the time named Qiao Xuan said to Cao Cao, “Rebellion is at hand, and only a man of the greatest ability can succeed in restoring tranquillity. That man is yourself.”
And He Yong of Nanyang said of him, “The dynasty of Han is about to fall. He who can restore peace is this man and only he.”
Cao Cao went to inquire his future of a wise man of Runan named Xu Shao. “What manner of man am I?” asked Cao Cao. The seer made no reply, and again and again Cao Cao pressed the question. Then Xu Shao replied, “In peace you are an able subject; in chaos you are a crafty hero!” Cao Cao greatly rejoiced to hear this. Cao Cao graduated at twenty and earned a reputation of piety and integrity. He began his career as Command-
ing Officer in a county within the Capital District. In the four gates of the city he guarded, he hung up clubs of var- ious sorts, and he would punish any breach of the law whatever the rank of the offender. Now an uncle of Eunuch Jian Shuo was found one night in the streets with a sword and was arrested. In due course he was beaten. Thereafter no one dared to offend again, and Cao Cao’s name became heard. Soon he became a magistrate of Dunqiu.
At the outbreak of the Yellow Scarves, Cao Cao held the rank of General and was given command of five thou- sand horse and foot to help fight at Yingchuan. He just happened to fall in with the newly defeated rebels whom he cut to pieces. Thousands were slain and endless banners and drums and horses were captured, together with huge sums of money. However, Zhang Ba and Zhang Lian got away; and after an interview with Huangfu Song, Cao Cao went in pursuit of them.
Meanwhile Liu Bei and his brothers were hastening toward Yingchuan, when they heard the din of battle and saw flames rising high toward the sky. But they arrived too late for the fighting. They saw Huangfu Song and Zhu Jun to whom they told the intentions of Lu Zhi.
“The rebel power is quite broken here,” said the commanders, “but they will surely make for Guangzong to join Zhang Jue. You can do nothing better than hasten back.”
The three brothers thus retraced their steps. Half way along the road they met a party of soldiers escorting a prisoner in a cage-cart. When they drew near, they saw the prisoner was no other than Lu Zhi, the man they were going to help. Hastily dismounting, Liu Bei asked what had happened.
Lu Zhi explained, “I had surrounded the rebels and was on the point of smashing them, when Zhang Jue employed some of his supernatural powers and prevented my victory. The court sent down Eunuch Zhuo Feng to inquire into my failure, and that official demanded a bribe. I told him how hard pressed we were and asked him where, in the circumstances, I could find a gift for him. He went away in wrath and reported that I was hiding be- hind my ramparts and would not give battle and that I disheartened my army. So I was superseded by Dong Zhuo, and I have to go to the capital to answer the charge.”
This story put Zhang Fei into a rage. He was for slaying the escort and setting free Lu Zhi. But Liu Bei checked him.
“The government will take the due course,” said Liu Bei. “You must not act hastily!” And the escort and the three brothers went two ways. It was useless to continue on that road to Guangzong, so Guan Yu proposed to go back to Zhuo, and they re-
took the road. Two days later they heard the thunder of battle behind some hills. Hastening to the top, they beheld the government soldiers suffering great loss, and they saw the countryside was full of Yellow Scarves. On the rebels’ banners were the words Zhang Jue the Lord of Heaven written large.
“We will attack this Zhang Jue!” said Liu Bei to his brothers, and they galloped out to join in the battle. Zhang Jue had worsted Dong Zhuo and was following up his advantage. He was in hot pursuit when the three
brothers dashed into his army, threw his ranks into confusion, and drove him back fifteen miles. Then the brothers returned with the rescued general to his camp.
“What offices have you?” asked Dong Zhuo, when he had leisure to speak to the brothers. “None,” replied they. And Dong Zhuo treated them with disrespect. Liu Bei retired calmly, but Zhang Fei was furious. “We have just rescued this menial in a bloody fight,” cried Zhang Fei, “and now he is rude to us! Nothing but his
death can slake my anger.” Zhang Fei stamped toward Dong Zhuo’s tent, holding firmly a sharp sword.
As it was in olden time so it is today, The simple wight may merit well, Officialdom holds sway;
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Zhang Fei, the blunt and hasty, Where can you find his peer? But slaying the ungrateful would Mean many deaths a year.
Dong Zhuo’s fate will be unrolled in later chapters.
Chapter 41
Liu Bei Leads His People Over The River; Zhao Zilong Rescues The Child Lord At Dangyang.
The last chapter closed with the attack made by Zhang Fei as soon as his brother had let loose the waters on the doomed army. He met with Xu Chu and a combat began, but a fight with such a warrior was not to Xu Chu’s taste and he ran away. Zhang Fei followed till he came upon Liu Bei and Zhuge Liang, and the three went upstream till they came to the boats that had been prepared by Liu Feng and Mi Fang, when they all crossed over and marched toward Fancheng. As soon as they disembarked, Zhuge Liang ordered the boats and rafts to be burned.
Cao Ren gathered in the remnants of his army and camped at Xinye, while his colleague Cao Hong went to tell their lord the evil tidings of defeat.
“How dare he, this rustic Zhuge Liang!” exclaimed Cao Cao angrily. Cao Cao then hastily sent an overwhelming army to camp near the place and gave orders for enormous works
against the city, leveling hills and turning rivers to launch a violent assault on Fancheng from every side at once. Then Liu Ye came in to see his lord and said, “Sir, you are new to this region, and you should win over the peo-
ple’s hearts. Liu Bei has moved all the people from Xinye to Fancheng. If we march through the country, the people will be ground to powder. It would be well to call upon Liu Bei first to surrender, which will prove to the people that you have a care for them. If he yields, then we get Jingzhou without fighting.”
Cao Cao agreed and asked who would be a suitable messenger. Liu Ye suggested Xu Shu. “He is a close friend of Liu Bei, and he is here with the army,” said Liu Ye. “But he will not come back,” objected Cao Cao. “If he does not return, he will be a laughing stock to the whole world. He will come back.” Xu Shu was sent for, and Cao Cao said, “My first intention was to level Fancheng with the ground. But out of
pity for its people, you may carry an offer to Liu Bei that if he will surrender, he will not only not be punished but he shall be given rank. But if he holds on his present misguided course, the whole of his followers shall be de- stroyed. Now you are an honest man and so I confide this mission to you, and I trust you will not disappoint me.”
Xu Shu said nothing but accepted his orders and went to the city, where he was received by both Liu Bei and Zhuge Liang. They enjoyed a talk over old times before Xu Shu mentioned the object of his mission.
Then he said, “Cao Cao has sent me to invite you to surrender, thereby making a bid for popularity. But you ought also to know that he intends to attack the city from every point, that he is damming up the White River’s waters to be sent against you, and I fear you will not be able to hold the city. You ought to prepare.”
Liu Bei asked Xu Shu to remain with them, but Xu Shu said, “That is impossible, for all the world would rid- icule me if I stayed. My old mother is dead, and I never forget my resentment. My body may be over there, but I swear never to form a plan for Cao Cao. You have the Sleeping Dragon to help you and need have no anxiety about the ultimate achievement of your undertaking. But I must go.”
And Xu Shu took his leave. Liu Bei felt he could not press his friend to stay. Xu Shu returned to Cao Cao’s camp and reported that Liu Bei had no intention of surrender. This angered Cao Cao who gave orders to begin the advance and siege.
When Liu Bei asked what Zhuge Liang meant to do, Zhuge Liang replied, “We shall abandon Fancheng and take Xiangyang.”
“But what of the people who have followed us? They cannot be abandoned.” “You can tell them to do as they wish. They may come if they like, or remain here.” They sent Guan Yu to prepare boats and told Sun Qian to proclaim to the people that Cao Cao was coming, that
the city could not be defended, and those who wished to do so might cross the river with the army. All the people cried, “We will follow the Prince even if it be to death!” They started at once, some lamenting, some weeping, the young helping the aged, parents leading their chil-
dren, the strong soldiers carrying the women. As the crowds crossed the river, from both banks arose the sound of lamentation.
Liu Bei was much affected as he saw all this from the boat.
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“Why was I ever born,” said he, “to be the cause of all this misery to the people?” He made to leap into the river, but they held him back. All were deeply sympathetic. When the boat reached the
southern shore, he looked back at the weeping crowds waiting still on the other bank and was again moved to tears. He bade Guan Yu hasten the boats before he mounted and rode on.
When Xiangyang came in sight, they saw many flags flying on the walls and that the moat was protected by barbed barriers.
Liu Bei checked his horse and called out, “Liu Zong, good nephew! I only wish to save the people and nothing more. I pray you quickly open the gates.”
But Liu Zong was too frightened to appear. Cai Mao and Zhang Yun went up to one of the fighting towers and ordered the soldiers to shoot arrows down on those without the walls. The people gazed up at the towers and wept aloud.
Suddenly there appeared a general, with a small following, who cried out, “Cai Mao and Zhang Yun are two traitors. The princely Liu Bei is a most upright man and has come here to preserve his people. Why do you repulse him?”
All looked at this man. He was of eight-span height, with a face dark brown as a ripe date. He was from Yiyang and named Wei Yan. At that moment he looked very terrible, whirling his sword as if about to slice up the gate guards. They lost no time in throwing open the gate and dropping the bridge.
“Come in, Uncle Liu Bei,” cried Wei Yan, “and bring your army to slay these traitors!” Zhang Fei plunged forward to take Cai Mao and Zhang Yun, but he was checked by his brother, who said, “Do
not frighten the people!” Thus Wei Yan let in Liu Bei. As soon as he entered, he saw a general galloping up with a few men. The newcomer yelled, “Wei Yan, you nobody! How dare you create trouble? Do you not know me, General Wen
Ping?” Wei Yan turned angrily, set his spear, and galloped forward to attack the general. The soldiers joined in the fray
and the noise of battle rose to the skies. “I wanted to preserve the people, and I am only causing them injury,” cried Liu Bei distressed. “I do not wish to
enter the city.” “Jiangling is an important point. We will first take that as a place to dwell in,” said Zhuge Liang. “That pleases me greatly,” said Liu Bei. So they led the people thither and away from Xiangyang. Many of the inhabitants of that city took advantage of
the confusion to escape, and they also joined themselves to Liu Bei. Meanwhile, within the inhospitable city, Wei Yan and Wen Ping fought. The battle continued for four or five
watches, all through the middle of the day, and nearly all the combatants fell. Then Wei Yan got away. As he could not find Liu Bei, he rode off to Changsha and sought an asylum with Governor Han Xuan.
Liu Bei wandered away from the city of Xiangyang that had refused shelter. Soldiers and people, his following numbered more than a hundred thousand. The carts numbered scores of thousands, and the burden bearers were innumerable. Their road led them past the tomb of Liu Biao, and Liu Bei turned aside to bow at the grave.
He lamented, saying, “Shameful is thy brother, lacking both in virtue and in talents. I refused to bear the bur- den you wished to lay upon me, wherein I was wrong. But the people committed no sin. I pray your glorious spirit descend and rescue these people.”
His prayer was fraught with sorrow, and all those about him wept. Just then a scout rode up with the news that Fancheng was already taken by Cao Cao and that his army were
preparing boats and rafts to cross the river. The generals of Liu Bei said, “Jiangling is a defensible shelter, but with this crowd we can only advance very
slowly, and when can we reach the city? If Cao Cao pursue, we shall be in a parlous state. Our counsel is to leave the people to their fate for a time and press on to Jiangling.”
But Liu Bei wept, saying, “The success of every great enterprise depends upon humanity. How can I abandon these people who have joined me?”
Those who heard him repeat this noble sentiment were greatly affected.
In time of stress his heart was tender toward the people, And he wept as he went down into the ship, Moving the hearts of soldiers to sympathy. Even today, in the countryside, Fathers and elders recall the Princely One’s kindness.
The progress of Liu Bei, with the crowd of people in his train, was very slow.
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“The pursuers will be upon us quickly,” said Zhuge Liang. “Let us send Guan Yu to Jiangxia for succor. Liu Qi should be told to bring soldiers and prepare boats for us at Jiangling.”
Liu Bei agreed to this and wrote a letter which he sent by the hands of Guan Yu and Sun Qian and five hundred troops. Zhang Fei was put in command of the rear guard. Zhao Zilong was told to guard Liu Bei’s family, while the others ordered the march of the people.
They only traveled three or four miles daily and the halts were frequent. Meanwhile Cao Cao was at Fancheng, whence he sent troops over the river toward Xiangyang. He summoned
Liu Zong, but Liu Zong was too afraid to answer the call. No persuasion could get him to go. Wang Wei said to him privately, “Now you can overcome Cao Cao if you are wise. Since you have announced
surrender and Liu Bei has gone away, Cao Cao will relax his precautions, and you can catch him unawares. Send a well-prepared but unexpected force to waylay him in some commanding position, and the thing is done. If you were to take Cao Cao prisoner, your fame would run throughout the empire, and the land would be yours for the taking. This is a sort of opportunity that does not recur, and you should not miss it.”
The young man consulted Cai Mao, who called Wang Wei an evil counselor and spoke to him harshly. “You are mad! You know nothing and understand nothing of destiny,” said Cai Mao. Wang Wei angrily retorted, saying, “Cai Mao is the betrayer of the country, and I wish I could eat him alive!” The quarrel waxed deadly, and Cai Mao wanted to slay Wang Wei. But eventually peace was restored by Kuai
Yue. Then Cai Mao and Zhang Yun went to Fancheng to see Cao Cao. Cai Mao was by instinct specious and flattering, and when his host asked concerning the resources of Jingzhou,
he replied, “There are fifty thousand of horse, one hundred fifty thousand of foot, and eighty thousand of marines. Most of the money and grain are at Jiangling. The rest is stored at various places. There are ample supplies for a year.”
“How many war vessels are there? Who is in command?” said Cao Cao. “The ships, of all sizes, number seven thousands, and we two are the commanders.” Upon this Cao Cao conferred upon Cai Mao the title of the Lord Who Controls the South, and Supreme Admi-
ral of the Naval Force; and Zhang Yun was his Vice-Admiral with the title of the Lord Who Brings Obedience. When they went to thank Cao Cao for these honors, he told them, saying, “I am about to propose to the Throne
that Liu Biao’s son should be perpetual Imperial Protector of Jingzhou in succession to his late father.” With this promise for their young master and the honors for themselves, they retired. Then Xun You asked Cao Cao, “Why these two evident self-seekers and flatterers have been treated so gener-
ously?” Cao Cao replied, “Do I not know all about them? Only in the north, where we have been, we know very little of
war by water, and these two men do. I want their help for the present. When my end is achieved, I can do as I like with them.”
Liu Zong was highly delighted when his two chief supporters returned with the promise Cao Cao had given them. Soon after he gave up his seal and military commission and proceeded to welcome Cao Cao, who received him very graciously.
Cao Cao next proceeded to camp near Xiangyang. The populace, led by Cai Mao and Zhang Yun, welcomed him with burning incense, and he on his part put forth proclamations couched in comforting terms.
Cao Cao presently entered the city and took his seat in the residence in state. Then he summoned Kuai Yue and said to him graciously, “I do not rejoice so much at gaining Jingzhou as at meeting you, friend Kuai Yue.”
Cao Cao made Kuai Yue Governor of Jiangling and Lord of Fancheng; Wang Can, Fu Xuan, and Kuai Yue’s other adherents were all ennobled. Liu Zong became Imperial Protector of Qingzhou in the north and was ordered to proceed to his region forthwith.
Liu Zong was greatly frightened and said, “I have no wish to become an actual official. I wish to remain in the place where my father and mother live.”
Said Cao Cao, “Your protectorship is quite near the capital, and I have sent you there as a full official to remove you from the intrigues of this place.”
In vain Liu Zong declined the honors thus thrust upon him: He was compelled to go and he departed, taking his mother with him. Of his friends, only Wang Wei accompanied him. Some of his late officers escorted him as far as the river and then took their leave.
Then Cao Cao called his trusty officer Yu Jin and said, “Follow Liu Zong and put him and his mother to death. Our worries are thus removed.”
Yu Jin followed the small party. When he drew near he shouted, “I have an order from the great Prime Minister to put you both to death, moth-
er and son! You may as well submit quietly.”
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Lady Cai threw her arms about her son, lifted up her voice and wept. Yu Jin bade his soldiers get on with their bloody work. Only Wang Wei made any attempt to save his mistress, and he was soon killed. The two, mother and son, were soon finished, and Yu Jin returned to report his success. He was richly rewarded.
Next Cao Cao sent to discover and seize the family of Zhuge Liang, but they had already disappeared. Zhuge Liang had moved them to the Three Gorges. It was much to Cao Cao’s disgust that the search was fruitless.
So Xiangyang was settled. Then Xun You proposed a further advance. He said, “Jiangling is an important place, and very rich. If Liu Bei gets it, it will be difficult to dislodge him.” “How could I have overlooked that?” said Cao Cao. Then he called upon the officers of Xiangyang for one who could lead the way. They all came except Wen Ping. Cao Cao sent for him and soon he came also. “Why are you late?” asked Cao Cao. Wen Ping said, “To be a minister and see one’s master lose his own boundaries is most shameful. Such a person
has no face to show to anyone else, and I was too ashamed to come.” His tears fell fast as he finished this speech. Cao Cao admired his loyal conduct and rewarded him with office of
Governorship of Jiangxia and a title of Lordship, and also bade him open the way. The spies returned and said, “Liu Bei is hampered by the crowds of people who have followed him. He can pro-
ceed only three or four miles daily, and he is only one hundred miles away.” Cao Cao decided to take advantage of Liu Bei’s plight, so he chose out five thousand of tried horsemen and
sent them after the cavalcade, giving them a limit of a day and a night to come up therewith. The main army would follow.
As has been said Liu Bei was traveling with a huge multitude of followers, to guard whom he had taken what precautions were possible. Zhang Fei was in charge of the rear guard, and Zhao Zilong was to protect his lord’s fam- ily. Guan Yu had been sent to Jiangxia.
One day Zhuge Liang came in and said, “There is as yet no news from Jiangxia. There must be some difficulties.” “I wish that you yourself would go there,” said Liu Bei. “Liu Qi would remember your former kindness to him
and consent to anything you proposed.” Zhuge Liang said he would go and set out with Liu Feng, the adopted son of Liu Bei, taking an escort of five
hundred troops. A few days after, while on the march in company with three of his commanders—Jian Yong, Mi Zhu, and Mi
Fang—a sudden whirlwind rose just in front of Liu Bei, and a huge column of dust shot up into the air hiding the face of the sun.
Liu Bei was frightened and asked, “What might that portend?” Jian Yong, who knew something of the mysteries of nature, took the auspices by counting secretly on his fingers. Pale and trembling, he announced, “A calamity is threatening this very night. My lord must leave the people to
their fate and flee quickly.” “I cannot do that,” said Liu Bei. “If you allow your pity to overcome your judgment, then misfortune is very near,” said Jian Yong. Thus spoke Jian Yong to his lord, who then asked what place was near. His people replied, “Dangyang is quite close, and there is a very famous mountain near it called Prospect
Mountain.” Then Liu Bei bade them lead the way thither. The season was late autumn, just changing to winter, and the icy wind penetrated to the very bones. As eve-
ning fell, long-drawn howls of misery were heard on every side. At the middle of the fourth watch, two hours after midnight, they heard a rumbling sound in the northwest. Liu Bei halted and placed himself at the head of his own guard of two thousand soldiers to meet whatever might come.
Presently Cao Cao’s men appeared and made fierce onslaught. Defense was impossible, though Liu Bei fought desperately. By good fortune just at the crisis Zhang Fei came up, cut an alley through, rescued his brother, and got him away to the east. Presently they were stopped by Wen Ping.
“Turncoat! Can you still look humans in the face?” cried Liu Bei. Wen Ping was overwhelmed with shame and led his troops away. Zhang Fei, now fighting, protected his brother
till dawn. By that time Liu Bei had got beyond the sound of battle, and there was time to rest. Only a few of his followers
had been able to keep near him. He knew nothing of the fate of his officers or the people. He lifted up his voice in lamentation, saying, “Myriads of living souls are suffering from love of me, and my
officers and my loved ones are lost. One would be a graven image not to weep at such loss!” Still plunged in sadness, presently he saw hurrying toward him Mi Fang, with an enemy’s arrow still sticking in
his face.
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Mi Fang exclaimed, “Zhao Zilong has gone over to Cao Cao!” Liu Bei angrily bade him be silent, crying, “Do you think I can believe that of my old friend?” “Perhaps he has gone over,” said Zhang Fei. “He must see that we are nearly lost and there are riches and honors
on the other side.” “He has followed me faithfully through all my misfortunes. His heart is firm as a rock. No riches or honors
would move him,” said Liu Bei. “I saw him go away northwest,” said Mi Fang. “Wait till I meet him,” said Zhang Fei. “If I run against him, I will kill him!” “Beware how you doubt him,” said Liu Bei. “Have you forgotten the circumstances under which your brother
Guan Yu had to slay Cai Yang to ease your doubts of him? Zhao Zilong’s absence is due to good reason wherever he has gone, and he would never abandon me.”
But Zhang Fei was not convinced. Then he, with a score of his men, rode to the Long Slope Bridge. Seeing a wood near the bridge, an idea suddenly struck him. He bade his followers cut branches from the trees, tie them to the tails of the horses, and ride to and fro so as to raise a great dust as though an army were concealed in the wood. He himself took up his station on the bridge facing the west with spear set ready for action. So he kept watch.
Now Zhao Zilong, after fighting with the enemy from the fourth watch till daylight, could see no sign of his lord and, moreover, had lost his lord’s family.
He thought bitterly within himself, “My master confided to me his family and the child lord Liu Shan; and I have lost them. How can I look him in the face? I can only go now and fight to the death. Whatever happen, I must go to seek the women and my lord’s son.”
Turning about he found he had but some forty followers left. He rode quickly to and fro among the scattered soldiers seeking the lost women. The lamentations of the people about him were enough to make heaven and earth weep. Some had been wounded by arrows, others by spears; they had thrown away their children, abandoned their wives, and were flying they knew not whither in crowds.
Presently Zhao Zilong saw a man lying in the grass and recognized him as Jian Yong. “Have you seen the two mothers?” cried he. Jian Yong replied, “They left their carriage and ran away taking the child lord Liu Shan in their arms. I followed
but on the slope of the hill I was wounded and fell from my horse. The horse was stolen. I could fight no longer, and I lay down here.”
Zhao Zilong put his colleague on the horse of one of his followers, told off two soldiers to support Jian Yong, and bade Jian Yong ride to their lord and tell him of the loss.
“Say,” said Zhao Zilong, “that I will seek the lost ones in heaven or hell, through good or evil. And if I find them not, I will die in the battlefield.”
Then Zhao Zilong rode off toward the Long Slope Bridge. As he went, a voice called out, “General Zhao Zilong, where are you going?” “Who are you?” said Zhao Zilong, pulling up. “One of the Princely One’s carriage guards. I am wounded.” “Do you know anything of the two ladies?” “Not very long ago I saw Lady Gan go south with a party of other women. Her hair was down, and she was
barefooted” Hearing this, without even another glance at the speaker, Zhao Zilong put his horse at full gallop toward the
south. Soon he saw a small crowd of people, male and female, walking hand in hand. “Is Lady Gan among you!” he called out. A woman in the rear of the party looked up at him and uttered a loud cry. He slipped off his steed, stuck his spear in the sand, and wept, “It was my fault that you were lost. But where are
Lady Mi and our child lord?” Lady Gan replied, “She and I were forced to abandon our carriage and mingle with the crowd on foot. Then a
band of soldiers came up, and we were separated. I do not know where they are. I ran for my life.” As she spoke, a howl of distress rose from the crowd of fugitives, for a thousand of soldiers appeared. Zhao
Zilong recovered his spear and mounted ready for action. Presently he saw among the soldiers a prisoner bound upon a horse, and the prisoner was Mi Zhu. Behind Mi Zhu followed a general gripping a huge sword. The troops belonged to the army of Cao Ren, and the general was Chunyu Dao. Having captured Mi Zhu, he was just taking him to his chief as a proof of his prowess.
Zhao Zilong shouted and rode at the captor who was speedily slain by a spear thrust and his captive was set free. Then taking two of the horses, Zhao Zilong set Lady Gan on one and Mi Zhu took the other. They rode away toward Long Slope Bridge.
But there, standing grim on the bridge, was Zhang Fei.
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As soon as he saw Zhao Zilong, he called out, “Zhao Zilong, why have you betrayed our lord?” “I fell behind because I was seeking the ladies and our child lord,” said Zhao Zilong. “What do you mean by
talking of betrayal?” “If it had not been that Jian Yong arrived before you and told me the story, I should hardly have spared you.” “Where is the master?” said Zhao Zilong. “Not far away, in front there,” said Zhang Fei. “Conduct Lady Gan to him. I am going to look for Lady Mi,” said Zhao Zilong to his companion, and he turned
back along the road by which he had come. Before long he met a leader armed with an iron spear and carrying a sword slung across his back, riding a
curvetting steed, and leading ten other horsemen. Without uttering a word Zhao Zilong rode straight toward him and engaged. At the first pass Zhao Zilong disarmed his opponent and brought him to earth. His followers galloped away.
This fallen officer was no other than Xiahou En, Cao Cao’s sword-bearer. And the sword on Xiahou En’s back was his master’s . Cao Cao had two swords, one called “Trust of God” and the other “Blue Blade”. Trust of God was the weapon Cao Cao usually wore at his side, the other being carried by his sword-bearer. The Blue Blade would cut clean through iron as though it were mud, and no sword had so keen an edge.
Before Zhao Zilong thus fell in with Xiahou En, the latter was simply plundering, depending upon the authority implied by his office. Least of all thought he of such sudden death as met he at Zhao Zilong’s hands.
So Zhao Zilong got possession of a famous sword. The name Blue Blade was chased in gold characters so that he recognized its value at once. He stuck it in his belt and again plunged into the press. Just as he did so, he turned his head and saw he had not a single follower left. He was quite alone.
Nevertheless not for a single instant thought he of turning back. He was too intent upon his quest. To and fro, back and forth, he rode questioning this person and that.
At length a man said, “A woman with a child in her arms, and wounded in the thigh so that she cannot walk, is lying over there through that hole in the wall.”
Zhao Zilong rode to look and there, beside an old well behind the broken wall of a burned house, sat the moth- er clasping the child to her breast and weeping.
Zhao Zilong was on his knees before her in a moment. “My child will live then since you are here,” cried Lady Mi. “Pity him, O General! Protect him, for he is the only
son of his father’s flesh and blood. Take him to his father, and I can die content.” “It is my fault that you have suffered,” replied Zhao Zilong. “But it is useless to say more. I pray you take my
horse, while I will walk beside and protect you till we get clear.” She replied, “I may not do that. What would you do without a steed? But the boy here I confide to your care. I
am badly wounded and cannot hope to live. Pray take him and go your way. Do not trouble more about me.” “I hear shouting,” said Zhao Zilong. “The soldiers will be upon us again in a moment. Pray mount quickly!” “But really I cannot move,” she said. “Do not let there be a double loss!” And she held out the child toward him as she spoke. “Take the child!” cried Lady Mi. “His life and safety are in your hands.” Again and again Zhao Zilong besought her to get on his horse, but she would not. The shouting drew nearer and nearer, Zhao Zilong spoke harshly, saying, “If you will not do what I say, what
will happen when the soldiers come up?” She said no more. Throwing the child on the ground, she turned over and threw herself into the old well. And
there she perished.
The warrior relies upon the strength of his charger, Afoot, how could he bear to safety his young prince? Brave mother! Who died to preserve the son of her husband’s line; Heroine was she, bold and decisive!
Seeing that Lady Mi had resolved the question by dying, there was nothing more to be done. Zhao Zilong pushed over the wall to fill the well, and thus making a grave for the lady. Then he loosened his armor, let down the heart-protecting mirror, and placed the child in his breast. This done he slung his spear and remounted. Zhao Zilong had gone but a short distance, when he saw a horde of enemy led by Yan Ming, one of Cao Hong’s generals. This warrior used a double edged, three pointed weapon and he offered battle. However, Zhao Zilong disposed of him after a very few bouts and dispersed his troops. As the road cleared before him, Zhao Zilong saw another detachment barring his way. At the head of this
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was a general exalted enough to display a banner with his name Zhang He of Hejian. Zhao Zilong never waited to parley but attacked. However, this was a more formidable antagonist, and half a score bouts found neither any nearer defeat. But Zhao Zilong, with the child in his bosom, could only fight with the greatest caution, and so he decided to flee. Zhang He pursued, and as Zhao Zilong thought only of thrashing his steed to get away, and little of the road, suddenly he went crashing into a pit. On came his pursuer, spear at poise. Suddenly a brilliant flash of light seemed to shoot out of the pit, and the fallen horse leapt with it into the air and was again on firm earth.
A bright glory surrounds the child of the imperial line, now in danger, The powerful charger forces his way through the press of battle, Bearing to safety him who was destined to the throne two score years and two; And the general thus manifested his godlike courage.
This apparition frightened Zhang He, who abandoned the pursuit forthwith, and Zhao Zilong rode off. Presently he heard shouts behind, “Zhao Zilong, Zhao Zilong, stop!” and at the same time he saw ahead of him
two generals who seemed disposed to dispute his way. Ma Yan and Zhang Zi following and Jiao Chu and Zhang Neng in front, his state seemed desperate, but Zhao
Zilong quailed not. As the men of Cao Cao came pressing on, Zhao Zilong drew Cao Cao’s own sword to beat them off. Nothing
could resist the blue blade sword. Armor, clothing, it went through without effort and blood gushed forth in foun- tains wherever it struck. So the four generals were soon beaten off, and Zhao Zilong was once again free.
Now Cao Cao from a hilltop of the Prospect Mountain saw these deeds of derring-do and a general showing such valor that none could withstand him, so Cao Cao asked of his followers whether any knew the man. No one recognized him.
So Cao Hong galloped down into the plain and shouted out, “We should hear the name of the warrior!” “I am Zhao Zilong of Changshan!” replied Zhao Zilong. Cao Hong returned and told his lord, who said, “A very tiger of a leader! I must get him alive.” Whereupon he sent horsemen to all detachments with orders that no arrows were to be fired from an ambush
at any point Zhao Zilong should pass: He was to be taken alive. And so Zhao Zilong escaped most imminent danger, and Liu Shan’s safety, bound up with his savior’s, was also
secured. On this career of slaughter which ended in safety, Zhao Zilong, bearing in his bosom the child lord Liu Shan, cut down two main banners, took three spears, and slew or wounded of Cao Cao’s generals half a hundred, all men of renown.
Blood dyed the fighting robe and crimsoned his buff coat; None dared engage the terrible warrior at Dangyang; In the days of old lived the brave Zhao Zilong, Who fought in the battlefield for his lord in danger.
Having thus fought his way out of the press, Zhao Zilong lost no time in getting away from the battle field. His white battle robe had turned red, soaking in blood.
On his way, near the rise of the hills, he met with two other bodies of troops under two brothers, Zhong Jin and Zhong Shen. One of these was armed with a massive ax, the other a halberd.
As soon as they saw Zhao Zilong, they knew him and shouted, “Quickly dismount and be bound!”
He has only escaped from the tiger cave, To risk the dragon pool’s sounding wave.
How Zhao Zilong escaped will be next related.
Chapter 42
Screaming Zhang Fei Triumphs At Long Slope Bridge; Defeated Liu Bei Marches To Hanjin.
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As related in the last chapter two generals appeared in front of Zhao Zilong, who rode at them with his spear ready for a thrust. Zhong Jin was leading, flourishing his battle-ax. Zhao Zilong engaged and very soon un- horsed him. Then Zhao Zilong galloped away. Zhong Shen rode up behind ready with his halberd, and his horse’s nose got so close to the other’s tail that Zhao Zilong could see in his armor the reflection of the play of Zhong Shen’s weapon. Then suddenly, and without warning, Zhao Zilong wheeled round his horse so that he faced his pursuer, and their two steeds struck breast to breast. With his spear in his left hand, Zhao Zilong warded off the halberd strokes, and in his right he swung the blue blade sword. One slash and he had cut through both helmet and head. Zhong Shen fell to the ground, a corpse with only half a head on his body. His followers fled, and Zhao Zilong retook the road toward Long Slope Bridge.
But in his rear arose another tumultuous shouting, seeming to rend the very sky, and Wen Ping came up be- hind. However, although the man was weary and his steed spent, Zhao Zilong got close to the bridge where he saw standing, all ready for any fray, Zhang Fei.
“Help me, Zhang Fei!” he cried and crossed the bridge. “Hasten!” cried Zhang Fei, “I will keep back the pursuers!” About seven miles from the bridge, Zhao Zilong saw Liu Bei with his followers reposing in the shade of some
trees. He dismounted and drew near, weeping. The tears also started to Liu Bei’s eyes when he saw his commander. Still panting from his exertions, Zhao Zilong gasped out, “My fault—death is too light a punishment. Lady Mi
was severely wounded. She refused my horse and threw herself into a well. She is dead, and all I could do was to fill in the well with the rubbish that lay around. But I placed the babe in the breast of my fighting robe and have won my way out of the press of battle. Thanks to the little lord’s grand luck I have escaped. At first he cried a good deal, but for some time now he has not stirred or made a sound. I fear I may not have saved his life after all.”
Then Zhao Zilong opened his robe and looked: The child was fast asleep. “Happily, Sir, your son is unhurt,” said Zhao Zilong as he drew him forth and presented him in both hands. Liu Bei took the child but threw it aside angrily, saying, “To preserve that suckling I very nearly lost a great
general!” Zhao Zilong picked up the child again and, weeping, said, “Were I ground to powder, I could not prove my
gratitude.”
From out Cao Cao’s host a tiger rushed, His wish but to destroy; Though Liu Bei’s consort lost her life, Zhao Zilong preserved her boy. “Too great the risk you ran to save This child,” the father cried. To show he rated Zhao Zilong high, He threw his son aside.
Wen Ping and his company pursued Zhao Zilong till they saw Zhang Fei’s bristling mustache and fierce- ly glaring eyes before them. There he was seated on his battle steed, his hand grasping his terrible serpent spear, guarding the bridge. They also saw great clouds of dust rising above the trees and concluded they would fall into an ambush if they ventured across the bridge. So they stopped the pursuit, not daring to advance further.
In a little time Cao Ren, Xiahou Dun, Xiahou Yuan, Li Dian, Yue Jing, Zhang Liao, Xu Chu, Zhang He, and other generals of Cao Cao came up, but none dared advance, frightened not only by Zhang Fei’s fierce look, but lest they should become victims of a ruse of Zhuge Liang. As they came up, they formed a line on the west side, halting till they could inform their lord of the position.
As soon as the messengers arrived and Cao Cao heard about it, he mounted and rode to the bridge to see for himself. Zhang Fei’s fierce eye scanning the hinder position of the army opposite him saw the silken umbrella, the axes and banners coming along, and concluded that Cao Cao came to see for himself how matters stood.
So in a mighty voice he shouted: “I am Zhang Fei of Yan. Who dares fight with me?” At the sound of this thunderous voice, a terrible quaking fear seized upon Cao Cao, and he bade them take the
umbrella away. Turning to his followers, he said, “Guan Yu had said that his brother Zhang Fei was the sort of man to go
through an army of a hundred legions and take the head of its commander-in-chief, and do it easily. Now here is this terror in front of us, and we must be careful.”
As he finished speaking, again that terrible voice was heard, “I am Zhang Fei of Yan.Who dares fight with me?” Cao Cao, seeing his enemy so fierce and resolute, was too frightened to think of anything but retreat. Zhang Fei, seeing a movement going on in the rear, once again shook his spear and roared, “What mean you?
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You will not fight nor do you run away!” This roar had scarcely begun when one of Cao Cao’s staff, Xiahou Jie, reeled and fell from his horse ter-
ror-stricken, paralyzed with fear. The panic touched Cao Cao and spread to his whole surroundings, and he and his staff galloped for their lives. They were as frightened as a suckling babe at a clap of thunder or a weak woodcutter at the roar of a tiger. Many threw away their spears, dropped their casques and fled, a wave of panic-stricken humani- ty, a tumbling mass of terrified horses. None thought of ought but flight, and those who ran trampled the bodies of fallen comrades under foot.
Zhang Fei was wrathful; and who dared To accept his challenge? Fierce he glared; His thunderous voice rolled out, and then In terror fled Cao Cao’s armed soldiers.
Panic-stricken Cao Cao galloped westward with the rest, thinking of nothing but getting away. He lost his headdress, and his loosened hair streamed behind him. Presently Zhang Liao and Xu Chu came up with him and seized his bridle; fear had deprived him of all self-control.
“Do not be frightened,” said Zhang Liao. “After all Zhang Fei is but one man and not worthy of extravagant fear. If you will only return and attack, you will capture your enemy.”
That time Cao Cao had somewhat overcome his panic and become reasonable. Two generals were ordered back to the bridge to reconnoiter.
Zhang Fei saw the disorderly rout of the enemy but he dared not pursue. However, he bade his score or so of dust-raising followers to cut loose the branches from their horses’ tails and come to help destroy the bridge. This done he went to report to his brother and told him of the destruction of the bridge.
“Brave as you are, brother, and no one is braver, but you are no strategist,” said Liu Bei. “What mean you, brother?” “Cao Cao is very deep. You are no match for him. The destruction of the bridge will bring him in pursuit.” “If he ran away at a yell of mine, think you he will dare return?” “If you had left the bridge, he would have thought there was an ambush and would not have dared to pass it.
Now the destruction of the bridge tells him we are weak and fearful, and he will pursue. He does not mind a broken bridge. His legions could fill up the biggest rivers that we could get across.”
So orders were given to march, and they went by a bye-road which led diagonally to Hanjin by the road of Minyang.
The two generals sent by Cao Cao to reconnoiter near Long Slope Bridge returned, saying, “The bridge has been destroyed. Zhang Fei has left.”
“Then he is afraid,” said Cao Cao. Cao Cao at once gave orders to set ten thousand men at work on three floating bridges to be finished that night. Li Dian said, “I fear this is one of the wiles of Zhuge Liang. So be careful.” “Zhang Fei is just a bold warrior, but there is no guile about him,” said Cao Cao. He gave orders for immediate advance. Liu Bei was making all speed to Hanjin. Suddenly there appeared in his track a great cloud of dust whence came
loud rolls of drums and shoutings. Liu Bei was dismayed and said, “Before us rolls the Great River; behind is the pursuer. What hope is there for
us?” But he bade Zhao Zilong organize a defense. Now Cao Cao in an order to his army had said, “Liu Bei is a fish in the fish kettle, a tiger in the pit. Catch him
this time, or the fish will get back to the sea and the tiger escape to the mountains. Therefore every general must use his best efforts to press on.”
In consequence every leader bade those under him hasten forward. And they were pressing on at great speed, when suddenly a body of soldiers appeared from the hills and a voice cried, “I have waited here a long time!”
The leader who had shouted this bore in his hand the green-dragon saber and rode Red Hare, for indeed it was no other than Guan Yu. He had gone to Jiangxia for help and had returned with a whole legion of ten thousand. Having heard of the battle, he had taken this very road to intercept pursuit.
As soon as Guan Yu appeared, Cao Cao stopped and said to his officers, “Here we are, tricked again by that Zhuge Liang!”
Without more ado he ordered a retreat. Guan Yu followed him some three miles and then drew off to act as guard to his elder brother on his way to the river. There boats were ready, and Liu Bei and family went on board. When all were settled comfortably in the boat, Guan Yu asked where was his sister, the second wife of his brother,
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Lady Mi. Then Liu Bei told him the story of Dangyang. “Alas!” said Guan Yu. “Had you taken my advice that day of the hunting in Xutian, we should have escaped the
misery of this day.” “But,” said Liu Bei, “on that day it was ‘Ware damaged when pelting rats.’” Just as Liu Bei spoke, he heard war drums on the south bank. A fleet of boats, thick as a flight of ants, came run-
ning up with swelling sails before the fair wind. He was alarmed. The boats came nearer. There Liu Bei saw the white clad figure of a man wearing a silver helmet who stood in
the prow of the foremost ship. The leader cried, “Are you all right, my uncle? I am very guilty.” It was Liu Qi. He bowed low as the ship passed, saying, “I heard you were in danger from Cao Cao, and I have
come to aid you.” Liu Bei welcomed Liu Qi with joy, and his soldiers joined in with the main body, and the whole fleet sailed on,
while they told each other their adventures. Unexpectedly in the southwest there appeared a line of fighting ships swishing up before a fair wind. Liu Qi said, “All my troops are here, and now there is an enemy barring the way. If they are not Cao Cao’s ships,
they must be from the South Land. We have a poor chance. What now?” Liu Bei went to the prow and gazed at them. Presently he made out a figure in a turban and Daoist robe sitting
in the bows of one of the boats and knew it to be Zhuge Liang. Behind him stood Sun Qian.
When they were quite near, Liu Bei asked Zhuge Liang how he came to be there.
And Zhuge Liang reported what he had done, saying, “When I reached Jiangxia, I sent Guan Yu to land at Han- jin with reinforcements, for I feared pursuit from Cao Cao and knew that road you would take instead of Jiangling. So I prayed your nephew to go to meet you, while I went to Xiakou to muster as many soldiers as possible.”
The new-comers added to their strength, and they began once more to consider how their powerful enemy might be overcome.
Said Zhuge Liang, “Xiakou is strong and a good strategic point. It is also rich and suited for a lengthy stay. I would ask you, my lord, to make it a permanent camp. Your nephew can go to Jiangxia to get the fleet in order and prepare weapons. Thus we can create two threatening angles for our position. If we all return to Jiangxia, the position will be weakened.”
Liu Qi replied, “The Directing Instructor’s words are ex- cellent, but I wish rather my uncle stayed awhile in Jiangxia till the army was in thorough order. Then he could go to Xiakou.”
“You speak to the point, nephew,” replied Liu Bei. Then leaving Guan Yu with five thousand troops at Xiakou
he, with Zhuge Liang and his nephew, went to Jiangxia. When Cao Cao saw Guan Yu with a force ready to attack,
he feared lest a greater number were hidden away behind, so he stopped the pursuit. He also feared lest Liu Bei should take Jiangling, so he marched thither with all haste.
The two officers in command at Jingzhou City, Deng Yi and Liu Xin, had heard of the death of their lord Liu Zong at Xiangyang and, knowing that there was no chance of success- ful defense against Cao Cao’s armies, they led out the people of Jingzhou to the outskirts and offered submission. Cao Cao entered the city and, after restoring order and confidence, he released Han Song and gave him the dignified office of Direc- tor of Ambassadorial Receptions. He rewarded the others.
Then said Cao Cao, “Liu Bei has gone to Jiangxia and may ally himself with the South Land, and the opposition to me will be greater. Can he be destroyed?”
Image 7.6: Three Brothers | Liu Bei, Guan Yu, and Zhang Fei stand close together reading a scroll.
Author: User “Jonathan Groß” Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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Xun You said, “The splendor of your achievements has spread wide. Therefore you might send a messenger to invite Sun Quan to a grand hunting party at Jiangxia, and you two could seize Liu Bei, share Jingzhou with Sun Quan, and make a solemn treaty. Sun Quan will be too frightened not to come over to you, and your end will be gained.”
Cao Cao agreed. He sent the letters by a messenger, and he prepared his army—horse and foot and marines. He had in all eight hundred thirty thousand troops, but he called them a million. The attack was to be by land and water at the same time.
The fleet advanced up the river in two lines. On the west it extended to Jingxia, on the east to Qichun. The stockades stretched one hundred miles.
The story of Cao Cao’s movements and successes reached Sun Quan, then in camp at Chaisang. He assembled his strategists to decide on a scheme of defense.
Lu Su said, “Jingzhou is contiguous to our borders. It is strong and defensive, its people are rich. It is the sort of country that an emperor or a king should have. Liu Biao’s recent death gives an excuse for me to be sent to convey condolence and, once there, I shall be able to talk over Liu Bei and the officers of the late Imperial Protector to com- bine with you against Cao Cao. If Liu Bei does as I wish, then success is yours.”
Sun Quan thought this a good plan, so he had the necessary letters prepared, and the gifts, and sent Lu Su with them.
All this time Liu Bei was at Jiangxia where, with Zhuge Liang and Liu Qi, he was endeavoring to evolve a good plan of campaign.
Zhuge Liang said, “Cao Cao’s power is too great for us to cope with. Let us go over to the South Land and ask help from Sun Quan. If we can set north and south at grips, we ought to be able to get some advantage from our intermediate position between them.”
“But will they be willing to have anything to do with us?” said Liu Bei. “The South Land is a large and populous country, and Sun Quan has ambitions of his own.”
Zhuge Liang replied, “Cao Cao with his army of a million holds the Han River and a half of the Great River. The South Land will certainly send to find out all possible about the position. Should any messenger come, I shall bor- row a little boat and make a little trip over the river and trust to my little lithe tongue to set north and south at each other’s throats. If the south wins, we will assist in destroying Cao Cao in order to get Jingzhou. If the north wins, we shall profit by the victory to get the South Land. So we shall get some advantage either way.”
“That is a very fine view to take,” said Liu Bei. “But how are you going to get hold of anyone from the South Land to talk to?”
Liu Bei’s question was answered by the arrival of Lu Su, and as the ship touched the bank and the envoy came ashore, Zhuge Liang laughed, saying, “It is done!”
Turning to Liu Qi he asked, “When Sun Ce died, did your country send any condolences?” “It is impossible there would be any mourning courtesies between them and us. We had caused the death of his
father, Sun Jian.” “Then it is certain that this envoy does not come to present condolences but to spy out the land.” So he said to Liu Bei, “When Lu Su asks about the movements of Cao Cao, you will know nothing. If he presses
the matter, say he can ask me.” Having thus prepared their scheme, they sent to welcome the envoy, who entered the city in mourning garb.
The gifts having been accepted, Liu Qi asked Lu Su to meet Liu Bei. When the introductory ceremonies were over, the three men went to one of the inner chambers to drink a cup of wine.
Presently Lu Su said to Liu Bei, “By reputation I have known you a long time, Uncle Liu Bei, but till today I have not met you. I am very gratified at seeing you. You have been fighting Cao Cao, though, lately, so I suppose you know all about him. Has he really so great an army? How many, do you think, he has?”
“My army was so small that we fled whenever we heard of his approach. So I do not know how many he had.” “You had the advice of Zhuge Liang, and you used fire on Cao Cao twice. You burned him almost to death so
that you can hardly say you know nothing about his soldiers,” said Lu Su. “Without asking my adviser, I really do not know the details.” “Where is Zhuge Liang? I should like to see him,” said Lu Su. So they sent for him, and he was introduced. When the ceremonies were over, Lu Su said, “I have long admired your genius but have never been fortunate
enough to meet you. Now that I have met you, I hope I may speak of present politics.” Replied Zhuge Liang, “I know all Cao Cao’s infamies and wickednesses, but to my regret we were not strong
enough to withstand him. That is why we avoided him.” “Is the Imperial Uncle going to stay here?” “The Princely One is an old friend of Wu Ju, Governor of Changwu, and intends to go to him.”
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“Wu Ju has few troops and insufficient supplies. He cannot ensure safety for himself. How can he receive the Uncle?” said Lu Su.
“Changwu is not one to remain in long, but it is good enough for the present. We can make other plans for the future.”
Lu Su said, “Sun Quan is strongly posted in the six southern territories and is exceedingly well supplied. He treats able people and scholars with the greatest courtesy and so they gather round him. Now if you are seeking a plan for your Prince, you cannot do better than send some friend to confer with him.”
“There have never been any relations between my master and yours,” said Zhuge Liang. “I fear there would be nothing but a waste of words. Besides, we have no one to send.”
“Your elder brother Zhuge Jin is there as adviser and is longing to see you. I am but a simple wight, but I should be pleased to discuss affairs with my master and you.”
“But Zhuge Liang is my Directing Instructor,” said Liu Bei, “and I cannot do without him. He cannot go.” Lu Su pressed him. Liu Bei pretended to refuse permission. “It is important. I pray you give me leave to go,” said Zhuge Liang. Then Liu Bei consented. And they soon took leave and the two set out by boat for Sun Quan’s headquarters.
A little boat sailed down the stream With Zhuge Liang well content; For he could see his enemies To fiery perdition sent.
The result of this journey will appear in the following chapter.
Chapter 43
Zhuge Liang Disputes With The Southern Scholars; Lu Su Denounces The Majority Opinion.
In the boat on the way to Chaisang, the two travelers beguiled the time by discussing affairs. Lu Su impressed upon his companion, saying, “When you see my master, do not reveal the truth about the
magnitude of Cao Cao’s army.” You do not have to remind me,” replied Zhuge Liang, “but I shall know how to reply.” When the boat arrived, Zhuge Liang was lodged in the guests’ quarters, and Lu Su went alone to see his master.
Lu Su found Sun Quan actually at a council, assembled to consider the situation. Lu Su was summoned thereto and questioned at once upon what he had discovered.
“I know the general outline, but I want a little time to prepare my report,” replied Lu Su. Then Sun Quan produced Cao Cao’s letter and gave it to Lu Su. “That came yesterday. I have sent the bearer of it back, and this gathering is to consider the reply,” said he. Lu Su read the letter:
“When I, the Prime Minister, received the imperial command to punish a fault, my banners went south and Liu Zong became my prisoner, while the people of Jingzhou flocked to my side at the first rumor of my coming. Under my hand are one million strong and a thousand able leaders. My desire is, General, that we go on a great hunting expedition into Jiangxia and together attack Liu Bei. We will share his land between us, and we will swear perpetual amity. If happily you would not be a mere looker-on, I pray you reply quickly.”
“What have you decided upon, my lord?” asked Lu Su as he finished the letter. “I have not yet decided.” Then Zhang Zhao said, “It would be imprudent to withstand Cao Cao’s hundred legions backed by the imperial
authority. Moreover, your most important defense against him is the Great River; and since Cao Cao has gained possession of Jingzhou, the river is his ally against us. We cannot withstand him, and the only way to tranquillity, in my opinion, is submission.”
“The words of the speaker accord with the manifest decree of providence,” echoed all the assembly. Sun Quan remaining silent and thoughtful. Zhang Zhao again took up the argument, saying, “Do not hesitate, my lord. Submission to Cao Cao means
tranquillity to the people of the South Land and safety for the inhabitants of the six territories.”
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Sun Quan still remained silent. His head bent in deep thought. Presently he arose and paced slowly out at the door, and Lu Su followed him.
Outside he took Lu Su by the hand, saying, “What do you desire?” “What they have all been saying is very derogatory to you. A common person might submit. You cannot.” “Why? How do you explain that?” “If people like us servants submitted, we would just return to our village or continue holding our offices, and
everything would go on as before. If you submit, whither will you go? You will be created a lord of some humble fief, perhaps. You will have one carriage, no more; one saddle horse, that is all. Your retinue will be some ten. Will you be able to sit facing the south and call yourself by the kingly title of ‘The Solitary’? Each one in that crowd of hangers-on is thinking for himself, is purely selfish, and you should not listen to them, but take a line of your own and that quickly. Determine to play a bold game!”
Sun Quan sighed, “They all talk and talk: They miss my point of view. Now you have just spoken of a bold game, and your view is the same as mine. Surely God has expressly sent you to me. Still Cao Cao is now the stron- ger by all Yuan Shao’s and Liu Biao’s armies, and he has possession of Jingzhou. I fear he is almost too powerful to contend with.”
“I have brought back with me Zhuge Liang, the younger brother of our Zhuge Jin. If you questioned him, he would explain clearly.”
“Is Master Sleeping Dragon really here?” “Really here, in the guest-house.” “It is too late to see him today. But tomorrow I will assemble my officials, and you will introduce him to all my
best. After that we will debate the matter.” With these instructions Lu Su retired. Next day he went to the guest-house and conveyed Sun Quan’s commands to the guest, particularly saying,
“When you see my master, say nothing of the magnitude of Cao Cao’s army.” Zhuge Liang smiled, saying, “I shall act as circumstances dictate. You may be sure I shall make no mistakes.” Zhuge Liang was then conducted to where the high officers, civil and military to the number of forty and more,
were assembled. They formed a dignified conclave as they sat in stately ranks with their tall headdresses and broad girdles.
Zhang Zhao sat at the head, and Zhuge Liang first saluted him. Then, one by one, he exchange the formal cour- tesies with them all. This done he took his seat in the guest’s chair.
They, on their part, noted with interest Zhuge Liang’s refined and elegant manner and his commanding figure, thinking within themselves, “Here is a persuader fitted for discourse.”
Zhang Zhao led the way in trying to bait the visitor. He said, “You will pardon the most insignificant of our official circle, myself, if I mention that people say you compare yourself with those two famous men of talent, Guan Zhong and Yue Yi. Is there any truth in this?”
“To a trifling extent I have compared myself with them,” replied Zhuge Liang. “I have heard that Liu Bei made three journeys to visit you when you lived in retirement in your simple dwell-
ing in the Sleeping Dragon Ridge, and that when you consented to serve him, he said he was as lucky as a fish in getting home to the ocean. Then he desired to possess the region about Jingzhou. Yet today all that country belongs to Cao Cao. I should like to hear your account of all that.”
Zhuge Liang thought, “This Zhang Zhao is Sun Quan’s first adviser. Unless I can nonplus him, I shall never have a chance with his master.”
So he replied, “In my opinion the taking of the region around the Han River was as simple as turning over one’s hand. But my master Liu Bei is both righteous and humane and would not stoop to filching the possession of a member of his own house. So he refused the offer of succession. But Liu Zong, a stupid lad, misled by specious words, submitted to Cao Cao and fell victim to his ferocity. My master is in camp at Jiangxia, but what his future plans may be cannot be divulged at present.”
Zhang Zhao said, “Be it so; but your words and your deeds are something discordant. You say you are the equal of the two famous ones. Well, Guan Zhong, as minister of Prince Huan, put his master at the very head of the feudal nobles, making his master’s will supreme in all the land. Under the able statesmanship of Yue Yi, the feeble state of Yan conquered Qi, reducing nearly seventy of its cities. These two were men of most commanding and conspicuous talent.
“When you lived in retirement, you smiled scornfully at ordinary people, passed your days in idleness, nursing your knees and posing in a superior manner, implying that if you had control of affairs, Liu Bei would be more than human; he should bring good to everybody and remove all evil; rebellion and robbery would be no more. Poor Liu Bei, before he obtained your help, was an outcast and a vagabond, stealing a city here and there where he could. With you to help him, he was to become the cynosure of every eye, and every lisping school child was to say that
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he was a tiger who had grown wings; the Hans were to be restored and Cao Cao and his faction exterminated; the good old days would be restored, and all the people who had been driven into retirement by the corruption of polit- ical life would wake up, rub the sleep out of their eyes, and be in readiness to lift the cloud of darkness that covered the sky and gaze up at the glorious brilliancy of the sun and moon, to pull the people out of fire and water and put all the world to rest on a couch of comfort. That was all supposed to happen forthwith.
“Why then, when you went to Xinye, did not Cao Cao’s army throw aside their arms and armors and flee like rats? Why could you not have told Liu Biao how to give tranquillity to his people? Why could you not aid his or- phan son to protect his frontiers? Instead you abandoned Xinye and fled to Fancheng; you were defeated at Dang- yang and fled to Xiakou with no place to rest in. Thus, after you had joined Liu Bei, he was worse off than before. Was it thus with Guan Zhong and Yue Yi? I trust you do not mind my blunt speech.”
Zhuge Liang waited till Zhang Zhao had closed his oration, then laughed and said, “How can the common birds understand the long flight of the cranes? Let me use an illustration. A man has fallen into a terrible malady. First the physician must administer hashish, then soothing drugs until his viscera shall be calmed into harmonious action. When the sick man’s body shall have been reduced to quietude, then may he be given strong meats to strengthen him and powerful drugs to correct the disorder. Thus the disease will be quite expelled, and the man restored to health. If the physician does not wait till the humors and pulse are in harmony, but throws in his strong drugs too early, it will be difficult to restore the patient.
“My master suffered defeat at Runan and went to Liu Biao. He had then less than one thousand soldiers and only three generals—Guan Yu, Zhang Fei, and Zhao Zilong. That was indeed a time of extreme weakness. Xinye was a secluded, rustic town with few inhabitants and scanty supplies, and my master only retired there as a tem- porary refuge. How could he even think of occupying and holding it? Yet, with insufficient force, in a weak city, with untrained men and inadequate supplies, we burned Xiahou Dun at Bowang Slope, drowned Cao Ren and Cao Hong and their army in the White River, and set them in terror as they fled. I doubt whether the two ancient heroes would have done any better. As to the surrender of Liu Zong, Liu Bei knew nothing of it. And he was too noble and too righteous to take advantage of a kinsman’s straits to seize his inheritance. As for the defeat at Dangyang, it must be remembered that Liu Bei was hampered with a huge voluntary following of common people, with their aged rel- atives and their children, whom he was too humane to abandon. He never thought of taking Jiangling, but willingly suffered with his people. This is a striking instance of his magnanimity.
“Small forces are no match for large armies. Victory and defeat are common episodes in every campaign. The great Founder of the Hans suffered many defeats at the hands of Xiang Yu, but Liu Bang finally conquered at Gaixia, and that battle was decisive. Was not this due to the strategy of Han Xin who, though he had long served Liu Bang, had never won a victory. Indeed real statesmanship and the restoration of stable government is a master plan far re- moved from the vapid discourses and debates of a lot of bragging babblers and specious and deceitful talkers, who, as they themselves say, are immeasureably superior to the rest of humankind but who, when it comes to deeds and decisions to meet the infinite and constant vicissitudes of affairs, fail to throw up a single capable person. Truly such people are the laughing stock of all the world.”
Zhang Zhao found no reply to this diatribe. But another in the assembly lifted up his voice, saying, “But what of Cao Cao’s present position? There he is,
encamped with one hundred legions and a thousand leaders. Whither he goes he is invincible as wriggling dragon, and whither he looks he is as fearsome as roaring tiger. He seems to have taken Jiangxia already, as we see.”
The speaker was Yu Fan. And Zhuge Liang replied, “Cao Cao has acquired the swarms of Yuan Shao and stolen the crowds of Liu Biao.
Yet I care not for all his mob legions.” Yu Fan smiled icily, saying, “When you got thrashed at Dangyang and in desperation sent this way and that to
ask help, even then did you not care? But do you think big talk really takes people in?” Zhuge Liang replied, “Liu Bei had a few thousand scrupulous soldiers to oppose against a million fierce brutes.
He retired to Xiakou for breathing space. The South Land have strong and good soldiers, and there are ample sup- plies, and the Great River is a defense. Is now a time for you to convince your lord to bend the knee before a rene- gade, to be careless of his honor and reputation? As a fact Liu Bei is not the sort of man to fear such a rebel as Cao Cao.”
Yu Fan had nothing to reply. Next, Bu Zhi, who was among those seated, said, “Will you talk of our southern land with a tongue like the
tongues of the persuaders Zhang Yi and Su Qin in the ancient time?” Zhuge Liang replied, “You regard those two as mere speculative talkers; you do not recognize them also as
heroes. Su Qin bore the Prime Ministers’ seals of six federated states; Zhang Yi was twice Prime Minister of the state of Qin. Both were men of conspicuous ability who brought about the reformation of their governments. They are not to be compared with those who quail before the strong and overbear the weak, who fear the dagger and run
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away from the sword. You, Sir, have listened to Cao Cao’s crafty and empty threat, and it has frightened you into advising surrender. Dare you ridicule Su Qin and Zhang Yi?”
Bu Zhi was silenced. Then suddenly another interjected the question, “What do you think of Cao Cao?” It was Xue Zong who had spoken. And Zhuge Liang replied, “Cao Cao is one of the rebels against the dynasty. Why ask about him?” “You are mistaken,” said Xue Zong. “The Hans have outlasted their allotted time, and the end is near. Cao Cao
already has two-thirds of the empire, and people are turning to him. Your master has not recognized the fateful moment, and to contend with a man so strong is to try to smash stones with eggs. Failure is certain.”
Zhuge Liang angrily replied, “Why do you speak so undutiful words, as if you knew neither father nor prince? Loyalty and filial duty are the essentials of a person’s being. For a minister of Han, correct conduct demands that one is pledged to the destruction of anyone who does not follow the canon of a minister’s duty. Cao Cao’s forbears enjoyed the bounty of Han, but instead of showing gratitude, he nourishes in his bosom thoughts of rebellion. The whole world is incensed against him, and yet you would claim for him the indication of destiny. Truly you are a man who knows neither father nor prince, a man unworthy of any words, and I decline to argue with you further.”
The blush of shame overspread Xue Zong’s face, and he said no more. But another, Lu Ji, took up the dispute and said, “Although Cao Cao overawes the Emperor and in his name
coerces the nobles, yet he is the descendant of the Supreme Ancestor’s Prime Minister Cao Shen; while your master, though he says he is descended from a prince, has no proof thereof. In the eyes of the world, Liu Bei is just a weaver of mats, a seller of straw shoes. Who is he to strive with Cao Cao?”
Zhuge Liang laughed and replied, “Are you not that Lu Ji who pocketed the orange when you were sitting among Yuan Shu’s guests? Listen to me: I have a word to say to you. Inasmuch as Cao Cao is a descendant of a minister of state, he is by heredity a servant of the Hans. But now he has monopolized all state authority and knows only his own arbitrary will, heaping every indignity upon his lord. Not only does he forget his prince, but he ignores his ancestors; not only is he a rebellious servant of Han, but the renegade of his family. Liu Bei of Yuzhou is a noble scion of the imperial family upon whom the Emperor has conferred rank, as is recorded in the annals. How then can you say there is no evidence of his imperial origin? Beside, the very founder of the dynasty was himself of lowly origin, and yet he became emperor. Where is the shame in weaving mats and selling shoes? Your mean, immature views are unfit to be mentioned in the presence of scholars of standing.”
This put a stop to Lu Ji’s flow of eloquence. But another of those present said, “Zhuge Liang’s words are overbearing, and he distorts reason. It is not proper
argument, and he had better say no more. But I would ask him what classical canon he studied.” Zhuge Liang looked at his interlocutor, who was Yan Jun, and said, “The dryasdusts of every age select pas-
sages and choose phrases. What else are they good for? Do they ever initiate a policy or manage an affair? Yi Yin, who was a farmer in the state of Shen, and Lu Wang, the fisherman of the River Wei, Zhang Liang and Chen Ping, Zheng Yu and Geng Yan—all were men of transcendent ability, but I have never inquired what classical canon they followed or on whose essays they formed their style. Would you liken them to your rusty students of books, whose journeyings are comprised between their brush and their inkstone, who spend their days in literary futilities, wast- ing both time and ink?”
No reply was forthcoming. Yan Jun hung his head with shame. But another disputant, Cheng Deshu by name, suddenly shouted, “You are mightily fond of big words, Sir, but
they do not give any proof of your scholarship after all. I am inclined to think that a real scholar would just laugh at you.”
Zhuge Liang replied, “There is the noble scholar, loyal and patriotic, of perfect rectitude and a hater of any crookedness. The concern of such a scholar is to act in full sympathy with his day and leave to future ages a fine reputation. There is the scholar of the mean type, a pedant and nothing more. He labors constantly with his pen, in his callow youth composing odes and in hoary age still striving to understand the classical books completely. Thousands of words flow from his pen, but there is not a solid idea in his breast. He may, as did Yang Xiong, glorify the age with his writings and yet stoop to serve a tyrant such as Wang Mang. No wonder Yang Xiong threw himself out of a window; he had to. That is the way of the scholar of mean type. Though he composes odes by the hundred, what is the use of him?”
Cheng Deshu could make no reply. The other officers now began to hold this man of torrential speech in wholesome fear.
Only two of them, Zhang Wen and Luo Tong, had failed to challenge him, but when they would have tried to pose Zhuge Liang, suddenly someone appeared from without and angrily shouted, “This is not paying fit respect to a guest. You have among you the most wonderful man of the day, and you all sit there trying to entangle him in speech while our archenemy Cao Cao is nearing our borders. Instead of discussing how to oppose Cao Cao, you are
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all wrangling and disputing!” All eyes turned toward the speaker. It was Huang Gai of Lingling, who was the Chief of the Commissariat of the
South Land. He turned to address Zhuge Liang, saying, “There is a saying that though something may be gained by talk,
there is more to be got by silence. Why not give my lord the advantage of your valuable advice instead of wasting time in discussion with this crowd?”
“They did not understand,” replied Zhuge Liang, “and it was necessary to enlighten them, so I had to speak.” As Huang Gai and Lu Su led the guest toward their master’s apartments, they met his brother Zhuge Jin. Zhuge
Liang saluted him with the deference due to an elder brother. Zhuge Jin said, “Why have you not been to see me, brother?” “I am now in the service of Liu Bei of Yuzhou, and it is right that public affairs precede private obligations. I
cannot attend to any private matters till my work is done. You must pardon me, brother.” “After you have seen Marquis Sun Quan, you will come and tell me your news,” said he as he left. As they went along to the audience chamber, Lu Su again cautioned Zhuge Liang against any rash speech, say-
ing, “Do not tell the magnitude of Cao Cao’s forces. Please remember.” The latter nodded but made no other reply. When they reached the hall, Sun Quan came down the steps to
welcome his guests and was extraordinarily gracious. After the mutual salutations, the guest was given a chair while the Marquis’ officials were drawn up in two lines, on one side the civil, on the other the military. Lu Su stood beside Zhuge Liang and listened to his introductory speech.
As Zhuge Liang spoke of Liu Bei’s intentions, he glanced up at his host. He noted the green eyes and purple beard and the dignified commanding air of the man and thought within himself, “Certainly in appearance this is no common man. He is one to be incited perhaps, but not to be persuaded. It will be better to see what he has to say first, then I will try to stir him to action.”
The serving of tea being now finished, Sun Quan began with the usual gracious ceremonial expressions. “Lu Su has often spoken of your genius,” said the host. “It is a great pleasure to meet you. I trust you will confer
upon me the advantage of your instruction.” “I am neither clever nor learned,” was the reply. “It humiliates me to hear such words.” “You have been at Xinye lately, and you helped your master to fight that decisive battle with Cao Cao, so you
must know exactly the measure of his military strength.” “My master’s army was small and his generals were few; the city was paltry and lacked supplies. Hence no stand
could be made against such a force as Cao Cao had.” “How many has he in all?” “Horse and foot, land and marine, he has a million.” “Is there not some doubt about that?” said Sun Quan, surprised. “None whatever. When Cao Cao went to Yanzhou, he had the two hundred thousand soldiers of Qingzhou.
He gained five or six hundred thousand more when Yuan Shao fell. He has three or four hundred thousand troops newly recruited in the capital. Lately he has acquired two or three hundred thousand troops in Jingzhou. And if these be reckoned up, the total is not less than a million and a half. Hence I said a million for I was afraid of fright- ening your officers.”
Lu Su was much disturbed and turned pale. He looked meaningfully at the bold speaker, but Zhuge Liang would not see. Sun Quan went on to ask if his archenemy had a corresponding number of leaders.
“Cao Cao has enough administrators and strategists to control such a host, and his capable and veteran leaders are more than a thousand; perhaps more than two thousand.”
“What will be Cao Cao’s next move now that he has overcome Jingzhou?” “He is camped along the river, and he has collected a fleet. If he does not intend to invade the South Land, what
can his intentions be?” “Since that is his intention, it is a case of fight or not fight. I wish you would decide that for me.” “I have something I could say, but I fear, Sir, you would not care to hear it.” “I am desirous of hearing your most valuable opinion.” “Strife has prevailed for a long time; and so you have raised your army in the South Land and Liu Bei collect-
ed his forces south of the Han River to act in contest for the empire against Cao Cao. Now Cao Cao has overcome most of his difficulties, and his recent conquest of Jingzhou has won him great and wide renown. Though there might be one bold enough to tackle him, yet there is no foothold for such. That is how Liu Bei has been forced to come here. But, General, I wish you to measure your forces and decide whether you can venture to meet Cao Cao and that without loss of time. If you cannot, then follow the advice of your councilors: Cease your military prepara- tions and yield, turn your face to the north and serve.”
Sun Quan did not reply. But his guest went on, “You have the reputation of being reasonable, but I know also
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you are inclined to hesitate. Still this matter is most important, and evil will be quickly upon you if you do not decide.”
Then replied Sun Quan, “If what you say represents the actual conditions, why does not Liu Bei yield?” “Well, you know Tian Heng, that hero of the state of Qi: His character was too noble for him to submit to any
shame. It is necessary to remember that Liu Bei also is an off-shoot from the Dynastic Family, beside being a man of great renown. Everyone looks up to him. His lack of success is simply the will of Heaven, but manifestly he could not bow the knee to anyone.”
These last words touched Sun Quan to the quick, and he could not control his anger. He shook out his sleeves, rose, and left the audience chamber. Those present smiled at each other as they dispersed.
But Lu Su was annoyed and reproached Zhuge Liang for his maladroit way of talking to Sun Quan, saying, “Luckily for you, my lord is too large-minded to rebuke you to your face, for you spoke to him most contemptuous- ly.”
Zhuge Liang threw back his head and laughed. “What a sensitive fellow it is!” cried he. “I know how Cao Cao could be destroyed, but he never asked me. So I
said nothing.” “If you really do know how that could be done, I will certainly beg my lord to ask you.” “Cao Cao’s hosts in my eyes are but as swarms of ants. I have but to lift my hand, and they will be crushed,” said
Zhuge Liang. Lu Su at once went into his master’s private room, where he found Sun Quan still very irritable and angry. “Zhuge Liang insulted me too deeply,” said Sun Quan. “I have already reproached him,” said Lu Su, “and he laughed and said you were too sensitive. He would not
give you any advice without being asked for it. Why did you not seek advice from him, my lord?” At once Sun Quan’s anger changed to joy. He said, “So he had a plan ready, and his words were meant to provoke me. I did despise him for a moment, and
it has very nearly lost me.” So Sun Quan returned to the audience chamber where the guest was still seated and begged Zhuge Liang to
continue his speech. Sun Quan spoke courteously, saying, “I offended you just now. I hope you are not implacable.” “And I also was rude,” replied Zhuge Liang. “I entreat pardon.” Host and guest retired to the inner room where wine was served. After it had gone round several times, Sun Quan said, “The enemies of Cao Cao were Lu Bu, Liu Biao, Yuan
Shao, Yuan Shu, Liu Bei, and my poor self. Now most of these are gone, and only Liu Bei and I remain. I will never allow the land of Wu to be dictated to by another. The only one who could have withstood Cao Cao was Liu Bei, but he has been defeated lately and what can he do now against such force?”
Zhuge Liang replied, “Although defeated, Liu Bei still has Guan Yu with ten thousand veterans. And Liu Qi still leads the troops of Jiangxia, another ten thousand. Cao Cao’s army is far from home, and the soldiers are worn out. They made a frantic effort to come up with my master, and the light horse marched one hundred miles in a day and a night. This was the final kick of the crossbow spring, and the bolt was not swift enough to penetrate even the thin silken vesture of Lu. The army can do no more. They are northern people, unskilled in water warfare, and the people of Jingzhou are unwilling supporters. They have no desire to help Cao Cao. Now if you, General, will assist Liu Bei, Cao Cao will certainly be broken, and he must retire northwards. Then your country and Jingzhou will be strong, and the tripod will be firmly established. But the scheme must be carried out without delay, and only you can decide.”
Sun Quan joyfully replied, “Your words, Master, open up the road clearly. I have decided and shall have no further doubts.”
So the orders were issued forthwith to prepare for a joint attack on Cao Cao. And Sun Quan bade Lu Su bear the news of his decision to all his officers. He himself escorted Zhuge Liang to the guest-quarters and saw to his comfort.
When Zhang Zhao heard of the decision he met his colleagues and said to them, “Our master has fallen into the trap set by this Zhuge Liang.”
They went in a body to their lord and said, “We hear you are going to attack Cao Cao. But how do you stand when compared with Yuan Shao? In those days Cao Cao was comparatively weak, and yet he overcame. What is he like today with his countless legions? He is not to be lightly attacked, and to listen to Zhuge Liang’s advice to engage in a conflict is like carrying fuel to a fire.”
Sun Quan made no reply, and Gu Yong took up the argument. Gu Yong said, “Liu Bei has been defeated, and he wants to borrow our help to beat his enemy. Why must our
lord lend himself to his schemes? Pray listen to our leader’s words.”
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Doubts again surged up in the mind of Sun Quan. When the troop of advisers had retired, Lu Su came in, saying, “They came to exhort you not to fight, but to
compel you to surrender. All this is simply because they wish to secure the safety of their families. They distort their sense of duty to serve their own ends, and I hope you will not take their advice.”
Sun Quan being sunk in thought and saying nothing, Lu Su went on, “If you hesitate, you will certainly be led astray by the majority and——”
“Retire for a time,” said his master. “I must think it over carefully.” So Lu Su left the chamber. Among the soldiers some wished for war, but of the civil officers, all were in favor of
surrender; and so there were many discussions and much conflict of opinion. Sun Quan went to his private apart- ments greatly perplexed. There his worry was easily discernible, and he neither ate nor slept. He was quite unable to decide finally upon a course of action.
Then Lady Wu, the sister of his late mother, whom he also regarded as his own mother, asked him what so trou- bled him, and he told her of the threatened danger of Cao Cao and the different opinions his advisers held one and another and all his doubts and fears.
“If I fight, I might fail. But if I offer to surrender, perhaps Cao Cao will not tolerate me,” said he. Then she replied, “Have you forgotten the last words of my sister?” As to one recovering from a fit of drunkenness, or waking out of a dream, so came to him the dying words of
the mother who bore him.
His mother’s advice he called to mind, “In Zhou Yu’s counsels you safety find.”
What happened will be told in the next chapter.
Chapter 44
Zhuge Liang Stirs Zhou Yu To Actions; Sun Quan Decides To Attack Cao Cao.
The dying message which Lady Wu recalled to Sun Quan’s memory was, “For internal matters consult Zhang Zhao; for external policy Zhou Yu.”
Wherefore Zhou Yu was summoned. But Zhou Yu was already on the way. He had been training his naval forces on Poyang Lake when he heard of
the approach of Cao Cao’s hosts and had started for Chaisang without loss of time. So, before the messenger or- dered to call him could start, he had already arrived. As he and Lu Su were close friends, the latter went to welcome him and told him of all that had happened.
“Have no anxiety,” said Zhou Yu. “I shall be able to decide this. But go quickly and beg Zhuge Liang to come to see me.”
So Lu Su went to seek out Zhuge Liang. Zhou Yu had many other visitors. First came Zhang Zhao, Zhang Hong, Gu Yong, and Bu Zhi to represent their
faction to find out what might be afoot. They were received, and after the exchange of the usual commonplaces, Zhang Zhao said, “Have you heard of
our terrible danger?” “I have heard nothing,” said Zhou Yu. “Cao Cao and his hordes are encamped up the Han River. He has just sent letters asking our lord to hunt with
him in Jiangxia. He may have a desire to absorb this country but, if so, the details of his designs are still secret. We prayed our master to give in his submission and so avoid the horrors of war, but now Lu Su has returned bringing with him the Directing Instructor of Liu Bei’s army, Zhuge Liang. Zhuge Liang, desiring to avenge himself for the recent defeat, has talked our lord into a mind for war, and Lu Su persists in supporting that policy. They only await your final decision.”
“Are you all unanimous in your opinions?” “We are perfectly unanimous,” said Zhang Zhao. Zhou Yu said, “The fact is I have also desired to submit for a long time. I beg you to leave me now, and tomor-
row we will see our master, and I shall make up his mind for him.” So they took their leave. Very soon came the military party led by Cheng Pu, Huang Gai, and Han Dang. They
were admitted and duly inquired after their host’s health. Then the leader Cheng Pu said, “Have you heard that our country is about to pass under another’s government?”
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“No, I have heard nothing,” replied the host. “We helped General Sun Quan to establish his authority here and carve out this kingdom, and to gain that end
we fought many a battle before we conquered the country. Now our lord lends his ear to his civil officers and desires to submit himself to Cao Cao. This is a most shameful and pitiful course, and we would rather die than follow it. So we hope you will decide to fight, and you may depend upon our struggling to the last person.”
“And are you unanimous, Generals?” asked Zhou Yu. Huang Gai suddenly started up and smote his forehead, saying, “They may take my head, but I swear never to
surrender.” “Not one of us is willing to surrender,” cried all the others. “My desire also is to decide matters with Cao Cao on the battlefield. How could we think of submission? Now I
pray you retire, Generals, and when I see our lord, I will settle his doubts.” So the war party left. They were quickly succeeded by Zhuge Jin, Lu Fan, and their faction. They were brought in and, after the usual courtesies, Zhuge Jin said, “My brother has come down the river say-
ing that Liu Bei desires to ally himself with our lord against Cao Cao. The civil and military hold different opinions as to the course to be pursued. But as my brother is so deeply concerned, I am unwilling to say much on either side. We are awaiting your decision.”
“And what do you think about it?” asked Zhou Yu. “Submission is an easy road to tranquillity, while the result of war is hard to foretell.” Zhou Yu smiled, “I shall have my mind made up. Come tomorrow to the palace, and the decision shall be an-
nounced.” The trimmers took their leave. But soon after came Lu Meng, Gan Ning, and their supporters, also desirous of
discussing the same thing, and they told him that opinions differed greatly, some being for peace and others for war. One party constantly disputed with the other.
“I must not say much now,” replied Zhou Yu, “but you will see tomorrow in the palace, when the matter will be fully debated.”
They went away leaving Zhou Yu smiling cynically. About eventide Lu Su and Zhuge Liang came, and Zhou Yu went out to the main gate to receive them. When they had taken their proper seats, Lu Su spoke first, saying, “Cao Cao has come against the South Land
with a huge army. Our master cannot decide whether to submit or give battle and waits for your decision. What is your opinion?”
Zhou Yu replied, “We may not oppose Cao Cao when he acts at the command of the Emperor. Moreover, he is very strong, and to attack him is to take serious risks. In my opinion, opposition would mean defeat and, since submission means peace, I have decided to advise our lord to write and offer surrender.”
“But you are wrong!” stammered Lu Su. “This country has been under the same rule for three generations and cannot be suddenly abandoned to some other. Our late lord Sun Ce said that you were to be consulted on matters beyond the border, and we depended upon you to keep the country as secure and solid as the Taishan Mountains. Now you adopt the view of the weaklings and propose to yield! I cannot believe you mean it.”
Replied Zhou Yu, “The six territories contain countless people. If I am the means of bringing upon them the misery of war, they will hate me. So I have decided to advise submission.”
“But do you not realize our lord’s might and the strength of our country? If Cao Cao does attack, it is very un- certain that he will realize his desire.”
The two wrangled for a long time, while Zhuge Liang sat smiling with folded arms. Presently Zhou Yu asked, “Why do you smile thus, Master?” And Zhuge Liang replied, “I am smiling at no other than your opponent Lu Su, who knows nothing of the
affairs of the day.” “Master,” said Lu Su, “what do you mean?” “Why, this intention to submit is perfectly reasonable. It is the one proper thing.” “There!” exclaimed Zhou Yu. “Zhuge Liang knows the times perfectly well, and he agrees with me.” “But, both of you, why do you say this?” said Lu Su. Said Zhuge Liang, “Cao Cao is an excellent commander, so good that no one dares oppose him. Only very few
have ever attempted it, and they have been exterminated—the world knows them no more. The only exception is Liu Bei, who did not understand the conditions and vigorously contended against him, with the result that he is now at Jiangxia in a very parlous state. To submit is to secure the safety of wives and children, to be rich and hon- ored. But the dignity of the country would be left to chance and fate—however, that is not worth consideration.”
Lu Su interrupted angrily, “Would you make our lord crook the knee to such a rebel as Cao Cao?” “Well,” replied Zhuge Liang, “there is another way, and a cheaper. There would be no need to ‘lead the sheep
and shoulder wine pots’ for presents, nor any need to yield territory and surrender seals of office. It would not even
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be necessary to cross the river yourselves. All you would require is a simple messenger and a little boat to ferry a couple of persons across the river. If Cao Cao only got these two under his hand, his hordes and legions would just drop their weapons, furl their banners, and silently vanish away.”
“What two persons could cause Cao Cao to go away as you say?” asked Zhou Yu. “Two persons who could be easily spared from this populous country. They would not be missed any more than
a leaf from a tree or a grain of millet from a granary. But if Cao Cao could only get them, would he not go away rejoicing?”
“But who are the two?” asked Zhou Yu again. “When I was living in the country, they told me that Cao Cao was building a pavilion on the River Zhang. It
was to be named the Bronze Bird Tower. It is an exceedingly handsome building, and he has sought throughout all the world for the most beautiful women to live in it. For Cao Cao really is a sensualist.
“Now there are two very famous beauties in Wu, born of the Qiao family. So beautiful are they that birds alight and fishes drown, the moon hides her face and the flowers blush for shame at sight of them. Cao Cao has declared with an oath that he only wants two things in this world: The imperial throne in peace and the sight of those two women on the Bronze Bird Terraces. Given these two, he would go down to his grave without regret. This expedi- tion of his, his huge army that threatens this country, has for its real aim these two women. Why do you not buy these two from their father, the State Patriarch Qiao, for any sum however large and send them over the river? The object of the army being attained, it will simply be marched away. This is the ruse that Fan Li of Yue made to the king of Wu of the famous beauty Xi Shi.”
“How do you know Cao Cao so greatly desires these two?” said Zhou Yu. “Because his son Cao Zhi, who is an able writer, at the command of his father wrote a poem ‘An Ode to the
Bronze Bird Terrace,’ theme only allowing allusions to the family fitness for the throne. He has sworn to possess these two women. I think I can remember the poem, if you wish to hear it. I admire it greatly.”
“Try,” said Zhou Yu. So Zhuge Liang recited the poem:
“Let me follow in the footsteps of the enlightened ruler that I may rejoice, And ascend the storied terrace that I may gladden my heart, That I may see the wide extent of the palace, That I may gaze upon the plans of the virtuous one. He has established the exalted gates high as the hills, He has built the lofty towers piercing the blue vault, He has set up the beautiful building in the midst of the heavens, Whence the eye can range over the cities of the west. On the banks of the rolling River Zhang he planned it, Whence abundance of fruits could be looked for in his gardens. The two towers rise, one on either flank, This named Golden Phoenix, that Jade Dragon. He would have the two Qiaos, these beautiful ladies of Wu, That he might rejoice with them morning and evening. Look down; there is the grand beauty of an imperial city, And the rolling vapors lie floating beneath. He will rejoice in the multitude of scholars that assemble, Answering to the felicitous dream of King Wen. Look up; and there is the gorgeous harmony of springtime, And the singing of many birds delighting the ear; The lofty sky stands over all. The house desires success in its double undertaking, That the humane influence may be poured out over all the world, That the perfection of reverence may be offered to the Ruler. Only the richly prosperous rule of Kings Wu and Huan Could compare with that of the sacred understanding That fortune! What beauty! The gracious kindness spreads afar, The imperial family is supported, Peace reigns over all the empire, Bounded only by the universe.
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Bright as the glory of the sun and moon, Ever honorable and ever enduring, The Ruler shall live to the age of the eastern emperor, The dragon banner shall wave to the farthest limit. His glorious chariot shall be guided with perfect wisdom, His thoughts shall reform all the world, Felicitous produce shall be abundant, And the people shall rest firm. My desire is that these towers shall endure forever, And that joy shall never cease through all the ages.
Zhou Yu listened to the end but then suddenly jumped up in a tremendous rage. Turning to the north and pointing with his finger, he cried, “You old rebel, this insult is too deep!” Zhuge Liang hastily rose too and soothed him, saying, “But remember the Khan of the Xiongnu People. The
Han emperor gave him a princess of the family to wife although he had made many incursions into our territory. That was the price of peace. You surely would not grudge two more women from among the common people.”
“You do not know, Sir,” replied Zhou Yu. “Of those two women of the Qiao family you mentioned, Elder Qiao is the widow of Sun Ce, our late ruler, and Younger Qiao is my wife!”
Zhuge Liang feigned the greatest astonishment and said, “No indeed: I did not know. I blundered—a deadly fault—a deadly fault!”
“One of us two has to go: Either the old rebel or I. We shall not both live. I swear that!” cried Zhou Yu. “However, such a matter needs a good deal of thought,” replied Zhuge Liang. “We must not make any mistake.” Zhou Yu replied, “I hold a sacred trust from my late lord, Sun Ce. I would not bow the knee to any such as Cao
Cao. What I said just now was to see how you stood. I left Poyang Lake with the intention of attacking the north, and nothing can change that intention, not even the sword at my breast or the ax on my neck. But I trust you will lend an arm, and we will smite Cao Cao together.”
“Should I be happy enough not to be rejected, I would render such humble service as I could. Perhaps presently I might be able to offer a plan to oppose him.”
“I am going to see my lord tomorrow to discuss this matter,” said Zhou Yu. Zhuge Liang and Lu Su then left. Next day at dawn Sun Quan went to the council chamber, where his officials, civil and military, were already
assembled. They numbered about sixty in all. The civil, with Zhang Zhao at their head, were on the right; the mili- tary, with Cheng Pu as their leader, were ranged on the left. All were in full ceremonial dress, and the swords of the soldiers clanked on the pavement.
Soon Zhou Yu entered. When Sun Quan had finished the usual gracious remarks, Zhou Yu said, “I hear that Cao Cao is encamped on
the river and has sent a dispatch to you, my lord. I would ask what your opinion is.” Thereupon the dispatch was produced and handed to Zhou Yu. After reading it through he said, smiling, “The old thief thinks there are no people in this land that he writes in
this contemptuous strain.” “What do you think, Sir?” asked Sun Quan. “Have you discussed this with the officials?” asked Zhou Yu. “We have been discussing this for days. Some counsel surrender and some advise fight. I am undecided, and
therefore I have asked you to come and decide the point.” “Who advise surrender?” asked Zhou Yu. “Zhang Zhao and his party are firmly set in this opinion.” Zhou Yu then turned to Zhang Zhao and said, “I should be pleased to hear why you are for surrender, Master.” Then Zhang Zhao replied, “Cao Cao has been attacking all opponents in the name of the Emperor, who is
entirely in his hands. He does everything in the name of the government. Lately he has taken Jingzhou and thereby increased his prestige. Our defense against him was the Great River, but now he also has a large fleet and can attack by water. How can we withstand him? Wherefore I counsel submission till some chance shall offer.”
“This is but the opinion of an ill-advised student,” said Zhou Yu. “How can you think of abandoning this coun- try that we have held for three generations?”
“That being so,” said Sun Quan, “where is a plan to come from?” “Though Cao Cao assumes the name of the Prime Minister of the empire, he is at heart a rebel. You, O General,
are able in war and brave. You are the heir to your father and brother. You command brave and tried soldiers, and you have plentiful supplies. You are able to overrun the whole country and rid it of every evil. There is no reason
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why you should surrender to a rebel. “Moreover, Cao Cao has undertaken this expedition in defiance of all the rules of war. The north is unsubdued.
Ma Teng and Han Sui threaten his rear, and yet he persists in his southern march. This is the first point against Cao Cao. The northern soldiers are unused to fighting on the water. Cao Cao is relinquishing his well-tried cavalry and trusting to ships. That is the second point against him. Again, we are now in full winter and the weather is at its coldest so there is no food for the horses. That is the third point against. Soldiers from the central state marching in a wet country among lakes and rivers will find themselves in an unaccustomed climate and suffer from malaria. That is the fourth point against. Now when Cao Cao’s armies have all these points against them, defeat is certain, however numerous they may be, and you can take Cao Cao captive just as soon as you wish. Give me a few legions of veterans, and I will go and destroy him.”
Sun Quan started up from his place, saying, “The rebellious old rascal has been wanting to overthrow the Hans and set up himself for years. He has rid himself of all those he feared, save only myself, and I swear that one of us two shall go now. Both of us cannot live. What you say, noble friend, is just what I think, and Heaven has certainly sent you to my assistance.”
“Thy servant will fight a decisive battle,” said Zhou Yu, “and shrink not from any sacrifice. Only, General, do not hesitate.”
Sun Quan drew the sword that hung at his side and slashed off a corner of the table in front of him, exclaiming, “Let any other person mention surrender, and he shall be served as I have served this table!”
Then he handed the sword to Zhou Yu, at the same time giving him a commission as Commander-in-Chief and Supreme Admiral, Cheng Pu being Vice-Admiral. Lu Su was also nominated as Assistant Commander.
In conclusion Sun Quan said, “With this sword you will slay any officer who may disobey your commands.” Zhou Yu took the sword and turning to the assembly said, “You have heard our lord’s charge to me to lead you
to destroy Cao Cao. You will all assemble tomorrow at the riverside camp to receive my orders. Should any be late or fail, then the full rigor of military law—the seven prohibitions and the fifty-four capital penalties—there provid- ed, will be enforced.”
Zhou Yu took leave of Sun Quan and left the chamber. The various officers also went their several ways. When Zhou Yu reached his own place, he sent for Zhuge Liang to consult over the business in hand. He told
Zhuge Liang of the decision that had been taken and asked for a plan of campaign. “But your master has not yet made up his mind,” said Zhuge Liang. “Till he has, no plan can be decided upon.” “What do you mean?” “In his heart, Sun Quan is still fearful of Cao Cao’s numbers and frets over the inequality of the two armies. You
will have to explain away those numbers and bring him to a final decision before anything can be effected.” “What you say is excellent,” said Zhou Yu, and he went to the palace that night to see his master. Sun Quan said, “You must have something of real importance to say if you come like this at night.” Zhou Yu said, “I am making my dispositions tomorrow. You have quite made up your mind?” “The fact is,” said Sun Quan, “I still feel nervous about the disparity of numbers. Surely we are too few. That is
really all I feel doubtful about.” “It is precisely because you have this one remaining doubt that I am come. And I will explain. Cao Cao’s letter
speaks of a million of marines, and so you feel doubts and fears and do not wait to consider the real truth. Let us examine the case thoroughly. We find that he has of central regions’ soldiers, say, some one hundred fifty thousand troops, and many of them are sick. He only got seventy or eighty thousand northern soldiers from Yuan Shao, and many of those are of doubtful loyalty. Now these sick men and these men of doubtful loyalty seem a great many, but they are not at all fearsome. I could smash them with fifty thousand soldiers. You, my lord, have no further anxiety.”
Sun Quan patted his general on the back, saying, “You have explained my difficulty and relieved my doubts. Zhang Zhao is a fool who constantly bars my expeditions. Only you and Lu Su have any real understanding of my heart. Tomorrow you and Lu Su and Cheng Pu will start, and I shall have a strong reserve ready with plentiful sup- plies to support you. If difficulties arise, you can at once send for me, and I will engage with my own army.”
Zhou Yu left. But in his innermost heart, he said to himself, “If that Zhuge Liang can gauge my master’s thoughts so very accurately, he is too clever for me and will be a danger. He will have to be put out of the way.”
Zhou Yu sent a messenger over to Lu Su to talk over this last scheme. When he had laid it bare, Lu Su did not favor it.
“No, no,” said Lu Su, “it is self-destruction to make away with your ablest officer before Cao Cao shall have been destroyed.”
“But Zhuge Liang will certainly help Liu Bei to our disadvantage.” “Try what his brother Zhuge Jin can do to persuade him. It would be an excellent thing to have these two in our
service.” “Yes, indeed,” replied Zhou Yu.
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Next morning at dawn, Zhou Yu went to his camp and took his seat in the council tent. The armed guards took up their stations right and left, and the officers ranged themselves in lines to listen to the orders.
Now Cheng Pu, who was older than Zhou Yu but was made second in command, was very angry at being passed over, so he made a pretense of indisposition and stayed away from this assembly. But he sent his eldest son, Cheng Zi, to represent him.
Zhou Yu addressed the gathering, saying, “The law knows no partiality, and you will all have to attend to your several duties. Cao Cao is now more absolute than ever was Dong Zhuo, and the Emperor is really a prisoner in Xuchang, guarded by the most cruel soldiers. We have a command to destroy Cao Cao, and with your willing help we shall advance. The army must cause no hardship to the people anywhere. Rewards for good service and punish- ments for faults shall be given impartially.”
Having delivered this charge, Zhou Yu told off Han Dang and Huang Gai as Leaders of the Van, and ordered the ships under their own command to get under way and go to the Three Gorges. They would get orders by and bye. Then he appointed four armies with two leaders over each: The first body was under Jiang Qin and Zhou Tai; the second, Pan Zhang and Ling Tong; the third, Taishi Ci and Lu Meng; the fourth, Lu Xun and Dong Xi. Lu Fan and Zhu Zhi were appointed inspectors, to move from place to place and keep the various units up to their work and acting with due regard to the general plan. Land and marine forces were to move simultaneously. The expedi- tion would soon start.
Having received their orders, each returned to his command and busied himself in preparation. Cheng Zi, the son of Cheng Pu, returned and told his father what arrangements had been made, and Cheng Pu was amazed at Zhou Yu’s skill.
Said he, “I have always despised Zhou Yu as a mere student who would never be a general, but this shows that he has a leader’s talent. I must support him.”
So Cheng Pu went over to the quarters of the Commander-in-Chief and confessed his fault. He was received kindly and all was over.
Next Zhou Yu sent for Zhuge Jin and said to him, “Evidently your brother is a genius, a man born to be a king’s counselor. Why then does he serve Liu Bei? Now that he is here, I wish you to use every effort to persuade him to stay with us. Thus our lord would gain able support and you two brothers would be together, which would be pleas- ant for you both. I wish you success.”
Zhuge Jin replied, “I am ashamed of the little service I have rendered since I came here, and I can do no other than obey your command to the best of my ability.”
Thereupon he went away to his brother, whom he found in the guest-house. The younger brother received him; and when he had reached the inner rooms, Zhuge Liang bowed respectfully and, weeping, told his experiences since they parted and his sorrow at their separation.
Then Zhuge Jin, weeping also, said, “Brother, do you remember the story of Bo Yi and Shu Qi, the brothers who would not be separated?”
“Ah, Zhou Yu has sent him to talk me over,” thought Zhuge Liang. So he replied, “They were two of the noble people of old days. Yes, I know.”
“Those two, although they perished of hunger near the Shouyang Hills, yet never separated. You and I, born of the same mother and suckled at the same breast, yet serve different masters and never meet. Are you not ashamed when you think of such examples as Bo Yi and Shu Qi?”
Zhuge Liang replied, “You are talking now of love, but what I stand for is duty. We are both men of Han, and Liu Bei is of the family. If you, brother, could leave the South Land and join me in serving the rightful branch, then on the one side we should be honored as Ministers of Han, and on the other we should be together as people of the same flesh and blood should be. Thus love and duty would both receive their proper meed. What do you think of it, my brother?”
“I came to persuade him and lo! It is I who is being talked over,” thought Zhuge Jin. He had no fitting reply to make, so he rose and took his leave. Returning to Zhou Yu, he related the story of the
interview. “What do you think?” asked Zhou Yu. “General Sun Quan has treated me with great kindness, and I could not turn my back on him,” replied Zhuge Jin. “Since you decide to remain loyal, there is no need to say much. I think I have a plan to win over your brother.”
The wisest people see eye to eye, For each but sees the right; But should their several interests clash, They all the fiercer fight.
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The means by which Zhou Yu tried to get the support of Zhuge Liang will be described in the next chapter.
Chapter 45
At The Three Gorges, Cao Cao Loses Soldiers; In The Gathering Of Heroes, Jiang Gan Is Trapped.
Zhou Yu was very annoyed by the words of Zhuge Jin, and a fierce hatred for Zhuge Liang took root in his heart. He nourished a secret resolve to make away with Zhuge Liang. He continued his preparations for war, and when the troops were all mustered and ready, he went in for a farewell interview with his lord.
“You go on first, Noble Sir,” said Sun Quan. “I will then march to support you.” Zhou Yu took his leave and then, with Cheng Pu and Lu Su, marched out with the army. He invited Zhuge Li-
ang to accompany the expedition, and when Zhuge Liang cheerfully accepted, the four embarked in the same ship. They set sail, and the fleet made for Xiakou.
About twenty miles from Three Gorges the fleet anchored near the shore, and Zhou Yu built a stockade on the bank near the middle of their line with the Western Hills as a support. Other camps were made near his. Zhuge Liang, however, took up his quarters in a small ship.
When the camp dispositions were complete, Zhou Yu sent to request Zhuge Liang to come and give him advice. Zhuge Liang came.
After the salutations were ended, Zhou Yu said, “Cao Cao, though he had fewer troops than Yuan Shao, nev- ertheless overcame Yuan Shao because he followed the advice given by Xun You to destroy Yuan Shao’s supplies at Wuchao. Now Cao Cao has over eight hundred thousand troops while I have but fifty or sixty thousand. In order to defeat him, his supplies must be destroyed first. I have found out that the main depot is at the Iron Pile Mountains. As you have lived hereabout, you know the topography quite well, and I wish to entrust the task of cutting off sup- plies to you and your colleagues Guan Yu, Zhang Fei, and Zhao Zilong. I will assist you with a thousand soldiers. I wish you to start without delay. In this way we can best serve our masters.”
Zhuge Liang saw through this at once. He thought to himself, “This is a ruse in revenge for my not having been persuaded to enter the service of the South Land. If I refuse, I shall be laughed at. So I will do as he asks and trust to find some means of deliverance from the evil he intends.”
Therefore Zhuge Liang accepted the task with alacrity, much to the joy of Zhou Yu. After the leader of the expedition had taken his leave, Lu Su went to Zhou Yu secretly and said, “Why have you
set him this task?” “Because I wish to compass his death without appearing ridiculous. I hope to get him killed by the hand of Cao
Cao and prevent his doing further mischief.” Lu Su left and went to see Zhuge Liang to find out if he suspected anything. Lu Su found him looking quite
unconcerned and getting the soldiers ready to march. Unable to let Zhuge Liang go without a warning, however, Lu Su put a tentative question, “Do you think this
expedition will succeed?” Zhuge Liang laughingly replied, “I am an adept at all sorts of fighting, with foot, horse, and chariots on land
and marines on the water. There is no doubt of my success. I am not like you and your friend, only capable in one direction.”
“What do you mean by our being capable only in one direction?” said Lu Su. “I have heard the street children in your country singing:
“To lay an ambush, hold a pass, Lu Su is the man to choose; But when you on the water fight, Zhou Yu is the man to use.
“You are only fit for ambushes and guarding passes on land, just as Zhou Yu only understands fighting on the water,” said Zhuge Liang.
Lu Su carried this story to Zhou Yu, which only incensed him the more against Zhuge Liang. “How dare he flout me, saying I cannot fight a land battle? I will not let him go. I will go myself with ten thou-
sand troops and cut off Cao Cao’s supplies.” Lu Su went back and told this to Zhuge Liang, who smiled and said, “Zhou Yu only wanted me to go on this
expedition because he wanted Cao Cao to kill me. And so I teased him a little. But he cannot bear that. Now is the critical moment, and Marquis Sun Quan and my master must act in harmony if we are to succeed. If each one tries
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to harm the other, the whole scheme will fail. Cao Cao is no fool, and it is he who usually attack enemies through cutting off their supplies. Do you not think Cao Cao has already taken double precautions against any surprise of his own depot? If Zhou Yu tries, he will be taken prisoner. What he ought to do is to bring about a decisive naval battle, whereby to dishearten the northern soldiers, and then find some other means to defeat them utterly. If you could persuade him what his best course was, it would be well.”
Without loss of time, Lu Su went to Zhou Yu to relate what Zhuge Liang had told him. Zhou Yu shook his head when he heard it and beat the ground with his foot, saying, “This man is far too clever.
He beats me ten to one. He will have to be done away with, or the South Land will suffer.” Said Lu Su, “This is the moment to use people. You must think of the country’s good first of all. When once Cao
Cao is defeated, you may do as you please.” Zhou Yu had to confess the reasonableness of this. Liu Bei had ordered his nephew Liu Qi to hold Jiangxia, while he and the bulk of the army returned to Xiakou.
Thence he saw the opposite bank thick with banners and flags and glittering with every kind of arms and armors. He knew then that the expedition from the South Land had started. So he moved all his force from Jiangxia to Fankou.
Then he assembled his officers and said to them, “Zhuge Liang went to Wu some time ago, and no word has come from him, so I know not how the business stands. Will anyone volunteer to go to find out?”
“I will go,” said Mi Zhu. So presents were prepared and gifts of flesh and wine, and Mi Zhu prepared to journey to the South Land
on the pretext of offering a congratulatory feast to the army. He set out in a small ship and went down river. He stopped opposite the camp, and the soldiers reported his arrival to Zhou Yu, who ordered him to be brought in. Mi Zhu bowed low and expressed the respect which Liu Bei had for Zhou Yu and offered the various gifts. The ceremo- ny of reception was followed by a banquet in honor of the guest.
Mi Zhu said, “Zhuge Liang has been here a long time, and I desire that he may return with me.” “Zhuge Liang is making plans with me, and I could not let him return,” said Zhou Yu. “I also wish to see Liu Bei
that we may make joint plans. But when one is at the head of a great army, one cannot get away even for a moment. If your master would only come here, it would be very gracious on his part.”
Mi Zhu agreed that Liu Bei might come and presently took his leave. Then Lu Su asked Zhou Yu, “What is your reason for desiring Liu Bei to come?” “Liu Bei is the one bold and dangerous man and must be removed. I am taking this opportunity to persuade
him to come. When he shall be slain, a great danger will cease to threaten our interests.” Lu Su tried to dissuade him from this scheme, but Zhou Yu was deaf to all Lu Su said. Zhou Yu even issued orders: “Arrange half a hundred executioners to be ready to hide within the lining of the
tent if Liu Bei decides to come; and when I drop a cup, that will be a signal for them to fall on and slay him.” Mi Zhu returned and told Liu Bei that his presence was desired by Zhou Yu. Suspecting nothing, Liu Bei at
once ordered them to prepare a fast vessel to take him without loss of time. Guan Yu was opposed to his going, saying, “Zhou Yu is artful and treacherous, and there is no news from
Zhuge Liang. Pray think more carefully.” Liu Bei replied, “I have joined my forces to theirs in this attack on our common enemy. If Zhou Yu wishes to see
me and I refuse to go, it is a betrayal. Nothing will succeed if both sides nourish suspicions.” “If you have finally decided to go, then will I go with you,” said Guan Yu. “And I also,” cried Zhang Fei. But Liu Bei said, “Let Guan Yu come with me while you and Zhao Zilong keep guard. Jian Yong will hold Exian.
I shall not be away long.” So leaving these orders, Liu Bei embarked with Guan Yu on a small boat. The escort did not exceed twenty. The
light craft traveled very quickly down the river. Liu Bei rejoiced greatly at the sight of the war vessels in tiers by the bank, the soldiers in their breastplates, and all the pomp and panoply of war. All was in excellent order.
As soon as he arrived, the guards ran to tell Zhou Yu. “How many ships has he?” asked Zhou Yu. They replied, “Only one; and the escort is only about a score.” “His fate is sealed,” said Zhou Yu. Zhou Yu sent for the executioners and placed them in hiding between the outer and inner tents, and when all
was arranged for the assassination he contemplated, he went out to receive his visitor. Liu Bei came with his brother and escort into the midst of the army to the Admiral’s tent.
After the salutations, Zhou Yu wished Liu Bei to take the upper seat, but he declined saying, “General, you are famous throughout all the empire, while I am a nobody. Do not overwhelm me with too great deference.”
So they took the positions of simple friends, and refreshments were brought in.
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Now by chance Zhuge Liang came on shore and heard that his master had arrived and was with the Command- er-in-Chief. The news gave Zhuge Liang a great shock, and he said to himself, “What is to be done now?”
He made his way to the reception tent and stole a look therein. He saw murder written on Zhou Yu’s counte- nance and noted the assassins hidden within the walls of the tent. Then he got a look at Liu Bei, who was laughing and talking quite unconcernedly. But when he noticed the redoubtable figure of Guan Yu near his master’s side, he became quite calm and contented.
“My lord faces no danger,” said Zhuge Liang, and he went away to the river bank to await the end of the inter- view.
Meanwhile the banquet of welcome proceeded. After the wine had gone around several times, Zhou Yu picked up a cup to give the signal agreed upon. But at that moment Zhou Yu saw so fierce a look upon the face of the trusty henchman who stood, sword in hand, behind his guest, that Zhou Yu hesitated and hastily asked who he was.
“That is my brother, Guan Yu,” replied Liu Bei. Zhou Yu, quite startled, said, “Is he the slayer of Yan Liang and Wen Chou?” “Exactly; he it is,” replied Liu Bei. The sweat of fear broke out all over Zhou Yu’s body and trickled down his back. Then he poured out a cup of
wine and presented it to Guan Yu. Just then Lu Su came in, and Liu Bei said to him, “Where is Zhuge Liang? I would trouble you to ask him to
come.” “Wait till we have defeated Cao Cao,” said Zhou Yu, “then you shall see him.” Liu Bei dared not repeat his request, but Guan Yu gave him a meaningful look which Liu Bei understood and
rose, saying, “I would take leave now. I will come again to congratulate you when the enemy has been defeated and your success shall be complete.”
Zhou Yu did not press him to remain, but escorted him to the great gates of the camp, and Liu Bei left. When he reached the river bank, they found Zhuge Liang awaiting them in their boat.
Liu Bei was exceedingly pleased, but Zhuge Liang said, “Sir, do you know in how great danger you were today?” Suddenly sobered, Liu Bei said, “No, I did not think of danger.” “If Guan Yu had not been there, you would have been killed,” said Zhuge Liang. Liu Bei, after a moment’s reflection, saw that it was true. He begged Zhuge Liang to return with him to Fankou,
but Zhuge Liang refused. “I am quite safe,” said Zhuge Liang. “Although I am living in the tiger’s mouth, I am as steady as the Taishan
Mountains. Now, my lord, return and prepare your ships and soldiers. On the twentieth day of the eleventh month, send Zhao Zilong with a small ship to the south bank to wait for me. Be sure there is no miscarriage.”
“What are your intentions?” said Liu Bei. “When the southeast wind begins, I shall return.” Liu Bei would have questioned him further, but Zhuge Liang pressed him to go. So the boat started up river
again, while Zhuge Liang returned to his temporary lodging. The boat had not proceeded far when appeared a small fleet of fifty ships sweeping down with the current, and
in the prow of the leading vessel stood a tall figure armed with a spear. Guan Yu was ready to fight. But when they were near, they recognized that was Zhang Fei, who had come down fearing lest his brother might be in some diffi- culty from which the strong arm of Guan Yu might even be insufficient to rescue him.
The three brothers thus returned together. After Zhou Yu, having escorted Liu Bei to the gate of his camp, had returned to his quarters, Lu Su soon came
to see him. “Then you had cajoled Liu Bei into coming, why did you not carry out your plan?” asked Lu Su. “Because of that Guan Yu. He is a very tiger, and he never left his brother for a moment. If anything had been
attempted, he would certainly have had my life.” Lu Su knew that Zhou Yu spoke the truth. Then suddenly they announced a messenger with a letter from Cao
Cao. Zhou Yu ordered them to bring him in and took the letter. But when he saw the superscription The First Min- ister of Han to Commander-in-Chief Zhou Yu, he fell into a frenzy of rage, tore the letter to fragments, and threw them on the ground.
“To death with this fellow!” cried he. “When two countries are at war, their emissaries are not slain,” said Lu Su. “Messengers are slain to show one’s dignity and independence,” replied Zhou Yu. The unhappy bearer of the letter was decapitated, and his head sent back to Cao Cao by the hands of his escort. Zhou Yu then decided to move. The van under Gan Ning was to advance, supported by two wings led by Han
Dang and Jiang Qin. Zhou Yu would lead the center body in support. The next morning the early meal was eaten in the fourth watch, and the ships got under way in the fifth with a great beating of drums.
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Cao Cao was greatly angered when he heard that his letter had been torn to fragments, and he resolved to at- tack forthwith. His advance was led by the Supreme Admiral Cai Mao, the Vice-Admiral Zhang Yun, and others of the Jingzhou officers who had joined his side. Cao Cao went as hastily as possible to the meeting of the three rivers and saw the ships of the South Land sailing up.
In the bow of the foremost ship from the south stood a fine figure of a warrior, who cried, “I am Gan Ning. I challenge anyone to combat!”
Cai Mao sent his young brother, Cai Xun, to accept the challenge. But as Cai Xun’s ship approached, Gan Ning shot an arrow and Cai Xun fell. Gan Ning pressed forward, his crossbowmen keeping up a heavy discharge which Cao Cao’s troops could not stand. The wings of Han Dang from the left and Jiang Qin from the right also joined in.
Cao Cao’s soldiers, being mostly from the dry plains of the north, did not know how to fight effectually on water, and the southern ships had the battle all their own way. The slaughter was very great. However, after a contest lasting till afternoon, Zhou Yu thought it more prudent, in view of the superior numbers of his enemy, not to risk further the advantage he had gained. So he beat the gongs as the signal to cease battle and recall the ships.
Cao Cao was worsted, but his ships returned to the bank, where a camp was made and order was restored. Cao Cao sent for his defeated leaders and reproached them, saying, “You did not do your best. You let an inferi-
or force overcome you.” Cai Mao defended himself, saying, “The Jingzhou marines have not been exercised for a long time, and the oth-
ers have never been trained for naval warfare at all. A naval camp must be instituted, the northern soldiers trained, and the Jingzhou force drilled. When they have been made efficient, they will win victories.”
“You are the Supreme Admiral. If you know what should be done, why have you not done it?” said Cao Cao. “What is the use of telling me this?”
So Cai Mao and Zhang Yun organized a naval camp on the river bank. They established twenty-four “Water Gates,” with the large ships outside as a sort of rampart, and under their protection the smaller ships went to and fro freely. At night when the lanterns and torches were lit, the very sky was illuminated, and the water shone red with the glare. On land the smoke of the camp fires could be traced for one hundred mile without a break.
Zhou Yu returned to camp and feasted his victorious fighting force. A messenger bore the joyful tidings of victory to his master Sun Quan. When night fell, Zhou Yu went up to the summit of one of the hills and looked out over the long line of bright lights stretching toward the west, showing the extent of the enemy’s camp. He said noth- ing, but a great fear came in upon him.
Next day Zhou Yu decided that he would go in person to find out the strength of the enemy. So he bade them prepare a small squadron which he manned with strong, hardy men armed with powerful bows and stiff crossbows. He also placed musicians on each ship. They set sail and started up the stream. When they got opposite Cao Cao’s camp, the heavy stones that served as anchors were dropped, and the music was played while Zhou Yu scanned the enemy’s naval camp. What he saw gave him no satisfaction, for everything was most admirable.
He said, “How well and correctly built is that naval base! Anyone knows the names of those in command?” “They are Cai Mao and Zhang Yun,” said his officers. “They have lived in the south a long time,” said Zhou Yu, “and are thoroughly experienced in naval warfare. I
must find some means of removing them before I can effect anything.” Meanwhile on shore the sentinels had told Cao Cao that the enemy craft were spying upon them, and Cao Cao
ordered out some ships to capture the spies. Zhou Yu saw the commotion of the commanding flags on shore and hastily gave the order to unmoor and sail down stream. The squadron at once got under way and scattered; to and fro went the oars, and each ship seemed to fly. Before Cao Cao’s ships could get out after them, they were all far away.
Cao Cao’s ships took up the chase but soon saw pursuit was useless. They returned and reported their failure. Again Cao Cao found fault with his officers and said, “The other day you lost a battle, and the soldiers were
greatly dispirited. Now the enemy have spied out our camp. What can be done?” In eager response to his question one stepped out, saying, “When I was a youth, Zhou Yu and I were fellow stu-
dents and pledged friends. My three-inch tongue is still good, and I will go over and persuade him to surrender.” Cao Cao, rejoiced to find so speedy a solution, looked at the speaker. It was Jiang Gan of Jiujiang, one of the
counseling staff in the camp. “Are you a good friend of Zhou Yu?” said Cao Cao. “Rest content, O Prime Minister,” replied Jiang Gan. “If I only get on the other side of the river, I shall succeed.” “What preparations are necessary?” asked Cao Cao. “Just a youth as my servant and a couple of rowers. Nothing else.” Cao Cao offered him wine, wished him success, and sent him on his way. Clad in a simple linen robe and seated in his little craft, the messenger reached Zhou Yu’s camp and bade the
guards say that an old friend Jiang Gan wished to see him.
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The commander was in his tent at a council when the message came, and he laughed as he said to those about him, “A persuader is coming.”
Then he whispered certain instructions in the ear of each one of them, and they went out to await his arrival. Zhou Yu received his friend in full ceremonial garb. A crowd of officers in rich silken robes were about him.
The guest appeared, his sole attendant a lad dressed in a simple blue gown. Jiang Gan bore himself proudly as he advanced, and Zhou Yu made a low obeisance.
“You have been well I hope since last we met,” said Jiang Gan. “You have wandered far and suffered much in this task of emissary in Cao Cao’s cause,” said Zhou Yu. “I have not seen you for a very long time,” said the envoy much taken aback, “and I came to visit you for the
sake of old times. Why do you call me an emissary for the Cao Cao’s cause?” “Though I am not so profound a musician as Shi Kuang of old, yet I can comprehend the thought behind the
music,” replied Zhou Yu. “As you choose to treat your old friend like this, I think I will take my leave,” said Jiang Gan. Zhou Yu laughed again, and taking Jiang Gan by the arm, said, “Well, I feared you might be coming on his
behalf to try to persuade me. But if this is not your intention, you need not go away so hastily.” So they two entered the tent. When they had exchanged salutes and were seated as friends, Zhou Yu bade them
call his officers that he might introduce them. They soon appeared civil and military officials, all dressed in their best. The military officers were clad in glittering silver armor and the staff looked very imposing as they stood ranged in two lines.
The visitor was introduced to them all. Presently a banquet was spread, and while they feasted, the musicians played songs of victory and the wine circulated merrily.
Under the mellowing influence, Zhou Yu’s reserve seemed to thaw and he said, “Jiang Gan is an old fellow stu- dent of mine, and we are pledged friends. Though he has arrived here from the north, he is no artful pleader so you need not be afraid of him.”
Then Zhou Yu took off the commanding sword which he wore as Commander-in-Chief and handed it to Taishi Ci, saying, “You take this and wear it for the day as master of the feast. This day we meet only as friends and speak only of friendship, and if anyone shall begin a discussion of the questions at issue between Cao Cao and the South Land, just slay him.”
Taishi Ci took the sword and seated himself in his place. Jiang Gan was not a little overcome, but he said no word.
Zhou Yu said, “Since I assumed command, I have tasted no drop of wine; but today as an old friend is present and there is no reason to fear him, I am going to drink freely.”
So saying he quaffed a huge goblet and laughed loudly. The rhinoceros cups went swiftly round from guest to guest till all were half drunk. Then Zhou Yu, laying hold
of the guest’s hand, led him outside the tent. The guards who stood around all braced themselves up and seized their shinning weapons.
“Do you not think my soldiers a fine lot of fellows?” said Zhou Yu. “Strong as bears and bold as tigers,” replied Jiang Gan. Then Zhou Yu led him to the rear of the tent whence he saw the grain and forage piled up in mountainous
heaps. “Do you not think I have a fairly good store of grain and forage?” “Your troops are brave and your supplies ample: The empire’s gossip is not baseless, indeed.” Zhou Yu pretended to be quite intoxicated and went on, “When you and I were students together, we never
looked forward to a day like this, did we?” “For a genius like you, it is nothing extraordinary,” said the guest. Zhou Yu again seized his hand, and they sat down. “A man of the time, I have found a proper lord to serve. In his service, we rely upon the right feeling between
minister and prince outside, and at home we are firm in the kindly feeling of relatives. He listens to my words and follows my plans. We share the same good or evil fortune. Even when the great old persuaders like Su Qin, Zhang Yi, Lu Jia, and Li Yiji lived again, even when their words poured forth like a rushing river, their tongues were as a sharp sword, it is impossible to move such as I am!”
Zhou Yu burst into a loud laugh as he finished, and Jiang Gan’s face had become clay-colored. Zhou Yu then led his guest back into the tent, and again they fell to drinking.
Presently Zhou Yu pointed to the others at table and said, “These are all the best and bravest of the land of the south. One might call this the ‘Gathering of Heroes.’”
They drank on till daylight failed and continued after lamps had been lit. Zhou Yu even gave an exhibition of sword play and sang this song:
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When a man is in the world, O, He ought to do his best. And when he’s done his best, O. He ought to have his rest. And when I have my rest, O, I’ll quaff my wine with zest. And when I’m drunk as drunk can be, O, I’ll sing the madman’s litany.
A burst of applause greeted the song. By this time it was getting late, and the guest begged to be excused. “The wine is too much for me,” said Jiang Gan. His host bade them clear the table. As all the others left, Zhou Yu said, “It has been many a day since I shared a couch with my friend, but we will
do so tonight.” Putting on the appearance of irresponsible intoxication, he led Jiang Gan into the tent and they went to bed.
Zhou Yu simply fell, all dressed as he was, and lay there emitting uncouth grunts and groans, so that to the guest sleep was impossible.
Jiang Gan lay and listened to the various camp noises without and his host’s thunderous snores within. About the second watch he rose and looked at his friend by the dim light of the small lamp. He also saw on the table a heap of papers, and coming out and looking at them furtively, he saw they were letters. Among them he saw one marked as coming from Cai Mao and Zhang Yun, Cao Cao’s Supreme Admiral and Vice-Admiral. He read it and this is what it said:
“We surrendered to Cao Cao, not for the sake of pay but under stress of circumstances. Now we have been able to hold these northern soldiers into this naval camp but, as soon as occasion offers, we mean to have the rebel’s head to offer as a sacrifice to your banner. From time to time there will be reports as occasions serve, but you may trust us. This is our humble reply to your letter.”
“Those two were connected with the South Land in the beginning,” thought Jiang Gan, so he secreted the letter in his dress and began to examine the others. But at that moment Zhou Yu turned over, and so Jiang Gan hastily blew out the light and went to his couch.
Zhou Yu was muttering as he lay there as if dreaming, saying, “Friend, I am going to let you see Cao Cao’s head in a day or two.”
Jiang Gan hastily made some reply to load on his host to say more. Then came, “Wait a few days; you will see Cao Cao’s head. The old wretch!”
Jiang Gan tried to question him as to what he meant, but Zhou Yu was fast asleep and seemed to hear nothing. Jiang Gan lay there on his couch wide awake till the fourth watch was beating.
Then someone came in, saying, “General, are you awake?” At that moment as if suddenly awakened from the deepest slumber, Zhou Yu started up and said, “Who is this
on the couch?” The voice replied, “Do you not remember, General? You asked your old friend to stay the night with you. It is
he, of course.” “I drank too much last night,” said Zhou Yu in a regretful tone, “and I forgot. I seldom indulge to excess and am
not used to it. Perhaps I said many things I ought not.” The voice went on, “A man has arrived from the north.” “Speak lower,” said Zhou Yu, and turning toward the sleeper, he called him by name. But Jiang Gan affected to
be sound asleep and made no sign. Zhou Yu crept out of the tent, while Jiang Gan listened with all his ears. He heard the man say, “Cai Mao and
Zhang Yun, the two commanders, said that they cannot execute the plan in a hurry.” But listening as he did with straining ears, he could not make out what followed. Soon after Zhou Yu reentered
and again called out his companion’s name. But no reply came, for Jiang Gan was pretending to be in the deepest slumber and to hear nothing. Then Zhou Yu undressed and went to bed.
As Jiang Gan lay awake, he remembered that Zhou Yu was known to be meticulously careful in affairs, and if in the morning Zhou Yu found that a letter had disappeared, he would certainly slay the offender. So Jiang Gan lay there till near daylight and then called out to his host. Getting no reply, he rose, dressed, and stole out of the tent. Then he called his servant and made for the camp gate.
“Whither are you going, Sir?” said the watchmen at the gate.
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“I fear I am in the way here,” replied Jiang Gan, “and so I have taken leave of the Commander-in-Chief for a time. So do not stop me.”
He found his way to the river bank and reembarked. Then, with flying oars, he hastened back to Cao Cao’s camp. When he arrived, Cao Cao asked at once how he had sped, and he had to acknowledge failure.
“Zhou Yu is very clever and perfectly high-minded,” said Jiang Gan. “Nothing that I could say moved him in the least.”
“Your failure makes me look ridiculous,” said Cao Cao. “Well, if I did not win over Zhou Yu, I found out something for you. Send away these people, and I will tell
you,” said Jiang Gan. The servants were dismissed, and then Jiang Gan produced the letter he had stolen from Zhou Yu’s tent. He
gave it to Cao Cao. Cao Cao was very angry and sent for Cai Mao and Zhang Yun at once. As soon as they appeared, he said, “I want you two to attack.” Cai Mao replied, “But the soldiers are not yet sufficiently trained.” “The soldiers will be well enough trained when you have sent my head to Zhou Yu, eh?” Both commanders were dumb-founded, having not the least idea what this meant. They remained silent for
they had nothing to say. Cao Cao bade the executioners lead them away to instant death. In a short time their heads were produced.
By this time Cao Cao had thought over the matter, and it dawned upon him that he had been tricked. A poem says:
No one could stand against Cao Cao, Of sin he had full share, But Zhou Yu was more treacherous, And caught him in a snare. Two commanders to save their lives, Betrayed a former lord, Soon after, as was very met. Both fell beneath the sword.
The death of these two naval commanders caused much consternation in the camp, and all their colleagues asked the reason for their sudden execution. Though Cao Cao knew they had been victimized, he would not ac- knowledge it.
So he said, “These two had been remiss, and so had been put to death.” The others were aghast, but nothing could be done. Two other officers, Mao Jie and Yu Jin, were put in com-
mand of the naval camp. Spies took the news to Zhou Yu, who was delighted at the success of his ruse. “Those two Cai Mao and Zhang Yun were my only source of anxiety,” said he. “Now they are gone: I am quite
happy.” Lu Su said, “General, if you can continue like this, you need not fear Cao Cao.” “I do not think any of them saw my game,” said Zhou Yu, “except Zhuge Liang. He beats me, and I do not think
this ruse was hidden from him. You go and sound him. See if he knew.”
Zhou Yu’s treacherous plot succeeded well, Dissension sown, his rivals fell. Drunk with success was he, but sought To know what cynic Zhuge Liang thought.
What passed between Lu Su and Zhuge Liang will next be related.
Chapter 46
Using Strategy, Zhuge Liang Borrows Arrows; Joining A Ruse, Huang Gai Accepts Punishment.
Lu Su departed on his mission and found Zhuge Liang seated in his little craft. “There has been so much to do that I have not been able to come to listen to your instructions,” said Lu Su. “That is truly so,” said Zhuge Liang, “and I have not yet congratulated the Commander-in-Chief.”
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“What have you wished to congratulate him upon?” “Why Sir, the matter upon which he sent you to find out whether I knew about it or not. Indeed I can congratu-
late him on that.” Lu Su turned pale and gasped, saying, “But how did you know, Master?” “The ruse succeeded well thus played off on Jiang Gan. Cao Cao has been taken in this once, but he will soon
rise to it. Only he will not confess his mistake. However, the two men are gone, and the South Land is freed from a grave anxiety. Do you not think that is a matter for congratulation? I hear Mao Jie and Yu Jin are the new admirals, and in their hands lie both good and evil for the fate of the northern fleet.”
Lu Su was quite dumbfounded. He stayed a little time longer passing the time in making empty remarks, and then took his leave.
As he was going away, Zhuge Liang cautioned him, saying, “Do not let Zhou Yu know that I know his ruse. If you let him know, he will seek some chance to do me harm.”
Lu Su promised. Nevertheless he went straight to his chief and related the whole thing just as it happened. “Really he must be got rid of,” said Zhou Yu. “I have quite decided to put the man out of the way.” “If you slay him, will not Cao Cao laugh at you?” “Oh, no! I will find a legitimate way of getting rid of him so that he shall go to his death without resentment.” “But how can you find a legitimate way of assassinating him?” “Do not ask too much. You will see presently.” Soon after all the officers were summoned to the main tent, and Zhuge Liang’s presence was desired. He went
contentedly enough. When all were seated, Zhou Yu suddenly addressed Zhuge Liang, saying, “I am going to fight a battle with the
enemy soon on the water. What weapons are the best?” “On a great river arrows are the best,” said Zhuge Liang. “Your opinion and mine agree. But at the moment we are short of them. I wish you would undertake to supply
about a hundred thousand arrows for the naval fight. As it is for the public service, you will not decline, I hope.” “Whatever task the Commander-in-Chief lays upon me, I must certainly try to perform,” replied Zhuge Liang.
“May I inquire by what date you require the hundred thousand arrows?” “Could you have them ready in ten days?” “The enemy will be here very soon. Ten days will be too late,” said Zhuge Liang. “In how many days do you estimate the arrows can be ready?” “Let me have three days. Then you may send for your hundred thousand.” “No joking, remember!” said Zhou Yu. “There is no joking in war time.” “Dare I joke with the Commander-in-Chief ? Give me a formal military order. If I have not completed the task
in three days, I will take my punishment.” Zhou Yu, secretly delighted, sent for the secretaries and prepared the commission then and there. Then he drank to the success of the undertaking and said, “I shall have to congratulate you most heartily when
this is accomplished.” “This day is too late to count,” said Zhuge Liang. “On the third from tomorrow morning send five hundred
soldiers to the river side to convey the arrows.” They drank a few more cups together, and then Zhuge Liang took his leave. After he had gone, Lu Su said, “Do you not think there is some deceit about this?” “Clearly it is not I! It is he who has signed his own death warrant,” said Zhou Yu. “Without being pressed in the
least, he asked for a formal order in the face of the whole assembly. Even if he grew a pair of wings, he could not escape. Only I will just order the workers to delay him as much as they can, and not supply him with materials, so that he is sure to fail. And then, when the certain penalty is incurred, who can criticize? You can go and inquire about it all and keep me informed.”
So off went Lu Su to seek Zhuge Liang, who at once reproached him with having blabbed about the former business.
Zhuge Liang said, “He wants to hurt me, as you know, and I did not think you could not keep my secret. And now there is what you saw today, and how do you think I can get a hundred thousand arrows made in three days? You will simply have to rescue me.”
“You brought the misfortune on yourself, and how can I rescue you?” said Lu Su. “I look to you for the loan of twenty vessels, manned each by thirty people. I want blue cotton screens and bun-
dles of straw lashed to the sides of the boats. I have good use for them. On the third day, I shall undertake to deliver the fixed number of arrows. But on no account must you let Zhou Yu know, or my scheme will be wrecked.”
Lu Su consented, and this time he kept his word. He went to report to his chief as usual, but he said nothing about the boats.
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He only said, “Zhuge Liang is not using bamboo or feathers or glue or varnish, but has some other way of get- ting arrows.”
“Let us await the three days’ limit,” said Zhou Yu, puzzled though confident. On his side Lu Su quietly prepared a score of light swift boats, each with its crew and the blue screens and bun-
dles of grass complete and, when these were ready, he placed them at Zhuge Liang’s disposal. Zhuge Liang did nothing on the first day, nor on the second. On the third day at the middle of the fourth watch,
Zhuge Liang sent a private message asking Lu Su to come to his boat. “Why have you sent for me, Sir?” asked Lu Su. “I want you to go with me to get those arrows.” “Whither are you going?” “Do not ask. You will see.” Then the twenty boats were fastened together by long ropes and moved over to the north bank. The night
proved very foggy and the mist was very dense along the river, so that one person could scarcely see another. In spite of the fog, Zhuge Liang urged the boats forward as if into the vast fairy kingdom.
There is a poem on these river fogs:
Mighty indeed is the Great River! Rising far in the west, in the Emei and Min Mountains, Plowing its way through Wu, east flowing, resistless, Swelled by its nine tributary streams, rolling down from the far north, Aided and helped by a hundred rivulets swirling and foaming, Ocean receives it at last welcoming, joyful, its waters. Therein abide sea nymphs and water gods, Enormous whales a thousand fathoms long, Nine-headed monstrous beasts, reptiles and octopi, Demons and uncouth creatures wondrous strange. In faith it is the home and safe retreat Of devils and sprites, and wondrous growths, And eke the battle ground of valiant humans. At times occur strange strife of elements, When darkness strives on light’s domains that encroach, Whereat arises in the vaulted dome of blue White wreaths of fog that toward the center roll. Then darkness falls, too dense for any torch Illumine; only clanging sounds can pass. The fog at first appears, a vaporous wreath Scarce visible. But thickening fast, it veils The Southern Hills, the painted leopard’s home. And spreads afar, until the northern sea Leviathans are amazed and lose their course. And denser yet it touches on the sky. And spreads a heavy mantle over the earth. Then, wide as is the high pitched arch of heaven, Therein appears no single rift of blue. Now mighty whales lead up their spouses to sport Upon the waves, the sinuous dragons dive Deep down and, breathing, swell the heaving sea, The earth is moist as with the early rains, And spring’s creative energy is chilled. Both far and wide and high the damp fog spreads, Great cities on the eastern bank are hid, Wide ports and mountains in the south are lost, Whole fleets of battle ships, a thousand keels, Hide in the misty depths; frail fishing boats High riding on a wave are seen—and lost. The gloom increases and the domed sky Grows dark and darker as the sun’s light fails.
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The daylight dies, dim twilight’s reign begins, The ruddy hills dissolve and lose their hue. The skill of matchless King Yu would fail to sound The depth and height; and Li Lou’s eye, though keen, Could never pierce this gloom. Now is the time, O sea and river gods, to use your powers. The gliding fish and creeping water folk Are lost; there is no track for bird or beast. Fair Penglai Isles are hidden from our sight, The lofty gates of heaven have disappeared. Nature is blurred and indistinct, as when A driving rain storm hurries over the earth. And then, perhaps, within the heavy haze, A noisome serpent vents his venom foul And plagues descend, or impish demons work Their wicked wills. Ills fall on humans but do not stay, Heaven’s cleansing breath sweeps them sway, But while they last the mean ones cry, The nobler suffer silently. The greatest turmoil is a sign Of quick return to state benign.
The little fleet reached Cao Cao’s naval camp about the fifth watch, and Zhuge Liang gave orders to form line lying prows west, and then to beat the drums and shout.
“But what shall we do if they attack us?” exclaimed Lu Su. Zhuge Liang replied with a smile, “I think their fleet will not venture out in this fog. Go on with your wine, and
let us be happy. We will go back when the fog lifts.” As soon as the shouting from the river was heard by those in the camp, the two admirals, Mao Jie and Yu Jin,
ran off to report to Cao Cao, who said, “Coming up in a fog like this means that they have prepared an ambush for us. Do not go out, but get all the force together and shoot at them.”
He also sent orders to the ground camps to dispatch six thousand of archers and crossbowmen to aid the ma- rines.
The naval forces were then lined up shooting on the bank to prevent a landing. Presently the soldiers arrived, and ten thousand and more soldiers were shooting down into the river, where the arrows fell like rain. By and bye Zhuge Liang ordered the boats to turn round so that their prows pointed east and to go closer in so that many arrows might hit them.
Zhuge Liang ordered the drums to be kept beating till the sun was high and the fog began to disperse, when the boats got under way and sailed down stream. The whole twenty boats were bristling with arrows on both sides.
As they left, Zhuge Liang asked all the crews to shout derisively, “We thank you, Sir Prime Minister, for the arrows!”
They told Cao Cao, but by the time he came, the light boats helped by the swift current were seven miles long down the river and pursuit was impossible. Cao Cao saw that he had been duped and was very sorry, but there was no help for it.
On the way down Zhuge Liang said to his companion, “Every boat must have five or six thousand arrows and so, without the expenditure of an ounce of energy, we must have more than ten myriad arrows, which tomorrow can be shot back again at Cao Cao’s army to his great inconvenience.”
“You are really superhuman,” said Lu Su. “But how did you know there would be a thick fog today?” “One cannot be a leader without knowing the workings of heaven and the ways of earth. One must understand
the secret gates and the interdependence of the elements, the mysteries of tactics and the value of forces. It is but an ordinary talent. I calculated three days ago that there would be a fog today, and so I set the limit at three days. Zhou Yu would give me ten days, but neither artificers nor materials, so that he might find occasion to put me to death as I knew. But my fate lies with the Supreme, and how could Zhou Yu harm me?”
Lu Su could not but agree. When the boats arrived, five hundred soldiers were in readiness on the bank to carry away the arrows. Zhuge Liang bade them go on board the boats, collect them and bear them to the tent of the Com- mander-in-Chief. Lu Su went to report that the arrows had been obtained and told Zhou Yu by what means.
Zhou Yu was amazed and sighed sadly, saying, “He is better than I. His methods are more than human.”
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Thick lies the fog on the river, Nature is shrouded in white, Distant and near are confounded, Banks are no longer in sight. Fast fly the pattering arrows, Stick in the boats of the fleet. Now can full tale be delivered, Zhuge Liang is victor complete.
When, shortly after his return, Zhuge Liang went to the tent of the Commander-in-Chief, he was welcomed by Zhou Yu, who came forward to greet him, saying, “Your superhuman predictions compel one’s esteem.”
“There is nothing remarkable in that trifling trick,” replied he. Zhou Yu led him within and wine was brought. Then Zhou Yu said, “My lord sent yesterday to urge me to advance, but I have no master plan ready. I wish you
would assist me, Master.” “But where should I, a man of poor everyday ability, find such a plan as you desire?” “I saw the enemy’s naval camp just lately, and it looked very complete and well organized. It is not an ordinary
place to attack. I have thought of a plan, but I am not sure it will answer. I should be happy if you would decide for me.”
“General,” replied Zhuge Liang, “do not say what your plan is, but each of us will write in the palm of his hand and see whether our opinions agree.”
So brush and ink were sent for, and Zhou Yu first wrote on his own palm, and then passed the pen to Zhuge Liang who also wrote. Then getting close together on the same bench, each showed his hand to the other, and both burst out laughing, for both had written the same word, “Fire.”
“Since we are of the same opinion,” said Zhou Yu, “there is no longer any doubt. But our intentions must be kept secret.”
“Both of us are public servants, and what would be the sense of telling our plans? I do not think Cao Cao will be on his guard against this, although he has had two experiences. You may put your scheme into force.”
They finished their wine and separated. Not an officer knew a word of their plans. Now Cao Cao had expended a myriad arrows in vain and was much irritated in consequence. He deeply de-
sired revenge. Then Xun You proposed a ruse, saying, “The two strategists on the side of the enemy are Zhou Yu and Zhuge
Liang, two men most difficult to get the better of. Let us send someone who shall pretend to surrender to them but really be a spy on our behalf and a helper in our schemes. When we know what is doing, we can plan to meet it.”
“I had thought of that myself,” replied Cao Cao. “Whom do you think the best person to send?” “Cai Mao has been put to death, but all his clan and family are in the army, and his two younger brothers are ju-
nior generals. You have them most securely in your power and may send them to surrender. The ruler of the South Land will never suspect deceit there.”
Cao Cao decided to act on this plan, and in the evening summoned Cai Zhong and Cai He to his tent, where he told them, saying, “I want you to pretend to surrender to the South Land so that you can gather intelligence and sent it back. When all done, you will be richly rewarded. But do not betray me.”
“Our families are in Jingzhou, and that place is yours,” replied they. “Should we dare betray? You need have no doubts, Sir. You will soon see the heads of both Zhou Yu and Zhuge Liang at your feet.”
Cao Cao gave them generous gifts. Soon after the two men, each with his five hundred soldiers, set sail with a fair wind for the opposite bank.
Now as Zhou Yu was preparing for the attack, the arrival of some northern ships was announced. They bore the two younger brothers of Cai Mao, who had come as deserters.
They were led in and, bowing before the general, said, weeping, “Our innocent brother has been put to death, and we desire vengeance. So we have come to offer allegiance to you. We pray you appoint us to the vanguard.”
Zhou Yu appeared very pleased and made them presents. Then he ordered them to join Gan Ning in leading the van. They thanked him and regarded their scheme as already a success.
But Zhou Yu gave Gan Ning secret orders, saying, “They have come without their families, and so I know their desertion is only pretense. They have been sent as spies, and I am going to meet their ruse with one of my own. They shall have some information to send. You will treat them well, but keep a careful guard over them. On the day our soldiers start the offense, they shall be sacrificed to the flag. But be very careful that nothing goes wrong.”
Gan Ning went away. Then Lu Su came to tell Zhou Yu, saying, “Everyone agrees in thinking the surrender of Cai Zhong and Cai He
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feigned and they should be rejected.” “But they wish to revenge the death of their brother,” said the Fleet Admiral. “Where is the pretense? If you are
so suspicious, you will receive nobody at all.” Lu Su left much piqued and went to see Zhuge Liang to whom he told the story. Zhuge Liang only smiled. “Why do you smile?” said Lu Su. “I smile at your simplicity. The General is playing a game. Spies cannot easily come and go, so these two have
been sent to feign desertion that they may act as spies. The General is meeting one ruse with another. He wants them to give false information. Deceit is not to be despised in war, and his scheme is the correct one to employ.”
Then Lu Su understood. That night as Zhou Yu was sitting in his tent, Huang Gai came to see him privately. Zhou Yu said, “You have surely some wise plan to propose that you come at night like this.” Huang Gai replied, “The enemy are more numerous than we, and it is wrong to delay. Why not burn them out?” “Who suggested that to you?” “I thought of it myself. Nobody suggested it,” replied Huang Gai. “I just wanted something like this, and that is why I kept those two pretended deserters. I want them to give
some false news. The pity is that I have no one to feign desertion to the other side and work my plan.” “But I will carry out your plan,” said Huang Gai. “But if you cannot show some injury, you will not be believed,” said Zhou Yu. “The Sun family have been very generous to me, and I would not resent being crushed to death to repay them,”
said Huang Gai. Zhou Yu bowed and thanked him, saying, “If you would not object to some bodily suffering, then the South
Land would indeed be happy.” “Kill me. I do not mind,” repeated Huang Gai as he took his leave. Next day the drums called all the officers together to the Commander-in-Chief ’s tent, and Zhuge Liang came
with the others. Zhou Yu said, “The enemy’s camps extend about one hundred miles so that the campaign will be a long one.
Each leader is to prepare supplies for three months.” Scarcely had he spoken when Huang Gai started up, crying, “Say not three months. Be ready for thirty months,
and even then it will not be ended. If you can destroy them this month, then all is well. If you cannot, then it were better to take Zhang Zhao’s advice, throw down your weapons, turn to the north, and surrender.”
Zhou Yu’s anger flared up, and he flushed, crying, “Our lord’s orders were to destroy Cao Cao, and whoever mentioned the word surrender should be put to death! Now, the very moment when the two armies are to engage, you dare talk of surrender and damp the ardor of my army! If I do not slay you, how can I support the others?”
He ordered the lictors to remove Huang Gai and execute him without delay. Huang Gai then flamed up in turn, saying, “This is the third generation since I went with General Sun Jian, and
we overran the southeast. Whence have you sprung up?” This made Zhou Yu perfectly furious, and Huang Gai was ordered to instant death. But Gan Ning interfered. Said he, “He is a veteran officer of the South Land. Pray pardon him!” “What are you prating about?” cried Zhou Yu. “Dare you come between me and my duty?” Turning to the lictors, Zhou Yu ordered them to drive Gan Ning forth with blows. The other officials fell on their knees entreating pity for Huang Gai. “He is indeed most worthy of death, but it would be a loss to the army. We pray you forgive him. Record his
fault for the moment; and after the enemy shall have been defeated, then put him to death.” But Zhou Yu was implacable. The officers pleaded with tears. At length he seemed moved, saying, “Had you not interceded, he should certainly have suffered death. But now
I will mitigate the punishment to a beating. He shall not die.” Zhou Yu turned to the lictors and bade them deal the culprit one hundred blows. Again his colleagues prayed
for remission, but Zhou Yu angrily pushed over the table in front of him and roared to the officers to get out of the way and let the sentence be executed.
So Huang Gai was stripped, thrown to the ground, and fifty blows were given. At this point the officers again prayed that he be let off.
Zhou Yu sprang from his chair and pointing his finger at Huang Gai said, “If you dare flout me again, you shall have the other fifty. If you are guilty of any disrespect, you shall be punished for both faults!”
With this he turned into the inner part of the tent, growling as he went, while the officers helped their beaten colleague to his feet. He was in a deplorable state. His back was cut in many places, and the blood was flowing in streams. They led him to his own quarters and on the way he swooned several times. His case seemed most pitiable.
Lu Su went to see the suffering officer and then called on Zhuge Liang in his boat.
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Lu Su related the story of the beating and said, “Though the other officers have been cowed into silence, I think thought you, Sir, might have interceded. You are a guest and not under Zhou Yu’s orders. Why did you stand by with your hands up your sleeves and say never a word?”
“You insult me,” said Zhuge Liang smiling. “Why do you say that? I have never insulted you: Never since the day we came here together.” “Do you not know that terrible beating was but a ruse? How could I try to dissuade Zhou Yu?” Then Lu Su began to perceive, and Zhuge Liang continued, saying, “Cao Cao would not be taken in unless
there was some real bodily suffering. Zhou Yu is going to send Huang Gai over as a deserter, and Zhou Yu will see to it that the two Cao Cao’s spies duly tell the tale. But when you see the General, you must not tell him that I saw through the ruse. You say that I am very angry like the others.”
Lu Su went to see Zhou Yu and asked, “Why have you so cruelly beaten a proved and trusty officer?” “Do the officers resent it?” asked Zhou Yu. “They are all upset about it.” “And what does your friend think?” “Zhuge Liang also resents it in his heart, and he thinks you have made a mistake.” “Then I have deceived him for once,” said Zhou Yu gleefully. “What mean you?” cried Lu Su. “That beating that Huang Gai got is part of my ruse. I am sending him to Cao Cao as a deserter, and so I have
supplied a reason for desertion. Then I am going to use fire against the enemy.” Lu Su kept silence, but he recognized that Zhuge Liang was again right. Meanwhile Huang Gai lay in his tent, whither all his colleague officers went to condole with him and inquire
after his health. But Huang Gai would say never a word. He only lay sighing deeply from time to time. But when the Strategist Kan Ze came, Huang Gai told them to bring him to the room where he lay. Then he
bade the servants go away. Kan Ze said, “Surely you must have some serious quarrel with the General.” “I have none,” said Huang Gai. “Then this beating is just part of a ruse?” “How did you guess?” said Huang Gai. “Because I watched the General, and I guessed about nine tenths of the truth.” Huang Gai said, “You see I have been very generously treated by the Sun family, all three of them, and have no
means of showing my gratitude except by offering to help in this ruse. True I suffer, but I do not regret that. Among all those I know in the army, there is not one I am intimate with except yourself. You are true, and I can talk with you as a friend.”
“I suppose you wish me to present your surrender letter to Cao Cao. Is that it?” “Just that; will you do it?” said Huang Gai. Kan Ze consented joyfully.
Even the warrior’s body is but a stake in the game, The friend so ready to help him proves that their hearts are the same.
Kan Ze’s reply will be read in the next chapter.
Chapter 47 Kan Ze Presents A Treacherous Letter; Pang Tong Suggests Chaining The Ships.
Kan Ze was from Shanyin, a son of a humble family. He loved books, but as he was too poor to buy, he used to borrow. He had a wonderfully tenacious memory, was very eloquent and no coward. Sun Quan had employed him among his advisers, and he and Huang Gai were excellent friends.
Now Huang Gai had thought of Kan Ze to present the treacherous letter to Cao Cao, as Kan Ze’s gifts made him most suitable.
Kan Ze accepted with enthusiasm, saying, “When you, my friend, have suffered so much for our lord, could I spare myself ? No! While a person lives, he must go on fulfilling his mission, or he is no better than the herbs that rot in the field.”
Huang Gai slipped off the couch and came over to salute him. “However, this matter must speed,” continued Kan Ze. “There is no time to lose.” “The letter is already written,” said Huang Gai. Kan Ze received it and left. That night he disguised himself as an old fisherman and started in a small punt for
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the north shore, under the cold, glittering light of the stars. Soon he drew near the enemy’s camp and was captured by the patrol.
Without waiting for day, they informed Cao Cao, who said at once, “Is he not just a spy?” “No,” said they, “he is alone, just an old fisherman. And he says he is an adviser in the service of the South Land
named Kan Ze, and he has come on secret business.” “Bring him,” said Cao Cao, and Kan Ze was led in. Cao Cao was seated in a brilliantly lighted tent. He was leaning on a small table, and as soon as he saw the pris-
oner, he said harshly, “You are an adviser of East Wu. What then are you doing here?” “People say that you greedily welcome people of ability. I do not think your question a very proper one. O
friend Huang Gai, you made a mistake,” said Kan Ze. “You know I am fighting against East Wu, and you come here privately. Why should I not question you?” “Huang Gai is an old servant of Wu, one who has served three successive rulers. Now he has been cruelly beat-
en, for no fault, before the face of all the officers in Zhou Yu’s camp. He is grievously angry about this and wishes to desert to your side that he may be revenged. He discussed it with me, and as we are inseparable, I have come to give you his letter asking whether you would receive him.”
“Where is the letter? said Cao Cao. The missive was produced and presented. Cao Cao opened it and read:
“I, Huang Gai, have been generously treated by the Sun family and have served them single-heartedly. Lately they have been discussing an attack with our forces on the enormous army of the central govern- ment. Everyone knows our few are no match for such a multitude, and every officer of the South Land, wise or foolish, recognizes that quite well. However, Zhou Yu who, after all, is but a youth and a shallow minded simpleton, maintains that success is possible and rashly desires to smash stones with an egg. Beside, he is arbitrary and tyrannical, punishing for no crime, and leaving meritorious service unrewarded. I am an old servant and for no reason have been shamed in the sight of people. Wherefore I hate him in my heart.
“You, O Prime Minister, treat people with sincerity and are ready to welcome ability and so I, and those under my leadership, desire to enter your service whereby to acquire reputation and remove the shameful stigma. The commissariat, weapons, and the supply ships that I am commanding will also come over to you. In perfect sincerity I state these matters. I pray you not to doubt me.”
Leaning there on the low table by his side, Cao Cao turned this letter over and over and read it again and again. Then he smacked the table, opened his eyes wide with anger, saying, “Huang Gai is trying to play the personal
injury trick on me, is he? And you are in it as the intermediary to present the letter. How dare you come to sport with me?”
Cao Cao ordered the lictors to thrust forth the messenger and take off his head. Kan Ze was hustled out, his face untroubled. On the contrary, he laughed aloud.
At this Cao Cao told them to bring him back and harshly said to him, “What do you find to laugh at now that I have foiled you and your ruse has failed?”
“I was not laughing at you. I was laughing at my friend’s simplicity.” “What do you mean by his simplicity?” “If you want to slay, slay. Do not trouble me with a multitude of questions.” “I have read all the books on the art of war, and I am well versed in all ways of misleading the enemy. This ruse
of yours might have succeeded with many, but it will not do for me.” “And so you say that the letter is a vicious trick?” said Kan Ze. “What I say is that your little slip has sent you to the death you risked. If the thing was real and you were sin-
cere, why does not the letter name a time of coming over? What have you to say to that?” Kan Ze waited to the end and then laughed louder than ever, saying, “I am so glad you are not frightened but
can still boast of your knowledge of the books of war. Now you will not lead away your soldiers. If you fight, Zhou Yu will certainly capture you. But how sad to think I die at the hand of such an ignorant fellow!”
“What mean you? I, ignorant?” “You are ignorant of any strategy and a victim of unreason. Is not that sufficient?” “Well then, tell me where is any fault.” “You treat wise people too badly for me to talk to you. You can finish me and let there be an end of it.” “If you can speak with any show of reason, I will treat you differently.” “Do you not know that when one is going to desert one’s master and become a renegade, one cannot say exactly
when the chance will occur? If one binds one’s self to a fixed moment and the thing cannot be done just then, the secret will be discovered. One must watch for an opportunity and take it when it comes. Think: Is it possible to
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know exactly when? But you know nothing of common sense. All you know is how to put good people to death. So you really are an ignorant fellow!”
At this Cao Cao changed his manner, got up, and came over to the prisoner bowing, “I did not see clearly. That is quite true. I offended you, and I hope you will forget it.”
“The fact is that Huang Gai and I are both inclined to desert to you. We even yearn for it as a child desires its parents. Is it possible that we should play you false?”
“If you two could render me so great a service, you shall certainly be richly rewarded.” “We do not desire rank or riches. We come because it is the will of Heaven and the plain way of duty.” Then wine was set out, and Kan Ze was treated as an honored guest. While they were drinking, someone came
in and whispered in Cao Cao’s ear. He replied, “Let me see the letter.” Whereupon the man pulled out and gave him a letter, which evidently pleased him. “That is from the two Cai brothers,” thought Kan Ze. “They are reporting the punishment of my friend, and that
will be a proof of the sincerity of his letter.” Turning toward Kan Ze, Cao Cao said, “I must ask you to return to settle the date with your friend. As soon as I
know, I will have a force waiting.” “I cannot return. Pray, Sir, send some other one you can trust.” “If someone else should go, the secret would be discovered.” Kan Ze refused again and again but at last gave way, saying, “If I am to go, I must not wait here. I must be off at
once.” Cao Cao offered him gold and silks, which were refused. Kan Ze started, left the camp, and reembarked for the
south bank, where he related all that had happened to Huang Gai. “If it had not been for your persuasive tongue, then had I undergone this suffering in vain,” said Huang Gai. “I will now go to get news of the two Cai brothers,” said Kan Ze. “Excellent,” said Huang Gai. Kan Ze went to the camp commanded by Gan Ning. When they were seated, Kan Ze said to his host, “I was much distressed when I saw how disgracefully you were
treated for your intercession on behalf of Huang Gai.” Gan Ning smiled. Just then the two Cai brothers came, and host and guest exchanged glances. Gan Ning said, “The truth is Zhou Yu is over confident, and he reckons us as nobody. We count for nothing.
Everyone is talking of the way I was insulted.” And he shouted and gritted his teeth and smacked the table in his wrath. Kan Ze leaned over toward his host and said something in a very low voice, at which Gan Ning bent his head
and sighed. Cai He and Cai Zhong gathered from this scene that both Gan Ning and Kan Ze were ripe for desertion and
determined to probe them. “Why, Sir, do you anger him? Why not be silent about your injuries?” said they. “What know you of our bitterness?” said Kan Ze. “We think you seem much inclined to go over to Cao Cao,” said they. Kan Ze at this lost color. Gan Ning started up and drew his sword, crying, “They have found out. They must die
to keep their mouths shut!” “No, no,” cried the two in a flurry. “Let us tell you something quite secret!” “Quick, then!” cried Gan Ning. So Cai He said, “The truth is that we are only pretended deserters, and if you two gentlemen are of our way of
thinking, we can manage things for you.” “But are you speaking the truth?” said Gan Ning. “Is it likely we should say such a thing if it were untrue?” cried both at the same moment. Gan Ning put on a pleased look and said, “Then this is the very heaven-given chance.” “You know we have already told Cao Cao of the Huang Gai affair and how you were insulted.” “The fact is I have given the Prime Minister a letter on behalf of Huang Gai, and he sent me back again to settle
the date of Huang Gai’s desertion,” said Kan Ze. “When an honest person happens upon an enlightened master, his heart will always be drawn toward him,” said
Gan Ning. The four then drank together and opened their hearts to each other. The two Cai Zhong and Cai He wrote a pri-
vate letter to their master saying Gan Ning has agreed to join in our plot and play the traitor, and Kan Ze also wrote, and they sent the letters secretly to Cao Cao.
Kan Ze’s letter said:
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“Huang Gai has found no opportunity so far. However, when he comes, his boat can be recognized by a black, indented flag. That shall mean he is on board.”
However, when Cao Cao got these two letters, he was still doubtful and called together his advisers to talk over the matter.
Said he, “On the other side Gan Ning has been put to shame by the Commander-in-Chief whom he is prepared to betray for the sake of revenge. Huang Gai has been punished and sent Kan Ze to propose that he should come over to our side. Only I still distrust the whole thing. Who will go over to the camp to find out the real truth?”
Then Jiang Gan spoke up, saying, “I failed in my mission the other day and am greatly mortified. I will risk my life again and, this time, I shall surely bring good news.”
Cao Cao approved of him as messenger and bade him start. Jiang Gan set out in a small craft and speedily ar- rived in the Three Gorges, landing near the naval camp. Then he sent to inform Zhou Yu.
Hearing who it was, Zhou Yu chuckled, saying, “Success depends upon this man.” Then Zhou Yu called Lu Su and told him to call Pang Tong to come and do certain things for him. This Pang Tong was from Xiangyang. And he had gone to the east of the river to get away from the strife. Lu Su
had recommended him to Zhou Yu, but he had not yet presented himself. When Zhou Yu sent Lu Su to ask what scheme of attack he would recommend against Cao Cao, Pang Tong had
said to Lu Su, “You must use fire against him. But the river is wide and if one ship is set on fire, the others will scat- ter unless they are fastened together so that they must remain in one place. That is the one road to success.”
Lu Su took this message to Zhou Yu, who pondered over it and then said, “The only person who can manage this is Pang Tong himself.”
“Cao Cao is very wily,” said Lu Su. “How can Pang Tong go?” So Zhou Yu was sad and undecided. He could think of no method till suddenly the means presented itself in
the arrival of Jiang Gan. Zhou Yu at once sent instructions to Pang Tong how to act, and then sat himself in his tent to await his visitor
Jiang Gan. But the visitor became ill at ease and suspicious when he saw that his old student friend did not come to wel-
come him, and he took the precaution of sending his boat into a retired spot to be made fast before he went to the general’s tent.
When Zhou Yu saw Jiang Gan, Zhou Yu put on an angry face and said, “My friend, why did you treat me so badly?”
Jiang Gan laughed and said, “I remembered the old days when we were as brothers, and I came expressly to pour out my heart to you. Why do you say I treated you badly?”
“You came to persuade me to betray my master, which I would never do unless the sea dried up and the rocks perished. Remembering the old times, I filled you with wine and kept you to sleep with me. And you, you plundered my private letters and stole away with never a word of farewell. You betrayed me to Cao Cao and caused the death of my two friends on the other side and so caused all my plans to miscarry. Now what have you come for? Certainly, it is not out of kindness to me. I would cut you in two, but I still care for our old friendship. I would send you back again, but within a day or two I shall attack that rebel. If I let you stay in my camp, my plans will leak out. So I am going to tell my attendants to conduct you to a certain retired hut in the Western Hills, and keep you there till I shall have won the victory. Then I will send you back again.”
Jiang Gan tried to say something, but Zhou Yu would not listen. He turned his back and went into the recesses of his tent. The attendants led the visitor off, set him on a horse, and took him away over the hills to the small hut, leaving two soldiers to look after him.
When Jiang Gan found himself in the lonely hut, he was very depressed and had no desire to eat or sleep. But one night, when the stars were very brilliant, he strolled out to enjoy them. Presently he came to the rear of his lonely habitation and heard, near by, someone crooning over a book. Approaching with stealthy steps, he saw a tiny cabin half hidden in a cliff whence a slender beam or two of light stole out between the rafters. He went nearer and peeping in, saw a man reading by the light of a lamp near which hung a sword. And the book was Sun Zi’s classic “The Art of War.”
“This is no common person,” thought Jiang Gan, and so he knocked at the door. The door was opened by the reader, who bade him welcome with cultivated and refined ceremony. Jiang Gan
inquired his name. The host replied, “I am Pang Tong.” “Then you are surely the Master known as Young Phoenix, are you not?” “Yes, I am he.” “How often have I heard you talked about! You are famous. But why are you hidden away in this spot?”
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“That fellow Zhou Yu is too conceited to allow that anyone else has any talent, and so I live here quietly. But who are you, Sir?”
“I am Jiang Gan.” Then Pang Tong made him welcome and led him in, and the two sat down to talk. “With your gifts, you would succeed anywhere,” said Jiang Gan. “If you would enter Cao Cao’s service, I would
recommend you to him.” “I have long desired to get away from here. And if you, Sir, will present me, there is no time like the present. If
Zhou Yu heard of my wish, he would kill me, I am sure.” So without more ado, they made their way down the hill to the water’s edge to seek the boat in which Jiang Gan
had come. They embarked and, rowing swiftly, they soon reached the northern shore. At the central camp, Jiang Gan landed and went to seek Cao Cao to whom he related the story of the discovery of his new acquaintance.
When Cao Cao heard that the newcomer was Master Young Phoenix, Cao Cao went to meet him personally, made him very welcome, and soon they sat down to talk on friendly terms.
Cao Cao said, “And so Zhou Yu in his youth is conceited and annoys his officers and rejects all their advice: I know that. But your fame has been long known to me, and now that you have been gracious enough to turn my way, I pray you not to be thrifty of your advice.”
“I, too, know well that you are a model of military strategy,” said Pang Tong, “but I should like to have one look at your disposition.”
So horses were brought, and the two rode out to the lines, host and visitor on equal terms, side by side. They ascended a hill whence they had a wide view of the land base.
After looking all round Pang Tong remarked, “Wu Qi the Great General, came to life again, could not do better, nor Sun Zi the Famed Strategist if he reappeared! All accords with the precepts. The camp is beside the hills and is flanked by a forest. The front and rear are within sight of each other. Gates of egress and ingress are provided, and the roads of advance and retirement are bent and broken.”
“Master, I entreat you not to overpraise me, but to advise me where I can make further improvements,” said Cao Cao.
Then the two men rode down to the naval camp, where twenty four gates were arranged facing south. The cruisers and the battleships were all lined up so as to protect the lighter crafts which lay inside. There were channels to pass to and fro and fixed anchorages and stations.
Pang Tong surveying all this smiled, saying, “Sir Prime Minister, if this is your method of warfare, you enjoy no empty reputation.”
Then pointing to the southern shore, he went on, “Zhou Yu! Zhou Yu! You are finished. You will have to die.” Cao Cao was mightily pleased. They rode back to the chief tent and wine was brought. They discussed military
matters, and Pang Tong held forth at length. Remarks and comments flowed freely between the two, and Cao Cao formed an exalted opinion of his new adherent’s abilities and treated him with the greatest honor.
By and bye the guest seemed to have succumbed to the influence of many cups and said, “Have you any capable medical people in your army?”
“What are they for, Master?” said Cao Cao. “There is a lot of illness among the marines, and you ought to find some remedy.” The fact was that at this time Cao Cao’s men were suffering from the climate. Many were vomiting and not a
few had died. It was a source of great anxiety to him, and when the newcomer suddenly mentioned it, of course he had to ask advice.
Pang Tong said, “Your marine force is excellent, but there is just one defect. It is not quite perfect.” Cao Cao pressed him to say where the imperfection lay. “I have a plan to overcome the ailment of the soldiers so that no one shall be sick and all fit for service.” “What is this excellent scheme?” said Cao Cao. “The river is wide, and the tides ebb and flow. The winds and waves are never at rest. Your troops from the
north are unused to ships, and the motion makes them ill. If your ships, large and small, were classed and divided into thirties, or fifties, and joined up stem to stem by iron chains and boards spread across them, to say nothing of soldiers being able to pass from one to the next, even horses could move about on them. If this were done, then there would be no fear of the wind and the waves and the rising and falling tides.”
Coming down from his seat, Cao Cao thanked his guest, saying, “I could never defeat the land of the south without this scheme of yours.”
“That is only my idea,” said Pang Tong. “It is for you to decide about it.” Orders were then issued to call up all the blacksmiths and set them to work, night and day, forging iron chains
and great bolts to lock together the ships. And the soldiers rejoiced when they heard of the plan.
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In the Red Cliffs’ fight they used the flame, The weapon here will be the same. By Pang Tong’s advice the ships were chained, Else Zhou Yu had not that battle gained.
Pang Tong further told Cao Cao, saying, “I know many bold people on the other side who hate Zhou Yu. If I may use my little tongue in your service, I can induce them to come over to you. If Zhou Yu be left alone, you can certainly take him captive. And Liu Bei is of no account.”
“Certainly if you could render me so great a service, I would memorialize the Throne and obtain for you one of the highest offices,” said Cao Cao.
“I am not doing this for the sake of wealth or honors, but from a desire to succor humankind. If you cross the river, I pray you be merciful.”
“I am Heaven’s means of doing right and could not bear to slay the people.” Pang Tong thanked him and begged for a document that would protect his own family. Cao Cao asked, “Where do they live?” “All are near the river bank.” And Cao Cao ordered a protection declaration to be prepared. Having sealed it, he gave it to Pang Tong. Pang Tong said, “You should attack as soon as I have gone, but do not let Zhou Yu doubt anything.” Cao Cao promised secrecy, and the wily traitor took his leave. Just as he was about to embark, he met a man in
a Daoist robe, with a bamboo comb in his hair, who stopped him. The man said, “You are very bold. Huang Gai is planning to use the ‘personal injury ruse’, and Kan Ze has pre-
sented the letter of pretended desertion. You have proffered the fatal scheme of chaining the ships together lest the flames may not completely destroy them. This sort of mischievous work may have been enough to deceive Cao Cao, but I saw it all.”
Pang Tong become helpless with fear—his viscera flown away, his spirit scattered.
By guileful means one may succeed, The victims too find friends in need.
The next chapter will tell who the stranger was.
Chapter 48
Banquet On The Great River, Cao Cao Sings A Song; Battle On Water, Northerners Fight With Chained Ships.
In the last chapter Pang Tong was brought up with a sudden shock when someone seized him and said of his scheme. Upon turning to look at the man, Pang Tong saw it was Xu Shu, an old friend, and his heart revived.
Looking around and seeing no one near, Pang Tong said, “It would be a pity if you upset my plan. The fate of the people of all the eighty-one southern counties is in your hands.”
Xu Shu smiled, saying, “And what of the fate of these eight hundred thirty thousand soldiers and horse of the north?”
“Do you intend to wreck my scheme, Xu Shu?” “I have never forgotten the kindness of Uncle Liu Bei, nor my oath to avenge the death of my mother at Cao
Cao’s hands. I have said I would never think out a plan for him. So am I likely to wreck yours now, brother? But I have followed Cao Cao’s army thus far; and after they shall have been defeated, good and bad will suffer alike and how can I escape? Tell me how I can secure safety, and I sew up my lips and go away.”
Pang Tong smiled, “If you are as high-minded as that, there is no great difficulty.” “Still I wish you would instruct me.” So Pang Tong whispered something in his ear, which seemed to please Xu Shu greatly, for he thanked him most
cordially and took his leave. Then Pang Tong betook himself to his boat and left for the southern shore. His friend gone, Xu Shu mischievously spread certain rumors in the camp, and next day were to be seen every-
where soldiers in small groups, some talking, others listening, heads together and ears stretched out, till the camps seemed to buzz.
Some of the officers went to Cao Cao and told him, saying, “A rumor is running around the camps that Han Sui and Ma Teng are marching from Xiliang to attack the capital.”
This troubled Cao Cao, who called together his advisers to council.
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Said he, “The only anxiety I have felt in this expedition was about the possible doings of Han Sui and Ma Teng. Now there is a rumor running among the soldiers, and though I know not whether it be true or false, it is necessary to be on one’s guard.”
At this point Xu Shu said, “You have been kind enough to give me an office, Sir, and I have really done nothing in return. If I may have three thousand troops, I will march at once to San Pass and guard this entrance. If there be any pressing matter, I will report at once.”
“If you would do this, I should be quite at my ease. There are already troops beyond the Pass, who will be under your command, and now I will give you three thousand of horse and foot, and Zang Ba shall lead the van and march quickly.”
Xu Shu took leave of the Prime Minister and left in company with Zang Ba. This was Pang Tong’s scheme to secure the safety of Xu Shu.
A poem says:
Cao Cao marched south, but at his back There rode the fear of rear attack. Pang Tong’s good counsel Xu Shu took, And thus the fish escaped the hook.
Cao Cao’s anxiety diminished after he had thus sent away Xu Shu. Then he rode round all the camps, first the land forces and then the naval. He boarded one of the large ships and thereon set up his standard. The naval camps were arranged along two lines, and every ship carried a thousand bows and crossbows.
While Cao Cao remained with the fleet, it occurred the full moon of the eleventh month of the thirteenth year of Rebuilt Tranquillity (AD 208). The sky was clear; there was no wind; and the river lay unruffled. He prepared a great banquet, with music, and thereto invited all his leaders. As evening drew on, the moon rose over the eastern hills in its immaculate beauty, and beneath it lay the broad belt of the river like a band of pure silk. It was a great assembly, and all the guests were clad in gorgeous silks and embroidered robes, and the arms of the fighting soldiers glittered in the moonlight. The officers, civil and military, were seated in their proper order of precedence.
The setting, too, was exquisite. The Southern Hills were outlined as in a picture; the boundaries of Chaisang lay in the east; the river showed west as far as Xiakou; on the south lay the Fan Mountains, on the north was the Black Forest. The view stretched wide on every side.
Cao Cao’s heart was jubilant, and he harangued the assembly, saying, “My one aim since I enlisted my first small band of volunteers has been the removal of evil from the state, and I have sworn to cleanse the country and restore tranquillity. Now there is only left this land of the south to withstand me. I am at the head of a hundred legions. I depend upon you, gentlemen, and have no doubt of my final success. After I have subdued the South Land, there will be no trouble in all the country. Then we shall enjoy wealth and honor and revel in peace.”
They rose in a body and expressed their appreciation, saying, “We trust that you may soon report complete victory, and we shall all repose in the shade of your good fortune.”
In his elation, Cao Cao bade the servants bring more wine and they drank till late at night. Warmed and mellowed, the host pointed to the south bank, saying, “Zhou Yu and Lu Su know not the appoint-
ed time. Heaven is aiding me bringing upon them the misfortune of the desertion of their most trusted friends.” “O Prime Minister, say nothing of these things lest they become known to the enemy,” said Xun You. But the Prime Minister only laughed. “You are all my trusty friends,” said he, “both officers and humble attendants. Why should I refrain?” Pointing to Xiakou, he continued, “You do not reckon for much with your puny force, Liu Bei and Zhuge Liang.
How foolish of you to attempt to shake the Taishan Mountains!” Then turning to his officers, he said, “I am now fifty-four; and if I get the South Land, I shall have the where-
withal to rejoice. In the days of long ago, the Patriarch Duke Qiao in the south and I were great friends, and we came to an agreement on certain matters, for I knew his two daughters—Elder Qiao and Younger Qiao—were lovely beyond words. Then by some means, they became wives to Sun Ce and Zhou Yu. But now my palace of rest is built on the River Zhang, and victory over the South Land will mean that I marry these two fair women. I will put them in the Bronze Bird Tower, and they shall rejoice my declining years. My desires will then be completely attained.”
He smiled at the anticipation. Du Mu, a famous poet of the Tang Dynasty, in one poem says:
A broken halberd buried in the sand, With deep rust eaten,
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Loud tells of ancient battles on the strand, When Cao Cao was beaten. Had eastern winds Zhou Yu’s plan refused to aid And fan the blaze, The two fair Qiaos, in the Bronze Bird’s shade, Would have been locked at spring age.
But suddenly amid the merriment was heard the hoarse cry of a raven flying toward the south. “Why does the raven thus cry in the night?” said Cao Cao to those about him. “The moon is so bright that it thinks it is day,” said they, “and so it leaves its tree.” Cao Cao laughed. By this time he was quite intoxicated. He set up his spear in the prow of the ship and poured
a libation into the river and then drank three brimming goblets. As he lowered the spear, he said, “This is the spear that broke up the Yellow Scarves, captured Lu Bu, de-
stroyed Yuan Shao, and subdued Yuan Shu, whose armies are now mine. In the north it reached to Liaodong, and it stretched out over the whole south. It has never failed in its task. The present scene moves me to the depths, and I will sing a song in which you shall accompany me.”
And so he sang:
“When goblets are brimming then sang is near birth, But life is full short and has few days of mirth, Life goes as the dew drops fly swiftly away, Beneath the glance of the glowing hot ruler of day. Human’s life may be spent in the noblest enterprise, But sorrowful thoughts in his heart oft arise. Let us wash clean away the sad thoughts that intrude, With bumpers of wine such as Du Kang once brewed. Gone is my day of youthful fire And still ungained is my desire. The deer feed on the level plain And joyful call, then feed again. My noble guests are gathered round. The air is trilled with joyful sound. Bright my future lies before me. As the moonlight on this plain; But I strive in vain to reach it. When shall I my wish attain? None can answer; and so sadness Grips my inmost heart again. Far north and south, Wide east and west, We safety seek; Vain is the quest. Human’s heart oft yearns For converse sweet. And my heart burns When old friends greet. The stars are paled by the full moon’s light, The raven wings his southward flight. And thrice he circles round a tree, No place thereon to rest finds he. They weary not the mountains of great height, The waters deep of depth do not complain, Duke Zhou no leisure found by day or night Stern toil is his who would the empire gain.”
The song made they sang it with him and were all exceedingly merry, save one guest who suddenly said, “When the great army is on the point of battle and lives are about to be risked, why do you, O Prime Minister, speak
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such ill words?” Cao Cao turned quickly toward the speaker, who was Liu Fu, Imperial Protector of Yangzhou. This Liu Fu
sprang from Hefei. When first appointed to his post, he had gathered in the terrified and frightened people and restored order. He had founded schools and encouraged the people to till the land. He had long served under Cao Cao and rendered valuable service.
When Liu Fu spoke, Cao Cao dropped his spear to the level and said, “What ill-omened words did I use?” “You spoke of the moon paling the stars and the raven flying southward without finding a resting place. These
are ill-omened words.” “How dare you try to belittle my endeavor?” cried Cao Cao, very wrathful. And with that he smote Liu Fu with
his spear and slew him. The assembly broke up, and the guests dispersed in fear and confusion. Next day, when Cao Cao had recovered
from his drunken bout, he was very grieved at what he had done. When the murdered man’s son, Liu Xi, came to crave the body of his father for burial, Cao Cao wept and expressed his sorrow.
“I am guilty of your father’s death. I was drunk yesterday. I regret the deed exceedingly. Your father shall be interred with the honors of a minister of the highest rank.”
Cao Cao sent an escort of soldiers to take the body to the homeland for burial. A few days after, the two leaders of the naval force, Mao Jie and Yu Jin, came to say the ships were all connected
together by chains as had been ordered, and all was now ready. They asked for the command to start. Thereupon the leaders of both land and naval forces were assembled on board a large ship in the center of the
squadron to receive orders. The various armies and squadrons were distinguished by different flags: Mao Jie and Yu Jin led the central naval squadron with yellow flag; Zhang He, the leading squadron, red flag; Lu Qian, the rear squadron, black flag; Wen Ping, the left squadron, blue flag; and Li Tong, the right squadron, white flag. On shore Xu Huang commanded the horsemen with red flag; Li Dian, the vanguard, black flag; Yue Jing, the left wing, blue flag; and Xiahou Yuan, the right wing, white flag. Xiahou Dun and Cao Hong were in reserve, and the general staff was under the leadership of Xu Chu and Zhang Liao. The other leaders were ordered to remain in camps, but ready for action.
All being ready, the squadron drums beat the roll thrice, and the ships sailed out under a strong northwest wind on a trial cruise. When they got among the waves, they were found to be as steady and immovable as the dry land itself. The northern soldiers showed their delight at the absence of motion by capering and flourishing their weap- ons. The ships moved on, the squadrons keeping quite distinct. Fifty light cruisers sailed to and fro keeping order and urging progress.
Cao Cao watched his navy from the Command Terrace and was delighted with their evolutions and maneuvers. Surely this meant complete victory. He ordered the recall and the squadrons returned in perfect order to their base.
Then Cao Cao went to his tent and summoned his advisers. He said, “If Heaven had not been on my side, should I have got this excellent plan from the Young Phoenix?
Now that the ships are attached firmly to each other, one may traverse the river as easily as walking on firm earth.” “The ships are firmly attached to each other,” said Cheng Yu, “but you should be prepared for an attack by fire
so that they can scatter to avoid it.” Cao Cao laughed. “You look a long way ahead,” said he, “but you see what cannot happen.” “Cheng Yu speaks much to the point, my lord,” said Xun You. “Why do you laugh at him?” Cao Cao said, “Anyone using fire depends upon the wind. This is now winter and only west winds blow. You
will get neither east nor south winds. I am on the northwest, and the enemy is on the southeast bank. If they use fire, they will destroy themselves. I have nothing to fear. If it was the tenth moon, or early spring, I would provide against fire.”
“The Prime Minister is indeed wise,” said the others in chorus. “None can equal him.” “With northern troops unused to shipboard, I could never have crossed the river but for this chaining plan,”
said Cao Cao. Then he saw two of the secondary leaders stand up, and they said, “We are from the north, but we are also sail-
ors. Pray give us a small squadron, and we will seize some of the enemy’s flags and drums for you that we may prove ourselves adepts on the water.”
The speakers were two men who had served under Yuan Shao, named Jiao Chu and Zhang Neng. “I do not think naval work would suit you two, born and brought up in the north,” said Cao Cao. “The southern
soldiers are thoroughly accustomed to ships. You should not regard your lives as a child’s plaything.” They cried, “If we fail, treat us according to army laws!” “The fighting ships are all chained together, there are only small, twenty-men boats free. They are unsuitable for
fighting.”
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“If we took large ships, where would be the wonderful in what we will do? No! Give us a score of the small ships, and we will take half each and go straight to the enemy’s naval port. We will just seize a flag, slay a leader, and come home.”
“I will let you have the twenty ships and five hundred of good, vigorous marines with long spears and stiff crossbows. Early tomorrow the main fleet shall make a demonstration on the river, and I will also tell Wen Ping to support you with thirty ships.”
The two men retired greatly elated. Next morning, very early, food was prepared, and at the fifth watch all was ready for a start. Then from the
naval camp rolled out the drums and the gongs clanged, as the ships moved out and took up their positions, the various flags fluttering in the morning breeze. And the two intrepid leaders with their squadron of small scouting boats went down the lines and out into the stream.
Now a few days before the sound of Cao Cao’s drums had been heard on the southern bank, Zhou Yu had watched the maneuvers of the northern fleet on the open river from the top of a hill till the fleet had gone in again. So when the sound of drums was again heard, all the southern army went up the hills to watch the northern fleet. All they saw was a squadron of small ships bounding over the waves.
As the northern fleet came nearer, the news was taken to Zhou Yu who called for volunteers to go out against them. Han Dang and Zhou Tai offered themselves. They were accepted and orders were issued to the camps to remain ready for action but not to move till told.
Han Dang and Zhou Tai sailed out each with a small squadron of five ships in line. The two braggarts from the north, Jiao Chu and Zhang Neng, really only trusted to their boldness and luck.
Their ships came down under the powerful strokes of the oars. As they neared, the two leaders put on their heart-protectors, gripped their spears, and each took his station in the prow of the leading ship of his division. Jiao Chu’s ship led and as soon as he came near enough, his troops began to shoot at Han Dang, who fended off the arrows with his buckler. Jiao Chu twirled his long spear as he engaged his opponent. But, at the first thrust, he was killed.
His comrade Zhang Neng with the other ships was coming up with great shouts, when Zhou Tai sailed up at an angle, and these two squadrons began shooting arrows at each other in clouds. Zhou Tai fended off the arrows with his shield and stood gripping his sword firmly till his ships came within a few spans of the enemy’s ships, when he leaped across and cut down Zhang Neng. Zhang Neng’s dead body fell into the water. Then the battle became confused, and the attacking ships rowed hard to get away. The southerners pursued but soon came in sight of Wen Ping’s supporting fleet. Once more the ships engaged and the forces fought with each other.
Zhou Yu with his officers stood on the summit of a mountain and watched his own and the enemy ships out on the river. The flags and the ensigns were all in perfect order. Then he saw Wen Ping and his own fleets engaged in battle, and soon it was evident that the former was not a match for his own sailors. Wen Ping turned about to retire, Han Dang and Zhou Tai pursued. Zhou Yu fearing lest his sailors should go too far, then hoisted the white flag of recall.
To his officers Zhou Yu said, “The masts of the northern ships stand thick as reeds. Cao Cao himself is full of wiles. How can we destroy him?”
No one replied, for just then the great yellow flag that flapped in the breeze in the middle of Cao Cao’s fleet suddenly fell over into the river.
Zhou Yu laughed. “That is a bad omen,” said he. Then an extra violent blast of wind came by, and the waves rose high and beat upon the bank. A corner of his
own flag flicked Zhou Yu on the cheek, and suddenly a thought flashed through his mind. Zhou Yu uttered a loud cry, staggered, and fell backward. They picked him up. There was blood upon his lips, and he was unconscious. Presently, however, he revived.
And once he laughed, then gave a cry, This is hard to ensure a victory.
Zhou Yu’s fate will appear as the story unfolds.
Chapter 49 On Seven-Star Altar, Zhuge Liang Sacrifices To The Winds; At Three Gorges, Zhou Yu Liberates The Fire.
In the last chapter Zhou Yu was seized with sudden illness as he watched the fleets of his enemy. He was
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borne to his tent, and his officers came in multitudes to inquire after him. They looked at each other, saying, “What a pity our general should be taken ill, when Cao Cao’s legions threaten
so terribly! What would happen if Cao Cao attacked?” Messengers with the evil tidings were sent to Sun Quan, while the physicians did their best for the invalid. Lu
Su was particularly sad at the illness of his patron and went to see Zhuge Liang to talk it over. “What do you make of it?” said Zhuge Liang. “Good luck for Cao Cao; bad for us,” said Lu Su. “I could cure him,” said Zhuge Liang laughing. “If you could, Wu would be very fortunate,” said Lu Su. Lu Su prayed Zhuge Liang to go to see the sick man. They went, and Lu Su entered first. Zhou Yu lay in bed, his
head covered by a quilt. “How are you, General?” said Lu Su. “My heart pains me. Every now and again I feel faint and dizzy.” “Have you taken any remedies?” “My gorge rises at the thought. I could not.” “I saw Zhuge Liang just now, and he says he could heal you. He is just outside, and I will call him if you like.” “Ask him to come in.” Zhou Yu bade his servants help him to a sitting position, and Zhuge Liang entered. “I have not seen you for days,” said Zhuge Liang. “How could I guess that you were unwell?” “How can anyone feel secure? We are constantly the playthings of luck, good or bad.” “Yes. Heaven’s winds and clouds are not to be measured. No one can reckon their comings and goings, can
they?” Zhou Yu turned pale and a low groan escaped him, while his visitor went on, “You feel depressed, do you not?
As though troubles were piling up in your heart?” “That is exactly how I feel,” said Zhou Yu. “You need cooling medicine to dissipate this sense of oppression.” “I have taken a cooling draught, but it has done no good.” “You must get the humors into good order before the drugs will have any effect.” Zhou Yu began to think Zhuge Liang knew what was really the matter and resolved to test him. “What should be taken to produce a favorable temper?” said Zhou Yu. “I know one means of producing a favorable temper,” replied Zhuge Liang. “I wish you would tell me.” Zhuge Liang got out writing materials, sent away the servants, and then wrote a few words:
“To defeat Cao Cao You have to use fire; All are in your wish, But wind from the east.”
This he gave to the sick general, saying, “That is the origin of your illness.” Zhou Yu read the words with great surprise, and it confirmed his secret opinion that Zhuge Liang really was
rather more than human. He decided that the only course was to be open and tell him all. So he said, “Since you know the cause of the disease, what do you recommend as treatment? The need of a rem-
edy is very urgent.” “I have no great talent,” said Zhuge Liang, “but I have had to do with humans of no ordinary gifts from whom I
have received certain magical books called ‘Concealing Method’. I can call the winds and summon the rains. Since you need a southeast breeze, General, you must build an altar on the Southern Hills, the Altar of the Seven Stars. It must be nine spans high, with three steps, surrounded by a guard of one hundred and twenty humans bearing flags. On this altar I will work a spell to procure a strong southeast gale for three days and three nights. Do you approve?”
“Never mind three whole days,” said Zhou Yu. “One day of strong wind will serve my purpose. But it must be done at once and without delay.”
“I will sacrifice for a wind for three days from the twentieth day of the moon. Will that suit you?” Zhou Yu was delighted and hastily rose from his couch to give the necessary orders. He commanded that five
hundred men should be sent to the mountains to build the altar, and he told off the guard of one hundred and twenty to bear the flags and be at the orders of Zhuge Liang.
Zhuge Liang took his leave, went forth, and rode off with Lu Su to the mountains where they measured out the ground. He bade the soldiers build the altar of red earth from the southeast quarter. It was two hundred and forty
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spans in circuit, square in shape, and of three tiers, each of three spans, in all nine spans high. On the lowest tier he placed the flags of the twenty-eight “houses” of the heavens and four constellations: On
the east seven, with blue flags; on the north seven, with black flags; on the west seven, with white flags; and on the south seven, with red flags.
Around the second tier he placed sixty-four yellow flags, corresponding to the number of the diagrams of the Book of Divination, in eight groups of eight.
Four men were stationed on the highest platform, each wearing a Daoist headdress and a black silk robe em- broidered with the phoenix and confined with wide sashes. They wore scarlet boots and square-cut skirts. On the left front stood a man supporting a tall pole bearing at its top a plume of light feathers to show by their least move- ment the wind’s first breathing. On the right front was a man holding a tall pole whereon was a flag with the symbol of the seven stars to show the direction and force of the wind. On the left rear stood a man with a sword, and on the right rear a man with a censer.
Below the altar were forty-four men holding flags, umbrellas, spears, lances, yellow banners, white axes, red banderoles, and black ensigns. And these were spaced about the altar.
On the appointed day Zhuge Liang, having chosen a propitious moment, bathed his body and purified himself. Then he robed himself as a Daoist, loosened his locks, and approached the altar.
He bade Lu Su retire, saying, “Return to the camp and assist the General in setting out his forces. Should my prayers avail not, do not wonder.”
So Lu Su left him. Then Zhuge Liang commanded the guards on no account to absent themselves, to maintain strict silence, and to be reverent. Death would be the penalty of disobedience.
Next, with solemn steps he ascended the altar, faced the proper quarter, lighted the incense, and sprinkled the water in the basins. This done he gazed into the heavens and prayed silently. The prayer ended he descended and returned to his tent. After a brief rest he allowed the soldiers by turns to go away to eat.
Thrice that day he ascended the altar and thrice descended, but there was no sign of the wind. During that time, Zhou Yu, with Cheng Pu and Lu Su and other military officials on duty, sat waiting in the tent
till the wished-for wind should blow and the attack could be launched. Messengers were also sent to Sun Quan to prepare to support the forward movement.
Huang Gai had his fire ships ready, twenty of them. The fore parts of the ships were thickly studded with large nails, and they were loaded with dry reeds, wood soaked in fish oil, and covered with sulfur, saltpeter, and other inflammables. The ships were covered in with black oiled cloth. In the prow of each was a black dragon flag with in- dentations. A fighting ship was attached to the stern of each to propel it forward. All were ready and awaited orders to move.
Meanwhile Cao Cao’s two spies, Cai He and Cai Zhong, were being guarded carefully in an outer camp far from the river bank and daily entertained with feasting. They were not allowed to know of the preparations. The watch was so close that not a trickle of information reached the prisoners.
Presently, while Zhou Yu was anxiously awaiting in his tent for the desired wind, a messenger came to say that Sun Quan had anchored at a place thirty miles from the camp, where he awaited news from the Command- er-in-Chief.
Lu Su was sent to warn all the various commanders to be ready, the ships and their weapons, sails and oars, all for instant use, and to impress upon them the penalties of being caught unprepared. The soldiers were indeed ready for the fight and yearning for the fray.
But the sky remained obstinately clear, and as night drew nigh no breath of air stirred. “We have been cajoled,” said Zhou Yu. “Indeed what possibility is there of a southeast wind in midwinter?” “Zhuge Liang would not use vain and deceitful words,” replied Lu Su. Towards the third watch, the sound of a movement arose in the air. Soon the flags fluttered out. And when the
Commander-in-Chief went out to make sure, he saw they were flowing toward the northwest. In a very short time the southeast wind was in full force.
Zhou Yu was, however, frightened at the power of the man whose help he had invoked. He said, “Really the man has power over the heavens and authority over the earth. His methods are incalcula-
ble, beyond the ken of god or devil. He cannot be allowed to live to be a danger to our land of the south. We must slay him soon to fend off later evils.”
So Zhou Yu resolved to commit a crime to remove his dangerous rival. He called two of the generals of his guard, Ding Feng and Xu Sheng, and said to them, “Each of you take a party
of one hundred troops, one along the river, the other along the road, to the altar on the mountains. As soon as you get there, without asking questions or giving reasons, you are to seize and behead Zhuge Liang. Rich reward will be given when you bring his head back.”
Xu Sheng and Ding Feng went off on their errand, the former leading dagger and ax-men going as fast as oars
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could propel them along the river, the latter at the head of archers and bowmen on horseback. The southeast wind buffeted them as they went on their way.
High was raised the Seven Stars Altar, On it prayed the Sleeping Dragon For an eastern wind, and straightway Blew the wind. Had not the wizard Exercised his mighty magic Nought had Zhou Yu’s skill availed.
Ding Feng first arrived. He saw the guards with their flags, dropped off his steed, and marched to the altar, sword in hand. But he found no Zhuge Liang.
When he asked the guards, they told him, saying, “He has just gone down.” Ding Feng ran down the hill to search. There he met his fellow Xu Sheng, and they joined forces. Presently a simple soldier told them, saying, “The evening before a small, fast boat anchored there near a sand
spit, and Zhuge Liang was seen to go on board. Then the boat went up river.” So Xu Sheng and Ding Feng divided their party into two, one to go by water, the other by land. Xu Sheng bade his boatmen put on all sail and take every advantage of the wind. Before very long he saw the
fugitive’s boat ahead, and when near enough, stood in the prow of his own and shouted, “Do not flee, O Instructor of the Army! The General requests your presence.”
Zhuge Liang, who was seated in the stern of his boat, just laughed aloud, saying, “Return and tell the General to make good use of his soldiers. Tell him I am going up river for a spell and will see him again another day.”
“Pray wait a little while,” cried Xu Sheng. “I have something most important to tell you!” “I knew all about it, that Zhou Yu would not let me go and that he wanted to kill me. That is why Zhao Zilong
was waiting for me. You had better not approach nearer.” Seeing the other ship had no sail, Xu Sheng thought he would assuredly come up with it and so maintained the
pursuit. Then when he got too close, Zhao Zilong fitted an arrow to the bowstring and, standing up in the stern of his
boat, cried, “You know who I am, and I came expressly to escort the Directing Instructor. Why are you pursuing him? One arrow would kill you, only that would cause a breach of the peace between two houses. I will shoot and just give you a specimen of my skill.”
With that he shot, and the arrow whizzed overhead cutting the rope that held up the sail. Down came the sail trailing in the water and the boat swung round. Then Zhao Zilong’s boat hoisted its sail, and the fair wind speedily carried it out of sight.
On the bank stood Ding Feng. He bade his comrade come to the shore and said, “Zhuge Liang is too clever for anyone; and Zhao Zilong is bravest of the brave. You remember what he did at Dangyang, at the Long Slope Bridge. All we can do is to return and report.”
So they returned to camp and told their master about the preparations that Zhuge Liang had made to ensure safety. Zhou Yu was indeed puzzled at the depth of his rival’s insight.
“I shall have no peace day or night while he lives,” said Zhou Yu. “At least wait till Cao Cao is done with,” said Lu Su. And Zhou Yu knew Lu Su spoke wisely. Having summoned the leaders to receive orders, first Zhou Yu gave orders to Gan Ning: “Take with you the
false deserter Cai Zhong and his soldiers, and go along the south bank, showing the flags of Cao Cao, till you reach the Black Forest just opposite the enemy’s main store of grain and forage. Then you are to penetrate as deeply as possible into the enemy’s lines and light a torch as a signal. Cai He is to be kept in camp for another purpose.”
The next order was: “Taishi Ci is to lead two thousand troops as quickly as possible to Huangzhou and cut the enemy’s communications with Hefei. When near the enemy, he is to give a signal. If he sees a red flag, he will know that our lord, Sun Quan, is at hand with reinforcements.”
Gan Ning and Taishi Ci had the farthest to go and started first. Then Lu Meng was sent into the Black Forest with three thousand troops as a support to Gan Ning who was
ordered to set fire to Cao Cao’s depot. A fourth party of three thousand troops was led by Ling Tong to the borders of Yiling and attack as soon as the signal from the forest was seen. A fifth party of three thousand under Dong Xi went to Hanyang to fall upon the enemy along the River Han. Their signal was a white flag; and a sixth division of three thousand commanded by Pan Zhang would support them.
When these six parties had gone off. Huang Gai got ready his fire ships and sent a soldier with a note to tell Cao Cao that he was coming over that evening. Four naval squadrons were told off to support Huang Gai.
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The four squadrons, each of three hundred ships, were placed under four commanders: Han Dang, Zhou Tai, Jiang Qin, and Chen Wu. Twenty fire ships preceded each fleet. Zhou Yu and Cheng Pu went on board one of the large ships to direct the battle. Their guards were Ding Feng and Xu Sheng. Lu Su, Kan Ze, and the advisers were left to guard the camp. Cheng Pu was greatly impressed with Zhou Yu’s ordering of the grand attack.
Then came a messenger bearing a mandate from Sun Quan making Lu Xun Leader of the Van. He was ordered to go to Qichun. Sun Quan himself would support Lu Xun. Zhou Yu also sent two command units, one to the West- ern Hills to make fire signals, and the other to the Southern Hills to hoist flags.
So all being prepared they waited for dusk. Liu Bei was at Xiakou anxiously awaiting the return of his adviser. Then appeared a fleet, led by Liu Qi, who
had come to find out how matters were progressing. Liu Bei sent to call him to the battle tower and said, “The southeast wind had begun to blow, and that Zhao
Zilong had gone to meet Zhuge Liang.” Not long after a single sail was seen coming up before the wind, and Liu Bei knew it was Zhuge Liang, the Di-
recting Instructor of the Army. So Liu Bei and Liu Qi went down to meet the boat. Soon the vessel reached the shore, and Zhuge Liang and
Zhao Zilong disembarked. Liu Bei was very glad, and after they had inquired after each other’s well-being, Zhuge Liang said, “There is no
time to tell of any other things now. Are the soldiers and ships ready?” “They have long been ready,” replied Liu Bei. “They only await you to direct how they are to be used.” The three then went to the tent and took their seats. Zhuge Liang at once began to issue orders: “Zhao Zilong, with three thousand troops is to cross the river and
go to the Black Forest by the minor road. He will choose a dense jungle and prepare an ambush. Tonight, after the fourth watch, Cao Cao will hurry along that way. When half his troops have passed, the jungle is to be fired. Cao Cao will not be wholly destroyed but many will perish.”
“There are two roads,” said Zhao Zilong. “One leads to the southern regions and the other to Jingzhou. I do not know by which he will come.”
“The south road is too dangerous. Cao Cao will certainly pass along the Jingzhou road, so that he may get away to Xuchang.”
Then Zhao Zilong went away. Next Zhuge Liang said to Zhang Fei, “You will take three thousand troops over the river to cut the road to Yil-
ing. You will ambush in the Hulu Valley. Cao Cao, not daring to go to South Yiling, will go to North Yiling. Tomor- row, after the rain, he will halt to refresh his troops. As soon as the smoke is seen to rise from their cooking fires, you will fire the hill side. You will not capture Cao Cao, but you will render excellent service.”
So Zhang Fei left. Next was called Mi Zhu, Mi Fang, and Liu Feng. They were to take command of three squad- rons and go along the river to collect beaten soldiers and their weapons.
The three left. Then Zhuge Liang said to Liu Qi, “The country around Wuchang is very important, and I wish you to take command of your own troops and station them at strategic points. Cao Cao, being defeated, will flee thither, and you will capture him. But you are not to leave the city without the best of reasons.”
And Liu Qi took leave. Then Zhuge Liang said to Liu Bei, “I wish you to remain quietly and calmly in Fankou, in a high tower, to watch
Zhou Yu work out his great scheme this night.” All this time Guan Yu has been silently waiting his turn, but Zhuge Liang said no word to him. When Guan Yu could bear this no longer, he cried, “Since I first followed my brother to battle many years ago, I
have never been left behind. Now that great things are afoot, is there no work for me? What is meant by it?” “You should not be surprised. I wanted you for service at a most important point, only that there was a some-
thing standing in the way that prevented me from sending you,” said Zhuge Liang. “What could stand in the way? I wish you would tell me.” “You see Cao Cao was once very kind to you, and you cannot help feeling grateful. Now when his soldiers have
been beaten, he will have to flee along the Huarong Road. If I sent you to guard it, you would have to let him pass. So I will not send you.”
“You are most considerate, Instructor. But though it is true that he treated me well, yet I slew two of his most redoubtable opponents, Yan Liang and Wen Chou, by way of repayment, beside raising a siege. If I happened upon him on this occasion, I should hardly let him go.”
“But what if you did?” “You could deal with me by military rules.” “Then put that in writing.” So Guan Yu wrote a formal undertaking and gave the document to Zhuge Liang.
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“What happens if Cao Cao does not pass that way?” said Guan Yu. “I will give you a written engagement that he will pass.” Then Zhuge Liang continued, “On the hills by the Hua-
rong Valley, you are to raise a heap of wood and grass to make a great column of smoke and mislead Cao Cao into coming.”
“If Cao Cao sees a smoke, he will suspect an ambush and will not come,” said Guan Yu. “You are very simple,” said Zhuge Liang. “Do you not know more of war’s ruses than that? Cao Cao is an able
leader, but you can deceive him this time. When he sees the smoke, he will take it as a subterfuge and risk going that way. But do not let your kindness of heart rule your conduct.”
Thus was his duty assigned Guan Yu, and he left, taking his adopted son Guan Ping, his general Zhou Cang, and five hundred swordsmen.
Said Liu Bei, “His sense of rectitude is very profound. I fear if Cao Cao should come that way, my brother will let him pass.”
“I have consulted the stars lately, and the rebel Cao Cao is not fated to come to his end yet. I have purposely designed this manifestation of kindly feeling for Guan Yu to accomplish and so act handsomely.”
“Indeed there are few such far-seeing humans as you are,” said Liu Bei. The two then went to Fankou whence they might watch Zhou Yu’s evolutions. Sun Qian and Jian Yong were left
on guard of Xiakou. Cao Cao was in his great camp in conference with his advisers and awaiting the arrival of Huang Gai. The
southeast wind was very strong that day, and Cheng Yu was insisting on the necessity for precaution. But Cao Cao laughed, saying, “The Winter Solstice depends upon the sun and nothing else. There is sure to be a
southeast wind at some one or other of its recurrences. I see nothing to wonder at.” Just then they announced the arrival of a small boat from the other shore with a letter from Huang Gai. The
bearer of the letter was brought in and presented it. Cao Cao read it:
“Zhou Yu has kept such strict watch that there has been no chance of escape. But now some grain is coming down river, and I, Huang Gai, have been named as Escort Commander which will give me the opportunity I desire. I will slay one of the known generals and bring his head as an offering when I come. This evening at the third watch, if boats are seen with dragon toothed flags, they will be the grain boats.”
This letter delighted Cao Cao who, with his officers, went to the naval camp and boarded a great ship to watch for the arrival of Huang Gai.
In the South Land, when evening fell, Zhou Yu sent for Cai He and bade the soldiers bind him. The unhappy man protested, saying, “I have committed no crime!” But Zhou Yu said, “What sort of a fellow are you, think you, to come and pretend to desert to my side? I need a
small sacrifice for my flag, and your head will serve my purpose. So I am going to use it.” Cai He being at the end of his tether unable to deny the charge suddenly cried, “Two of your own side, Kan Ze
and Gan Ning, are also in the plot!” “Under my directions!” said Zhou Yu. Cai He was exceedingly repentant and sad, but Zhou Yu bade them take Cai He to the river bank where the
black standard had been set up and there, after the pouring of a libation and the burning of paper, Cai He was be- headed, his blood being a sacrifice to the flag.
This ceremony over, the ships started, and Huang Gai took his place on the third ship. He merely wore breast armor and carried a keen blade. On his flag were written four large characters Van Leader Huang Gai. With a fair wind his fleet sailed toward the Red Cliffs.
The wind was strong and the waves ran high. Cao Cao in the midst of the central squadron eagerly scanned the river which rolled down under the bright moon like a silver serpent writhing in innumerable folds. Letting the wind blow full in his face, Cao Cao laughed aloud for he was now to obtain his desire.
Then a soldier pointing to the river said, “The whole south is one mass of sails, and they are coming up on the wind.”
Cao Cao went to a higher point and gazed at the sails intently, and his officers told him that the flags were black and dragon shaped, and indented, and among them there flew one very large banner on which was a name Huang Gai.
“That is my friend, the deserter!” said he joyfully. “Heaven is on my side today.” As the ships drew closer, Cheng Yu said, “Those ships are treacherous. Do not let them approach the camp.” “How know you that?” asked Cao Cao. And Cheng Yu replied, “If they were laden with grain, they would lie deep in the water. But these are light and
float easily. The southeast wind is very strong, and if they intend treachery, how can we defend ourselves?”
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Cao Cao began to understand. Then he asked who would go out to stop the approaching fleet, and Wen Ping volunteered, saying, “I am well used to the waters.”
Thereupon Wen Ping sprang into a small light craft and sailed out, followed by ten cruisers which came at his signal.
Standing in the prow of his ship, Wen Ping called out to those advancing toward them, “You southern ships are not to approach! Such are the orders of the Prime Minister. Stop there in mid stream!”
The soldiers all yelled to them to lower their sails. The shout had not died away when a bowstring twanged, and Wen Ping rolled down into the ship with an arrow in the left arm. Confusion reigned on his ship, and all the others hurried back to their camp.
When the ships were about a mile of distant, Huang Gai waved his sword and the leading ships broke forth into fire, which, under the force of the strong wind, soon gained strength and the ships became as fiery arrows. Soon the whole twenty dashed into the naval camp.
All Cao Cao’s ships were gathered there, and as they were firmly chained together not one could escape from the others and flee. There was a roar of bombs and fireships came on from all sides at once. The face of the three riv- ers was speedily covered with fire which flew before the wind from one ship to another. It seemed as if the universe was filled with flame.
Cao Cao hastened toward the shore. Huang Gai, with a few troops at his back, leaped into a small boat, dashed through the fire, and sought Cao Cao. Cao Cao, seeing the imminence of the danger, was making for the land. Zhang Liao got hold of a small boat into which he helped his master; none too soon, for the ship was burning. They got Cao Cao out of the thick of the fire and dashed for the bank.
Huang Gai, seeing a handsomely robed person get into a small boat, guessed it must be Cao Cao and pursued. He drew very near and he held his keen blade ready to strike, crying out, “You rebel! Do not flee. I am Huang
Gai.” Cao Cao howled in the bitterness of his distress. Zhang Liao fitted an arrow to his bow and aimed at the pur-
suer, shooting at short range. The roaring of the gale and the flames kept Huang Gai from hearing the twang of the string, and he was wounded in the shoulder. He fell and rolled over into the water.
He fell in peril of water When flames were high; Ere cudgel bruises had faded, An arrow struck.
Huang Gai’s fate will be told in the next chapter.
Chapter 50
Zhuge Liang Foresees The Huarong Valley Episode; Guan Yu Lifts His Saber To Release Cao Cao.
The last chapter closed with Huang Gai in the water wounded, Cao Cao rescued from immediate danger, and confusion rampant among the soldiers. Pressing forward to attack the naval camp, Han Dang was told by his soldiers that someone was clinging to the rudder of his boat and shouting to him by his familiar name. Han Dang listened carefully and in the voice at once he recognized that Huang Gai was calling to him for help.
“That is my friend Huang Gai!” cried he, and they quickly pulled the wounded leader out of the water. Then they saw Huang Gai was wounded for the arrow still stuck. Han Dang bit out the shaft of the arrow but
the point was deeply buried in the flesh. They hastily pulled off his wet garments and cut out the metal arrowhead with a dagger, tore up one of the flags, and bound up the wound. Then Han Dang gave Huang Gai his own fighting robe to put on and sent him off in a small boat back to camp.
Huang Gai’s escape from drowning must be taken as proof of his natural affinity for, or sympathy with, water. Although it was the period of great cold and he was heavy with armor when he fell into the river, yet he escaped with life.
In this great battle at the junction of the three rivers, the Three Gorges, when fire seemed to spread wide over all the wide surface of the water, when the earth quaked with the roar of battle, when land forces closed in on both wings and four battle squadrons advanced on the front, when the ferocity of fire answered the clash of weapons and weapons were aided by fire, under the thrusts of spears and the flights of arrows, burnt by fire and drowned by water, Cao Cao lost an incalculable number of troops. And a poet wrote:
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When Wei and Wu together strove For the mastery, In the Red Cliffs fight the tall ships Vanished from the sea, For there the fierce flames, leaping high. Burned them utterly. So Zhou Yu for his liege lord Got the victory.
And another poem runs:
The hills are high, the moon shines faint. The waters stretch afar; I sigh to think how oft this land Has suffered stress of war; And I recall how southerners Shrank from the northern army’s might, And how a favoring eastern gale Helped them to win the fight.
While fire was consuming the naval base of Cao Cao, Gan Ning made Cai Zhong guide him into the inner- most recesses of Cao Cao’s camp. Then Gan Ning slew Cai Zhong with one slash of his sword. After this Gan Ning set fire to the jungle; and at this signal, Lu Meng put fire to the grass in ten places near to each other. Then other fires were started, and the noise of battle was on all sides.
Cao Cao and Zhang Liao, with a small party of horsemen, fled through the burning forest. They could see no road in front; all seemed on fire. Presently Mao Jie and Wen Ping, with a few more horsemen, joined them. Cao Cao bade the soldiers seek a way through.
Zhang Liao pointed out, saying, “The only suitable road is through the Black Forest.” And they took it. They had gone but a short distance when they were overtaken by a small party of the enemy, and a voice cried,
“Cao Cao, stop!” It was Lu Meng, whose ensign soon appeared against the fiery background. Cao Cao urged his small party of
fugitives forward, bidding Zhang Liao defend him from Lu Meng. Soon after Cao Cao saw the light of torches in front, and from a gorge there rushed out another force. And the
leader cried, “Ling Tong is here!” Cao Cao was scared. His liver and gall both seemed torn from within. But just then on his half right, he saw another company approach and heard a cry, “Fear not, O Prime Minister,
I am here to rescue you!” The speaker was Xu Huang, and he attacked the pursuers and held them off. A move to the north seemed to promise escape, but soon they saw a camp on a hill top. Xu Huang went ahead
to reconnoiter and found the officers in command were Cao Cao’s Generals Ma Yan and Zhang Zi, who had once been in the service of Yuan Shao. They had three thousand of northern soldiers in camp. They had seen the sky redden with the flames, but knew not what was afoot so dared make no move.
This turned out lucky for Cao Cao who now found himself with a fresh force. He sent Ma Yan and Zhang Zi, with a thousand troops, to clear the road ahead while the others remained as guard. And he felt much more secure.
The two went forward, but before they had gone very far, they heard a shouting and a party of soldiers came out, the leader of them shouting, “I am Gan Ning of Wu!”
Nothing daunted the two leaders, but the redoubtable Gan Ning cut down Ma Yan. And when his brother war- rior Zhang Zi set his spear and dashed forward, he too fell beneath a stroke from the fearsome sword of Gan Ning. Both leaders dead, the soldiers fled to give Cao Cao the bad news.
At this time Cao Cao expected aid from Hefei, for he knew not that Sun Quan was barring the road. But when Sun Quan saw the fires and so knew that his soldiers had won the day, he ordered Lu Xun to give the answering signal. Taishi Ci seeing this came down and his force joined up with that of Lu Xun, and they went against Cao Cao.
As for Cao Cao, he could only get away toward Yiling. On the road Cao Cao fell in with Zhang He and ordered him to protect the retreat. Cao Cao pressed on as quickly as possible.
At the fifth watch he was a long way from the glare and he felt safer. He asked, “What is this place?” They told him, “It is west of the Black Forest and north of Yidu.”
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Seeing the thickly crowded trees all about him, and the steep hills and narrow passes, Cao Cao threw up his head and laughed.
Those about him asked, “Why are you, Sir, so merry?” And he said, “I am only laughing at the stupidity of Zhou Yu and the ignorance of Zhuge Liang. If they have
only set an ambush there, as I would have done, why, there is no escape.” Cao Cao had scarcely finished his explanation when from both sides came a deafening roll of drums and flames
sprang up to heaven. Cao Cao nearly fell off his horse—he was so startled. And from the side dashed in a troop, with Zhao Zilong leading, who cried, “I am Zhao Zilong, and long have I
been waiting here!” Cao Cao ordered Xu Huang and Zhang He to engage this new opponent, and he himself rode off into the
smoke and fire. Zhao Zilong did not pursue; he only captured the banners, and Cao Cao escaped. The faint light of dawn showed a great black cloud all around, for the southeast wind had not ceased. Suddenly
began a heavy downpour of rain, wetting everyone to the skin, but still Cao Cao maintained his headlong flight till the starved faces of the soldiers made a halt imperative. He told the men to forage in the villages about for grain and the means of making a fire. But when these had been found and they began to cook a meal, another pursuing party came along, and Cao Cao again was terrified. However, these proved to be Li Dian and Xu Chu escorting some of his advisers whom he saw with joy.
When giving the order to advance again, Cao Cao asked, “What places lay ahead?” They told him, “There are two roads. One was the highway to South Yiling, and the other a mountain road to
North Yiling.” “Which is the shorter way to Jiangling?” asked Cao Cao. “The best way is to take the south road through Hulu Valley,” was the reply. So Cao Cao gave orders to march that way. By the time Hulu Valley was reached, the soldiers were almost starv-
ing and could march no more; horses too were worn out. Many had fallen by the roadside. A halt was then made, food was taken by force from the villagers, and as there were still some boilers left, they found a dry spot beside the hills where they could rest and cook. And there they began to prepare a meal, boiling grain, and roasting strips of horse flesh. Then they took off their wet clothes and spread them to dry. The beasts, too, were unsaddled and turned out to graze.
Seated comfortably in a somewhat open spot, Cao Cao suddenly looked up and began to laugh loud and long. His companions, remembering the sequel of his last laugh, said, “Not long since, Sir, you laughed at Zhou
Yu and Zhuge Liang. That resulted in the arrival of Zhao Zilong and great loss of troops to us. Why do you now laugh?”
“I am laughing again at the ignorance of the same two men. If I were in their place, and conducting their cam- paign, I should have had an ambush here, just to meet us when we were tired out. Then, even if we escaped with our lives, we should suffer very severely. They did not see this, and therefore I am laughing at them.”
Even at that moment behind them rose a great yell. Thoroughly startled, Cao Cao threw aside his breastplate and leaped upon his horse. Most of the soldiers failed to catch theirs, and then fires sprang up on every side and filled the mouth of the valley. A force was arrayed before them and at the head was the man of ancient Yan, Zhang Fei, seated on his steed with his great spear leveled.
“Whither would you flee, O rebel?” shouted he. The soldiers grew cold within at the sight of the terrible warrior. Xu Chu, mounted on a bare-backed horse,
rode up to engage him, and Zhang Liao and Xu Huang galloped up to his aid. The three gathered about Zhang Fei and a melee began, while Cao Cao made off at top speed. The other leaders set off after him, and Zhang Fei pur- sued. However, Cao Cao by dint of hard riding got away, and gradually the pursuers were out-distanced. But many had received wounds.
As they were going. the soldiers said, “There are two roads before us. Which shall we take?” “Which is the shorter?” asked Cao Cao. “The high road is the more level, but it is fifteen miles longer than the bye road which goes to Huarong Valley.
Only the latter road is narrow and dangerous, full of pits and difficult.” Cao Cao sent men up to the hill tops to look around. They returned, saying: “There are several columns of smoke rising from the hills along the bye road. The high
road seems quiet.” Then Cao Cao bade them lead the way along the bye road. “Where smoke arises there are surely soldiers,” remarked the officers. “Why go this way?” “Because the ‘Book of War’ says that the hollow is to be regarded as solid, and the solid as hollow. That fellow
Zhuge Liang is very subtle and has sent people to make those fires so that we should not go that way. He has laid an ambush on the high road. I have made up my mind, and I will not fall a victim to his wiles.”
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“O Prime Minister, your conclusions are most admirable. None other can equal you,” said the officers. And the soldiers were sent along the bye road. They were very hungry and many almost too weak to travel. The
horses too were spent. Some had been scorched by the flames, and they rode forward resting their heads on their whips. The wounded struggled on to the last of their strength. All were soaking wet and all were feeble. Their arms and accouterments were in a deplorable state, and more than half had been left upon the road they had traversed. Few of the horses had saddles or bridles, for in the confusion of pursuit they had been left behind. It was the time of greatest winter cold, and the suffering was indescribable.
Noticing that the leading party had stopped, Cao Cao sent to ask the reason. The messenger returned, saying, “The rain water collected in the pits makes the ground a mire, and the horses
cannot not move.” Cao Cao raged. He said, “When soldiers come to hills, they cut a road; when they happen upon streams, they
bridge them. Such a thing as mud cannot stay an army.” So he ordered the weak and wounded to go to the rear and come on as they could, while the robust and able
were to cut down trees, and gather herbage and reeds to fill up the holes. And it was to be done without delay, or death would be the punishment of the disobedient or remiss.
So the soldiers dismounted and felled trees and cut bamboos, and they leveled the road. And because of the imminence and fear of pursuit, a party of one hundred under Zhang Liao, Xu Chu, and Xu Huang was told off to hasten the workers and slay any that idled.
The soldiers made their way along the shallower parts, but many fell, and cries of misery were heard the whole length of the way.
“What are you howling for?” cried Cao Cao. “The number of your days is fixed by fate. Anyone who howls shall be put to death.”
The remnant of the army, now divided into three, one to march slowly, a second to fill up the waterways and hollows, and a third to escort Cao Cao, gradually made its way over the precipitous road. When the going improved a little and the path was moderately level, Cao Cao turned to look at his following and saw he had barely three hun- dred soldiers. And these lacked clothing and armor and were tattered and disordered.
But he pressed on, and when the officers told him the horses were quite spent and must rest, he replied, “Press on to Jingzhou, and there we shall find repose.”
So they pressed on. But they had gone only one or two miles when Cao Cao flourished his whip and broke once again into loud laughter.
“What is there to laugh at?” asked the officers. “People say those two, Zhou Yu and Zhuge Liang, are able and crafty. I do not see it. They are a couple of inca-
pables. If an ambush had been placed here, we should all be prisoners.” Cao Cao had not finished this speech when the explosion of a bomb broke the silence, and a company of five
hundred troops with swords in their hands appeared and barred the way. The leader was Guan Yu, holding his green-dragon saber, bestriding the Red Hare. At this sight, the spirits of Cao Cao’s soldiers left them, and they gazed into each others’ faces in panic.
“Now we have but one course,” said Cao Cao. “We must fight to the death!” “How can we?” said the officers. “Though the leaders may have some strength left, the horses are spent.” Cheng Yu said, “I have always heard that Guan Yu is haughty to the proud but kindly to the humble; he despises
the strong, but is gentle with the weak. He discriminates between love and hate and is always righteous and true. You, O Prime Minister, have shown him kindness in the past. If you will remind him of that, we shall escape this evil.”
Cao Cao agreed to try. He rode out to the front, bowed low and said, “General, I trust you have enjoyed good health.”
“I had orders to await you, O Prime Minister,” replied Guan Yu, bowing in return, “and I have been expecting you these many days.”
“You see before you one Cao Cao—defeated and weak. I have reached a sad pass, and I trust you, O General, will not forget the kindness of former days.”
“Though indeed you were kind to me in those days, yet I slew your enemies for you and relieved the siege of Baima. As to the business of today, I cannot allow private feelings to outweigh public duty.”
“Do you remember my six generals, slain at the five passes? The noble person values righteousness. You are well versed in the histories and must recall the action of Yu Gong, the archer, when he released his master Zi Zhuo, for he determined not to use Zi Zhuo’s teaching to kill Zi Zhuo.”
Guan Yu was indeed a very mountain of goodness and could not forget the great kindness he had received at Cao Cao’s hands, and the magnanimity Cao Cao had shown over the deeds at the five passes. He saw the desperate straits to which his benefactor was reduced, and tears were very near to the eyes of both. He could not press Cao
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Cao hard. He pulled at the bridle of his steed and turned away saying to his followers, “Break up the formation!” From this it was evident that his design was to release Cao Cao, who then went on with his officers. When Guan
Yu turned to look back, they had all passed. He uttered a great shout, and Cao Cao’s soldiers jumped off their horses and knelt on the ground crying for mercy. But he also had pity for them. Then Zhang Liao, whom he knew well, came along and was allowed to go free also.
Cao Cao, his army lost, fled to the Huarong Valley; There in the throat of the gorge met he Guan Yu. Grateful was Guan Yu, and mindful of former kindness, Wherefore slipped he the bolt and freed the imprisoned dragon.
Having escaped this danger, Cao Cao hastened to get out of the valley. As the throat opened out, he glanced behind him and saw only forty-seven horsemen. As evening fell, they reached Jiangling, and they came upon an army that they took to be more enemies.
Cao Cao thought the end had surely come, but to his delight they were his own soldiers and he regained all his confidence.
Cao Ren, who was the leader, said, “I heard of your misfortunes, my lord, but I was afraid to venture far from my charge, else I would have met you before.”
“I thought I would never see you again,” said Cao Cao. The fugitives found repose in the city, where Zhang Liao soon joined them. He also praised the magnanimity of
Guan Yu. When Cao Cao mustered the miserable remnant of his officers, he found nearly all were wounded and he bade
them rest. Cao Ren poured the wine of consolation whereby his master might forget his sorrows. As Cao Cao drank among his familiars, he became exceedingly sad. Wherefore they said, “O Prime Minister, when you were in the cave of the tiger and trying to escape, you
showed no sign of sorrow. Now that you are safe in a city, where you have food and the horses have forage, where all you have to do is to prepare for revenge, suddenly you lose heart and grieve. Why thus?”
Replied Cao Cao, “I am thinking of my friend Guo Jia: Had he been alive, he would not have let me suffer this loss.”
He beat his breast and wept, saying, “Alas for Guo Jia! I grieve for Guo Jia! I sorrow for Guo Jia!” The reproach shamed the advisers, who were silent. Next day Cao Cao called Cao Ren and said, “I am going to the capital to prepare another army for revenge. You
are to guard this region and, in case of necessity, I leave with you a sealed plan. You are only to open the cover when hard-pressed, and then you are to act as directed. The South Land will not dare to look this way.”
“Who is to guard Hefei and Xiangyang?” “Jingzhou is particularly your care, and Xiahou Dun is to hold Xiangyang. As Hefei is most important, I am
sending Zhang Liao thither with good aids of Li Dian and Yue Jing. If you get into difficulties, send at once to tell me.”
Having made these dispositions, Cao Cao set off at once with a few followers. He took with him the officers who had come over to his side when Jingzhou fell into his hands.
Cao Ren placed Cao Hong in charge of Yiling and Jiangling. After having allowed the escape of Cao Cao, Guan Yu found his way back to headquarters. By this time the oth-
er detachments had returned bringing spoil of horses and weapons and supplies of all kinds. Only Guan Yu came back empty-handed. When he arrived, Zhuge Liang was with his brother congratulating him on his success. When Guan Yu was announced, Zhuge Liang got up and went to welcome him, bearing a cup of wine.
“Joy! O General,” said Zhuge Liang. “You have done a deed that overtops the world. You have removed the em- pire’s worst foe and ought to have been met at a distance and felicitated.”
Guan Yu muttered inaudibly, and Zhuge Liang continued, “I hope it is not because we have omitted to welcome you on the road that you seem sad.”
Turning to those about him, Zhuge Liang said, “Why did you not tell us Guan Yu was coming?” “I am here to ask for death,” said Guan Yu. “Surely Cao Cao came through the valley?” “Yes, he came that way. But I could not help it: I let him go.” “Then whom have you captured?” “No one.” “Then you remembered the old kindness of Cao Cao and so allowed him to escape. But your acceptance of the
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task with its conditions is here. You will have to suffer the penalty.” Zhuge Liang called in the lictors and told them to take away Guan Yu and put him to death.
Guan Yu risked life when he spared Cao Cao in direst need, And age-long admiration gained For kindly deed.
What actually befell will be seen in the next chapter.
Chapter 51 Cao Ren Withstands The South Land; Zhuge Liang Angers Zhou Yu.
Guan Yu would have died there but for his elder brother, who said to Zhuge Liang, “We three pledged our- selves to live and die together. Although my brother Guan Yu has offended, I cannot bear to break our oath. I hope you will only record this against him and let him atone later for the fault by some specially meritorious service.”
So the sentence was remitted. In the meantime, Zhou Yu mustered his officers and called over his soldiers, noted the special services of each,
and sent full reports to his master. The soldiers who had surrendered were all transported across the river. All this done they spread the feast of victory.
The next step was to attack and capture Nanjun. The van of the army camped on the river bank. There were five camps and the Commander-in-Chief ’s tent was in the center. He summoned his officers to a council. At this moment Sun Qian arrived with congratulations from Liu Bei.
Zhou Yu received him and, having saluted in proper form, Sun Qian said, “My lord sent me on this special mis- sion to felicitate the General on his great virtue and offer some unworthy gifts.”
“Where is Liu Bei?” asked Zhou Yu. “He is now encamped at Youkou, the mouth of River You.” “Is Zhuge Liang there?” asked Zhou Yu, taken aback. “Both are there,” said Sun Qian. “Then return quickly, and I will come in person to thank them.” The presents handed over, Sun Qian was sent back forthwith to his own camp. Then Lu Su asked Zhou Yu why
he had started when he heard where Liu Bei was camped. “Because,” replied Zhou Yu, “camping at the mouth of River You means that he has the intention of taking Nan-
jun. Having spent much military energy and spared no expenditure, we thought the territory should fall to us easily. Those others are opposed to us, and they wish to get the advantage of what we have already accomplished. Howev- er, they must remember that I am not dead yet.”
“How can you prevent them?” asked Lu Su. “I will go myself and speak with them. If all goes well, then, let it be so. In case it does not, then I shall immedi-
ately settle up with Liu Bei without waiting for Nanjun to be taken.” “I should like to accompany you,” said Lu Su. The commander and his adviser started, taking with them a guard of three thousand light horse. Having arrived
at Youkou, they sought out Sun Qian, who, in turn, went in to see Liu Bei and told him Zhou Yu had come to ren- der thanks.
“Why has he come?” asked Liu Bei of his Directing Instructor. “He is not likely to come out of simple politeness. Surely he has come in connection with Nanjun.” “But if he brings an army, can we stand against it?” asked Liu Bei. “When he comes, you may reply thus and thus.” Then they drew up the warships in the river and ranged the soldiers upon the bank. When the arrival of Zhou
Yu was formally announced, Zhao Zilong, with some horsemen, went to welcome him. When Zhou Yu saw what bold soldiers they looked, he began to feel uncomfortable, but he went on his way. Being met at the camp gates by Liu Bei and Zhuge Liang, he was taken in to the chief tent, where the ceremonies were performed and preparations for a banquet had been made.
Presently Liu Bei raised his cup in felicitation on the recent victory gained by his guest. The banquet proceeded. After a few more courses Zhou Yu said, “Of course you are camped here with no other idea than to take Nan-
jun?”
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Liu Bei said, “We heard you were going to take the place and came to assist. Should you not take it, then we will occupy it.”
Zhou Yu laughed, saying, “We of the South Land have long wished for this territory. Now that it is within our grasp, we naturally shall take it.”
Liu Bei said, “There is always some uncertainty. Cao Cao left Cao Ren to guard the region, and you may be certain that there is good strategy behind Cao Ren, to say nothing of his boldness as a warrior. I fear you may not get it.”
“Well, if we do not take it then, Sir, you may have it,” said Zhou Yu. “Here are witnesses to your words,” said Liu Bei, naming Lu Su, Zhuge Liang, and those at table. “I hope you
will never repent what you have just said.” Lu Su stammered and seemed unwilling to be cited as one of the witnesses, but Zhou Yu said, “When the word
of a noble person has gone forth, it is ended. He never regrets.” “This speech of yours, Sir, is very generous,” interjected Zhuge Liang. “The South Land shall try first. But if the
place does not fall, there is no reason why my lord should not capture it.” The two visitors then took their leave and rode away. As soon as they had left, Liu Bei turned to Zhuge Liang and said, “O Master, you bade me thus reply to Zhou
Yu. But though I did so, I have turned it over and over in my mind without finding any reason in what I said. I am alone and weak, without a single foot of land to call my own. I desired to get possession of Nanjun that I might have, at least, a temporary shelter, yet I have said that Zhou Yu may attack it first. If it falls to the South Land, how can I get possession?”
Zhuge Liang laughed and replied, “First I advised you to attack Jingzhou, but you would not listen. Do you remember?”
“But it belonged to Liu Biao, and I could not bear to attack it then. Now it belongs to Cao Cao, I might do so.” “Do not be anxious,” replied the adviser. “Let Zhou Yu go and attack it. Some day, my lord, I shall make you sit
in the high place thereof.” “But what design have you?” “So and so,” said Zhuge Liang, whispering. Liu Bei was satisfied with the reply, and only strengthened his position at Youkou. In the meantime Zhou Yu and Lu Su returned to their own camp, and the latter said, “Why did you tell Liu Bei
that he might attack Nanjun?” “I can take it with a flick of my finger,” replied Zhou Yu, “but I just manifested a little pretended kindliness.” Then he inquired among his officers for a volunteer to attack the city. Jiang Qin offered himself, and was put in
command of the vanguard, with Xu Sheng and Ding Feng as helpers. He was given five thousand of veterans, and they moved across the river. Zhou Yu promised to follow with supports.
On the other side Cao Ren ordered Cao Hong to guard Yiling, and so hold one corner of an ox-horn defense. When the news came that the South Land’s force had crossed the River Han, Cao Ren said, “We will defend and
not offer battle.” But General Niu Jin said impetuously, “To let the enemy approach the walls and not offer battle is timidity. Our
troops, lately worsted, need heartening and must show their mettle. Let me have five hundred of veterans, and I will fight to a finish.”
Cao Ren could not withstand this offer, and so the five hundred went out of the city. At once Ding Feng came to challenge the leader, and they fought a few bouts. Then Ding Feng pretended to be defeated, gave up the fight, and retreated into his own lines. Niu Jin followed him hard. When he had got within the South Land’s formation, at a signal from Ding Feng, the army closed round and Niu Jin was surrounded. He pushed right and left, but could find no way out. Seeing Niu Jin in the toils, Cao Ren, who had watched the fight from the wall, donned his armor and came out of the city at the head of his own bold company of horsemen and burst in among the forces of the South Land to try to rescue his colleague. Beating back Xu Sheng, Cao Ren fought his way in and presently rescued Niu Jin.
However, having got out, Cao Ren saw several score of horsemen still in the middle unable to make their way out, whereupon he turned again to the battle and dashed in to their rescue. This time he met Jiang Qin on whom Cao Ren and Niu Jin made a violent attack. Then his brother Cao Chun came up with supports, and the great battle ended in a defeat for the troops of the South Land.
So Cao Ren went back victor, while the unhappy Jiang Qin returned to report his failure. Zhou Yu was very angry and would have put to death his hapless subordinate but for the intervention of the other officers. Then Zhou Yu prepared for another attack where he himself would lead.
But Gan Ning said, “General, do not be in too great hurry. Let me go first and attack Yiling, the supporting angle of the ox-horn formation. After that the conquest of Nanjun will be easy.”
Zhou Yu accepted the plan and Gan Ning, with three thousand troops, went to attack Yiling.
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When news of the approaching army reached him, Cao Ren called to his side Chen Jiao, who said, “If Yiling be lost, then Nanjun is lost too. So help must be sent quickly.”
Thereupon Cao Chun and Niu Jin were sent by secret ways to the aid of Cao Hong. Cao Chun sent a messenger to the city to ask that they should cause a diversion by a sortie at the time the reinforcements should arrive.
So when Gan Ning drew near, Cao Hong went out to meet and engage him. They fought a score of rounds, but Cao Hong was overcome at last, and Gan Ning took the city. However, as evening fell the reinforcements under Cao Chun and Niu Jin came up, and the captor was surrounded in the city he had taken. The scouts went off immediate- ly to tell Zhou Yu of this sudden change of affairs which greatly alarmed him.
“Let us hasten to his rescue,” said Cheng Pu. “Our place is of the greatest importance,” said Zhou Yu, “and I am afraid to leave it undefended lest Cao Ren
should attack.” “But Gan Ning is one of our first leaders and must be rescued,” said Lu Meng. “I should like to go myself to his aid, but whom can I leave here in my place?” said Zhou Yu. “Leave Ling Tong here,” said Lu Meng. “I will push on ahead, and you can protect my advance. In less than ten
days we shall be singing the paean of victory.” “Are you willing?” said Zhou Yu to the man who was to act for him. Ling Tong said, “If the ten-day period is not exceeded, I may be able to carry on for that time. I am unequal to
more than that.” Ling Tong’s consent pleased Zhou Yu who started at once, leaving ten thousand troops for the defense of the
camp. Lu Meng said to his chief, “South of Yiling is a little-used road that may prove very useful in an attack on Nan-
jun. Let us send a party to fell trees and barricade this road so that horses cannot pass. In case of defeat, the defeat- ed will take this road and will be compelled to abandon their horses, which we shall capture.”
Zhou Yu approved, and the men set out. When the main army drew near Yiling, Zhou Yu asked who would try to break through the besiegers, and Zhou Tai offered himself. He girded on his sword, mounted his steed, and burst straight into the Cao Hong’s army. He got through to the city wall.
From the city wall Gan Ning saw the approach of his friend Zhou Tai and went out to welcome him. Zhou Tai told him the Commander-in-Chief was on the way to his relief, and Gan Ning at once bade the defenders prepare from within to support the attack of the rescuers.
When the news of the approach of Zhou Yu had reached Yiling, Cao Hong, Cao Chun, and Niu Jin had sent to tell Cao Ren, who was at Nanjun, and at the same time they prepared to repel the assailants.
As the army of the South Land came near, they at once attacked. Simultaneously Gan Ning and Zhou Tai went out to attack on two sides, and the troops of Cao Hong were thrown into confusion. The soldiers of the South Land fell on lustily, and the three leaders all fled by a bye road, but, finding the way barred with felled trees and other obstacles, they had to abandon their horses and go afoot. In this way the troops of the South Land gained some five hundred steeds.
Zhou Yu, pressing on as quickly as possible toward Nanjun, came upon Cao Ren and his army marching to save Yiling. The two armies engaged and fought a battle which lasted till late in the evening. Then both drew off, and Cao Ren withdrew into the city.
During the night he called his officers to a council. Then said Cao Hong, “The loss of Yiling has brought us to a dangerous pass. Now it seems the time to open the
guide-letter of the Prime Minister, and see what plans he arranged for our salvation in this peril.” “You but say what I think,” replied Cao Ren. Whereupon he tore open the guide-letter and read it. His face lighted up with joy, and he at once issued orders
to have the morning meal prepared at the fifth watch. At daylight the whole army moved out of the city through three gates, but they left a semblance of occupation in the shape of banners on the walls.
Zhou Yu went up to the tower of observation and looked over the city. He saw that the flags along the battle- ments had no guards behind them, and he noticed that all troops carried bundles at their waists behind so that they were ready for a long march.
Thought Zhou Yu to himself, “Cao Ren must be prepared for a long march.” So Zhou Yu went down from the tower of observation and sent out an order for two wings of the army to be
ready. One of these was to attack and, in case of its success, the other was to pursue at full speed till the clanging of the gongs should call them to return. He took command of the leading force in person, and Cheng Pu commanded the other. Thus they advanced to attack the city.
The armies being arrayed facing each other, the drums rolled out across the plain. Cao Hong rode forth and challenged, and Zhou Yu, from his place by the standard, bade Han Dang respond. The two champions fought near two score bouts, and then Cao Hong fled. Thereupon Cao Ren came out to help him, and Zhou Tai rode out at full
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speed to meet him. These two exchanged a half score passes and then Cao Ren tied. Cao Ren’s army fell into confusion. Thereupon Zhou Yu gave the signal for the advance of both his wings, and
the forces of Cao Ren were sore smitten and defeated. Zhou Yu pursued to the city wall, but Cao Ren’s troops did not enter the city. Instead, they went away northwest. Han Dang and Zhou Tai pressed them hard.
Zhou Yu, seeing the city gates standing wide open and no guards upon the walls, ordered the raiding of the city. A few score horsemen rode in first, Zhou Yu followed and whipping his steed. As he galloped into the enclosure around the gate, Chen Jiao stood on the defense tower. When he saw Zhou Yu enter, in his heart he applauded the god-like perspicacity of the Prime Minister Cao Cao.
Then was heard the clap-clap of a watchman’s rattle. At this signal the archers and crossbowmen let fly, and the arrows and bolts flew forth in a sudden fierce shower, while those who had won their way to the van of the inrush went headlong into a deep trench. Zhou Yu managed to pull up in time, but turning to escape, he was wounded in the left side and fell to the ground. Niu Jin rushed out from the city to capture the chief, but Xu Sheng and Ding Feng at the risk of their lives got him away safe. Then the troops of Cao Ren dashed out of the city and wrought confusion among the troops of the South Land, who trampled each other down and many more fell into the trench- es. Cheng Pu tried to draw off, but Cao Ren and Cao Hong came toward him from different directions, and the battle went hardly against the soldiers of Zhou Yu, till help came from Ling Tong, who bore back their assailants. Satisfied with their success, Cao Ren led his forces into the city, while the losers marched back to their own camp.
Zhou Yu, sorely wounded, was taken to his own tent and the army physician called in. With iron forceps, he extracted the sharp bolt and dressed the wound with a lotion designed to counteract the poison of the metal. But the pain was intense, and the patient rejected all nourishment.
The physician said, “The missile had been poisoned, and the wound will require a long time to heal. You, Gen- eral, must be kept quiet and especially free from any irritation, which will cause the wound to reopen.”
Thereupon Cheng Pu gave orders that each division was to remain in camp. Three days later, Niu Jin came within sight and challenged the men of the South Land to battle, but they did not stir. The enemy hurled at them taunts and insults till the sun had fallen low in the sky, but it was of no avail and Niu Jin withdrew.
Next day Niu Jin returned and repeated his insulting abuse. Cheng Pu dared not tell the wounded general. The third day, waxing bolder, the enemy came to the very gates of the stockade, the leader shouting that he had come for the purpose of capturing Zhou Yu.
Then Cheng Pu called together his officers, and they discussed the feasibility of retirement into the South Land that they might seek the opinion of Sun Quan.
Ill as he was, Zhou Yu still retained control of the expedition. He knew that the enemy came daily to the gates of his camp and reviled him, although none of his officers told him. One day Cao Ren came in person, and there was much rolling of drums and shouting. Cheng Pu, however, steadily refused to accept the challenge and would not let anyone go out.
Then Zhou Yu summoned the officers to his bedside and said, “What mean the drums and the shouting?” “The soldiers are drilling,” was the reply. “Why do you deceive me?” said Zhou Yu angrily. “Do I not know that our enemies come day by day to our
gates and insult us? Yet Cheng Pu suffers this in silence and makes no use of his powers and authority.” He sent for Cheng Pu and, when he arrived, asked him why he acted thus. “Because you are ill, and the physician said you were on no account to be provoked to anger. Wherefore, al-
though the enemy challenged us to battle, I kept it from you.” “And if you do not fight, what think you should be done?” said Zhou Yu. And they all said they desired to return to the South Land till he had recovered from his wound, when they
would make another expedition. Zhou Yu lay and listened. Suddenly he sprang up, crying, “The noble person who has eaten of his lord’s bounty
should die in his lord’s battles. To return home dead and wrapped in a horse’s hide is a happy fate. Am I the sort of people to bring to nought the grand designs of my lord?”
So speaking he proceeded to gird on his armor, and he mounted his horse. The wonder of the officers only redoubled when their General placed himself at the head of some hundreds of horsemen and went out of the camp gates toward the enemy, then fully arrayed. Cao Ren, their general, stood beneath the great standard.
At sight of the opponents, Cao Ren flourished his whip and began to hurl abuse at them, “Zhou Yu, you babe! I think your fate has met you. You dare not face my army!”
The stream of insult never ceased. Presently Zhou Yu could stand it no longer. Riding out to the front he cried, “Here I am, base churl. Look at me!” The whole Cao Ren’s army were taken aback. But Cao Ren turned to those about him and said, “Let us all revile
him!” And the whole army yelled insults.
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Zhou Yu grew angry and sent Pan Zhang out to fight. But before he had delivered his first blow, Zhou Yu sud- denly uttered a loud cry, and he fell to the ground with blood gushing from his mouth.
At this Cao Ren’s army rushed to the battle, and the army of the South Land pressed forward to meet them. A fierce struggle waged around Zhou Yu’s body, but he was borne off safely and taken to his tent.
“Do you feel better?” asked Cheng Pu anxiously. “It was a ruse of mine,” whispered Zhou Yu in reply. “But what avails it?” “I am not suffering, but I did that to make our enemies think I was very ill and so oppose them by deceit. I will
send a few trusty men to pretend desertion and tell them I am dead. That will cause them to try a night raid on the camp, and we shall have an ambush ready for them. We shall get Cao Ren easily.”
“The plan seems excellent,” said Cheng Pu. Soon from the tent there arose the sound of wailing as for the dead. The soldiers around took up the cry and
said one to another, “The General is dead of his wound!” and they all put on the symbols of mourning. Meanwhile Cao Ren was consulting with his officers. Said he, “Zhou Yu lost his temper, and that has caused his wound to reopen and brought on that flow of blood.
You saw him fall to the ground, and he will assuredly die soon.” Just then there came in one who said that a few men had come over from the enemy asking to be allowed to
join the army of Cao Ren. Among them were two of Cao Cao’s men who had been made prisoners. Cao Ren sent for the deserters and questioned them.
They told him, saying, “Zhou Yu’s wound reopened at his anger, and he died in the camp that day. The leaders are all clothing in white and in mourning. We desert because we have been put to shame by the second in command.”
Pleased at this news, Cao Ren at once began to arrange to make a night attack on the camp and, if possible, get the head of the dead general to send to the capital.
“Success depends upon promptitude, so act without delay,” said Chen Jiao. Niu Jin was told off as Van Leader, Cao Ren himself led the center, while the rear was commanded by Cao Hong
and Cao Chun. Chen Jiao and a small force were left to guard Nanjun. At the first watch they left the city and took the way toward Zhou Yu’s camp. When they drew near, not a sol-
dier was visible in the camp, but flags and banners and spears were all there, evidently to keep up an appearance of preparation. Feeling at once that they had been tricked, they turned to retreat.
But a bomb exploded, and this was the signal for an attack on all four sides. Han Dang and Jiang Qin pressed in from the east; Zhou Tai and Pan Zhang, from the west; Chen Wu and Lu Meng, from the north; and Xu Sheng and Ding Feng, from the south. The result was a severe defeat for the raiders, and the army of Cao Ren was entirely broken and scattered abroad so that no one part of the beaten army could aid the other.
Cao Ren, with a few horsemen got out of the press and presently met Cao Hong. The two leaders ran away together, and by the fifth watch they had got near Nanjun. Then they heard a beating of drums, and Ling Tong ap- peared barring the way. There was a small skirmish, and Cao Ren went off at an angle. But he fell in with Gan Ning, who attacked him vigorously. Cao Ren dared not go back to Nanjun, but he made for Xiangyang along the main road. The forces of the South Land pursued him for a time and then desisted.
Zhou Yu and Cheng Pu then made their way to Nanjun where they were startled to see flags on the walls and every sign of occupation.
Before they had recovered from their surprise, there appeared one who cried, “Pardon, General! I had orders from the Directing Instructor to take this city. I am Zhao Zilong of Changshan.”
Zhou Yu was fiercely angry and gave orders to assault the city, but the defenders sent down flights and flights of arrows, and his troops could not stay near the rampart. So he withdrew and took counsel. In the meantime he decided to send Gan Ning with a force of several thousand to capture Jingzhou City, and Ling Tong with another army to take Xiangyang. Nanjun could be taken later.
But even as these orders were being given, the scouts came in hurriedly to report, saying, “After Nanjun fell, Zhuge Liang, suddenly forging a military commission, induced the guards of Jingzhou City to leave it and go to the rescue of Cao Ren. Whereupon Zhang Fei occupied the capital.”
Soon after another messenger came, saying, “Xiahou Dun, at Xiangyang, received from Zhuge Liang dispatches, supported by a commission in due form, saying that Cao Ren was in danger and needed help, whereupon Xiahou Dun marched off, and Guan Yu seized that city.”
Thus the two cities that Zhou Yu wanted had fallen, without the least effort, into the hands of his rival Liu Bei. “How did Zhuge Liang get this military commission with which he has imposed on the generals?” asked Zhou Yu. Cheng Pu replied, “He seized that of Chen Jiao and so has got all this region into his power.” Zhou Yu uttered a great cry, for at that moment his wound had suddenly burst open.
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A city falls, but not to us the gain; The guerdon is another’s; ours the pain.
The next chapter will say what befell Zhou Yu.
Japan 8
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Japan’s classical and medieval periods roughly converge with the European Middle Ages that generally range from the fifth to fifteenth centuries. By the eighth century, the Yamato clan had taken control of Japan, and in 710 C.E. Nara became the first stable capital. During the Nara period (710-784 C.E.), Japan produced two historical chronicles that legitimize Yamato’s authority historically. Records of Ancient Matters (712 C.E.) connects the Yamato clan to Amaterasu, the sun goddess, and Chronicles of Japan (720 C.E.) explains the creation of the Japanese islands. Religiously and philosophically influential by this period were Shintoism (a polytheistic Japanese indigenous reli- gion), Confucianism (which probably arrived in Japan in the fifth century), and Buddhism (adopted via China and Korea in the sixth century). During the Nara period, Japan also produced Florilegium of Cherished Airs (751 C.E.), the Chinese-style poetry of Japan’s earliest extant poetry anthology, and The Man’yōshū (Collection of Ten Thousand Leaves) (ca. 8th century C.E.), the earliest vernacular poetry anthology.
In 794 C.E., the emperor Kammu shifted his capital to Heian, modern-day Kyoto, to stop the involvement of the Buddhist clergy in Nara in the state affairs. In the tenth century, kana, the new phonetic writing system, was devel- oped, which led to the flourishing of rich vernacular prose literature, especially by women writers, although literature was still created by and for the capital elite during the Heian period (794-1185 C.E.). Up to that point, Japan had borrowed Chinese characters for writing. Two of the noteworthy literary works of this time are The Tale of Genji (ca. 1010 C.E.) and The Pillow Book (ca. 1000 C.E.), written by prestigious court ladies, Murasaki Shikibu and Sei Shōnagon respectively. Lady Murasaki and others in the Heian court used a writing system called onnade, i.e., “woman’s hand,” which used Chinese characters, but modified them to be phonological, making composition much easier and thus facilitating writing. Also, waka, a poetic form con- sisting of 31 syllables, was an integral part of the lives of the aristocracy.
The prolonged civil war between the Heike and the Genji and the rise of the warrior class led to the dissolution of the Heian period in the second half of the twelfth century. These factors resulted in the establishment of a military state in Kamakura, southeast of modern-day Tokyo and ushered in the medieval age (1192–1600 C.E.) in Japan. Military clans dominated Japan until the restoration of imperial power in 1868 C.E. The battle between the Heike and the Genji is recorded in the well-known Japanese medieval tale The Tale of the Heike (ca. 1240 C.E.). The military rulers, or shoguns, became patrons of the arts beyond the imperial court. For example, the shoguns supported theatre performances, including Noh theatre. In this cultural milieu, Zeami Motokiyo (1363-1443 C.E.) was able to produce numerous exemplary Noh plays. Although medieval Japanese literature is still connected to Heian values in many ways, it is also charac- terized by the influence of the warrior culture and diverse cultural elements beyond the imperial court.
As already indicated above, the selections in this chapter, The Tale of Genji and Zeami’s plays, are good exam- ples of the Heian period and Medieval Japan under military rule, respectively. While marked by the different peri- ods and their different literary characteristics, they also show shared literary, cultural, and religious values.
Image 8.1: Byōdō-in’s Phoenix Hall | A picture of Buddhist temple and Japanese National Treasure, Byōdō-in, built in the Heian period in the eleventh century
Author: User “663highland” Source: Wikimedia Commons License: CC BY 2.5
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As you read, consider the following questions:
• In what specific ways do The Tale of Genji and Zeami’s plays reveal the characteristics of the Heian period and the Medieval Japan of military rule?
• How does The Tale of Genji, a novel focusing on a prince and his legacy, reveal a woman’s perspective? • How might some of Zeami’s plays dramatize and even reconcile conflicts between opposites—e.g., warrior
culture vs. Buddhism, warrior ethos vs. Heian aristocratic values, the past vs. the present, the dead vs. the living, etc.?
For more information, see the following sources:
• You can watch the whole performance of the Noh play “Atsumori” on the following website: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3mXuGC16ix4
Written by Kyounghye Kwon
ATSUMORI
Zeami Motokiyo (1363-1443 C.E.)
Appeared distinctively in the fourteenth century Japan
Noh (also spelled No, meaning “talent” or “skill”) theatre is a traditional Japanese theatrical form that came to have a distinctive form in the fourteenth century and continued to develop up to the Tokugawa period (1603-1867). Noh theatre, one of the oldest extant theatre forms in the world, has been handed down from generation to generation, keeping its early forms fairly intact. Unlike performers of Kabuki (another traditional Japanese theatrical form) who use elaborate makeup, Noh performers wear masks. Compared to typical western theatre, a Noh play is relatively short without a lot of action; instead, Noh performers emphasize sounds and movements as visual metaphors suggesting the story on stage. Traditionally, they were performed mainly for the warrior class, whereas currently this theatre is pro- tected and supported at the national level. Zeami Motokiyo, along with his father, wrote many of the most exemplary Noh plays. Zeami also formulated the principles of the Noh theatre. There are five types of Noh plays: the plays about 1) gods, 2) warriors, 3) a female protagonist, 4) a madwoman in a contemporary setting, and 5) devils, monsters, and supernatural beings. Zeami’s play “Atsumori,” for example, belongs to the plays about warriors. It dramatizes a well- known episode from The Tale of the Heike (ca. 1240 C.E.), a famous, medieval Japanese epic.
Written by Kyounghye Kwon
The Nō Plays of Japan
Arthur Waley
Introduction The theatre of the West is the last stronghold of realism. No one treats painting or music as mere transcripts
of life. But even pioneers of stage-reform in France and Germany appear to regard the theatre as belonging to life and not to art. The play is an organized piece of human experience which the audience must as far as possible be allowed to share with the actors.
A few people in America and Europe want to go in the opposite direction. They would like to see a theatre that aimed boldly at stylization and simplification, discarding entirely the pretentious lumber of 19th century stageland. That such a theatre exists and has long existed in Japan has been well-known here for some time. But hitherto very few plays have been translated in such a way as to give the Western reader an idea of their literary value. It is only through accurate scholarship that the “soul of Nō” can be known to the West. Given a truthful rendering of the texts the American reader will supply for himself their numerous connotations, a fact which Japanese writers do not
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Noh Plays
always sufficiently realize. The Japanese method of expanding a five-line poem into a long treatise in order to make it intelligible to us is one which obliterates the structure of the original design. Where explanations are necessary they have been given in footnotes. I have not thought it necessary to point out (as a Japanese critic suggested that I ought to have done) that, for example, the “mood” of Komachi is different from the “mood” of Kumasaka. Such differences will be fully apparent to the American reader, who would not be the better off for knowing the technical name of each kurai or class of Nō. Surely the Japanese student of Shakespeare does not need to be told that the kurai of “Hamlet” is different from that of “Measure for Measure”?
It would be possible to burden a book of this kind with as great a mass of unnecessary technicality as irritates us in a smart sale-catalogue of Japanese Prints. I have avoided such terms to a considerable extent, treating the plays as literature, not as some kind of Delphic mystery.
In this short introduction I shall not have space to give a complete description of modern Nō, nor a full histo- ry of its origins. But the reader of the translations will find that he needs some information on these points. I have tried to supply it as concisely as possible, sometimes in a schematic rather than a literary form.
These are some of the points about which an American reader may wish to know more:
The Nō Stage The actual stage is about 18 feet square. On the boards of the back wall is painted a pine-tree; the other sides are
open. A gallery (called hashigakari) leads to the green-room, from which it is separated by a curtain which is raised to admit the actor when he makes his entry. The audience sits either on two or three sides of the stage. The chorus, generally in two rows, sit (or rather squat) in the recess. The musicians sit in the recess at the back of the stage, the stick-drum nearest the “gallery,” then the two hand-drums and the flute. A railing runs round the musician’s recess, as also along the gallery. To the latter railing are attached three real pine-branches. The stage is covered by a roof of its own, imitating in form the roof of a Shintō temple.
The Performers The Actors
The first actor who comes on to the stage (approaching from the gallery) is the waki or assistant. His primary business is to explain the circumstances under which the principal actor (called shite or “doer”) came to dance the central dance of the play. Each of these main actors (waki and shite) has “adjuncts” or “companions.”
Some plays need only the two main actors. Others use as many as ten or even twelve. The female rôles are of course taken by men. The waki is always a male rôle.
The Chorus This consists of from eight to twelve persons in ordinary
native dress seated in two rows at the side of the stage. Their sole function is to sing an actor’s words for him when his dance-movements prevent him from singing comfortably. They enter by a side-door before the play begins and remain seated till it is over.
The Musicians Nearest to the gallery sits the “big-drum,” whose instru-
ment rests on the ground and is played with a stick. This stick- drum is not used in all plays.
Next comes a hand-drummer who plays with thimbled finger; next a second who plays with the bare hand.
Finally, the flute. It intervenes only at stated intervals, particularly at the beginning, climax and end of plays.
Costume Though almost wholly banishing other extrinsic aids, the Nō relies enormously for its effects on gorgeous and
elaborate costume. Some references to this will be found in Oswald Sickert’s letters at the end of my book. Masks are worn only by the shite (principal actor) and his subordinates. The shite always wears a mask if play-
ing the part of a woman or very old man. Young men, particularly warriors, are usually unmasked. In child-parts
Image 8.2: Taira no Atsumori | The samurai Atsumori plays a woodwind instrument.
Author: Kikuchi Yosai Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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(played by boy-actors) masks are not worn. The reproduction of a female mask will be found on Plate I. The masks are of wood. Many of those still in use are of great antiquity and rank as important specimens of Japanese sculpture.
Properties The properties of the Nō stage are of a highly conventionalized kind. An open frame-work represents a boat;
another differing little from it denotes a chariot. Palace, house, cottage, hovel are all represented by four posts cov- ered with a roof. The fan which the actor usually carries often does duty as a knife, brush or the like. Weapons are more realistically represented. The short-sword, belt-sword, pike, spear and Chinese broad-sword are carried; also bows and arrows.
Dancing and Acting Every Nō play (with, I think, the sole exception of Hachi no Ki) includes a mai or dance, consisting usually of slow
steps and solemn gestures, often bearing little resemblance to what is in America associated with the word “dance.” When the shite dances, his dance consists of five “movements” or parts; a “subordinate’s” dance consists of three. Both in the actors’ miming and in the dancing an important element is the stamping of beats with the shoeless foot.
The Plays The plays are written partly in prose, partly in verse. The prose portions serve much the same purpose as the
iambics in a Greek play. They are in the Court or upper-class colloquial of the 14th century, a language not wholly dead to-day, as it is still the language in which people write formal letters.
The chanting of these portions is far removed from singing; yet they are not “spoken.” The voice falls at the end of each sentence in a monotonous cadence.
A prose passage often gradually heightens into verse. The chanting, which has hitherto resembled the intoning of a Roman Catholic priest, takes on more of the character of “recitativo” in opera, occasionally attaining to actual song. The verse of these portions is sometimes irregular, but on the whole tends to an alternation of lines of five and seven syllables.
The verse of the lyric portions is marked by frequent use of pivot-words and puns, particularly puns on place- names. The 14th century Nō-writer, Seami, insists that pivot-words should be used sparingly and with discretion. Many Nō-writers did not follow this advice; but the use of pivot-words is not in itself a decoration more artificial than rhyme, and I cannot agree with those European writers to whom this device appears puerile and degraded. Each language must use such embellishments as suit its genius.
Another characteristic of the texts is the use of earlier literary material. Many of the plays were adapted from dance-ballads already existing and even new plays made use of such poems as were associated in the minds of the audience with the places or persons named in the play. Often a play is written round a poem or series of poems, as will be seen in the course of this book.
This use of existing material exceeds the practice of Western dramatists; but it must be remembered that if we were to read Webster, for example, in editions annotated as minutely as the Nō-plays, we should discover that he was far more addicted to borrowing than we had been aware. It seems to me that in the finest plays this use of exist- ing material is made with magnificent effect and fully justifies itself.
The reference which I have just made to dance-ballads brings us to another question. What did the Nō-plays grow out of ?
Origins Nō as we have it to-day dates from about the middle of the 14th century. It was a combination of many elements.
These were: • Sarugaku, a masquerade which relieved the solemnity of Shintō ceremonies. What we call Nō was at first
called Sarugaku no Nō. • Dengaku, at first a rustic exhibition of acrobatics and jugglery; later, a kind of opera in which performers
alternately danced and recited. • Various sorts of recitation, ballad-singing, etc. • The Chinese dances practised at the Japanese Court.
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Noh Plays
Nō owes its present form to the genius of two men. Kwanami Kiyotsugu (1333-1384 A. D.) and his son Seami Motokiyo (1363-1444 A. D.)
Kwanami was a priest of the Kasuga Temple near Nara. About 1375 the Shōgun Yoshimitsu saw him perform- ing in a Sarugaku no Nō at the New Temple (one of the three great temples of Kumano) and immediately took him under his protection.
This Yoshimitsu had become ruler of Japan in 1367 at the age of ten. His family had seized the Shōgunate in 1338 and wielded absolute power at Kyōto, while two rival Mikados, one in the north and one in the south, held impotent and dwindling courts.
The young Shōgun distinguished himself by patronage of art and letters; and by his devotion to the religion of the Zen Sect. It is probable that when he first saw Kwanami he also became acquainted with the son Seami, then a boy of twelve.
A diary of the period has the following entry for the 7th day of the 6th month, 1368:
For some while Yoshimitsu has been making a favourite of a Sarugaku-boy from Yamato, sharing the same meat and eating from the same vessels. These Sarugaku people are mere mendicants, but he treats them as if they were Privy Counsellors.
From this friendship sprang the art of Nō as it exists to-day. Of Seami we know far more than of his father Kwana- mi. For Seami left behind him a considerable number of treatises and autobiographical fragments. These were not pub- lished till 1908 and have not yet been properly edited. They establish, among other things, the fact that Seami wrote both words and music for most of the plays in which he performed. It had before been supposed that the texts were supplied by the Zen priests. For other information brought to light by the discovery of Seami’s Works see Appendix II.
Yūgen It is obvious that Seami was deeply imbued with the teachings of Zen, in which cult his patron Yoshimitsu may
have been his master. The difficult term yūgen which occurs constantly in the Works is derived from Zen literature. It means “what lies beneath the surface”; the subtle as opposed to the obvious; the hint, as opposed to the statement. It is applied to the natural grace of a boy’s movements, to the restraint of a nobleman’s speech and bearing. “When notes fall sweetly and flutter delicately to the ear,” that is the yūgen of music. The symbol of yūgen is “a white bird with a flower in its beak.” “To watch the sun sink behind a flower-clad hill, to wander on and on in a huge forest with no thought of return, to stand upon the shore and gaze after a boat that goes hid by far-off islands, to ponder on the journey of wild-geese seen and lost among the clouds”—such are the gates to yūgen.
I will give a few specimens of Seami’s advice to his pupils:
Patrons The actor should not stare straight into the faces of the audience, but look between them. When he looks in the
direction of the Daimyōs he must not let his eyes meet theirs, but must slightly avert his gaze. At Palace-performances or when acting at a banquet, he must not let his eyes meet those of the Shōgun or stare
straight into the Honourable Face. When playing in a large enclosure he must take care to keep as close as possible to the side where the Nobles are sitting; if in a small enclosure, as far off as possible. But particularly in Palace-perfor- mances and the like he must take the greatest pains to keep as far away as he possibly can from the August Presence.
Again, when the recitations are given at the Palace it is equally essential to begin at the right moment. It is bad to begin too soon and fatal to delay too long.
It sometimes happens that the “noble gentlemen” do not arrive at the theatre until the play has already reached its Development and Climax. In such cases the play is at its climax, but the noble gentlemen’s hearts are ripe only for Introduction. If they, ready only for Introduction, are forced to witness a Climax, they are not likely to get plea- sure from it. Finally even the spectators who were there before, awed by the entry of the “exalted ones,” become so quiet that you would not know they were there, so that the whole audience ends by returning to the Introductory mood. At such a moment the Nō cannot possibly be a success. In such circumstances it is best to take Develop- ment-Nō and give it a slightly “introductory” turn. Then, if it is played gently, it may win the August Attention.
It also happens that one is suddenly sent for to perform at a Shōgunal feast or the like. The audience is already in a “climax-mood”; but “introductory” Nō must be played. This is a great difficulty. In such circumstances the best plan is to tinge the introduction with a nuance of “development.” But this must be done without “stickiness,” with the lightest possible touch, and the transition to the real Development and Climax must be made as quickly as possible.
In old times there were masters who perfected themselves in Nō without study. But nowadays the nobles and gentlemen have become so critical that they will only look with approbation on what is good and will not give attention to anything bad.
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Their honourable eyes have become so keen that they notice the least defect, so that even a masterpiece that is as pearls many times polished or flowers choicely culled will not win the applause of our gentlemen to-day.
At the same time, good actors are becoming few and the Art is gradually sinking towards its decline. For this reason, if very strenuous study is not made, it is bound to disappear altogether.
When summoned to play before the noble gentlemen, we are expected to give the regular “words of good-wish” and to divide our performance into the three parts, Introduction, Development and Climax, so that the pre-ar- ranged order cannot be varied.... But on less formal occasions, when, for example, one is playing not at a Shōgunal banquet but on a common, everyday (yo no tsune) stage, it is obviously unnecessary to limit oneself to the set forms of “happy wish.”
One’s style should be easy and full of graceful yūgen, and the piece selected should be suitable to the audience. A ballad (ko-utai) or dance-song (kuse-mai) of the day will be best. One should have in one’s repertory a stock of such pieces and be ready to vary them according to the character of one’s audience.
In the words and gestures (of a farce, kyōgen) there should be nothing low. The jokes and repartee should be such as suit the august ears of the nobles and gentry. On no account must vulgar words or gestures be introduced, however funny they may be. This advice must be carefully observed.
Introduction, Development and Climax must also be strictly adhered to when dancing at the Palace. If the chant- ing proceeds from an “introductory-mood,” the dancing must belong to the same mood.... When one is suddenly summoned to perform at a riotous banquet, one must take into consideration the state of the noble gentlemen’s spirits.
Imitation (Monomane) In imitation there should be a tinge of the “unlike.” For if imitation be pressed too far it impinges on reality and
ceases to give an impression of likeness. If one aims only at the beautiful, the “flower” is sure to appear. For example, in acting the part of an old man, the master actor tries to reproduce in his dance only the refinement and venerabil- ity of an old gentleman. If the actor is old himself, he need not think about producing an impression of old age....
The appearance of old age will often be best given by making all movements a little late, so that they come just after the musical beat. If the actor bears this in mind, he may be as lively and energetic as he pleases. For in old age the limbs are heavy and the ears slow; there is the will to move but not the corresponding capacity.
It is in such methods as this that true imitation lies.... Youthful movements made by an old person are, indeed, delightful; they are like flowers blossoming on an old tree.
If, because the actor has noticed that old men walk with bent knees and back and have shrunken frames, he simply imitates these characteristics, he may achieve an appearance of decrepitude, but it will be at the expense of the “flower.” And if the “flower” be lacking there will be no beauty in his impersonation.
Women should be impersonated by a young actor.... It is very difficult to play the part of a Princess or la- dy-in-waiting, for little opportunity presents itself of studying their august behaviour and appearance. Great pains must be taken to see that robes and cloaks are worn in the correct way. These things do not depend on the actor’s fancy but must be carefully ascertained.
The appearance of ordinary ladies such as one is used to see about one is easy to imitate.... In acting the part of a dancing-girl, mad-woman or the like, whether he carry the fan or some fancy thing (a flowering branch, for in- stance) the actor must carry it loosely; his skirts must trail low so as to hide his feet; his knees and back must not be bent, his body must be poised gracefully. As regards the way he holds himself—if he bends back, it looks bad when he faces the audience; if he stoops, it looks bad from behind. But he will not look like a woman if he holds his head too stiffly. His sleeves should be as long as possible, so that he never shows his fingers.
Apparations Here the outward form is that of a ghost; but within is the heart of a man. Such plays are generally in two parts. The beginning, in two or three sections, should be as short as possible. In
the second half the shite (who has hitherto appeared to be a man) becomes definitely the ghost of a dead person. Since no one has ever seen a real ghost from the Nether Regions, the actor may use his fancy, aiming only at the
beautiful. To represent real life is far more difficult. If ghosts are terrifying, they cease to be beautiful. For the terrifying and the beautiful are as far apart as black
and white.
Child Plays In plays where a lost child is found by its parents, the writer should not introduce a scene where they clutch and
cling to one another, sobbing and weeping....
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Plays in which child-characters occur, even if well done, are always apt to make the audience exclaim in disgust, “Don’t harrow our feelings in this way!”
Restraint In representing anger the actor should yet retain some gentleness in his mood, else he will portray not anger
but violence. In representing the mysterious (yūgen) he must not forget the principle of energy. When the body is in violent action, the hands and feet must move as though by stealth. When the feet are in
lively motion, the body must be held in quietness. Such things cannot be explained in writing but must be shown to the actor by actual demonstration.
It is above all in “architecture,” in the relation of parts to the whole, that these poems are supreme. The early writers created a “form” or general pattern which the weakest writing cannot wholly rob of its beauty. The plays are like those carved lamp-bearing angels in the churches at Seville; a type of such beauty was created by a sculptor of the sixteenth century that even the most degraded modern descendant of these masterpieces retains a certain distinction of form.
First comes the jidai or opening-couplet, enigmatic, abrupt. Then in contrast to this vague shadow come the hard outlines of the waki’s exposition, the formal naming of himself, his origin and destination. Then, shadowy again, the “song of travel,” in which picture after picture dissolves almost before it is seen.
But all this has been mere introduction—the imagination has been quickened, the attention grasped in prepara- tion for one thing only—the hero’s entry. In the “first chant,” in the dialogue which follows, in the successive dances and climax, this absolute mastery of construction is what has most struck me in reading the plays.
Again, Nō does not make a frontal attack on the emotions. It creeps at the subject warily. For the action, in the commonest class of play, does not take place before our eyes, but is lived through again in mimic and recital by the ghost of one of the participants in it. Thus we get no possibility of crude realities; a vision of life indeed, but painted with the colours of memory, longing or regret.
In a paper read before the Japan Society in 1919 I tried to illustrate this point by showing, perhaps in too frag- mentary and disjointed a manner, how the theme of Webster’s “Duchess of Malfi” would have been treated by a Nō writer. I said then (and the Society kindly allows me to repeat those remarks):
The plot of the play is thus summarized by Rupert Brooke in his “John Webster and the Elizabethan Drama”: “The Duchess of Malfi is a young widow forbidden by her brothers, Ferdinand and the Cardinal, to marry again. They put a creature of theirs, Bosola, into her service as a spy. The Duchess loves and marries Antonio, her stew- ard, and has three children. Bosola ultimately discovers and reports this. Antonio and the Duchess have to fly. The Duchess is captured, imprisoned and mentally tortured and put to death. Ferdinand goes mad. In the last Act he, the Cardinal, Antonio and Bosola are all killed with various confusions and in various horror.”
Just as Webster took his themes from previous works (in this case from Painter’s “Palace of Pleasure”), so the Nō plays took theirs from the Romances or “Monogatari.” Let us reconstruct the “Duchess” as a Nō play, using Webster’s text as our “Monogatari.”
Great simplification is necessary, for the Nō play corresponds in length to one act of our five-act plays, and has no space for divagations. The comic is altogether excluded, being reserved for the kyōgen or farces which are played as interludes between the Nō.
The persons need not be more than two—the Pilgrim, who will act the part of waki, and the Duchess, who will be shite or Protagonist. The chorus takes no part in the action, but speaks for the shite while she is miming the more engrossing parts of her rôle.
The Pilgrim comes on to the stage and first pronounces in his Jidai or preliminary couplet, some Buddhist aph- orism appropriate to the subject of the play. He then names himself to the audience thus (in prose):
“I am a pilgrim from Rome. I have visited all the other shrines of Italy, but have never been to Loretto. I will journey once to the shrine of Loretto.”
Then follows (in verse) the “Song of Travel” in which the Pilgrim describes the scenes through which he passes on his way to the shrine. While he is kneeling at the shrine, Shite (the Protagonist) comes on to the stage. She is a young woman dressed, “contrary to the Italian fashion,” in a loose-bodied gown. She carries in her hand an unripe apricot. She calls to the Pilgrim and engages him in conversation. He asks her if it were not at this shrine that the Duchess of Malfi took refuge. The young woman answers with a kind of eager exaltation, her words gradually rising from prose to poetry. She tells the story of the Duchess’s flight, adding certain intimate touches which force the priest to ask abruptly, “Who is it that is speaking to me?”
And the girl shuddering (or it is hateful to a ghost to name itself ) answers: “Hazukashi ya! I am the soul of the Duke Ferdinand’s sister, she that was once called Duchess of Malfi. Love still ties my soul to the earth. Toburai tabi-tamaye! Pray for me, oh, pray for my release!”
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Here closes the first part of the play. In the second the young ghost, her memory quickened by the Pilgrim’s prayers (and this is part of the medicine of salvation), endures again the memory of her final hours. She mimes the action of kissing the hand (vide Act IV, Scene 1), finds it very cold:
I fear you are not well after your travel. Oh! horrible! What witchcraft does he practise, that he hath left A dead man’s hand here?
And each successive scene of the torture is so vividly mimed that though it exists only in the Protagonist’s brain, it is as real to the audience as if the figure of dead Antonio lay propped upon the stage, or as if the madmen were actually leaping and screaming before them.
Finally she acts the scene of her own execution: Heaven-gates are not so highly arched As princes’ palaces; they that enter there Must go upon their knees. [She kneels.] Come, violent death, Serve for mandragora to make me sleep! Go tell my brothers, when I am laid out, They then may feed in quiet. [She sinks her head and folds her hands.]
The chorus, taking up the word “quiet,” chant a phrase from the Hokkekyō: Sangai Mu-an, “In the Three Worlds there is no quietness or rest.”
But the Pilgrim’s prayers have been answered. Her soul has broken its bonds: is free to depart. The ghost re- cedes, grows dimmer and dimmer, till at last
use-ni-keri use-ni-keri
it vanishes from sight.
Note on Buddhism The Buddhism of the Nō plays is of the kind called the
“Greater Vehicle,” which prevails in China, Japan and Tibet. Primitive Buddhism (the “Lesser Vehicle”), which survives in Ceylon and Burma, centres round the person of Shāk- yamuni, the historical Buddha, and uses Pāli as its sacred language. The “Greater Vehicle,” which came into being about the same time as Christianity and sprang from the same religious impulses, to a large extent replaces Shākya- muni by a timeless, ideal Buddha named Amida, “Lord of Boundless Light,” perhaps originally a sun-god, like Or- muzd of the Zoroastrians. Primitive Buddhism had taught that the souls of the faithful are absorbed into Nirvāna, in other words into Buddha. The “Greater Vehicle” promised to its adherents an after-life in Amida’s Western Paradise. It produced scriptures in the Sanskrit language, in which Shākyamuni himself describes this Western Land and recommends the worship of Amida; it inculcated too the worship of the Bodhisattvas, half-Buddhas, intermediaries
between Buddha and man. These Bodhisattvas are beings who, though fit to receive Buddhahood, have of their own free will renounced it, that they may better alleviate the miseries of mankind.
Chief among them is Kwannon, called in India Avalokiteshvara, who appears in the world both in male and female form, but it is chiefly thought of as a woman in China and Japan; Goddess of Mercy, to whom men pray in war, storm, sickness or travail.
The doctrine of Karma and of the transmigration of souls was common both to the earlier and later forms of Buddhism. Man is born to an endless chain of re-incarnations, each one of which is, as it were, the fruit of seed sown in that which precedes.
Image 8.3: Noh Stage | An illustration depicting a tradition- al Noh stage and the styles and positions of the performers.
Author: User “Toto-tarou” Source: Wikimedia Commons License: CC BY-SA 3.0
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The only escape from this “Wheel of Life and Death” lies in satori, “Enlightenment,” the realization that materi- al phenomena are thoughts, not facts.
Each of the four chief sects which existed in medieval Japan had its own method of achieving this Enlightenment. 1. The Amidists sought to gain satori by the study of the Hokke Kyō, called in Sanskrit Saddharma Pund-
arika Sūtra or “Scripture of the Lotus of the True Law,” or even by the mere repetition of its complete title “Myōhō Renge Hokke Kyō.” Others of them maintained that the repetition of the formula “Praise to Amida Buddha” (Namu Amida Butsu) was in itself a sufficient means of salvation.
2. Once when Shākyamuni was preaching before a great multitude, he picked up a flower and twisted it in his fingers. The rest of his hearers saw no significance in the act and made no response; but the disciple Kāshyapa smiled.
In this brief moment a perception of transcendental truth had flashed from Buddha’s mind to the mind of his disciple. Thus Kāshyapa became the patriarch of the Zen Buddhists, who believe that Truth cannot be communi- cated by speech or writing, but that it lies hidden in the heart of each one of us and can be discovered by “Zen” or contemplative introspection.
At first sight there would not appear to be any possibility of reconciling the religion of the Zen Buddhists with that of the Amidists. Yet many Zen masters strove to combine the two faiths, teaching that Amida and his Western Paradise exist, not in time or space, but mystically enshrined in men’s hearts.
Zen denied the existence of Good and Evil, and was sometimes regarded as a dangerous sophistry by pious Bud- dhists of other sects, as, for example, in the story of Shunkwan and in The Hōka Priests, where the murderer’s interest in Zen doctrines is, I think, definitely regarded as a discreditable weakness and is represented as the cause of his undoing.
The only other play, among those I have here translated, which deals much with Zen tenets, is Sotoba Koma- chi. Here the priests represent the Shingon Shū or Mystic Sect, while Komachi, as becomes a poetess, defends the doctrines of Zen. For Zen was the religion of artists; it had inspired the painters and poets of the Sung dynasty in China; it was the religion of the great art-patrons who ruled Japan in the fifteenth century.
It was in the language of Zen that poetry and painting were discussed; and it was in a style tinged with Zen that Seami wrote of his own art. But the religion of the Nō plays is predominantly Amidist; it is the common, average Buddhism of medieval Japan.
3. I have said that the priests in Sotoba Komachi represent the Mystic Sect. The followers of this sect sought salvation by means of charms and spells, corruptions of Sanskrit formulae. Their principal Buddha was Dainichi, “The Great Sun.” To this sect belonged the Yamabushi, mountain ascetics referred to in Tanikō and other plays.
4. Mention must be made of the fusion between Buddhism and Shintō. The Tendai Sect which had its head- quarters on Mount Hiyei preached an eclectic doctrine which aimed at becoming the universal religion of Japan. It combined the cults of native gods with a Buddhism tolerant in dogma, but magnificent in outward pomp, with a leaning towards the magical practices of Shingon.
The Little Saint of Yokawa in the play Aoi no Uye is an example of the Tendai ascetic, with his use of magical incantations.
Hatsuyuki appeared in “Poetry,” Chicago, and is here reprinted with the editor’s kind permission.
Atsumori, Ikuta, and Tsunemasa In the eleventh century two powerful clans, the Taira and the Minamoto, contended for mastery. In 1181 Kiyo-
mori the chief of the Tairas died, and from that time their fortunes declined. In 1183 they were forced to flee from Kyōto, carrying with them the infant Emperor. After many hardships and wanderings they camped on the shores of Suma, where they were protected by their fleet.
Early in 1184 the Minamotos attacked and utterly routed them at the Battle of Ichi-no-Tani, near the woods of Ikuta. At this battle fell Atsumori, the nephew of Kiyomori, and his brother Tsunemasa.
When Kumagai, who had slain Atsumori, bent over him to examine the body, he found lying beside him a bamboo-flute wrapped in brocade. He took the flute and gave it to his son.
The bay of Suma is associated in the mind of a Japanese reader not only with this battle but also with the stories of Prince Genji and Prince Yukihira.
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“Atsumori”
Seami, Translated by Arthur Waley
Persons: The Priest Rensei (formerly the warrior Kumaga). A Young Reaper, who turns out to be the ghost of Atsumori. His Companion. Chorus.
PRIEST Life is a lying dream, he only wakes Who casts the World aside. I am Kumagai no Naozane, a man of the country of Musashi. I have left my home and call myself the priest Rensei; this I have done because of my grief at the death of Atsu-
mori, who fell in battle by my hand. Hence it comes that I am dressed in priestly guise.And now I am going down to Ichi-no-Tani to pray for the salvation of Atsumori’s soul.
[He walks slowly across the stage, singing a song descriptive of his journey.]
I have come so fast that here I am already at Ichi-no-Tani, in the country of Tsu. Truly the past returns to my mind as though it were a thing of to-day. But listen! I hear the sound of a flute coming from a knoll of rising ground. I will wait here till the flute-player
passes, and ask him to tell me the story of this place.
REAPERS [together] To the music of the reaper’s flute No song is sung But the sighing of wind in the fields.
YOUNG REAPER They that were reaping, Reaping on that hill, Walk now through the fields Homeward, for it is dusk.
REAPERS [together] Short is the way that leads From the sea of Suma back to my home. This little journey, up to the hill And down to the shore again, and up to the hill— This is my life, and the sum of hateful tasks. If one should ask me I too would answer That on the shores of Suma I live in sadness. Yet if any guessed my name, Then might I too have friends. But now from my deep misery Even those that were dearest Are grown estranged. Here must I dwell abandoned To one thought’s anguish: That I must dwell here.
PRIEST Hey, you reapers! I have a question to ask you.
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YOUNG REAPER Is it to us you are speaking? What do you wish to know?
PRIEST Was it one of you who was playing on the flute just now?
YOUNG REAPER Yes, it was we who were playing.
PRIEST It was a pleasant sound, and all the pleasanter because one does not look for such music from men of your
condition.
YOUNG REAPER Unlooked for from men of our condition, you say! Have you not read:— “Do not envy what is above you Nor despise what is below you”? Moreover the songs of woodmen and the flute-playing of herdsmen, Flute-playing even of reapers and songs of wood-fellers Through poets’ verses are known to all the world. Wonder not to hear among us The sound of a bamboo-flute.
PRIEST You are right. Indeed it is as you have told me. Songs of woodmen and flute-playing of herdsmen...
REAPER Flute-playing of reapers...
PRIEST Songs of wood-fellers...
REAPER Guide us on our passage through this sad world.
PRIEST Song...
REAPER And dance...
PRIEST And the flute...
REAPER And music of many instruments...
CHORUS These are the pastimes that each chooses to his taste. Of floating bamboo-wood Many are the famous flutes that have been made; Little-Branch and Cicada-Cage, And as for the reaper’s flute, Its name is Green-leaf; On the shore of Sumiyoshi The Corean flute they play.
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And here on the shore of Suma On Stick of the Salt-kilns The fishers blow their tune.
PRIEST How strange it is! The other reapers have all gone home, but you alone stay loitering here. How is that?
REAPER How is it, you ask? I am seeking for a prayer in the voice of the evening waves. Perhaps you will pray the Ten
Prayers for me?
PRIEST I can easily pray the Ten Prayers for you, if you will tell me who you are.
REAPER To tell you the truth—I am one of the family of Lord Atsumori.
PRIEST One of Atsumori’s family? How glad I am! Then the priest joined his hands [he kneels down] and prayed:—
NAMU AMIDABU Praise to Amida Buddha! “If I attain to Buddhahood, In the whole world and its ten spheres Of all that dwell here none shall call on my name And be rejected or cast aside.”
CHORUS “Oh, reject me not! One cry suffices for salvation, Yet day and night Your prayers will rise for me. Happy am I, for though you know not my name, Yet for my soul’s deliverance At dawn and dusk henceforward I know that you will pray.” So he spoke. Then vanished and was seen no more. [Here follows the Interlude between the two Acts, in which a recitation concerning Atsumori’s death takes place.
These interludes are subject to variation and are not considered part of the literary text of the play.]
PRIEST Since this is so, I will perform all night the rites of prayer for the dead, and calling upon Amida’s name will pray
again for the salvation of Atsumori. [The ghost of Atsumori appears, dressed as a young warrior.]
ATSUMORI Would you know who I am That like the watchmen at Suma Pass Have wakened at the cry of sea-birds roaming Upon Awaji shore? Listen, Rensei. I am Atsumori.
PRIEST How strange! All this while I have never stopped beating my gong and performing the rites of the Law. I cannot
for a moment have dozed, yet I thought that Atsumori was standing before me. Surely it was a dream.
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ATSUMORI Why need it be a dream? It is to clear the karma of my waking life that I am come here in visible form before you.
PRIEST Is it not written that one prayer will wipe away ten thousand sins? Ceaselessly I have performed the ritual of the Holy Name that clears all sin away. After such prayers, what evil can be left? Though you should be sunk in sin as deep...
ATSUMORI As the sea by a rocky shore, Yet should I be salved by prayer.
PRIEST And that my prayers should save you...
ATSUMORI This too must spring From kindness of a former life.
PRIEST Once enemies ...
ATSUMORI But now...
PRIEST In truth may we be named...
ATSUMORI Friends in Buddha’s Law.
CHORUS There is a saying, “Put away from you a wicked friend; summon to your side a virtuous enemy.” For you it was
said, and you have proven it true. And now come tell with us the tale of your confession, while the night is still dark.
He bids the flowers of Spring Mount the tree-top that men may raise their eyes And walk on upward paths; He bids the moon in autumn waves be drowned In token that he visits laggard men And leads them out from valleys of despair.
ATSUMORI Now the clan of Taira, building wall to wall, Spread over the earth like the leafy branches of a great tree:
CHORUS Yet their prosperity lasted but for a day; It was like the flower of the convolvulus. There was none to tell them That glory flashes like sparks from flint-stone, And after,—darkness. Oh wretched, the life of men!
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ATSUMORI When they were on high they afflicted the humble; When they were rich they were reckless in pride. And so for twenty years and more They ruled this land. But truly a generation passes like the space of a dream. The leaves of the autumn of Juyei Were tossed by the four winds; Scattered, scattered (like leaves too) floated their ships. And they, asleep on the heaving sea, not even in dreams Went back to home. Caged birds longing for the clouds,— Wild geese were they rather, whose ranks are broken As they fly to southward on their doubtful journey. So days and months went by; Spring came again And for a little while Here dwelt they on the shore of Suma At the first valley. From the mountain behind us the winds blew down Till the fields grew wintry again. Our ships lay by the shore, where night and day The sea-gulls cried and salt waves washed on our sleeves. We slept with fishers in their huts On pillows of sand. We knew none but the people of Suma. And when among the pine-trees The evening smoke was rising, Brushwood, as they call it, Brushwood we gathered And spread for carpet. Sorrowful we lived On the wild shore of Suma, Till the clan Taira and all its princes Were but villagers of Suma.
But on the night of the sixth day of the second month My father Tsunemori gathered us together. “To-morrow,” he said, “we shall fight our last fight. To-night is all that is left us.” We sang songs together, and danced.
PRIEST Yes, I remember; we in our siege-camp Heard the sound of music Echoing from your tents that night; There was the music of a flute...
ATSUMORI The bamboo-flute! I wore it when I died.
PRIEST We heard the singing...
ATSUMORI Songs and ballads...
PRIEST Many voices
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ATSUMORI Singing to one measure. [Atsumori dances.]
First comes the Royal Boat.
CHORUS The whole clan has put its boats to sea. He will not be left behind; He runs to the shore. But the Royal Boat and the soldiers’ boats Have sailed far away.
ATSUMORI What can he do? He spurs his horse into the waves. He is full of perplexity. And then
CHORUS He looks behind him and sees That Kumagai pursues him; He cannot escape. Then Atsumori turns his horse Knee-deep in the lashing waves, And draws his sword. Twice, three times he strikes; then, still saddled, In close fight they twine; roll headlong together Among the surf of the shore. So Atsumori fell and was slain, but now the Wheel of Fate Has turned and brought him back. [Atsumori rises from the ground and advances toward the Priest with uplifted sword.]
“There is my enemy,” he cries, and would strike, But the other is grown gentle And calling on Buddha’s name Has obtained salvation for his foe; So that they shall be re-born together On one lotus-seat. “No, Rensei is not my enemy. Pray for me again, oh pray for me again.”
Ikuta
Zembō Motoyasu, Translated by Arthur Waley
Persons: Priest (a follower of Hōnen Shōnin). Atsumori’s Child. Atsumori. Chorus.
PRIEST I am one that serves Hōnen Shōnin of Kurodani; and as for this child here,—once when Hōnen was on a visit
to the Temple of Kamo he saw a box lying under a trailing fir-tree; and when he raised the lid, what should he find inside but a lovely man-child one year old! It did not seem to be more than a common foundling, but my master in
License: Public Domain
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his compassion took the infant home with him. Ever since then he has had it in his care, doing all that was needful for it; and now the boy is over ten years old.
But it is a hard thing to have no father or mother, so one day after his preaching the Shōnin told the child’s sto- ry. And sure enough a young woman stepped out from among the hearers and said it was her child. And when he took her aside and questioned her, he found that the child’s father was Taira no Atsumori, who had fallen in battle at Ichi-no-Tani years ago. When the boy was told of this, he longed earnestly to see his father’s face, were it but in a dream, and the Shōnin bade him go and pray at the shrine of Kamo. He was to go every day for a week, and this is the last day.
That is why I have brought him out with me. But here we are at the Kamo shrine. Pray well, boy, pray well!
BOY How fills my heart with awe When I behold the crimson palisade Of this abode of gods! Oh may my heart be clean As the River of Ablution; And the God’s kindness deep As its unfathomed waters. Show to me, Though it were but in dream, My father’s face and form. Is not my heart so ground away with prayer, So smooth that it will slip Unfelt into the favour of the gods? But thou too, Censor of our prayers, God of Tadasu, on the gods prevail That what I crave may be! How strange! While I was praying I fell half-asleep and had a wonderful dream.
PRIEST Tell me your wonderful dream.
BOY A strange voice spoke to me from within the Treasure Hall, saying, “If you are wanting, though it were but in
a dream, to see your father’s face, go down from here to the woods of Ikuta in the country of Settsu.” That is the marvellous dream I had.
PRIEST It is indeed a wonderful message that the God has sent you. And why should I go back at once to Kurodani? I
had best take you straight to the forest of Ikuta. Let us be going.
PRIEST [describing the journey] From the shrine of Kamo, From under the shadow of the hills, We set out swiftly; Past Yamazaki to the fog-bound Shores of Minasé; And onward where the gale Tears travellers’ coats and winds about their bones. “Autumn has come to woods where yesterday We might have plucked the green.” To Settsu, to those woods of Ikuta Lo! We are come.
We have gone so fast that here we are already at the woods of Ikuta in the country of Settsu. I have heard tell in
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the Capital of the beauty of these woods and the river that runs through them. But what I see now surpasses all that I have heard.
Look! Those meadows must be the Downs of Ikuta. Let us go nearer and admire them. But while we have been going about looking at one view and another, the day has dusked. I think I see a light over there. There must be a house. Let us go to it and ask for lodging.
ATSUMORI [speaking from inside a hut] Beauty, perception, knowledge, motion, consciousness,— The Five Attributes of Being,— All are vain mockery. How comes it that men prize So weak a thing as body? For the soul that guards it from corruption Suddenly to the night-moon flies, And the poor naked ghost wails desolate In the autumn wind. Oh! I am lonely. I am lonely!
PRIEST How strange! Inside that grass-hut I see a young soldier dressed in helmet and breastplate. What can he be
doing there?
ATSUMORI Oh foolish men, was it not to meet me that you came to this place? I am—oh! I am ashamed to say it,—I am the
ghost of what once was ... Atsumori.
BOY Atsumori? My father...
CHORUS And lightly he ran, Plucked at the warrior’s sleeve, And though his tears might seem like the long woe Of nightingales that weep, Yet were they tears of meeting-joy, Of happiness too great for human heart. So think we, yet oh that we might change This fragile dream of joy Into the lasting love of waking life!
ATSUMORI Oh pitiful! To see this child, born after me, Darling that should be gay as a flower, Walking in tattered coat of old black cloth. Alas! Child, when your love of me Led you to Kamo shrine, praying to the God That, though but in a dream, You might behold my face, The God of Kamo, full of pity, came To Yama, king of Hell. King Yama listened and ordained for me A moment’s respite, but hereafter, never.
CHORUS “The moon is sinking. Come while the night is dark,” he said, “I will tell my tale.”
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ATSUMORI When the house of Taira was in its pride, When its glory was young, Among the flowers we sported, Among birds, wind and moonlight; With pipes and strings, with song and verse We welcomed Springs and Autumns. Till at last, because our time was come, Across the bridges of Kiso a host unseen Swept and devoured us. Then the whole clan Our lord leading Fled from the City of Flowers. By paths untrodden To the Western Sea our journey brought us. Lakes and hills we crossed Till we ourselves grew to be like wild men. At last by mountain ways— We too tossed hither and thither like its waves— To Suma came we, To the First Valley and the woods of Ikuta. And now while all of us, We children of Taira, were light of heart Because our homes were near, Suddenly our foes in great strength appeared.
CHORUS Noriyori, Yoshitsune,—their hosts like clouds, Like mists of spring. For a little while we fought them, But the day of our House was ended, Our hearts weakened That had been swift as arrows from the bowstring. We scattered, scattered; till at last To the deep waters of the Field of Life. We came, but how we found there Death, not Life, What profit were it to tell?
ATSUMORI Who is that? [Pointing in terror at a figure which he sees off the stage.]
Can it be Yama’s messenger? He comes to tell me that I have out-stayed my time. The Lord of Hell is angry: he asks why I am late?
CHORUS So he spoke. But behold Suddenly black clouds rise, Earth and sky resound with the clash of arms; War-demons innumerable Flash fierce sparks from brandished spears.
ATSUMORI The Shura foes who night and day Come thick about me!
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CHORUS He waves his sword and rushes among them, Hither and thither he runs slashing furiously; Fire glints upon the steel. But in a little while The dark clouds recede; The demons have vanished, The moon shines unsullied; The sky is ready for dawn.
ATSUMORA Oh! I am ashamed.... And the child to see me so....
CHORUS “To see my misery! I must go back. Oh pray for me; pray for me When I am gone,” he said, And weeping, weeping, Dropped the child’s hand. He has faded; he dwindles Like the dew from rush-leaves Of hazy meadows. His form has vanished.
Tsunemasa
Seami, Translated by Arthur Waley
Persons: The Priest Gyōkei. The Ghost of Taira No Tsunemasa. Chorus.
GYŌKEI I am Gyōkei, priest of the imperial temple Ninnaji. You must know that there was a certain prince of the House
of Taira named Tsunemasa, Lord of Tajima, who since his boyhood has enjoyed beyond all precedent the favour of our master the Emperor. But now he has been killed at the Battle of the Western Seas.
It was to this Tsunemasa in his lifetime that the Emperor had given the lute called Green Hill. And now my master bids me take it and dedicate it to Buddha, performing a liturgy of flutes and strings for the salvation of Tsunemasa’s soul. And that was my purpose in gathering these musicians together.
Truly it is said that strangers who shelter under the same tree or draw water from the same pool will be friends in another life. How much the more must intercourse of many years, kindness and favour so deep...
Surely they will be heard, The prayers that all night long With due performance of rites I have reverently repeated in this Palace For the salvation of Tsunemasa And for the awakening of his soul.
CHORUS And, more than all, we dedicate The lute Green Hill for this dead man; While pipe and flute are joined to sounds of prayer. For night and day the Gate of Law
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Stands open and the Universal Road Rejects no wayfarer.
TSUNEMASA [speaking off the stage] “The wind blowing through withered trees: rain from a cloudless sky. The moon shining on level sands: frost on a summer’s night.” Frost lying... but I, because I could not lie at rest, Am come back to the World for a while, Like a shadow that steals over the grass. I am like dews that in the morning Still cling to the grasses. Oh pitiful the longing That has beset me!
GYŌKEI How strange! Within the flame of our candle that is burning low because the night is far spent, suddenly I
seemed to see a man’s shadow dimly appearing. Who can be here?
TSUNEMASA [his shadow disappearing] I am the ghost of Tsunemasa. The sound of your prayers has brought me in visible shape before you.
GYŌKEI “I am the ghost of Tsunemasa,” he said, but when I looked to where the voice had sounded nothing was there,
neither substance nor shadow!
TSUNEMASA Only a voice,
GYŌKEI A dim voice whispers where the shadow of a man Visibly lay, but when I looked
TSUNEMASA It had vanished—
GYŌKEI This flickering form ...
TSUNEMASA Like haze over the fields.
CHORUS Only as a tricking magic, A bodiless vision, Can he hover in the world of his lifetime, Swift-changing Tsunemasa. By this name we call him, yet of the body That men named so, what is left but longing? What but the longing to look again, through the wall of death, On one he loved? “Sooner shall the waters in its garden cease to flow Than I grow weary of living in the Palace of my Lord.” Like a dream he has come, Like a morning dream.
GYŌKEI How strange! When the form of Tsunemasa had vanished, his voice lingered and spoke to me! Am I dreaming
or waking? I cannot tell. But this I know,—that by the power of my incantations I have had converse with the dead. Oh! marvellous potency of the Law!
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Noh Plays
TSUNEMASA It was long ago that I came to the Palace. I was but a boy then, but all the world knew me; for I was marked with
the love of our Lord, with the favour of an Emperor. And, among many gifts, he gave to me once while I was in the World this lute which you have dedicated. My fingers were ever on its strings.
CHORUS Plucking them even as now This music plucks at your heart; The sound of the plectrum, then as now Divine music fulfilling The vows of Sarasvati. But this Tsunemasa, Was he not from the days of his childhood pre-eminent In faith, wisdom, benevolence, Honour and courtesy; yet for his pleasure Ever of birds and flowers, Of wind and moonlight making Ballads and songs to join their harmony To pipes and lutes? So springs and autumns passed he. But in a World that is as dew, As dew on the grasses, as foam upon the waters, What flower lasteth?
GYŌKEI For the dead man’s sake we play upon this lute Green Hill that he loved when he was in the World. We follow
the lute-music with a concord of many instruments. [Music.]
TSUNEMASA And while they played the dead man stole up behind them. Though he could not be seen by the light of the
candle, they felt him pluck the lute-strings....
GYŌKEI It is midnight. He is playing Yabanraku, the dance of midnight-revel. And now that we have shaken sleep from
our eyes...
TSUNEMASA The sky is clear, yet there is a sound as of sudden rain....
GYŌKEI Rain beating carelessly on trees and grasses. What season’s music ought we to play?
TSUNEMASA No. It is not rain. Look! At the cloud’s fringe
CHORUS The moon undimmed Hangs over the pine-woods of Narabi Hills. It was the wind you heard; The wind blowing through the pine-leaves Pattered, like the falling of winter rain. O wonderful hour! “The big strings crashed and sobbed Like the falling of winter rain. And the little strings whispered secretly together. The first and second string Were like a wind sweeping through pine-woods,
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Murmuring disjointedly. The third and fourth string Were like the voice of a caged stork Crying for its little ones at night In low, dejected notes.” The night must not cease. The cock shall not crow And put an end to his wandering.
TSUNEMASA “One note of the phœnix-flute
CHORUS Shakes the autumn clouds from the mountain-side.” The phœnix and his mate swoop down Charmed by its music, beat their wings And dance in rapture, perched upon the swaying boughs Of kiri and bamboo. [Dance.]
TSUNEMASA Oh terrible anguish! For a little while I was back in the World and my heart set on its music, on revels of midnight. But now the hate
is rising in me....
GYŌKEI The shadow that we saw before is still visible. Can it be Tsunemasa?
TSUNEMASA Oh! I am ashamed; I must not let them see me. Put out your candle.
CHORUS “Let us turn away from the candle and watch together The midnight moon.” Lo, he who holds the moon, The god Indra, in battle appeareth Warring upon demons. Fire leaps from their swords, The sparks of their own anger fall upon them like rain. To wound another he draws his sword, But it is from his own flesh That the red waves flow; Like flames they cover him. “Oh, I am ashamed of the woes that consume me. No man must see me. I will put out the candle!” he said; For a foolish man is like a summer moth that flies into the flame. The wind that blew out the candle Carried him away. In the darkness his ghost has vanished. The shadow of his ghost has vanished.
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Noh Plays
THE TALE OF GENJI
Murasaki Shikibu (ca. 978-1014 C.E.)
Composed ca. 1010 C.E. Japan
The Tale of Genji, regarded as the world’s first novel, is a Japanese monogatari (i.e., a long, Japanese, fictional narrative of different literary elements), written by Murasaki Shikibu, an eleventh-century court lady. Written in the Heian period (794-1185 C.E.) in Japan, when Chinese was the serious scholarly language and prose was consid- ered inferior to poetry, The Tale of Genji revealed a vast knowledge of both Chinese and Japanese poetry in graceful prose. The novel is about Prince Genji and his legacy in fifty-four chapters and entails about eight hundred waka (a poetic form consisting of 31 syllables) courtly poems. It sheds light on the aristocratic culture in early Heian Japan and conveys sensitive narratives about human emotions and natural beauty. The first complete English translation (1925-33 C.E.) was by Arthur Waley, and other English translations include Edward Seidensticker’s (1976) and Royall Tyler’s (2001).
Written by Kyounghye Kwon
“Genji Monogatari” Selections from Japanese Literature
Murasaki Shikib, Translated by Suyematz Kenchio
Chapter I The Chamber of Kiri
In the reign of a certain Emperor, whose name is unknown to us, there was, among the Niogo and Koyi of the Imperial Court, one who, though she was not of high birth, enjoyed the full tide of Royal favor. Hence her superi- ors, each one of whom had always been thinking—“I shall be the one,” gazed upon her disdainfully with malignant eyes, and her equals and inferiors were more indignant still.
Such being the state of affairs, the anxiety which she had to endure was great and constant, and this was prob- ably the reason why her health was at last so much affected, that she was often compelled to absent herself from Court, and to retire to the residence of her mother.
Her father, who was a Dainagon, was dead; but her mother, being a woman of good sense, gave her every possi- ble guidance in the due performance of Court ceremony, so that in this respect she seemed but little different from those whose fathers and mothers were still alive to bring them before public notice, yet, nevertheless, her friendli- ness made her oftentimes feel very diffident from the want of any patron of influence.
These circumstances, however, only tended to make the favor shown to her by the Emperor wax warmer and warmer, and it was even shown to such an extent as to become a warning to after-generations. There had been in- stances in China in which favoritism such as this had caused national disturbance and disaster; and thus the matter became a subject of public animadversion, and it seemed not improbable that people would begin to allude even to the example of Yo-ki-hi.
In due course, and in consequence, we may suppose, of the Divine blessing on the sincerity of their affection, a jewel of a little prince was born to her. The first prince who had been born to the Emperor was the child of Koki-den-Niogo, the daughter of the Udaijin (a great officer of State). Not only was he first in point of age, but his influence on his mother’s side was so great that public opinion had almost unanimously fixed upon him as heir-apparent. Of this the Emperor was fully conscious, and he only regarded the new-born child with that affection which one lavishes on a domestic favorite. Nevertheless, the mother of the first prince had, not unnatu- rally, a foreboding that unless matters were managed adroitly her child might be superseded by the younger one. She, we may observe, had been established at Court before any other lady, and had more children than one. The Emperor, therefore, was obliged to treat her with due respect, and reproaches from her always affected him more keenly than those of any others.
To return to her rival. Her constitution was extremely delicate, as we have seen already, and she was surrounded by those who would fain lay bare, so to say, her hidden scars. Her apartments in the palace were Kiri-Tsubo (the chamber of Kiri); so called from the trees that were planted around. In visiting her there the Emperor had to pass
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before several other chambers, whose occupants universally chafed when they saw it. And again, when it was her turn to attend upon the Emperor, it often hap- pened that they played off mischievous pranks upon her, at different points in the corridor, which leads to the Imperial quarters. Sometimes they would soil the skirts of her attendants, sometimes they would shut against her the door of the covered portico, where no other passage existed; and thus, in every possible way, they one and all combined to annoy her.
The Emperor at length became aware of this, and gave her, for her special cham- ber, another apartment, which was in the Koro-Den, and which was quite close to those in which he himself resided. It had been originally occupied by another lady who was now removed, and thus fresh resentment was aroused.
When the young Prince was three years old the Hakamagi took place. It was celebrated with a pomp scarcely inferior to that which adorned the investiture
of the first Prince. In fact, all available treasures were exhausted on the occasion. And again the public manifested its disapprobation. In the summer of the same year the Kiri-Tsubo-Koyi became ill, and wished to retire from the palace. The Emperor, however, who was accustomed to see her indisposed, strove to induce her to remain. But her illness increased day by day; and she had drooped and pined away until she was now but a shadow of her former self. She made scarcely any response to the affectionate words and expressions of tenderness which her Royal lover caressingly bestowed upon her. Her eyes were half-closed: she lay like a fading flower in the last stage of exhaustion, and she became so much enfeebled that her mother appeared before the Emperor and entreated with tears that she might be allowed to leave. Distracted by his vain endeavors to devise means to aid her, the Emperor at length ordered a Te-gruma to be in readiness to convey her to her own home, but even then he went to her apartment and cried despairingly: “Did not we vow that we would neither of us be either before or after the other even in travelling the last long journey of life? And can you find it in your heart to leave me now?” Sadly and tenderly looking up, she thus replied, with almost failing breath:—
“Since my departure for this dark journey, Makes you so sad and lonely, Fain would I stay though weak and weary, And live for your sake only!”
“Had I but known this before—” She appeared to have much more to say, but was too weak to continue. Overpowered with grief, the Emperor at
one moment would fain accompany her himself, and at another moment would have her remain to the end where she then was.
At the last, her departure was hurried, because the exorcism for the sick had been appointed to take place on that evening at her home, and she went. The child Prince, however, had been left in the Palace, as his mother wished, even at that time, to make her withdrawal as privately as possible, so as to avoid any invidious observations on the part of her rivals. To the Emperor the night now became black with gloom. He sent messenger after mes- senger to make inquiries, and could not await their return with patience. Midnight came, and with it the sound of lamentation. The messenger, who could do nothing else, hurried back with the sad tidings of the truth. From that moment the mind of the Emperor was darkened, and he confined himself to his private apartments.
He would still have kept with himself the young Prince now motherless, but there was no precedent for this, and it was arranged that he should be sent to his grandmother for the mourning. The child, who understood noth- ing, looked with amazement at the sad countenances of the Emperor, and of those around him. All separations have their sting, but sharp indeed was the sting in a case like this.
Now the funeral took place. The weeping and wailing mother, who might have longed to mingle in the same flames, entered a carriage, accompanied by female mourners. The procession arrived at the cemetery of Otagi, and the solemn rites commenced. What were then the thoughts of the desolate mother? The image of her dead daughter
Image 8.4: Murasaki Shikibu | Statue of Lady Murasaki kneeling down, holding folds of fabric.
Author: User “FlickreviewR” Source: Wikimedia Commons License: CC BY-SA 2.0
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was still vividly present to her—still seemed animated with life. She must see her remains become ashes to convince herself that she was really dead. During the ceremony, an Imperial messenger came from the Palace, and invest- ed the dead with the title of Sammi. The letters patent were read, and listened to in solemn silence. The Emperor conferred this title now in regret that during her lifetime he had not even promoted her position from a Koyi to a Niogo, and wishing at this last moment to raise her title at least one step higher. Once more several tokens of disapprobation were manifested against the proceeding. But, in other respects, the beauty of the departed, and her gracious bearing, which had ever commanded admiration, made people begin to think of her with sympathy. It was the excess of the Emperor’s favor which had created so many detractors during her lifetime; but now even rivals felt pity for her; and if any did not, it was in the Koki-den. “When one is no more, the memory becomes so dear,” may be an illustration of a case such as this.
Some days passed, and due requiem services were carefully performed. The Emperor was still plunged in thought, and no society had attractions for him. His constant consolation was to send messengers to the grand- mother of the child, and to make inquiries after them. It was now autumn, and the evening winds blew chill and cold. The Emperor—who, when he saw the first Prince, could not refrain from thinking of the younger one—be- came more thoughtful than ever; and, on this evening, he sent Yugei-no Miobu to repeat his inquiries. She went as the new moon just rose, and the Emperor stood and contemplated from his veranda the prospect spread before him. At such moments he had usually been surrounded by a few chosen friends, one of whom was almost invari- ably his lost love. Now she was no more. The thrilling notes of her music, the touching strains of her melodies, stole over him in his dark and dreary reverie.
The Miobu arrived at her destination; and, as she drove in, a sense of sadness seized upon her. The owner of the house had long been a widow; but the residence, in former times, had been made beautiful for
the pleasure of her only daughter. Now, bereaved of this daughter, she dwelt alone; and the grounds were overgrown with weeds, which here and there lay prostrated by the violence of the winds; while over them, fair as elsewhere, gleamed the mild lustre of the impartial moon. The Miobu entered, and was led into a front room in the southern part of the building. At first the hostess and the messenger were equally at a loss for words. At length the silence was broken by the hostess, who said:—
“Already have I felt that I have lived too long, but doubly do I feel it now that I am visited by such a messenger as you.” Here she paused, and seemed unable to contend with her emotion.
“When Naishi-no-Ske returned from you,” said the Miobu, “she reported to the Emperor that when she saw you, face to face, her sympathy for you was irresistible. I, too, see now how true it is!” A moment’s hesitation, and she proceeded to deliver the Imperial message:—
“The Emperor commanded me to say that for some time he had wandered in his fancy, and imagined he was but in a dream; and that, though he was now more tranquil, he could not find that it was only a dream. Again, that there is no one who can really sympathize with him; and he hopes that you will come to the Palace, and talk with him. His Majesty said also that the absence of the Prince made him anxious, and that he is desirous that you should speedily make up your mind. In giving me this message, he did not speak with readiness. He seemed to fear to be considered unmanly, and strove to exercise reserve. I could not help experiencing sympathy with him, and hurried away here, almost fearing that, perhaps, I had not quite caught his full meaning.”
So saying, she presented to her a letter from the Emperor. The lady’s sight was dim and indistinct. Taking it, therefore, to the lamp, she said, “Perhaps the light will help me to decipher,” and then read as follows, much in uni- son with the oral message: “I thought that time only would assuage my grief; but time only brings before me more vividly my recollection of the lost one. Yet, it is inevitable. How is my boy? Of him, too, I am always thinking. Time once was when we both hoped to bring him up together. May he still be to you a memento of his mother!”
Such was the brief outline of the letter, and it contained the following:— “The sound of the wind is dull and drear Across Miyagi’s dewy lea, And makes me mourn for the motherless
deer That sleeps beneath the Hagi tree.” She put gently the letter aside, and said, “Life and the world are irksome to me; and you can see, then, how re-
luctantly I should present myself at the Palace. I cannot go myself, though it is painful to me to seem to neglect the honored command. As for the little Prince, I know not why he thought of it, but he seems quite willing to go. This is very natural. Please to inform his Majesty that this is our position. Very possibly, when one remembers the birth of the young Prince, it would not be well for him to spend too much of his time as he does now.”
Then she wrote quickly a short answer, and handed it to the Miobu. At this time her grandson was sleeping soundly.
“I should like to see the boy awake, and to tell the Emperor all about him, but he will already be impatiently awaiting my return,” said the messenger. And she prepared to depart.
“It would be a relief to me to tell you how a mother laments over her departed child. Visit me, then, sometimes, if you can, as a friend, when you are not engaged or pressed for time. Formerly, when you came here, your visit was
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ever glad and welcome; now I see in you the messenger of woe. More and more my life seems aimless to me. From the time of my child’s birth, her father always looked forward to her being presented at Court, and when dying he repeatedly enjoined me to carry out that wish. You know that my daughter had no patron to watch over her, and I well knew how difficult would be her position among her fellow-maidens.
Yet, I did not disobey her father’s request, and she went to Court. There the Emperor showed her a kindness be- yond our hopes. For the sake of that kindness she uncomplainingly endured all the cruel taunts of envious compan- ions. But their envy ever deepening, and her troubles ever increasing, at last she passed away, worn out, as it were, with care. When I think of the matter in that light, the kindest favors seem to me fraught with misfortune. Ah! that the blind affection of a mother should make me talk in this way!”
“The thoughts of his Majesty may be even as your own,” said the Miobu. “Often when he alluded to his over- powering affection for her, he said that perhaps all this might have been because their love was destined not to last long. And that though he ever strove not to injure any subject, yet for Kiri-Tsubo, and for her alone, he had some- times caused the ill-will of others; that when all this has been done, she was no more! All this he told me in deep gloom, and added that it made him ponder on their previous existence.”
The night was now far advanced, and again the Miobu rose to take leave. The moon was sailing down westward and the cool breeze was waving the herbage to and fro, in which numerous mushi were plaintively singing. The messenger, being still somehow unready to start, hummed—
“Fain would one weep the whole night long, As weeps the Sudu-Mushi’s song, Who chants her melancholy lay, Till night and darkness pass away.”
As she still lingered, the lady took up the refrain— “To the heath where the Sudu-Mushi sings, From beyond the clouds one comes from on high And more dews
on the grass around she flings, And adds her own, to the night wind’s sigh.” A Court dress and a set of beautiful ornamental hairpins, which had belonged to Kiri-Tsubo, were presented to
the Miobu by her hostess, who thought that these things, which her daughter had left to be available on such occa- sions, would be a more suitable gift, under present circumstances, than any other.
On the return of the Miobu she found that the Emperor had not yet retired to rest. He was really awaiting her return, but was apparently engaged in admiring the Tsubo-Senzai—or stands of flowers—which were placed in front of the palaces, and in which the flowers were in full bloom. With him were four or five ladies, his intimate friends, with whom he was conversing. In these days his favorite topic of conversation was the “Long Regret.” Noth- ing pleased him more than to gaze upon the picture of that poem, which had been painted by Prince Teishi-In, or to talk about the native poems on the same subject, which had been composed, at the Royal command, by Ise, the poetess, and by Tsurayuki, the poet. And it was in this way that he was engaged on this particular evening.
To him the Miobu now went immediately, and she faithfully reported to him all that she had seen, and she gave to him also the answer to his letter. That letter stated that the mother of Kiri-Tsubo felt honored by his gracious inquiries, and that she was so truly grateful that she scarcely knew how to express herself. She proceeded to say that his condescension made her feel at liberty to offer to him the following:—
“Since now no fostering love is found, And the Hagi tree is dead and sere, The motherless deer lies on the ground, Helpless and weak, no shelter near.”
The Emperor strove in vain to repress his own emotion; and old memories, dating from the time when he first saw his favorite, rose up before him fast and thick. “How precious has been each moment to me, but yet what a long time has elapsed since then,” thought he, and he said to the Miobu, “How often have I, too, desired to see the daughter of the Dainagon in such a position as her father would have desired to see her. ‘Tis in vain to speak of that now!”
A pause, and he continued, “The child, however, may survive, and fortune may have some boon in store for him; and his grandmother’s prayer should rather be for long life.”
The presents were then shown to him. “Ah,” thought he, “could they be the souvenirs sent by the once lost love,” as he murmured—
“Oh, could I find some wizard sprite, To bear my words to her I love, Beyond the shades of envious night, To where she dwells in realms above!”
Now the picture of beautiful Yo-ki-hi, however skilful the painter may have been, is after all only a picture. It lacks life and animation. Her features may have been worthily compared to the lotus and to the willow of the Impe- rial gardens, but the style after all was Chinese, and to the Emperor his lost love was all in all, nor, in his eyes, was any other object comparable to her. Who doubts that they, too, had vowed to unite wings, and intertwine branches! But to what end? The murmur of winds, the music of insects, now only served to cause him melancholy.
In the meantime, in the Koki-Den was heard the sound of music. She who dwelt there, and who had not now for a long time been with the Emperor, was heedlessly protracting her strains until this late hour of the evening.
How painfully must these have sounded to the Emperor!
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“Moonlight is gone, and darkness reigns E’en in the realms ‘above the clouds,’ Ah! how can light, or tranquil peace, Shine o’er that lone and lowly home!”
Thus thought the Emperor, and he did not retire until “the lamps were trimmed to the end!” The sound of the night watch of the right guard was now heard. It was five o’clock in the morning. So, to avoid notice, he withdrew to his bedroom, but calm slumber hardly visited his eyes. This now became a common occurrence.
When he rose in the morning he would reflect on the time gone by when “they knew not even that the case- ment was bright.” But now, too, he would neglect “Morning Court.” His appetite failed him. The delicacies of the so- called “great table” had no temptation for him. Men pitied him much. “There must have been some divine mystery that predetermined the course of their love,” said they, “for in matters in which she is concerned he is powerless to reason, and wisdom deserts him. The welfare of the State ceases to interest him.” And now people actually began to quote instances that had occurred in a foreign Court.
Weeks and months had elapsed, and the son of Kiri-Tsubo was again at the Palace. In the spring of the follow- ing year the first Prince was proclaimed heir-apparent to the throne. Had the Emperor consulted his private feel- ings, he would have substituted the younger Prince for the elder one. But this was not possible, and, especially for this reason:—There was no influential party to support him, and, moreover, public opinion would also have been strongly opposed to such a measure, which, if effected by arbitrary power, would have become a source of danger. The Emperor, therefore, betrayed no such desire, and repressed all outward appearance of it. And now the public expressed its satisfaction at the self-restraint of the Emperor, and the mother of the first Prince felt at ease.
In this year, the mother of Kiri-Tsubo departed this life. She may not improbably have longed to follow her daughter at an earlier period; and the only regret to which she gave utterance, was that she was forced to leave her grandson, whom she had so tenderly loved.
From this time the young Prince took up his residence in the Imperial palace; and next year, at the age of seven, he began to learn to read and write under the personal superintendence of the Emperor. He now began to take him into the private apartments, among others, of the Koki-den, saying, “The mother is gone! now at least, let the child be received with better feeling.” And if even stony-hearted warriors, or bitter enemies, if any such there were, smiled when they saw the boy, the mother of the heir-apparent, too, could not entirely exclude him from her sympathies. This lady had two daughters, and they found in their half-brother a pleasant playmate. Every one was pleased to greet him, and there was already a winning coquetry in his manners, which amused people, and made them like to play with him. We need not allude to his studies in detail, but on musical instruments, such as the flute and the koto, he also showed great proficiency.
About this time there arrived an embassy from Corea, and among them was an excellent physiognomist. When the Emperor heard of this, he wished to have the Prince examined by him. It was, however, contrary to the warn- ings of the Emperor Wuda, to call in foreigners to the Palace. The Prince was, therefore, disguised as the son of one Udaiben, his instructor, with whom he was sent to the Koro-Kwan, where foreign embassies are entertained.
When the physiognomist saw him, he was amazed, and, turning his own head from side to side, seemed at first to be unable to comprehend the lines of his features, and then said, “His physiognomy argues that he might ascend to the highest position in the State, but, in that case, his reign will be disturbed, and many misfortunes will ensue. If, however, his position should only be that of a great personage in the country, his fortune may be different.”
This Udaiben was a clever scholar. He had with the Corean pleasant conversations, and they also interchanged with one another some Chinese poems, in one of which the Corean said what great pleasure it had given him to have seen before his departure, which was now imminent, a youth of such remarkable promise. The Coreans made some valuable presents to the Prince, who had also composed a few lines, and to them, too, many costly gifts were offered from the Imperial treasures.
In spite of all the precautions which were taken to keep all this rigidly secret, it did, somehow or other, become known to others, and among those to the Udaijin, who, not unnaturally, viewed it with suspicion, and began to en- tertain doubts of the Emperor’s intentions. The latter, however, acted with great prudence. It must be remembered that, as yet, he had not even created the boy a Royal Prince. He now sent for a native physiognomist, who approved of his delay in doing so, and whose observations to this effect, the Emperor did not receive unfavorably. He wise- ly thought to be a Royal Prince, without having any influential support on the mother’s side, would be of no real advantage to his son. Moreover, his own tenure of power seemed precarious, and he, therefore, thought it better for his own dynasty, as well as for the Prince, to keep him in a private station, and to constitute him an outside support- er of the Royal cause.
And now he took more and more pains with his education in different branches of learning; and the more the boy studied, the more talent did he evince—talent almost too great for one destined to remain in a private station. Nevertheless, as we have said, suspicions would have been aroused had Royal rank been conferred upon him, and the astrologists, whom also the Emperor consulted, having expressed their disapproval of such a measure, the Em- peror finally made up his mind to create a new family. To this family he assigned the name of Gen, and he made the
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young Prince the founder of it. Some time had now elapsed since the death of the Emperor’s favorite, but he was still often haunted by her im-
age. Ladies were introduced into his presence, in order, if possible, to divert his attention, but without success. There was, however, living at this time a young Princess, the fourth child of a late Emperor. She had great prom-
ise of beauty, and was guarded with jealous care by her mother, the Empress-Dowager. The Naishi-no-Ske, who had been at the Court from the time of the said Emperor, was intimately acquainted with the Empress and familiar with the Princess, her daughter, from her very childhood. This person now recommended the Emperor to see the Princess, because her features closely resembled those of Kiri-Tsubo.
“I have now fulfilled,” she said, “the duties of my office under three reigns, and, as yet, I have seen but one person who resembles the departed. The daughter of the Empress-Dowager does resemble her, and she is singularly beautiful.”
“There may be some truth in this,” thought the Emperor, and he began to regard her with awakening interest. This was related to the Empress-Dowager. She, however, gave no encouragement whatever to the idea, “How
terrible!” she said. “Do we not remember the cruel harshness of the mother of the Heir-apparent, which hastened the fate of Kiri-Tsubo!”
While thus discountenancing any intimacy between her daughter and the Emperor, she too died, and the princess was left parentless. The Emperor acted with great kindness, and intimated his wish to regard her as his own daughter. In consequence of this her guardian, and her brother, Prince Hiob-Kio, considering that life at Court would be better for her and more attractive for her than the quiet of her own home, obtained for her an introduc- tion there.
She was styled the Princess Fuji-Tsubo (of the Chamber of Wistaria), from the name of the chamber which was assigned to her.
There was, indeed, both in features and manners a strange resemblance between her and Kiri-Tsubo. The rivals of the latter constantly caused pain both to herself and to the Emperor; but the illustrious birth of the Princess pre- vented any one from ever daring to humiliate her, and she uniformly maintained the dignity of her position. And to her alas! the Emperor’s thoughts were now gradually drawn, though he could not yet be said to have forgotten Kiri-Tsubo.
The young Prince, whom we now style Genji (the Gen), was still with the Emperor, and passed his time pleas- antly enough in visiting the various apartments where the inmates of the palace resided. He found the companion- ship of all of them sufficiently agreeable; but beside the many who were now of maturer years, there was one who was still in the bloom of her youthful beauty, and who more particularly caught his fancy, the Princess Wistaria. He had no recollection of his mother, but he had been told by Naishi-no-Ske that this lady was exceedingly like her; and for this reason he often yearned to see her and to be with her.
The Emperor showed equal affection to both of them, and he sometimes told her that he hoped she would not treat the boy with coldness or think him forward. He said that his affection for the one made him feel the same for the other too, and that the mutual resemblance of her own and of his mother’s face easily accounted for Genji’s par- tiality to her. And thus as a result of this generous feeling on the part of the Emperor, a warmer tinge was gradually imparted both to the boyish humor and to the awakening sentiment of the young Prince.
The mother of the Heir-apparent was not unnaturally averse to the Princess, and this revived her old antipathy to Genji also. The beauty of her son, the Heir-apparent, though remarkable, could not be compared to his, and so bright and radiant was his face that Genji was called by the public Hikal-Genji-no-Kimi (the shining Prince Gen).
When he attained the age of twelve the ceremony of Gembuk (or crowning) took place. This was also per- formed with all possible magnificence. Various fêtes, which were to take place in public, were arranged by special order by responsible officers of the Household. The Royal chair was placed in the Eastern wing of the Seirio-Den, where the Emperor dwells, and in front of it were the seats of the hero of the ceremony and of the Sadaijin, who was to crown him and to regulate the ceremonial.
About ten o’clock in the forenoon Genji appeared on the scene. The boyish style of his hair and dress excellent- ly became his features; and it almost seemed matter for regret that it should be altered. The Okura-Kio-Kurahito, whose office it was to rearrange the hair of Genji, faltered as he did so. As to the Emperor, a sudden thought stole into his mind. “Ah! could his mother but have lived to have seen him now!” This thought, however, he at once suppressed. After he had been crowned the Prince withdrew to a dressing-room, where he attired himself in the full robes of manhood. Then descending to the Court-yard he performed a measured dance in grateful acknowledg- ment. This he did with so much grace and skill that all present were filled with admiration; and his beauty, which some feared might be lessened, seemed only more remarkable from the change. And the Emperor, who had before tried to resist them, now found old memories irresistible.
Sadaijin had by his wife, who was a Royal Princess, an only daughter. The Heir-apparent had taken some notice of her, but her father did not encourage him. He had, on the other hand, some idea of Genji, and had sounded the
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Emperor on the subject. He regarded the idea with favor, and especially on the ground that such a union would be of advantage to Genji, who had not yet any influential supporters.
Now all the Court and the distinguished visitors were assembled in the palace, where a great festival was held; Genji occupied a seat next to that of the Royal Princess. During the entertainment Sadaijin whispered something several times into his ear, but he was too young and diffident to make any answer.
Sadaijin was now summoned before the daïs of the Emperor, and, according to custom, an Imperial gift, a white O-Uchiki (grand robe), and a suit of silk vestments were presented to him by a lady. Then proffering his own wine- cup, the Emperor addressed him thus:—
“In the first hair-knot of youth, Let love that lasts for age be bound!” This evidently implied an idea of matrimony. Sadaijin feigned surprise and responded:— “Aye! if the purple of the cord, I bound so anxiously, endure!” He then descended into the Court-yard, and gave expression to his thanks in the same manner in which Genji
had previously done. A horse from the Imperial stables and a falcon from the Kurand-Dokoro were on view in the yard, and were now presented to him. The princes and nobles were all gathered together in front of the grand stair- case, and appropriate gifts were also presented to each one of them. Among the crowd baskets and trays of fruits and delicacies were distributed by the Emperor’s order, under the direction of Udaiben; and more rice-cakes and other things were given away now than at the Gembuk of the Heir-apparent.
In the evening the young Prince went to the mansion of the Sadaijin, where the espousal with the young daughter of the latter was celebrated with much splendor. The youthfulness of the beautiful boy was well pleasing to Sadaijin; but the bride, who was some years older than he was, and who considered the disparity in their age to be unsuitable, blushed when she thought of it.
Not only was this Sadaijin himself a distinguished personage in the State, but his wife was also the sister of the Emperor by the same mother, the late Empress; and her rank therefore was unequivocal. When to this we add the union of their daughter with Genji, it was easy to understand that the influence of Udaijin, the grandfather of the Heir-apparent, and who therefore seemed likely to attain great power, was not after all of very much moment.
Sadaijin had several children. One of them, who was the issue of his Royal wife, was the Kurand Shioshio. Udaijin was not, for political reasons, on good terms with this family; but nevertheless he did not wish to es-
trange the youthful Kurand. On the contrary, he endeavored to establish friendly relations with him, as was indeed desirable, and he went so far as to introduce him to his fourth daughter, the younger sister of the Koki-Den.
Genji still resided in the palace, where his society was a source of much pleasure to the Emperor, and he did not take up his abode in a private house. Indeed, his bride, Lady Aoi (Lady Hollyhock), though her position insured her every attention from others, had few charms for him, and the Princess Wistaria much more frequently occupied his thoughts. “How pleasant her society, and how few like her!” he was always thinking; and a hidden bitterness blended with his constant reveries.
The years rolled on, and Genji being now older was no longer allowed to continue his visits to the private rooms of the Princess as before. But the pleasure of overhearing her sweet voice, as its strains flowed occasionally through the curtained casement, and blended with the music of the flute and koto, made him still glad to reside in the Pal- ace. Under these circumstances he seldom visited the home of his bride, sometimes only for a day or two after an absence of five or six at Court.
His father-in-law, however, did not attach much importance to this, on account of his youth; and whenever they did receive a visit from him, pleasant companions were invited to meet him, and various games likely to suit his taste were provided for his entertainment.
In the Palace, Shigeisa, his late mother’s quarters, was allotted to him, and those who had waited on her wait- ed on him. The private house, where his grandmother had resided, was beautifully repaired for him by the Shuri Takmi—the Imperial Repairing Committee—in obedience to the wishes of the Emperor. In addition to the original loveliness of the landscape and the noble forest ranges, the basin of the lake was now enlarged, and similar improve- ments were effected throughout with the greatest pains. “Oh, how delightful would it not be to be in a place like that which such an one as one might choose!” thought Genji within himself.
We may here also note that the name Hikal Genji is said to have been originated by the Corean who examined his physiognomy.
Chapter II The Broom-Like Tree
Hikal Genji—the name is singularly well known, and is the subject of innumerable remarks and censures. In- deed, he had many intrigues in his lifetime, and most of them are vividly preserved in our memories. He had always striven to keep all these intrigues in the utmost secrecy, and had to appear constantly virtuous. This caution was ob-
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served to such an extent that he scarcely accomplished anything really romantic, a fact which Katano-no-Shioshio would have ridiculed.
Even with such jealous watchfulness, secrets easily transpire from one to another; so loquacious is man! More- over, he had unfortunately from nature a disposition of not appreciating anything within easy reach, but of direct- ing his thought in undesirable quarters, hence sundry improprieties in his career.
Now, it was the season of continuous rain (namely, the month of May), and the Court was keeping a strict Monoimi. Genji, who had now been made a Chiujio, and who was still continuing his residence in the Imperial Pal- ace, was also confined to his apartments for a considerable length of time. His father-in-law naturally felt for him, and his sons were sent to bear him company. Among these, Kurand Shioshio, who was now elevated to the post of To-no-Chiujio, proved to be the most intimate and interesting companion. He was married to the fourth daughter of the Udaijin, but being a man of lively disposition, he, too, like Genji, did not often resort to the mansion of the bride. When Genji went to the Sadaijin’s he was always his favorite associate; they were together in their studies and in their sports, and accompanied each other everywhere. And so all stiffness and formality were dispensed with, and they did not scruple to reveal their secrets to each other.
It was on an evening in the above-mentioned season. Rain was falling drearily. The inhabitants of the Palace had almost all retired, and the apartment of Genji was more than usually still. He was engaged in reading near a lamp, but at length mechanically put his book aside, and began to take out some letters and writings from a bureau which stood on one side of the room. To-no-Chiujio happened to be present, and Genji soon gathered from his countenance that he was anxious to look over them.
“Yes,” said Genji; “some you may see, but there may be others!” “Those others,” retorted To-no-Chiujio, “are precisely those which I wish to see; ordinary ones, even your hum-
ble servant may have received. I only long to look upon those which may have been written by fair hands, when the tender writer had something to complain of, or when in twilight hour she was outpouring all her yearning!”
Being so pressed, Genji allowed his brother-in-law to see them all. It is, however, highly probable that any very sacred letters would not have been loosely deposited in an ordinary bureau; and these would therefore seem, after all, to have been of second-rate importance.
“What a variety,” said To-no-Chiujio, as he turned them over, and he asked several questions guessingly about this or that. About some he guessed correctly, about others he was puzzled and suspicious. Genji smiled and spoke little, only making some obscure remark, and continuing as he took the letters: “but you, surely, must have collected many. Will not you show me some? And then my bureau also may open more easily.”
“You do not suppose that I have any worth reading, do you?” replied To-no-Chiujio. “I have only just now discovered,” continued he, “how difficult it is to meet with a fair creature, of whom one can say, ‘This is, indeed, the one; here is, at last, perfection.’ There are, indeed, many who fascinate; many who are ready with their pens, and who, when occasion may require, are quick at repartee. But how often such girls as these are conceited about their own accomplishments, and endeavor unduly to disparage those of others! There are again some who are special pets of their parents, and most jealously watched over at home. Often, no doubt, they are pretty, often graceful; and frequently they will apply themselves with effect to music and to poetry, in which they may even attain to special excellence. But then, their friends will keep their drawbacks in the dark, and eulogize their merits to the utmost. If we were to give full credence to this exaggerated praise, we could not but fail in every single instance to be more or less disappointed.”
So saying To-no-Chiujio paused, and appeared as if he were ashamed of having such an experience, when Genji smilingly remarked, “Can any one of them, however, exist without at least one good point?
“Nay, were there any so little favored as that, no one would ever be misled at all!” replied To-no-Chiujio, and he continued, “In my opinion, the most and the least favored are in the same proportion. I mean, they are both not many. Their birth, also, divides them into three classes. Those, however, who are especially well born, are often too jealously guarded, and are, for the most part, kept secluded from the outside gaze, which frequently tends to make their deportment shy and timid. It is those of the middle class, who are much more frequently seen by us, who afford us most chance of studying their character. As for the lower class, it would be almost useless to trouble ourselves with them.”
Thus To-no-Chiujio appeared to be thoroughly at home in his description of the merits of the fair sex, which made Genji amused, and he said: “But how do you define the classes you have referred to, and classify them into three? Those who are of high birth sink sometimes in the social scale until the distinction of their rank is forgotten in the abjectness of their present position. Others, again, of low origin, rise to a high position, and, with self-im- portant faces and in ostentatious residences, regard themselves as inferior to none. Into what class will you allot these?”
Just at this moment the Sama-no-Kami and To Shikib-no-Jio joined the party. They came to pay their respects to Genji, and both of them were gay and light-hearted talkers. So To-no-Chiujio now made over the discussion to
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them, and it was carried to rather questionable lengths. “However exalted a lady’s position may be,” said Sama-no-Kami, “if her origin is an unenviable one, the estima-
tion of the public for her would be widely different from that which it shows to those who are naturally entitled to it. If, again, adverse fortune assails one whose birth is high, so that she becomes friendless and helpless, degradation here will meet our eyes, though her heart may still remain as noble as ever. Examples of both of these are very com- mon. After much reflection, I can only come to the conclusion that both of them should be included in the middle class. In this class, too, must be included many daughters of the Durio, who occupy themselves with local adminis- tration. These ladies are often very attractive, and are not seldom introduced at Court and enjoy high favor.”
“And successes depend pretty much upon the state of one’s fortune, I fancy,” interrupted Genji, with a placid smile.
“That is a remark very unlikely to fall from the lips of a champion of romance,” chimed in To-no-Chiujio. “There may be some,” resumed Sama-no-Kami, “who are of high birth, and to whom public respect is duly
paid, yet whose domestic education has been much neglected. Of a lady such as this we may simply remark, ‘Why, and how, is it that she is so brought up?’ and she would only cause discredit to her class. There are, of course, some who combine in themselves every perfection befitting their position. These best of the best are, however, not within every one’s reach. But, listen! Within an old dilapidated gateway, almost unknown to the world, and overgrown with wild vegetation, perchance we might find, shut up, a maiden charming beyond imagination. Her father might be an aged man, corpulent in person, and stern in mien, and her brothers of repulsive countenance; but there, in an uninviting room, she lives, full of delicacy and sentiment, and fairly skilled in the arts of poetry or music, which she may have acquired by her own exertions alone, unaided. If there were such a case, surely she deserves our attention, save that of those of us who themselves are highly exalted in position.”
So saying, Sama-no-Kami winked slyly at Shikib-no-Jio. The latter was silent: perhaps he fancied that Sa- ma-no-Kami was speaking in the above strain, with a hidden reference to his (Shikib’s) sisters, who, he imagined, answered the description.
Meantime, Genji may have thought, “If it is so difficult to choose one even from the best class, how can—Ah!” and he began to close his eyes and doze. His dress was of soft white silk, partly covered by the naoshi, worn careless- ly, with its cord left loose and untied. His appearance and bearing formed quite a picture.
Meanwhile, the conversation went on about different persons and characters, and Sama-no-Kami proceeded: “It is unquestionable that though at first glance many women appear to be without defects, yet when we come to the actual selection of any one of them, we should seriously hesitate in our choice.
“Let me illustrate my meaning by reference to the numerous public men who may be aspiring to fulfil the duties of several important posts. You will at once recognize the great difficulty there would be in fixing upon the indi- vidual statesman under whose guardianship the empire could best repose. And supposing that, if at last, by good fortune, the most able man were designated, even then we must bear in mind that it is not in the power of one or two individuals, however gifted they may be, to carry on the whole administration of the kingdom alone. Public business can only be tranquilly conducted when the superior receives the assistance of subordinates, and when the subordinate yields a becoming respect and loyalty to his superior, and affairs are thus conducted in a spirit of mu- tual conciliation. So, too, it is in the narrow range of the domestic circle. To make a good mistress of that circle, one must possess, if our ideal is to be fully realized, many important qualifications. Were we to be constantly indulging in the severity of criticism, always objecting to this or that, a perfect character would be almost unattainable. Men should therefore bear with patience any trifling dissatisfaction which they may feel, and strive constantly to keep alive, to augment, and to cherish, the warmth of their early love. Only such a man as this can be called faithful, and the partner of such a man alone can enjoy the real happiness of affection. How unsatisfactory to us, however, seems the actual world if we look round upon it. Still more difficult must it be to satisfy such as you who seek your com- panions but from among the best!
“How varied are the characters and the dispositions of women! Some who are youthful and favored by Nature strive almost selfishly to keep themselves with the utmost reserve. If they write, they write harmlessly and innocent- ly; yet, at the same time, they are choice in their expressions, which have delicate touches of bewitching sentiment. This might possibly make us entertain a suddenly conceived fancy for them; yet they would give us but slight en- couragement. They may allow us just to hear their voices, but when we approach them they will speak with subdued breath, and almost inaudibly. Beware, however, lest among these you chance to encounter some astute artiste, who, under a surface that is smooth, conceals a current that is deep. This sort of lady, it is true, generally appears quite modest; but often proves, when we come closer, to be of a very different temperament from what we anticipated. Here is one drawback to be guarded against.
“Among characters differing from the above, some are too full of sentimental sweetness—whenever occasion offers them romance they become spoilt. Such would be decidedly better if they had less sentiment, and more sense.
“Others, again, are singularly earnest—too earnest, indeed—in the performance of their domestic duty; and
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such, with their hair pushed back, devote themselves like household drudges to household affairs. Man, whose duties generally call him from home all the day, naturally hears and sees the social movements both of public and private life, and notices different things, both good and bad. Of such things he would not like to talk freely with strangers, but only with some one closely allied to him. Indeed, a man may have many things in his mind which cause him to smile or to grieve. Occasionally something of a political nature may irritate him beyond endurance. These matters he would like to talk over with his fair companion, that she might soothe him, and sympathize with him. But a woman as above described is often unable to understand him, or does not endeavor to do so; and this only makes him more miserable. At another time he may brood over his hopes and aspirations; but he has no hope of solace. She is not only incapable of sharing these with him, but might carelessly remark, ‘What ails you?’ How severely would this try the temper of a man!
“If, then, we clearly see all these, the only suggestion I can make is that the best thing to do is to choose one who is gentle and modest, and strive to guide and educate her according to the best ideal we may think of. This is the best plan; and why should we not do so? Our efforts would not be surely all in vain. But no! A girl whom we thus educate, and who proves to be competent to bear us company, often disappoints us when she is left alone. She may then show her incapability, and her occasional actions may be done in such an unbecoming manner that both good and bad are equally displeasing. Are not all these against us men?—Remember, however, that there are some who may not be very agreeable at ordinary times, yet who flash occasionally upon us with a potent and almost irresistible charm.”
Thus Sama-no-Kami, though eloquent, not having come to one point or another, remained thoughtful for some minutes, and again resumed:—
“After all, as I have once observed, I can only make this suggestion: That we should not too much consider either birth or beauty, but select one who is gentle and tranquil, and consider her to be best suited for our last haven of rest. If, in addition, she is of fair position, and is blessed with sweetness of temper, we should be delighted with her, and not trouble ourselves to search or notice any trifling deficiency. And the more so as, if her conscience is clear and pure, calmness and serenity of features can naturally be looked for.
“There are women who are too diffident, and too reserved, and carry their generosity to such an extent as to pretend not to be aware even of such annoyances as afford them just grounds of complaint. A time arrives when their sorrows and anxieties become greater than they can bear. Even then, however, they cannot resort to plain speaking, and complain. But, instead thereof, they will fly away to some remote retreat among the mountain hamlets, or to some secluded spot by the seaside, leaving behind them some painful letter or despairing verses, and making themselves mere sad memories of the past. Often when a boy I heard such stories read by ladies, and the sad pathos of them even caused my tears to flow; but now I can only declare such deeds to be acts of mere folly. For what does it all amount to? Simply to this: That the woman, in spite of the pain which it causes her, and discarding a heart which may be still lingering towards her, takes to flight, regardless of the feelings of others—of the anguish, and of the anxiety, which those who are dearest to her suffer with her. Nay, this act of folly may even be committed simply to test the sincerity of her lover’s affection for her. What pitiable subtlety!
“Worse than this, the woman thus led astray, perhaps by ill advice, may even be beguiled into more serious errors. In the depth of her despairing melancholy she will become a nun. Her conscience, when she takes the fatal vow, may be pure and unsullied, and nothing may seem able to call her back again to the world which she forsook. But, as time rolls on, some household servant or aged nurse brings her tidings of the lover who has been unable to cast her out of his heart, and whose tears drop silently when he hears aught about her. Then, when she hears of his affections still living, and his heart still yearning, and thinks of the uselessness of the sacrifice she has made volun- tarily, she touches the hair on her forehead, and she becomes regretful. She may, indeed, do her best to persevere in her resolve, but if one single tear bedews her cheek, she is no longer strong in the sanctity of her vow. Weakness of this kind would be in the eyes of Buddha more sinful than those offences which are committed by those who never leave the lay circle at all, and she would eventually wander about in the ‘wrong passage.’
“But there are also women, who are too self-confident and obtrusive. These, if they discover some slight incon- sistency in men, fiercely betray their indignation and behave with arrogance. A man may show a little inconsistency occasionally, but yet his affection may remain; then matters will in time be come right again, and they will pass their lives happily together. If, therefore, the woman cannot show a tolerable amount of patience, this will but add to her unhappiness. She should, above all things, strive not to give way to excitement; and when she experiences any unpleasantness, she should speak of it frankly but with moderation. And if there should be anything worse than un- pleasantness she should even then complain of it in such a way as not to irritate the men. If she guides her conduct on principles such as these, even her very words, her very demeanor, may in all probability increase his sympathy and consideration for her. One’s self-denial and the restraint which one imposes upon one’s self, often depend on the way in which another behaves to us. The woman who is too indifferent and too forgiving is also inconsiderate. Remember ‘the unmoored boat floats about.’ Is it not so?”
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To-no-Chiujio quickly nodded assent, as he said, “Quite true! A woman who has no strength of emotion, no passion of sorrow or of joy, can never be holders of us. Nay even jealousy, if not carried to the extent of undue suspicion, is not undesirable. If we ourselves are not in fault, and leave the matter alone, such jealousy may easily be kept within due bounds. But stop”—added he suddenly—”Some women have to bear, and do bear, every grief that they may encounter with unmurmuring and suffering patience.”
So said To-no-Chiujio, who implied by this allusion that his sister was a woman so circumstanced. But Genji was still dozing, and no remark came from his lips.
Sama-no-Kami had been recently made a doctor of literature, and (like a bird) was inflating his feathers, so To-no-Chiujio, willing to draw him out as much as possible, gave him every encouragement to proceed with his discourse.
Again, therefore, he took up the conversation, and said, “Call to your mind affairs in general, and judge of them. Is it not always true that reality and sincerity are to be preferred to merely artificial excellence? Artisans, for instance, make different sorts of articles, as their talents serve them. Some of them are keen and expert, and cleverly manufacture objects of temporary fashion, which have no fixed or traditional style, and which are only intended to strike the momentary fancy. These, however, are not the true artisans. The real excellence of the true artisan is test- ed by those who make, without defects or sensational peculiarities, articles to decorate, we will say, some particular building, in conformity with correct taste and high æsthetic principles. Look for another instance at the eminence which has been attained by several of the artists of the Imperial College of Painting. Take the case of draughtsmen in black ink. Pictures, indeed, such as those of Mount Horai, which has never been beheld by mortal eye, or of some raging monstrous fish in a rough sea, or of a wild animal of some far-off country, or of the imaginary face of the de- mon, are often drawn with such striking vividness that people are startled at the sight of them. These pictures, how- ever, are neither real nor true. On the other hand, ordinary scenery, of familiar mountains, of calm streams of water, and of dwellings just before our eyes, may be sketched with an irregularity so charming, and with such excellent skill, as almost to rival Nature. In pictures such as these, the perspective of gentle mountain slopes, and sequestered nooks surrounded by leafy trees, are drawn with such admirable fidelity to Nature that they carry the spectator in imagination to something beyond them. These are the pictures in which is mostly evinced the spirit and effective- ness of the superior hand of a master; and in these an inferior artist would only show dulness and inefficiency.
“Similar observations are applicable to handwriting. Some people boldly dash away with great freedom and endless flourishes, and appear at the first glance to be elegant and skilful. But that which is written with scrupulous neatness, in accordance with the true rules of penmanship, constitutes a very different handwriting from the above. If perchance the upstrokes and downstrokes do not, at first sight, appear to be fully formed, yet when we take it up and critically compare it with writing in which dashes and flourishes predominate, we shall at once see how much more of real and sterling merit it possesses.
“Such then is the nature of the case in painting, in penmanship, and in the arts generally. And how much more then are those women undeserving of our admiration, who though they are rich in outward and in fashionable dis- play, attempting to dazzle our eyes, are yet lacking in the solid foundations of reality, fidelity, and truth! Do not, my friends, consider me going too far, but let me proceed to illustrate these observations by my own experience.”
So saying, Sama-no-Kami advanced his seat, and Genji awoke. To-no-Chiujio was quite interested in the conversation, and was keeping his eye upon the speaker, leaning his cheek upon his hand. This long discourse of Sama-no-Kami reminds us of the preacher’s sermon, and amuses us. And it seems that, on occasions like these, one may easily be carried away by circumstances, until he is willing to communicate even his own private affairs.
“It was at a time,” continued Sama-no-Kami, “when I was in a still more humble position, that there was a girl to whom I had taken a fancy. She was like one of those whom I described in the process of my discourse; not a regular beauty. Although for this reason my youthful vanity did not allow me to pledge myself to her forever, I still considered her a pleasant companion. Nevertheless, from occasional fits of restlessness, I roamed often here and there. This she always resented fiercely, and with so much indignation that I sighed for a sweeter temper and more moderation. Indeed, there were times when her suspicion and spitefulness were more than I could endure. But my irritation was generally calmed down, and I even felt sorry myself, when I reflected how strong and devoted her affection for me was, in spite of the mean state of my circumstances. As to her general character, her only endeavor seemed to be to do everything for my sake, even what was beyond her powers, while she struggled to perfect herself in anything in which she might be deficient, and took the most faithful care of all my interests, striving constantly and earnestly to please me. She appeared at first even too zealous, but in time became more moderate. She seemed as if she felt uneasy lest her plain face should cause me displeasure, and she even denied herself the sight of other people, in order to avoid unbecoming comment.
“As time went by, the more I became accustomed to observe how really simple-hearted she was, the more I sympathized with her. The one thing that I could not bear, however, was that jealousy of hers. Sincere and devoted as she is, thought I, is there no means of ridding her of this jealous weakness? Could I but do that, it would not mat-
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ter even if I were to alarm her a little. And I also thought that since she was devoted to me, if I showed any symp- toms of getting tired of her, she would, in all probability, be warned by it. Therefore, I purposely behaved to her with great coolness and heartlessness. This she resented as usual. I then said to her, that though our affection had been of old date, I should not see her again; ‘if you wish to sever from me you may suspect me as much as you like. If you prefer to enjoy long happiness with me in future, be modest and patient in trifling matters. If you can only be so, how can I do otherwise than love you? My position also may in time be improved, and then we may enjoy greater happiness!’
“In saying this, I thought I had managed matters very ingeniously. Without meaning it, however, I had in fact spoken a little too harshly. She replied, with a bitter smile, that ‘to put up with a life of undistinguished condition, even though with faint hopes of future promotion, was not a thing about which we ought to trouble ourselves, but that it was indeed a hard task to pass long wearisome days in waiting until a man’s mind should be restored to a sense of propriety. And that for this reason we had, perhaps, better separate at once.’
“This she said with such sarcastic bitterness that I was irritated and stung to the quick, and overwhelmed her with a fresh torrent of reproaches. At this juncture she gave way to an uncontrollable fit of passion, and snatching up my hand, she thrust my little finger into her mouth and bit off the end of it. Then, notwithstanding my pain, I became quite cool and collected, and calmly said, ‘insulted and maimed as I have now been, it is most fitting that I should absent myself for the future from polite society. Office and title would ill become me now. Your spite has now left me without spirit to face the world in which I should be ridiculed, and has left me no alternative but to withdraw my maimed person from the public gaze!’ After I had alarmed her by speaking in this exalted strain, I added, ‘to-day we meet for the last time,’ and bending these fingers (pointing to them as she spoke) I made the farewell remark:—
When on my fingers, I must say I count the hours I spent with thee, Is this, and this alone, I pray The only pang you’ve caused to me?
You are now quits with me,’ At the instant I said so, she burst into tears and without premeditation, poured forth the following:—
‘From me, who long bore grievous harms, From that cold hand and wandering heart, You now withdraw your sheltering arms, And coolly tell me, we must part.’
“To speak the truth, I had no real intention of separating from her altogether. For some time, however, I sent her no communication, and was passing rather an unsettled life. Well! I was once returning from the palace late one evening in November, after an experimental practice of music for a special festival in the Temple of Kamo. Sleet was falling heavily. The wind blew cold, and my road was dark and muddy. There was no house near where I could make myself at home. To return and spend a lonely night in the palace was not to be thought of. At this moment a reflection flashed across my mind. ‘How cold must she feel whom I have treated so coldly,’ thought I, and sudden- ly became very anxious to know what she felt and what she was about. This made me turn my steps towards her dwelling, and brushing away the snow that had gathered on my shoulders I trudged on: at one moment shyly biting my nails, at another thinking that on such a night at least all her enmity towards me might be all melted away. I approached the house. The curtains were not drawn, and I saw the dim light of a lamp reflected on the windows. It was even perceivable that a soft quilt was being warmed and thrown over the large couch. The scene was such as to give you the notion that she was really anticipating that I might come at least on such an evening. This gave me encouragement, but alas! she whom I hoped to see was not at home. I was told she had gone to her parents that very evening. Previous to that time, she had sent me no sad verses, no conciliatory letter, and this had already given birth to unpleasant feelings on my part. And at this moment, when I was told that she had gone away, all these things seemed to have been done almost purposely, and I involuntarily began to suspect that her very jealousy had only been assumed by her on purpose to cause me to become tired of her.
“As I reflected what our future might be after such an estrangement as this, I was truly depressed. I did not, however, give up all hope, thinking that she would not be so determined as to abandon me forever. I had even carefully selected some stuff for a dress for her. Some time, however, passed away without anything particularly occurring. She neither accepted nor refused the offers of reconciliation which I made to her. She did not, it is true, hide herself away like any of those of whom I have spoken before. But, nevertheless, she did not evince the slightest symptom of regret for her previous conduct.
“At last, after a considerable interval, she intimated to me that her final resolve was not to forgive me any more if I intended in future to behave as I had done before; but that, on the other hand, she should be glad to see me again if I would thoroughly change my habits, and treat her with the kindness which was her due. From this I be- came more convinced that she still entertained longings for me. Hence, with the hope of warning her a little more, I made no expressions of any intention to make a change in my habits, and I tried to find out which of us had the most patience.
“While matters were in this state, she, to my great surprise, suddenly died, perhaps broken-hearted.
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“I must now frankly confess that she certainly was a woman in whom a man might place his confidence. Often, too, I had talked with her on music and on poetry, as well as on the more important business of life, and I found her to be by no means wanting in intellect and capability. She had too the clever hands of Tatyta-himè and Tanabata.
“When I recall these pleasant memories my heart still clings to her endearingly.” “Clever in weaving, she may have been like Tanabata, that is but a small matter,” interposed To-no-Chiujio,
“we should have preferred to have seen your love as enduring as Tanabata’s. Nothing is so beautiful as the brilliant dyes spread over the face of Nature, yet the red tints of autumn are often not dyed to a color so deep as we desire, because of the early drying of the dew, so we say, ‘such is the uncertain fate of this world,’” and so saying, he made a sign to Sama-no-Kami to go on with his story. He went on accordingly.
“About that time I knew another lady. She was on the whole a superior kind of person. A fair poetess, a good musician, and a fluent speaker, with good enunciation, and graceful in her movements. All these admirable qual- ities I noticed myself, and heard them spoken of by others. As my acquaintance with her commenced at the time when I was not on the best of terms with my former companion, I was glad to enjoy her society. The more I associ- ated with her the more fascinating she became.
“Meanwhile my first friend died, at which I felt truly sorry, still I could not help it, and I therefore paid frequent visits to this one. In the course of my attentions to her, however, I discovered many unpleasant traits. She was not very modest, and did not appear to be one whom a man could trust. On this account, I became somewhat disap- pointed, and visited her less often. While matters were on this footing I accidentally found out that she had another lover to whom she gave a share of her heart.
“It happened that one inviting moonlight evening in October, I was driving out from home on my way to a certain Dainagon. On the road I met with a young noble who was going in the same direction. We therefore drove together, and as we were journeying on, he told me that ‘some one might be waiting for him, and he was anxious to see her’; well! by and by we arrived at the house of my lady-love. The bright reflection of the waters of an ornamen- tal lake was seen through crevices in the walls; and the pale moon, as she shed her full radiance over the shimmer- ing waves, seemed to be charmed with the beauty of the scene. It would have been heartless to pass by with indiffer- ence, and we both descended from the carriage, without knowing each other’s intention.
“This youth seems to have been ‘the other one’; he was rather shy. He sat down on a mat of reeds that was spread beside a corridor near the gateway; and, gazing up at the sky, meditated for some moments in silence. The chrysanthemums in the gardens were in full bloom, whose sweet perfume soothed us with its gentle influence; and round about us the scarlet leaves of the maple were falling, as ever and anon they were shaken by the breeze. The scene was altogether romantic.
“Presently, he took a flute out of his bosom and played. He then whispered, ‘Its shade is refreshing.’ “In a few minutes the fair one struck up responsively on a sweet-toned wagon (a species of koto). “The melody was soft and exquisite, in charming strains of modern music, and admirably adapted to the lovely
evening. No wonder that he was fascinated; he advanced towards the casement from which the sounds proceeded, and glancing at the leaves scattered on the ground, whispered in invidious tones, ‘Sure no strange footsteps would ever dare to press these leaves.’ He then culled a chrysanthemum, humming, as he did so:—
‘Even this spot, so fair to view With moon, and Koto’s gentle strain, Could make no other lover true, As me, thy fond, thy only swain.’
“‘Wretched!’ he exclaimed, alluding to his poetry; and then added, ‘One tune more! Stay not your hand when one is near, who so ardently longs to hear you.’ Thus he began to flatter the lady, who, having heard his whispers, replied thus, in a tender, hesitating voice:—
‘Sorry I am my voice too low To match thy flute’s far sweeter sound; Which mingles with the winds that blow The Autumn leaves upon the ground.’
“Ah! she little thought I was a silent and vexed spectator of all this flirtation. She then took up a soh (another kind of koto with thirteen strings) and tuned it to a Banjiki key (a winter tune), and played on it still more excel- lently. Though an admirer of music, I cannot say that these bewitching melodies gave me any pleasure under the peculiar circumstances I stood in.
“Now, romantic interludes, such as this, might be pleasant enough in the case of maidens who are kept strictly in Court service, and whom we have very little opportunity of meeting with, but even there we should hesitate to make such a one our life companion. How much less could one ever entertain such an idea in a case like my own? Making, therefore, that evening’s experience a ground of dissatisfaction I never saw her more.
“Now, gentlemen, let us take into consideration these two instances which have occurred to myself and see how equally unsatisfactory they are. The one too jealous, the other too forward. Thus, early in life, I found out how little reliance was to be placed on such characters. And now I think so still more; and this opinion applies more espe- cially to the latter of the two. Dewdrops on the ‘Hagi flower’ of beauty so delicate that they disappear as soon as we touch them—hailstones on the bamboo grass that melt in our hand as soon as we prick them—appear at a distance
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extremely tempting and attractive. Take my humble advice, however, and go not near them. If you do not appreciate this advice now, the lapse of another seven years will render you well able to understand that such adventures will only bring a tarnished fame.”
Thus Sama-no-Kami admonished them, and To-no-Chiujio nodded as usual. Genji slightly smiled; perhaps he thought it was all very true, and he said, “Your twofold experience was indeed disastrous and irritating!”
“Now,” said To-no-Chiujio, “I will tell you a story concerning myself. It was the evil fortune of Sama-no-Ka- mi to meet with too much jealousy in one of the ladies to whom he might otherwise have given his heart; while he could feel no confidence in another owing to flirtations. It was my hard lot to encounter an instance of exces- sive diffidence. I once knew a girl whose person was altogether pleasing, and although I, too, had no intention, as Sama-no-Kami said, of forming an everlasting connection with her, I nevertheless took a great fancy to her. As our acquaintance was prolonged, our mutual affection grew warmer. My thoughts were always of her, and she placed entire confidence in me. Now, when complete confidence is placed by one person in another, does not Nature teach us to expect resentment when that confidence is abused? No such resentment, however, seemed under any cir- cumstances to trouble her. When I very seldom visited her, she showed no excitement or indignation, but behaved and looked as if we had never been separated from each other. This patient silence was more trying to me than reproaches. She was parentless and friendless. For this reason responsibility weighed more heavily on me. Abusing her gentle nature, however, I frequently neglected her. About this time, moreover, a certain person who lived near her, discovered our friendship, and frightened her by sending, through some channel, mischief-making messages to her. This I did not become aware of till afterwards, and, it seems, she was quite cast down and helpless. She had a little one for whose sake, it appears, she was additionally sad. One day I unexpectedly received a bunch of Nadeshi- ko flowers. They were from her.”
At this point To-no-Chiujio became gloomy. “And what,” inquired Genji, “were the words of her message?” “Sir! nothing but the verse, Forgot may be the lowly bed From which these darling flowerets spring, Still let a kindly dew be shed, Upon
their early nurturing. “No sooner had I read this than I went to her at once. She was gentle and sedate as usual, but evidently absent
and preoccupied. Her eyes rested on the dew lying on the grass in the garden, and her ears were intent upon the melancholy singing of the autumn insects. It was as if we were in a real romance. I said to her:—
When with confused gaze we view The mingled flowers on gay parterre, Amid their blooms of radiant hue The Tokonatz, my love, is there.
And avoiding all allusion to the Nadeshiko flowers, I repeatedly endeavored to comfort the mother’s heart. She murmured in reply:—
‘Ah! Flower already bent with dew, The winds of autumn cold and chill Will wither all thy beauteous hue, And soon, alas, unpitying kill.’
Thus she spoke sadly. But she reproached me no further. The tears came involuntarily into her eyes. She was, however, apparently sorry for this, and tried to conceal them. On the whole she behaved as if she meant to show that she was quite accustomed to such sorrows. I certainly deeply sympathized with her, yet still further abusing her patience. I did not visit her again for some time; but I was punished. When I did so she had flown, leaving no traces behind her. If she is still living she must needs be passing a miserable existence.
“Now, if she had been free from this excessive diffidence, this apathy of calmness, if she had complained when it was necessary, with becoming warmth and spirit, she need never have been a wanderer, and I would never have abused her confidence. But, as I said before, a woman who has no strength of emotion, no passionate bursts of sor- row or of joy, can never retain a dominion over us.
“I loved this woman without understanding her nature; and I am constantly, but in vain, trying to find her and her little darling, who was also very lovely; and often I think with grief and pain that, though I may succeed in forgetting her, she may possibly not be able to forget me, and, surely, there must be many an evening when she is disquieted by sad memories of the past.
“Let us now sum up our experiences, and reflect on the lessons which they teach us. One who bites your finger will easily estrange your affection by her violence. Falseness and forwardness will be the reproach of some other, in spite of her melodious music and the sweetness of her songs. A third, too self-contained and too gentle, is open to the charge of a cold silence, which oppresses one, and cannot be understood.
“Whom, then, are we to choose? All this variety, and this perplexing difficulty of choice, seems to be the com- mon lot of humanity. Where, again, I say, are we to go to find the one who will realize our desires? Shall we fix our aspirations on the beautiful goddess, the heavenly Kichijio? Ah! this would be but superstitious and impracticable.”
So mournfully finished To-no-Chiujio; and all his companions, who had been attentively listening, burst simul- taneously into laughter at his last allusion.
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“And now, Shikib, it is your turn. Tell us your story,” exclaimed To-no-Chiujio, turning to him. “What worth hearing can your humble servant tell you?” “Go on; be quick; don’t be shy; let us hear!” Shikib-no-Jio, after a little meditation, thus began:— “When I was a student at the University, I met there with a woman of very unusual intelligence. She was in
every respect one with whom, as Sama-no-Kami has said, you could discuss affairs, both public and private. Her dashing genius and eloquence were such that all ordinary scholars would find themselves unable to cope with her, and would be at once reduced to silence. Now, my story is as follows:—
“I was taking lessons from a certain professor, who had several daughters, and she was one of them. It happened by some chance or other I fell much into her society. The professor, who noticed this, once took up a wine-cup in his hand, and said to me, ‘Hear what I sing about two choices.’
“This was a plain offer put before me, and thenceforward I endeavored, for the sake of his tuition, to make myself as agreeable as possible to his daughter. I tell you frankly, however, that I had no particular affection for her, though she seemed already to regard me as her victim. She seized every opportunity of pointing out to me the way in which we should have to steer, both in public and private life. When she wrote to me she never employed the effeminate style of the Kana, but wrote, oh! so magnificently! The great interest which she took in me induced me to pay frequent visits to her; and, by making her my tutor, I learned how to compose ordinary Chinese poems. How- ever, though I do not forget all these benefits, and though it is no doubt true that our wife or daughter should not lack intelligence, yet, for the life of me, I cannot bring myself to approve of a woman like this. And still less likely is it that such could be of any use to the wives of high personages like yourselves. Give me a lovable nature in lieu of sharpness! I quite agree with Sama-no-Kami on this point.”
“What an interesting woman she must have been,” exclaimed To-no-Chiujio, with the intention of making Shi- kib go on with his story.
This he fully understood, and, making a grimace, he thus proceeded:— “Once when I went to her after a long absence—a way we all have, you know—she did not receive me openly
as usual, but spoke to me from behind a screen. I surmised that this arose from chagrin at my negligence, and I intended to avail myself of this opportunity to break with her. But the sagacious woman was a woman of the world, and not like those who easily lose their temper or keep silence about their grief. She was quite as open and frank as Sama-no-Kami would approve of. She told me, in a low clear voice, ‘I am suffering from heartburn, and I cannot, therefore, see you face to face; yet, if you have anything important to say to me, I will listen to you.’ This was, no doubt, a plain truth; but what answer could I give to such a terribly frank avowal? ‘Thank you,’ said I, simply; and I was just on the point of leaving, when, relenting, perhaps, a little, she said aloud, ‘Come again soon, and I shall be all right.’ To pass this unnoticed would have been impolite; yet I did not like to remain there any longer, especially under such circumstances: so, looking askance, I said—
Here I am, then why excuse me, is my visit all in vain: And my consolation is, you tell me, come again? No sooner had I said this than she dashed out as follows with a brilliancy of repartee which became a woman of
her genius:— ‘If we fond lovers were, and meeting every night, I should not be ashamed, were it even in the light!’ “Nonsense, nonsense!” cried Genji and the others, who either were, or pretended to be, quite shocked. “Where
can there be such a woman as that? She must have been a devil! Fearful! fearful!” And, snapping their fingers with disapproving glances, they said, “Do tell us something better—do give us a better story than that.”
Shikib-no-Jio, however, quietly remarked: “I have nothing else to relate,” and remained silent. Hereupon a conversation took place to the following effect:— “It is a characteristic of thoughtless people—and that, without distinction of sex—that they try to show off their
small accomplishments. This is, in the highest degree, unpleasant. As for ladies, it may not, indeed, be necessary to be thorough master of the three great histories, and the five classical texts; yet they ought not to be destitute of some knowledge of both public and private affairs, and this knowledge can be imperceptibly acquired without any regular study of them, which, though superficial, will yet be amply sufficient to enable them to talk pleasantly about them with their friends. But how contemptible they would seem if this made them vain of it! The Manna style and pedan- tic phrases were not meant for them; and, if they use them, the public will only say, ‘would that they would remem- ber that they are women and not men,’ and they would only incur the reproach of being pedants, as many ladies, especially among the aristocracy, do. Again, while they should not be altogether unversed in poetical compositions, they should never be slaves to them, or allow themselves to be betrayed into using strange quotations, the only consequence of which would be that they would appear to be bold when they ought to be reserved, and abstracted when very likely they have practical duties to attend to. How utterly inappropriate, for instance, it would be on the May festival if, while the attention of all present was concentrated on the solemnity of the occasion, the thoughts of these ladies were wandering on their own poetical imaginations about ‘sweet flags;’ or if, again, on the Ninth-day
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festival, when all the nobles present were exercising their inventive faculties on the subject of Chinese poems, they were to volunteer to pour forth their grand ideas on the dew-laid flowers of the chrysanthemum, thus endeavor- ing to rival their opponents of the stronger sex. There is a time for everything; and all people, but more especially women, should be constantly careful to watch circumstances, and not to air their accomplishments at a time when nobody cares for them. They should practise a sparing economy in displaying their learning and eloquence, and should even, if circumstances require, plead ignorance on subjects with which they are familiar.”
As to Genji, even these last observations seemed only to encourage his reverie still to run upon a certain one, whom he considered to be the happy medium between the too much and the too little; and, no definite conclusion having been arrived at through the conversation, the evening passed away.
The long-continued rainy weather had now cleared up bright and fine, and the Prince Genji proceeded to the mansion of his father-in-law, where Lady Aoi, his bride, still resided with him. She was in her private suite of apart- ments, and he soon joined her there. She was dignified and stately, both in manners and demeanor, and everything about her bore traces of scrupulous neatness.
“Such may be one of those described by Sama-no-Kami, in whom we may place confidence,” he thought, as he approached her. At the same time, her lofty queenliness caused him to feel a momentary embarrassment, which he at once tried to hide by chatting with the attendant maid. The air was close and heavy, and he was somewhat oppressed by it. His father-in-law happened to pass by the apartment. He stopped and uttered a few words from be- hind the curtain which overhung the door. “In this hot weather,” said Genji, in a low tone, “what makes him come here?” and did not give the slightest encouragement to induce his father-in-law to enter the room; so he passed along. All present smiled significantly, and tittered. “How indiscreet!” exclaimed Genji, glancing at them reproving- ly, and throwing himself back on a kio-sok (arm-stool), where he remained calm and silent.
It was, by no means, becoming behavior on the part of the Prince. The day was drawing to an end when it was announced that the mansion was closed in the certain celestial
direction of the Naka-gami (central God). His own mansion in Nijio (the one mentioned as being repaired in a previous chapter) was also in the same line of direction.
“Where shall I go then?” said Genji, and without troubling himself any further, went off into a doze. All present expressed in different words their surprise at his unusual apathy. Thereupon some one reported that the residence of Ki-no-Kami, who was in waiting on the Prince, on the banks of the middle river (the River Kiogok) had lately been irrigated by bringing the stream into its gardens, making them cool and refreshing.
“That’s very good, especially on such a close evening,”exclaimed Genji, rousing himself, and he at once intimat- ed to Ki-no-Kami his desire of visiting his house. To which the latter answered simply, “Yes.” He did not, however, really like the Prince’s visit, and was reluctantly telling his fellow attendants that, owing to a certain circumstance which had taken place at Iyo-no-Kami’s residence, his wife (Ki-no-Kami’s stepmother) had taken up her abode with him that very evening, and that the rooms were all in confusion.
Genji heard all this distinctly, but he would not change his mind, and said, “That is all the better! I don’t care to stay in a place where no fair statue dwells; it is slow work.”
Being thus pressed, no alternative remained for the Ki-no-Kami, and a messenger was despatched to order the preparation of apartments for the Prince. Not long after this messenger had gone, Genji started on his way to the house of Ki-no-Kami, whose mild objections against this quick proceeding were not listened to.
He left the mansion as quietly as possible, even without taking formal leave of its master, and his escort consist- ed of a few favorite attendants.
The “eastern front room” in the “dwelling quarters” was wide open, and a temporary arrangement was made for the reception of the Prince, who arrived there very quickly. The scene of the garden struck him before anything else. The surface of the lake sparkled with its glittering waters. The hedges surrounded it in rustic beauty, and luxuriant shrubs grew in pleasing order. Over all the fair scene the breeze of evening swept softly, summer insects sang dis- tinctly here and there, and the fireflies hovered about in mazy dances.
The escort took up its quarters in a position which overlooked the stream of water which ran beneath the corri- dor, and here began to take cups of saké. The host hastened to order also some refreshment to be prepared for Genji.
The latter was meanwhile gazing abstractedly about him, thinking such a place might belong to the class which Sama-no-Kami fairly placed in the middle category. He knew that the lady who was under the same roof was a young beauty of whom he had heard something before, and he was looking forward to a chance of seeing her.
He then noticed the rustling of a silken dress escaping from a small boudoir to the right, and some youthful voices, not without charm, were also heard, mingled with occasional sounds of suppressed laughter. The casement of the boudoir had been, until a short time before, open, but was pulled down by order of Ki-no-Kami, who, per- haps, doubted the propriety of its being as it was, and now only allowed a struggling light to issue through the paper of the “sliding screen!” He proceeded to one side of his room that he might see what could be seen, but there was no chance. He still stood there that he might be able, at least, to catch some part of the conversation. It seems that this
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boudoir adjoined the general family room of the female inmates, and his ears were greeted by some faint talking. He inclined his head attentively, and heard them whispering probably about himself.
“Is it not a pity that the fate of so fine a prince should be already fixed?” said one voice. “Yet he loses no opportunity of availing himself of the favors of fortune,” added another. These remarks may have been made with no serious intention, but as to Genji, he, even in hearing them, could
not help thinking of a certain fair image of which he so fondly dreamt. At the same time feeling a thrill on reflecting that, if this kind of secret were to be discovered and discussed in such a manner, what could be done.
He then heard an observation in delicate allusion to his verse which he had presented to the Princess Mo- mo-zono (peach-gardens) with the flowers of Asagao (morning-glory, or convolvulus).
“What cautious beauties they are to talk in that way! But I wonder if their forms when seen will answer to the pictures of my fancy,” thought Genji, as he retired to his original position, for he could hear nothing more interest- ing.
Ki-no-Kami presently entered the room, brought in some fruits, trimmed the lamp, and the visitor and host now began to enjoy a pleasant leisure.
“What has become of the ladies? Without some of them no society is cheerful,” observed Genji. “Who can there be to meet such wishes?” said the Ki-no-Kami to himself, but took no notice of Genji’s remark. There were several boys in the house who had followed Ki-no-Kami into the room. They were the sons and
brothers of Ki-no-Kami. Among them there was one about twelve or thirteen, who was nicer-looking than the others. Genji, of course, did not know who they all were, and accordingly made inquiries. When he came to the last-mentioned boy, Ki-no-Kami replied:—
“He is the youngest son of the late Lord Yemon, now an orphan, and, from his sister’s connections, he is now staying here. He is shrewd and unlike ordinary boys. His desire is to take Court service, but he has as yet no patron.”
“What a pity! Is, then, the sister you mentioned your stepmother?” “Yes, sir, it is so.” “What a good mother you have got. I once overheard the Emperor, to whom, I believe, a private application had
been some time made in her behalf, referring to her, said, ‘What has become of her?’ Is she here now?” said Genji; and lowering his voice, added, “How changeable are the fortunes of the world!”
“It is her present state, sir. But, as you may perceive, it differs from her original expectation. Changeable indeed are the fortunes of this world, especially so the fortunes of women!”
“Does Iyo respect her? Perhaps he idolizes her, as his master.” “That is a question, perhaps, as a private master. I am the foremost to disapprove of this infatuation on his part.” “Are you? Nevertheless he trusts her to such a one as you. He is a kind father! But where are they all?” “All in their private apartments.” Genji by this time apparently desired to be alone, and Ki-no-Kami now retired with the boys. All the escort
were already slumbering comfortably, each on his own cool rush mat, under the pleasant persuasion of saké. Genji was now alone. He tried to doze, but could not. It was late in the evening, and all was still around. His
sharpened senses made him aware that the room next but one to his own was occupied, which led him to imagine that the lady of whom he had been speaking might be there. He rose softly, and once more proceeded to the other side of the room to listen to what he might overhear. He heard a tender voice, probably that of Kokimi, the boy spoken of before, who appeared to have just entered the room, saying:—
“Are you here?” To which a female voice replied, “Yes, dear, but has the visitor yet retired?” And the same voice added— “Ah! so near, and yet so far!” “Yes, I should think so, he is so nice-looking, as they say.” “Were it daytime I would see him, too,” said the lady in a drowsy voice. “I shall go to bed, too! But what a bad light,” said the boy, and Genji conjectured that he had been trimming the
lamp. The lady presently clapped her hands for a servant, and said, “Where is Chiujio, I feel lonely, I wish to see her.” “Madam, she is in the bath now, she will be here soon,” replied the servant. “Suppose I pay my visit to her, too? What harm! no harm, perhaps,” said Genji to himself. He withdrew the
fastening of the intervening door, on the other side there was none, and it opened. The entrance to the room where the lady was sitting was only screened by a curtain, with a glimmering light inside. By the reflection of this light he saw travelling trunks and bags all scattered about; through these he groped his way and approached the curtain. He saw, leaning on a cushion, the small and pretty figure of a lady, who did not seem to notice his approach, probably thinking it was Chiujio, for whom she had sent. Genji felt nervous, but struggling against the feeling, startled the lady by saying:—
“Chiujio was called for, I thought it might mean myself, and I come to offer you my devoted services.”
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This was really an unexpected surprise, and the lady was at a loss. “It is, of course, natural,” he said, “you should be astonished at my boldness, but pray excuse me. It is solely
from my earnest desire to show at such an opportunity the great respect for you which I have felt for a very long time.”
He was clever enough to know how to speak, and what to say, under all circumstances, and made the above speech in such an extremely humble and insinuating manner that the demon himself could not have taken offence, so she forbore to show any sudden resentment. She had, however, grave doubts as to the propriety of his conduct, and felt somewhat uncomfortable, saying shyly, “Perhaps you have made a mistake!”
“No, certainly not,” he replied. “What mistake can I have made? On the other hand, I have no wish to offend you. The evening, however, is very irksome, and I should feel obliged if you would permit me to converse with you.” Then gently taking her hand he pressed her to return with him to his lonely apartment.
She was still young and weak, and did not know what was most proper to do under these circumstances, so half yielding, half reluctantly was induced to be led there by him.
At this juncture Chiujio, for whom she had sent previously, entered the room. Upon which Genji exclaimed “Ha!”
Chiujio stared with astonishment at him, whom she at once recognized as the Prince, by the rich perfume which he carried about him.
“What does this mean?” thought Chiujio. She could still do nothing. Had he been an ordinary personage she would have immediately seized him. Even in that case, however, there was enough room to doubt whether it would not have been better to avoid any violent steps lest it might have given rise to a disagreeable family scandal, hence Chiujio was completely perplexed and mechanically followed them.
Genji was too bold to fear bystanders, a common fault with high personages, and coolly closed the door upon her saying, “She will soon return to you.”
The lady being placed in such an awkward position, and not knowing what Chiujio might imagine, became, as it were, bewildered. Genji was, however, as artful and insinuating as might be expected in consoling her, though we do not know where he had learnt his eloquence. This was really trying for her, and she said, “Your condescension is beyond my merit. I cannot disregard it. It is, however, absolutely necessary to know ‘Who is who.’”
“But such ignorance,” he a little abashed, rejoined “as not to know ‘Who is who,’ is the very proof of my inexpe- rience. Were I supposed to understand too well, I should indeed be sorry. You have very likely heard how little I mix in the world. This perhaps is the very reason why you distrust me. The excess of the blindness of my mind seems strange even to myself.”
He spoke thus insinuatingly. She, on her part, feared that if his fascinating address should assume a warmer tone it would be still more trying for her and more difficult to withstand, so she determined, however hard she might appear, not to give any encouragement to his feelings, and showed therefore a coolness of manner. To her meek character there was thus added a firm resolution, and it seemed like a young bamboo reed with its strength and tenderness combined, difficult to bend! Still she felt the struggle very keenly, and tears moistened her eyes.
Genji could not help feeling touched. Not knowing exactly how to soothe her, he exclaimed, “What makes you treat me so coolly? It is true we are not old acquaintances, but it does not follow that this should prevent us from becoming good friends. Please don’t discompose yourself like one who does not know the world at all: it pierces my heart.”
This speech touched her, and her firmness began to waver. “Were my position what it once was,” said she, “and I received such attention, I might, however unworthy, have
been moved by your affection, but as my position in life is now changed, its unsatisfactory condition often makes me dream of a happiness I cannot hope to enjoy.” Hereupon she remained silent for some moments, and looked as if she meant to say that she could no longer help thinking of the line:—
Don’t tell anyone you’ve seen my home. But these few moments of silence agitated the pure waters of her virtuous mind, and the sudden recollection of
her aged husband, whom she did not generally think much about, occurred tenderly to her memory. She shuddered at the idea of his seeing her in such a dilemma as this, even in a dream, and without a word fled back to her apart- ment, and Genji was once more alone.
Now the chanticleer began to proclaim the coming day, and the attendants rose from their couches, some ex- claiming “How soundly we have slept,” others, “Let us get the carriage ready.”
Ki-no-Kami also came out saying, “Why so early, no need of such hurry for the Prince.” Genji also arose, and putting on his naoshi, went out on a balcony on the southern side of the house, where he
leaned upon the wooden balustrade and meditated as he looked round him. It appears that people were peeping out of the casement on the western side, probably being anxious to catch
a glimpse of the Prince, whose figure was indistinctly to be seen by them from the top of a short screen standing
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within the trellis. Among these spectators there was one who perhaps might have felt a thrill run through her frame as she beheld him. It was the very moment when the sky was being tinted by the glowing streaks of morn, and the moon’s pale light was still lingering in the far distance. The aspect of the passionless heavens becomes radiant or gloomy in response to the heart of him who looks upon it. And to Genji, whose thoughts were secretly occupied with the events of the evening, the scene could only have given rise to sorrowful emotions.
Reflecting how he might on some future occasion convey a message to the lady, and looking back several times, he presently quitted the house and returned to the mansion of his father-in-law.
During some days succeeding the above events, he was staying at the mansion with his bride. His thoughts, however, were now constantly turning to the lady on the bank of the middle river. He therefore summoned Ki-no- Kami before him, and thus addressed him:—
“Cannot you let me have the boy, the son of the late Chiunagon whom I saw the other day? He is a nice lad, and I wish to have him near at hand. I will also introduce him to the Emperor.”
“I receive your commands. I will talk with his sister, and see if she consents to it,” replied Ki-no-Kami with a bow.
These last words alluding to the object which occupied his thoughts caused Genji to start, but he said with apparent calmness—
“Has the lady presented you yet with a brother or a sister?” “No, sir, not yet; she has been married now these two years, but it seems she is always thinking she is not settled
in the way her parents desired, and is not quite contented with her position.” “What a pity! I heard, however, she was a very good lady. Is it so?” “Yes, I quite believe so; but hitherto we have lived separately, and were not very cordial, which, as all the world
knows, is usual in such relationship.” After the lapse of five or six days the boy Kokimi was brought to him. He was not tall or handsome but very
intelligent, and in manners perfectly well-bred. Genji treated him with the greatest kindness, at which, in his boyish mind, he was highly delighted. Genji now asked him many questions about his sister, to which he gave such an- swers as he could, but often with shyness and diffidence. Hence Genji was unable to take him into his confidence, but by skilfully coaxing and pleasing him, he ventured to hand him a letter to be taken to his sister. The boy, though he possibly guessed at its meaning, did not trouble himself much, but taking it, duly delivered it to his sister. She became confused and thoughtful as she took it, and fearing what the boy might think, opened the letter and held it before her face as she read, in order to conceal the expression of her countenance.
It was a long one, and among other things contained the following lines:— I had a dream, a dream so sweet, Ah! would that I could dream again; Alas, no sleep these eyes will greet, And
so I strive to dream in vain! It was beautifully written, and as her eyes fell upon the passionate words, a mist gathered over them, and a mo-
mentary thought of her own life and position once more flashed over her mind, and without a word of comment to the boy, she retired to rest.
A few days afterwards Kokimi was again invited to join the Prince. Thereupon he asked his sister to give him an answer to the Prince’s letter.
“Tell the Prince,” she said, “there is no one here who reads such letters.” “But,” said the boy, “he does not expect such an answer as this! How can I tell him so?” At first, she half-resolved to explain everything to Kokimi, and to make him thoroughly understand why she
ought not to receive such letters, but the effort was too painful, so she simply said, “It is all the better for you not to talk in that way. If you think it so serious why should you go to him at all?”
“Yet, how can I disobey his commands to go back?” exclaimed the boy, and so he returned to Genji without any written answer to him.
“I was weary of waiting for you. Perhaps you, too, had forgotten me,” said Genji, when he saw the boy, who was, however, silent and blushed. “And what answer have you brought me?” continued Genji, and then the boy replied in the exact words which his sister had used.
“What?” cried Genji: and continued, “Perhaps you may not know, so I will tell you. I knew your sister before she knew Iyo. But she likes to treat me so because she thinks she has got a very good friend in Iyo; but do you be like a brother to me. The days of Iyo will be probably fewer than mine.”
He now returned to the Palace taking Komini with him, and, going to his dressing-room, attired him nicely in the Court style; in a word, he treated him as a parent would do.
By the boy’s assistance several more letters were conveyed to his sister. Her resolution, however, remained unshaken. “If one’s heart were once to deviate from the path,” she reflected, “the only end we could expect would be a
damaged reputation and misery for life: the good and the bad result from one’s self !” Thus thinking, she resolved to return no answer. She might, indeed, have admired the person of Genji, and
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probably did so, yet, whenever such feelings came into her mind, the next thought that suggested itself was, “What is the use of such idle admiration?”
Meanwhile, Genji was often thinking of paying a visit to the house where she was staying, but he did not con- sider it becoming to do so, without some reasonable pretext, more especially as he would have been sorry, and for her sake more than his own, to draw a suspicion upon her.
It happened, however, after a prolonged residence at the Court, that another occasion of closing the Palace in the certain celestial line of direction arrived. Catching at this opportunity he left the Palace, and suddenly turning out of his road, went straight to Ki-no-Kami’s residence, with the excuse that he had just discovered the above fact on his way. Ki-no-Kami surprised at this unexpected visit, had only to bow before him, and acknowledge the honor of his presence. The boy, Kokimi, was already there before him, having been secretly informed of his intention be- forehand, and he attended on him as usual in his apartment on his arrival.
The lady, who had been told by her brother that the Prince earnestly desired to see her, knew well how danger- ous it was to approach an inviting flower growing on the edge of a precipice. She was not, of course, insensible to his coming in such a manner, with an excuse for the sake of seeing her, but she did not wish to increase her dreamlike inquietude by seeing him. And again, if he ventured to visit her apartment, as he did before, it might be a serious compromise for her.
For these reasons she retired while her brother was with Genji, to a private chamber of Chiujio, her companion, in the rear of the main building, under the pretence that her own room was too near that of the Prince, besides she was indisposed and required “Tataki,” which she desired to have done in a retired part of the house.
Genji sent his attendants very early to their own quarters, and then, through Kokimi, requested an interview with the lady. Kokimi at first was unable to find her, till after searching everywhere, he, at last, came to the apart- ment of Chiujio, and with great earnestness endeavored to persuade her to see Genji, in an anxious and half trem- bling voice, while she replied in a tone slightly angry, “What makes you so busy? Why do you trouble yourself ? Boys carrying such messages are highly blamable.”
After thus daunting him, she added, more mildly, “Tell the Prince I am somewhat indisposed, and also that some friends are with me, and I cannot well leave them now.” And she again cautioned the boy not to be too offi- cious, and sent him away from her at once.
Yet, at the bottom of her heart, different feelings might have been struggling from those which her words
Image 8.5: Tale of Genji Toyokuni Utagawa Print | A man with an umbrella and a woman with a broom stand against a snowy background.
Author: Utagawa Kunisada Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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seemed to express, and some such thoughts as these shaped themselves to her mind: “Were I still a maiden in the home of my beloved parents, and occasionally received his visits there, how happy might I not be? How trying to act as if no romantic sentiment belonged to my heart!”
Genji, who was anxiously waiting to know how the boy would succeed in persuading his sister, was soon told that all his efforts were in vain. Upon hearing this he remained for some moments silent, and then relieved his feelings with a long-drawn sigh, and hummed:—
“The Hahaki-gi distant tree Spreads broom-like o’er the silent waste; Approach, how changed its shape we see, In vain we try its shade to taste.”
The lady was unable to sleep, and her thoughts also took the following poetic shape:— Too like the Hahaki-gi tree, Lonely and humble, I must dwell, Nor dare to give a thought to thee, But only sigh
a long farewell. All the other inmates of the house were now in a sound slumber, but sleep came not to Genji’s eyes. He did,
indeed, admire her immovable and chaste nature, but this only drew his heart more towards her. He was agitated. At one moment he cried, “Well, then!” at another, “However!” “Still!” At last, turning to the boy, he passionately exclaimed, “Lead me to her at once!”
Kokimi calmly replied, “It is impossible, too many eyes are around us!” Genji with a sigh then threw himself back on the cushion, saying to Kokimi, “You, at least, will be my friend,
and shall share my apartment!”
Chaoter V Young Violet
It was the time when Genji became subject to periodical attacks of ague, that many exorcisms and spells were performed to effect a cure, but all in vain. At length he was told by a friend that in a certain temple on the northern mountain (Mount Kurama) there dwelt a famous ascetic, and that when the epidemic had prevailed during the pre- vious summer, many people had recovered through his exorcisms. “If,” added the friend, “the disease is neglected it becomes serious; try therefore, this method of procuring relief at once, and before it is too late.”
Genji, therefore, sent for the hermit, but he declined to come, saying that he was too old and decrepit to leave his retreat. “What shall I do?” exclaimed Genji, “shall I visit him privately?” Eventually, taking four or five atten- dants, he started off early one morning for the place, which was at no great distance on the mountain.
It was the last day of March, and though the height of the season for flowers in the capital was over, yet, on the mountain, the cherry-trees were still in blossom. They advanced on their way further and further. The haze clung to the surface like a soft sash does round the waist, and to Genji, who had scarcely ever been out of the capital, the scenery was indescribably novel. The ascetic lived in a deep cave in the rocks, near the lofty summit. Genji did not, however, declare who he was, and the style of his retinue was of a very private character. Yet his nobility of manners was easily recognizable.
“Welcome your visit!” cried the hermit, saluting him. “Perhaps you are the one who sent for me the other day? I have long since quitted the affairs of this world, and have almost forgotten the secret of my exorcisms. I wonder why you have come here for me.” So saying, he pleasingly embraced him. He was evidently a man of great holiness. He wrote out a talismanic prescription, which he gave to Genji to drink in water, while he himself proceeded to perform some mysterious rite. During the performance of this ceremony the sun rose high in the heavens. Genji, meantime, walked out of the cave and looked around him with his attendants. The spot where they stood was very lofty, and numerous monasteries were visible, scattered here and there in the distance beneath. There was immedi- ately beyond the winding path in which they were walking a picturesque and pretty building enclosed by hedges. Its well arranged balconies and the gardens around it apparently betokened the good taste of its inhabitants. “Whose house may that be?” inquired Genji of his attendants. They told him it was a house in which a certain priest had been living for the last two years. “Ah! I know him,” said Genji. “Strange, indeed, would it be if he were to discover that I am here in this privacy.” They noticed a nun and a few more females with her walking in the garden, who were carrying fresh water for their offerings, and were gathering flowers. “Ah! there are ladies walking there,” cried the attendants in tones of surprise. “Surely, the Reverend Father would not indulge in flirtations! Who can they be?” And some of them even descended a little distance, and peered over the enclosure, where a pretty little girl was also seen amongst them.
Genji now engaged in prayer until the sun sank in the heavens. His attendants, who were anxious about his disease, told him that it would be good for him to have a change from time to time. Hereupon, he advanced to the back of the temple, and his gaze fell on the far-off Capital in the distance, which was enveloped in haze as the dusk was setting in, over the tops of the trees around. “What a lovely landscape!” exclaimed Genji. “The people to whom such scenery is familiar, are perhaps happy and contented.” “Nay,” said the attendants, “but were you to see the
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beautiful mountain ranges and the sea-coast in our various provinces, the pictures would indeed be found lovely.” Then some of them described to him Fuji Yama, while others told him of other mountains, diverting his attention by their animated description of the beautiful bays and coasts of the Western Provinces; thus as they depicted them to him, they cheered and gladdened his mind. One of them went on to say: “Among such sights and at no great distance, there is the sea-coast of Akashi, in the Province of Harima, which is, I think, especially beautiful. I cannot, indeed, point out in detail its most remarkable features, but, in general, the blue expanse of the sea is singularly charming. Here, too, the home of the former Governor of the Province constitutes an object of great attraction. He has assumed the tonsure, and resides there with his beautiful daughter. He is the descendant of a high personage, and was not without hope of elevation at Court, but, being of an eccentric character, he was strongly averse to soci- ety. He had formerly been a Chiujio of the Imperial Guard, but having resigned that office, had become Governor of Harima. He was not, however, popular in that office. In this state of affairs he reflected within himself, no doubt, that his presence in the Capital could not but be disagreeable. When, therefore, his term of office expired, he deter- mined still to remain in the province. He did not, however, go to the mountainous regions of the interior, but chose the sea-coast. There are in this district several places which are well situated for quiet retirement, and it would have seemed inconsistent in him had he preferred a part of the sea-coast so near the gay world; nevertheless, a retreat in the too remote interior would have been too solitary, and might have met with objections on the part of his wife and child. For this reason, it appears, that he finally selected the place which I have already alluded to for the sake of his family. When I went down there last time, I became acquainted with the history and circumstances of the fam- ily, and I found that though he may not have been well received in the Capital, yet, that here, having been formerly governor, he enjoys considerable popularity and respect. His residence, moreover, is well appointed and of sufficient magnitude, and he performs with punctuality and devoutness his religious duties—nay, almost with more earnest- ness than many regular priests.” Here Genji interrupted. “What is his daughter like?” “Without doubt,” answered his companion, “the beauty of her person is unrivalled, and she is endowed with corresponding mental ability. Suc- cessive governors often offer their addresses to her with great sincerity, but no one has ever yet been accepted. The dominant idea of her father seems to be this: ‘What, have I sunk to such a position! Well, I trust, at least, that my only daughter may be successful and prosperous in her life!’ He often told her, I heard, that if she survived him, and if his fond hopes for her should not be realized, it would be better for her to cast herself into the sea.”
Genji was much interested in this conversation, and the rest of the company laughingly said, “Ah! she is a wom- an who is likely to become the Queen of the Blue Main. In very truth her father must be an extraordinary being!”
The attendant who had given this account of the ex-governor and his daughter, was the son of the present Governor of the Province. He was until lately a Kurand, and this year had received the title of Jugoi. His name was Yoshikiyo, and he, too, was a man of gay habits, which gave occasion to one of his companions to observe: “Ah! perhaps you also have been trying to disappoint the hopes of the aged father.” Another said, “Well, our friend has given us a long account, but we must take it with some reserve. She must be, after all, a country maiden, and all that I can give credit to is this much: that her mother may be a woman of some sense, who takes great care of the girl. I am only afraid that if any future governor should be seized with an ardent desire to possess her, she would not long remain unattached.”
“What possible object could it serve if she were carried to the bottom of the sea? The natives of the deep would derive no pleasure from her charms,” remarked Genji, while he himself secretly desired to behold her.
“Ay,” thought his companions, “with his susceptible temperament, what wonder if this story touches him.” The day was far advanced, and the Prince prepared to leave the mountain. The Hermit, however, told him that it
would be better to spend the evening in the Temple, and to be further prayed for. His attendants also supported this suggestion. So Genji made up his mind to stay there, saying, “Then I shall not return home till to-morrow.”
The days at this season were of long duration, and he felt it rather tiresome to pass a whole evening in sedate society, so, under the cover of the shades of the evening, he went out of the Temple, and proceeded to the pretty building enclosed by hedges. All the attendants had been despatched home except Koremitz, who accompanied him. They peeped at this building through the hedges. In the western antechamber of the house was placed an im- age of Buddha, and here an evening service was performed. A nun, raising a curtain before Buddha, offered a gar- land of flowers on the altar, and placing a Kio (or Sutra, i.e., Buddhist Bible) on her “arm-stool,” proceeded to read it. She seemed to be rather more than forty years old. Her face was rather round, and her appearance was noble. Her hair was thrown back from her forehead and was cut short behind, which suited her very well. She was, however, pale and weak, her voice, also, being tremulous. Two maiden attendants went in and out of the room waiting upon her, and a little girl ran into the room with them. She was about ten years old or more, and wore a white silk dress, which fitted her well and which was lined with yellow. Her hair was waved like a fan, and her eyes were red from crying. “What is the matter? Have you quarrelled with the boy?” exclaimed the nun, looking at her. There was some resemblance between the features of the child and the nun, so Genji thought that she possibly might be her daugh- ter.
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“Inuki has lost my sparrow, which I kept so carefully in the cage,” replied the child. “That stupid boy,” said one of the attendants. “Has he again been the cause of this? Where can the bird be gone?
And all this, too, after we had tamed it with so much care.” She then left the room, possibly to look for the lost bird. The people who addressed her called her Shionagon, and she appeared to have been the little girl’s nurse.
“To you,” said the nun to the girl, “the sparrow may be dearer than I may be, who am so ill; but have I not told you often that the caging of birds is a sin? Be a good girl; come nearer!”
The girl advanced and stood silent before her, her face being bathed in tears. The contour of the child-like forehead and of the small and graceful head was very pleasing. Genji, as he surveyed the scene from without, thought within himself, “If she is thus fair in her girlhood, what will she be when she is grown up?” One reason why Genji was so much attracted by her was, that she greatly resembled a certain lady in the Palace, to whom he, for a long time, had been fondly attached. The nun stroked the beautiful hair of the child and murmured to herself, “How splendid it looks! Would that she would always strive to keep it thus. Her extreme youth makes me anxious, however. Her mother departed this life when she only a very young girl, but she was quite sensible at the age of this one. Supposing that I were to leave her behind, I wonder what would happen to her!” As she thus murmured, her countenance became saddened by her forebodings.
The sight moved Genji’s sympathy as he gazed. It seemed that the tender heart of the child was also touched, for she silently watched the expression of the nun’s features, and then with downcast eyes bent her face towards the ground, the lustrous hair falling over her back in waves.
The nun hummed, in a tone sufficiently audible to Genji, “The dews that wet the tender grass, At the sun’s birth, too quickly pass, Nor e’er can hope to see it rise In full
perfection to the skies.” Shionagon, who now joined them, and heard the above distich, consoled the nun with the following:— “The dews will not so quickly pass, Nor shall depart before they see The full perfection of the grass, They loved
so well in infancy.” At this juncture a priest entered and said, “Do you know that this very day Prince Genji visited the hermit in
order to be exorcised by him. I must forthwith go and see him.” Genji observing this movement quickly returned to the monastery, thinking as he went what a lovely girl he
had seen. “I can guess from this,” thought he, “why those gay fellows (referring to his attendants) so often make their expeditions in search of good fortune. What a charming little girl have I seen to-day! Who can she be? Would that I could see her morning and evening in the palace, where I can no longer see the fair loved one whom she resembles!” He now returned to the monastery, and retired to his quarters. Soon after a disciple of the priest came and delivered a message from him through Koremitz, saying, “My master has just heard of the Prince’s visit to the mountain, and would have waited on him at once, but thought it better to postpone calling. Nevertheless he would be much pleased to offer a humble welcome, and feels disappointed that he has not yet had an opportunity of doing so.”
Genji said in reply, “I have been afflicted with constant attacks of ague for the last few weeks, and, therefore, by the advice of my friends, I came to this mountain to be exorcised. If, however, the spells of the holy man are of no avail to me, his reputation might suffer in consequence. For that reason I wish to keep my visit as private as pos- sible, nevertheless I will come now to your master.” Thereupon the priest himself soon made his appearance, and, after briefly relating the circumstances which had occasioned his retirement to this locality, he offered to escort Genji to his house, saying, “My dwelling is but a rustic cottage, but still I should like you to see, at least, the pretty mountain streamlet which waters my garden.”
Genji accepted the offer, thinking as he went, “I wonder what the priest has said at home about myself to those to whom I have not yet been introduced. But it will be pleasant to see them once more.”
The night was moonless. The fountain was lit up by torches, and many lamps also were lighted in the garden. Genji was taken to an airy room in the southern front of the building, where incense which was burning threw its sweet odors around. The priest related to him many interesting anecdotes, and also spoke eloquently of man’s future destiny. Genji as he heard him, felt some qualms of conscience, for he remembered that his own conduct was far from being irreproachable. The thought troubled him that he would never be free from the sting of these recollec- tions through his life, and that there was a world to come, too! “Oh, could I but live in a retreat like this priest!” As he thus thought of a retreat, he was involuntarily taken by a fancy, that how happy would he be if accompanied to such a retreat by such a girl as he had seen in the evening, and with this fancy her lovely face rose up before him.
Suddenly he said to the priest, “I had once a dream which made me anxious to know who was living in this house, and here to-day that dream has again come back to my memory!” The priest laughed, and said, “A strange dream! even were you to obtain your wish it might not gratify you. The late Lord Azechi Dainagon died long ago, and perhaps you know nothing about him. Well! his widow is my sister, and since her husband’s death her health has not been satisfactory, so lately she has been living here in retirement.”
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“Ah, yes,” said Genji, venturing upon a guess, “and I heard that she bore a daughter to Dainagon.” “Yes, she had a daughter, but she died about ten years ago. After her father’s death the sole care of her fell upon
her widowed mother alone. I know not how it came to pass, but she became secretly intimate with Prince Hiobkio. But the Prince’s wife was very jealous and severe, so she had much to suffer and put up with. I saw personally the truth that ‘care kills more than labor.’”
“Ah, then,” thought Genji, “the little one is her daughter, and no wonder that she resembles the one in the palace (because Prince Hiobkio was the brother of the Princess Wistaria). How would it be if I had free control over her, and had her brought up and educated according to my own notions?” So thinking, he proceeded to say how sad it was that she died! “Did she leave any offspring?”
“She gave birth to a child at her death, which was also a girl, and about this girl the grandmother is always feel- ing very anxious.”
“Then,” said Genji, “let it not appear strange to you if I say this, but I should be very happy to become the guardian of this girl. Will you speak to her grandmother about it? It is true that there is one to whom my lot is linked, but I care but little for her, and indeed usually lead a solitary life.”
“Your offer is very kind,” replied the priest, “but she is extremely young. However every woman grows up under the protecting care of some one, and so I cannot say much about her, only it shall be mentioned to my sister.”
The priest said this with a grave and even a stern expression on his countenance, which caused Genji to drop the subject.
He then asked the Prince to excuse him, for it was the hour for vespers, and as he quitted the room to attend the service, said he would return as soon as it was finished.
Genji was alone. A slight shower fell over the surrounding country, and the mountain breezes blew cool. The waters of the torrent were swollen, and the roar of them might be heard from afar. Broken and indistinct, one might hear the melancholy sound of the sleepy intonation of prayers. Even those people who have no sorrow of their own often feel melancholy from the circumstances in which they are placed. So Genji, whose mind was occupied in thought, could not slumber here. The priest said he was going to vespers, but in reality it was later than the proper time for them. Genji perceived that the inmates had not yet retired to rest in the inner apartments of the house. They were very quiet, yet the sound of the telling of beads, which accidentally struck the lectern, was heard from time to time. The room was not far from his own. He pulled the screen slightly aside, and standing near the door, he struck his fan on his hand, to summon some one.
“What can be the matter,” said an attendant, and as she came near to the Prince’s room she added, “Perhaps my ear was deceived,” and she began to retire.
“Buddha will guide you; fear not the darkness, I am here,” said Genji. “Sir!” replied the servant, timidly. “Pray do not think me presumptuous,” said Genji; “but may I beg you to transmit this poetical effusion to your
mistress for me? Since first that tender grass I viewed, My heart no soft repose e’er feels, But gathering mist my sleeve bedews,
And pity to my bosom steals.” “Surely you should know, sir, that there is no one here to whom such things can be presented!” “Believe me, I have my own reasons for this,” said Genji. “Let me beseech you to take it.” So the attendant went back, and presented it to the nun. “I do not see the real intent of the effusion,” thought the nun. “Perhaps he thinks that she is already a woman.
But”—she continued, wonderingly—”how could he have known about the young grass?” And she then remained si- lent for a while. At last, thinking it would be unbecoming to take no notice of it, she gave orally the following reply to the attendant to be given to Genji:—
“You say your sleeve is wet with dew, ‘Tis but one night alone for you, But there’s a mountain moss grows nigh, Whose leaves from dew are never dry.”
When Genji heard this, he said: “I am not accustomed to receive an answer such as this through the mouth of a third person. Although I thank the lady for even that much, I should feel more obliged to her if she would grant me an interview, and allow me to explain to her my sincere wishes.”
This at length obliged the nun to have an interview with the Prince. He then told her that he called Buddha to witness that, though his conduct may have seemed bold, it was dictated by pure and conscientious motives.
“All the circumstances of your family history are known to me,” continued he. “Look upon me, I pray, as a substitute for your once loved daughter. I, too, when a mere infant, was deprived by death of my best friend—my mother—and the years and months which then rolled by were fraught with trouble to me. In that same position your little one is now. Allow us, then, to become friends. We could sympathize with each other. ‘Twas to reveal these wishes to you that I came here, and risked the chance of offending you in doing so.”
“Believe me, I am well disposed at your offer,” said the nun; “but you may have been incorrectly informed. It
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is true that there is a little girl dependent upon myself, but she is but a child. Her society could not afford you any pleasure; and forgive me, therefore, if I decline your request.”
“Yet let there be no reserve in the expression of your ideas,” interrupted Genji; but, before they could talk fur- ther, the return of the priest put an end to the subject, and Genji retired to his quarters, after thanking the nun for his kind reception.
The night passed away, and dawn appeared. The sky was again hazy, and here and there melodious birds were singing among the mountain shrubs and flowers that blossomed around. The deer, too, which were to be seen here, added to the beauty of the picture. Gazing around at these Genji once more proceeded to the temple. The hermit— though too infirm to walk—again contrived to offer up his prayers on Genji’s behalf, and he also read from the Darani. The tremulous accents of the old man—poured forth from his nearly toothless mouth—imparted a greater reverence to his prayers.
Genji’s attendants now arrived from the capital, and congratulated him on the improvement in his health. A messenger was despatched from the Imperial Palace for the same purpose. The priest now collected wild and rare fruits, not to be met with in the distant town, and, with all respect, presented them to Genji, saying: “The term of my vow has not yet expired; and I am, therefore, sorry to say that I am unable to descend the mountain with you on your departure.” He then offered to him the parting cup of saké.
“This mountain, with its waters, fill me with admiration,” said Genji, “and I regret that the anxiety of my father the Emperor obliges me to quit the charming scene; but before the season is past, I will revisit it: and—
The city’s folk from me shall hear How mountain cherries blossom fair, And ere the Spring has passed away, I’ll bid them view the prospect gay.”
To this the priest replied— “Your noble presence seems to me Like the rare flowers of Udon tree, Nor does the mountain cherry white,
Attract my gaze while you’re in sight.” Genji smiled slightly, and said: “That is a very great compliment; but the Udon tree does not blossom so easily.” The hermit also raised the cup to his lips, and said:— “Opening my lonely hermit’s door, Enclosed around by mountain pine, A blossom never seen before My eyes
behold that seems divine.” And he presented to him his toko (a small ecclesiastical wand). On seeing this, the priest also made him the
following presents:—A rosary of Kongoji (a kind of precious stone), which the sage Prince Shotok obtained from Corea, enclosed in the original case in which it had been sent from that country; some medicine of rare virtue in a small emerald jar; and several other objects, with a spray of Wistaria, and a branch of cherry blossoms.
Genji, too, on the other hand, made presents, which he had ordered from the capital, to the hermit and his dis- ciples who had taken part in the religious ceremonies, and also to the poor mountaineers. He also sent the follow- ing to the nun, by the priest’s page:—
“In yester-eve’s uncertain light, A flower I saw so young and bright, But like a morning mist. Now pain Impels me yet to see again.”
A reply from the nun was speedily brought to him, which ran thus:— “You say you feel, perhaps ‘tis true, A pang to leave these mountain bowers, For sweet the blossoms, sweet the
view, To strangers’ eyes of mountain flowers.” While this was being presented to him in his carriage, a few more people came, as if accidentally, to wait upon
him on his journey. Among them was To-no-Chiujio, and his brother Ben, who said: “We are always pleased to follow you; it was unkind of you to leave us behind.”
Just as the party were on the point of starting, some of them observed that it was a pity to leave so lovely a spot without resting awhile among the flowers. This was immediately agreed to, and they took their seats on a moss- grown rock, a short distance from which a little streamlet descended in a murmuring cascade.
They there began to drink saké, and To-no-Chiujio taking his flute, evoked from it a rich and melodious strain; while Ben, tapping his fan in concert, sang “The Temple of Toyora,” while the Prince, as he leaned against a rock, presented a picturesque appearance, though he was pale and thin.
Among the attendants was one who blew on a long flute, called Hichiriki, and another on a Shio flute. The priest brought a koto, and begged Genji to perform upon it, saying: “If we are to have music at all, let us have a har- monious concert.” Genji said that he was no master of music; but, nevertheless, he played, with fair ability, a pleas- ing air. Then they all rose up, and departed.
After they had quitted the mountain, Genji first of all went to the Palace, where he immediately had an inter- view with the Emperor, who considered his son to be still weak in health; and who asked him several questions with regard to the efficacy of the prayers of the reverend hermit. Genji gave him all particulars of his visit to the moun- tain.
“Ah!” said the Emperor, “he may some day be entitled to become a dean (Azali). His virtue and holiness have
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not yet been duly appreciated by the government and the nation.” Sadaijin, the father-in-law of the Prince, here entered, and entreated Genji to accompany him to his mansion,
and spend a few days. Genji did not feel very anxious to accept this invitation, but was persuaded to do so. Sadaijin conveyed him in his own carriage, and gave up to him the seat of honor.
They arrived; but, as usual, his bride did not appear, and only presented herself at last at the earnest request of her father. She was one of those model princesses whom one may see in a picture—very formal and very se- date—and it was very difficult to draw her into conversation. She was very uninteresting to Genji. He thought that it would only lead to a very unpleasant state of affairs, as years grew on, if they were to be as cool and reserved to each other as they had been hitherto. Turning to her, he said, with some reproachfulness in his accents, “Surely you should sometimes show me a little of the ordinary affection of people in our position!”
She made no reply; but, glancing coolly upon him, murmured with modest, yet dignified, tone— “When you cease to care for me, What can I then do for thee?” “Your words are few; but they have a sting in them. You say I cease to care for you; but you do me wrong in say-
ing so. May the time come when you will no longer pain me thus,” said Genji; and he made every effort to conciliate her. But she was not easily appeased. He was unsuccessful in his effort, and presently they retired to their apart- ment, where he soon relapsed into sleepy indifference. His thoughts began to wander back into other regions, and hopes of the future growth and charms of the young mountain-violet again occupied his mind. “Oh! how difficult it is to secure a prize,” thought he. “How can I do so? Her father, Prince Hiobkio, is a man of rank, and affable, but he is not of prepossessing appearance. Why does his daughter resemble so much, in her personal attractions, the lovely one in the chamber of Wistaria. Is it that the mother of her father and of Wistaria is the same person? How charm- ing is the resemblance between them! How can I make her mine?”
Some days afterwards he sent a letter to the mountain home, and also a communication—perhaps with some hint in it—to the priest. In his letter to the nun he said that her indifference made it desirable to refrain from urging his wishes; but, nevertheless, that he should be deeply gratified if she would think more favorably of the idea which was now so deeply rooted in his mind. Inside the letter he enclosed a small folded slip of paper, on which was writ- ten:—\
“The mountain flower I left behind I strive but vainly to forget, Those lovely traits still rise to mind And fill my heart with sad regret.”
This ludicrous effusion caused the nun to be partly amused and partly vexed. She wrote an answer as follows:— “When you came into our neighborhood your visit was very pleasing to us, and your special message does us
honor. I am, however, at a loss how to express myself with regard to the little one, as yet she cannot even manage the naniwadz.”
Enclosed in the note were the following lines, in which she hinted as to her doubts of the steadfastness of Gen- ji’s character:
“Your heart admires the lowly flower That dwells within our mountain bower. Not long, alas! that flower may last Torn by the mountain’s angry blast.”
The tenor of the priest’s answer was much the same, and it caused Genji some vexation. About this time the Lady Wistaria, in consequence of an attack of illness, had retired from the palace to her
private residence, and Genji, while sympathizing with the anxiety of the Emperor about her, longed greatly for an opportunity of seeing her, ill though she was. Hence at this time he went nowhere, but kept himself in his mansion at Nijio, and became thoughtful and preoccupied. At length he endeavored to cajole O Miobu, Wistaria’s attendant, into arranging an opportunity for him to see her. On Wistaria’s part there were strong doubts as to the propriety of complying with his request, but at last the earnestness of the Prince overcame her scruples, and O Miobu managed eventually to bring about a meeting between them.
Genji gave vent to his feelings to the Princess, as follows:— “Though now we meet, and not again We e’er may meet, I seem As though to die, I were full fain Lost in this
blissful dream.” Then the Princess replied to him, full of sadness:— “We might dream on but fear the name, The envious world to us may give, Forgetful of the darkened fame, That
lives when we no longer live.” For some time after this meeting had taken place, Genji found himself too timid to appear at his father’s palace,
and remained in his mansion. The Princess, too, experienced a strong feeling of remorse. She had, moreover, a cause of anxiety special in its nature and peculiar to herself as a woman, for which she alone felt some uneasiness of conscience.
Three months of the summer had passed away, and her secret began to betray itself externally. The Emperor was naturally anxious about the health of his favorite, and kind inquiries were sent from time to time to her. But the kinder he was to her the more conscience-stricken she felt.
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Genji at this time was often visited by strange dreams. When he consulted a diviner about them, he was told that something remarkable and extraordinary might happen to him, and that it behooved him to be cautious and prudent.
“Here is a pretty source of embarrassment,” thought Genji. He cautioned the diviner to be discreet about it, especially because he said the dreams were not his own but
another person’s. When at last he heard authentically about the condition of the Princess, he was extremely anxious to communicate with her, but she now peremptorily objected to any kind of correspondence between them, and O Miobu too refused any longer to assist him.
In July Wistaria returned to the palace. There she was received by the Emperor with great rejoicing, and he thought that her condition did but add to her attractiveness.
It was now autumn, the season when agreeable receptions were often held by the Emperor in Court, and it was awkward when Genji and the Princess happened to face each other on these occasions, as neither of them could be free from their tender recollections.
During these autumn evenings the thoughts of Genji were often directed to the granddaughter of the nun, especially because she resembled the Princess so much. His desire to possess her was considerably increased, and the recollection of the first evening when he heard the nun intoning to herself the verses about the tender grass, recurred to his mind. “What,” thought he, “if I pluck this tender grass, would it then be, would it then grow up, as fair as now.”
“When will be mine this lovely flower Of tender grace and purple hue? Like the Wistaria of the bower, Its charms are lovely to my view.”
The Emperor’s visit to the Palace Suzak-in was now announced to take place in October, and dancers and musicians were selected from among the young nobles who were accomplished in these arts, and Royal Princes and officers of State were fully engaged in preparation for the fête. After the Royal festivities, a separate account of which will be given hereafter, he sent again a letter to the mountain. The answer, however, came only from the priest, who said that his sister had died on the twentieth day of the last month; and added that though death is inevitable to all of us, still he painfully felt her loss.
Genji pondered first on the precariousness of human life, and then thought how that little one who had de- pended on her must be afflicted, and gradually the memory of his own childhood, during which he too had lost his mother, came back to his mind.
When the time of full mourning was over, Shionagon, together with the young girl, returned to their house in the capital. There one evening Genji paid them a visit. The house was rather a gloomy one, and was tenanted by fewer inmates than usual.
“How timid the little girl must feel!” thought Genji, as he was shown in. Shionagon now told him with tearful eyes every circumstance which had taken place since she had seen him. She also said that the girl might be handed over to her father, who told her that she must do so, but his present wife was said to be very austere. The girl is not young enough to be without ideas and wishes of her own, but yet not old enough to form them sensibly; so were she to be taken to her father’s house and be placed with several other children, much misery would be the result. Her grandmother suffered much on this account. “Your kindness is great,” continued she, “and we ought not, per- haps, to think too anxiously about the future. Still she is young, too young, and we cannot think of it without pity.”
“Why do you recur to that so often?” said Genji, “it is her very youthfulness which moves my sympathy. I am anxious to talk to her,
Say, can the wave that rolls to land, Return to ocean’s heaving breast, Nor greet the weed upon the strand With one wild kiss, all softly pressed.
How sweet it would be!” “That is very beautifully put, sir,” said Shionagon, “but, Half trembling at the coming tide That rolls about the sea-beat sand, Say, can the tender weed untried, Be trust-
ed to its boisterous hand?” Meanwhile the girl, who was with her companions in her apartment, and who was told that a gentleman in
Court dress had arrived, and that perhaps it was the Prince, her father, came running in, saying, “Shionagon, where is the gentleman in Court dress; has the Prince, my father, arrived?”
“Not the Prince, your father,” uttered Genji, “but I am here, and I too am your friend. Come here!” The girl, glancing with shy timidity at Genji, for whom she already had some liking, and thinking that perhaps
there was impropriety in what she had spoken, went over to her nurse, and said, “Oh! I am very sleepy, and wish to lie down!”
“See how childish she still is,” remarked Shionagon. “Why are you so timid, little one, come here and sleep on my knees,” said Genji. “Go, my child, as you are asked,” observed Shionagon, and she pushed her towards Genji. Half-unconsciously she took her place by his side. He pushed aside a small shawl which covered her hair, and
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played with her long tresses, and then he took her small hand in his. “Ah, my hand!” cried she, and drawing it back, she ran into a neighboring room. Genji followed her, and tried to coax her out of her shyness, telling her that he was one of her best friends, and that she was not to be so timid.
By this time darkness had succeeded to the beautiful evening, and hail began to fall. “Close the casement, it is too fearful, I will watch over you this evening,” said Genji, as he led the girl away, to
the great surprise of Shionagon and others who wondered at his ease in doing this. By and by she became sleepy, and Genji, as skilfully as any nurse could, removed all her outer clothing, and
placed her on the couch to sleep, telling her as he sat beside her, “some day you must come with me to some beau- tiful palace, and there you shall have as many pictures and playthings as you like.” Many other similar remarks he added to arrest her attention and to please her.
Her fears gradually subsided, and as she kept looking on the handsome face of Genji, and taking notice of his kindness, she did not fall asleep for some time.
When the night was advanced, and the hailstorm had passed away, Genji at last took his departure. The tem- perature now suddenly changed, and the hail was lying white upon the grass. “Can it be,” thought he, “that I am leaving this place as a lover?” At that moment he remembered that the house of a maiden with whom he had had an acquaintance was on his road home. When he came near to it he ordered one of his attendants to knock at the door. No one, however, came forth. Thereupon Genji turned to another, who had a remarkably good voice, and ordered him to sing the following lines:—
“Though wandering in the morning gray, This gate is one I cannot pass, A tender memory bids me stay To see once more a pretty lass.”
This was repeated twice, when presently a man came to the door and sang, in reply, as follows:— “If you cannot pass the gate, Welcome all to stop and wait. Nought prevents you. Do not fear, For the gate
stands always here.” And then went in, slamming the door in their faces, and appearing no more. Genji, therefore disappointed,
proceeded on his way home. On the morrow he took up his pen to write a letter to Violet, but finding that he had nothing in particular to
say, he laid it aside, and instead of a letter several beautiful pictures were sent for her. From this time Koremitz was sent there very often, partly to do them service, and partly to watch over their
movements. At last the time when the girl’s father was to take her home approached within a night, and Shionagon was busily occupied in sewing a dress for the girl, and was thus consequently unable to take much notice of Kore- mitz when he arrived. Noting these preparatory arrangements, Koremitz at once hastened to inform Genji about them. He happened to be this evening at the mansion of Sadaijin, but Lady Aoi was not, as was often the case, with him, and he was amusing himself there with thumping a wagon as he sang a “Hitachi” song. Koremitz presented himself before him, and gave him the latest information of what was going on.
Genji, when he had listened to Koremitz, thought, “This will never do; I must not lose her in this way. But the difficulty is indeed perplexing. If, on the one hand, she goes to her father, it will not become me to ask him for her. If, on the other hand, I carry her off, people may say that I stole her. However, upon consideration, this latter plan, if I can manage to shut people’s mouths beforehand, will be much better than that I should demand her from her father.”
So, turning to Koremitz, he said, “I must go there. See that the carriage is ready at whatever hour I may appoint. Let two or three attendants be in readiness.” Koremitz, having received these orders, retired.
Long before dawn broke, Genji prepared to leave the mansion. Lady Aoi, as usual, was a little out of temper, but Genji told her that he had some particular arrangements to make at his mansion at Nijio, but that he would soon return to her. He soon started, Koremitz alone following him on horseback.
On their arrival Koremitz proceeded to a small private entrance and announced himself. Shionagon recognized his voice and came out, and upon this he informed her that the Prince had come. She, presuming that he did so only because he happened to pass by them, said, “What! at this late hour?” As she spoke, Genji came up and said:—
“I hear that the little one is to go to the Prince, her father, and I wish to say a few words to her before she goes.” “She is asleep; really, I am afraid that she cannot talk with you at this hour. Besides, what is the use?” replied
Shionagon, with a smile. Genji, however, pressed his way into the house, saying:— “Perhaps the girl is not awake yet, but I will awake her,” and, as the people could not prevent his doing so, he
proceeded to the room where she was unconsciously sleeping on a couch. He shook her gently. She started up, thinking it was her father who had come.
Genji pushed the hair back from her face, as he said to her, “I am come from your father;” but this she knew to be false, and was alarmed. “Don’t be frightened,” said Genji; “there is nothing in me to alarm you.” And in spite of Shionagon’s request not to disturb her, he lifted her from the couch, abruptly saying that he could not allow her to
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go elsewhere, and that he had made up his mind that he himself would be her guardian. He also said she should go with him, and that some of them should go with her.
Shionagon was thunderstruck. “We are expecting her father to-morrow, and what are we to say to him?” She added, “Surely, you can find some better opportunity to manage matters than this.”
“All right, you can come afterward; we will go first,” retorted Genji, as he ordered his carriage to drive up. Shionagon was perplexed, and Violet also cried, thinking how strange all this was. At last Shionagon saw it
was no use to resist, and so having hurriedly changed her own dress for a better one, and taking with her the pretty dress of Violet which she had been making in the evening, got into the carriage, where Genji had already placed the little one.
It was no great distance to Nijio, and they arrived there before dawn. The carriage was driven up to the western wing of the mansion. To Shionagon the whole affair seemed like a dream. “What am I to do?” she said to Genji, who teasingly answered, “What you choose. You may go if you like; so long as this darling is here I am content.” Genji lifted the girl out and carried her into the house. That part of the mansion in which they now were, had not been inhabited, and the furniture was scanty and inappropriate; so, calling Koremitz, the Prince ordered him to see that proper furniture was brought. The beds were therefore taken from the eastern wing, where he himself lived.
Day broke, and Shionagon surveyed with admiration all the magnificence with which she was surrounded. Both the exterior of the building and its internal arrangements left nothing to be desired. Going to the casement, she saw the gravelled walks flashing brightly in the sun. “Ah,” thought she, “where am I amidst all this splendor? This is too grand for me!”
Bath water for their ablutions, and rice soup were now brought into the apartment, and Genji afterward made his appearance.
“What! no attendants? No one to play with the girl? I will send some,” and he then ordered some young persons from the eastern wing of the mansion. Four accordingly came.
Violet was still fast asleep in her night-dress, and now Genji gently shook and woke her. “Do not be frightened any more,” he said quietly to her; “a good girl would not be so, but would know that it is best to be obedient.” She became more and more pleasing to him, and he tried to please her by presenting to her a variety of pretty pictures and playthings, and by consulting her wishes in whatever she desired. She was still wearing the dress of mourning, of sombre color and of soft material, and it was only now at last that she began to smile a little, and this filled Genji with delight. He now had to return to the eastern wing, and Violet, for the first time, went to the casement and looked out on the scenery around. The trees covered with foliage, a small lake, and the plantations round about expanded before her as in a picture. Here and there young people were going in and out. “Ah! what a pretty place,” she exclaimed, charmed as she gazed around. Then, turning again into the apartment, she saw beautiful pictures painted on the screens and walls, which could not but please her.
Genji did not go to the Palace for two or three days, but spent his time in trying to train Violet. “She must soon take lessons in writing,” he thought, and he wrote several writing copies for her. Among these was one in plain char- acters on violet-colored paper, with the title, “Musashi-no” (The field of Musashi is known for its violets). She took it up, and in handwriting plain and clear though small, she found the following:
Though still a bud the violet be, A still unopened blossom here, Its tenderness has charms for me, Recalling one no longer near.
“Come, you must write one now,” said Genji. “I cannot write well enough,” said Violet, looking up at him, with an extremely charming look. “Never mind, whether good or bad,” said he, “but still write something, to refuse is unkind. When there is any
difficulty I will help you through with it.” Thereupon she turned aside shyly and wrote something, handling the pen gracefully with her tiny fingers. “I
have done it badly,” she cried out, and tried to conceal what she had written, but Genji insisted on seeing it and found the following:—
I wonder what’s the floweret’s name, From which that bud its charm may claim! This was, of course, written in a childish hand, but the writing was large and plain, giving promise of future
excellence. “How like her grandmother’s it is,” thought Genji. “Were she to take lessons from a good professor she might
become a master of the art.” He ordered for her a beautiful doll’s house, and played with her different innocent and amusing games. In the meantime, the Prince, her father, had duly arrived at the old home of Violet and asked for her. The ser-
vants were embarrassed, but as they had been requested by Genji not to tell, and as Shionagon had also enjoined them to keep silence, they simply told him that the nurse had taken her and absconded. The Prince was greatly amazed, but he remembered that the girl’s grandmother never consented to send his daughter to his house, and knowing Shionagon to be a shrewd and intelligent woman, he concluded that she had found out the reasons which
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influenced her, and that so out of respect to her, and out of dislike to tell him the reason of it, she had carried the girl off in order that she might be kept away from him. He therefore merely told the servants to inform him at once if they heard anything about them, and he returned home.
Our story again brings us back to Nijio. The girl gradually became reconciled to her new home, as she was most kindly treated by Genji. True, during those evenings when Genji was absent she thought of her dead grandmother, but the image of her father never presented itself to her, as she had seldom seen him. And now, naturally enough, Genji, whom she had learned to look upon as a second father, was the only one for whom she cared. She was the first to greet him when he came home, and she came forward to be fondled and caressed by him without shame or diffidence. Girls at her age are usually shy and under restraint, but with her it was quite different. And again, if a girl has somewhat of jealousy in her disposition, and looks upon every little trifle in a serious light, a man will have to be cautious in his dealings with her, and she herself, too, will often have to undergo vexation. Thus many disagree- able and unexpected incidents might often result. In the case of Violet, however, things were very different, and she was ever amiable and invariably pleasant.
Chapter VII Maple Fête
The Royal visit to the Suzak-in was arranged to take place towards the middle of October, and was anticipat- ed to be a grand affair. Ladies were not expected to take part in it, and they all regretted their not being able to be present.
The Emperor, therefore, wished to let his favorite, the Princess Wistaria, above others, have an opportunity of witnessing a rehearsal that would represent the coming fête, and ordered a preliminary concert to be performed at the Court, in which Genji danced the “Blue Main Waves,” with To-no-Chiujio for his partner. They stood and danced together, forming a most pleasing contrast—one, so to speak, like a bright flower; the other, an everlasting verdure beside it. The rays of the setting sun shone over their heads, and the tones of the music rose higher and higher in measure to their steps. The movements both of hand and foot were eminently graceful; as well, also, was the song of Genji, which was sung at the end of his dance, so that some of the people remarked that the sound of the holy bird, Kariobinga, might be even like this. And so the rehearsal ended.
When the day of the fête came, all the Royal Princes, including the Heir-apparent, and all personages of State, were present at the scene. On the lake, “the music boat,” filled with selected musicians, floated about, as usual on such occasions; and in the grounds, the bands, which were divided into two divisions on the right and left, un- der the direction of two Ministers and two Yemon-no-Kami, played. With this music different dances, including Chinese and Corean, were performed, one after another, by various dancers. As the performance went on, the high winds rustled against the tall fir-trees, as though Divine strains of music had broken forth on high in harmony with them. The tune of the bands became quick and thrilling, as different colored leaves whirled about overhead.
Then, at length, the hero of the “Blue Main Waves” made his appearance, to the delight of the suddenly startled spectators, from the midst of a knoll in the grounds, covered with maple leaves. The twigs of maple which crowned his head, became thinned as he danced, and a Sadaishio, plucking a bunch of chrysanthemums from in front of the Royal stand, replaced the lessened maple leaves. The sun was by this time descending, and the sky had become less glaring, while the face of Nature seemed as if it were smiling on the scene. Genji danced with unusual skill and energy. All the pages and attendants, who were severally stationed here under the side of the rock, there under the shade of the foliage, were quite impressed with the effects of the performance.
After Genji, a little prince, the child of the Niogo of Jiokio-den, danced the “Autumn Gales,” with a success next to that of Genji. Then, the principal interest of the day being over, as these dances were finished, the fête ended. This very evening Genji was invested with the title of Shosammi, and To-no-Chiujio with that of Shoshii. Many other persons also received promotion in rank according to their merits.
It was after this fête that the young Violet was taken into the mansion of Genji at Nijio, and she lived with him. The more care he took of her the more amiable she became, while nothing pleased him more than teaching her to read and write.
The full extent of her mourning for her grandmother was three months, as it is for the maternal side; and on the last day of December her dress was changed. As she, however, had been always brought up under the care of her grandmother, her indebtedness to the latter was not to be held lightly; consequently any bright colors were not advisable for her, so she wore plain scarlet, mauve, and light yellow, without trimmings or ornament on them.
The dawn ushered in the New Year’s day. Genji was about to leave his mansion to attend the New Year’s levée. Just before starting, he came into Violet’s room to see her.
“How are you? Are you becoming less childish now?” said he, with a smile to the girl who was playing with her Hina (toys).
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“I am trying to mend this. Inuki damaged it when he was playing what he called ‘driving out devils,’” replied the girl.
“What carelessness! I will soon get it mended for you. Don’t cry this day, please,” said Genji, and he went off, the maidens who attended on Violet accompanying him to the door. This example was also followed by Violet herself.
She went back again to her toys, and presented a toy prince, whom she called Genji, at the Court of her toy house. Shionagon was beside her. She said:—
“You might really be a little more womanly, as the Prince told you. How very childish! a girl older than ten always playing with toys!”
Violet said nothing; but she seemed, for the first time, to have become aware that she was expected to be a woman in the course of time.
From the Court, Genji went to the mansion of Sadaijin. Lady Aoi was as cool to him as ever. His persuasive eloquence availed him but little. She was older than Genji by four years, and was as cold and stately in her mien as ever. Her father, however, received him joyfully whenever he called, although he was not always satisfied with the capriciousness of his son-in-law.
The next morning Genji rose early, and was arranging his toilet, with a view of making his New Year’s visits, when Sadaijin entered the room, and officiously assisted him in putting on his dress, except, perhaps, his boots. He, moreover, had brought him a belt mounted with rare jewels, and requested him to wear it.
Genji observed: “Such a belt is more suited for some special occasion—such as a Royal banquet, or the like.” But Sadaijin insisted on his putting it on, telling him that for that sort of occasion he possessed a much more valuable one.
These New Year’s visits were only paid to the Emperor, to the Heir-apparent, and to the Princess Wistaria at her private residence in Sanjio, where she had retired, but she did not receive him personally. At this time, the Princess was not in her usual state of health, for she was approaching her confinement. Many people, who thought that they might have heard of the event in December, now began to say, “At least we shall receive the intelligence this month,” and the Emperor himself became impatient; but the month passed away, and yet it did not happen. In the middle of February, however, she was safely delivered of a Prince. During the following April the child was presented to the Emperor. He was rather big for his age, and had already begun to notice those around him.
In these days much of Genji’s time was passed at Nijio with Violet, and Lady Aoi was still greatly neglected. The circumstances which induced him to stay at home more than ever were these: He would order his carriage to be brought in readiness to take him; but, before it was ready, he would proceed to the western wing, where Violet lived. Perhaps, with eyes drowsy after dozing, and playing on a flute as he went, he would find her moping on one side of the room, like a fair flower moistened with dews. He would then approach her side, and say, “How are you? Are you not well?” She, without being startled, would slowly open her eyes, and murmur: “Sad like the weed in a creek,” and then put her hand on her mouth deprecatingly. On this he would remark, “How knowing you are! Where did you learn such things?” He would then call for a koto, and saying “The worst of the soh-koto is that its middle chord should break so easily,” would arrange it for a Hiojio tune, and when he had struck a few chords on it, would offer it to her, asking her to play, and would presently accompany her with his flute. They would then play some difficult air, perhaps Hosoroguseri, a very ugly name, but a very lively tune, and she would keep very good time, and dis- play her skill. The lamp would be presently brought in, and they would look over some pictures together. In due time, the carriage would be announced. Perhaps it might be added, “It is coming on to rain.” Upon hearing this, she would, perhaps, put her pictures aside, and become downcast. He would then smooth her wavy hair, and say, “Are you sorry when I am not here?” To this question she would indicate her feelings by slightly nodding an affirmative, and she would lean on his knee and begin to doze.
He would then say, “I shall not go out to-night.” The servant having brought in supper, would tell her that Genji was not going out that evening. Then she would manifest the greatest delight, and would partake of the supper. And thus it came to pass that he often disappointed one who was expecting him.
The way that Genji neglected his bride gradually became known to the public—nay, to the Emperor himself, who sometimes admonished him, telling him that his father-in-law always took great interest in him and great care from his earliest childhood, and saying that he hoped that he would surely not forget all these benefits, and that it was strange to be unkind to his daughter. But when these remarks were made to Genji, he answered nothing.
Let us now change our subject. The Emperor, though he had already passed the meridian of life, was still fond of the society of the fair sex. And his Court was full of ladies who were well versed in the ways of the world. Some of these would occasionally amuse themselves by paying attentions to Genji. We will here relate the following amusing incident:—
There was at the Court a Naishi-no-Ske, who was already no longer young, and commonly called Gen-Naishi- no-Ske. Both her family and character were good. She was, however, in spite of her age, still coquettish, which was her only fault. Genji often felt amused at her being so young in temperament, and he enjoyed occasionally talking
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nonsense with her. She used to attend on the Emperor while his hair was being dressed. One day, after he had retired into his dressing-room, she remained in the other room, and was smoothing her own hair. Genji happened to pass by. He stole unperceived into the room, and slyly tugged the skirt of her robe. She started, and instinctive- ly half concealed her face with an old-fashioned fan, and looked back at Genji with an arch glance in her sunken eyes. “What an unsuitable fan for you!” exclaimed Genji, and took it from her hand. It was made of reddish paper, apparently long in use, and upon it an ancient forest had been thickly painted. In a corner was written, in antique style, the following words:—
“On grasses old, ‘neath forest trees, No steed will browse or swain delay, However real that grass may be, ‘Tis neither good for food nor play.”
Genji was highly amused. “There are many things one might write on fans,” thought he; “what made her think of writing such odd lines as these?”
“Ah!” said Genji, “I see, ‘its summer shade is still thick though!’” While he was joking he felt something like nervousness in thinking what people might say if anyone happened
to see him flirting with such an elderly lady. She, on her side, had no such fear. She replied— “If beneath that forest tree, The steed should come or swain should be, Where that ancient forest grows, Is grass
for food, and sweet repose.” “What?” retorted Genji, “If my steed should venture near, Perhaps he’d find a rival there, Some one’s steed full well, I ween, Rejoices in
these pastures green.” And quitted the room. The Emperor, who had been peeping unobserved into it, after he had finished his toilet, laughed heartily to
himself at the scene. To-no-Chiujio was somehow informed of Genji’s fun with this lady, and became anxious to discover how far
he meant to carry on the joke. He therefore sought her acquaintance. Genji knew nothing of this. It happened on a cool summer evening that Genji was sauntering round the Ummeiden in the palace yard. He heard the sound of a biwa (mandolin) proceeding from a veranda. It was played by this lady. She performed well upon it, for she was often accustomed to play it before the Emperor along with male musicians. It sounded very charming. She was also singing to it the “Melon grower.”
“Ah!” thought Genji, “the singing woman in Gakshoo, whom the poet spoke of, may have been like this one,” and he stood still and listened. Slowly he approached near the veranda, humming slowly, as he went, “Adzmaya,” which she soon noticed, and took up the song, “Do open and come in! but I do not believe you’re in the rain, Nor that you really wish to come in.”
Genji at once responded, “Whose love you may be I know not, But I’ll not stand outside your cot,” and was going away, when he suddenly thought, “This is too abrupt!” and coming back, he entered the apartment.
How great was the joy of To-no-Chiujio, who had followed Genji unperceived by him, when he saw this. He contrived a plan to frighten him, so he reconnoitred in order to find some favorable opportunity.
The evening breeze blew chill, and Genji it appears was becoming very indifferent. Choosing this moment To- no-Chiujio slyly stepped forth to the spot where Genji was resting.
Genji soon noticed his footsteps, but he never imagined that it was his brother-in-law. He thought it was Su- ri-no-Kami, a great friend of the lady. He did not wish to be seen by this man. He reproached her for knowing that he was expected, but that she did not give him any hint. Carrying his Naoshi on his arm, he hid himself behind a folding screen. To-no-Chiujio, suppressing a laugh, advanced to the side of the screen, and began to fold it from one end to the other, making a crashing noise as he did so. The lady was in a dilemma, and stood aloof. Genji would fain have run out, and concealed himself elsewhere, but he could not get on his Naoshi, and his head-dress was all awry. The Chiujio spoke not a word lest he should betray himself, but making a pretended angry expostulation, he drew his sword. All at once the lady threw herself at his feet, crying, “My lord! my lord!” To-no-Chiujio could scarcely constrain himself from laughing. She was a woman of about fifty seven, but her excitement was more like that of a girl of twenty.
Genji gradually perceived that the man’s rage was only simulated, and soon became aware who it was that was there; so he suddenly rushed out, and catching hold of To-no-Chiujio’s sword-arm, pinched it severely. To-no-Chiu- jio no longer maintained his disguise, but burst into loud laughter.
“How are you my friend, were you in earnest?” exclaimed Genji, jestingly—”but first let me put on my Naoshi.” But To-no-Chiujio caught it, and tried to prevent him putting it on.
“Then I will have yours,” cried Genji, seizing the end of To-no-Chiujio’s sash, and beginning to unfasten it, while the latter resisted. Then they both began to struggle, and their Naoshi soon began to tear.
“Ah,” cried To-no-Chiujio, “Like the Naoshi to the eye, Your secrets all discovered lie.”
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“Well,” replied Genji, “This secret if so well you know, Why am I now disturbed by you?” And they both quitted the room without much noticing the state of their garments. To-no-Chiujio proceeded to his official chamber, and Genji to his own apartment. The sash and other things
which they had left behind them were soon afterwards sent to Genji by the lady. The sash was that of To-no-Chiujio. Its color was somewhat deeper than his own, and while he was looking at
this, he suddenly noticed that one end of a sleeve of his own Naoshi was wanting. “To-no-Chiujio, I suppose, has carried it off, but I have him also, for here is his sash!” A page boy from To-no-Chiujio’s office hereupon entered, carrying a packet in which the missing sleeve was wrapped, and a message advising Genji to get it mended before all things. “Fancy if I had not got this sash?” thought Genji, as he made the boy take it back to his master in return.
In the morning they were in attendance at Court. They were both serious and solemn in demeanor, as it hap- pened to be a day when there was more official business than on other days; To-no-Chiujio (who being chief of the Kurand, which office has to receive and despatch official documents) was especially much occupied. Nevertheless they were amused themselves at seeing each other’s solemn gravity.
In an interval, when free from duty, To-no-Chiujio came up to Genji and said, with envious eyes, “Have you not been a little scared in your private expedition?” when Genji replied, “No, why so? there was nothing serious in it; but I do sympathize with one who took so much useless trouble.”
They then cautioned each other to be discreet about the matter, which became afterwards a subject for laughter between them.
Now even some Royal Princes would give way to Genji, on account of his father’s favor towards him, but To- no-Chiujio, on the contrary, was always prepared to dispute with him on any subject, and did not yield to him in any way. He was the only brother of the Lady Aoi by the same Royal mother, with an influential State personage for their father, and in his eyes there did not seem to be much difference between himself and Genji.
The incidents of the rivalry between them, therefore, were often very amusing, though we cannot relate them all.
In the month of July the Princess Wistaria was proclaimed Empress. This was done because the Emperor had a notion of abdication in favor of the Heir-apparent and of making the son of the Princess Wistaria the Heir-apparent to the new Emperor, but there was no appropriate guardian or supporter, and all relations on the mother’s side were of the Royal blood, and thereby disqualified from taking any active part in political affairs.
For this reason the Emperor wished to make the position of the mother firmer. The mother of the Heir-apparent, whom this arrangement left still a simple Niogo, was naturally hurt and
uneasy at another being proclaimed Empress. Indeed she was the mother of the Heir-apparent, and had been so for more than twenty years. And the public remarked that it was a severe trial for her to be thus superseded by another.
Chapter IX Hollyhock
The Emperor has at last abdicated his throne, as he has long intended, in favor of the Heir-apparent, and the only child of the Princess Wistaria is made Heir-apparent to the new Emperor.
The ex-Emperor now lived in a private palace with this Princess in a less royal style; and the Niogo of Kokiden, to whom was given the honorary title of ex-Empress, resided in the Imperial Palace with the Emperor, her son, and took up a conspicuous position. The ex-Emperor still felt some anxiety about the Heir-apparent, and appointed Genji as his guardian, as he had not yet a suitable person for that office.
This change in the reigning Emperor, and the gradual advancement of Genji’s position, gave the latter greater responsibility, and he had to restrain his wandering.
Now, according to usage, the Saigu and Saiin were selected; for the latter the second sister of the Emperor was chosen, and for the former the only daughter of the Lady of Rokjio, whose husband had been a Royal Prince.
The day of the departure of the Saigu for Ise was not yet fixed; and the mind of her mother, who had some reasons for dissatisfaction with Genji, was still wavering in her indecision, whether or not she should go to Ise with her daughter.
The case of the Saiin, however, was different, and the day of her installation was soon fixed. She was the favorite child of her mother as well as of her father, and the ceremonies for the day of consecration were arranged with espe- cial splendor. The number of persons who take a share in the procession on this occasion is defined by regulations; yet the selection of this number was most carefully made from the most fashionable of the nobles of the time, and their dresses and saddles were all chosen of beautiful appearance. Genji was also directed by special order to take part in the ceremony.
As the occasion was expected to be magnificent, every class of the people showed great eagerness to witness the
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scene, and a great number of stands were erected all along the road. The day thus looked forward to at last arrived. Lady Aoi seldom showed herself on such occasions; besides, she was now in a delicate state of health, near her
confinement, and had, therefore, no inclination to go out. Her attendants, however, suggested to her that she ought to go. “It is a great pity,” they said, “not to see it; people come from a long distance to see it.” Her mother also said, “You seem better to-day. I think you had better go. Take these girls with you.”
Being pressed in this way, she hastily made up her mind, and went with a train of carriages. All the road was thronged by multitudes of people, many dressed in a style which is called Tsubo-Shozok. Many of great age pros- trated themselves in an attitude of adoration, and many others, notwithstanding their natural plainness, looked almost blooming, from the joy expressed in their countenances—nay, even nuns and aged women, from their retreats, were to be seen amongst them. Numerous carriages were also squeezed closely together, so that the broad thoroughfare of the Ichijio road was made almost spaceless. When, however, the carriages of the Lady Aoi’s party appeared, her attendants ordered several others to make way, and forced a passage to the spot where the best view could be obtained, and where the common people were not allowed. Among these happened to be two ajiro car- riages, and their inmates were plainly incognito and persons of rank.
These belonged to the party of the Lady of Rokjio. When these carriages were forced to give place, their atten- dants cried out, “These carriages do not belong to people who ought to be so abruptly forced away.” But the atten- dants of the Lady Aoi, who were slightly under the influence of drink, would not listen to their expostulations, and they at last made their way and took up their position, pushing the other two back where nothing could be seen, even breaking their poles.
The lady so maltreated was of course extremely indignant, and she would fain have gone home without seeing the spectacle, but there was no passage for retiring. Meanwhile the approach of the procession was announced, and only this calmed her a little.
Genji was as usual conspicuous in the procession. There were several carriages along the roads on whose occupants his glance was cast; that of Lady Aoi, however, was the most striking, and as he passed by the attendants saluted him courteously, which act Genji acknowledged. What were the feelings of the Lady of Rokjio, who had been driven back, at this moment!
In due course the procession passed, and the exciting scene of the day was over. The quarrels about the carriage naturally came to the ears of Genji. He thought that Lady Aoi was too modest to be the instigator of such a dis- pute; but her house was one of great and powerful families famous for overweening pride, a tendency shared by its domestics; and they, for other motives, also of rivalry, were glad to have an opportunity of mortifying the Lady of Rokjio.
He felt for the wounded lady, and hastened to see her; but she, under some pretext, refused to see him. The day of the hollyhock fête of the same temple came. It was especially grand, as it was the first one after the
installation of the new Saiin, but neither Lady Aoi or the Lady of Rokjio was present, while Genji privately took Violet with him in a close carriage to see the festival, and saw the horse-races.
We have already mentioned that the mind of the Lady of Rokjio was still wavering and unsettled whether or not she should go to Ise with her daughter; and this state of mind became more and more augmented and serious after the day of the dispute about the carriages, which made her feel a bitter disdain and jealousy towards the Lady Aoi. Strange to say, that from about the same time, Lady Aoi became ill, and began to suffer from spiritual influences. All sorts of exorcisms were duly performed, and some spirits came forth and gave their names. But among them was a spirit, apparently a “living one,” which obstinately refused to be transmitted to the third party. It caused her great suffering, and seemed not to be of a casual nature, but a permanent hostile influence. Some imagined this to be the effect of fearful jealousy of some one who was intimately known to Genji and who had most influence over him; but the spirit gave no information to this effect. Hence some even surmised that the wandering spirit of some aged nurse, or the like, long since dead, still haunted the mansion, and might have seized the opportunity of the lady’s delicate health, and taken possession of her. Meanwhile at the mansion of Rokjio, the lady, when she was informed of the sufferings of Lady Aoi, felt somewhat for her, and began to experience a sort of compassion.
This became stronger when she was told that the sufferings of the Lady Aoi were owing to some living spirit. She thought that she never wished any evil to her; but, when she reflected, there were several times when she began to think that a wounded spirit, such as her own, might have some influence of the kind. She had sometimes dreams, after weary thinking, between slumber and waking, in which she seemed to fly to some beautiful girl, apparently Lady Aoi, and to engage in bitter contention and struggle with her. She became even terrified at these dreams; but yet they took place very often. “Even in ordinary matters,” she thought, “it is too common a practice, to say nothing of the good done by people, but to exaggerate the bad; and so, in such cases, if it should be rumored that mine was that living spirit which tormented Lady Aoi, how trying it would be to me! It is no rare occurrence that one’s disem- bodied spirit, after death, should wander about; but even that is not a very agreeable idea. How much more, then, must it be disagreeable to have the repute that one’s living spirit was inflicting pain upon another!”
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These thoughts still preyed upon her mind, and made her listless and depressed. In due course, the confinement of Lady Aoi approached. At the same time, the jealous spirit still vexed her, and
now more vigorous exorcising was employed. She became much affected by it, and cried out, “Please release me a little; I have something to tell the Prince.”
Hereupon he was ushered into the room. The curtain was dropped, and the mother of the lady left the room, as she thought her daughter might prefer to speak to him in private. The sound of the spells performed in the next chamber ceased, and Hoke-kio was read in its place. The lady was lying on her couch, dressed in a pure white garment, with her long tresses unfastened. He approached her, and taking her hand, said: “What sad affliction you cause us!” She then lifted her heavy eyelids, and gazed on Genji for some minutes.
He tried to soothe her, and said, “Pray don’t trouble yourself too much about matters. Everything will come right. Your illness, I think, will soon pass away. Even supposing you quit this present world, there is another where we shall meet, and where I shall see you once more cheerful, and there will be a time when your mother and father will also join you.”
“Ah! no. I only come here to solicit you to give me a little rest. I feel extremely disturbed. I never thought of coming here in such a way; but it seems the spirit of one whose thoughts are much disconcerted wanders away unknown even to itself.
Oh, bind my wandering spirit, pray, Dear one, nor let it longer stray.” The enunciation of these words was not that of Lady Aoi herself; and when Genji came to reflect, it clearly be-
longed to the Lady of Rokjio. Always before, when anyone had talked with him about a living spirit coming to vex Lady Aoi, he felt inclined to suppress such ideas; but now he began to think that such things might really happen, and he felt disturbed. “You speak thus,” said Genji, as if he was addressing the spirit, “but you do not tell me who you are. Do, therefore, tell me clearly.” At these words, strange to say, the face of the Lady Aoi seemed momentarily to assume the likeness of that of Rokjio. On this, Genji was still more perplexed and anxious, and put a stop to the colloquy. Presently she became very calm, and people thought that she was a little relieved. Soon after this, the lady was safely delivered of a child.
Now, to perform due thanksgiving for this happy deliverance, the head of the monastery on Mount Hiye and some other distinguished priests were sent for. They came in all haste, wiping off the perspiration from their faces as they journeyed; and, from the Emperor and Royal princes down to the ordinary nobles, all took an interest in the ceremony of Ub-yashinai (first feeding), and the more so as the child was a boy.
To return to the Lady of Rokjio. When she heard of the safe delivery of Lady Aoi, a slightly jealous feeling once more seemed to vex her; and when she began to move about, she could not understand how it was, but she per- ceived that her dress was scented with a strange odor. She thought this most surprising, and took baths and changed her dress, in order to get rid of it; but the odor soon returned, and she was disgusted with herself.
Some days passed, and the day of autumn appointments arrived. By this time, Lady Aoi’s health seemed pro- gressing favorably, and Genji left her in order to attend the Court.
When he said good-by to her, there was a strange and unusual look in her eyes. Sadaijin also went to Court, as well as his sons, who had some expectation of promotion, and there were few people left in the mansion.
It was in the evening of that day that Lady Aoi was suddenly attacked by a spasm, and before the news of this could be carried to the Court, she died.
These sad tidings soon reached the Court, and created great distress and confusion: even the arrangements for appointments and promotion were disturbed. As it happened late in the evening there was no time to send for the head of the monastery, or any other distinguished priest. Messengers of inquiry came one after another to the man- sion, so numerous that it was almost impossible to return them all answers. We need not add how greatly affected were all her relations.
As the death took place from a malign spiritual influence, she was left untouched during two or three days, in the hope that she might revive; but no change took place, and now all hope was abandoned. In due course the corpse was taken to the cemetery of Toribeno. Numerous mourners and priests of different churches crowded to the spot, while representatives of the ex-Emperor, Princess Wistaria, and the Heir-apparent also were present. The ceremony of burial was performed with all solemnity and pathos.
Thus the modest and virtuous Lady Aoi passed away forever. Genji forthwith confined himself to his apartment in the grand mansion of Sadaijin, for mourning and consola-
tion. To-no-Chiujio, who was now elevated to the title of Sammi, constantly bore him company, and conversed with him both on serious and amusing subjects. Their struggle in the apartment of Gen-naishi, and also their rencontre in the garden of the “Saffron Flower,” were among the topics of their consoling conversation.
It was on one of these occasions that a soft shower of rain was falling. The evening was rendered cheerless, and To-no-Chiujio came to see him, walking slowly in his mourning robes of a dull color. Genji was leaning out of a window, his cheek resting on his hand; and, looking out upon the half-fading shrubberies, was humming—
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“Has she become rain or cloud? ‘Tis now unknown.” To-no-Chiujio gently approached him. They had, as usual, some pathetic conversation, and then the latter
hummed, as if to himself— “Beyond the cloud in yonder sky, From which descends the passing rain, Her gentle soul may dwell, Though we
may cease to trace its form in vain.” This was soon responded to by Genji:— “That cloudy shrine we view on high, Where my lost love may dwell unseen, Looks gloomy now to this sad eye
That looks with tears on what has been.” There was among the faded plants of the garden a solitary Rindo-nadeshko. When To-no-Chiujio had gone,
Genji picked this flower, and sent it to his mother-in-law by the nurse of the infant child, with the following:— “In bowers where all beside are dead Survives alone this lovely flower, Departed autumn’s cherished gem, Sym-
bol of joy’s departed hour.” Genji still felt lonely. He wrote a letter to the Princess Momo-zono (peach-gardens). He had known her long.
He admired her, too. She had been a spectator, with her father, on the day of the consecration of the Saiin, and was one of those to whom the appearance of Genji was most welcome. In his
letter he stated that she might have a little sympathy with him in his sorrow, and he also sent with it the following:— “Many an autumn have I past In gloomy thought, but none I ween Has been so mournful as the last, Which rife
with grief and change hath been.” There was, indeed, nothing serious between Genji and this princess; yet, as far as correspondence was con-
cerned, they now and then exchanged letters, so she did not object to receiving this communication. She felt for him much, and an answer was returned, in which she expressed her sympathy at his bereavement.
Now, in the mansion of Sadaijin every performance of requiem was celebrated. The forty-ninth day had passed, and the mementoes of the dead, both trifling and valuable, were distributed in a due and agreeable manner; and Genji at length left the grand mansion with the intention of first going to the ex-Emperor, and then of returning to his mansion at Nijio. After his departure, Sadaijin went into the apartment occupied till lately by him. The room was the same as before, and everything was unchanged; but his only daughter, the pride of his old days, was no more, and his son-in-law had gone too.
He looked around him for some moments. He saw some papers lying about. They were those on which Genji had been practising penmanship for amusement—some in Chinese, others in Japanese; some in free style, others in stiff. Among these papers he saw one on which the words “Old pillows and old quilts” were written, and close to these the following:—
“How much the soul departed, still May love to linger round this couch, My own heart tells me, even I Reluc- tant am to leave it now.”
And on another of these papers, accompanying the words, “The white frost lies upon the tiles,” the following:— “How many more of nights shall I On this lone bed without thee lie; The flower has left its well-known bed,
And o’er its place the dews are shed.” As Sadaijin was turning over these papers a withered flower, which seems to have marked some particular occa-
sion, dropped from amongst them. Return we now to Genji. He went to the ex-Emperor, to whom he still seemed thin and careworn. He had some
affectionate conversation with him, remained till evening, and then proceeded to his mansion at Nijio. He went to the western wing to visit the young Violet. All were habited in new winter apparel, and looked fresh and blooming.
“How long it seems since I saw you!” he exclaimed. Violet turned her glance a little aside. She was apparently shy, which only increased her beauty.
He approached, and after having a little conversation, said, “I have many things to say to you, but now I must have a little rest,” and returned to his own quarters.
The next morning, first of all he sent a letter to Sadaijin’s, making inquiry after his infant child. At this time he confined himself more than usual to his own house, and for companionship he was constantly
with Violet, who was now approaching womanhood. He would sometimes talk with her differently from the man- ner in which he would speak to a mere girl; but on her part she seemed not to notice the difference, and for their daily amusement either Go or Hentski was resorted to, and sometimes they would play on till late in the evening.
Some weeks thus passed away, and there was one morning when Violet did not appear so early as usual. The inmates of the house, who did not know what was the reason, were anxious about her, thinking she was indisposed. About noon Genji came. He entered the little room, saying, “Are you not quite well? Perhaps you would like to play at Go again, like last night, for a change;” but she was more than ever shy.
“Why are you so shy?” he exclaimed; “be a little more cheerful—people may think it strange,” said he, and stayed with her a long time trying to soothe her; but to no effect—she still continued silent and shy.
This was the evening of Wild Boar’s day, and some mochi (pounded rice cake) was presented to him, according
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to custom, on a tray of plain white wood. He called Koremitz before him and said, “To-day is not a very opportune day; I would rather have them
to-morrow evening. Do send in some to-morrow. It need not be of so many colors.” So saying, he smiled a little, and sharp Koremitz soon understood what he meant. And this he accordingly did on the morrow, on a beautiful flower-waiter.
Up to this time nothing about Violet had been publicly known, and Genji thought it was time to inform her father about his daughter; but he considered he had better have the ceremony of Mogi first performed, and ordered preparations to be made with that object.
Let us here notice that the young daughter of Udaijin, after she saw Genji, was longing to see him again. This inclination was perceived by her relations. It seems that her father was not quite averse to this liking, and he told his eldest daughter, the reigning Emperor’s mother, that Genji was recently bereaved of his good consort, and that he should not feel discontented if his daughter were to take the place of Lady Aoi; but this the royal mother did not ap- prove. “It would be far better for her to be introduced at Court,” she said, and began contriving to bring this about.
Chapter XII Exile at Suma
Genji at last made up his mind to undergo a voluntary exile, before the opinion of the Imperial Court should be publicly announced against him. He heard that the beautiful sea-coast along Suma was a most suitable place for retirement, and that, though formerly populous, there were now only a few fishermen’s dwellings scattered here and there. To Suma he finally determined to go into voluntary exile.
When he had thus made up his mind he became somewhat regretful to leave the capital, although it had hither- to appeared ungenial. The first thing which disturbed his mind was the young Violet, whom he could not take with him. The young lady, also, in the “Villa of Falling Flowers” (notwithstanding that he was not a frequent visitor) was another object of his regret.
In spite of these feelings he prepared to set off at the end of March, and at length it came within a few days of the time fixed for his departure, when he went privately, under the cover of the evening, to the mansion of the ex-Sadaijin, in an ajiro carriage, generally used by women. He proceeded into the inner apartments, where he was greeted by the nurse of his little child. The boy was growing fast, was able to stand by this time and to toddle about, and run into Genji’s arms when he saw him. The latter took him on his knee, saying, “Ah! my good little fellow, I have not seen you for some time, but you do not forget me, do you?” The ex-Sadaijin now entered. He said, “Often have I thought of coming to have a talk with you, but you see my health has been very bad of late, and I seldom ap- pear at Court, having resigned my office. It would be impolitic to give cause to be talked about, and for it to be said that I stretch my old bones when private matters please me. Of course, I have no particular reason to fear the world; still, if there is anything dreadful, it is the demagogical world. When I see what unpleasant things are happening to you, which were no more probable than that the heavens should fall, I really feel that everything in the world is irksome to me.”
“Yes, what you say is indeed true,” replied Genji. “However, all things in the world—this or that—are the outcome of what we have done in our previous existence. Hence if we dive to the bottom we shall see that every misfortune is only the result of our own negligence. Examples of men’s losing the pleasures of the Court are, indeed, not wanting. Some of these cases may not go so far as a deprivation of titles and honors, as is mine; still, if one thus banished from the pleasures of Court, behaves himself as unconcernedly as those to whom no such misfortune has happened, this would not be becoming. So, at least, it is considered in a foreign country. Repentance is what one ought to expect in such circumstances, and banishment to a far-off locality is a measure generally adopted for offences different from ordinary ones. If I, simply relying on my innocence, pass unnoticed the recent displeasure of the Court, this would only bring upon me greater dishonor. I have, therefore, determined to go into voluntary exile, before receiving such a sentence from the Court.”
Then the conversation fell back, as usual, on the times of the late ex-Emperor, which made them sad; while the child also, who innocently played near, made them still more gloomy. The ex-Sadaijin went on to say:—”There is no moment when I ever forget the mother of the boy, but now I almost dare to think that she was fortunate in being short lived, and being free from witnessing the dreamlike sorrow we now suffer. With regard to the boy, the first thing which strikes me as unbearable is that he may pass some time of his lovely childhood away from the gaze of your eyes. There are, as you say, no want of instances of persons suffering a miserable fate, without having commit- ted any real offence; yet still, in such cases, there was some pretext to justify their being so treated. I cannot see any such against you.”
While he was thus speaking To-no-Chiujio joined them, and, partaking of saké, they continued their conversa- tion till late in the evening. This night Genji remained in the mansion.
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Early the next morning he returned to his own residence, and he spent the whole day with Violet in the western wing. It should here be noticed that she was scarcely ever with her father, even from childhood. He strongly disap- proved of his daughter being with Genji, and of the way in which she had been carried off, so he scarcely ever had any communication with her, or did he visit her. These circumstances made her feel Genji’s affection more keenly than she otherwise would have; hence her sorrow at the thought of parting with him in a few days may be easily imagined.
Towards the evening Prince Sotz came with To-no-Chiujio and some others to pay him a visit. Genji, in order to receive them, rose to put on one of his Naoshi, which was plain, without pattern, as proper for one who had no longer a title. Approaching the mirror, to comb his hair, he noticed that his face had grown much thinner.
“Oh, how changed I appear,” he exclaimed. “Am I really like this image which I see of myself ?” he said, turning to the girl, who cast on him a sad and tearful glance. Genji continued:—
“Though changed I wander far away, My soul shall still remain with you, Perhaps in this mirror’s mystic ray, My face may linger still in view.”
To this Violet replied:— “If in this mirror I could see, Always your face, then it would be My consolation when thou art gone.” As she said this she turned her face to one side of the room, and by doing so obscured the tears gathering in her
soft eyes. Genji then left her to receive his friends, who, however, did not remain long, leaving the mansion after a short conversation of a consolatory nature. This evening Genji paid his visit to the sisters of the “Falling Flower” villa.
On the following day the final arrangements necessary for his household affairs were made at his residence. The management of the mansion was intrusted to a few confidential friends; while that of his lands and pasture, and the charge of his documents, were intrusted to the care of Violet, to whom he gave every instruction what she should do. Besides, he enjoined Shionagon, in whom he placed his confidence, to give her every assistance. He told all the inmates who wished to remain in the mansion, in order to await his return, that they might do so. He also made an appropriate present to the nurse of his boy, and to the ladies of the “Villa of Falling Flowers.” When all these things were accomplished, he occupied himself in writing farewell letters to his intimate friends, such as the young daugh- ter of Udaijin and others, to none of whom he had paid a visit.
On the evening prior to his departure he went on horseback to visit the tomb of his father. On his way he called on the Princess Wistaria, and thence proceeded to the mountain where the remains reposed. The tomb was placed among tall growing grass, under thick and gloomy foliage. Genji advanced to the tomb, and, half kneeling down before it, and half sobbing, uttered many words of remembrance and sorrow. Of course no reply came forth. The moon by this time was hidden behind dark clouds, and the winds blew keen and nipping, when suddenly a shad- owy phantom of the dead stood before Genji’s eyes.
“How would his image look on me, Knew he the secret of the past; As yonder moon in clouded sky, Looks o’er the scene mysteriously.”
He returned to his mansion late in the night. Early in the morning he sent a letter to O Miobu, the nurse of the Heir-apparent, in which he said: “I at last
leave the capital, to-day. I know not when I may come and see the Prince again. On him my thoughts and anxieties are concentrated, above all else. Realize these feelings in your own mind, and tell them to him.” He also sent the following, fastened to a bough of cherry flowers, already becoming thin:—
“When shall I see these scenes again, And view the flowers of spring in bloom, Like rustic from his mountain home, A mere spectator shall I come?”
These were carefully read by O Miobu to the Prince, and when he was asked what she should write in answer, he said: “Write that I said that since I feel every longing to see him, when I do not see him for a long time, how shall I feel when he goes away altogether?” Thereupon she wrote an answer, in which she indefinitely stated that she had shown the letter to the Prince, whose answer was simple, yet very affectionate, and so on, with the following:—
“‘Tis sad that fair blossoms so soon fade away, In the darkness of winter no flower remains, But let spring return with its sunshiny ray, Then once more the flowers we look on again.”
Now, with regard to the recent disgrace of Genji, the public in general did not approve of the severity which the Court had shown to him. Moreover, he had been constantly with the Emperor, his father, since the age of seven, and his requests had been always cheerfully listened to by the latter; hence there were very many, especially among pub- lic servants of the ordinary class, who were much indebted to him. However, none of them now came to pay their respects to him. It seems that in a world of intrigue none dares do what is right for fear of risking his own interests. Such being the state of things, Genji, during the whole day, was unoccupied, and the time was entirely spent with Violet. Then, at his usual late hour in the evening, he, in a travelling dress of incognito, at length left the capital, where he had passed five-and-twenty years of his life.
His attendants, Koremitz and Yoshikiyo being among them, were seven or eight in number. He took with him
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but little luggage. All ostentatious robes, all unnecessary articles of luxury were dispensed with. Among things taken, was a box containing the works of Hak-rak-ten (a famous Chinese poet), with other books, and besides these a kin-koto for his amusement. They embarked in a boat and sailed down the river. Early the next morning they arrived at the sea-coast of Naniwa. They noticed the Oye Palace standing lonely amidst the group of pine trees. The sight of this palace gave a thrill of sadness to Genji, who was now leaving, and not returning, home. He saw the waves rolling on the coast and again sweep back. He hummed, as he saw them:—
“The waves roll back, but unlike me, They come again.” From Naniwa they continued their voyage, sailing in the bay. As they proceeded they looked back on the scenes
they had left. They saw all the mountains veiled in haze, growing more and more distant, while the rowers gently pulled against the rippling waves. It seemed to them as if they were really going “three thousand miles’ distance.”
“Our home is lost in the mist of the mountain, Let us gaze on the sky which is ever the same.” The day was long and the wind was fair, so they soon arrived at the coast of Suma. The place was near the spot
where the exiled Yukihira had lived, and had watched the beautiful smoke rising from the salt ovens. There was a thatched house in which the party temporarily took up their residence. It was a very different home from what they had been used to, and it might have appeared even novel, had the circumstances of their coming there been different. The authorities of the neighborhood were sent for, and a lodge was built under the direction of Yoshikiyo, in accordance with Genji’s wishes. The work was hurried on, and the building was soon completed. In the garden, several trees, cherries and others, were planted, and water was also conducted into it. Here Genji soon took up his abode. The Governor of the province, who had been at Court, secretly paid attention to the Prince, with as much respect as was possible.
For some time Genji did not feel settled in his new residence. When he had become in some degree accustomed to it, the season of continuous rain had arrived (May); his thoughts more than ever reverted to the old capital.
The thoughtful expression of Violet’s face, the childish affection of the Heir-apparent, and the innocent playful- ness of his little son, became the objects of his reveries and anxiety, nor did he forget his old companions and ac- quaintances. He, therefore, sent a special messenger to the capital bearing his letters, so that speedy answers might be returned from every quarter. He also sent a messenger to Ise to make inquiry after the lady, who also sent one to him in return.
Now the young daughter of Udaijin had been remaining repentingly in the mansion of her father since the events of the stormy evening. Her father felt much for her, and interceded with the Empress-mother in her behalf, and also with her son, that is, the Emperor, thus getting permission to introduce her once more into Court, an event which took place in the month of July.
To return to Suma. The rainy season had passed, and autumn arrived. The sea was at some distance from the residence of Genji, but the dash of its waves sounded close to their ears as the winds passed by, of which Yukihira sang,
“The autumn wind which passes the barrier of Suma.” The autumn winds are, it seems, in such a place as this, far more plaintive than elsewhere. It happened one evening that when all the attendants were fast asleep Genji was awake and alone. He raised
his head and rested his arms on his pillow and listened to the sound of the waves which reached his ear from a distance. They seemed nearer than ever, as though they were coming to flood his pillows. He drew his koto towards him and struck a melancholy air, as he hummed a verse of a poem in a low tone. With this every one awoke and responded with a sigh.
Such was a common occurrence in the evening, and Genji always felt saddened whenever he came to think that all his attendants had accompanied him, having left their families and homes simply for his sake. In the daytime, however, there were changes. He would then enjoy pleasant conversations. He also joined several papers into long rolls on which he might practise penmanship. He spent a good deal of time in drawing and sketching. He remem- bered how Yoshikiyo, on one occasion in Mount Kurama, had described the beautiful scenery of the place on which he was now gazing. He sketched every beautiful landscape of the neighborhood, and collected them in albums, thinking how nice it would be if he could send for Tsunenori, a renowned contemporary artist, and get him to paint the sketches which he had made.
Out of all the attendants of Genji there were four or five who had been more especially his favorites, and who had constantly attended on him. One evening they were all sitting together in a corridor which commanded a full view of the sea. They perceived the island of Awaji lying in the distance, as if it were floating on the horizon, and also several boats with sailors, singing as they rowed to the shore over the calm surface of the water, like waterfowl in their native element. Over their heads flocks of wild geese rustled on their way homeward with their plaintive cry, which made the thoughts of the spectators revert to their homes. Genji hummed this verse:—
“Those wandering birds above us flying, Do they our far-off friends resemble. With their voice of plaintive cry- ing Make us full of thoughtful sighing.”
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Yoshikiyo took up the idea and replied:— “Though these birds no friends of ours Are, and we to them are nought, Yet their voice in these still hours Bring
those old friends to our thought.” Then Koremitz continued:— “Before to-day I always thought They flew on pleasure’s wing alone, But now their fate to me is fraught With
some resemblance to our own.” Ukon-no-Jio added:— “Though we, like them, have left our home To wander forth, yet still for me There’s joy to think where’er I roam
My faithful friends are still with me.” Ukon-no-Jio was the brother of Ki-no-Kami. His father, Iyo-no-Kami, had now been promoted to be Hita-
chi-no-Kami (Governor of Hitachi), and had gone down to that province, but Ukon-no-Jio did not join his father, who would have gladly taken him, and faithfully followed Genji.
This evening happened to be the fifteenth of August, on which day a pleasant reunion is generally held at the Imperial Palace. Genji looked at the silvery pale sky, and as he did so the affectionate face of the Emperor, his broth- er, whose expression strikingly resembled their father’s, presented itself to his mind. After a deep and long sigh, he returned to his couch, humming as he went:—
“Here is still a robe His Majesty gave to me.” It should be here noticed that he had been presented by the Emperor on a certain occasion with a robe, and this
robe he had never parted with, even in his exile. About this time Daini (the senior Secretary of the Lord-Lieutenant of Kiusiu) returned to the capital with his
family, having completed his official term. His daughter had been a virgin dancer, and was known to Genji. They preferred to travel by water, and slowly sailed up along the beautiful coast. When they arrived at Suma, the distant sound of a kin was heard, mingled with the sea-coast wind, and they were told that Genji was there in exile. Daini therefore sent his son Chikzen-no-Kami to the Prince with these words: “Coming back from a distant quarter I ex- pected as soon as I should arrive in the capital to have had the pleasure of visiting you and listening to your pleasant voice, and talking of events which have taken place there, but little did I think that you had taken up your residence in this part of the country. How greatly do I sympathize with you! I ought to land and see you at once, but there are too many people in the same boat, therefore I think it better to avoid the slightest grounds which may cause them to talk. However, possibly I shall pay you a visit soon.”
This Chikzen-no-Kami had been for some time previously a Kurand (a sort of equerry) to Genji, therefore his visit was especially welcome to him. He said that since he had left the capital it had become difficult to see any of his acquaintances, and that therefore this especial visit was a great pleasure to him. His reply to the message of Daini was to the same effect. Chikzen-no-Kami soon took his leave, and returning to the boat, reported to his father and others all he had seen. His sister also wrote to Genji privately thus: “Pray excuse me if I am too bold.
Know you not the mind is swayed Like the tow-rope of our boat, At the sounds your Kin has made, Which around us sweetly float.”
When Genji received this, his pleasure was expressed by his placid smile, and he sent back the following:— “If this music moves the mind So greatly as you say, No one would care to leave behind These lonely waves of
Suma’s bay.” This recalls to our mind that there was in the olden time an exile who gave a stanza even to the postmaster of a
village. Why then should not Genji have sent to her whom he knew this stanza? In the meantime, as time went on, more sympathizers with Genji were found in the capital, including no less a
personage than the Emperor himself. True it is that before Genji left, many even of his relatives and most intimate friends refrained from paying their respects to him, but in the course of time not a few began to correspond with him, and sometimes they communicated their ideas to each other in pathetic poetry. These things reached the ears of the Empress-mother, who was greatly irritated by them. She said: “The only thing a man who has offended the Court should do is to keep himself as quiet as possible. It is most unpardonable that such a man should haughtily cause scandal to the Court from his humble dwelling. Does he intend to imitate the treacherous example of one who made a deer pass for a horse? Those who intrigue with such a man are equally blamable.” These spiteful re- marks once more put a stop to the correspondence.
Meanwhile, at Suma, the autumn passed away and winter succeeded, with all its dreariness of scene, and with occasional falls of snow. Genji often spent the evening in playing upon the Kin, being accompanied by Koremitz’s flute and the singing of Yoshikiyo. It was on one of these evenings that the story of a young Chinese Court lady, who had been sent to the frozen land of barbarians, occurred to Genji’s mind. He thought what a great trial it would be if one were obliged to send away one whom he loved, like the lady in the tale, and as he reflected on this, with some melancholy feelings, it appeared to him as vividly as if it were only an event of yesterday, and he hummed:—
“The sound of the piper’s distant strain Broke on her dreams in the frozen eve.”
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He then tried to sleep, but could not do so, and as he lay the distant cry of Chidori reached his ears. He hummed again as he heard them:—
“Although on lonely couch I lie Without a mate, yet still so near, At dawn the cries of Chidori, With their fond mates, ‘tis sweet to hear.”
Having washed his hands, he spent some time in reading a Kio (Sutra), and in this manner the winter-time passed away.
Towards the end of February the young cherry-trees which Genji had planted in his garden blossomed, and this brought to his memory the well-known cherry-tree in the Southern Palace, and the fête in which he had taken part. The noble countenance of the late ex-Emperor, and that of the present one, the then Heir-apparent, which had struck him much at that time, returned to his recollection with the scene where he had read out his poem.
“While on the lordly crowd I muse, Which haunts the Royal festive hours, The day has come when I’ve put on The crown of fairest cherry flowers.”
While thus meditating on the past, strange to say, To-no-Chiujio, Genji’s brother-in-law, came from the capital to see the Prince. He had been now made Saishio (privy councillor). Having, therefore, more responsibility, he had to be more cautious in dealing with the public. He had, however, a personal sympathy with Genji, and thus came to see him, at the risk of offending the Court.
The first thing which struck his eyes was, not the natural beauty of the scenery, but the style of Genji’s residence, which showed the novelty of pure Chinese fashion. The enclosure was surrounded by “a trellis-work of bamboo,” with “stone steps,” and “pillars of pine-tree.”
He entered, and the pleasure of Genji and To-no-Chiujio was immense, so much so that they shed tears. The style of the Prince’s dress next attracted the attention of To-no-Chiujio. He was habited in a plain, simple country style, the coat being of an unforbidden color, a dull yellow, the trousers of a subdued green.
The furniture was all of a temporary nature, with Go and Sugorok playing boards, as well as one for the game of Dagi. He noticed some articles for the services of religion, showing that Genji was wont to indulge in devotional exercises. The visitor told Genji many things on the subject of affairs in the capital, which he had been longing to impart to him for many months past; telling him also how the grandfather of his boy always delighted in playing with him, and giving him many more interesting details.
Several fishermen came with the fish which they had caught. Genji called them in and made them show their spoils. He also led them to talk of their lives spent on the sea, and each in his own peculiar local dialect gave him a narration of his joys and sorrows. He then dismissed them with the gift of some stuff to make them clothing. All this was quite a novelty to the eyes of To-no-Chiujio, who also saw the stable in which he obtained a glimpse of some horses. The attendants at the time were feeding them. Dinner was presently served, at which the dishes were necessarily simple, yet tasteful. In the evening they did not retire to rest early, but spent their time in continuing their conversation and in composing verses.
Although To-no-Chiujio had, in coming, risked the displeasure of the Court, he still thought it better to avoid any possible slander, and therefore he made up his mind to set out for his home early next morning. The saké cup was offered, and they partook of it as they hummed,
“In our parting cup, the tears of sadness fall.” Several presents had been brought from the capital for Genji by To-no-Chiujio, and, in return, the former made
him a present of an excellent dark-colored horse, and also a celebrated flute, as a token of remembrance. As the sun shed forth his brilliant rays To-no-Chiujio took his leave, and as he did so he said, “When shall I see
you again, you cannot be here long?” Genji replied, “Yon noble crane that soars on high, And hovers in the clear blue sky, Believe my soul as pure and light; As
spotless as the spring day bright. However, a man like me, whose fortune once becomes adverse seldom regains, even in the case of great wis-
dom, the prosperity he once fully enjoyed, and so I cannot predict when I may find myself again in the capital.” So To-no-Chiujio, having replied as follows:— “The crane mounts up on high, ‘tis true, But now he soars and cries alone, Still fondly thinking of his friend,
With whom in former days he flew,” set off on his homeward road, leaving Genji cast down for some time. Now the coast of Akashi is a very short distance from Suma, and there lived the former Governor of the prov-
ince, now a priest, of whom we have spoken before. Yoshikiyo well remembered his lovely daughter, and, after he came to Suma with Genji, he wrote to her now and then. He did not get any answer from her, but sometimes heard from her father, to whom Genji’s exile became soon known, and who wished to see him for a reason not altogeth- er agreeable to himself. It should be remembered that this old man always entertained aspirations on behalf of his daughter, and in his eyes the successive governors of the province who came after him, and whose influence had been unbounded, were considered as nobodies. To him, his young daughter was everything; and he used to send
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her twice a year to visit the temple of Sumiyoshi, in order that she might obtain good fortune by the blessing of the god.
She was not of an ideal beauty, but yet expressive in countenance and exalted in mind. She could, in this re- spect, rival any of those of high birth in the capital.
The priest said one day to his wife, “Prince Genji, the imperial son of the Koyi of Kiritsubo is now at Suma in exile, having offended the Court. How fortunate it would be if we could take the opportunity of presenting our child to him!”
The wife replied, “Ah, how dreadful, when I heard what the townspeople talk, I understood that he has several mistresses. He went even so far as to carry on a secret intimacy, which happened to be obnoxious to the Emperor, and it is said that this offence was the cause of his exile.”
“I have some reason for mentioning this to you,” he interrupted, impatiently; “it is not a thing which you under- stand, so make up your mind, I shall bring the matter about, and take an opportunity of making him come to us.”
“No matter how distinguished a personage he is,” replied the wife, “it is a fact that he has offended the Court and is exiled. I do not understand why you could take a fancy to such a man for our maiden daughter. It is not a joking matter. I hope you will take it into graver consideration.”
“That a man of ability and distinction should meet with adverse fortune is a very common occurrence,” said he, still more obstinately, “both in our empire and in that of China. How then do you venture to say such things against the Prince? His mother was the daughter of an Azechi Dainagon, who was my uncle. She enjoyed a good reputa- tion, and when she was introduced at Court, became both prosperous and distinguished. Although her life was shortened by the suffering caused by the fierce jealousy of her rivals, she left behind the royal child, who is no other person than Prince Genji. A woman should always be aspiring, as this lady was. What objection then is there in the idea of introducing our only child to a man like him? Although I am now only a country gentleman, I do not think he would withdraw his favor from me.”
Such were the opinions of this old man, and hence his discouragement of the advances of Yoshikiyo. The first of March came, and Genji was persuaded by some to perform Horai (prayer for purification) for the
coming occasion of the Third. He therefore sent for a calendar-priest, with whom he went out, accompanied by attendants, to the sea-shore. Here a tent was erected ceremoniously, and the priest began his prayers, which were accompanied by the launching of a small boat, containing figures representing human images. On seeing this Genji said,
“Never thought I, in my younger day, To be thrown on the wild sea-shore, And like these figures to float away, And perhaps see my home no more.”
As he contemplated the scene around him, he perceived that the wild surface of the sea was still and calm, like a mirror without its frame. He offered prayers in profound silence, and then exclaimed,
“Oh, all ye eight millions of gods, hear my cry, Oh, give me your sympathy, aid me, I pray, For when I look over my life, ne’er did I Commit any wrong, or my fellows betray.”
Suddenly, as he spoke these words, the wind arose and began to blow fiercely. The sky became dark, and torrents of rain soon followed. This caused great confusion to all present, and each ran back to the house without finishing the ceremony of prayers. None of them were prepared for the storm, and all got drenched with the rain. From this the rain continued to pour down, and the surface of the sea became as it were tapestried with white, over which the lightning darted and the thunder rolled. It seemed as if thunderbolts were crashing overhead, and the force of the rain appeared to penetrate the earth. Everyone was frightened, for they thought the end of the world was near.
Genji occupied his time in quietly reading his Buddhist Bible. In the evening, the thunder became less loud, though the wind still blew not less violently than in the daytime. Everyone in the residence said that they had heard of what is termed a flood-tide, which often caused a great deal of damage, but they had never witnessed such a scene as they had that day. Genji dropped off into a slumber, when indistinctly the resemblance of a human figure came to him and said, “You are requested to come to the palace, why don’t you come?”
Genji was startled by the words, and awoke. He thought that the king of the dragon palace might have admired him, and was perhaps the author of this strange dream. These thoughts made him weary of remaining at Suma.
Chapter XIII Exile at Akashi
The storm and thunder still continued for some days, and the same strange dream visited Genji over and over again.
This made him miserable. To return to the capital was not yet to be thought of, as to do so before the imperi- al permission was given, would only be to increase his disgrace. On the other hand, to render himself obscure by
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seeking further retreat was also not to be thought of, as it might cause another rumor that he had been driven away by mere fear of the disturbed state of the ocean.
In the meantime, a messenger arrived from the capital with a letter from Violet. It was a letter of inquiry about himself. It was written in most affectionate terms, and stated that the weather there was extremely disagreeable, as rain was pouring down continuously, and that this made her especially gloomy in thinking of him. This letter gave Genji great pleasure.
The messenger was of the lowest class. At other times Genji would never have permitted such sort of people to approach him, but under the present circumstances of his life he was only too glad to put up with it. He summoned the man to his presence, and made him talk of all the latest news in the capital.
The messenger told him, in awkward terms, that in the capital these storms were considered to be a kind of heavenly warning, that a Nin-wo-ye was going to be held; and that many nobles who had to go to Court were pre- vented from doing so by the storms, adding that he never remembered such violent storms before.
From the dawn of the next day the winds blew louder, the tide flowed higher, and the sound of the waves resounded with a deafening noise. The thunder rolled and the lightning flashed, while everyone was trembling in alarm, and were all, including Genji, offering up prayers and vows to the God of Sumiyoshi, whose temple was at no great distance, and also to other gods. Meanwhile a thunderbolt struck the corridor of Genji’s residence and set fire to it. The Prince and his friends retired to a small house behind, which served as a kitchen. The sky was as if blackened with ink, and in that state of darkness the day ended. In the evening the wind gradually abated, the rain diminished to a thin shower, and even the stars began to blink out of the heavens.
This temporary retreat was now irksome, and they thought of returning to their dwelling quarters, but they saw nothing but ruins and confusion from the storm, so they remained where they were. Genji was occupied in prayer. The moon began to smile from above, the flow of the tide could be seen, and the rippling of the waves heard. He opened the rude wooden door, and contemplated the scene before him. He seemed to be alone in the world, having no one to participate in his feelings. He heard several fishermen talking in their peculiar dialect. Feeling much wea- ried by the events of the day, he soon retired, and resigned himself to slumber, reclining near one side of the room, in which there were none of the comforts of an ordinary bedchamber.
All at once his late father appeared before his eyes in the exact image of life, and said to him, “Why are you in so strange a place?” and taking his hand, continued, “Embark at once in a boat, as the God of Sumiyoshi guides you, and leave this coast.”
Genji was delighted at this, and replied, “Since I parted from you I have undergone many misfortunes, and I thought that I might be buried on this coast.”
“It must not be thus,” the phantom replied; “your being here is only a punishment for a trifling sin which you have committed. For my own part, when I was on the throne, I did no wrong, but I have somehow been involved in some trifling sin, and before I expiated it I left the world. Hurt, however, at beholding you oppressed with such hardships I came up here, plunging into the waves, and rising on the shore. I am much fatigued; but I have some- thing I wish to tell the Emperor, so I must haste away,” and he left Genji, who felt very much affected, and cried out, “Let me accompany you!” With this exclamation he awoke, and looked up, when he saw nothing but the moon’s face shining through the windows, with the clouds reposing in the sky.
The image of his father still vividly remained before his eyes, and he could not realize that it was only a dream. He became suddenly sad, and was filled with regret that he did not talk a little more, even though it was only in a dream. He could not sleep any more this night, and dawn broke, when a small boat was seen approaching the coast, with a few persons in it.
A man from the boat came up to the residence of Genji. When he was asked who he was, he replied that the priest of Akashi (the former Governor) had come from Akashi in his boat, and that he wished to see Yoshikiyo, and to tell him the reason of his coming. Yoshikiyo was surprised, and said, “I have known him for years, but there was a slight reason why we were not the best of friends, and some time has now passed without correspondence. What makes him come?”
As to Genji, however, the arrival of the boat made him think of its coincidence with the subject of his dream, so he hurried Yoshikiyo to go and see the new comers. Thereupon the latter went to the boat, thinking as he went, “How could he come to this place amidst the storms which have been raging?”
The priest now told Yoshikiyo that in a dream which he had on the first day of the month, a strange being told him a strange thing, and, said he, “I thought it too credulous to believe in a dream, but the object appeared again, and told me that on the thirteenth of this month he will give me a supernatural sign, directing me also to prepare a boat, and as soon as the storm ceased, to sail out to this coast. Therefore, to test its truth I launched a boat, but strange to say, on this day the extraordinarily violent weather of rain, wind, and thunder occurred. I then thought that in China there had been several instances of people benefiting the country by believing in dreams, so though this may not exactly be the case with mine, yet I thought it my duty, at all events, to inform you of the fact. With
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these thoughts I started in the boat, when a slight miraculous breeze, as it were, blew, and drove me to this coast. I can have no doubt that this was divine direction. Perhaps there might have been some inspiration in this place, too; and I wish to trouble you to transmit this to the Prince.”
Yoshikiyo then returned and faithfully told Genji all about his conversation with the priest. When Genji came to reflect, he thought that so many dreams having visited him must have some significance. It might only increase his disgrace if he were to despise such divine warnings merely from worldly considerations, and from fear of con- sequences. It would be better to resign himself to one more advanced in age, and more experienced than himself. An ancient sage says, that “resigning one’s self makes one happier,” besides, his father had also enjoined him in the dream to leave the coast of Suma, and there remained no further doubt for taking this step. He, therefore, gave this answer to the priest, that “coming into an unknown locality, plunged in solitude, receiving scarcely any visits from friends in the capital, the only thing I have to regard as friends of old times are the sun and the moon that pass over the boundless heavens. Under these circumstances, I shall be only too delighted to visit your part of the coast, and to find there such a suitable retreat.”
This answer gave the priest great joy, and he pressed Genji to set out at once and come to him. The Prince did so with his usual four or five confidential attendants. The same wind which had miraculously blown the vessel of the priest to Suma now changed, and carried them with equal favor and speed back to Akashi. On their landing they entered a carriage waiting for them, and went to the mansion of the priest.
The scenery around the coast was no less novel than that of Suma, the only difference being that there were more people there. The building was grand, and there was also a grand Buddha-hall adjoining for the service of the priest. The plantations of trees, the shrubberies, the rock-work, and the mimic lakes in the garden were so beauti- fully arranged as to exceed the power of an artist to depict, while the style of the dwelling was so tasteful that it was in no way inferior to any in the capital.
The wife and the daughter of the priest were not residing here, but were at another mansion on the hill-side, where they had removed from fear of the recent high tides.
Genji now took up his quarters with the priest in this seaside mansion. The first thing he did when he felt a little settled was to write to the capital, and tell his friends of his change of residence. The priest was about sixty years old, and was very sincere in his religious service. The only subject of anxiety which he felt was, as we have already mentioned, the welfare of his daughter. When Genji became thoroughly settled he often joined the priest, and spent hours in conversing with him. The latter, from his age and experience, was full of information and anecdotes, many of which were quite new to Genji, but the narration of them seemed always to turn upon his daughter.
April had now come. The trees began to be clothed with a thick shade of leaves, which had a peculiar novelty of appearance, differing from that of the flowers of spring, or the bright dyes of autumn. The Kuina (a particular bird of summer) commenced their fluttering. The furniture and dresses were changed for those more suitable to the time of year. The comfort of the house was most agreeable. It was on one of these evenings that the surface of the broad ocean spread before the eye was unshadowed by the clouds, and the Isle of Awaji floated like foam on its face, just as it appeared to do at Suma. Genji took out his favorite kin, on which he had not practised for some time, and was playing an air called “Korio,” when the priest joined him, having left for awhile his devotions, and said that his music recalled to his mind the old days and the capital which he had quitted so long. He sent for a biwa (mandolin) and a soh-koto from the hill-side mansion, and, after the fashion of a blind singer of ballads to the biwa, played two or three airs.
He then handed the soh-koto to Genji, who also played a few tunes, saying, as he did so, in a casual manner, “This sounds best when played upon by some fair hand.” The priest smiled, and rejoined: “What better hand than yours need we wish to hear playing; for my part, my poor skill has been transmitted to me, through three gener- ations, from the royal hand of the Emperor Yenghi, though I now belong to the past; but, occasionally, when my loneliness oppresses me, I indulge in my old amusement, and there is one who, listening to my strains, has learnt to imitate them so well that they resemble those of the Emperor Yenghi himself. I shall be very happy, if you desire, to find an opportunity for you to hear them.”
Genji at once laid aside the instrument, saying: “Ah, how bold! I did not know I was among proficients,” and continued, “From olden time the soh-koto was peculiarly adopted by female musicians. The fifth daughter of the Emperor Saga, from whom she had received the secret, was a celebrated performer, but no one of equal skill succeeded her. Of course there are several players, but these merely strike or strum on the instrument; but in this retreat there is a skilful hand. How delightful it will be.”
“If you desire to hear, there is no difficulty. I will introduce her to you. She also plays the biwa very well. The biwa has been considered from olden time very difficult to master, and I am proud of her doing so.”
In this manner the priest led the conversation to his own daughter, while fruit and sake were brought in for refreshment. He then went on talking of his life since he first came to the coast of Akashi, and of his devotion to religion, for the sake of future happiness, and also out of solicitude for his daughter. He continued: “Although I
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feel rather awkward in saying it, I am almost inclined to think your coming to this remote vicinity has something providential in it, as an answer, as it were, to our earnest prayers, and it may give you some consolation and plea- sure. The reason why I think so is this—it is nearly eighteen years since we began to pray for the blessing of the God Sumiyoshi on our daughter, and we have sent her twice a year, in spring and autumn, to his temple. At the ‘six-time’ service, also, the prayers for my own repose on the lotus flower, are only secondary to those which I put up for the happiness of my daughter. My father, as you may know, held a good office in the capital, but I am now a plain countryman, and if I leave matters in their present state, the status of my family will soon become lower and lower. Fortunately this girl was promising from her childhood, and my desire was to present her to some distinguished personage in the capital, not without disappointment to many suitors, and I have often told her that if my desire is not fulfilled she had better throw herself into the sea.”
Such was the tedious discourse which the priest held on the subject of his family affairs; yet it is not surprising that it awakened an interest in the susceptible mind of Genji for the fair maiden thus described as so promising. The priest at last, in spite of the shyness and reserve of the daughter, and the unwillingness of the mother, conduct- ed Genji to the hill-side mansion, and introduced him to the maiden. In the course of time they gradually became more than mere acquaintances to each other. For some time Genji often found himself at the hill-side mansion, and her society appeared to afford him greater pleasure than anything else, but this did not quite meet with the approv- al of his conscience, and the girl in the mansion at Nijio returned to his thoughts. If this flirtation of his should become known to her, he thought, it perhaps would be very annoying to her. True, she was not much given to be jealous, but he well remembered the occasional complaints she had now and then made to him while in the capital. These feelings induced him to write more frequently and more minutely to her, and he soon began to frequent the hill-side mansion less often. His leisure hours were spent in sketching, as he used to do in Suma, and writing short poetic effusions explanatory of the scenery. This was also going on in the mansion at Nijio, where Violet passed the long hours away in painting different pictures, and also in writing, in the form of a diary, what she saw and did. What will be the issue of all these things?
Now, since the spring of the year there had been several heavenly warnings in the capital, and things in general were somewhat unsettled. On the evening of the thirteenth of March, when the rain and wind had raged, the late Emperor appeared in a dream to his son the Emperor, in front of the palace, looking reproachfully upon him. The Emperor showed every token of submission and respect when the dead Emperor told him of many things, all of which concerned Genji’s interests. The Emperor became alarmed, and when he awoke he told his mother all about his dream. She, however, told him that on such occasions, when the storm rages, and the sky is obscured by the disturbance of the elements, all things, especially on which our thoughts have been long occupied, appear to us in a dream in a disturbed sleep; and she continued, “I further counsel you not to be too hastily alarmed by such trifles.” From this time he began to suffer from sore eyes, which may have resulted from the angry glances of his father’s spirit. About the same time the father of the Empress-mother died. His death was by no means premature; but yet, when such events take place repeatedly, it causes the mind to imagine there is something more than natural going on, and this made the Empress-mother feel a little indisposed.
The Emperor then constantly told her that if Genji were left in his present condition it might induce evil, and, therefore, it would be better to recall him, and restore his titles and honors to him. She obstinately opposed these ideas, saying, “If a person who proved to be guilty, and has retired from the capital, were to be recalled before the expiration of at least three years, it would naturally show the weakness of authority.”
She gained her point, and thus the days were spent and the year changed. The Emperor still continually suffered from indisposition, and the unsettled state of things remained the same
as before. A prince had been born to him, who was now about two years old, and he began to think of abdicating the throne in favor of the Heir-apparent, the child of the Princess Wistaria. When he looked around to see who would best minister public affairs, he came to think that the disgrace of Genji was a matter not to be allowed to con- tinue, and at last, contrary to the advice of his mother, he issued a public permission for Genji’s return to the capital, which was repeated at the end of July. Genji therefore prepared to come back. Before, however, he started, a month passed away, which time was mostly spent in the society of the lady of the hill-side mansion. The expected journey of Genji was now auspicious, even to him, and ought also to have been so to the family of the priest, but parting has always something painful in its nature. This was more so because the girl had by this time the witness of their love in her bosom, but he told her that he would send for her when his position was assured in the capital.
Towards the middle of August everything was in readiness, and Genji started on his journey homeward. He went to Naniwa, where he had the ceremony of Horai performed. To the temple of Sumiyoshi he sent a messenger to say that the haste of his journey prevented him coming at this time, but that he would fulfil his vows as soon as circumstances would permit. From Naniwa he proceeded to the capital, and returned once more, after an absence of nearly three years, to his mansion at Nijio. The joy and excitement of the inmates of the mansion were unbound- ed, and the development of Violet charmed his eyes. His delight was great and the pleasure of his mind was of the
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most agreeable nature; still, from time to time, in the midst of this very pleasure, the recollection of the maiden whom he had left at Akashi occurred to his thoughts. But this kind of perturbation was only the result of what had arisen from the very nature of Genji’s character.
Before the lapse of many days all his titles and honors were restored to him, and he was soon created an extra Vice-Dainagon.
All those who had lost dignities or office on account of Genji’s complications were also restored to them. It seemed to these like a sudden and unexpected return of spring to the leafless tree.
In the course of a few days Genji was invited by the Emperor to come and see him. The latter had scarcely recovered from his indisposition, and was still looking weak and thin. When Genji appeared before him, he mani- fested great pleasure, and they conversed together in a friendly way till the evening.
Chapter XXV Fireflies
Genji was famous and life was secure and peaceful. His ladies had in their several ways made their own lives and were happy. There was an exception, Tamakazura, who faced a new crisis and was won- dering what to do next. She was not as genuinely frightened of him, of course, as she had been of the Higo man; but since few people could possibly know what had happened, she must keep her disquiet to herself, and her growing sense of isolation. Old enough to know a little of the world, she saw more than ever what a handicap it was not to have a mother.
Genji had made his confession. The result was that his longing increased. Fearful of being overheard, however, he found the subject a difficult one to approach, even gingerly. His visits were very frequent. Choosing times when she was likely to have few people with her, he would hint at his feelings, and she would be in an agony of embarrassment. Since she was not in a position to turn him away, she could only pretend that she did not know what was happening.
She was of a cheerful, affectionate disposition. Though she was also of a cautious and conservative nature, the chief impression she gave was of a delicate, winsome girlishness.
Prince Hotaru continued to pay energetic court. His labors had not yet gone on for very long when he had the early-summer rains to be resentful of.
“Admit me a little nearer, please,” he wrote. “I will feel better if I can unburden myself of even part of what is in my heart.”
Genji saw the letter. “Princes,” he said, “should be listened to. Aloofness is not permitted. You must let him have an occasional answer.” He even told her what to say.
But he only made things worse. She said that she was not feeling well and did not answer. There were few really highborn women in her household. She did have a cousin called Saisho,
daughter of a maternal uncle who had held a seat on the council. Genji had heard that she had been having a difficult time since her father’s death, and had put her in Tamakazura’s service. She wrote a passable hand and seemed generally capable and well informed. He assigned her the task of composing replies to gentlemen who deserved them. It was she whom he summoned today. One may imagine that he was curious to see all of his brother’s letters. Tamakazura herself had been reading them with more interest since that shocking evening. It must not be thought that she had fallen in love with Hotaru, but he did seem to offer a way of evading Genji. She was learning rapidly.
Unaware that Genji himself was eagerly awaiting him, Hotaru was delighted at what seemed a pos- itive invitation and quietly came calling. A seat was put out for him near the corner doors, where she received him with only a curtain between them. Genji had given close attention to the incense, which was mysterious and seductive—rather more attention, indeed, than a guardian might have felt that his duty demanded. One had to admire the results, whatever the motive. Saisho was at a loss to reply to Hotaru’s overtures. Genji pinched her gently to remind her that her mistress must not behave like an unfeeling lump, and only added to her discomfiture. The dark nights of the new moon were over and there was a bland quarter-moon in the cloudy sky. Calm and dignified, the prince was very handsome indeed. Genji’s own very special perfume mixed with the incense that drifted through the room as people moved about. More interesting than he would have expected, thought the prince. In calm control of himself all the while (and in pleasant contrast to certain other people), he made his avowals.
Tamakazura withdrew to the east penthouse and lay down. Genji followed Saisho as she brought a new message from the prince.
“You are not being kind,” he said to Tamakazura. “A person should behave as the occasion demands. You are unnecessarily coy. You should not be sending a messenger back and forth over such distances. If
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you do not wish him to hear your voice, very well, but at least you should move a little nearer.” She was in despair. She suspected that his real motive was to impose himself upon her, and each
course open to her seemed worse than all the others. She slipped away and lay down at a curtain between the penthouse and the main hall.
She was sunk in thought, unable to answer the prince’s outpourings. Genji came up beside her and lifted the curtain back over its frame. There was a flash of light. She looked up startled. Had someone lighted a torch?
No—Genji had earlier in the evening put a large number of fireflies in a cloth bag. Now, letting no one guess what he was about, he released them. Tamakazura brought a fan to her face. Her profile was very beautiful.
Genji had worked everything out very carefully. Prince Hotaru was certain to look in her direction. He was making a show of passion, Genji suspected, because he thought her Genji’s daughter, and not because he had guessed what a beauty she was. Now he would see, and be genuinely excited. Genji would not have gone to such trouble if she had in fact been his daughter. It all seems rather perverse of him.
He slipped out through another door and returned to his part of the house. The prince had guessed where the lady would be. Now he sensed that she was perhaps a little nearer. His heart
racing, he looked through an opening in the rich gossamer curtains. Suddenly, some six or seven feet away, there was a flash of light—and such beauty as was revealed in it! Darkness was quickly restored, but the brief glimpse he had had was the sort of thing that makes for romance. The figure at the curtains may have been indistinct but it most certainly was slim and tall and graceful. Genji would not have been disappointed at the interest it had in- spired.
“You put out this silent fire to no avail. Can you extinguish the fire in the human heart? “I hope I make myself understood.” Speed was the important thing in answering such a poem. “The firefly but burns and makes no comment. Silence sometimes tells of deeper thoughts.” It was a brisk sort of reply, and having made it, she was gone. His lament about this chilly treatment was rather
wordy, but he would not have wished to overdo it by staying the night. It was late when he braved the dripping eaves (and tears as well) and went out. I have no doubt that a cuckoo sent him on his way, but did not trouble myself to learn all the detd ls.
So handsome, so poised, said the women—so very much like Genji. Not knowing their lady’s secret, they were filled with gratitude for Genji’s attentions. Why, not even her mother could have done more for her.
Unwelcome attentions, the lady was thinking. If she had been recognized by her father and her situation were nearer the ordinary, then they need not be entirely unwelcome. She had had wretched luck, and she lived in dread of rumors.
Genji too was determined to avoid rumors. Yet he continued to have his ways. Can one really be sure, for instance, that he no longer had designs upon Akikonomu? There was something different about his manner When he was with her, something especially charming and seductive. But she was beyond the reach of direct overtures. Tamakazura was a modern sort of girl, and approachable. Sometimes dangerously near losing control of himself, he would do things which, had they been noticed, might have aroused suspicions. It was a difficult and complicated relationship indeed, and he must be given credit for the fact that he held back from the final line.
On the fifth day of the Fifth Month, the Day of the Iris, he stopped by her apartments on his way to the eques- trian grounds.
“What happened? Did he stay late? You must be careful with him. He is not to be trusted—not that there are very many men these days a girl really can trust.”
He praised his brother and blamed him. He seemed very young and was very handsome as he offered this word of caution. As for his clothes, the singlets and the robe thrown casually over them glowed in such rich and pleasing colors that they seemed to brim over and seek more space. One wondered whether a supernatural hand might not have had some part in the dyeing. The colors themselves were familiar enough, but the woven patterns were as if everything had pointed to this day of flowers. The lady was sure she would have been quite intoxicated with the perfumes burned into them had she not had these worries.
A letter came from Prince Hotaru, on white tissue paper in a fine, aristocratic hand. At first sight the contents seemed very interesting, but somehow they became ordinary upon repeating.
“Even today the iris is neglected. Its roots, my cries, are lost among the waters.” It was attached to an iris root certain to be much talked of. “You must get off an answer,” said Genji, preparing to leave. Her women argued that she had no choice. Whatever she may have meant to suggest by it, this was her answer, a simple one set down in a faint, delicate
hand:
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“It might have flourished better in concealment, The iris root washed purposelessly away. Exposure seems rather unwise.”
A connoisseur, the prince thought that the hand could just possibly be improved. Gifts of medicinal herbs in decorative packets came from this and that well-wisher. The festive
brightness did much to make her forget earlier unhappiness and hope that she might come uninjured through this new trial.
Genji also called on the lady of the orange blossoms, in the east wing of the same northeast quarter. “Yugiri is to bring some friends around after the archery meet. I should imagine it will still be day-
light. I have never understood why our efforts to avoid attention always end in failure. The princes and the rest of them hear that something is up and come around to see, and so we have a much noisier party than we had planned on. We must in any event be ready.”
The equestrian stands were very near the galleries of the northeast quarter. “Come, girls,” he said. “Open all the doors and enjoy yourselves. Have a look at all the handsome
officers. The ones in the Left Guards are especially handsome, several cuts above the common run at court.”
They had a delightful time. Tamakazura joined them. There were fresh green blinds all along the galleries, and new curtains too, the rich colors at the hems fading, as is the fashion these days, to white above. Women and little girls clustered at all the doors. The girls in green# robes and trains of purple gossamer seemed to be from Tamakazura’s wing. There were four of them, all very pretty and well be- haved. Her women too were in festive dress, trains blending from lavender at the waist down to deeper purple and formal jackets the color of carnation shoots.
The lady of the orange blossoms had her little girls in very dignified dress, singlets of deep pink and trains of red lined with green It was very amusing to see all the women striking new poses as they draped their finery about them. The young courtiers noticed and seemed to be striking poses of their own.
Genji went out to the stands toward midafternoon. All the princes were there, as he had predicted. The equestrian archery was freer and more varied than at the palace. The officers of the guard joined in, and everyone sat entranced through the afternoon. The women may not have under- stood all the finer points, but the uniforms of even the common guardsmen were magnificent and the horsemanship was complicated and exciting. The grounds were very wide, fronting also on Murasaki’s southeast quarter, where young women were watching. There was music and dancing, Chinese polo music and the Korean dragon dance. As night came on, thetriumphal music rang out high and wild. The guardsmen were richly rewarded according to their several ranks. It was very late when the assembly dispersed.
Genji spent the night with the lady of the orange blossoms.li “Prince Hotaru is a man of parts,” he said. “He may not be the handsomest man in the world, but everything about him tells of breeding and cultivation, and he is excellent company. Did you chance to catch a glimpse of him? He has many good points, as I have said, but it may be that in the final analysis there is something just a bit lacking in him.”
“He is younger than you but I thought he looked older. I have heard that he never misses a chance to come calling. I saw him once long ago at court and had not really seen him again until today. He has improved. Prince Sochi is a very fine gentleman too, but somehow he does not quite look like royalty.”
Genji smiled. Her judgment was quick and sure. But he kept his own counsel. This sort of open ap- praisal of people still living was not to his taste. He could not understand why the world had such a high opinion of Higekuro and would not have been pleased to receive him into the family, but these views too he kept to himself.
They were good friends, he and she, and no more, and they went to separate beds. Genji wondered when they had begun to drift apart. She never let fall the tiniest hint of jealousy. It had been the usual thing over the years for reports of such festivities to come to her through others. The events of the day seemed to bring new recognition to her and her household.
She said softly: “You honor the iris on the bank to which No pony comes to taste of withered grasses?” One could
scarcely have called it a masterpiece, but he was touched. “This pony, like the love grebe, wants a comrade. Shall it forget the iris on the bank?” Nor was his a
very exciting poem. “I do not see as much of you as I would wish, but I do enjoy you.” There was a certain irony in the words, from his bed to hers, but also affection. She was a dear, gentle
lady. She had let him have her bed and spread quilts for herself outside the curtains. She had in the course of time come to accept such arrangements as proper, and he did not suggest changing them.
The rains of earlyd ummer continued without a break, even gloomier than in most years. The ladies at
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Rokjio amused themselves with illustrated romances. The Akashi lady, a talented painter, sent pictures to her daughter.
Tamakazura was the most avid reader of all. She quite lost herself in pictures and stories and would spend whole days with them. Several of her young women were well informed in literary matters. She came upon all sorts of interesting and shocking incidents (she could not be sure whether they were true or not), but she found little that resembled her own unfortunate career. There was The Tale of Sumiyoshi, popular in its day, of course, and still well thought of. She compared the plight of the heroine, within a hairbreadth of being taken by the chief accountant, with her own escape from the Higo person.
Genji could not help noticing the clutter of pictures and manuscripts. “What a nuisance this all is,” he said one day. “Women seem to have been born to be cheerfully deceived. They know perfectly well that in all these old sto- ries there is scarcely a shred of truth, and yet they are captured and made sport of by the whole range of trivialities and go on scribbling them down, quite unaware that in these warm rains their hair is all dank and knotted.”
He smiled. “What would we do if there were not these old romances to relieve our boredom? But amid all the fabrication I must admit that I do find real emotions and plausible chains of events. We can be quite aware of the frivolity and the idleness and still be moved. We have to feel a little sorry for a charming princess in the depths of gloom. Sometimes a series of absurd and grotesque incidents which we know to be quite improbable holds our interest, and afterwards we must blush that it was so. Yet even then we can see what it was that held us. Sometimes I stand and listen to the stories they read to my daughter, and I think to myself that there certainly are good talkers in the world. I think that these yarns must come from people much practiced in lying. But perhaps that is not the whole of the story?”
She pushed away her inkstone. “I can see that that would be the view of someone much given to lying himself. For my part, I am convinced of their truthfulness.”
He laughed. “I have been rude and unfair to your romances, haven’t I. They have set down and preserved hap- penings from the age of the gods to our own. The Chronicles of Japan and the rest are a mere fragment of the whole truth. It is your romances that fill in the details.
“We are not told of things that happened to specific people exactly as they happened; but the beginning is when there are good things and bad things, things that happen in this life which one never tires of seeing and hearing about, things which one cannot bear not to tell of and must pass on for all generations. If the storyteller wishes to speak well, then he chooses the good things; and if he wishes to hold the reader’s attention he chooses bad things, extraordinarily bad things. Good things and bad things alike, they are things of this world and no other.
“Writers in other countries approach the matter differently. Old stories in our own are different from new. There are differences in the degree of seriousness. But to dismiss them as lies is itself to depart from the truth. Even in the writ which the Buddha drew from his noble heart are parables, devices for pointing obliquely at the truth. To the ignorant they may seem to operate at cross purposes. The Greater Vehicle is full of them, but the general burden is always the same. The difference between enlightenment and confusion is of about the same order as the difference between the good and the bad in a romance. If one takes the generous view, then nothing is empty and useless.”
He now seemed bent on establishing the uses of fiction. “But tell me: is there in any of your old stories a proper, upright fool like myself ?” He came closer. “I doubt that
even among the most unworldly of your heroines there is one who manages to be as distant and unnoticing as you are. Suppose the two of us set down our story and give the world a really interesting one.”
“I think it very likely that the world will take notice of our curious story even if we do not go to the trouble.” She hid her face in her sleeves.
“Our curious story? Yes, incomparably curious, I should think.” Smiling and playful, he pressed nearer. “Beside myself, I search through all the books, And come upon no daughter so unfilial. You are breaking one of
the commandments.” He stroked her hair as he spoke, but she refused to look up. Presently, however, she managed a reply: “So too it is with me. I too have searched, And found no cases quite so unparental.” Somewhat chastened, he pursued the matter no further. Yet one worried. What was to become of her? Murasaki too had become addicted to romances. Her excuse was that Genji’s little daughter insisted on being
read to. “Just see what a fine one this is,” she said, showing Genji an illustration for The Tale of Kumano. The young girl
in tranquil and confident slumber made her think of her own younger self. “How precocious even very little chil- dren seem to have been. I suppose I might have set myself up as a specimen of the slow, plodding variety. I would have won that competition easily.”
Genji might have been the hero of some rather more eccentric stories. “You must not read love stories to her. I doubt that clandestine affairs would arouse her unduly, but we would
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not want her to think them commonplace.” What would Tamakazura have made of the difference between his remarks to her and these remarks to Murasa-
ki? “I would not of course offer the wanton ones as a model,” replied Murasaki, “but I would have
doubts too about the other sort. Lady Atemiya in The Tale of the Hollow Tree, for Instance. She is always very brisk and efficient and in control of things, and she never makes mistakes; but there is something unwomanly about her cool manner and clipped speech.”
“I should imagine that it is in real life as in fiction. We are all human and we all have our ways. It is not easy to be unerringly right. Proper, well-educated parents go to great trouble over a daughter’s educa- tion and tell themselves that they have done well if something quiet and demure emerges. It seems a pity when defects come to light one after another and people start asking what her good parents can possibly have been up to. Yet the rewards are very great when a girl’s manner and behavior seem just right for her station. Even then empty praise is not satisfying. One knows that the girl is not perfect and looks at her more critically than before. I would not wish my own daughter to be praised by people who have no standards.”
He was genuinely concerned that she acquit herself well in the tests that lay before her. Wicked stepmothers are of course standard fare for the romancers, and he did not want them poi-
soning relations between Murasaki and the child. He spent a great deal of time selecting romances he thought suitable, and ordered them copied and illustrated.
He kept Yugiri from Murasaki but encouraged him to be friends with the girl. While he himself was alive it might not matter a great deal one way or the other, but if they were good friends now their af- fection was likely to deepen after he was dead. He permitted Yugiri inside the front room, though the inner rooms were forbidden. Having so few children, he had ample time for Yugiri, who was a sober lad and seemed completely dependable. The girl was still devoted to her dolls. They made Yugiri think of his own childhood games with Kumoinokari. Sometimes as he waited in earnest attendance upon a doll princess, tears would come to his eyes. He sometimes joked with ladies of a certain standing, but he was careful not to lead them too far. Even those who might have expected more had to make do with a joke. The thing that really concerned him and never left his mind was getting back at the nurse who had sneered at his blue sleeves. He was fairly sure that he could better To-no-Chiujio at a contest of wills, but sometimes the old anger and chagrin came back and he wanted more. He wanted to make To-no-Chiujio genuinely regretful for what he had done. He revealed these feelings only to Kumoinokari. Before every- one else he was a model of cool composure.
Her brothers sometimes thought him rather conceited. Kashiwagi, the oldest, was greatly interested these days in Tamakazura. Lacking a better intermediary, he came sighing to Yugiri. The friendship of the first generation was being repeated in the second.
“One does not undertake to plead another’s case,” replied Yugiri quietly. To-no-Chiujio was a very important man, and his many sons were embarked upon promising careers,
as became their several pedigrees and inclinations. He had only two daughters. The one who had gone to court had been a disappointment. The prospect of having the other do poorly did not of course please him. He had not forgotten the lady of the evening faces. He often spoke of her, and he went on wonder- ing what had happened to the child. The lady had put him off guard with her gentleness and appearance of helplessness, and so he had lost a daughter. A man must not under any circumstances let a woman out of his sight. Suppose the girl were to turn up now in some outlandish guise and stridently announce her- self as his daughter—well, he would take her in.
“Do not dismiss anyone who says she is my daughter,” he told his sons. In my younger days I did many things I ought not to have done. There was a lady of not entirely contemptible birth who lost pa- tience with me over some triviality or other, and so I lost a daughter, and I have so few.”
There had been a time when he had almost forgotten the lady. Then he began to see what great things his friends were doing for their daughters, and to feel resentful that he had been granted so few.
One night he had a dream. He called in a famous seer and asked for an interpretation. “Might it be that you will hear of a long-lost child who has been taken in by someone else?” This was very puzzling. He could think of no daughters whom he had put out for adoption. He began
to wonder about Tamakazura.
Chapter XL The Rites
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Murasaki had been in uncertain health since her great illness. Although there were no striking symptoms and there had been no recurrence of the crisis that had had her near death, she was progressively weaker. Genji could not face the thought of surviving her by even a day Murasaki,s one regret was that she must cause him pain and so be unfaithful to their vows. For the rest, she had no demands to make upon this world and few ties with it. She was ready to go, and wanted only to prepare herself for the next world. Her deepest wish, of which she sometimes spoke, had long been to give herself over entirely to prayers and meditations. But even now Genji refused to hear of it.
Yet he had for some time had similar wishes. Perhaps the time had come and they should take their vows to- gether. He would permit himself no backward glances, however, once the decision was made. They had promised, and neither of them doubted, that they would one day have their places side by side upon the same lotus, but they must live apart, he was determined, a peak between them even if they were on the same mountain, once they had taken their vows. They would not see each other again. The sight of her now, ravaged with illness, made him fear that the final separation would be too much for him. The clear waters of their mountain retreat would be muddied. Years went by, and he had been left far behind by people who, their conversion far from thorough, had taken holy orders heedlessly and impulsively.
It would have been ill mannered of Murasaki to insist on having her way, and she would be running against her own deeper wishes if she opposed his; and so resentment at his unyielding ways was tempered by a feeling that she might be at fault herself.
For some years now she had had scriveners at work on the thousand copies of the Lotus Sutra that were to be her final offering to the Blessed One. They had their studios at Nijo, which she still thought of as home. Now the work was finished, and she made haste to get ready for the dedication. The robes of the seven priests were magnif- icent, as were all the other details. Not wanting to seem insistent, she had not asked Genji’s help, and he had stayed discreetly in the background. No other lady, people said, could have arranged anything so fine. Genji marveled that she should be so conversant with holy ritual, and saw once again that nothing which she set her mind to was beyond her. His own part in the arrangements had been of the most general and perfunctory sort. Yu~giri gave a great deal of time and thought to the music and dancing. The emperor, the empresses, the crown prince, and the ladies at Rokjio limited themselves to formal oblations, and even these threatened to overflow the Nijo mansion. There were others as well, all through the court, who wanted some small part in the ceremonies, which in the end were so grand that people wondered when she might have commenced laying her plans. They suggested a holy resolve going back through all the ages of the god of Furu. The lady of the orange blossoms and the lady of Akashi were among those who assembled at Nijo. Murasaki’s place was in a walled room to the west of the main hall, sequestered but for doors at the south and east opening upon the ceremonies. The other ladies were in the northern rooms, separated from the altar by screens.
It was the tenth day of the Third Month. The cherries were in bloom and the skies were pleasantly clear. One felt that Amitabha’s paradise could not be far away, and for even the less than devout it was as if a burden of sin were being lifted. At the grand climax the voices of the brushwood bearers and of all the priests rose to describe in solemn tones the labors of the Blessed One, and then there was silence, more eloquent than the words. It spoke to the least sensitive of those present, and it spoke worlds to her for whom everything these days was vaguely, delicate- ly sad.
She sent a poem to the Akashi lady through little Niou, the Third Prince: “I have no regrets as I bid farewell to this life. Yet the dying away of the fire is always sad.” If the lady’s answer seemed somewhat cool and noncommittal, it may have been because she wished above all
to avoid theatrics. “Our prayers, the first of them borne in on brushwood, Shall last the thousand years of the Blessed One’s toils.” The chanting went on all through the night, and the drums beat intricate rhythms. As the first touches of dawn
came over the sky the scene was is if made especially for her who so loved the spring. All across the garden cherries were a delicate veil through spring mists, and bird songs rose numberless, as if to outdo the flutes. One would have thought that the possibilities of beauty were here exhausted, and then the dancer on the stage became the hand- some General Ling, and as the dance gathered momentum and the delighted onlookers stripped off multicolored robes and showered them upon him, the season and the occasion brought a yet higher access of beauty. All the finest performers among the princes and grandees had quite outdone themselves. Looking out upon all this joy and beauty, Murasaki thought how little time she had left.
She was almost never up for a whole day, and today she was back in bed again. These were the familiar faces, the people who had gathered over the years. They had delighted her one last time with flute and koto. Some had meant more to her than others. She gazed intently at the most distant of them and thought that she could never have enough of those who had been her companions at music and the other pleasures of the seasons. There had
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been rivalries, of course, but they had been fond of one another. All of them would soon be gone, making their way down the unknown road, and she must make her lonely way ahead of them.
The services were over and the other Rokjio ladies departed. She was sure that she would not see them again. She sent a poem to the lady of the orange blossoms:
“Although these holy rites must be my last, The bond will endure for all the lives to come.” This was the reply: “For all of us the time of rites is brief. More durable by far the bond between us.” They were over, and now they were followed by solemn and continuous readings from the holy writ, including
the Lotus Sutra. The Nijo mansion had become a house of prayers. When they seemed to do no good for its ailing lady, readings were commissioned at favored temples and holy places.
Murasaki had always found the heat very trying. This summer she was near prostration. Though there were no marked symptoms and though there was none of the unsightliness that usually goes with emaciation, she was pro- gressively weaker. Her women saw the world grow dark before their eyes as they contemplated the future.
Distressed at reports that there was no improvement, the empress visited Nijo. She was given rooms in the east wing and Murasaki waited to receive her in the main hall. Though there was nothing unusual about the greetings, they reminded Murasaki, as indeed did everything, that the empress’s little children would grow up without her. The attendants announced themselves one by one, some of them very high courtiers. A familiar voice, thought Murasaki, and another. She had not seen the empress in a very long while and hung on the conversation with fond and eager attention.
Genji looked in upon them briefly. “You find me disconsolate this evening,” he said to the empress, “a bird turned away from its nest. But I shall not bore you with my complaints.” He withdrew. He was delighted to see Mu- rasaki out of bed, but feared that the pleasure must be a fleeting one.
“We are so far apart that I would not dream of troubling you to visit me, and I fear that it will not be easy for me to visit you.”
After a time the Akashi lady came in. The two ladies addressed each other affectionately, though Murasaki left a great deal unsaid. She did not want to be one of those who eloquently prepare the world to struggle along without them. She did remark briefly and quietly upon the evanescence of things, and her wistful manner said more than her words.
Genji’s royal grandchildren were brought in. “I spend so much time imagining futures for you, my dears. Do you suppose that I do after all hate to go?” Still very beautiful, she was in tears. The empress would have liked to change the subject, but could not think
how. “May I ask a favor?” said Murasaki, very casually, as if she hesitated to bring the matter up at all. “There are
numbers of people who have been with me for a very long while, and some of them have no home but this. Might I ask you to see that they are taken care of ?” And she gave the names.
Having commissioned a reading from the holy writ, the empress returned to her rooms. Little Niou, the prettiest of them all, seemed to be everywhere at once. Choosing a moment when she was feel-
ing better and there was no one else with her, she seated him before her. “I may have to go away. Will you remember me?” “But I don’t want you to go away.” He gazed up at her, and presently he was rubbing at his eyes, so charming
that she was smiling through her tears. “I like my granny, better than Father and Mother. I don’t want you to go away.”
“This must be your own house when you grow up. I want the rose plum and the cherries over there to be yours. You must take care of them and say nice things about them, and sometimes when you think of it you might put flowers on the altar.”
He nodded and gazed up at her, and then abruptly, about to burst into tears, he got up and ran out. It was Niou and the First Princess whom Murasaki most hated to leave. They had been her special charges, and she would not live to see them grow up.
The cool of autumn, so slow to come, was at last here. Though far from well, she felt somewhat better. The winds were still gentle, but it was a time of heavy dews all the same. She would have liked the empress to stay with her just a little while longer but did not want to say so. Messengers had come from the emperor, all of them summoning the empress back to court, and she did not want to put the empress in a difficult position. She was no longer able to leave her room, however much she might want to respect the amenities, and so the empress called on her. Apologetic and at the same time very grateful, for she knew that this might be their last meeting, she had made careful preparations for the visit.
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Though very thin, she was more beautiful than ever—one would not have thought it possible. The fresh, viva- cious beauty of other years had asked to be likened to the flowers of this earth, but now there was a delicate seren- ity that seemed to go beyond such present similes. For the empress the slight figure before her, the very serenity bespeaking evanescence, was utter sadness.
Wishing to look at her flowers in the evening light, Murasaki pulled herself from bed with the aid of an armrest. Genji came in. “Isn’t this splendid? I imagine Her Majesty’s visit has done wonders for you.” How pleased he was at what was in fact no improvement at all—and how desolate he must soon be! “So briefly rests the dew upon the hagi. Even now it scatters in the wind.” It would have been a sad evening in any event, and the plight of the dew even now being shaken from the toss-
ing branches, thought Genji, must seem to the sick lady very much like her own. “In the haste we make to leave this world of dew, May there be no time between the first and last.” He did not try to hide his tears. And this was the empress’s poem: “A world of dew before the autumn winds. Not only theirs, these fragile leaves of grass.” Gazing at the two of them, each somehow more beautiful than the other, Genji wished that he might have them
a thousand years just as they were; but of course time runs against these wishes. That is the great, sad truth. “Would you please leave me?” said Murasaki. “I am feeling rather worse. I do not like to know that I am being
rude and find myself unable to apologize.” She spoke with very great difficulty. The empress took her hand and gazed into her face. Yes, it was indeed like the dew about to vanish away. Scores
of messengers were sent to commission new services. Once before it had seemed that she was dying, and Genji hoped that whatever evil spirit it was might be persuaded to loosen its grip once more. All through the night he did everything that could possibly be done, but in vain. Just as light was coming she faded away. Some kind power above, he thought, had kept the empress with her through the night. He might tell himself, as might all the others who had been with her, that these things have always happened and will continue to happen, but there are times when the natural order of things is unacceptable. The numbing grief made the world itself seem like a twilight dream. The women tried in vain to bring their wandering thoughts together. Fearing for his father, more distraught even than they, Yugiri had come to him.
“It seems to be the end,” said Genji, summoning him to Murasaki’s curtains. “To be denied one’s last wish is a cruel thing. I suppose that their reverences will have finished their prayers and left us, but someone qualified to administer vows must still be here. We did not do a great deal for her in this life, but perhaps the Blessed One can be persuaded to turn a little light on the way she must take into the next. Tell them, please, that I want someone to give the tonsure. There is still someone with us who can do it, surely?”
He spoke with studied calm, but his face was drawn and he was weeping. “But these evil spirits play very cruel tricks,” replied Yugiri, only slightly less benumbed than his father. “Don’t
you suppose the same thing has happened all over again? Your suggestion is of course quite proper. We are told that even a day and a night of the holy life brings untold blessings. But suppose this really is the end—can we hope that anything we do will throw so very much light on the way she must go? No, let us come to terms with the sorrow we have before us and try not to make it worse.”
But he summoned several of the priests who had stayed on, wishing to be of service through the period of mourning, and asked them to do whatever could still be done.
He could congratulate himself on his filial conduct over the years, upon the fact that he had permitted himself no improper thoughts; but he had had one fleeting glimpse of her, and he had gone on hoping that he might one day be permitted another, even as brief, or that he might hear her voice, even faintly. The second hope had come to nothing, and the other—if he did not see her now he never would see her. He was in tears himself, and the room echoed with the laments of the women.
“Do please try to be a little quieter, just for a little while.” He lifted the curtains as he spoke, making it seem that Genji had summoned him. In the dim morning twilight Genji had brought a lamp near Murasaki’s dead face. He knew that Yugiri was beside him, but somehow felt that to screen this beauty from his son’s gaze would only add to the anguish.
“Exactly as she was,” he whispered. “But as you see, it is all over.” He covered his face. Yugiri too was weeping. He brushed the tears away and struggled to see through them as
the sight of the dead face brought them flooding back again. Though her hair had been left untended through her illness, it was smooth and lustrous and not a strand was out of place. In the bright lamplight the skin was a purer, more radiant white than the living lady, seated at her mirror, could have made it. Her beauty, as if in untroubled
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sleep, emptied words like “peerless” of all content. He almost wished that the spirit which seemed about to desert him might be given custody of the unique loveliness before him.
Since Murasaki’s women were none of them up to such practical matters, Genji forced himself to think about the funeral arrangements. He had known many sorrows, but none quite so near at hand, demanding that he and no one else do what must be done. He had known nothing like it, and he was sure that there would be nothing like it in what remained of his life.
Everything was finished in the course of the day. We are not permitted to gaze upon the empty shell of the locust. The wide moor was crowded with people and carriages. The services were solemn and dignified, and she ascended to the heavens as the frailest wreath of smoke. It is the way of things, but it seemed more than anyone should be asked to endure. Helped to the scene by one or two of his men, he felt as if the earth had given way beneath him. That such a man could be so utterly defeated, thought the onlookers; and there was no one among the most insensitive of menials who was not reduced to tears. For Murasaki’s women, it was as if they were wander- ing lost in a nightmare. Threatening to fall from their carriages, they put the watchfulness of the grooms to severe test. Genji remembered the death of his first wife, Yugiri’s mother. Perhaps he had been in better control of himself then—he could remember that there had been a clear moon that night. Tonight he was blinded with tears. Murasa- ki had died on the fourteenth and it was now the morning of the fifteenth. The sun rose clear and the dew had no hiding place. Genji thought of the world he must return to, bleak and comfortless. How long must he go on alone? Perhaps he could make grief his excuse for gratifying the old, old wish and leaving the world behind. But he did not want to be remembered as a weakling. He would wait until the immediate occasion had passed, he decided, his heart threatening to burst within him.
Yugiri stayed at his father’s side all through the period of mourning. Genuinely concerned, he did what he could for the desperately grieving Genji. A high wind came up one evening, and he remembered with a new onset of sorrow an evening of high winds long before. He had seen her so briefly, and at her death that brief glimpse had been like a dream. Invoking the name of Lord Amitabha, he sought to drive away these almost unbearable memo- ries—and to let his tears lose themselves among the beads of his rosary.
“I remember an autumn evening long ago As a dream in the dawn when we were left behind.” He set the reverend gentlemen to repeating the holy name and to reading the Lotus Sutra, very sad and very
moving. Still Genji’s tears flowed on. He thought back over his life. Even the face he saw in the mirror had seemed to single him out for unusual honors, but there had very early been signs that the Blessed One meant him more than others to know the sadness and evanescence of things. He had made his way ahead in the world as if he had not learned the lesson. And now had come grief which surely did single him out from all men, past and future. He would have nothing more to do with the world. Nothing need stand in the way of his devotions. Nothing save his uncontrollable grief, which he feared would not permit him to enter the path he so longed to take. He prayed to Amitabha for even a small measure of forgetfulness.
Many had come in person to pay condolences, and there had been messages from the emperor and countless others, all of them going well beyond conventional expressions of sympathy. Though he had no heart for them, he did not want the world to think him a ruined old man. He had had a good and eventful life, and he did not want to be numbered among those who were too weak to go on. And so to grief was added dissatisfaction at his inability to follow his deepest wishes.
There were frequent messages from To-no-Chiujio , who always did the right thing on sad occasions and who was honestly saddened that such loveliness should have passed so swiftly. His sister, Yugiris mother, had died at just this time of the year, and so many of the people who had sent condolences then had themselves died since. There was so very little time between the first and 1ast. He gazed out into the gathering darkness and presently set down his thoughts in a long and moving letter which he had delivered to Genji by one of his sons and which contained this poem:
“It is as if that autumn had come again And tears for the one were falling on tears for the other.” This was Genji’s answer: “The dews of now are the dews of long ago, And autumn is always the saddest time of all.” “It is very kind of you to write so often,” he added, not wanting his perceptive friend to guess how thoroughly
the loss had undone him. He wore darker mourning than the gray weeds of that other autumn. The successful and happy sometimes arouse envy, and sometimes they let pride and vanity have their way and
bring unhappiness to others. It was not so with Murasaki, whom the meanest of her servants had loved and the small- est of whose acts had seemed admirable. There was something uniquely appealing about her, having to do, perhaps, with the fact that she always seemed to be thinking of others. The wind in the trees and the insect songs in the grasses
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brought tears this autumn to the eyes of many who had not known her, and her intimates wondered when they might find consolation. The women who had long been with her saw the life they must live without her as utter bleakness. Some of them, wishing to be as far as possible from the world, went off into remote mountain nunneries.
There were frequent messages from Akikonomu, seeking to describe an infinite sorrow. “I think that now, finally, I understand. She did not like the autumn, that I knew— Because of the wasted moors that now surround us?” Hers were the condolences that meant most, the letters that spoke to Genji through the numbness of his heart.
He wept quietly on, lost in a sad reverie, and took a very long time with his answer. “Look down upon me from your cloudy summit, Upon the dying autumn which is my world.” He folded it into an envelope and still held it in his hand. He had taken residence in the women’s quarters, not
wanting people to see what a useless dotard he had become. A very few women with him, he lost himself in prayer. He and Murasaki had exchanged their vows for a thousand years, and already she had left him. His thoughts must now be on that other world. The dew upon the lotus: it was what he must strive to become, and nothing must be allowed to weaken the resolve. Alas, he did still worry about the name he had made for himself in this world.
Yugiri took charge of the memorial services. If they had been left to Genji they would have been managed far less efficiently. He would take his vows today, Genji told himself; he would take his vows today. Dream-like, the days went by.
The empress too remained inconsolable.
South Asia 9
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This chapter introduces a representative poet from the late phase of the medieval bhakti (meaning “devotion”) movement in India. While there are many notable works from this period, the bhakti movement is perhaps the most representative of the meeting of two civilizations, Islam and Hinduism, a major factor in South Asia during the Middle Ages.
Arab traders brought Islam to India as early as the seventh century C.E. However, the greater influence of Islam in South Asia took place from the twelfth century on, when Muhammad of Ghor (modern-day Afghanistan) took over the northern part of India and established the Delhi Sultanate (a Sultan is a sovereign of a Muslim state). There have been interactions between Islamic and Hindu cultures from that point on, if not earlier. Further, from the early sixteenth to the mid-eighteenth century, most of northern India was ruled by the Mughal (also spelled Mogul) dynasty, a Muslim dynasty of Turkic-Mongol origin. During the two centuries of rule over much of India, the Mughals, who were Muslims, made attempts to integrate Hindus and Muslims into a united Indian state.
The bhakti movement is a prominent example of the interaction between Islam and Hinduism, which began from the twelfth century. The bhakti movement, which emphasized commitment and devotion to one chosen god out of many in the Hindu religion, was a movement to reform aspects of Hinduism, for example, asserting that moksha, or liberation, is attainable by everyone, unlike the views and practices of classical Hindu religion based on caste hierarchy. Under the influence of Islam, bhakti showed characteristics of monotheism, iconoclasm, and egalitarianism. Despite the synthesis of two religions, bhakti still emphasized the Hindu concepts of moksha and karma (the idea that good or bad actions determine the future modes of an individual’s existence). Whereas earlier bhakti poets like Kabir from northern India in the fifteenth century shows the mixing of Hindu and Muslim ideas, Tukaram from western India in the seventeenth century, while still part of the bhakti movement, focuses on reener- gizing Hindusim in his regions.
Although Tukaram is from the seventeenth century, selected poems by Tukaram in this chapter are good examples of the medieval bhakti movement, a result of the crossroads of Islam and Hinduism in South Asia’s Middle Ages.
As you read, consider the following questions:
• How do Tukaram’s poems seem to convey such Hindu concepts as karma and moksha? • Can you point out the influence of the synthesis of Hindu and Muslim ideas, or the bhakti movement, in
Tukaram’s poems? • Select specific poems by Tukaram and develop your own interpretive thesis statement for each poem, along
with supporting ideas.
For more information, see the following sources:
• Go to the following website for the history, timelines, culture, and maps of India: http://www.mapsofindia.com/history/
• Go to the following website for a BBC documentary, “The Story of India- Episode 5,” which is about Middle Ages India. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4NorPxKaqA0
• Go to the following website for an educational video about Hinduism: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fkAwQ3HqBac
Written by Kyounghye Kwon
Compact Anthology of World Literature
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TUKARAM’S SELECTED POEMS
Tukaram (1608-1649 C.E.)
Composed ca. 1621-1649 C.E. India
Tukaram is a Marathi poet, born near Pune, India, who is often regarded as the greatest writer in the Marathi language. Tukaram was devoted to the Hindu god Vitthala, a local incarnation of Visnu, a principal Hindu deity that has ten avatars or incarnations. He was part of the bhakti movement that promoted the idea that moksha (or liberation) is attainable by anyone, and he came into conflict with the local Brahmins (the highest Hindu caste of priesthood) because he challenged caste hierarchy in Hindu religious practices. In the areas of Maharashtra (the western region of India), he is regarded as the most important poetic and spiritual figure; for this, he is also called “Sant Tukaram,” the epithet “Sant” noting his saintly quality. The canon of Tukaram’s poetry contains about 4600 abhangas (short “unbroken” hymns), which are among the most famous Indian poems. These poems are designed to be sung and performed with musical instruments. J. Nelson Fraser and K. B. Marathe translated his poems into English; they were published in 1909-15 and reprinted in 1981.
Written by Kyounghye Kwon
Image 9.1: Tukaram Leaves for Vaikuntha, Supreme Abode of God Vishnu | Tukaram ascends to the heaven of Vishnu.
Author: Ravi Varma Press Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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Tukaram’s Selected Poems
“Tukaram” selected from Pslams of Maratha Saints: One Hundred and Eight Hymns
Tukaram, Translated by Nicol Macnicol
The Mother’s House As the bride looks back to her mother’s house, And goes, but with dragging feet; So my soul looks up unto thee and longs, That thou and I may meet.
As a child cries out and is sore distressed, When its mother it cannot see, As a fish that is taken from out the wave, So ‘tis, says Tuka, with me.
The Suppliant How can I know the right,—
So helpless I— Since thou thy face hast hid from me,
O thou most high!
I call and call again At thy high gate.
None hears me; empty is the house And desolate.
If but before thy door A guest appear,
Thou’lt speak to him some fitting word, Some word of cheer.
Such courtesy, O Lord,
Becometh thee, And we,—ah, we’re not lost to sense
So utterly.
A Beggar For Love A beggar at thy door,
Pleading I stand; Give me an alms, O God,
Love from thy loving hand. Spare me the barren task,
To come, and come for nought. A gift poor Tuka craves,
Unmerited, unbought.
God Who Is Our Home To the child how dull the Fair If his mother be not there! So my heart apart from thee, O thou Lord of Pandharl I Chatak turns from stream and lake, Only rain his thirst can slake.
License: Public Domain
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How the lotus all the night Dreameth, dreameth of the light!
As the stream to fishes thou, As is to the calf the cow.
To a faithful wife how dear Tidings of her Lord to hear!
How a miser’s heart is set On the wealth he hopes to get!
Such, says Tuka, such am I! But for thee I’d surely die.
The Strife of Sense Wearied by strife of sense,
By call and counter-call, To thee I hie me thence,
And tell thee all.
Yea, Lord, thou knowest this; I’ve brought my life to thee.
Cast down my burden is And I am free!
Now all my being yearns, Yearns with a strong desire,
My love within me burns, A wasting fire.
If thou canst help indeed— (Hear what I, Tuka, say)—
Narayan, help with speed, Make no delay!
Waiting With head on hand before my door, I sit and wait in vain. Along the road to Pandhari My heart and eyes I strain. When shall I look upon my Lord? When shall I see him come? Of all the passing days and hours I count the heavy sum. With watching long my eyelids throb, My limbs with sore distress, But my impatient heart forgets My body’s weariness. Sleep is no longer sweet to me; I care not for my bed; Forgotten are my house and home, All thirst and hunger fled. Says Tuka, Blest shall be the day,
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Ah, soon may it betide! When one shall come from Pandhari To summon back the bride.
Desolation Sobs choke my throat; my eyes Are wet with tears, Still waiting for my Pandurang, Till he appears. So long cast off by thee, My heart despairs. Ah, whither hast thou gone, absorbed In other cares? So many tasks and cares Are thine, while I I am forgotten thus, alas, And left to die.
Pilgrims and saints go past To Pandhari, And many messages they bear From me to thee. Who else but thee would run To help my need? O come to me, my Pandurang, O come with speed. How long still must I wait, To see thy face? Thou hast forgot thy trembling child, Thou full of grace. Once more remember me, I, Tuka, pray. O come to fetch thy darling home, Make no delay.
Thee, Lord of Pity, I Beseech Thee, Lord of Pity, I beseech, Come speedily and set me free. Yea, when he hears my piteous speech, All eager should Narayan be. Lo, in the empty world apart I hearken, waiting thy footfall: Vitthal, thou father, mother art, Thou must not loiter at my call. Thou, thou alone art left to me All else when weighed is vanity. Now, Tuka pleads, thy gift of grace complete; Now let mine eyes behold thy equal feet.
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From The Depths O Pandurang, this once Hark to my cry, For I thy servant am, Thine only I. Save me by whatso means Thou best may’st deem; No longer now I make Or plan or scheme. How carefully my plans And schemes I wrought! My falsehood and my pride Bring all to nought. One dull of wit am I, Of low degree, By selfishness possessed And vanity. An instant and on me Ruin may fall. Come to my help, O God, Come to my call.
Forsake Me Not! If far from home the poor faun roam, With grief its heart will break. Thus lonely I with thee not nigh O do not me forsake! Thy heart within, all, all my sin Ah, hide; make no delay. Eternal thou look on me now In love, I, Tuka, pray.
Mother Vithoba Ah, Pandurang, if, as men say, A sea of love thou art, Then wherefore dost thou so delay? take me to thy heart! I cry for thee as for the hind The faun makes sore lament. Nowhere its mother it can find, With thirst and hunger spent. With milk of love, ah, suckle me At thy abounding breast, O Mother, haste—In thee, in thee My sad heart findeth rest.
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Tukaram’s Selected Poems
Me Miserable Since little wit have I, hear my mournful cry.
Grant now, O grant to me That I thy feet may see.
I have no steadfastness, Narayan, I confess. Have mercy, Tuka prays, On my unhappy case.
Within My Heart I know no way by which My faith thy feet can reach Nor e’er depart. How, how can I attain That thou, O Lord, shall reign Within my heart? Lord, I beseech thee, hear And grant to faith sincere, My heart within,
Thy gracious face to see, Driving afar from me Deceit and sin. O come, I, Tuka, pray, And ever with me stay, Mine, mine to be.
Thy mighty hand outstretch And save a fallen wretch, Yea, even me.
The Restless Heart As on the bank the poor fish lies And gasps and writhes in pain, Or as a man with anxious eyes Seeks hidden gold in vain,— So is my heart distressed and cries To come to thee again. Thou knowest, Lord, the agony Of the lost infant’s wail, Yearning his mother’s face to see. (How oft I tell this tale!) O at thy feet the mystery Of the dark world unveil! The fire of this harassing thought Upon my bosom preys.
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Why is it I am thus forgot? (O, who can know thy ways?) Nay, Lord, thou seest my hapless lot; Have mercy, Tuka says.
I Long To See Thy Face I long to see thy face, But ah, in me hath holiness no place. By thy strength succour me, So only, only I thy feet may see! Though Sadhu’s robes I’ve worn, Within I’m all unshaven and unshorn. Lost, lost, O God, am I, Unless thou help me, Tuka,—me who cry!
Keep Me From Vanity Keep me from vanity Keep me from pride, For sure I perish if I quit thy side. From this deceiving world How hard to flee! Ah, thou, Vaikuntha’s Lord, Deliver me! If once thy gracious face I look upon, The world’s enticement then Is past and gone.
Aspiration One favour grant, O God, that now by me My flesh may be forgot; So shall I have (for I at last have learned) Bliss for my lot.
Give to my heart and all its moods a place Close by thy side; Break, break the bond that binds me to desire, To passion, shame and pride. Thy name to utter and the saints to know, I beg but this of thee. Here is no feigning, Lor; my service take Of faith and purity!
The Only Refuge
I am a mass of sin; Thou art all purity; Yet thou must take me as I am And bear my load for me. Me Death has all consumed; In thee all power abides. All else forsaking, at thy feet Thy servant Tuka hides.
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Desolate When thought of all but thee Has from me gone, Still by thy strength upheld I struggle on. Come to me, Vitthal, come! For thee I wait. O, wherefore hast thou me Left desolate. Many oppress me sore With cruel might; My very enemies Are day and night.
Ah come and take thy place At my heart’s core; Then shall the net of ill Snare me no more.
O Save Me, Save Me! O save me, save me, Mightiest, Save me and set me free. O let the love that fills my breast Cling to thee lovingly. Grant me to taste how sweet thou art; Grant me but this, I pray, And never shall my love depart Or turn from thee away. Then I thy name shall magnify And tell thy praise abroad, For very love and gladness I Shall dance before my God. Grant to me, Vitthal, that I rest Thy blessed feet beside; Ah, give me this, the dearest, best, And I am satisfied.
Near Yet Far There is no place, small as a sesamum, But thou, they say, art there. That deep in all this universe thou dwell’st Sages and saints declare. So, I, of old thy child, in faith of this Come seeking help from thee. Thou overflow’st the world, and yet, and yet, Thy face I cannot see. “Why should I meet this abject I to whom There is nor bound nor end?”
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Is it with such a thought thou comest not, My father and my friend? Ah, what shall Tuka do that he thy feet May touch and tend?
Beyond The Mountains, God
Here tower the hills of passion and of lust,— Far off the Infinite! No path I find and all impassable Fronts me the hostile height. Ah, God is lost, my friend. Narayan now How can I e’er attain? Thus it appears that all my life, so dear, I’ve spent, alas, in vain.
I Cannot Understand: I Love Thy greatness none can comprehend All dumb the Vedas are. Forspent the powers of mortal mind; They cannot climb so far. How can I compass him whose light Illumes both sun and star? The serpent of a thousand tongues Cannot tell all thy praise; Then how, poor I? Thy children we, Mother of loving ways! Within the shadow of thy grace, Ah, hide me, Tuka says.
Not One But Two Advait contents me not, but dear to me The service of thy feet. O grant me this reward! To sing of thee To me how sweet! Setting us twain, lover and Lord, apart, This joy to me display. Grant it to Tuka—Lord of all thou art— Some day, some day.
Man’s Extremity Ah, then, O God, the efforts all are vain By which I’ve sought thy blessed feet to gain. First there was loving faith, but faith I’ve none; Nowise my restless soul can I restrain. Then pious deeds, but no good will have I For these; nor wealth to help the poor thereby; I know not how to honour Brahman guests; Alas! the springs of love in me are dry.
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Tukaram’s Selected Poems
I cannot serve the guru or the saint; Not mine to chant the name, with toil to faint, Perform the sacred rites, renounce the world. I cannot hold my senses in restraint.
My heart has never trod the pilgrim’s way; The vows I make I know not how to pay. “Ah, God is here,” I cry. Not so, not so. For me distinctions have not passed away. Therefore, I come, O God, to plead for grace, I, worthy only of a servant’s place. No store of merit such an one requires. My firm resolve is taken, Tuka says.
Though He Slay Me Now I submit me to thy will, Whether thou save or whether kill; Keep thou me near or send me hence, Or plunge me in the war of sense. Thee in my ignorance I sought, Of true devotion knowing nought. Little could I, a dullard, know, Myself the lowest of the low. My mind I cannot steadfast hold; My senses wander uncontrolled. Ah, I have sought and sought for peace. In vain ; for me there’s no release. Now bring I thee a faith complete And lay my life before thy feet. Do thou, O God, what seemeth best; In thee, in thee alone is rest. In thee I trust, and, hapless wight, Cling to thy skirts with all my might. My strength is spent, I, Tuka say; Now upon thee this task I lay.
Pandurang Who asks if spent and weary we? Who else, O Pandurang, but thee? Whom shall we tell our joy or grief ? Who to our thirst will bring relief ? Who else this fever will assuage? Who bear us o’er the ocean’s rage? Who will our heart’s desire impart And clasp us to his loving heart? What other master shall we own? What helper else but thee alone?
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Ah, Tuka says, thou knowest all, Prostrate before thy feet I fall.
Complete Surrender Now Pandurang I’ve chosen for my part, None, none but his to be. In all my thoughts he dwells, dwells in my heart, Sleeping and waking he. Yea, all my being’s powers before him bow; None other faith is aught. See, Tuka says, mine eyes behold him now, Standing all wrapt in thought.
To Thy Dear Feet! To thy dear feet my love I bind: No other longing stirs my mind.
I think of thee through days and nights, And so discharge my holy rites. Nought know I but thy name alone: Thus to myself myself am known. When comes at last the hour of death O save me, save me, Tuka saith.
He Leadeth Me Holding my hand thou leadest me, My comrade everywhere. As I go on and lean on thee, My burden thou dost bear. If, as I go, in my distress I frantic words should say, Thou settest right my foolishness And tak’st my shame away. Thus thou to me new hope dost send, A new world bringest in; Now know I every man a friend And all I meet my kin. So like a happy child I play In thy dear world, O God, And everywhere—I, Tuka, say— Thy bliss is spread abroad.
The Joy Of The Name Lord, let it be that when thy name Into my thoughts shall come, My love to thee shall mount like flame, My lips with joy be dumb.
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Tukaram’s Selected Poems
Filled are my eyes with happy tears, With rapture every limb; Yea, with thy love my frame appears Filled to the very brim.
Thus all my body’s strength I’ll spend In hymns of joyful praise; Thy name I’ll sing nor ever end Through all the nights and days. Yea, Tuka says, for ever so I’ll do, for this is best, Since at the feet of saints, I know, Is found eternal rest.
Love’s Captive
Bound with cords of love I go, By Harl captive led, Mind and speech and body, lo, To him surrendered. He shall rule my life for he Is all compassionate. His is sole authority, And we his will await.
The Bhakta’s Duty
The duty of the man of faith Is trust and loyalty, A purpose hid within his heart That cannot moved be. A steadfast faith and passionless In Vitthal that abides, A faith that not an instant strays To any god besides. Who that is such a one as that Was ever cast away? Never has such a tale been told, Never, I, Tuka, say.
Love Finds Out God Thy nature is beyond the grasp Of human speech or thought. So love I’ve made the measure-rod, By which I can be taught. Thus with the measure-rod of love I mete the Infinite. In sooth, to measure him there is None other means so fit. Not Yoga’s power, nor sacrifice, Nor fierce austerity,
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Nor yet the strength of thought profound Hath ever found out thee. And so, says Tuka, graciously, Oh Kesav, take, we pray Love’s service that with simple hearts Before thy feet we lay.
God Is Ours God is ours, yea, ours is he, Soul of all the souls that be. God is nigh without a doubt, Nigh to all, within, without. God is gracious, gracious still; Every longing he’ll fulfil. God protects, protects his own; Strife and death he casteth down. Kind is God, ah, kind indeed; Tuka he will guard and lead.
One Thing I Do I serve thee, not because Honour I crave; Nay, KeSav, for I am Thy slave. Therefore to serve thy feet,— For this I cry; For naught, for naught but this Crave I. To my Lord’s service, see, One heart I’ve brought, Ever,—without, within,— One thought. Thus mine appointed task Do I somehow; Whether ‘tis wrong or right Judge thou.
He Knows Our Needs Unwearied he bears up the universe; How light a burden I! Does not his care the frog within the stone With food supply? The bird, the creeping thing, lays up no store; This great One knows their need. And if I, Tuka, cast on him my load, Will not his mercy heed?
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Tukaram’s Selected Poems
In Him Abide The mother knows her child, his secret heart, His joy or woe. Who holds the blind man’s hand alone can tell Where he desires to go. The timid suppliant at his champion’s back Can safely hide. Who only clings, see, the strong swimmer bears To the stream’s further side. Vitthal, says Tuka, knows our every need; Only in him abide.
The Boldness Of Faith
Launch upon the sea of life; Fear not aught that thou mayst meet. Stout the ship of Pandurang; Not a wave shall wet thy feet. Many saints await thee there, Standing on the further shore: Haste, says Tuka, haste away, Follow those who’ve gone before.
Beata Culpa How couldst thou e’er have cleansed me, But for my sinful plight? So first come I, and then thy grace, O mercy infinite.
The magic stone was nothing worth, Till iron brought it fame. Did no one by the Wish Tree wish, Whence would it get its name?
The Snare Of Pride None skilled as I in craft of subtle speech; But, ah, the root of things I cannot reach. Therefore, O Lord of Pandharl, my heart Is sore distressed. Who knows my inward part? I proud became from honour that men paid To me, and thus my upward growth was stayed. Alas! The way of truth I cannot see, Held fast by Self in dark captivity.
I Am Poor And Needy No deeds I’ve done nor thoughts I’ve thought; Save as thy servant, I am nought. Guard me, O God, and O, control The tumult of my restless soul. Ah, do not, do not cast on me The guilt of mine iniquity.
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My countless sins, I, Tuka, say, Upon thy loving heart I lay.
A Blind Leader Of The Blind I have grown very wise In mine own foolish eyes, But faith has fled. My life is vain indeed; But worse that rage and greed Dwell in faith’s stead. The world’s possessed by sin And envy reigns within The human breast; And I shall teach mankind, Though I’m myself as blind As all the rest.
The Pride of Knowledge Though I’m a man of lowly birth The saints have magnified my worth. And so within my heart to hide Has come the great destroyer, pride. In my fond heart the fancy dwells That I am wise and no one else. O, save me, save me, Tuka prays; Spent like the wind are all my days.
The Unveiling Of Love
Enlighten thou mine eyes Making me lowly wise; Thy love to me unveil. Then in the world I’ll be As, from all soilure free, The lotus pure and pale. Whether men praise or jeer, Hearing I shall not hear; Like the rapt yogi I. To me the world shall seem Like visions of a dream That, with our waking, fly.
Till we that state attain All, all our toil is vain, I, Tuka, testify.
The Haven Ah, wherefore so unkind? Let my sad breast At the hid centre find It’s place of rest.
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No wind of good or ill Shall enter there, But peace, supremely still, Supremely fair. To me the flux of things Brings sore distress; The world’s mutation brings But heaviness. Therefore I, Tuka, cry, Clinging thy feet, “Break, break my ‘me’ and ‘my,’ My vain conceit.”
Weariness Shall we, sham saints, the world beguile Glutting our belly’s greed the while? O tell thy thought, if this it be, For I am weary utterly. Shall we the poet’s mood rehearse And string together endless verse? Shall Tuka ope his shop again And, O Narayan, ruin men?
God’s Counterfeit Is there a man who says of all, Whether upon them sorrow fall, Or whether joy— “These, these are mine”? That is the saint: mark well the sign. God dwells in him. The good man’s breast Is of all men’s the tenderest. Is any helpless or undone? Be he a slave, be he a son:— On all alike he mercy shows, On all an equal love bestows. How oft must I this tale repeat! That man is God’s own counterfeit.
Self-Surrender My self I’ve rendered up to thee; I’ve cast it from me utterly. Now here before thee, Lord, I stand, Attentive to thy least command. The self within me now is dead, And thou enthroned in its stead. Yea, this I, Tuka, testify, No longer now is “me” or “my.”
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Dying To Live Before my eyes my dead self lies; O, bliss beyond compare! Joy fills the worlds, and I rejoice, The soul of all things there.
My selfish bonds are loosed, and now I reach forth far and free. Gone is the soil of birth and death, The petty sense of “me.” Narayan’s grace gave me this place, Where I in faith abide. Now, Tuka says, my task I’ve done And spread the message wide.
The Root Of Longing Who is he would act the true gosavl’s part? Let him dig the root of longing from his heart. If he dare not, in his pleasures let him stay Folly were it should he choose another way. For when longing he hath slain victoriously, Only then shall he from all come forth set free. Yea, says Tuka, does thy heart for union thirst? Crush—be sure!—the seed of longing in thee first.
The Secret Of Peace Calm is life’s crown; all other joy beside Is only pain. Hold thou it fast, thou shalt, whate’er betide, The further shore attain. When passions rage and we are wrung with woe And sore distress, Comes calm, and then—yea, Tuka knows it—lo! The fever vanishes.
The Fellowship Of Saints What enters fire, its former nature lost, Fire to itself transforms. Touched by the magic stone, lo, iron now Gold that the world adorns. Into the Ganga flow the little streams, With the great Ganga blent. Nay, e’en its neighbour trees the sandal tree Infects with its sweet scent. So to the feet of saints is Tuka bound, Linked in a blest content.
The Simple Path Diverse men’s thoughts as are their vanities, Distract not thou thy mind to follow these. Cling to the faith that thou hast learned, the love That, coming, filled thee with its fragrances.
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For Hari’s worship is a mother,—rest It is and peace, shade for the weariest. Why, then, who ties a stone about his neck And drowns himself, is but a fool confessed.
The Way Of Love The learned in Brahma I shall make to long With new desire; those once so safe and strong, Set free, I bring back glad to bondage. So, They are made one with Brahma by a song. God is their debtor now, O glad release. I’ll bid the weary pilgrim take his ease. The proud ascetic may forsake his pride. Away with offerings and charities! By love and true devotion life’s high goal I’ll help men to attain—yea, Brahma’s soul. “O, happy we, who Tuka’s face have seen”— So men will say and Tuka they’ll extol.
The Thief I came to him in woful plight; He, gracious, girded me with might. His house I entered unaware And stole the treasure hidden there. So I have wrought a deep design That all his riches shall be mine. I kissed his feet and then by stealth I, Tuka, robbed him of his wealth.
The Traveller Let thy thought at all times be,— Over life’s tempestuous sea We must fare. Soon the body perisheth; Life is swallowed up of Death. O beware! Seek the fellowship of saints; Seek, until thy spirit faints, Heaven’s ways! Let not dust make blind thine eyes, Dust of worldly enterprise, Tuka says.
By Faith Alone In God, in God—forget him not!— Do thou thy refuge find. Let every other plan or plot Go with the wind! Why toil for nought? Wake, wake from sleep! By learning’s load weighed down, Thou in the world’s abysses deep Art like to drown.
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O, flee from thence. Only by faith Canst thou to God attain. And all thy knowledge, Tuka saith, Will prove in vain.
A Steadfast Mind
Honour, dishonour that men may pay, Bundle them up and throw them away. Where there is ever a steadfast mind, There thou the vision of God shalt find. Whereso the fountains of peace abide, Stayed is the passage of time and tide. Calm thou the impulse that stirs thy breast; Surely, says Tuka, a small request.
The Name Of The Living One
Hear, O God, my supplication,— Do not grant me Liberation.
‘Tis what men so much desire; Yet how much this joy is higher! Home of every Vaisnavite, See, with glow of love alight! By their door with folded hands Full Attainment waiting stands. Heavenly joy is not for me, For it passeth speedily; But that name how strangely dear That in songs of praise we hear! Yea, thou, dark as clouds that lower, Knowest not thine own name’s power. Ah, says Tuka, it is this Makes our lives so full of bliss.
The Dedicated Life
Ah, wherefore fast or wherefore go To solitude apart? Whether thou joy or sorrow know Have God within thy heart. If in his mother’s arms he be The child knows nought amiss. Cast out, yea, cast out utterly All other thought than this.
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Love not the world nor yet forsake Its gifts in fear and hate. Thy life to God an offering make And to him dedicate. Nay, Tjukasays, ask not again, Waking old doubts anew. Whatever else is taught by men, None other word is true.
The Inward Purpose
To keep the Holy Order pure,— This ever is my purpose sure. The Vedic statutes I proclaim; To imitate the saints my aim. For, with no firm resolve within, To quit the world is deadly sin. Vile he who does so, Tuka says,— Evil the worship that he pays.
The Bhakta’s Task
When from Vaikuntha forth we came This of our coming was the aim— That what the sages taught we by our lives proclaim. Since filled the world with sedge and weed, To sweep the paths our lowly meed, Trod by the saints, and on their sacred scraps 3 to feed. Gone the old wisdom, and instead Mere words that wide have ruin spread. Lustful men’s minds, the way to God quite vanished. Beat we the drum of Love, whose din Brings terror to this age of sin. Hail, Tuka bids, with joy the victory we win.
Maya
If the river be a mirage that I see Then what need for me Of a ford?
If the children buy and sell in make-believe, Who should joy or grieve, Gain or lose? Are not maidens still in kinship just the same, Though they wedded in a game, Girl with girl?
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Joy or sorrow that we meet with in our dreams To us waking seems Nothing real. So, says Tuka, births and dying,—nought is true. Bondage, freedom too, Weary me.
The World Passeth Away
Who dares call aught his own As swiftly speed the days? Time keeps the fatal score, And not a moment strays. Hair, ears, and eyes grow old, As, dullard, grow they must; The best is nigh thee, yet Thou fill’st thy mouth with dust. Dying and yet thou buildst As for eternity! Nay, haste to Pandurang! ‘Tis Tuka says it: flee!
The Way Of Death
Ah, friend, beware; see how they bear The dead men to the ghaut. To God on high with agony Call and cease not.
Though ‘mong the dead not numbered, Within thy scrip is death. Fill up, fill up with good thy cup, While thou hast breath. List what I say;—the narrow way Is dense with dying men; ‘Mong them at last thy lot is cast. No succour then.
The Night Cometh Lo, Death draws nigh; and what know I Of rite, or vow, or prayer? To God alone who guards his own I flee and hide me there. The tally’s score grows more and more, Then night and all is done. Hear Tuka say, dear every day From that grim robber won.
‘Tis All For Naught
With whatso skill he may his verse refine, ‘Tis all for naught without the breath divine.
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Let him put on the holy beggar’s dress; ‘Tis all for naught without unworldliness. He paints the sun or moon upon a wall; ‘Tis all for naught without the light of all. O, he may play, of course, a soldier’s part; ‘Tis all for naught without a warrior heart. So, Tuka says, they’ve danced and songs they’ve sung, ‘Tis naught without the love of Pandurang.
The Divine Inspiration ‘Tis not I who speak so featly; All my words my Lover’s are. Hark, Salunki singing sweetly, Taught, as I, by One afar. How could I, abject, achieve it? ‘Tis the all-upholding One. Deep his skill, who can conceive it? He can make the lame to run.
Drowning Men
For men’s saving I make known These devices—this alone My desire. Can my heart unmoved be When before my eyes I see Drowning men? I shall see them with my eyes When their plight they realise At the last.
Without And Within Soon as the season of Simhasth comes in, The barber and the priest—what wealth they win! Thousands of sins may lurk within his heart, If only he will shave his head and chin! What is shaved off is gone, but what else, pray? What sign that sin is gone? His evil way Is still unchanged. Yea, without faith and love All is but vanity, I, Tuka, say.
And Have Not Charity Your heart from rage and lust has nowise turned For all the rice and sesamum you’ve burned. You’ve toiled for naught with learned words whose fruit Is vain display—and Pandurang you’ve spurned. By pilgrimage and grim austerity Only your pride has grown; your “I” and “me” Swell with your alms; the secret, Tuka says, You’ve missed: your acts are sinful utterly.
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The Mendicant Lust binds the preacher, fear The doubting hearts of those his words who hear. He knows not what he sings: His mouth he opes for what each comer brings. A greedy cat, he steals From door to door, begging from men his meals. What Tuka says is true; The sack is empty and the measure too.
The Proud Advaitist
To such pay thou no heed: the words he saith Are only chaff, empty of loving faith. He praises high Advait which only brings To speaker and to hearer pain and scaithe.
He fills his belly saying, “I am Brahm.” Waste not thy words upon him; shamed and dumb Is he, blasphemer, when he meets the saints. Who scorns God’s love Tuka calls vilest scum.
The Hypocrite: I
His speech—the hypocrite’s—is well and fair, But all his thought is how he can ensnare.
He outwardly appears a godly man; In truth he is a very ruffian.
His forehead-mark, his beads, a saint denote, But in the darkness he would cut your throat.
Ay, Tuka. says, a very scoundrel he; The pains of Yama wait him certainly.
The Hypocrite: II Possessed with devils they grow long their hair. No saints are they, nor trace of God they bear. They tell of omens to a gaping crowd. Rogues are they, Tuka says; Govind’s not there.
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Boccaccio, Giovanni. The Decameron of Giovanni Boccaccio. Trans. John Payne. n.d. Web. 28 Jul. 2015.
Chaucer, Geoffery. The Canterbury Tales. Ed. and Trans. Gerard, NeCastro. Machias: University of Maine at Machi- as, 2007. eChaucer. n.d. Web. 28 Jul. 2015.
Chaucer, Geoffery. The Parliament of Fowls. Ed. and Trans. Gerard, NeCastro. Machias: University of Maine at Ma- chias, 2007. eChaucer. n.d. Web. 28 Jul. 2015.
“China.” Encyclopædia Britannica. Encyclopædia Britannica Online Academic Edition. Encyclopædia Britannica Inc., 2015. Web. 20 Feb. 2015.
“Chinese Literature.” Encyclopædia Britannica. Encyclopædia Britannica Online Academic Edition. Encyclopædia Britannica Inc., 2015. Web. 20 Feb. 2015.
Chrétien de Troyes.“Lancelot, the Knight of the Cart.” Chretien de Troyes: Arthurian Romances. Trans. W.W. Com- fort. London: Everyman’s Library, 1914. Camelot On-line. n.d. Web. 29 Jul. 2015
Dante, Alighieri. The Divine Comedy of Dante Alighieri: The Italian Text with a Translation in English Blank Verse and a Commentary. Vol. 1 English version. Trans. Courtney Langdon. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1918. The Online Library of Liberty. n.d. Web. 28 Jul. 2015
“Du Fu.” Encyclopædia Britannica. Encyclopædia Britannica Online Academic Edition. Encyclopædia Britannica Inc., 2015. Web. 20 Feb. 2015.
Firdusi. “Shah Nameh.” Persian Literature: Comprising the Shah Nameh, the Rubaiyat, the Divan, and the Gulistan. Vol. 1. Trans. James Atkinson. 26 Nov. 2003 Web. 28 Jul. 2015
Guanzhong, Luo. The Romance of the Three Kingdoms. Trans. C.H. Brewitt-Taylor. Adelaide: The University of Adelaide, 2005. The University of Adelaide. n.d. Web. 29 Jul. 2015
“Hinduism (religion).” Encyclopædia Britannica. Encyclopædia Britannica Online Academic Edition. Encyclopædia Britannica Inc., 2015. Web. 21 Feb. 2015.
“India.” Encyclopædia Britannica. Encyclopædia Britannica Online Academic Edition. Encyclopædia Britannica Inc., 2015. Web. 21 Feb. 2015.
“Indian Poetry after Islam.” The Norton Anthology of World Literature. Eds. Martin Puchner, et al. Shorter 3rd ed. New York: Norton, 2013. 1585. Print.
“Islam.” Encyclopædia Britannica. Encyclopædia Britannica Online Academic Edition. Encyclopædia Britannica Inc., 2015. Web. 30 Jan. 2015.
“Japan.” Encyclopædia Britannica. Encyclopædia Britannica Online Academic Edition. Encyclopædia Britannica Inc., 2015. Web. 15 Feb. 2015.
“Japan’s Classical Age.” The Norton Anthology of World Literature. Eds. Martin Puchner, et al. Shorter 3rd ed. New York: Norton, 2013. 1345-53. Print.
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“Japanese Literature.” Encyclopædia Britannica. Encyclopædia Britannica Online Academic Edition. Encyclopædia Britannica Inc., 2015. Web. 15 Feb. 2015.
“The Lay of the Cid”. Semicentennial Publications of the University of California: 1868-1918. Trans. R. Selden Rose and Leonard Bacon. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1919. n.d. Web. 28 Jul. 2015
“Li Bai.” Encyclopædia Britannica. Encyclopædia Britannica Online Academic Edition. Encyclopædia Britannica Inc., 2015. Web. 20 Feb. 2015.
Li, Bai. The Poet Li Po A.D. 701-762. Trans. Arthur Waley. London: East and West LTD., 1919. n.d. Web. 29 Jul. 2015.
“Li Bo.” The Norton Anthology of World Literature. Eds. Martin Puchner, et al. Shorter 3rd ed. New York: Norton, 2013. 1311-12. Print.
“Luo Guanzhong.” Encyclopædia Britannica. Encyclopædia Britannica Online AcademicEdition. Encyclopædia Bri- tannica Inc., 2015. Web. 20 Feb. 2015.
“Marco Polo.” Encyclopædia Britannica. Encyclopædia Britannica Online Academic Edition. Encyclopædia Britanni- ca Inc., 2015. Web. 19 Feb. 2015.
Marie de France. Old-world Love Stories from the lays of Marie de France, & other mediaeval romances & legends. Trans. Eugene Mason. London: J.M. Dent, 1913. HathiTrust. n.d. Web. 28 Jul. 2015
“Monogatari.” Encyclopædia Britannica. Encyclopædia Britannica Online Academic Edition. Encyclopædia Britanni- ca Inc., 2015. Web. 14 Feb. 2015.
“Mughal dynasty.” Encyclopædia Britannica. Encyclopædia Britannica Online Academic Edition. Encyclopædia Bri- tannica Inc., 2015. Web. 21 Feb. 2015.
“Noh Theatre.” Encyclopædia Britannica. Encyclopædia Britannica Online Academic Edition. Encyclopædia Britanni- ca Inc., 2015. Web. 14 Feb. 2015.
Polo, Marco. The Travels of Marco Polo. Trans. Hugh Murray. New York: Harper & Brothers, 1858. HathiTrust. n.d. Web. 28 Jul. 2015.
“The Quran.” Encyclopædia Britannica. Encyclopædia Britannica Online Academic Edition. Encyclopædia Britan- nica Inc., 2015. Web. 30 Jan. 2015.
The Qur’an with Surah Introductions and Appendices. Saheeh International Translation. Ed. A.B. al-Mehri. Bir- mingham: Maktabah Booksellers and Publishers, 2009. The Internet Archive. n.d. Web. 28 Jul. 2015.“The Tale of Genji.” Encyclopædia Britannica. Encyclopædia Britannica Online Academic Edition. Encyclopædia Britannica Inc., 2015. Web. 14 Feb. 2015.
Rumi, Jalāl ad-Dīn. “Divani Shamsi Tabriz.” The Persian Mystics. Wisdom of the East. Ed. F. Hadland Davis. New York: E.P. Dutton and Company, 1908. The Internet Archive. n.d Web. 28 Jul. 2015.
-----. “I to Myself am Unknown.” Flowers from Persian Poets. Vol. I. Eds. Nathan Haskell Dole and Belle M. Walker. New York: Thomas Y. Crowell & Co., 1901. The Internet Archive. n.d Web. 28 Jul. 2015
-----. “Masnavi.” The Persian Mystics. Wisdom of the East. Ed. F. Hadland Davis. New York: E.P. Dutton and Com- pany, 1908. The Internet Archive. n.d. Web. 28 Jul. 2015
Sa’di, Shaikh. The Rose Garden of Sa’di. The Wisdom of the East. Eds. L. Crammer-Byng and Dr. S.A. Kapadia. Lon- don: J. Murray, 1905. HathiTrust. n.d. Web. 28 Jul. 2015
Seami, Motokiyo. The Nō Plays of Japan. Trans. Arthur Waley. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1922. n.d. Web. 29 Jul. 2015.
“Shah Nameh.” Persian Literature: Comprising the Shah Nameh, the Rubaiyat, the Divan, and the Gulistan. Vol. 1. 26 Nov. 2003 Web. 28 Jul. 2015.
Shikib, Murasaki. “Genji Monogatari.” Trans. Suyematz Kenchio. Japanese Literature: Including Selections from Genji Monogatari and Classical Poetry and Drama of Japan. Ed. Epiphanius Wilson. London: Colonial, 1900. n.d. Web. 29 Jul. 2015.
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“South Asian Arts.” Encyclopædia Britannica. Encyclopædia Britannica Online Academic Edition. Encyclopædia Britannica Inc., 2015. Web. 21 Feb. 2015.
The Thousand and One Nights. Vol. 1. Ed. Edward Stanley Poole. Trans. Edward William Lane. London: Chatto and Windus, 1912. 3 Nov. 2010. Web. 29 Jul. 2015.
“The Thousand and On Nights.” Encyclopædia Britannica. Encyclopædia Britannica Online Academic Edition. Encyclopædia Britannica Inc., 2015. Web. 30 Jan. 2015.
Tukārām. “Tukārām.” Psalms of Marāthā Saint: One Hundred and Eight Hymns Translated from the Marathi. Trans. Macnicol, Nicol. Calcutta: Assiation Press, 1920. HathiTrust. n.d. Web. 29 Jul. 2015.
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Appendix
URL Links for Original Texts: Note: Items marked with * indicate that due to sources terms, we cannot post the direct link. Ballads of the Cid
http://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=njp.32101068154143;view=1up;seq=20#view=1up;seq=20
“Divani Shamsi Tabriz.” The Persian Mystics https://archive.org/details/persianmystics00davigoog
*“Genji Monogatari.” Japanese Literature Google search: Genji Monogatari
“I to Myself am Unknown.” Flowers from Persian Poets https://archive.org/details/flowersfrompers00sagoog
“Lancelot, the Knight of the Cart” http://www.heroofcamelot.com/docs/Lancelot-Knight-of-the-Cart.pdf
“Masnavi.” The Persian Mystics https://archive.org/details/persianmystics00davigoog
*“Shah Nameh.” Persian Literature Google search: Persian Literature
Old-world Love Stories from the lays of Marie de France, & other mediaeval romances & legends. http://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=njp.32101072852633;view=1up;seq=9
The Canterbury Tales http://machias.edu/faculty/necastro/chaucer/translation/ct/01gppt.txt http://machias.edu/faculty/necastro/chaucer/translation/ct/13frantpt.txt http://machias.edu/faculty/necastro/chaucer/translation/ct/07wbtpt.txt http://machias.edu/faculty/necastro/chaucer/translation/ct/03miltpt.txt
*The Decameron http://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/008672778 Google search: The Decameron
The Divine Comedy http://oll.libertyfund.org/people/dante-alighieri
*The Nō Plays of Japan Google search: The Nō Plays of Japan
The Parliament of Fowls http://machias.edu/faculty/necastro/chaucer/translation/pf/pfpt.txt
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*The Poet Li Po Google search: The Poet Li Po
The Qur’an https://archive.org/details/Quran_20140710
The Romance of the Three Kingdoms
https://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/l/literature/chinese/romance-of-the-three-kingdoms/
The Rose Garden of Sa’di http://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=mdp.39015024274873;view=1up;seq=7
*The Thousand and One Nights
Google search: The Thousand and One Nights
The Travels of Marco Polo http://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/006800127
Tukārām Selected Poems. Psalms of Marāthā Saint http://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=uc2.ark:/13960/t8jd4rp72;view=1up;seq=18
URL Links for Images: Image 5.1 The Works of Geoffrey Chaucer Frontispiece
https://ia601804.us.archive.org/BookReader/BookReaderImages.php?zip=/13/items/worksofgeof- freyc00chau_0/39999063785610_jp2.zip&file=39999063785610_jp2/39999063785610_0011.jp2&s- cale=4.672897196261682&rotate=0
Image 5.2 Parliament of Fowls https://archive.org/stream/worksofgeoffreyc00chau_0/39999063785610#page/n323/mode/2up
Image 5.3 Canterbury Tales Title Page https://ia601804.us.archive.org/BookReader/BookReaderImages.php?zip=/13/items/worksofgeoffreyc-
00chau_0/39999063785610_jp2.zip&file=39999063785610_jp2/39999063785610_0012.jp2&scale=6&rotate=0
Image 5.4 Hengwrt Manuscript https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/General_Prologue#/media/File:HengwrtChaucerOpening.jpg
Image 5.5 The Franklin’s Tale https://archive.org/stream/worksofgeoffreyc00chau_0/39999063785610#page/n171/mode/2up
Image 5.6 The Wife of Bath Prologue https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Wife_of_Bath%27s_Tale#/media/File:Wife-of-Bath-ms.jpg
Image 5.7 Giocanni Boccaccio and Florentines Who Have Fled From the Plague https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Giovanni_Boccaccio#/media/File:Giovanni_Boccaccio_and_Florentines_who_
have_fled_from_the_plague.jpg
Image 5.8 Boccacio by Morghen https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Giovanni_Boccaccio#/media/File:Boccaccio_by_Morghen.jpg
Image 5.9 A Tale from the Decameron https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Decameron#/media/File:Waterhouse_decameron.jpg
Image 5.10 Decameron https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Decameron#/media/File:Decameron1.jpg
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Image 5.11 Portrait of Dante Alighieri http://uploads6.wikiart.org/images/gustave-dore/portrait-of-dante-alighieri-1860.jpg
Image 5.12 Inferno: Canto One http://dante-staging.cdrs.columbia.edu/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/1401630012.jpg
Image 5.13 Inferno: Canto Two http://dante-staging.cdrs.columbia.edu/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/1401630013.jpg
Image 5.14 Inferno: Canto Twenty-Six http://dante-staging.cdrs.columbia.edu/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/1401630033.jpg
Image 5.15 Purgatorio: Canto One http://dante-staging.cdrs.columbia.edu/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/1401630041.jpg
Image 5.16 Purgatorio: Canto Twenty-Two http://dante-staging.cdrs.columbia.edu/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/1401630052.jpg
Image 5.17 Purgatorio: Canto Thirty-One http://dante-staging.cdrs.columbia.edu/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/1401630058.jpg
Image 5.18 Paradiso: Canto Four http://dante-staging.cdrs.columbia.edu/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/1401630065.jpg
Image 5.19 Paradiso: Canto Twenty http://dante-staging.cdrs.columbia.edu/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/1401630074.jpg
Image 5.20 Paradiso: Canto Thirty-Three http://dante-staging.cdrs.columbia.edu/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/1401630088.jpg
Image 5.21 Marie de France https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marie_de_France#/media/File:Marie_de_France_1.tif
Image 5.22 The Lai of Sir Launfal http://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/imgsrv/image?id=njp.32101072852633;seq=84;width=680
Image 5.23 German Woodcut https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shapeshifting#/media/File:GermanWoodcut1722.jpg
Image 5.24 The Lai of the Honeysuckle http://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/imgsrv/image?id=njp.32101072852633;seq=133;width=680
Image 5.25 Idylls of the King https://no.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lancelot#/media/File:Idylls_of_the_King_20.jpg
Image 5.26 Chrétien de Troyes https://pl.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chr%C3%A9tien_de_Troyes#/media/File:Chr%C3%A9tien_de_Troyes.jpg
Image 5.27 Knights’ Tournament https://pl.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chr%C3%A9tien_de_Troyes#/media/File:Lancelot-Graal.jpg
Image 5.28 Statue of the Cid https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/El_Cid#/media/File:Burgos-Estatua_del_Cid.jpg
Image 5.29 The Cid’s Signature https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/El_Cid#/media/File:Firma_del_Cid.jpg
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Image 5.30 Jura de Santa Gadea https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/El_Cid#/media/File:Jura_de_Santa_Gadea.jpg
Image 5.31 The Travels of Marco Polo http://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=wu.89097014351;view=1up;seq=11#view=1up;seq=11
Image 6.1 Saadi in a Rose Garden https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gulistan_%28book%29#/media/File:Sadi_in_a_Rose_garden.jpg
Image 6.2 The Qu’ran https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:CBL_Quran.jpg
Image 6.3 Molavi http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rumi#/media/File:Molana.jpg
Image 6.4 Jalal al-Din Rumi Mathnavi-i Ma’navi https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Masnavi#/media/File:JALAL_AL%E2%80%93DIN_MUHAMMAD_RUMI_
MATHNAVI-I_MA%E2%80%99NAVI1.jpg
Image 6.5 Masnavi https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Masnavi#/media/File:Turkey.Konya049.jpg
Image 6.6 Statue of Ferdowsi http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Statue_of_Ferdowsi_in_Rome.JPG
Image 6.7 Ferdowsi and the Three Ghaznavid Court Poets https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ferdowsi#/media/File:Courtpoets1532max.jpg
Image 6.8 Sheherazade and Sultan Schariar http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Ferdinand_Keller_-_Scheherazade_und_Sultan_Schariar_(1880).jpg
Image 6.9 The Story of Seyf ol-Molûk and Badî`ol-Jamâl https://www.flickr.com/photos/e-codices/11229348853/in/photolist-9D1tvT-9D4pjf-8cawd3-8QN6m3-
9Mg6Vj-9MfX5u-9Mg4Wd-9Mg7Nm-9MdfP6-9MfZgh-9MfYhu-jDJvzB-jDKuat-jDMBtd-jDLiqk-jDLcya-9Md- dWp-9MdexT-9MdfoV-7Td8NU-dpMGcA-92TWW9-i7imbZ-72J6rM-brHsqW-7oq6Q7-nKpPRA-ggGrt9- ggGAWQ-egRGxJ-ouMEn1-7YtKkt-5erbtB-9y18dL-83Aak7-8xvxK2-rVVPSi-dxd21d-dxcUEY-dxcNj1-kA9RF- q-ggGw5V-ggGfAC-ggGTcT-ggGvhU-ggGux7-ggGrXM-ggGcqQ-ggGqzB-ggGPdR/
Image 7.1 Kublai Khan https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yuan_dynasty#/media/File:Qubilai_Setsen_Khaan.JPG
Image 7.2 Eighty Seven Celestials https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tang_dynasty#/media/File:EightySevenCelestials3.jpg
Image 7.3 Li Bai in Stroll https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Li_Bai#/media/File:LiBai.jpg
Image 7.4 Going Up to Sun Terrace https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Li_Bai#/media/File:Libai_shangyangtai.jpg
Image 7.5 Peach Garden Ceremony https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Romance_of_the_Three_Kingdoms#/media/File:Peach_garden_ceremony.jpg
Image 7.6 Three Brothers https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Romance_of_the_Three_Kingdoms#/media/File:Three_Brothers.jpg
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Image 8.1 Byōdō-in’s Phoenix Hall https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Heian_period#/media/File:Byodo-in_Uji02pbs3400.jpg
Image 8.2 Taira no Atsumori https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Taira_no_Atsumori#/media/File:Taira_no_Atsumori.jpg
Image 8.3 Noh Stage https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Noh#/media/File:Noh-stage.png
Image 8.4 Murasaki Shikibu https://hu.wikipedia.org/wiki/Muraszaki_Sikibu#/media/File:MurasakiShikibu.jpg
Image 8.5 Tale of Genji Toyokuni Utagawa Print https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Tale_of_Genji_Toyokuni_Utagawa_print.jpg
Image 9.1 Tukaram Leaves for Vaikuntha, Supreme Abode of God Vishnu https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tukaram#/media/File:Tukaram_print.jpg
WORLD l i t e r a t u r e
Compact Anthology of
Pa r t T h r e e T h e R e n a i s s a n c e
Editor-in-Chief: laura Getty, PhD
Co-Editor: KyounGhye Kwon, PhD
Dahlonega, GA
Compact Anthology of World Literature is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Share- Alike 3.0 United States License.
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For more information, please visit http://ung.edu/university-press Or email [email protected]
T a b l e o f C o n t e n t s Chapter 10: Korea 1
2Various Poets, Sijo Poetry The Tale of Hong Gil-Dong 4
Chapter 11: europe 11 12
128 145 261 320 327
Don Quixote Gargantua and Pantagruel Hamlet The Journals of Christopher Columbus The Prince The Tempest Utopia 392
Chapter 12: Native ameriCa 401 401Myths of the Cherokee
Aw-aw-tam Indian Nights: The Myths and Legends of the Pimas 414
439BiBliography
appeNdix 441
Acknowledgements This anthology is the product of a Complete College Georgia grant, and I would like to thank the Board of Re-
gents of the University System of Georgia for making this project possible. Many individuals at the University Press of North Georgia worked long hours on various aspects of the anthology, and I appreciate their time and effort; in particular, I would like to thank Corey Parson, managing editor, for her professionalism and support during this long process. Terri E. Bell, senior library assistant/ copyright compliance at UNG-Dahlonega, had the vital job of checking copyrights and researching the public domain content for this open access project, and I am grateful for her hard work and dedication.
Written by Editor-in-Chief Laura J. Getty, Ph.D.
A large part of my portion of this textbook came to fruition while time-traveling with my World Literature I students to familiar and unfamiliar places in the Ancient, Middle Ages, and Renaissance periods. I am first grate- ful for those students’ participation and insights, and I give special thanks to Dr. Joyce Stavick, head of the English Department at UNG, who kindly arranged for me to teach those classes during the time of my writing. This text- book could not have been made possible without our past, present, and future students who are willing to take the journey to different parts of the world in different times.
Important acknowledgments go to the Complete College Georgia Grant that critically funded this project. I also express my sincere gratitude to Dr. B. J. Robinson, director of the university press, for her thoughtful leader- ship, Dr. Deborah Prosser, dean of libraries, for providing helpful feedback, and Terri E. Bell, senior library assis- tant, for her extensive work on public domain research and copyright compliance, as well as to the anonymous peer-reviewers. My gratitude also goes to Dr. Laura Getty, editor-in-chief, with her seasoned teaching experience and broad knowledge. I am also grateful to Corey Parson, managing editor, Amy Beard, assistant managing editor, and Matthew Pardue, project editor, for their tireless work. Last but not least, I thank my family for their support and understanding during the time I spent on this project.
Despite multiple examinations of this textbook, there may be errors and areas of improvement. Fortunately, this online textbook can be periodically updated. I hope that this textbook will be of good use to students and teachers alike.
Written by Co-editor Kyounghye Kwon, Ph.D.
Introduction
i
In the European context, the Renaissance is traditionally dated from Christopher Columbus reaching North America in 1492 C.E. Of course, since Columbus thought that he had reached the East Indies (from which mistake the native peoples of the Americas came to be called “Indians”), it wasn’t until 1513 C.E., when the conquistador Balboa crossed the isthmus of Panama and saw the Pacific Ocean, that Europeans began to grasp fully the enormity of what had been discovered: two continents about which they knew nothing. In some ways, the European perspec- tive of the world had just turned upside down. Everything that was “known” before could potentially be questioned, leading to various reactions in literature: Throw rules to the wind (as Francois Rabelais does in his Gargantua and Pantagruel), speculate about the ways that society could—or should—change (as Miguel de Cervantes does in his Don Quixote and Thomas More does in his Utopia), or try to explain the New World in the context of the Old World (as Shakespeare does in The Tempest).
As mentioned in Part Two, the Renaissance is a European concept at its heart: the re-naissance (re-birth) of classical Greek and Roman literature and culture. There is a certain egotism in naming one’s own time period, but even more so in naming the previous time period: According to Renaissance writers, everything after the classical period and before the Renaissance is that stuff in the middle—the Middle Ages. Such a perspective tells us very lit- tle about medieval authors, but it reveals a great deal about Renaissance writers. The world is always changing, but the “world upside down” concept separates the time periods. In Machiavelli’s The Prince, the author asserts that the uncertainty of the times call for a strong (dictatorial) leader, who will impose order. In Cervantes’ Don Quixote, the title character attempts to be a knight in shining armor to restore order. Although presented as insane, Don Quix- ote’s actions—to help the weak and defend the good—take place in an environment where helping others seems old-fashioned. The critique of society is a biting one.
Culturally, Europe saw several important changes, including the widespread use of the printing press (with the accompanying rise in literacy rates). The availability of books made possible the idea of a Renaissance man, cel- ebrated by Rabelais and others. Guns and cannons altered the landscape for a hero; since bullets could penetrate a knight’s armor, soldiers began to take center stage. As Cervantes writes about someone clinging to the ideals of knighthood, he himself lived in a world where he was shot in the hand during the Battle of Lepanto.
Worldwide, the spread of books and writing led to the recording of oral stories. Since the stories had been in circulation for a long time before they were written down, there is very little that is Renaissance about these works by the European definition. The act of writing them down, however, sometimes was itself a world upside down experience, since the means of recording the stories came from outside cultures. In Guatemala, the Popol Vuh survived as a written document because Christian missionaries were teaching the Mayans to translate the Bible; instead, one scribe used the new writing system to preserve the Mayan origin story. In Africa, the Epic of Sundiata/ Sonjara may have been first recorded during the Renaissance, but it still exists as an oral story to the present day. In Asia, the Renaissance time period does not correspond particularly well with the dates of the various literary move- ments, which continued to focus on poetry and the emerging genres of prose narratives and drama.
For students: The works in this section are meant to be compared and contrasted. Consider the following questions while reading: • What views of the New World and the Old World do we find in Renaissance literature? What do we learn
about the writers who present those views? • How does the definition of leadership change in works such as The Prince, Hamlet, and Don Quixote? • What do we learn about heroism in the Renaissance? How has it changed? • What concepts of morality do we find in Gargantua and Pantagruel, Hamlet, and The Prince?
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The texts also can be compared and contrasted with earlier time periods: • What are the differences among ancient world warriors, medieval knights, and Renaissance soldiers? How
does that affect the Renaissance definition of a hero? • How has the view of authority (and authority figures) changed from the Ancient World to the Renaissance? • How has the role of women in society changed over time in these works? In what ways has it not changed? • Culture shock: How would Hamlet react if he were dropped into the Iliad? What would the characters in
the Iliad think about him, and why? How would the situation change if Hamlet were dropped into the Tale of Genji?
Written by Laura J. Getty
T h e R e n a i s s a n c e P a r t T h r e e
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In the European context, the Renaissance is traditionally dated from Christopher Columbus reaching North America in 1492 C.E. Of course, since Columbus thought that he had reached the East Indies (from which mistake the native peoples of the Americas came to be called “Indians”), it wasn’t until 1513 C.E., when the conquistador Balboa crossed the isthmus of Panama and saw the Pacific Ocean, that Europeans began to grasp fully the enormity of what had been discovered: two continents about which they knew nothing. In some ways, the European perspec- tive of the world had just turned upside down. Everything that was “known” before could potentially be questioned, leading to various reactions in literature: Throw rules to the wind (as Francois Rabelais does in his Gargantua and Pantagruel), speculate about the ways that society could—or should—change (as Miguel de Cervantes does in his Don Quixote and Thomas More does in his Utopia), or try to explain the New World in the context of the Old World (as Shakespeare does in The Tempest).
As mentioned in Part Two, the Renaissance is a European concept at its heart: the re-naissance (re-birth) of classical Greek and Roman literature and culture. There is a certain egotism in naming one’s own time period, but even more so in naming the previous time period: According to Renaissance writers, everything after the classical period and before the Renaissance is that stuff in the middle—the Middle Ages. Such a perspective tells us very lit- tle about medieval authors, but it reveals a great deal about Renaissance writers. The world is always changing, but the “world upside down” concept separates the time periods. In Machiavelli’s The Prince, the author asserts that the uncertainty of the times call for a strong (dictatorial) leader, who will impose order. In Cervantes’ Don Quixote, the title character attempts to be a knight in shining armor to restore order. Although presented as insane, Don Quix- ote’s actions—to help the weak and defend the good—take place in an environment where helping others seems old-fashioned. The critique of society is a biting one.
Culturally, Europe saw several important changes, including the widespread use of the printing press (with the accompanying rise in literacy rates). The availability of books made possible the idea of a Renaissance man, cel- ebrated by Rabelais and others. Guns and cannons altered the landscape for a hero; since bullets could penetrate a knight’s armor, soldiers began to take center stage. As Cervantes writes about someone clinging to the ideals of knighthood, he himself lived in a world where he was shot in the hand during the Battle of Lepanto.
Worldwide, the spread of books and writing led to the recording of oral stories. Since the stories had been in circulation for a long time before they were written down, there is very little that is Renaissance about these works by the European definition. The act of writing them down, however, sometimes was itself a world upside down experience, since the means of recording the stories came from outside cultures. In Guatemala, the Popol Vuh survived as a written document because Christian missionaries were teaching the Mayans to translate the Bible; instead, one scribe used the new writing system to preserve the Mayan origin story. In Africa, the Epic of Sundiata/ Sonjara may have been first recorded during the Renaissance, but it still exists as an oral story to the present day. In Asia, the Renaissance time period does not correspond particularly well with the dates of the various literary move- ments, which continued to focus on poetry and the emerging genres of prose narratives and drama.
For Students: The works in this section are meant to be compared and contrasted. Consider the following questions while reading: • What views of the New World and the Old World do we find in Renaissance literature? What do we learn
about the writers who present those views? • How does the definition of leadership change in works such as The Prince, Hamlet, and Don Quixote? • What do we learn about heroism in the Renaissance? How has it changed? • What concepts of morality do we find in Gargantua and Pantagruel, Hamlet, and The Prince?
The texts also can be compared and contrasted with earlier time periods:
• What are the differences among ancient world warriors, medieval knights, and Renaissance soldiers? How does that affect the Renaissance definition of a hero?
• How has the view of authority (and authority figures) changed from the Ancient World to the Renaissance? • How has the role of women in society changed over time in these works? In what ways has it not changed? • Culture shock: How would Hamlet react if he were dropped into the Iliad? What would the characters in the
Iliad think about him, and why? How would the situation change if Hamlet were dropped into the Tale of Genji?
Written by Laura J. Getty
Korea 10
1
This chapter introduces two prominent examples from the Joseon (also spelled as Chosŏn) Dynasty (1392- 1897) in Korea: the Korean indigenous poetic form called “sijo” and The Tale of Hong Gil-Dong (1612), one of the first novels written in Hangeul (also spelled “Hangul”), the Korean alphabet. Joseon, a Confucian society that lasted for about five centuries, was the last dynasty before Korea’s modernization.
In Joseon literature, what is notable is the invention (1443) and promulgation (1446) of Hangeul, the Korean alphabet, by Sejong the Great, the fourth king of the Joseon Dynasty, who reigned from 1418 to 1450. Before Han- geul, Koreans did not have an indigenous written system that matched their oral language, and mostly borrowed Chinese letters for writing. After the popularization of Hangeul, however, Korean indigenous literature in Korean blossomed.
The Joseon Dynasty was also a monarchial society based on a class system that consisted of yangban (“noble men,” such as scholars, landlords, rulers, and generals), jung-in (professionals, such as doctors, mathematicians, and translators), sang-in (merchants), and nobi (servants) in order of hierarchy from top to bottom. Furthermore, while it allowed patriarchal polygamy, the Confucian Joseon Dynasty limited the rights of the concubines and their children in inheritance and opportunities for social mobility. The Tale of Hong Gil-Dong deals with this social contradiction and focuses on social discriminations against, and condescension for, the children of concubines. (Note: There has been inconsistency in the Romanization of the Korean language. Before 2000, the McCune-Reis- chauer system was the official system for South Korea. South Korea adopted the Revised Romanization of Korean in 2000. In this chapter, the 2000 Revised Romanization of Korean is used, but some other common variations are indicated.)
As you read, consider the following questions:
• Select and examine a theme in a sijo poem. What idea does it suggest, and what surprising twist does it display at the end? If you detect any humor or wit, can you explain those elements as well?
• Because sijo blossomed during the Joseon Dynasty, which officially adopted Confucianism, some traditional sijo reflect Confucian themes, such as loyalty. Examine if a particular verse reflects, subverts, and/or avoids Confu- cian ideas.
• How would you compose your own sijo in English? • See Image 10.2 of the original text in Hangeul, the Korean
alphabet.. Given that Korea had long been in a tributary relationship with China, imported philosophies from Chi- na, and used Chinese letters for important documents until Korea’s own alphabet became popular, what implications might The Tale of Hong Gil-Dong have as one of the earliest novels in Korean about Korean issues?
• In what ways do you think Hong Gil-Dong’s ideas and actions were subversive and progressive, yet at the same time limited by his society?
Image 10.1: Sejong the Great | The king of Joseon sits on his throne.
Author: User “Mammique” Source: Wikimedia Commons License: GNU Free Documentation License (GNU FDL)
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• Examine the text for any traces of Confucianism, Buddhism, Taoism, and Catholicism, all of which Heo Gyun had access to during his time.
• If you are familiar with the Chinese classic The Water Margin, compare the Chinese classic and Heo Gyun’s novel.
• Develop an argument about the character Hong Gil-Dong, considering his drive for self-fulfillment and the actions he takes. Which character in other literary traditions can he be compared to?
• You can watch a part of the TV drama adaptation (no English subtitles) in the following website (https:// www.youtube.com/watch?v=SH5pFNKnn8Q), which corresponds to the beginning of the tale of Hong Gil- Dong. How do you think this video clip dramatizes the novel?
For more information, see the following sources:
• To find out more about Korean history and culture, go to: http://www.korea.net • For more on sijo in English, go to http://www.sejongsociety.org/writing/current/resources/sijo_guide.php. Here
you will find useful lectures by David McCann, as well as examples of sijo (in English), and instructions on how to write sijo in English.
Written by Kyounghye Kwon
SIJO POETRY
First used ca. 1000 C.E. Korea
The sijo (pronounced “shee-jo”) is a Korean indigenous poetic form, which first emerged around the middle of the Goryeo Period (918-1392), was active during the Joseon Period (1392-1897), and is still practiced today. It is the best example of Korean indigenous poetry and is comparable to other poetic traditions, especially those in East Asia.
The sijo is a three-line Korean poetic form, traditionally meant to be sung and recited, dealing with various themes, such as the philosophical, pastoral, and personal. The first line is usually writ- ten in a 3-4-4-4 syllable pattern and introduces an idea. The sec- ond line is usually written in a 3-4-4-4 syllable pattern and devel- ops the idea. The third line is usually written in a 3-5-4-3 syllable pattern and provides a twist on the initial idea in the first half and a resolution in the second half of the line. As there have been many variations, the number of syllables is flexible in sijo. However, for its musicality, it is important to have four distinct syllabic groups in each line, which are further divided into the first half and the second half. When reciting, slight pauses should mark the space between each group, as well as the space between the first half and the second half.
Selected poems here represent well-known traditional sijo poems. Yun Seondo (1587-1671) is regarded as the sijo master in Korea, along with Chung Chul, for producing a number of exemplary pieces. Yun was a scholar, government official, and tutor to princes at the royal court, and he produced most of his famous poetry while in political exile. Chung Chul (1536-1594) was a Confucian scholar who wrote a great number of elegant sijo. Hwang Chin-i (1506- c1567) was a gisaeng (female entertainer) whose pro- fessional name was Myeongwal (“bright moon”). She was famous for her beauty and her talent at poetry, literature, music, dance, and calligraphy. Yi Sun-shin (1545-1598) was a naval commander who won victories against the Japa-
Image 10.2: Hunmin Jeong-Eum | A Korean writing manual for teaching the language’s native.
Author: User “PuzzletChung” Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
3
Sijo Poetry
nese navy during the war with Japan between 1592 and 1598. Chŏng Mong-ju (1338-1392) was a Confucian scholar who refused to betray his king in the Goryeo Kingdom when Korea was transitioning from the Goryeo Kingdom to the Joseon Dynasty. Kim Chang-up (1658-1721), Yang Sa-Eun (1517-1584), and Im Che (1549-1587) were all writers during the Joseon Dynasty.
Written by Kyounghye Kwon
Readings:
Sijo Poem
Hwang Jin-I, Translated by David R. McCann
I will break in two the long strong back of this long midwinter night,
Roll it up and put it away under the springtime coverlet.
And the night that my loved one comes back again I will unroll it to lengthen the time.
The first stanza of “Song of (My) Five Friends”
Yun Seondo, Translated by Larry Gross
You ask how many friends I have? Water and stone, bamboo and pine. The moon rising over the eastern hill is a joyful comrade. Besides these five companions, what other pleasure should I ask
• Yun Seondo (also spelled Yun Sŏndo)’s full poem can be found here: http://www.webring.org/l/rd?ring=sijowebring;id=3;url=http%3A%2F%2Fthewordshop.tripod.com%2FSijo% 2F
The first verse from the spring sequence of the poems about the changing seasons
Yun Seondo, Translated by Larry Gross
Sun lights up the hill behind, mist rises on the channel ahead. Push the boat, push the boat! The night tide has gone out, the morning tide is coming in. Jigukchong, jigukchong, eosawa! Untamed flowers along the shore reach out to the far village.
License: CC BY-SA
License: CC BY-SA
License: CC BY-SA
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The traditional sijo poems by Chung Chul, Kim Chang-Up, U-Taek, Yang Sa Eun, Hwang Jini (also spelled Hwang Chin-i), Im Che, Yi Wonik, Yun Sundo,
and Others, as well as examples of contemporary sijo:
• Go to the link and read these poems:
http://www.sejongculturalsociety.org/writing/current/resources/ sijo_samples.php
Sijo poems by Yi Sun-shin and Chŏng Mong-ju
• Go to the link and scroll down the page to read these poems:
http://chosonkorea.org/index.php/culture/literature/sijopoetry
THE TALE OF HONG GIL-DONG
Heo Gyun (1569-1618 C.E.)
First published in 1612 C.E. Korea
The Tale of Hong Gil-Dong (also spelled “Hong Kil Tong” and pronounced as such), one of the earliest novels in Korean, was written by Heo Gyun (also spelled “Hŏ Kyun” or “Huh Kyun”) during the Joseon Dyansty (1392- 1897). Although the novel, first published in 1612, is set during the reign of King Sejong (1418- 1450), it is in- spired by an actual robber named Hong Gil-Dong during the reign of King Yeonsan-gun (1494-1506) and is also seen as partially inspired by The Water Margin, a Chinese classic generally attributed to Shi Nai’an (ca. 1296– 1372). Heo Gyun was an unorthodox thinker. Despite the Confucian state ideology of the Joseon Dynasty, he developed interests in Buddhism, Taoism, and possibly even Catholicism. He criticized social and governmental corruption and contradiction, and he argued for equal employment opportunities that would not discriminate against the children of concubines. This novel is noted for its social criticism.
Medical missionary and diplomat Horace Newton Allen’s (1858-1932 C.E.) translation of this story, pub- lished in 1889 by the Knickerbocker Press, has some typos and errors, but is historically significant in that it is the first Korean novel (not a “folktale,” although the translator seemed to consider it one) to be translated in English though the eyes of one of the earliest Westerners to reside in Korea.
Written by Kyounghye Kwon
Hong Gil-Dong or The Adventures of an Abused Boy Heo Gyun, Translated by H. N. Allen
Part 1 During the reign of the third king in Korea there lived a noble of high rank and noted family, by name Hong.
License: Public Domain
Image 10.3: “A Beautiful Woman” | A picture by Sin Yunbok, a famous painter of the Joseon dynasty. The imange is also associated with Hwang Jini (also spelled Chini or Chin-i), whose name means “Bright Moon.”
Author: User “Kindahypertonic” Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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The Tale of Hong Gil-Dong
His title was Ye Cho Pansa. He had two sons by his wife and one by one of his concubines. The latter son was very remarkable from his birth to his death, and he it is who forms the subject of this history.
When Hong Pansa was the father of but two sons, he dreamed by night on one occasion that he heard the noise of thunder, and looking up he saw a huge dragon entering his apartment, which seemed too small to contain the whole of his enormous body. The dream was so startling as to awaken the sleeper, who at once saw that it was a good omen, and a token to him of a blessing about to be conferred. He hoped the blessing might prove to be anoth- er son, and went to impart the good news to his wife. She would not see him, however, as she was offended by his taking a concubine from the class of “dancing girls.” The great man was sad, and went away. Within the year, how- ever, a son of marvelous beauty was born to one concubine, much to the annoyance of his wife and to himself, for he would have been glad to have the beautiful boy a full son, and eligible to office. The child was named Gil-Dong, or Hong Gil-Dong. He grew fast, and became more and more beautiful. He learned rapidly, and surprised every one by his remarkable ability. As he grew up he rebelled at being placed with the slaves, and at not being allowed to call his parent, father. The other children laughed and jeered at him, and made life very miserable. He refused longer to study of the duties of children to their parents. He upset his table in school, and declared he was going to be a soldier. One bright moonlight night Hong Pansa saw his son in the courtyard practicing the arts of the soldier, and he asked him what it meant. Gil-Dong answered that he was fitting himself to become a man that people should respect and fear. He said he knew that heaven had made all things for the use of men, if they found themselves capable of using them, and that the laws of men were only made to assist a few that could not otherwise do as they would; but that he was not inclined to submit to any such tyranny, but would become a great man in spite of his evil surroundings. “This is a most remarkable boy,” mused Hong Pansa.
“What a pity that he is not my proper and legitimate son, that he might be an honor to my name. As it is, I fear he will cause me serious trouble.” He urged the boy to go to bed and sleep, but Gil-Dong said it was useless, that if he went to bed he would think of his troubles till the tears washed sleep away from his eyes, and caused him to get up.
The wife of Hong Pansa and his other concubine (the dancing girl), seeing how much their lord and master thought of Gil-Dong, grew to hate the latter intensely, and began to lay plans for ridding themselves of him. They called some mootang, or sorceresses, and explained to them that their happiness was disturbed by this son of a rival, and that peace could only be restored to their hearts by the death of this youth. The witches laughed and said: “Never mind. There is an old woman who lives by the east gate, tell her to come and prejudice the father. She can do it, and be will then look after his son.”
The old hag came as requested. Hong Pansa was then in the women’s apartments, telling them of the wonderful boy, much to their annoyance. A visitor was announced, and the old woman made a low7 bow outside. Hong Pansa asked her what her business was, and she stated that she had heard of his wonderful son, and came to see him, to foretell what his future was to be.
Gil-Dong came as called, and on seeing him the hag bowed and said: “Send out all of the people.” She then stat- ed: “This will be a very great man; if not a king, he will be greater than the king, and will avenge his early wrongs by killing all his family.” At this the father called to her to stop, and enjoined strict secrecy upon her. He sent Gil-Dong at once to a strong room, and had him locked in for safe keeping.
The boy was very sad at this new state of affairs, but as his father let him have books, he got down to hard study, and learned the Chinese works on astronomy. He could not see his mother, and his unnatural father was too afraid to come near him. He made up his mind, however, that as soon as he could get out he would go to some far off country, where he was not known, and make his true power felt.
Meanwhile, the unnatural father was kept in a state of continual excitement by his wicked concubine, who was bent on the destruction of the son of her rival, and kept constantly before her master the great dangers that would come to him from being the parent of such a man as Gil-Dong was destined to be, if allowed to live. She showed him that such power as the boy was destined to possess, would eventually result in his overthrows!, and with him his father’s house would be in disgrace, and, doubtless, would be abolished. While if this did not happen, the son was sure to kill his family, so that, in either ease, it was the father’s clear duty to prevent any further trouble by putting the boy out of the way. Hong Pansa was finally persuaded that his concubine was right, and sent for the assassins to come and kill his son. But % spirit filled the father with disease, and he told the men to stay their work. Medicines failed to cure the disease, and the mootang women were called in by the concubine. They beat their drums and danced about the room, conjuring the spirit to leave, but it would not obey. At last they said, at the sug- gestion of the concubine, that Gil-Dong was the cause of the disorder, and that with his death the spirit would cease troubling the father.
Again the assassins were sent for, and came with their swords, accompanied by the old hag from the east gate. While they were meditating on the death of Gil-Dong, he was musing on the unjust laws of men who allowed sons to be born of concubines, but denied them rights that were enjoyed by other men.
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Part 2 While thus musing in the darkness of the night, he heard a crow caw three times and fly away. “This means
something ill to me,” thought he; and Just then his window was thrown open, and in stepped the assassins. They made at the boy, but he was not there. In their rage they wounded each other, and killed the old woman who was their guide. To their amazement the room had disappeared, and they were surrounded by high mountains. A mighty storm arose, and rocks flew through the air. They could not escape, and, in their terror, were about to give up, when music was heard, and a boy came riding by on a donkey, playing a flute. He took away their weapons, and showed himself to be Gil-Dong. He promised not to kill them, as they begged for their lives, but only on condition that they should never try to kill another man. He told them that he would know if the promise was broken, and, in that event, he would instantly kill them.
Gil-Dong went by night to see his father, who thought him a spirit, and was very much afraid. He gave his father medicine, which instantly cured him; and sending for his mother, bade her good-by, and started for an un- known country.
His father was very glad that the boy had escaped, and lost his affection for his wicked concubine. But the latter, with her mistress, was very angry, and tried in vain to devise some means to accomplish their evil purposes.
Gil-Dong, free at last journeyed to the south. and began to ascend the lonely mountains. Tigers were abundant, but he feared them not, and they seemed to avoid molesting him. After many days, he found himself high up on a barren peat enveloped by the clouds and enjoyed the remoteness of the place, and the absence of men and obnox- ious laws. He now felt himself a free man, and the equal of any, while he knew that heaven was smiling upon him and giving him powers not accorded to other men.
Through the clouds at some distance he thought he espied a huge stone door in the bare wall of rock. Going up to it, he found it to be indeed a movable door, and, opening it, he stepped inside, when, to his amazement, he found himself in an open plain, surrounded by high and inaccessible mountains. He saw before him over two hundred good houses, and many men, who, when they had somewhat recovered from their own surprise, came rushing upon him, apparently with evil intent. Laying hold upon him they asked him who he was, and why he came tres- passing upon their ground. He said: “I am surprised to find myself in the presence of men. I am but the son of a concubine, and men, with their laws, are obnoxious to me. Therefore, I thought to get away from man entirely, and, for that reason, I wandered alone into these wild regions. But who are you, and why do you live in this lone spot? Perhaps we may have a kindred feeling.”
“We are called thieves,” was answered; “but we only despoil the hated official class of some of their ill-gotten gains. We are willing to help the poor unbeknown, but no man can enter our stronghold and depart alive, unless he has become one of us. To do so, however, he must prove himself to be strong in body and mind. If you can pass the examination and wish to join our party, well and good; otherwise you die.”
This suited Gil-Dong immensely, and he consented to the conditions. They gave him various trials of strength, but he chose his own. Going up to a huge rock on which several men were seated, he laid hold of it and hurled it to some distance, to the dismay of the men, who fell from their seat, and to the surprised delight of all. He was at once installed a member, and a feast was ordered. The contract was sealed by mingling blood from the lips of all the members with blood similarly supplied by Gil-Dong. He was then given a prominent seat and served to wine and food.
Gil-Dong soon became desirous of giving to his comrades some manifestation of his courage. An opportunity presently offered. He heard the men bemoaning their inability to despoil a large and strong Buddhist temple not far distant As was the rule, this temple in the mountains was well patronized by officials, who made it a place of retirement for pleasure and debauch, and in return the lazy, licentious priests were allowed to collect tribute from the poor people about, till they had become rich and powerful. The several attempts made by the robber band had proved unsuccessful, by virtue of the number and vigilance of the priests, together with the strength of their enclo- sure. Gil-Dong agreed to assist them to accomplish their design or perish in the attempt, and such was their faith in him that they readily agreed to his plans.
On a given day Gil-Dong, dressed in the red gown of a youth, just betrothed, covered himself with the dust of travel, and mounted on a donkey, with one robber disguised as a servant, made his way to the temple. He asked on arrival to be shown to the head priest, to whom he stated that he was the son of Hong Pansa, that his noble father having heard of the greatness of this temple, and the wisdom of its many priests, had decided to send him with a letter, which he produced, to be educated among their numbers. He also stated that a train of one hundred ponies loaded with rice had been sent as a present from his father to the priest, and he expected they would arrive before dark, as they did not wish to stop alone in the mountains, even though every pony was attended by a groom, who was armed for defense. The priests were delighted, and having read the letter, they never for a moment suspected that all was not right. A great feast was ordered in honor of their noble scholar, and all sat down before the tables, which were filled so high that one could hardly see his neighbor on the opposite side. They had scarcely seated themselves and indulged in the generous wine, when it was announced that the train of ponies laden with rice
7
The Tale of Hong Gil-Dong
had arrived. Servants were sent to look after the tribute, and the eating and drinking went on. Suddenly Gil-Dong clapped his hand, over his cheek with a cry of pain, which drew the attention of all. When, to the great mortification of the priests, he produced from his month a pebble, previously introduced on the sly, and exclaimed: “Is it to feed on stones that my father sent me to this place? What do yon mean by setting such rice before a gentleman?”
Part 3 The priests were filled with mortification and dismay, and bowed their shaven heads to the floor in humiliation.
When at a sign from Gil-Dong, a portion of the robbers, who had entered the court as grooms to the ponies, seized the bending priests and bound them as they were. The latter shouted for help, but the other robbers, who had been concealed in the bags, which were supposed to contain rice, seized the servants, while others were loading the po- nies with jewels, rice, cash and whatever of value they could lay hands upon.
An old priest who was attending to the fires, seeing the uproar, made off quietly to the yamen near by and called for soldiers. The soldiers were sent after some delay, and Gil-Dong, disguised as a priest, called to them to follow him down a by-path after the robbers. While he conveyed the soldiers over this rough path, the robbers made good their escape by the main road, and were soon joined in their stronghold by their youthful leader, who had left the soldiers groping helplessly in the dark among the rocks and trees in a direction opposite that taken by the robbers.
The priests soon found out that they had lost almost all their riches, and were at no loss in determining how the skilful affair had been planned and carried out. Gil-Dong’s name was noised abroad, and it was soon known that he was heading a band of robbers, who, through his assistance, were able to do many marvelous things. The robber band was delighted at the success of his first undertaking, and made him their chief, with the consent of all. After sufficient time had elapsed for the full enjoyment of their last and greatest success, Gil-Dong planned a new raid.
Image 10.4: Hong Gil-Dong Jeon | The first pages of a Korean Hong Gil-Dong novel.
Author: Heo Gyun Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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The Governor of a neighboring province was noted for his overbearing ways and the heavy burdens that he laid upon his subjects. He was very rich, but universally hated, and Gil-Dong decided to avenge the people and humili- ate the Governor, knowing that his work would be appreciated by the people, as were indeed his acts at the temple. He instructed his band to proceed singly to the Governor’s city—the local capital—at the time of a fair, when their coming would not cause comment. At a given time a portion of them were to set fire to a lot of straw-thatched huts outside the city gates, while the others repaired in a body to the Governor’s yamen. They did so. The Governor was borne in his chair to a place where he could witness the conflagration, which also drew away the most of the inhabitants. The robbers bound the remaining servants, and while some were securing money, jewels, and weapons, Gil-Dong wrote on the walls: “The wicked Governor that robs the people is relieved of his ill-gotten gains by Gil- Dong—the people’s avenger.”
Again the thieves made good their escape, and Gil-Dong’s name became known everywhere. The Governor offered a great reward for his capture, but no one seemed desirous of encountering a robber of
such boldness. At last the King offered a reward after consulting with his officers. When one of them said he would capture the thief alone, the King was astonished at his boldness and courage, and bade him be off and make the attempt. The officer was called the Pochang; he had charge of the prisons, and was a man of great courage.
The Pochang started on his search, disguised as a traveler. He took a donkey and servant, and after travelling many days he put up at a little inn, at the same time that another man on a donkey rode up. The latter was Gil-Dong in disguise, and he soon entered into conversation with the man, whose mission was known to him.
“I goo” said Gil-Dong, as he sat down to eat, “this is a dangerous country. I have just been chased by the robber Gil-Dong till the life is about gone out of me.”
“Gil-Dong, did yon say?” remarked Pochang. “I wish he would chase me. I am anxious to see the man of whom we hear so much.”
“Well, if you see him once you will be satisfied,” replied Gil-Dong. “Why?” asked the Pochang. “Is he such a fearful-looking man as to frighten one by his aspect alone?” “No; on the contrary he looks much as do ordinary mortals. But we know he is different, you see.” “Exactly,” said the Pochang. “That is just the trouble. You are afraid of him before you see him. Just let me get a
glimpse of him, and matters will be different, I think.” “Well,” said Gil-Dong, “you can be easily pleased, if that is all, for I dare say if you go back into the mountains
here you will see him, and get acquainted with him too.” “That is good. Will you show me the place?” “Not I. I have seen enough of him to please me. I can tell you where to go, however, if you persist in your curi-
osity,” said the robber. “Agreed!” exclaimed the officer. “Let us be off at once lest he escapes. And if you succeed in showing him to me,
I will reward you for your work and protect you from the thief.” After some objection by Gil-Dong, who appeared to be reluctant to go, and insisted on at least finishing his
dinner, they started off, with their servants, into the mountains. Night overtook them, much to the apparent dismay of the guide, who pretended to be very anxious to give up the quest. At length, however, they came to the stone door, which was open. Having entered the robber’s stronghold, the door closed behind them, and the guide dis- appeared, leaving the dismayed officer surrounded by the thieves. His courage had now left him, and he regretted his rashness. The robbers bound him securely and led him past their miniature city into an enclosure surrounded by houses which, by their bright colors, seemed to be the abode of royalty. He was conveyed into a large audi- ence-chamber occupying the most extensive building of the collection, and there, on a sort of throne, in royal style, sat his guide. The Pochang saw his mistake, and fell on his face, begging for mercy. Gil-Dong upbraided him for his impudence and arrogance and promised to let him off this time, Wine was brought, and all partook of it. That given to the officer was drugged, and he fell into a stupor soon after drinking it. While in this condition he was put into a bag and conveyed in a marvelous manner to a high mountain overlooking the capital. Here he found himself upon recovering from the effects of his potion; and not daring to face his sovereign with such a fabulous tale, he cast himself down from the high mountain, and was picked up dead, by passers-by, in the morning. Almost at the same time that His Majesty received word of the death of his officer, and was marveling at the audacity of the murderer in bringing the body almost to the palace doors, came simultaneous reports of great depredations in each of the eight provinces. The trouble was in each case attributed to Gil-Dong, and the fact that he was reported as being in eight far removed places at the same time caused great consternation.
Part 4 Official orders were issued to each of the eight governors to catch and bring to the city, at once, the robber
Gil-Dong. These orders were so well obeyed that upon a certain day soon after, a guard came from each province bringing Gil-Dong, and there in a line stood eight men alike in every respect.
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The Tale of Hong Gil-Dong
The King on inquiry found that Gil-Dong was the son of Hong Pansa, and the father was ordered into the royal presence. He came with his legitimate son, and bowed his head in shame to the ground. When asked what he meant by having a son who would cause such general misery and distress, he swooned away, and would have died had not one of the Gil-Dongs produced some medicine which cured him. The son, however, acted as spokesman, and informed the King that Gil-Dong was but the son of his father’s slave, that he was utterly incorrigible, and had fled from home when a mere boy. When asked to decide as to which was his true son, the father stated that his son had a scar on the left thigh. Instantly each of the eight men pulled up the baggy trousers and displayed a soar. The guard was commanded to remove the men and kill all of them: but when they attempted to do so the life had disappeared, and the men were found to be only figures in straw and wax.
Soon after this a letter was seen posted on the Palace gate, announcing that if the government would confer upon Gil-Dong the rank of Pansa, as held by his father, and thus remove from him the stigma attaching; to him as the son of a slave, he would stop his depredations. This proposition could not be entertained at first, but one of the counsel suggested that it might offer a solution of the vexed question, and they could yet be spared the disgrace of having an officer with such a record. For, as he proposed, men could be so stationed that when the newly-appointed officer came to make his bow before His Majesty, they could fall upon him and kill him before he arose. This plan was greeted with applause, and a decree was issued conferring the desired rank; proclamations to that effect being posted in public places, so that the news would reach Gil-Dong. It did reach him, and he soon appeared at the city gate. A great crowd attended him as he rode to the Palace gates; but knowing the plans laid for him, as he passed through the gates and came near enough to be seen of the King, he was caught up in a cloud and borne away amid strange music; wholly discomfiting his enemies.
Some time after this occurrence the King was walking with a few eunuchs and attendants in the royal gardens. It was evening time, but the full moon furnished ample light. The atmosphere was tempered just to suit; it was neither cold nor warm, while it lacked nothing of the bracing character of a Korean autumn. The leaves were blood- red on the maples; the heavy cloak of climbing vines that enshrouded the great wall near by was also beautifully colored. These effects could even be seen by the bright moonlight, and seated on a hill-side the royal party were enjoying the tranquility of the scene, when all were astonished by the sound of a flute played by some one up above them. Looking up among the tree-tops a man was seen descending toward them, seated upon the back of a grace- fully moving stork. The King imagined it must be some heavenly being, and ordered the chief eunuch to make some proper salutation. But before this could be done, a voice was heard saying: “Fear not, O King. I am simply Hong Pansa (Gil-Dong’s new title). I have come to make my obeisance before your august presence and be confirmed in my rank.”
This he did, and no one attempted to molest him; seeing which, the King, feeling that it was useless longer to attempt to destroy a man who could read the unspoken thoughts of men, said:
“Why do you persist in troubling the country ? I have removed from you now the stigma attached to your birth. What more will you have?”
“I wish,” said Gil-Dong, with due humility, “to go to a distant laud, and settle down to the pursuit of peace and happiness. If I may be granted three thousand bags of rice I will gladly go and trouble you no longer.”
“But how will you transport such an enormous quantity of rice?” asked the King. “That can be arranged,” said Gil-Dong. “If I may be but granted the order, I will remove the rice at daybreak.” The order was given. Gil-Dong went away as he came, and in the early morning a fleet of junks appeared off the
royal granaries, took on the rice, and made away before the people were well aware of their presence. Gil-Dong now sailed for an island off the west coast. He found one uninhabited, and with his few followers he
stored his riches, and brought many articles of value from his former hiding-places. His people be taught to till the soil, and all went well on the little island till the master made a trip to a neighboring island, which was famous for its deadly mineral poison—a thing much prized for tipping the arrows with. Gil-Dong wanted to get some of this poison, and made a visit to the island. While passing through the settled districts he casually noticed that many copies of a proclamation were posted up, offering a large reward to any one who would succeed In restoring to her father a young lady who had been stolen by a band of savage people who lived in the mountains.
Gil-Dong journeyed on all day, and at night he found himself high up in the wild mountain regions, where the poison was abundant. Gazing about in making some preparations for passing the night in this place, he saw a light, and following it, he came to a house built below him on a ledge of rocks, and in an almost inaccessible position. He could see the interior of a large hall, where were gathered many hairy, shaggy-looking men, eating, drinking, and smoking. One old fellow, who seemed to be chief, was tormenting a young lady by trying to tear away her veil and expose her to the gaze of the barbarians assembled. Gil-Dong could not stand this sight, and, taking a poisoned arrow, he sent it direct for the heart of the villain, but the distance was so great that he missed his mark sufficiently to only wound the arm. All one of them threw aside her veil and implored for mercy. Then it was that Gil-Dong rec- ognized the maiden whom he had rescued the previous evening. She was marvelously beautiful, and already he was
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deeply smitten with her maidenly charms. Her voice seemed like that of an angel of peace sent to quiet the hearts of rough men. As she modestly begged for her life, she told the story of her capture by the robbers, and how she had been dragged away to their den, and was only saved from insult by the interposition of some heavenly being, who had in pity smote the arm of her tormentor.
Great was Gil-Dong’s joy at being able to explain his own part in the matter, and the maiden heart, already won by the manly beauty of her rescuer, now overflowed with gratitude and love. Remembering herself, however, she quickly veiled her face, but the mischief had been done; each had seen the other, and they could henceforth know no peace, except in each other’s presence.
The proclamations had made but little impression upon Gil-Dong, and it was not till the lady had told her story that he remembered reading them. He at once took steps to remove the beautiful girl and her companion in distress, and not knowing but that other of the savages might return, he did not dare to make search for a chair and bearers, but mounting donkeys the little party set out for the home of the distressed parents, which they reached safely in due time. The father’s delight knew no bounds. He was a subject of Korea’s King, yet he possessed this island and ruled its people in his own right. And calling his subjects, he explained to them publicly the wonderful works of the stranger, to whom he betrothed his daughter, and to whom he gave his official position.
The people indulged in all manner of gay festivities in honor of the return of the lost daughter of their chief; in respect to the bravery of Gil-Dong; and to celebrate his advent as their ruler.
In due season the marriage ceremonies were celebrated, and the impatient lovers were given to each other’s embrace. Their lives were full of happiness and prosperity. Other outlying islands were united under Gil-Dong’s rule, and no desire or ambition remained ungratified. Yet there came a time when the husband grew sad, and tears swelled the heart of the young wife as she tried in vain to comfort him. He explained at last that he had a presenti- ment that his father was either dead or dying, and that it was his duty to go and mourn at the grave. With anguish at the thought of parting, the wife urged him to go. Taking a junk laden with handsome marble slabs for the grave and statuary to surround it, and followed by junks bearing three thousand bags of rice, he set out for the capital. Arriving, be cut off his hair, and repaired to his old Louie, where a servant admitted him on the supposition that he was a priest. He found his father was no more; but the body yet remained, because a suitable place could not be found for the burial. Thinking him to be a priest, Gil-Dong was allowed to select the spot, and the burial took place with due ceremony. Then it was that the son revealed himself, and took his place with the mourners. The stone im- ages and monuments were erected upon the nicely sodded grounds. Gil-Dong sent the rice he had brought, to the government granaries in return for the King’s loan to him, and regretted that mourning would prevent his paying his respects to his King; he set out for his home with his true mother and his father’s legal wife. The latter did not survive long after the death of her husband, but the poor slave-mother of the bright boy was spared many years to enjoy the peace and quiet of her son’s bright home, and to be ministered to by her dutiful, loving children and their numerous offspring.
Europe 11
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The Renaissance in Europe refers to a period between the Middle Ages and the Modern period. Although different parts of Europe experienced the Renaissance at different times in their own unique ways, it can be said that it roughly ranges from the fourteenth century to the seventeenth century. Rather than having a clear demarcation from the previous and later periods, it converges with the later phase of the Middle Ages (ranging from the fifth century to the fifteenth century) and with a large part of the Early Modern period (ranging from 1450 C.E. to 1750 C.E.).
As the literal meaning of renaissance, “rebirth,” indicates, the Eu- ropean Renaissance was a period of a renewed interest in the Classical world of Greece and Rome and the intellectual movement called human- ism. In humanism, secular scholars sought to help humans break free from the mental restrictions based on religious orthodoxy, to encourage free intellectual investigation, and to empower the potential of human thinking and creativity. This development first began in Italy and influ- enced all parts of Europe. Other major changes include the decline of the feudal system, the growth of commerce, and the applications of innova- tions such as paper, printing, gunpowder, and the mariner’s compass. The invention of metal movable type (c. 1450 C.E.) is generally credited to Johannes Gutenberg; with the invention of printing came increased liter- acy and the development of vernacular literature. The Protestant Refor- mation led by Martin Luther presented a new form of Christianity that focuses on the individual’s inner experiences, and it also brought out Counter-Reformation in Catholic countries. Renaissance Europe also made great strides in exploring new continents. Christopher Colum- bus arrived in America in 1492, which led to the far-reaching conse- quences of establishing European overseas empires. For example, Spain under the reign of Phillip II (1556-1598 C.E.) was a powerful empire, controlling many territories in Asia, Africa, and America, although it eventually ran into bankruptcy and entered into a period of decline.
The selections in this chapter reflect many of the characteristics of this period. Thomas More, Machiavelli, Cervantes, and Shakespeare are all good examples of the intellectual movement of humanism. Cervant- es’s Don Quixote, generally regarded as the first Western novel, can be compared with Rabelais’s Gargantua and Pantagruel in its use of humor and satire. In England, More’s Utopia imagined a world entirely governed by reason. Further, in England, drama particularly flourished, with its pri- mary playwright Shakespeare. Both Columbus’s entries and Shakespeare’s The Tempest reveal Europe’s encounter with and imagination of the New World.
As you read, consider the following questions:
• How does humanism seem to have affected the writings in this period? • How do the selected works in this chapter seem to engage previous literary heritages and traditions? • How do the works in this chapter shed light on Europe’s encounter with and imagination of the New
World?
Image 11.1: Italy 1494 | A map of national boundaries on the Italian Peninsula and parts of Europe, 1494 C.E.
Author: User “Capmo” Source: Wikimedia Commons License: CC BY-SA 3.0
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• How do the works in this chapter approach the notion of identity? • What specific literary device, style, or strategy do you find notable in the selected works?
For more information, see the following sources:
• You can find many related images, if you go to the following link and click “View All Media”: http://www.britannica.com/EBchecked/topic/127070/Christopher-Columbus
• You can find Renaissance works of art and an educational video titled “Spirit of the Renaissance” at the following website: http://www.britannica.com/EBchecked/topic/497788/Renaissance-art
Written by Kyounghye Kwon
DON QUIXOTE
Miguel de Cervantes (1547-1616 C.E.)
Published in 1605 C.E. (Part 1) and 1615 C.E. (Part 2) Spain
Image 11.2: The Vitruvian Man | Famous illustration by Leonardo da Vinci depicting human proportions.
Author: Leonardo da Vinci Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
Image 11.3: The Chandos Portrait | A portrait believed by most scholars to depict William Shakespeare.
Author: User “GianniG46” Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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Don Quixote
Don Quixote was written by Miguel de Cervantes (Spanish novelist, playwright, and poet) and was published in two parts. The novel, influenced by Renaissance Humanism, was immediately popular although its literary gravity was only recognized later. As the prologue in part 1 of the novel states, it was conceived as a comic satire of chivalric romance literatures of the time. However, the novel presents multiple levels of implications beyond its attack on the previous literary tradition. Cervantes’s diverse life experiences as a soldier, a slave, a civil servant, and a writer might have given him vantage points from which he could satirize different aspects of his contempo- rary society. In 1612, Thomas Shelton’s English translation of the first part appeared, and soon Cervantes became well-known beyond Spain, especially in England, France, and Italy.
Written by Kyounghye Kwon
Don Quixote
Miguel de Cervantes, Translated by John Ormsby
Volume I Chapter I
Which treats of the character and pursuits of the famous gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha In a village of La Mancha, the name of which I have no desire to call to mind, there lived not long since one of
those gentlemen that keep a lance in the lance-rack, an old buckler, a lean hack, and a greyhound for coursing. An olla of rather more beef than mutton, a salad on most nights, scraps on Saturdays, lentils on Fridays, and a pigeon or so extra on Sundays, made away with three-quarters of his income. The rest of it went in a doublet of fine cloth and velvet breeches and shoes to match for holidays, while on week-days he made a brave figure in his best home- spun. He had in his house a housekeeper past forty, a niece under twenty, and a lad for the field and market-place, who used to saddle the hack as well as handle the bill-hook. The age of this gentleman of ours was bordering on fifty; he was of a hardy habit, spare, gaunt-featured, a very early riser and a great sportsman. They will have it his surname was Quixada or Quesada (for here there is some difference of opinion among the authors who write on the subject), although from reasonable conjectures it seems plain that he was called Quexana. This, however, is of but little importance to our tale; it will be enough not to stray a hair’s breadth from the truth in the telling of it.
You must know, then, that the above-named gentleman whenever he was at leisure (which was mostly all the year round) gave himself up to reading books of chivalry with such ardour and avidity that he almost entirely ne- glected the pursuit of his field-sports, and even the management of his property; and to such a pitch did his eager- ness and infatuation go that he sold many an acre of tillageland to buy books of chivalry to read, and brought home as many of them as he could get. But of all there were none he liked so well as those of the famous Feliciano de Silva’s composition, for their lucidity of style and complicated conceits were as pearls in his sight, particularly when in his reading he came upon courtships and cartels, where he often found passages like “the reason of the unreason with which my reason is afflicted so weakens my reason that with reason I murmur at your beauty;” or again, “the high heavens, that of your divinity divinely fortify you with the stars, render you deserving of the desert your great- ness deserves.” Over conceits of this sort the poor gentleman lost his wits, and used to lie awake striving to under- stand them and worm the meaning out of them; what Aristotle himself could not have made out or extracted had he come to life again for that special purpose. He was not at all easy about the wounds which Don Belianis gave and took, because it seemed to him that, great as were the surgeons who had cured him, he must have had his face and body covered all over with seams and scars. He commended, however, the author’s way of ending his book with the promise of that interminable adventure, and many a time was he tempted to take up his pen and finish it properly as is there proposed, which no doubt he would have done, and made a successful piece of work of it too, had not greater and more absorbing thoughts prevented him.
Many an argument did he have with the curate of his village (a learned man, and a graduate of Siguenza) as to which had been the better knight, Palmerin of England or Amadis of Gaul. Master Nicholas, the village barber, however, used to say that neither of them came up to the Knight of Phoebus, and that if there was any that could compare with him it was Don Galaor, the brother of Amadis of Gaul, because he had a spirit that was equal to every occasion, and was no finikin knight, nor lachrymose like his brother, while in the matter of valour he was not a whit behind him. In short, he became so absorbed in his books that he spent his nights from sunset to sunrise, and his days from dawn to dark, poring over them; and what with little sleep and much reading his brains got so dry that he lost his wits. His fancy grew full of what he used to read about in his books, enchantments, quarrels, battles, chal- lenges, wounds, wooings, loves, agonies, and all sorts of impossible nonsense; and it so possessed his mind that the
License: Public Domain
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whole fabric of invention and fancy he read of was true, that to him no history in the world had more reality in it. He used to say the Cid Ruy Diaz was a very good knight, but that he was not to be compared with the Knight of the Burning Sword who with one back-stroke cut in half two fierce and monstrous giants. He thought more of Bernar- do del Carpio because at Roncesvalles he slew Roland in spite of enchantments, availing himself of the artifice of Hercules when he strangled Antaeus the son of Terra in his arms. He approved highly of the giant Morgante, because, although of the giant breed which is always arrogant and ill-conditioned, he alone was affable and well- bred. But above all he admired Reinaldos of Montalban, especially when he saw him sallying forth from his castle and robbing everyone he met, and when beyond the seas he stole that image of Mahomet which, as his history says, was entirely of gold. To have a bout of kicking at that traitor of a Ganelon he would have given his housekeeper, and his niece into the bargain.
In short, his wits being quite gone, he hit upon the strang- est notion that ever madman in this world hit upon, and that was that he fancied it was right and requisite, as well for the support of his own honour as for the service of his country, that he should make a knight-errant of himself, roaming the world over in full armour and on horseback in quest of adven- tures, and putting in practice himself all that he had read of as being the usual practices of knights-errant; righting every kind of wrong, and exposing himself to peril and danger from which, in the issue, he was to reap eternal renown and fame. Already the poor man saw himself crowned by the might of his arm Emperor of Trebizond at least; and so, led away by the intense enjoyment he found in these pleasant fancies, he set himself forthwith to put his scheme into execution.
The first thing he did was to clean up some armour that had belonged to his great-grandfather, and had been for ages lying forgotten in a corner eaten with rust and covered with mildew. He scoured and polished it as best he could, but he perceived one great defect in it, that it had no closed helmet, nothing but a simple morion. This deficiency, however, his ingenuity supplied, for he contrived a kind of half-helmet of pasteboard which, fitted on to the morion, looked like a whole one. It is true that, in order to see if it was strong and fit to stand a cut, he drew his sword and gave it a couple of slashes, the first of which undid in an instant what had taken him a week to do. The ease with which he had knocked it to pieces disconcerted him somewhat, and to guard against that danger he set to work again, fixing bars of iron on the inside until he was satisfied with its strength; and then, not caring to try any more experiments with it, he passed it and adopted it as a helmet of the most perfect construction.
He next proceeded to inspect his hack, which, with more quartos than a real and more blemishes than the steed of Gonela, that “tantum pellis et ossa fuit,” surpassed in his eyes the Bucephalus of Alexander or the Babieca of the Cid. Four days were spent in thinking what name to give him, because (as he said to himself ) it was not right that a horse belonging to a knight so famous, and one with such merits of his own, should be without some distinctive name, and he strove to adapt it so as to indicate what he had been before belonging to a knight-errant, and what he then was; for it was only reasonable that, his master taking a new character, he should take a new name, and that it should be a distinguished and full-sounding one, befitting the new order and calling he was about to follow. And so, after having composed, struck out, rejected, added to, unmade, and remade a multitude of names out of his memo- ry and fancy, he decided upon calling him Rocinante, a name, to his thinking, lofty, sonorous, and significant of his condition as a hack before he became what he now was, the first and foremost of all the hacks in the world.
Having got a name for his horse so much to his taste, he was anxious to get one for himself, and he was eight days more pondering over this point, till at last he made up his mind to call himself “Don Quixote,” whence, as has been already said, the authors of this veracious history have inferred that his name must have been beyond a doubt Quixada, and not Quesada as others would have it. Recollecting, however, that the valiant Amadis was not con- tent to call himself curtly Amadis and nothing more, but added the name of his kingdom and country to make it
Image 11.4: Don Quixote goes mad from his read- ing of books of chivalry | Illustration by Gustave Doré depicting Don Quixote surrounded by characters from his books.
Author: Gustave Doré Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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Don Quixote
famous, and called himself Amadis of Gaul, he, like a good knight, resolved to add on the name of his, and to style himself Don Quixote of La Mancha, whereby, he considered, he described accurately his origin and country, and did honour to it in taking his surname from it.
So then, his armour being furbished, his morion turned into a helmet, his hack christened, and he himself confirmed, he came to the conclusion that nothing more was needed now but to look out for a lady to be in love with; for a knight-errant without love was like a tree without leaves or fruit, or a body without a soul. As he said to himself, “If, for my sins, or by my good fortune, I come across some giant hereabouts, a common occurrence with knights-errant, and overthrow him in one onslaught, or cleave him asunder to the waist, or, in short, vanquish and subdue him, will it not be well to have some one I may send him to as a present, that he may come in and fall on his knees before my sweet lady, and in a humble, submissive voice say, ‘I am the giant Caraculiambro, lord of the island of Malindrania, vanquished in single combat by the never sufficiently extolled knight Don Quixote of La Mancha, who has commanded me to present myself before your Grace, that your Highness dispose of me at your pleasure’?” Oh, how our good gentleman enjoyed the delivery of this speech, especially when he had thought of some one to call his Lady! There was, so the story goes, in a village near his own a very good-looking farm-girl with whom he had been at one time in love, though, so far as is known, she never knew it nor gave a thought to the matter. Her name was Aldonza Lorenzo, and upon her he thought fit to confer the title of Lady of his Thoughts; and after some search for a name which should not be out of harmony with her own, and should suggest and indicate that of a princess and great lady, he decided upon calling her Dulcinea del Toboso—she being of El Toboso—a name, to his mind, musical, uncommon, and significant, like all those he had already bestowed upon himself and the things belonging to him.
Chapter II Which treats of the first sally the ingenious Don Quixote made from home
These preliminaries settled, he did not care to put off any longer the execution of his design, urged on to it by the thought of all the world was losing by his delay, seeing what wrongs he intended to right, grievances to redress, injustices to repair, abuses to remove, and duties to discharge. So, without giving notice of his intention to anyone, and without anybody seeing him, one morning before the dawning of the day (which was one of the hottest of the month of July) he donned his suit of armour, mounted Rocinante with his patched-up helmet on, braced his buck- ler, took his lance, and by the back door of the yard sallied forth upon the plain in the highest contentment and sat- isfaction at seeing with what ease he had made a beginning with his grand purpose. But scarcely did he find himself upon the open plain, when a terrible thought struck him, one all but enough to make him abandon the enterprise at the very outset. It occurred to him that he had not been dubbed a knight, and that according to the law of chivalry he neither could nor ought to bear arms against any knight; and that even if he had been, still he ought, as a nov- ice knight, to wear white armour, without a device upon the shield until by his prowess he had earned one. These reflections made him waver in his purpose, but his craze being stronger than any reasoning, he made up his mind to have himself dubbed a knight by the first one he came across, following the example of others in the same case, as he had read in the books that brought him to this pass. As for white armour, he resolved, on the first opportunity, to scour his until it was whiter than an ermine; and so comforting himself he pursued his way, taking that which his horse chose, for in this he believed lay the essence of adventures.
Thus setting out, our new-fledged adventurer paced along, talking to himself and saying, “Who knows but that in time to come, when the veracious history of my famous deeds is made known, the sage who writes it, when he has to set forth my first sally in the early morning, will do it after this fashion? ‘Scarce had the rubicund Apollo spread o’er the face of the broad spacious earth the golden threads of his bright hair, scarce had the little birds of painted plumage attuned their notes to hail with dulcet and mellifluous harmony the coming of the rosy Dawn, that, deserting the soft couch of her jealous spouse, was appearing to mortals at the gates and balconies of the Manchegan horizon, when the renowned knight Don Quixote of La Mancha, quitting the lazy down, mounted his celebrated steed Rocinante and began to traverse the ancient and famous Campo de Montiel;’” which in fact he was actually traversing. “Happy the age, happy the time,” he continued, “in which shall be made known my deeds of fame, worthy to be moulded in brass, carved in marble, limned in pictures, for a memorial for ever. And thou, O sage magician, whoever thou art, to whom it shall fall to be the chronicler of this wondrous history, forget not, I en- treat thee, my good Rocinante, the constant companion of my ways and wanderings.” Presently he broke out again, as if he were love-stricken in earnest, “O Princess Dulcinea, lady of this captive heart, a grievous wrong hast thou done me to drive me forth with scorn, and with inexorable obduracy banish me from the presence of thy beauty. O lady, deign to hold in remembrance this heart, thy vassal, that thus in anguish pines for love of thee.”
So he went on stringing together these and other absurdities, all in the style of those his books had taught him, imitating their language as well as he could; and all the while he rode so slowly and the sun mounted so rapidly and with such fervour that it was enough to melt his brains if he had any. Nearly all day he travelled without anything
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remarkable happening to him, at which he was in despair, for he was anxious to encounter some one at once upon whom to try the might of his strong arm.
Writers there are who say the first adventure he met with was that of Puerto Lapice; others say it was that of the windmills; but what I have ascertained on this point, and what I have found written in the annals of La Mancha, is that he was on the road all day, and towards nightfall his hack and he found themselves dead tired and hungry, when, looking all around to see if he could discover any castle or shepherd’s shanty where he might refresh himself and relieve his sore wants, he perceived not far out of his road an inn, which was as welcome as a star guiding him to the portals, if not the palaces, of his redemption; and quickening his pace he reached it just as night was setting in. At the door were standing two young women, girls of the district as they call them, on their way to Seville with some carriers who had chanced to halt that night at the inn; and as, happen what might to our adventurer, every- thing he saw or imaged seemed to him to be and to happen after the fashion of what he read of, the moment he saw the inn he pictured it to himself as a castle with its four turrets and pinnacles of shining silver, not forgetting the drawbridge and moat and all the belongings usually ascribed to castles of the sort. To this inn, which to him seemed a castle, he advanced, and at a short distance from it he checked Rocinante, hoping that some dwarf would show himself upon the battlements, and by sound of trumpet give notice that a knight was approaching the castle. But seeing that they were slow about it, and that Rocinante was in a hurry to reach the stable, he made for the inn door, and perceived the two gay damsels who were standing there, and who seemed to him to be two fair maidens or lovely ladies taking their ease at the castle gate.
At this moment it so happened that a swineherd who was going through the stubbles collecting a drove of pigs (for, without any apology, that is what they are called) gave a blast of his horn to bring them together, and forthwith it seemed to Don Quixote to be what he was expecting, the signal of some dwarf announcing his arrival; and so with prodigious satisfaction he rode up to the inn and to the ladies, who, seeing a man of this sort approaching in full armour and with lance and buckler, were turning in dismay into the inn, when Don Quixote, guessing their fear by their flight, raising his pasteboard visor, disclosed his dry dusty visage, and with courteous bearing and gentle voice addressed them, “Your ladyships need not fly or fear any rudeness, for that it belongs not to the order of knighthood which I profess to offer to anyone, much less to highborn maidens as your appearance proclaims you to be.” The girls were looking at him and straining their eyes to make out the features which the clumsy visor obscured, but when they heard themselves called maidens, a thing so much out of their line, they could not restrain their laughter, which made Don Quixote wax indignant, and say, “Modesty becomes the fair, and moreover laughter that has little cause is great silliness; this, however, I say not to pain or anger you, for my desire is none other than to serve you.”
The incomprehensible language and the unpromising looks of our cavalier only increased the ladies’ laughter, and that increased his irritation, and matters might have gone farther if at that moment the landlord had not come out, who, being a very fat man, was a very peaceful one. He, seeing this grotesque figure clad in armour that did not match any more than his saddle, bridle, lance, buckler, or corselet, was not at all indisposed to join the damsels in their manifestations of amusement; but, in truth, standing in awe of such a complicated armament, he thought it best to speak him fairly, so he said, “Senor Caballero, if your worship wants lodging, bating the bed (for there is not one in the inn) there is plenty of everything else here.” Don Quixote, observing the respectful bearing of the Alcaide of the fortress (for so innkeeper and inn seemed in his eyes), made answer, “Sir Castellan, for me anything will suffice, for
‘My armour is my only wear, My only rest the fray.’”
The host fancied he called him Castellan because he took him for a “worthy of Castile,” though he was in fact an Andalusian, and one from the strand of San Lucar, as crafty a thief as Cacus and as full of tricks as a student or a page. “In that case,” said he,
“’Your bed is on the flinty rock, Your sleep to watch alway;’
and if so, you may dismount and safely reckon upon any quantity of sleeplessness under this roof for a twelve- month, not to say for a single night.” So saying, he advanced to hold the stirrup for Don Quixote, who got down with great difficulty and exertion (for he had not broken his fast all day), and then charged the host to take great care of his horse, as he was the best bit of flesh that ever ate bread in this world. The landlord eyed him over but did not find him as good as Don Quixote said, nor even half as good; and putting him up in the stable, he returned to see what might be wanted by his guest, whom the damsels, who had by this time made their peace with him, were now relieving of his armour. They had taken off his breastplate and backpiece, but they neither knew nor saw how
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to open his gorget or remove his make-shift helmet, for he had fastened it with green ribbons, which, as there was no untying the knots, required to be cut. This, however, he would not by any means consent to, so he remained all the evening with his helmet on, the drollest and oddest figure that can be imagined; and while they were removing his armour, taking the baggages who were about it for ladies of high degree belonging to the castle, he said to them with great sprightliness:
“Oh, never, surely, was there knight So served by hand of dame, As served was he, Don Quixote hight, When from his town he came; With maidens waiting on himself, Princesses on his hack—
or Rocinante, for that, ladies mine, is my horse’s name, and Don Quixote of La Mancha is my own; for though I had no intention of declaring myself until my achievements in your service and honour had made me known, the necessity of adapting that old ballad of Lancelot to the present occasion has given you the knowledge of my name altogether prematurely. A time, however, will come for your ladyships to command and me to obey, and then the might of my arm will show my desire to serve you.”
The girls, who were not used to hearing rhetoric of this sort, had nothing to say in reply; they only asked him if he wanted anything to eat. “I would gladly eat a bit of something,” said Don Quixote, “for I feel it would come very seasonably.” The day happened to be a Friday, and in the whole inn there was nothing but some pieces of the fish they call in Castile “abadejo,” in Andalusia “bacallao,” and in some places “curadillo,” and in others “troutlet;” so they asked him if he thought he could eat troutlet, for there was no other fish to give him. “If there be troutlets enough,” said Don Quixote, “they will be the same thing as a trout; for it is all one to me whether I am given eight reals in small change or a piece of eight; moreover, it may be that these troutlets are like veal, which is better than beef, or kid, which is better than goat. But whatever it be let it come quickly, for the burden and pressure of arms cannot be borne without support to the inside.” They laid a table for him at the door of the inn for the sake of the air, and the host brought him a portion of ill-soaked and worse cooked stockfish, and a piece of bread as black and mouldy as his own armour; but a laughable sight it was to see him eating, for having his helmet on and the beaver up, he could not with his own hands put anything into his mouth unless some one else placed it there, and this service one of the ladies rendered him. But to give him anything to drink was impossible, or would have been so had not the landlord bored a reed, and putting one end in his mouth poured the wine into him through the other; all which he bore with patience rather than sever the ribbons of his helmet.
While this was going on there came up to the inn a sowgelder, who, as he approached, sounded his reed pipe four or five times, and thereby completely convinced Don Quixote that he was in some famous castle, and that they were regaling him with music, and that the stockfish was trout, the bread the whitest, the wenches ladies, and the landlord the castellan of the castle; and consequently he held that his enterprise and sally had been to some purpose. But still it distressed him to think he had not been dubbed a knight, for it was plain to him he could not lawfully engage in any adventure without receiving the order of knighthood.
Chapter III Wherein is related the droll way in which Don Quixote had himself dubbed a knight
Harassed by this reflection, he made haste with his scanty pothouse supper, and having finished it called the landlord, and shutting himself into the stable with him, fell on his knees before him, saying, “From this spot I rise not, valiant knight, until your courtesy grants me the boon I seek, one that will redound to your praise and the benefit of the human race.” The landlord, seeing his guest at his feet and hearing a speech of this kind, stood star- ing at him in bewilderment, not knowing what to do or say, and entreating him to rise, but all to no purpose until he had agreed to grant the boon demanded of him. “I looked for no less, my lord, from your High Magnificence,” replied Don Quixote, “and I have to tell you that the boon I have asked and your liberality has granted is that you shall dub me knight to-morrow morning, and that to-night I shall watch my arms in the chapel of this your castle; thus tomorrow, as I have said, will be accomplished what I so much desire, enabling me lawfully to roam through all the four quarters of the world seeking adventures on behalf of those in distress, as is the duty of chivalry and of knights-errant like myself, whose ambition is directed to such deeds.”
The landlord, who, as has been mentioned, was something of a wag, and had already some suspicion of his guest’s want of wits, was quite convinced of it on hearing talk of this kind from him, and to make sport for the night he de- termined to fall in with his humour. So he told him he was quite right in pursuing the object he had in view, and that
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such a motive was natural and becoming in cavaliers as distinguished as he seemed and his gallant bearing showed him to be; and that he himself in his younger days had followed the same honourable calling, roaming in quest of adventures in various parts of the world, among others the Curing-grounds of Malaga, the Isles of Riaran, the Precinct of Seville, the Little Market of Segovia, the Olivera of Valencia, the Rondilla of Granada, the Strand of San Lucar, the Colt of Cordova, the Taverns of Toledo, and divers other quarters, where he had proved the nimbleness of his feet and the lightness of his fingers, doing many wrongs, cheating many widows, ruining maids and swindling minors, and, in short, bringing himself under the notice of almost every tribunal and court of justice in Spain; until at last he had retired to this castle of his, where he was living upon his property and upon that of others; and where he received all knights-errant of whatever rank or condition they might be, all for the great love he bore them and that they might share their substance with him in return for his benevolence. He told him, moreover, that in this castle of his there was no chapel in which he could watch his armour, as it had been pulled down in order to be rebuilt, but that in a case of necessity it might, he knew, be watched anywhere, and he might watch it that night in a courtyard of the castle, and in the morning, God willing, the requisite ceremonies might be performed so as to have him dubbed a knight, and so thoroughly dubbed that nobody could be more so. He asked if he had any money with him, to which Don Quixote replied that he had not a farthing, as in the histories of knights-errant he had never read of any of them carrying any. On this point the landlord told him he was mistaken; for, though not recorded in the histories, because in the author’s opinion there was no need to mention anything so obvious and necessary as money and clean shirts, it was not to be supposed therefore that they did not carry them, and he might regard it as certain and established that all knights-er- rant (about whom there were so many full and unimpeachable books) carried well-furnished purses in case of emer- gency, and likewise carried shirts and a little box of ointment to cure the wounds they received. For in those plains and deserts where they engaged in combat and came out wounded, it was not always that there was some one to cure them, unless indeed they had for a friend some sage magician to succour them at once by fetching through the air upon a cloud some damsel or dwarf with a vial of water of such virtue that by tasting one drop of it they were cured of their hurts and wounds in an instant and left as sound as if they had not received any damage whatever. But in case this should not occur, the knights of old took care to see that their squires were provided with money and other requisites, such as lint and ointments for healing purposes; and when it happened that knights had no squires (which was rarely and seldom the case) they themselves carried everything in cunning saddle-bags that were hardly seen on the horse’s croup, as if it were something else of more importance, because, unless for some such reason, carrying saddle-bags was not very favourably regarded among knights-errant. He therefore advised him (and, as his godson so soon to be, he might even command him) never from that time forth to travel without money and the usual requirements, and he would find the advantage of them when he least expected it.
Don Quixote promised to follow his advice scrupulously, and it was arranged forthwith that he should watch his armour in a large yard at one side of the inn; so, collecting it all together, Don Quixote placed it on a trough that stood by the side of a well, and bracing his buckler on his arm he grasped his lance and began with a stately air to march up and down in front of the trough, and as he began his march night began to fall.
The landlord told all the people who were in the inn about the craze of his guest, the watching of the armour, and the dubbing ceremony he contemplated. Full of wonder at so strange a form of madness, they flocked to see it from a distance, and observed with what composure he sometimes paced up and down, or sometimes, leaning on his lance, gazed on his armour without taking his eyes off it for ever so long; and as the night closed in with a light from the moon so brilliant that it might vie with his that lent it, everything the novice knight did was plainly seen by all.
Meanwhile one of the carriers who were in the inn thought fit to water his team, and it was necessary to remove Don Quixote’s armour as it lay on the trough; but he seeing the other approach hailed him in a loud voice, “O thou, whoever thou art, rash knight that comest to lay hands on the armour of the most valorous errant that ever girt on sword, have a care what thou dost; touch it not unless thou wouldst lay down thy life as the penalty of thy rashness.” The carrier gave no heed to these words (and he would have done better to heed them if he had been heedful of his health), but seizing it by the straps flung the armour some distance from him. Seeing this, Don Quixote raised his eyes to heaven, and fixing his thoughts, apparently, upon his lady Dulcinea, exclaimed, “Aid me, lady mine, in this the first encounter that presents itself to this breast which thou holdest in subjection; let not thy favour and pro- tection fail me in this first jeopardy;” and, with these words and others to the same purpose, dropping his buckler he lifted his lance with both hands and with it smote such a blow on the carrier’s head that he stretched him on the ground, so stunned that had he followed it up with a second there would have been no need of a surgeon to cure him. This done, he picked up his armour and returned to his beat with the same serenity as before.
Shortly after this, another, not knowing what had happened (for the carrier still lay senseless), came with the same object of giving water to his mules, and was proceeding to remove the armour in order to clear the trough, when Don Quixote, without uttering a word or imploring aid from anyone, once more dropped his buckler and once more lifted his lance, and without actually breaking the second carrier’s head into pieces, made more than three of it, for he laid it open in four. At the noise all the people of the inn ran to the spot, and among them the
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landlord. Seeing this, Don Quixote braced his buckler on his arm, and with his hand on his sword exclaimed, “O Lady of Beauty, strength and support of my faint heart, it is time for thee to turn the eyes of thy greatness on this thy captive knight on the brink of so mighty an adventure.” By this he felt himself so inspired that he would not have flinched if all the carriers in the world had assailed him. The comrades of the wounded perceiving the plight they were in began from a distance to shower stones on Don Quixote, who screened himself as best he could with his buckler, not daring to quit the trough and leave his armour unprotected. The landlord shouted to them to leave him alone, for he had already told them that he was mad, and as a madman he would not be accountable even if he killed them all. Still louder shouted Don Quixote, calling them knaves and traitors, and the lord of the castle, who allowed knights-errant to be treated in this fashion, a villain and a low-born knight whom, had he received the order of knighthood, he would call to account for his treachery. “But of you,” he cried, “base and vile rabble, I make no account; fling, strike, come on, do all ye can against me, ye shall see what the reward of your folly and insolence will be.” This he uttered with so much spirit and boldness that he filled his assailants with a terrible fear, and as much for this reason as at the persuasion of the landlord they left off stoning him, and he allowed them to carry off the wounded, and with the same calmness and composure as before resumed the watch over his armour.
But these freaks of his guest were not much to the liking of the landlord, so he determined to cut matters short and confer upon him at once the unlucky order of knighthood before any further misadventure could occur; so, going up to him, he apologised for the rudeness which, without his knowledge, had been offered to him by these low people, who, however, had been well punished for their audacity. As he had already told him, he said, there was no chapel in the castle, nor was it needed for what remained to be done, for, as he understood the ceremonial of the order, the whole point of being dubbed a knight lay in the accolade and in the slap on the shoulder, and that could be administered in the middle of a field; and that he had now done all that was needful as to watching the armour, for all requirements were satisfied by a watch of two hours only, while he had been more than four about it. Don Quixote believed it all, and told him he stood there ready to obey him, and to make an end of it with as much despatch as possible; for, if he were again attacked, and felt himself to be dubbed knight, he would not, he thought, leave a soul alive in the castle, except such as out of respect he might spare at his bidding.
Thus warned and menaced, the castellan forthwith brought out a book in which he used to enter the straw and barley he served out to the carriers, and, with a lad carrying a candle-end, and the two damsels already mentioned, he returned to where Don Quixote stood, and bade him kneel down. Then, reading from his account-book as if he were repeating some devout prayer, in the middle of his delivery he raised his hand and gave him a sturdy blow on the neck, and then, with his own sword, a smart slap on the shoulder, all the while muttering between his teeth as if he was saying his prayers. Having done this, he directed one of the ladies to gird on his sword, which she did with great self-possession and gravity, and not a little was required to prevent a burst of laughter at each stage of the cere- mony; but what they had already seen of the novice knight’s prowess kept their laughter within bounds. On girding him with the sword the worthy lady said to him, “May God make your worship a very fortunate knight, and grant you success in battle.” Don Quixote asked her name in order that he might from that time forward know to whom he was beholden for the favour he had received, as he meant to confer upon her some portion of the honour he acquired by the might of his arm. She answered with great humility that she was called La Tolosa, and that she was the daughter of a cobbler of Toledo who lived in the stalls of Sanchobienaya, and that wherever she might be she would serve and esteem him as her lord. Don Quixote said in reply that she would do him a favour if thenceforward she assumed the “Don” and called herself Dona Tolosa. She promised she would, and then the other buckled on his spur, and with her followed almost the same conversation as with the lady of the sword. He asked her name, and she said it was La Molinera, and that she was the daughter of a respectable miller of Antequera; and of her likewise Don Quixote requested that she would adopt the “Don” and call herself Dona Molinera, making offers to her further services and favours.
Having thus, with hot haste and speed, brought to a conclusion these never-till-now-seen ceremonies, Don Quixote was on thorns until he saw himself on horseback sallying forth in quest of adventures; and saddling Ro- cinante at once he mounted, and embracing his host, as he returned thanks for his kindness in knighting him, he addressed him in language so extraordinary that it is impossible to convey an idea of it or report it. The landlord, to get him out of the inn, replied with no less rhetoric though with shorter words, and without calling upon him to pay the reckoning let him go with a Godspeed.
Chapter IV Of what happened to our knight when he left the inn
Day was dawning when Don Quixote quitted the inn, so happy, so gay, so exhilarated at finding himself now dubbed a knight, that his joy was like to burst his horse-girths. However, recalling the advice of his host as to the requisites he ought to carry with him, especially that referring to money and shirts, he determined to go home and
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provide himself with all, and also with a squire, for he reckoned upon securing a farm-labourer, a neighbour of his, a poor man with a family, but very well qualified for the office of squire to a knight. With this object he turned his horse’s head towards his village, and Rocinante, thus reminded of his old quarters, stepped out so briskly that he hardly seemed to tread the earth.
He had not gone far, when out of a thicket on his right there seemed to come feeble cries as of some one in distress, and the instant he heard them he exclaimed, “Thanks be to heaven for the favour it accords me, that it so soon offers me an opportunity of fulfilling the obligation I have undertaken, and gathering the fruit of my ambition. These cries, no doubt, come from some man or woman in want of help, and needing my aid and protection;” and wheeling, he turned Rocinante in the direction whence the cries seemed to proceed. He had gone but a few pac- es into the wood, when he saw a mare tied to an oak, and tied to another, and stripped from the waist upwards, a youth of about fifteen years of age, from whom the cries came. Nor were they without cause, for a lusty farmer was flogging him with a belt and following up every blow with scoldings and commands, repeating, “Your mouth shut and your eyes open!” while the youth made answer, “I won’t do it again, master mine; by God’s passion I won’t do it again, and I’ll take more care of the flock another time.”
Seeing what was going on, Don Quixote said in an angry voice, “Discourteous knight, it ill becomes you to assail one who cannot defend himself; mount your steed and take your lance” (for there was a lance leaning against the oak to which the mare was tied), “and I will make you know that you are behaving as a coward.” The farmer, seeing before him this figure in full armour brandishing a lance over his head, gave himself up for dead, and made answer meekly, “Sir Knight, this youth that I am chastising is my servant, employed by me to watch a flock of sheep that I have hard by, and he is so careless that I lose one every day, and when I punish him for his carelessness and knavery he says I do it out of niggardliness, to escape paying him the wages I owe him, and before God, and on my soul, he lies.”
“Lies before me, base clown!” said Don Quixote. “By the sun that shines on us I have a mind to run you through with this lance. Pay him at once without another word; if not, by the God that rules us I will make an end of you, and annihilate you on the spot; release him instantly.”
The farmer hung his head, and without a word untied his servant, of whom Don Quixote asked how much his master owed him. He replied, nine months at seven reals a month. Don Quixote added it up, found that it came to sixty-three
reals, and told the farmer to pay it down immediately, if he did not want to die for it. The trembling clown replied that as he lived and by the oath he had sworn (though he had not sworn any) it
was not so much; for there were to be taken into account and deducted three pairs of shoes he had given him, and a real for two blood-lettings when he was sick.
“All that is very well,” said Don Quixote; “but let the shoes and the blood-lettings stand as a setoff against the blows you have given him without any cause; for if he spoiled the leather of the shoes you paid for, you have dam- aged that of his body, and if the barber took blood from him when he was sick, you have drawn it when he was sound; so on that score he owes you nothing.”
“The difficulty is, Sir Knight, that I have no money here; let Andres come home with me, and I will pay him all, real by real.”
“I go with him!” said the youth. “Nay, God forbid! No, senor, not for the world; for once alone with me, he would ray me like a Saint Bartholomew.”
“He will do nothing of the kind,” said Don Quixote; “I have only to command, and he will obey me; and as he has sworn to me by the order of knighthood which he has received, I leave him free, and I guarantee the payment.”
“Consider what you are saying, senor,” said the youth; “this master of mine is not a knight, nor has he received any order of knighthood; for he is Juan Haldudo the Rich, of Quintanar.”
“That matters little,” replied Don Quixote; “there may be Haldudos knights; moreover, everyone is the son of his works.”
“That is true,” said Andres; “but this master of mine—of what works is he the son, when he refuses me the wag- es of my sweat and labour?”
“I do not refuse, brother Andres,” said the farmer, “be good enough to come along with me, and I swear by all the orders of knighthood there are in the world to pay you as I have agreed, real by real, and perfumed.”
“For the perfumery I excuse you,” said Don Quixote; “give it to him in reals, and I shall be satisfied; and see that you do as you have sworn; if not, by the same oath I swear to come back and hunt you out and punish you; and I shall find you though you should lie closer than a lizard. And if you desire to know who it is lays this command upon you, that you be more firmly bound to obey it, know that I am the valorous Don Quixote of La Mancha, the undoer of wrongs and injustices; and so, God be with you, and keep in mind what you have promised and sworn under those penalties that have been already declared to you.”
So saying, he gave Rocinante the spur and was soon out of reach. The farmer followed him with his eyes, and when he saw that he had cleared the wood and was no longer in sight, he turned to his boy Andres, and said,
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“Come here, my son, I want to pay you what I owe you, as that undoer of wrongs has commanded me.” “My oath on it,” said Andres, “your worship will be well advised to obey the command of that good knight—
may he live a thousand years—for, as he is a valiant and just judge, by Roque, if you do not pay me, he will come back and do as he said.”
“My oath on it, too,” said the farmer; “but as I have a strong affection for you, I want to add to the debt in order to add to the payment;” and seizing him by the arm, he tied him up again, and gave him such a flogging that he left him for dead.
“Now, Master Andres,” said the farmer, “call on the undoer of wrongs; you will find he won’t undo that, though I am not sure that I have quite done with you, for I have a good mind to flay you alive.” But at last he untied him, and gave him leave to go look for his judge in order to put the sentence pronounced into execution.
Andres went off rather down in the mouth, swearing he would go to look for the valiant Don Quixote of La Mancha and tell him exactly what had happened, and that all would have to be repaid him sevenfold; but for all that, he went off weeping, while his master stood laughing.
Thus did the valiant Don Quixote right that wrong, and, thoroughly satisfied with what had taken place, as he considered he had made a very happy and noble beginning with his knighthood, he took the road towards his village in perfect self-content, saying in a low voice, “Well mayest thou this day call thyself fortunate above all on earth, O Dulcinea del Toboso, fairest of the fair! since it has fallen to thy lot to hold subject and submissive to thy full will and pleasure a knight so renowned as is and will be Don Quixote of La Mancha, who, as all the world knows, yesterday received the order of knighthood, and hath to-day righted the greatest wrong and grievance that ever injustice conceived and cruelty perpetrated: who hath to-day plucked the rod from the hand of yonder ruthless oppressor so wantonly lashing that tender child.”
He now came to a road branching in four directions, and immediately he was reminded of those cross-roads where knights-errant used to stop to consider which road they should take. In imitation of them he halted for a while, and after having deeply considered it, he gave Rocinante his head, submitting his own will to that of his hack, who followed out his first intention, which was to make straight for his own stable. After he had gone about two miles Don Quixote perceived a large party of people, who, as afterwards appeared, were some Toledo traders, on their way to buy silk at Murcia. There were six of them coming along under their sunshades, with four servants mounted, and three muleteers on foot. Scarcely had Don Quixote descried them when the fancy possessed him that this must be some new adventure; and to help him to imitate as far as he could those passages he had read of in his books, here seemed to come one made on purpose, which he resolved to attempt. So with a lofty bearing and determination he fixed himself firmly in his stirrups, got his lance ready, brought his buckler before his breast, and planting himself in the middle of the road, stood waiting the approach of these knights-errant, for such he now considered and held them to be; and when they had come near enough to see and hear, he exclaimed with a haugh- ty gesture, “All the world stand, unless all the world confess that in all the world there is no maiden fairer than the Empress of La Mancha, the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso.”
The traders halted at the sound of this language and the sight of the strange figure that uttered it, and from both figure and language at once guessed the craze of their owner; they wished, however, to learn quietly what was the object of this confession that was demanded of them, and one of them, who was rather fond of a joke and was very sharp-witted, said to him, “Sir Knight, we do not know who this good lady is that you speak of; show her to us, for, if she be of such beauty as you suggest, with all our hearts and without any pressure we will confess the truth that is on your part required of us.”
“If I were to show her to you,” replied Don Quixote, “what merit would you have in confessing a truth so man- ifest? The essential point is that without seeing her you must believe, confess, affirm, swear, and defend it; else ye have to do with me in battle, ill-conditioned, arrogant rabble that ye are; and come ye on, one by one as the order of knighthood requires, or all together as is the custom and vile usage of your breed, here do I bide and await you relying on the justice of the cause I maintain.”
“Sir Knight,” replied the trader, “I entreat your worship in the name of this present company of princes, that, to save us from charging our consciences with the confession of a thing we have never seen or heard of, and one more- over so much to the prejudice of the Empresses and Queens of the Alcarria and Estremadura, your worship will be pleased to show us some portrait of this lady, though it be no bigger than a grain of wheat; for by the thread one gets at the ball, and in this way we shall be satisfied and easy, and you will be content and pleased; nay, I believe we are al- ready so far agreed with you that even though her portrait should show her blind of one eye, and distilling vermilion and sulphur from the other, we would nevertheless, to gratify your worship, say all in her favour that you desire.”
“She distils nothing of the kind, vile rabble,” said Don Quixote, burning with rage, “nothing of the kind, I say, only ambergris and civet in cotton; nor is she one-eyed or humpbacked, but straighter than a Guadarrama spindle: but ye must pay for the blasphemy ye have uttered against beauty like that of my lady.”
And so saying, he charged with levelled lance against the one who had spoken, with such fury and fierceness
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that, if luck had not contrived that Rocinante should stumble midway and come down, it would have gone hard with the rash trader. Down went Rocinante, and over went his master, rolling along the ground for some distance; and when he tried to rise he was unable, so encumbered was he with lance, buckler, spurs, helmet, and the weight of his old armour; and all the while he was struggling to get up he kept saying, “Fly not, cowards and caitiffs! stay, for not by my fault, but my horse’s, am I stretched here.”
One of the muleteers in attendance, who could not have had much good nature in him, hearing the poor pros- trate man blustering in this style, was unable to refrain from giving him an answer on his ribs; and coming up to him he seized his lance, and having broken it in pieces, with one of them he began so to belabour our Don Quixote that, notwithstanding and in spite of his armour, he milled him like a measure of wheat. His masters called out not to lay on so hard and to leave him alone, but the muleteers blood was up, and he did not care to drop the game until he had vented the rest of his wrath, and gathering up the remaining fragments of the lance he finished with a discharge upon the unhappy victim, who all through the storm of sticks that rained on him never ceased threaten- ing heaven, and earth, and the brigands, for such they seemed to him. At last the muleteer was tired, and the traders continued their journey, taking with them matter for talk about the poor fellow who had been cudgelled. He when he found himself alone made another effort to rise; but if he was unable when whole and sound, how was he to rise after having been thrashed and well-nigh knocked to pieces? And yet he esteemed himself fortunate, as it seemed to him that this was a regular knight-errant’s mishap, and entirely, he considered, the fault of his horse. However, battered in body as he was, to rise was beyond his power.
Chapter V In which the narrative of our knight’s mishap is continued
Finding, then, that, in fact he could not move, he thought himself of having recourse to his usual remedy, which was to think of some passage in his books, and his craze brought to his mind that about Baldwin and the Marquis of Mantua, when Carloto left him wounded on the mountain side, a story known by heart by the children, not forgotten by the young men, and lauded and even believed by the old folk; and for all that not a whit truer than the miracles of Mahomet. This seemed to him to fit exactly the case in which he found himself, so, making a show of severe suffering, he began to roll on the ground and with feeble breath repeat the very words which the wounded knight of the wood is said to have uttered:
Where art thou, lady mine, that thou My sorrow dost not rue? Thou canst not know it, lady mine, Or else thou art untrue.
And so he went on with the ballad as far as the lines:
O noble Marquis of Mantua, My Uncle and liege lord!
As chance would have it, when he had got to this line there happened to come by a peasant from his own village, a neighbour of his, who had been with a load of wheat to the mill, and he, seeing the man stretched there, came up to him and asked him who he was and what was the matter with him that he complained so dolefully.
Don Quixote was firmly persuaded that this was the Marquis of Mantua, his uncle, so the only answer he made was to go on with his ballad, in which he told the tale of his misfortune, and of the loves of the Emperor’s son and his wife all exactly as the ballad sings it.
The peasant stood amazed at hearing such nonsense, and relieving him of the visor, already battered to pieces by blows, he wiped his face, which was covered with dust, and as soon as he had done so he recognised him and said, “Senor Quixada” (for so he appears to have been called when he was in his senses and had not yet changed from a quiet country gentleman into a knight-errant), “who has brought your worship to this pass?” But to all ques- tions the other only went on with his ballad.
Seeing this, the good man removed as well as he could his breastplate and backpiece to see if he had any wound, but he could perceive no blood nor any mark whatever. He then contrived to raise him from the ground, and with no little difficulty hoisted him upon his ass, which seemed to him to be the easiest mount for him; and collecting the arms, even to the splinters of the lance, he tied them on Rocinante, and leading him by the bridle and the ass by the halter he took the road for the village, very sad to hear what absurd stuff Don Quixote was talking.
Nor was Don Quixote less so, for what with blows and bruises he could not sit upright on the ass, and from
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time to time he sent up sighs to heaven, so that once more he drove the peasant to ask what ailed him. And it could have been only the devil himself that put into his head tales to match his own adventures, for now, forgetting Bald- win, he bethought himself of the Moor Abindarraez, when the Alcaide of Antequera, Rodrigo de Narvaez, took him prisoner and carried him away to his castle; so that when the peasant again asked him how he was and what ailed him, he gave him for reply the same words and phrases that the captive Abindarraez gave to Rodrigo de Narvaez, just as he had read the story in the “Diana” of Jorge de Montemayor where it is written, applying it to his own case so aptly that the peasant went along cursing his fate that he had to listen to such a lot of nonsense; from which, however, he came to the conclusion that his neighbour was mad, and so made all haste to reach the village to escape the wearisomeness of this harangue of Don Quixote’s; who, at the end of it, said, “Senor Don Rodrigo de Narvaez, your worship must know that this fair Xarifa I have mentioned is now the lovely Dulcinea del Toboso, for whom I have done, am doing, and will do the most famous deeds of chivalry that in this world have been seen, are to be seen, or ever shall be seen.”
To this the peasant answered, “Senor—sinner that I am!—cannot your worship see that I am not Don Rodrigo de Narvaez nor the Marquis of Mantua, but Pedro Alonso your neighbour, and that your worship is neither Baldwin nor Abindarraez, but the worthy gentleman Senor Quixada?” “I know who I am,” replied Don Quixote, “and I know that I may be not only those I have named, but all the
Twelve Peers of France and even all the Nine Worthies, since my achievements surpass all that they have done all together and each of them on his own account.”
With this talk and more of the same kind they reached the village just as night was beginning to fall, but the peasant waited until it was a little later that the belaboured gentleman might not be seen riding in such a miserable trim. When it was what seemed to him the proper time he entered the village and went to Don Quixote’s house, which he found all in confusion, and there were the curate and the village barber, who were great friends of Don Quixote, and his housekeeper was saying to them in a loud voice, “What does your worship think can have befallen my master, Senor Licentiate Pero Perez?” for so the curate was called; “it is three days now since anything has been seen of him, or the hack, or the buckler, lance, or armour. Miserable me! I am certain of it, and it is as true as that I was born to die, that these accursed books of chivalry he has, and has got into the way of reading so constantly, have upset his reason; for now I remember having often heard him saying to himself that he would turn knight-er- rant and go all over the world in quest of adventures. To the devil and Barabbas with such books, that have brought to ruin in this way the finest understanding there was in all La Mancha!”
The niece said the same, and, more: “You must know, Master Nicholas”—for that was the name of the bar- ber—”it was often my uncle’s way to stay two days and nights together poring over these unholy books of misven- tures, after which he would fling the book away and snatch up his sword and fall to slashing the walls; and when he was tired out he would say he had killed four giants like four towers; and the sweat that flowed from him when he was weary he said was the blood of the wounds he had received in battle; and then he would drink a great jug of cold water and become calm and quiet, saying that this water was a most precious potion which the sage Esquife, a great magician and friend of his, had brought him. But I take all the blame upon myself for never having told your worships of my uncle’s vagaries, that you might put a stop to them before things had come to this pass, and burn all these accursed books—for he has a great number—that richly deserve to be burned like heretics.”
“So say I too,” said the curate, “and by my faith to-morrow shall not pass without public judgment upon them, and may they be condemned to the flames lest they lead those that read to behave as my good friend seems to have behaved.”
All this the peasant heard, and from it he understood at last what was the matter with his neighbour, so he be- gan calling aloud, “Open, your worships, to Senor Baldwin and to Senor the Marquis of Mantua, who comes badly wounded, and to Senor Abindarraez, the Moor, whom the valiant Rodrigo de Narvaez, the Alcaide of Antequera, brings captive.”
At these words they all hurried out, and when they recognised their friend, master, and uncle, who had not yet dismounted from the ass because he could not, they ran to embrace him.
“Hold!” said he, “for I am badly wounded through my horse’s fault; carry me to bed, and if possible send for the wise Urganda to cure and see to my wounds.”
“See there! plague on it!” cried the housekeeper at this: “did not my heart tell the truth as to which foot my master went lame of ? To bed with your worship at once, and we will contrive to cure you here without fetching that Hurgada. A curse I say once more, and a hundred times more, on those books of chivalry that have brought your worship to such a pass.”
They carried him to bed at once, and after searching for his wounds could find none, but he said they were all bruises from having had a severe fall with his horse Rocinante when in combat with ten giants, the biggest and the boldest to be found on earth.
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“So, so!” said the curate, “are there giants in the dance? By the sign of the Cross I will burn them to-morrow before the day over.”
They put a host of questions to Don Quixote, but his only answer to all was—give him something to eat, and leave him to sleep, for that was what he needed most. They did so, and the curate questioned the peasant at great length as to how he had found Don Quixote. He told him, and the nonsense he had talked when found and on the way home, all which made the licentiate the more eager to do what he did the next day, which was to summon his friend the barber, Master Nicholas, and go with him to Don Quixote’s house.
Chapter VII Of the second sally of our worthy knight Don Quixote of La Mancha
At this instant Don Quixote began shouting out, “Here, here, valiant knights! here is need for you to put forth the might of your strong arms, for they of the Court are gaining the mastery in the tourney!” Called away by this noise and outcry, they proceeded no farther with the scrutiny of the remaining books, and so it is thought that “The Carolea,” “The Lion of Spain,” and “The Deeds of the Emperor,” written by Don Luis de Avila, went to the fire unseen and unheard; for no doubt they were among those that remained, and perhaps if the curate had seen them they would not have undergone so severe a sentence.
When they reached Don Quixote he was already out of bed, and was still shouting and raving, and slashing and cutting all round, as wide awake as if he had never slept.
They closed with him and by force got him back to bed, and when he had become a little calm, addressing the curate, he said to him, “Of a truth, Senor Archbishop Turpin, it is a great disgrace for us who call ourselves the Twelve Peers, so carelessly to allow the knights of the Court to gain the victory in this tourney, we the adventurers having carried off the honour on the three former days.”
“Hush, gossip,” said the curate; “please God, the luck may turn, and what is lost to-day may be won to-morrow; for the present let your worship have a care of your health, for it seems to me that you are over-fatigued, if not badly wounded.”
“Wounded no,” said Don Quixote, “but bruised and battered no doubt, for that bastard Don Roland has cud- gelled me with the trunk of an oak tree, and all for envy, because he sees that I alone rival him in his achievements. But I should not call myself Reinaldos of Montalvan did he not pay me for it in spite of all his enchantments as soon as I rise from this bed. For the present let them bring me something to eat, for that, I feel, is what will be more to my purpose, and leave it to me to avenge myself.”
They did as he wished; they gave him something to eat, and once more he fell asleep, leaving them marvelling at his madness.
That night the housekeeper burned to ashes all the books that were in the yard and in the whole house; and some must have been consumed that deserved preservation in everlasting archives, but their fate and the laziness of the examiner did not permit it, and so in them was verified the proverb that the innocent suffer for the guilty.
One of the remedies which the curate and the barber immediately applied to their friend’s disorder was to wall up and plaster the room where the books were, so that when he got up he should not find them (possibly the cause being removed the effect might cease), and they might say that a magician had carried them off, room and all; and this was done with all despatch. Two days later Don Quixote got up, and the first thing he did was to go and look at his books, and not finding the room where he had left it, he wandered from side to side looking for it. He came to the place where the door used to be, and tried it with his hands, and turned and twisted his eyes in every direction without saying a word; but after a good while he asked his housekeeper whereabouts was the room that held his books.
The housekeeper, who had been already well instructed in what she was to answer, said, “What room or what nothing is it that your worship is looking for? There are neither room nor books in this house now, for the devil himself has carried all away.”
“It was not the devil,” said the niece, “but a magician who came on a cloud one night after the day your wor- ship left this, and dismounting from a serpent that he rode he entered the room, and what he did there I know not, but after a little while he made off, flying through the roof, and left the house full of smoke; and when we went to see what he had done we saw neither book nor room: but we remember very well, the housekeeper and I, that on leaving, the old villain said in a loud voice that, for a private grudge he owed the owner of the books and the room, he had done mischief in that house that would be discovered by-and-by: he said too that his name was the Sage Munaton.”
“He must have said Friston,” said Don Quixote. “I don’t know whether he called himself Friston or Friton,” said the housekeeper, “I only know that his name
ended with ‘ton.’”
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“So it does,” said Don Quixote, “and he is a sage magician, a great enemy of mine, who has a spite against me because he knows by his arts and lore that in process of time I am to engage in single combat with a knight whom he befriends and that I am to conquer, and he will be unable to prevent it; and for this reason he endeavours to do me all the ill turns that he can; but I promise him it will be hard for him to oppose or avoid what is decreed by Heaven.”
“Who doubts that?” said the niece; “but, uncle, who mixes you up in these quarrels? Would it not be better to remain at peace in your own house instead of roaming the world looking for better bread than ever came of wheat, never reflecting that many go for wool and come back shorn?”
“Oh, niece of mine,” replied Don Quixote, “how much astray art thou in thy reckoning: ere they shear me I shall have plucked away and stripped off the beards of all who dare to touch only the tip of a hair of mine.”
The two were unwilling to make any further answer, as they saw that his anger was kindling. In short, then, he remained at home fifteen days very quietly without showing any signs of a desire to take up
with his former delusions, and during this time he held lively discussions with his two gossips, the curate and the barber, on the point he maintained, that knights-errant were what the world stood most in need of, and that in him was to be accomplished the revival of knight-errantry. The curate sometimes contradicted him, sometimes agreed with him, for if he had not observed this precaution he would have been unable to bring him to reason.
Meanwhile Don Quixote worked upon a farm labourer, a neighbour of his, an honest man (if indeed that title can be given to him who is poor), but with very little wit in his pate. In a word, he so talked him over, and with such persuasions and promises, that the poor clown made up his mind to sally forth with him and serve him as esquire. Don Quixote, among other things, told him he ought to be ready to go with him gladly, because any moment an adventure might occur that might win an island in the twinkling of an eye and leave him governor of it. On these and the like promises Sancho Panza (for so the labourer was called) left wife and children, and engaged himself as esquire to his neighbour.
Don Quixote next set about getting some money; and selling one thing and pawning another, and making a bad bargain in every case, he got together a fair sum. He provided himself with a buckler, which he begged as a loan from a friend, and, restoring his battered helmet as best he could, he warned his squire Sancho of the day and hour he meant to set out, that he might provide himself with what he thought most needful. Above all, he charged him to take alforjas with him. The other said he would, and that he meant to take also a very good ass he had, as he was not much given to going on foot. About the ass, Don Quixote hesitated a little, trying whether he could call to mind any knight-errant taking with him an esquire mounted on ass-back, but no instance occurred to his memory. For all that, however, he determined to take him, intending to furnish him with a more honourable mount when a chance of it presented itself, by appropriating the horse of the first discourteous knight he encountered. Himself he provid- ed with shirts and such other things as he could, according to the advice the host had given him; all which being done, without taking leave, Sancho Panza of his wife and children, or Don Quixote of his housekeeper and niece, they sallied forth unseen by anybody from the village one night, and made such good way in the course of it that by daylight they held themselves safe from discovery, even should search be made for them.
Sancho rode on his ass like a patriarch, with his alforjas and bota, and longing to see himself soon governor of the island his master had promised him. Don Quixote decided upon taking the same route and road he had taken on his first journey, that over the Campo de Montiel, which he travelled with less discomfort than on the last occa- sion, for, as it was early morning and the rays of the sun fell on them obliquely, the heat did not distress them.
And now said Sancho Panza to his master, “Your worship will take care, Senor Knight-errant, not to forget about the island you have promised me, for be it ever so big I’ll be equal to governing it.”
To which Don Quixote replied, “Thou must know, friend Sancho Panza, that it was a practice very much in vogue with the knights-errant of old to make their squires governors of the islands or kingdoms they won, and I am determined that there shall be no failure on my part in so liberal a custom; on the contrary, I mean to improve upon it, for they sometimes, and perhaps most frequently, waited until their squires were old, and then when they had had enough of service and hard days and worse nights, they gave them some title or other, of count, or at the most marquis, of some valley or province more or less; but if thou livest and I live, it may well be that before six days are over, I may have won some kingdom that has others dependent upon it, which will be just the thing to enable thee to be crowned king of one of them. Nor needst thou count this wonderful, for things and chances fall to the lot of such knights in ways so unexampled and unexpected that I might easily give thee even more than I promise thee.”
“In that case,” said Sancho Panza, “if I should become a king by one of those miracles your worship speaks of, even Juana Gutierrez, my old woman, would come to be queen and my children infantes.”
“Well, who doubts it?” said Don Quixote. “I doubt it,” replied Sancho Panza, “because for my part I am persuaded that though God should shower down
kingdoms upon earth, not one of them would fit the head of Mari Gutierrez. Let me tell you, senor, she is not worth two maravedis for a queen; countess will fit her better, and that only with God’s help.”
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“Leave it to God, Sancho,” returned Don Quixote, “for he will give her what suits her best; but do not underval- ue thyself so much as to come to be content with anything less than being governor of a province.”
“I will not, senor,” answered Sancho, “specially as I have a man of such quality for a master in your worship, who will know how to give me all that will be suitable for me and that I can bear.”
Chapter VIII Of the good fortune which the valiant Don Quixote had in the terrible and undreamt-of adventure of the windmills,
with other occurrences worthy to be fitly recorded At this point they came in sight of thirty forty windmills that there are on plain, and as soon as Don Quixote
saw them he said to his squire, “Fortune is arranging matters for us better than we could have shaped our desires ourselves, for look there, friend Sancho Panza, where thirty or more monstrous giants present themselves, all of whom I mean to engage in battle and slay, and with whose spoils we shall begin to make our fortunes; for this is righteous warfare, and it is God’s good service to sweep so evil a breed from off the face of the earth.”
“What giants?” said Sancho Panza. “Those thou seest there,” answered his master, “with the long arms, and some have them nearly two leagues
long.” “Look, your worship,” said Sancho; “what we see there are not giants but windmills, and what seem to be their
arms are the sails that turned by the wind make the millstone go.” “It is easy to see,” replied Don Quixote, “that thou art not used to this business of adventures; those are giants;
and if thou art afraid, away with thee out of this and betake thyself to prayer while I engage them in fierce and un- equal combat.”
So saying, he gave the spur to his steed Rocinante, heedless of the cries his squire Sancho sent after him, warn- ing him that most certainly they were windmills and not giants he was going to attack. He, however, was so positive they were giants that he neither heard the cries of Sancho, nor perceived, near as he was, what they were, but made at them shouting, “Fly not, cowards and vile beings, for a single knight attacks you.”
A slight breeze at this moment sprang up, and the great sails began to move, seeing which Don Quixote ex- claimed, “Though ye flourish more arms than the giant Briareus, ye have to reckon with me.”
So saying, and commending himself with all his heart to his lady Dulcinea, imploring her to support him in such a peril, with lance in rest and covered by his buckler, he charged at Rocinante’s fullest gallop and fell upon the first mill that stood in front of him; but as he drove his lance-point into the sail the wind whirled it round with such force that it shivered the lance to pieces, sweeping with it horse and rider, who went rolling over on the plain, in a sorry condition. Sancho hastened to his assistance as fast as his ass could go, and when he came up found him unable to move, with such a shock had Rocinante fallen with him.
“God bless me!” said Sancho, “did I not tell your worship to mind what you were about, for they were only windmills? and no one could have made any mistake about it but one who had something of the same kind in his head.”
“Hush, friend Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “the fortunes of war more than any other are liable to frequent fluctuations; and moreover I think, and it is the truth, that that same sage Friston who carried off my study and books, has turned these giants into mills in order to rob me of the glory of vanquishing them, such is the enmity he bears me; but in the end his wicked arts will avail but little against my good sword.”
“God order it as he may,” said Sancho Panza, and helping him to rise got him up again on Rocinante, whose shoulder was half out; and then, discussing the late adventure, they followed the road to Puerto Lapice, for there, said Don Quixote, they could not fail to find adventures in abundance and variety, as it was a great thoroughfare. For all that, he was much grieved at the loss of his lance, and saying so to his squire, he added, “I remember having read how a Spanish knight, Diego Perez de Vargas by name, having broken his sword in battle, tore from an oak a ponderous bough or branch, and with it did such things that day, and pounded so many Moors, that he got the surname of Machuca, and he and his descendants from that day forth were called Vargas y Machuca. I mention this because from the first oak I see I mean to rend such another branch, large and stout like that, with which I am determined and resolved to do such deeds that thou mayest deem thyself very fortunate in being found worthy to come and see them, and be an eyewitness of things that will with difficulty be believed.”
“Be that as God will,” said Sancho, “I believe it all as your worship says it; but straighten yourself a little, for you seem all on one side, may be from the shaking of the fall.”
“That is the truth,” said Don Quixote, “and if I make no complaint of the pain it is because knights-errant are not permitted to complain of any wound, even though their bowels be coming out through it.”
“If so,” said Sancho, “I have nothing to say; but God knows I would rather your worship complained when any- thing ailed you. For my part, I confess I must complain however small the ache may be; unless this rule about not
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complaining extends to the squires of knights-errant also.” Don Quixote could not help laughing at his squire’s simplicity, and he assured him he might complain when-
ever and however he chose, just as he liked, for, so far, he had never read of anything to the contrary in the order of knighthood.
Sancho bade him remember it was dinner-time, to which his master answered that he wanted nothing himself just then, but that he might eat when he had a mind. With this permission Sancho settled himself as comfortably as he could on his beast, and taking out of the alforjas what he had stowed away in them, he jogged along behind his master munching deliberately, and from time to time taking a pull at the bota with a relish that the thirstiest tapster in Malaga might have envied; and while he went on in this way, gulping down draught after draught, he never gave a thought to any of the promises his master had made him, nor did he rate it as hardship but rather as recreation going in quest of adventures, however dangerous they might be. Finally they passed the night among some trees, from one of which Don Quixote plucked a dry branch to serve him after a fashion as a lance, and fixed on it the head he had removed from the broken one. All that night Don Quixote lay awake thinking of his lady Dulcinea, in order to conform to what he had read in his books, how many a night in the forests and deserts knights used to lie sleepless supported by the memory of their mistresses. Not so did Sancho Panza spend it, for having his stomach full of something stronger than chicory water he made but one sleep of it, and, if his master had not called him,
neither the rays of the sun beating on his face nor all the cheery notes of the birds welcoming the approach of day would have had power to waken him. On getting up he tried the bota and found it somewhat less full than the night before, which grieved his heart because they did not seem to be on the way to remedy the deficiency readily. Don Quixote did not care to break his fast, for, as has been already said, he confined himself to savoury recol- lections for nourishment.
They returned to the road they had set out with, leading to Puerto Lapice, and at three in the afternoon they came in sight of it. “Here, brother Sancho Panza,” said Don Quixote when he saw it, “we may plunge our hands up to the elbows in what they call adventures; but observe, even shouldst thou see me in the greatest danger in the world, thou must not put a hand to thy sword in my defence, unless indeed thou perceivest that those who assail me are rabble or base folk; for in that case thou mayest very properly aid me; but if they be knights it is on no account permitted or allowed thee by the laws of knighthood to help me until thou hast been dubbed a knight.”
“Most certainly, senor,” replied Sancho, “your wor- ship shall be fully obeyed in this matter; all the more as of myself I am peaceful and no friend to mixing in strife and quarrels: it is true that as regards the defence of my own person I shall not give much heed to those laws, for laws human and divine allow each one to defend himself against any assailant whatever.”
“That I grant,” said Don Quixote, “but in this matter of aiding me against knights thou must put a restraint upon thy natural impetuosity.”
“I will do so, I promise you,” answered Sancho, “and will keep this precept as carefully as Sunday.”
While they were thus talking there appeared on the road two friars of the order of St. Benedict, mounted on two dromedaries, for not less tall were the two mules they
rode on. They wore travelling spectacles and carried sunshades; and behind them came a coach attended by four or five persons on horseback and two muleteers on foot. In the coach there was, as afterwards appeared, a Biscay lady on her way to Seville, where her husband was about to take passage for the Indies with an appointment of high honour. The friars, though going the same road, were not in her company; but the moment Don Quixote perceived
Image 11.5: Don Quixote de la Mancha and Sancho Panza | Illustration by Gustave Doré depicting Don Quixote and Sancho Panza.
Author: Gustave Doré Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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them he said to his squire, “Either I am mistaken, or this is going to be the most famous adventure that has ever been seen, for those black bodies we see there must be, and doubtless are, magicians who are carrying off some stolen princess in that coach, and with all my might I must undo this wrong.”
“This will be worse than the windmills,” said Sancho. “Look, senor; those are friars of St. Benedict, and the coach plainly belongs to some travellers: I tell you to mind well what you are about and don’t let the devil mislead you.”
“I have told thee already, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “that on the subject of adventures thou knowest little. What I say is the truth, as thou shalt see presently.”
So saying, he advanced and posted himself in the middle of the road along which the friars were coming, and as soon as he thought they had come near enough to hear what he said, he cried aloud, “Devilish and unnatural beings, release instantly the highborn princesses whom you are carrying off by force in this coach, else prepare to meet a speedy death as the just punishment of your evil deeds.”
The friars drew rein and stood wondering at the appearance of Don Quixote as well as at his words, to which they replied, “Senor Caballero, we are not devilish or unnatural, but two brothers of St. Benedict following our road, nor do we know whether or not there are any captive princesses coming in this coach.”
“No soft words with me, for I know you, lying rabble,” said Don Quixote, and without waiting for a reply he spurred Rocinante and with levelled lance charged the first friar with such fury and determination, that, if the friar had not flung himself off the mule, he would have brought him to the ground against his will, and sore wounded, if not killed outright. The second brother, seeing how his comrade was treated, drove his heels into his castle of a mule and made off across the country faster than the wind.
Sancho Panza, when he saw the friar on the ground, dismounting briskly from his ass, rushed towards him and began to strip off his gown. At that instant the friars muleteers came up and asked what he was stripping him for. Sancho answered them that this fell to him lawfully as spoil of the battle which his lord Don Quixote had won. The muleteers, who had no idea of a joke and did not understand all this about battles and spoils, seeing that Don Quix- ote was some distance off talking to the travellers in the coach, fell upon Sancho, knocked him down, and leaving hardly a hair in his beard, belaboured him with kicks and left him stretched breathless and senseless on the ground; and without any more delay helped the friar to mount, who, trembling, terrified, and pale, as soon as he found him- self in the saddle, spurred after his companion, who was standing at a distance looking on, watching the result of the onslaught; then, not caring to wait for the end of the affair just begun, they pursued their journey making more crosses than if they had the devil after them.
Don Quixote was, as has been said, speaking to the lady in the coach: “Your beauty, lady mine,” said he, “may now dispose of your person as may be most in accordance with your pleasure, for the pride of your ravishers lies prostrate on the ground through this strong arm of mine; and lest you should be pining to know the name of your deliverer, know that I am called Don Quixote of La Mancha, knight-errant and adventurer, and captive to the peer- less and beautiful lady Dulcinea del Toboso: and in return for the service you have received of me I ask no more than that you should return to El Toboso, and on my behalf present yourself before that lady and tell her what I have done to set you free.”
One of the squires in attendance upon the coach, a Biscayan, was listening to all Don Quixote was saying, and, perceiving that he would not allow the coach to go on, but was saying it must return at once to El Toboso, he made at him, and seizing his lance addressed him in bad Castilian and worse Biscayan after his fashion, “Begone, caballe- ro, and ill go with thee; by the God that made me, unless thou quittest coach, slayest thee as art here a Biscayan.”
Don Quixote understood him quite well, and answered him very quietly, “If thou wert a knight, as thou art none, I should have already chastised thy folly and rashness, miserable creature.” To which the Biscayan returned, “I no gentleman!—I swear to God thou liest as I am Christian: if thou droppest lance and drawest sword, soon shalt thou see thou art carrying water to the cat: Biscayan on land, hidalgo at sea, hidalgo at the devil, and look, if thou sayest otherwise thou liest.”
“’”You will see presently,” said Agrajes,’” replied Don Quixote; and throwing his lance on the ground he drew his sword, braced his buckler on his arm, and attacked the Biscayan, bent upon taking his life.
The Biscayan, when he saw him coming on, though he wished to dismount from his mule, in which, being one of those sorry ones let out for hire, he had no confidence, had no choice but to draw his sword; it was lucky for him, however, that he was near the coach, from which he was able to snatch a cushion that served him for a shield; and they went at one another as if they had been two mortal enemies. The others strove to make peace between them, but could not, for the Biscayan declared in his disjointed phrase that if they did not let him finish his battle he would kill his mistress and everyone that strove to prevent him. The lady in the coach, amazed and terrified at what she saw, ordered the coachman to draw aside a little, and set herself to watch this severe struggle, in the course of which the Biscayan smote Don Quixote a mighty stroke on the shoulder over the top of his buckler, which, given to one without armour, would have cleft him to the waist. Don Quixote, feeling the weight of this prodigious blow,
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cried aloud, saying, “O lady of my soul, Dulcinea, flower of beauty, come to the aid of this your knight, who, in fulfilling his obligations to your beauty, finds himself in this extreme peril.” To say this, to lift his sword, to shel- ter himself well behind his buckler, and to assail the Biscayan was the work of an instant, determined as he was to venture all upon a single blow. The Biscayan, seeing him come on in this way, was convinced of his courage by his spirited bearing, and resolved to follow his example, so he waited for him keeping well under cover of his cushion, being unable to execute any sort of manoeuvre with his mule, which, dead tired and never meant for this kind of game, could not stir a step.
On, then, as aforesaid, came Don Quixote against the wary Biscayan, with uplifted sword and a firm intention of splitting him in half, while on his side the Biscayan waited for him sword in hand, and under the protection of his cushion; and all present stood trembling, waiting in suspense the result of blows such as threatened to fall, and the lady in the coach and the rest of her following were making a thousand vows and offerings to all the images and shrines of Spain, that God might deliver her squire and all of them from this great peril in which they found themselves. But it spoils all, that at this point and crisis the author of the history leaves this battle impending, giving as excuse that he could find nothing more written about these achievements of Don Quixote than what has been al- ready set forth. It is true the second author of this work was unwilling to believe that a history so curious could have been allowed to fall under the sentence of oblivion, or that the wits of La Mancha could have been so undiscerning as not to preserve in their archives or registries some documents referring to this famous knight; and this being his persuasion, he did not despair of finding the conclusion of this pleasant history, which, heaven favouring him, he did find in a way that shall be related in the Second Part.
Chapter IX In which is concluded and finished the terrific battle between the gallant Biscayan and the valiant Manchegan In the First Part of this history we left the valiant Biscayan and the renowned Don Quixote with drawn swords
uplifted, ready to deliver two such furious slashing blows that if they had fallen full and fair they would at least have split and cleft them asunder from top to toe and laid them open like a pomegranate; and at this so critical point the delightful history came to a stop and stood cut short without any intimation from the author where what was missing was to be found.
This distressed me greatly, because the pleasure derived from having read such a small portion turned to vex- ation at the thought of the poor chance that presented itself of finding the large part that, so it seemed to me, was missing of such an interesting tale. It appeared to me to be a thing impossible and contrary to all precedent that so good a knight should have been without some sage to undertake the task of writing his marvellous achievements; a thing that was never wanting to any of those knights-errant who, they say, went after adventures; for every one of them had one or two sages as if made on purpose, who not only recorded their deeds but described their most trifling thoughts and follies, however secret they might be; and such a good knight could not have been so unfor- tunate as not to have what Platir and others like him had in abundance. And so I could not bring myself to believe that such a gallant tale had been left maimed and mutilated, and I laid the blame on Time, the devourer and de- stroyer of all things, that had either concealed or consumed it.
On the other hand, it struck me that, inasmuch as among his books there had been found such modern ones as “The Enlightenment of Jealousy” and the “Nymphs and Shepherds of Henares,” his story must likewise be mod- ern, and that though it might not be written, it might exist in the memory of the people of his village and of those in the neighbourhood. This reflection kept me perplexed and longing to know really and truly the whole life and wondrous deeds of our famous Spaniard, Don Quixote of La Mancha, light and mirror of Manchegan chivalry, and the first that in our age and in these so evil days devoted himself to the labour and exercise of the arms of knight-er- rantry, righting wrongs, succouring widows, and protecting damsels of that sort that used to ride about, whip in hand, on their palfreys, with all their virginity about them, from mountain to mountain and valley to valley—for, if it were not for some ruffian, or boor with a hood and hatchet, or monstrous giant, that forced them, there were in days of yore damsels that at the end of eighty years, in all which time they had never slept a day under a roof, went to their graves as much maids as the mothers that bore them. I say, then, that in these and other respects our gallant Don Quixote is worthy of everlasting and notable praise, nor should it be withheld even from me for the labour and pains spent in searching for the conclusion of this delightful history; though I know well that if Heaven, chance and good fortune had not helped me, the world would have remained deprived of an entertainment and pleasure that for a couple of hours or so may well occupy him who shall read it attentively. The discovery of it occurred in this way.
One day, as I was in the Alcana of Toledo, a boy came up to sell some pamphlets and old papers to a silk mercer, and, as I am fond of reading even the very scraps of paper in the streets, led by this natural bent of mine I took up one of the pamphlets the boy had for sale, and saw that it was in characters which I recognised as Arabic, and as I
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was unable to read them though I could recognise them, I looked about to see if there were any Spanish-speaking Morisco at hand to read them for me; nor was there any great difficulty in finding such an interpreter, for even had I sought one for an older and better language I should have found him. In short, chance provided me with one, who when I told him what I wanted and put the book into his hands, opened it in the middle and after reading a little in it began to laugh. I asked him what he was laughing at, and he replied that it was at something the book had written in the margin by way of a note. I bade him tell it to me; and he still laughing said, “In the margin, as I told you, this is written: ‘This Dulcinea del Toboso so often mentioned in this history, had, they say, the best hand of any woman in all La Mancha for salting pigs.’”
When I heard Dulcinea del Toboso named, I was struck with surprise and amazement, for it occurred to me at once that these pamphlets contained the history of Don Quixote. With this idea I pressed him to read the begin- ning, and doing so, turning the Arabic offhand into Castilian, he told me it meant, “History of Don Quixote of La Mancha, written by Cide Hamete Benengeli, an Arab historian.” It required great caution to hide the joy I felt when the title of the book reached my ears, and snatching it from the silk mercer, I bought all the papers and pamphlets from the boy for half a real; and if he had had his wits about him and had known how eager I was for them, he might have safely calculated on making more than six reals by the bargain. I withdrew at once with the Morisco into the cloister of the cathedral, and begged him to turn all these pamphlets that related to Don Quixote into the Castilian tongue, without omitting or adding anything to them, offering him whatever payment he pleased. He was satisfied with two arrobas of raisins and two bushels of wheat, and promised to translate them faithfully and with all despatch; but to make the matter easier, and not to let such a precious find out of my hands, I took him to my house, where in little more than a month and a half he translated the whole just as it is set down here.
In the first pamphlet the battle between Don Quixote and the Biscayan was drawn to the very life, they planted in the same attitude as the history describes, their swords raised, and the one protected by his buckler, the other by his cushion, and the Biscayan’s mule so true to nature that it could be seen to be a hired one a bowshot off. The Biscayan had an inscription under his feet which said, “Don Sancho de Azpeitia,” which no doubt must have been his name; and at the feet of Rocinante was another that said, “Don Quixote.” Rocinante was marvellously portrayed, so long and thin, so lank and lean, with so much backbone and so far gone in consumption, that he showed plain- ly with what judgment and propriety the name of Rocinante had been bestowed upon him. Near him was Sancho Panza holding the halter of his ass, at whose feet was another label that said, “Sancho Zancas,” and according to the picture, he must have had a big belly, a short body, and long shanks, for which reason, no doubt, the names of Panza and Zancas were given him, for by these two surnames the history several times calls him. Some other trifling par- ticulars might be mentioned, but they are all of slight importance and have nothing to do with the true relation of the history; and no history can be bad so long as it is true.
If against the present one any objection be raised on the score of its truth, it can only be that its author was an Arab, as lying is a very common propensity with those of that nation; though, as they are such enemies of ours, it is conceivable that there were omissions rather than additions made in the course of it. And this is my own opinion; for, where he could and should give freedom to his pen in praise of so worthy a knight, he seems to me deliberately to pass it over in silence; which is ill done and worse contrived, for it is the business and duty of historians to be ex- act, truthful, and wholly free from passion, and neither interest nor fear, hatred nor love, should make them swerve from the path of truth, whose mother is history, rival of time, storehouse of deeds, witness for the past, example and counsel for the present, and warning for the future. In this I know will be found all that can be desired in the pleas- antest, and if it be wanting in any good quality, I maintain it is the fault of its hound of an author and not the fault of the subject. To be brief, its Second Part, according to the translation, began in this way:
With trenchant swords upraised and poised on high, it seemed as though the two valiant and wrathful combat- ants stood threatening heaven, and earth, and hell, with such resolution and determination did they bear them- selves. The fiery Biscayan was the first to strike a blow, which was delivered with such force and fury that had not the sword turned in its course, that single stroke would have sufficed to put an end to the bitter struggle and to all the adventures of our knight; but that good fortune which reserved him for greater things, turned aside the sword of his adversary, so that although it smote him upon the left shoulder, it did him no more harm than to strip all that side of its armour, carrying away a great part of his helmet with half of his ear, all which with fearful ruin fell to the ground, leaving him in a sorry plight.
Good God! Who is there that could properly describe the rage that filled the heart of our Manchegan when he saw himself dealt with in this fashion? All that can be said is, it was such that he again raised himself in his stirrups, and, grasping his sword more firmly with both hands, he came down on the Biscayan with such fury, smiting him full over the cushion and over the head, that—even so good a shield proving useless—as if a mountain had fallen on him, he began to bleed from nose, mouth, and ears, reeling as if about to fall backwards from his mule, as no doubt he would have done had he not flung his arms about its neck; at the same time, however, he slipped his feet out of the stirrups and then unclasped his arms, and the mule, taking fright at the terrible blow, made off across the
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plain, and with a few plunges flung its master to the ground. Don Quixote stood looking on very calmly, and, when he saw him fall, leaped from his horse and with great briskness ran to him, and, presenting the point of his sword to his eyes, bade him surrender, or he would cut his head off. The Biscayan was so bewildered that he was unable to answer a word, and it would have gone hard with him, so blind was Don Quixote, had not the ladies in the coach, who had hitherto been watching the combat in great terror, hastened to where he stood and implored him with ear- nest entreaties to grant them the great grace and favour of sparing their squire’s life; to which Don Quixote replied with much gravity and dignity, “In truth, fair ladies, I am well content to do what ye ask of me; but it must be on one condition and understanding, which is that this knight promise me to go to the village of El Toboso, and on my behalf present himself before the peerless lady Dulcinea, that she deal with him as shall be most pleasing to her.”
The terrified and disconsolate ladies, without discussing Don Quixote’s demand or asking who Dulcinea might be, promised that their squire should do all that had been commanded.
“Then, on the faith of that promise,” said Don Quixote, “I shall do him no further harm, though he well de- serves it of me.”
Chapter X Of the pleasant discourse that passed between Don Quixote and his squire Sancho Panza
Now by this time Sancho had risen, rather the worse for the handling of the friars’ muleteers, and stood watch- ing the battle of his master, Don Quixote, and praying to God in his heart that it might be his will to grant him the victory, and that he might thereby win some island to make him governor of, as he had promised. Seeing, therefore, that the struggle was now over, and that his master was returning to mount Rocinante, he approached to hold the stirrup for him, and, before he could mount, he went on his knees before him, and taking his hand, kissed it saying, “May it please your worship, Senor Don Quixote, to give me the government of that island which has been won in this hard fight, for be it ever so big I feel myself in sufficient force to be able to govern it as much and as well as anyone in the world who has ever governed islands.”
To which Don Quixote replied, “Thou must take notice, brother Sancho, that this adventure and those like it are not adventures of islands, but of cross-roads, in which nothing is got except a broken head or an ear the less: have patience, for adventures will present themselves from which I may make you, not only a governor, but something more.”
Sancho gave him many thanks, and again kissing his hand and the skirt of his hauberk, helped him to mount Rocinante, and mounting his ass himself, proceeded to follow his master, who at a brisk pace, without taking leave, or saying anything further to the ladies belonging to the coach, turned into a wood that was hard by. Sancho fol- lowed him at his ass’s best trot, but Rocinante stepped out so that, seeing himself left behind, he was forced to call to his master to wait for him. Don Quixote did so, reining in Rocinante until his weary squire came up, who on reach- ing him said, “It seems to me, senor, it would be prudent in us to go and take refuge in some church, for, seeing how mauled he with whom you fought has been left, it will be no wonder if they give information of the affair to the Holy Brotherhood and arrest us, and, faith, if they do, before we come out of gaol we shall have to sweat for it.”
“Peace,” said Don Quixote; “where hast thou ever seen or heard that a knight-errant has been arraigned before a court of justice, however many homicides he may have committed?”
“I know nothing about omecils,” answered Sancho, “nor in my life have had anything to do with one; I only know that the Holy Brotherhood looks after those who fight in the fields, and in that other matter I do not meddle.”
“Then thou needst have no uneasiness, my friend,” said Don Quixote, “for I will deliver thee out of the hands of the Chaldeans, much more out of those of the Brotherhood. But tell me, as thou livest, hast thou seen a more val- iant knight than I in all the known world; hast thou read in history of any who has or had higher mettle in attack, more spirit in maintaining it, more dexterity in wounding or skill in overthrowing?”
“The truth is,” answered Sancho, “that I have never read any history, for I can neither read nor write, but what I will venture to bet is that a more daring master than your worship I have never served in all the days of my life, and God grant that this daring be not paid for where I have said; what I beg of your worship is to dress your wound, for a great deal of blood flows from that ear, and I have here some lint and a little white ointment in the alforjas.”
“All that might be well dispensed with,” said Don Quixote, “if I had remembered to make a vial of the balsam of Fierabras, for time and medicine are saved by one single drop.”
“What vial and what balsam is that?” said Sancho Panza. “It is a balsam,” answered Don Quixote, “the receipt of which I have in my memory, with which one need have
no fear of death, or dread dying of any wound; and so when I make it and give it to thee thou hast nothing to do when in some battle thou seest they have cut me in half through the middle of the body—as is wont to happen frequently,—but neatly and with great nicety, ere the blood congeal, to place that portion of the body which shall have fallen to the ground upon the other half which remains in the saddle, taking care to fit it on evenly and exactly.
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Then thou shalt give me to drink but two drops of the balsam I have mentioned, and thou shalt see me become sounder than an apple.”
“If that be so,” said Panza, “I renounce henceforth the government of the promised island, and desire noth- ing more in payment of my many and faithful services than that your worship give me the receipt of this supreme liquor, for I am persuaded it will be worth more than two reals an ounce anywhere, and I want no more to pass the rest of my life in ease and honour; but it remains to be told if it costs much to make it.”
“With less than three reals, six quarts of it may be made,” said Don Quixote. “Sinner that I am!” said Sancho, “then why does your worship put off making it and teaching it to me?” “Peace, friend,” answered Don Quixote; “greater secrets I mean to teach thee and greater favours to bestow
upon thee; and for the present let us see to the dressing, for my ear pains me more than I could wish.” Sancho took out some lint and ointment from the alforjas; but when Don Quixote came to see his helmet shat-
tered, he was like to lose his senses, and clapping his hand upon his sword and raising his eyes to heaven, be said, “I swear by the Creator of all things and the four Gospels in their fullest extent, to do as the great Marquis of Mantua did when he swore to avenge the death of his nephew Baldwin (and that was not to eat bread from a table-cloth, nor embrace his wife, and other points which, though I cannot now call them to mind, I here grant as expressed) until I take complete vengeance upon him who has committed such an offence against me.”
Hearing this, Sancho said to him, “Your worship should bear in mind, Senor Don Quixote, that if the knight has done what was commanded him in going to present himself before my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, he will have done all that he was bound to do, and does not deserve further punishment unless he commits some new offence.”
“Thou hast said well and hit the point,” answered Don Quixote; and so I recall the oath in so far as relates to taking fresh vengeance on him, but I make and confirm it anew to lead the life I have said until such time as I take by force from some knight another helmet such as this and as good; and think not, Sancho, that I am raising smoke with straw in doing so, for I have one to imitate in the matter, since the very same thing to a hair happened in the case of Mambrino’s helmet, which cost Sacripante so dear.”
“Senor,” replied Sancho, “let your worship send all such oaths to the devil, for they are very pernicious to sal- vation and prejudicial to the conscience; just tell me now, if for several days to come we fall in with no man armed with a helmet, what are we to do? Is the oath to be observed in spite of all the inconvenience and discomfort it will be to sleep in your clothes, and not to sleep in a house, and a thousand other mortifications contained in the oath of that old fool the Marquis of Mantua, which your worship is now wanting to revive? Let your worship observe that there are no men in armour travelling on any of these roads, nothing but carriers and carters, who not only do not wear helmets, but perhaps never heard tell of them all their lives.”
“Thou art wrong there,” said Don Quixote, “for we shall not have been above two hours among these cross- roads before we see more men in armour than came to Albraca to win the fair Angelica.”
“Enough,” said Sancho; “so be it then, and God grant us success, and that the time for winning that island which is costing me so dear may soon come, and then let me die.”
“I have already told thee, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “not to give thyself any uneasiness on that score; for if an island should fail, there is the kingdom of Denmark, or of Sobradisa, which will fit thee as a ring fits the finger, and all the more that, being on terra firma, thou wilt all the better enjoy thyself. But let us leave that to its own time; see if thou hast anything for us to eat in those alforjas, because we must presently go in quest of some castle where we may lodge to-night and make the balsam I told thee of, for I swear to thee by God, this ear is giving me great pain.”
“I have here an onion and a little cheese and a few scraps of bread,” said Sancho, “but they are not victuals fit for a valiant knight like your worship.”
“How little thou knowest about it,” answered Don Quixote; “I would have thee to know, Sancho, that it is the glory of knights-errant to go without eating for a month, and even when they do eat, that it should be of what comes first to hand; and this would have been clear to thee hadst thou read as many histories as I have, for, though they are very many, among them all I have found no mention made of knights-errant eating, unless by accident or at some sumptuous banquets prepared for them, and the rest of the time they passed in dalliance. And though it is plain they could not do without eating and performing all the other natural functions, because, in fact, they were men like ourselves, it is plain too that, wandering as they did the most part of their lives through woods and wilds and without a cook, their most usual fare would be rustic viands such as those thou now offer me; so that, friend Sancho, let not that distress thee which pleases me, and do not seek to make a new world or pervert knight-errant- ry.”
“Pardon me, your worship,” said Sancho, “for, as I cannot read or write, as I said just now, I neither know nor comprehend the rules of the profession of chivalry: henceforward I will stock the alforjas with every kind of dry fruit for your worship, as you are a knight; and for myself, as I am not one, I will furnish them with poultry and other things more substantial.”
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“I do not say, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “that it is imperative on knights-errant not to eat anything else but the fruits thou speakest of; only that their more usual diet must be those, and certain herbs they found in the fields which they knew and I know too.”
“A good thing it is,” answered Sancho, “to know those herbs, for to my thinking it will be needful some day to put that knowledge into practice.”
And here taking out what he said he had brought, the pair made their repast peaceably and sociably. But anxious to find quarters for the night, they with all despatch made an end of their poor dry fare, mounted at once, and made haste to reach some habitation before night set in; but daylight and the hope of succeeding in their object failed them close by the huts of some goatherds, so they determined to pass the night there, and it was as much to Sancho’s discon- tent not to have reached a house, as it was to his master’s satisfaction to sleep under the open heaven, for he fancied that each time this happened to him he performed an act of ownership that helped to prove his chivalry.
Chapter XI What befell Don Quixote with certain goatherds
He was cordially welcomed by the goatherds, and Sancho, having as best he could put up Rocinante and the ass, drew towards the fragrance that came from some pieces of salted goat simmering in a pot on the fire; and though he would have liked at once to try if they were ready to be transferred from the pot to the stomach, he refrained from doing so as the goatherds removed them from the fire, and laying sheepskins on the ground, quickly spread their rude table, and with signs of hearty good-will invited them both to share what they had. Round the skins six of the men belonging to the fold seated themselves, having first with rough politeness pressed Don Quixote to take a seat upon a trough which they placed for him upside down. Don Quixote seated himself, and Sancho remained standing to serve the cup, which was made of horn. Seeing him standing, his master said to him:
“That thou mayest see, Sancho, the good that knight-errantry contains in itself, and how those who fill any office in it are on the high road to be speedily honoured and esteemed by the world, I desire that thou seat thyself here at my side and in the company of these worthy people, and that thou be one with me who am thy master and natural lord, and that thou eat from my plate and drink from whatever I drink from; for the same may be said of knight-errantry as of love, that it levels all.”
“Great thanks,” said Sancho, “but I may tell your worship that provided I have enough to eat, I can eat it as well, or better, standing, and by myself, than seated alongside of an emperor. And indeed, if the truth is to be told, what I eat in my corner without form or fuss has much more relish for me, even though it be bread and onions, than the turkeys of those other tables where I am forced to chew slowly, drink little, wipe my mouth every minute, and cannot sneeze or cough if I want or do other things that are the privileges of liberty and solitude. So, senor, as for these honours which your worship would put upon me as a servant and follower of knight-errantry, exchange them for other things which may be of more use and advantage to me; for these, though I fully acknowledge them as received, I renounce from this moment to the end of the world.”
“For all that,” said Don Quixote, “thou must seat thyself, because him who humbleth himself God exalteth;” and seizing him by the arm he forced him to sit down beside himself.
The goatherds did not understand this jargon about squires and knights-errant, and all they did was to eat in silence and stare at their guests, who with great elegance and appetite were stowing away pieces as big as one’s fist. The course of meat finished, they spread upon the sheepskins a great heap of parched acorns, and with them they put down a half cheese harder than if it had been made of mortar. All this while the horn was not idle, for it went round so constantly, now full, now empty, like the bucket of a water-wheel, that it soon drained one of the two wine-skins that were in sight. When Don Quixote had quite appeased his appetite he took up a handful of the acorns, and contemplating them attentively delivered himself somewhat in this fashion:
“Happy the age, happy the time, to which the ancients gave the name of golden, not because in that fortunate age the gold so coveted in this our iron one was gained without toil, but because they that lived in it knew not the two words “mine” and “thine”! In that blessed age all things were in common; to win the daily food no labour was required of any save to stretch forth his hand and gather it from the sturdy oaks that stood generously inviting him with their sweet ripe fruit. The clear streams and running brooks yielded their savoury limpid waters in noble abun- dance. The busy and sagacious bees fixed their republic in the clefts of the rocks and hollows of the trees, offering without usance the plenteous produce of their fragrant toil to every hand. The mighty cork trees, unenforced save of their own courtesy, shed the broad light bark that served at first to roof the houses supported by rude stakes, a pro- tection against the inclemency of heaven alone. Then all was peace, all friendship, all concord; as yet the dull share of the crooked plough had not dared to rend and pierce the tender bowels of our first mother that without compul- sion yielded from every portion of her broad fertile bosom all that could satisfy, sustain, and delight the children that then possessed her. Then was it that the innocent and fair young shepherdess roamed from vale to vale and
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hill to hill, with flowing locks, and no more garments than were needful modestly to cover what modesty seeks and ever sought to hide. Nor were their ornaments like those in use to-day, set off by Tyrian purple, and silk tortured in endless fashions, but the wreathed leaves of the green dock and ivy, wherewith they went as bravely and becomingly decked as our Court dames with all the rare and far-fetched artifices that idle curiosity has taught them. Then the love-thoughts of the heart clothed themselves simply and naturally as the heart conceived them, nor sought to com- mend themselves by forced and rambling verbiage. Fraud, deceit, or malice had then not yet mingled with truth and sincerity. Justice held her ground, undisturbed and unassailed by the efforts of favour and of interest, that now so much impair, pervert, and beset her. Arbitrary law had not yet established itself in the mind of the judge, for then there was no cause to judge and no one to be judged. Maidens and modesty, as I have said, wandered at will alone and unattended, without fear of insult from lawlessness or libertine assault, and if they were undone it was of their own will and pleasure. But now in this hateful age of ours not one is safe, not though some new labyrinth like that of Crete conceal and surround her; even there the pestilence of gallantry will make its way to them through chinks or on the air by the zeal of its accursed importunity, and, despite of all seclusion, lead them to ruin. In defence of these, as time advanced and wickedness increased, the order of knights-errant was instituted, to defend maidens, to protect widows and to succour the orphans and the needy. To this order I belong, brother goatherds, to whom I return thanks for the hospitality and kindly welcome ye offer me and my squire; for though by natural law all living are bound to show favour to knights-errant, yet, seeing that without knowing this obligation ye have welcomed and feasted me, it is right that with all the good-will in my power I should thank you for yours.”
All this long harangue (which might very well have been spared) our knight delivered because the acorns they gave him reminded him of the golden age; and the whim seized him to address all this unnecessary argument to the goatherds, who listened to him gaping in amazement without saying a word in reply. Sancho likewise held his peace and ate acorns, and paid repeated visits to the second wine-skin, which they had hung up on a cork tree to keep the wine cool.
Don Quixote was longer in talking than the supper in finishing, at the end of which one of the goatherds said, “That your worship, senor knight-errant, may say with more truth that we show you hospitality with ready good- will, we will give you amusement and pleasure by making one of our comrades sing: he will be here before long, and he is a very intelligent youth and deep in love, and what is more he can read and write and play on the rebeck to perfection.”
The goatherd had hardly done speaking, when the notes of the rebeck reached their ears; and shortly after, the player came up, a very good-looking young man of about two-and-twenty. His comrades asked him if he had supped, and on his replying that he had, he who had already made the offer said to him:
“In that case, Antonio, thou mayest as well do us the pleasure of singing a little, that the gentleman, our guest, may see that even in the mountains and woods there are musicians: we have told him of thy accomplishments, and we want thee to show them and prove that we say true; so, as thou livest, pray sit down and sing that ballad about thy love that thy uncle the prebendary made thee, and that was so much liked in the town.”
“With all my heart,” said the young man, and without waiting for more pressing he seated himself on the trunk of a felled oak, and tuning his rebeck, presently began to sing to these words.
Antonio’s Ballad Thou dost love me well, Olalla; Well I know it, even though Love’s mute tongues, thine eyes, have never By their glances told me so.
For I know my love thou knowest, Therefore thine to claim I dare: Once it ceases to be secret, Love need never feel despair.
True it is, Olalla, sometimes Thou hast all too plainly shown That thy heart is brass in hardness, And thy snowy bosom stone.
Yet for all that, in thy coyness, And thy fickle fits between, Hope is there—at least the border
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Of her garment may be seen.
Lures to faith are they, those glimpses, And to faith in thee I hold; Kindness cannot make it stronger, Coldness cannot make it cold.
If it be that love is gentle, In thy gentleness I see Something holding out assurance To the hope of winning thee.
If it be that in devotion Lies a power hearts to move, That which every day I show thee, Helpful to my suit should prove.
Many a time thou must have noticed— If to notice thou dost care— How I go about on Monday Dressed in all my Sunday wear.
Love’s eyes love to look on brightness; Love loves what is gaily drest; Sunday, Monday, all I care is Thou shouldst see me in my best.
No account I make of dances, Or of strains that pleased thee so, Keeping thee awake from midnight Till the cocks began to crow;
Or of how I roundly swore it That there’s none so fair as thou; True it is, but as I said it, By the girls I’m hated now.
For Teresa of the hillside At my praise of thee was sore; Said, “You think you love an angel; It’s a monkey you adore;
“Caught by all her glittering trinkets, And her borrowed braids of hair, And a host of made-up beauties That would Love himself ensnare.»
‘T was a lie, and so I told her, And her cousin at the word Gave me his defiance for it; And what followed thou hast heard.
Mine is no high-flown affection, Mine no passion par amours— As they call it—what I offer Is an honest love, and pure.
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Cunning cords the holy Church has, Cords of softest silk they be; Put thy neck beneath the yoke, dear; Mine will follow, thou wilt see.
Else—and once for all I swear it By the saint of most renown— If I ever quit the mountains, ‘T will be in a friar’s gown.
Here the goatherd brought his song to an end, and though Don Quixote entreated him to sing more, Sancho had no mind that way, being more inclined for sleep than for listening to songs; so said he to his master, “Your worship will do well to settle at once where you mean to pass the night, for the labour these good men are at all day does not allow them to spend the night in singing.”
“I understand thee, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote; “I perceive clearly that those visits to the wine-skin demand compensation in sleep rather than in music.”
“It’s sweet to us all, blessed be God,” said Sancho. “I do not deny it,” replied Don Quixote; “but settle thyself where thou wilt; those of my calling are more becom-
ingly employed in watching than in sleeping; still it would be as well if thou wert to dress this ear for me again, for it is giving me more pain than it need.”
Sancho did as he bade him, but one of the goatherds, seeing the wound, told him not to be uneasy, as he would apply a remedy with which it would be soon healed; and gathering some leaves of rosemary, of which there was a great quantity there, he chewed them and mixed them with a little salt, and applying them to the ear he secured them firmly with a bandage, assuring him that no other treatment would be required, and so it proved.
Chapter XII Of what a goatherd related to those with Don Quixote
Just then another young man, one of those who fetched their provisions from the village, came up and said, “Do you know what is going on in the village, comrades?”
“How could we know it?” replied one of them. “Well, then, you must know,” continued the young man, “this morning that famous student-shepherd called
Chrysostom died, and it is rumoured that he died of love for that devil of a village girl the daughter of Guillermo the Rich, she that wanders about the wolds here in the dress of a shepherdess.”
“You mean Marcela?” said one. “Her I mean,” answered the goatherd; “and the best of it is, he has directed in his will that he is to be buried in
the fields like a Moor, and at the foot of the rock where the Cork-tree spring is, because, as the story goes (and they say he himself said so), that was the place where he first saw her. And he has also left other directions which the clergy of the village say should not and must not be obeyed because they savour of paganism. To all which his great friend Ambrosio the student, he who, like him, also went dressed as a shepherd, replies that everything must be done without any omission according to the directions left by Chrysostom, and about this the village is all in com- motion; however, report says that, after all, what Ambrosio and all the shepherds his friends desire will be done, and to-morrow they are coming to bury him with great ceremony where I said. I am sure it will be something worth seeing; at least I will not fail to go and see it even if I knew I should not return to the village tomorrow.”
“We will do the same,” answered the goatherds, “and cast lots to see who must stay to mind the goats of all.” “Thou sayest well, Pedro,” said one, “though there will be no need of taking that trouble, for I will stay behind
for all; and don’t suppose it is virtue or want of curiosity in me; it is that the splinter that ran into my foot the other day will not let me walk.”
“For all that, we thank thee,” answered Pedro. Don Quixote asked Pedro to tell him who the dead man was and who the shepherdess, to which Pedro replied
that all he knew was that the dead man was a wealthy gentleman belonging to a village in those mountains, who had been a student at Salamanca for many years, at the end of which he returned to his village with the reputation of be- ing very learned and deeply read. “Above all, they said, he was learned in the science of the stars and of what went on yonder in the heavens and the sun and the moon, for he told us of the cris of the sun and moon to exact time.”
“Eclipse it is called, friend, not cris, the darkening of those two luminaries,” said Don Quixote; but Pedro, not troubling himself with trifles, went on with his story, saying, “Also he foretold when the year was going to be one of abundance or estility.”
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“Sterility, you mean,” said Don Quixote. “Sterility or estility,” answered Pedro, “it is all the same in the end. And I can tell you that by this his father and
friends who believed him grew very rich because they did as he advised them, bidding them ‘sow barley this year, not wheat; this year you may sow pulse and not barley; the next there will be a full oil crop, and the three following not a drop will be got.’”
“That science is called astrology,” said Don Quixote. “I do not know what it is called,” replied Pedro, “but I know that he knew all this and more besides. But, to
make an end, not many months had passed after he returned from Salamanca, when one day he appeared dressed as a shepherd with his crook and sheepskin, having put off the long gown he wore as a scholar; and at the same time his great friend, Ambrosio by name, who had been his companion in his studies, took to the shepherd’s dress with him. I forgot to say that Chrysostom, who is dead, was a great man for writing verses, so much so that he made carols for Christmas Eve, and plays for Corpus Christi, which the young men of our village acted, and all said they were excellent. When the villagers saw the two scholars so unexpectedly appearing in shepherd’s dress, they were lost in wonder, and could not guess what had led them to make so extraordinary a change. About this time the father of our Chrysostom died, and he was left heir to a large amount of property in chattels as well as in land, no small number of cattle and sheep, and a large sum of money, of all of which the young man was left dissolute owner, and indeed he was deserving of it all, for he was a very good comrade, and kind-hearted, and a friend of worthy folk, and had a countenance like a benediction. Presently it came to be known that he had changed his dress with no other object than to wander about these wastes after that shepherdess Marcela our lad mentioned a while ago, with whom the deceased Chrysostom had fallen in love. And I must tell you now, for it is well you should know it, who this girl is; perhaps, and even without any perhaps, you will not have heard anything like it all the days of your life, though you should live more years than sarna.”
“Say Sarra,” said Don Quixote, unable to endure the goatherd’s confusion of words. “The sarna lives long enough,” answered Pedro; “and if, senor, you must go finding fault with words at every
step, we shall not make an end of it this twelvemonth.” “Pardon me, friend,” said Don Quixote; “but, as there is such a difference between sarna and Sarra, I told you of
it; however, you have answered very rightly, for sarna lives longer than Sarra: so continue your story, and I will not object any more to anything.”
“I say then, my dear sir,” said the goatherd, “that in our village there was a farmer even richer than the father of Chrysostom, who was named Guillermo, and upon whom God bestowed, over and above great wealth, a daughter at whose birth her mother died, the most respected woman there was in this neighbourhood; I fancy I can see her now with that countenance which had the sun on one side and the moon on the other; and moreover active, and kind to the poor, for which I trust that at the present moment her soul is in bliss with God in the other world. Her husband Guillermo died of grief at the death of so good a wife, leaving his daughter Marcela, a child and rich, to the care of an uncle of hers, a priest and prebendary in our village. The girl grew up with such beauty that it reminded us of her mother’s, which was very great, and yet it was thought that the daughter’s would exceed it; and so when she reached the age of fourteen to fifteen years nobody beheld her but blessed God that had made her so beautiful, and the greater number were in love with her past redemption. Her uncle kept her in great seclusion and retire- ment, but for all that the fame of her great beauty spread so that, as well for it as for her great wealth, her uncle was asked, solicited, and importuned, to give her in marriage not only by those of our town but of those many leagues round, and by the persons of highest quality in them. But he, being a good Christian man, though he desired to give her in marriage at once, seeing her to be old enough, was unwilling to do so without her consent, not that he had any eye to the gain and profit which the custody of the girl’s property brought him while he put off her marriage; and, faith, this was said in praise of the good priest in more than one set in the town. For I would have you know, Sir Errant, that in these little villages everything is talked about and everything is carped at, and rest assured, as I am, that the priest must be over and above good who forces his parishioners to speak well of him, especially in villages.”
“That is the truth,” said Don Quixote; “but go on, for the story is very good, and you, good Pedro, tell it with very good grace.”
“May that of the Lord not be wanting to me,” said Pedro; “that is the one to have. To proceed; you must know that though the uncle put before his niece and described to her the qualities of each one in particular of the many who had asked her in marriage, begging her to marry and make a choice according to her own taste, she never gave any other answer than that she had no desire to marry just yet, and that being so young she did not think herself fit to bear the burden of matrimony. At these, to all appearance, reasonable excuses that she made, her uncle ceased to urge her, and waited till she was somewhat more advanced in age and could mate herself to her own liking. For, said he—and he said quite right—parents are not to settle children in life against their will. But when one least looked for it, lo and behold! one day the demure Marcela makes her appearance turned shepherdess; and, in spite of her
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uncle and all those of the town that strove to dissuade her, took to going a-field with the other shepherd-lasses of the village, and tending her own flock. And so, since she appeared in public, and her beauty came to be seen openly, I could not well tell you how many rich youths, gentlemen and peasants, have adopted the costume of Chrysostom, and go about these fields making love to her. One of these, as has been already said, was our deceased friend, of whom they say that he did not love but adore her. But you must not suppose, because Marcela chose a life of such liberty and independence, and of so little or rather no retirement, that she has given any occasion, or even the semblance of one, for disparagement of her purity and modesty; on the contrary, such and so great is the vigilance with which she watches over her honour, that of all those that court and woo her not one has boasted, or can with truth boast, that she has given him any hope however small of obtaining his desire. For although she does not avoid or shun the society and conversation of the shepherds, and treats them courteously and kindly, should any one of them come to declare his intention to her, though it be one as proper and holy as that of matrimony, she flings him from her like a catapult. And with this kind of disposition she does more harm in this country than if the plague had got into it, for her affability and her beauty draw on the hearts of those that associate with her to love her and to court her, but her scorn and her frankness bring them to the brink of despair; and so they know not what to say save to proclaim her aloud cruel and hard-hearted, and other names of the same sort which well describe the nature of her character; and if you should remain here any time, senor, you would hear these hills and valleys resounding with the laments of the rejected ones who pursue her. Not far from this there is a spot where there are a couple of dozen of tall beeches, and there is not one of them but has carved and written on its smooth bark the name of Marcela, and above some a crown carved on the same tree as though her lover would say more plainly that Marcela wore and deserved that of all human beauty. Here one shepherd is sighing, there another is lamenting; there love songs are heard, here despairing elegies. One will pass all the hours of the night seated at the foot of some oak or rock, and there, without having closed his weeping eyes, the sun finds him in the morning bemused and bereft of sense; and another without relief or respite to his sighs, stretched on the burning sand in the full heat of the sultry summer noontide, makes his appeal to the compassionate heavens, and over one and the other, over these and all, the beautiful Marcela triumphs free and careless. And all of us that know her are waiting to see what her pride will come to, and who is to be the happy man that will succeed in taming a nature so formidable and gaining possession of a beauty so supreme. All that I have told you being such well-established truth, I am persuaded that what they say of the cause of Chrysostom’s death, as our lad told us, is the same. And so I advise you, senor, fail not to be pres- ent to-morrow at his burial, which will be well worth seeing, for Chrysostom had many friends, and it is not half a league from this place to where he directed he should be buried.”
“I will make a point of it,” said Don Quixote, “and I thank you for the pleasure you have given me by relating so interesting a tale.”
“Oh,” said the goatherd, “I do not know even the half of what has happened to the lovers of Marcela, but per- haps to-morrow we may fall in with some shepherd on the road who can tell us; and now it will be well for you to go and sleep under cover, for the night air may hurt your wound, though with the remedy I have applied to you there is no fear of an untoward result.”
Sancho Panza, who was wishing the goatherd’s loquacity at the devil, on his part begged his master to go into Pedro’s hut to sleep. He did so, and passed all the rest of the night in thinking of his lady Dulcinea, in imitation of the lovers of Marcela. Sancho Panza settled himself between Rocinante and his ass, and slept, not like a lover who had been discarded, but like a man who had been soundly kicked.
Chapter XIII In which is ended the story of the shepherdess Marcela, with other incidents
Bit hardly had day begun to show itself through the balconies of the east, when five of the six goatherds came to rouse Don Quixote and tell him that if he was still of a mind to go and see the famous burial of Chrysostom they would bear him company. Don Quixote, who desired nothing better, rose and ordered Sancho to saddle and pannel at once, which he did with all despatch, and with the same they all set out forthwith. They had not gone a quarter of a league when at the meeting of two paths they saw coming towards them some six shepherds dressed in black sheepskins and with their heads crowned with garlands of cypress and bitter oleander. Each of them carried a stout holly staff in his hand, and along with them there came two men of quality on horseback in handsome travelling dress, with three servants on foot accompanying them. Courteous salutations were exchanged on meeting, and inquiring one of the other which way each party was going, they learned that all were bound for the scene of the burial, so they went on all together.
One of those on horseback addressing his companion said to him, “It seems to me, Senor Vivaldo, that we may reckon as well spent the delay we shall incur in seeing this remarkable funeral, for remarkable it cannot but be judg- ing by the strange things these shepherds have told us, of both the dead shepherd and homicide shepherdess.”
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“So I think too,” replied Vivaldo, “and I would delay not to say a day, but four, for the sake of seeing it.” Don Quixote asked them what it was they had heard of Marcela and Chrysostom. The traveller answered that
the same morning they had met these shepherds, and seeing them dressed in this mournful fashion they had asked them the reason of their appearing in such a guise; which one of them gave, describing the strange behaviour and beauty of a shepherdess called Marcela, and the loves of many who courted her, together with the death of that Chrysostom to whose burial they were going. In short, he repeated all that Pedro had related to Don Quixote.
This conversation dropped, and another was commenced by him who was called Vivaldo asking Don Quixo- te what was the reason that led him to go armed in that fashion in a country so peaceful. To which Don Quixote replied, “The pursuit of my calling does not allow or permit me to go in any other fashion; easy life, enjoyment, and repose were invented for soft courtiers, but toil, unrest, and arms were invented and made for those alone whom the world calls knights-errant, of whom I, though unworthy, am the least of all.”
The instant they heard this all set him down as mad, and the better to settle the point and discover what kind of madness his was, Vivaldo proceeded to ask him what knights-errant meant.
“Have not your worships,” replied Don Quixote, “read the annals and histories of England, in which are record- ed the famous deeds of King Arthur, whom we in our popular Castilian invariably call King Artus, with regard to whom it is an ancient tradition, and commonly received all over that kingdom of Great Britain, that this king did not die, but was changed by magic art into a raven, and that in process of time he is to return to reign and recover his kingdom and sceptre; for which reason it cannot be proved that from that time to this any Englishman ever killed a raven? Well, then, in the time of this good king that famous order of chivalry of the Knights of the Round Table was instituted, and the amour of Don Lancelot of the Lake with the Queen Guinevere occurred, precisely as is there related, the go-between and confidante therein being the highly honourable dame Quintanona, whence came that ballad so well known and widely spread in our Spain—
O never surely was there knight So served by hand of dame, As served was he Sir Lancelot hight When he from Britain came—
with all the sweet and delectable course of his achievements in love and war. Handed down from that time, then, this order of chivalry went on extending and spreading itself over many and various parts of the world; and in it, famous and renowned for their deeds, were the mighty Amadis of Gaul with all his sons and descendants to the fifth generation, and the valiant Felixmarte of Hircania, and the never sufficiently praised Tirante el Blanco, and in our own days almost we have seen and heard and talked with the invincible knight Don Belianis of Greece. This, then, sirs, is to be a knight-errant, and what I have spoken of is the order of his chivalry, of which, as I have already said, I, though a sinner, have made profession, and what the aforesaid knights professed that same do I profess, and so I go through these solitudes and wilds seeking adventures, resolved in soul to oppose my arm and person to the most perilous that fortune may offer me in aid of the weak and needy.”
By these words of his the travellers were able to satisfy themselves of Don Quixote’s being out of his senses and of the form of madness that overmastered him, at which they felt the same astonishment that all felt on first becom- ing acquainted with it; and Vivaldo, who was a person of great shrewdness and of a lively temperament, in order to beguile the short journey which they said was required to reach the mountain, the scene of the burial, sought to give him an opportunity of going on with his absurdities. So he said to him, “It seems to me, Senor Knight-errant, that your worship has made choice of one of the most austere professions in the world, and I imagine even that of the Carthusian monks is not so austere.”
“As austere it may perhaps be,” replied our Don Quixote, “but so necessary for the world I am very much inclined to doubt. For, if the truth is to be told, the soldier who executes what his captain orders does no less than the captain himself who gives the order. My meaning, is, that churchmen in peace and quiet pray to Heaven for the welfare of the world, but we soldiers and knights carry into effect what they pray for, defending it with the might of our arms and the edge of our swords, not under shelter but in the open air, a target for the intolerable rays of the sun in summer and the piercing frosts of winter. Thus are we God’s ministers on earth and the arms by which his justice is done therein. And as the business of war and all that relates and belongs to it cannot be conducted without exceeding great sweat, toil, and exertion, it follows that those who make it their profession have undoubtedly more labour than those who in tranquil peace and quiet are engaged in praying to God to help the weak. I do not mean to say, nor does it enter into my thoughts, that the knight-errant’s calling is as good as that of the monk in his cell; I would merely infer from what I endure myself that it is beyond a doubt a more laborious and a more belaboured one, a hungrier and thirstier, a wretcheder, raggeder, and lousier; for there is no reason to doubt that the knights-er- rant of yore endured much hardship in the course of their lives. And if some of them by the might of their arms did
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rise to be emperors, in faith it cost them dear in the matter of blood and sweat; and if those who attained to that rank had not had magicians and sages to help them they would have been completely baulked in their ambition and disappointed in their hopes.”
“That is my own opinion,” replied the traveller; “but one thing among many others seems to me very wrong in knights-errant, and that is that when they find themselves about to engage in some mighty and perilous adventure in which there is manifest danger of losing their lives, they never at the moment of engaging in it think of com- mending themselves to God, as is the duty of every good Christian in like peril; instead of which they commend themselves to their ladies with as much devotion as if these were their gods, a thing which seems to me to savour somewhat of heathenism.”
“Sir,” answered Don Quixote, “that cannot be on any account omitted, and the knight-errant would be dis- graced who acted otherwise: for it is usual and customary in knight-errantry that the knight-errant, who on engag- ing in any great feat of arms has his lady before him, should turn his eyes towards her softly and lovingly, as though with them entreating her to favour and protect him in the hazardous venture he is about to undertake, and even though no one hear him, he is bound to say certain words between his teeth, commending himself to her with all his heart, and of this we have innumerable instances in the histories. Nor is it to be supposed from this that they are to omit commending themselves to God, for there will be time and opportunity for doing so while they are engaged in their task.”
“For all that,” answered the traveller, “I feel some doubt still, because often I have read how words will arise between two knights-errant, and from one thing to another it comes about that their anger kindles and they wheel their horses round and take a good stretch of field, and then without any more ado at the top of their speed they come to the charge, and in mid-career they are wont to commend themselves to their ladies; and what commonly comes of the encounter is that one falls over the haunches of his horse pierced through and through by his antag- onist’s lance, and as for the other, it is only by holding on to the mane of his horse that he can help falling to the ground; but I know not how the dead man had time to commend himself to God in the course of such rapid work as this; it would have been better if those words which he spent in commending himself to his lady in the midst of his career had been devoted to his duty and obligation as a Christian. Moreover, it is my belief that all knights-er- rant have not ladies to commend themselves to, for they are not all in love.”
“That is impossible,” said Don Quixote: “I say it is impossible that there could be a knight-errant without a lady, because to such it is as natural and proper to be in love as to the heavens to have stars: most certainly no history has been seen in which there is to be found a knight-errant without an amour, and for the simple reason that without one he would be held no legitimate knight but a bastard, and one who had gained entrance into the stronghold of the said knighthood, not by the door, but over the wall like a thief and a robber.”
“Nevertheless,” said the traveller, “if I remember rightly, I think I have read that Don Galaor, the brother of the valiant Amadis of Gaul, never had any special lady to whom he might commend himself, and yet he was not the less esteemed, and was a very stout and famous knight.”
To which our Don Quixote made answer, “Sir, one solitary swallow does not make summer; moreover, I know that knight was in secret very deeply in love; besides which, that way of falling in love with all that took his fancy was a natural propensity which he could not control. But, in short, it is very manifest that he had one alone whom he made mistress of his will, to whom he commended himself very frequently and very secretly, for he prided him- self on being a reticent knight.”
“Then if it be essential that every knight-errant should be in love,” said the traveller, “it may be fairly supposed that your worship is so, as you are of the order; and if you do not pride yourself on being as reticent as Don Galaor, I entreat you as earnestly as I can, in the name of all this company and in my own, to inform us of the name, coun- try, rank, and beauty of your lady, for she will esteem herself fortunate if all the world knows that she is loved and served by such a knight as your worship seems to be.”
At this Don Quixote heaved a deep sigh and said, “I cannot say positively whether my sweet enemy is pleased or not that the world should know I serve her; I can only say in answer to what has been so courteously asked of me, that her name is Dulcinea, her country El Toboso, a village of La Mancha, her rank must be at least that of a princess, since she is my queen and lady, and her beauty superhuman, since all the impossible and fanciful attri- butes of beauty which the poets apply to their ladies are verified in her; for her hairs are gold, her forehead Elysian fields, her eyebrows rainbows, her eyes suns, her cheeks roses, her lips coral, her teeth pearls, her neck alabaster, her bosom marble, her hands ivory, her fairness snow, and what modesty conceals from sight such, I think and imagine, as rational reflection can only extol, not compare.”
“We should like to know her lineage, race, and ancestry,” said Vivaldo. To which Don Quixote replied, “She is not of the ancient Roman Curtii, Caii, or Scipios, nor of the modern
Colonnas or Orsini, nor of the Moncadas or Requesenes of Catalonia, nor yet of the Rebellas or Villanovas of Valencia; Palafoxes, Nuzas, Rocabertis, Corellas, Lunas, Alagones, Urreas, Foces, or Gurreas of Aragon; Cerdas,
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Manriques, Mendozas, or Guzmans of Castile; Alencastros, Pallas, or Meneses of Portugal; but she is of those of El Toboso of La Mancha, a lineage that though modern, may furnish a source of gentle blood for the most illustrious families of the ages that are to come, and this let none dispute with me save on the condition that Zerbino placed at the foot of the trophy of Orlando’s arms, saying,
‘These let none move Who dareth not his might with Roland prove.’” “Although mine is of the Cachopins of Laredo,” said the traveller, “I will not venture to compare it with that of
El Toboso of La Mancha, though, to tell the truth, no such surname has until now ever reached my ears.” “What!” said Don Quixote, “has that never reached them?” The rest of the party went along listening with great attention to the conversation of the pair, and even the very
goatherds and shepherds perceived how exceedingly out of his wits our Don Quixote was. Sancho Panza alone thought that what his master said was the truth, knowing who he was and having known him from his birth; and all that he felt any difficulty in believing was that about the fair Dulcinea del Toboso, because neither any such name nor any such princess had ever come to his knowledge though he lived so close to El Toboso. They were going along conversing in this way, when they saw descending a gap between two high mountains some twenty shepherds, all clad in sheepskins of black wool, and crowned with garlands which, as afterwards appeared, were, some of them of yew, some of cypress. Six of the number were carrying a bier covered with a great variety of flowers and branches, on seeing which one of the goatherds said, “Those who come there are the bearers of Chrysostom’s body, and the foot of that mountain is the place where he ordered them to bury him.” They therefore made haste to reach the spot, and did so by the time those who came had laid the bier upon the ground, and four of them with sharp pickaxes were digging a grave by the side of a hard rock. They greeted each other courteously, and then Don Quixote and those who accompanied him turned to examine the bier, and on it, covered with flowers, they saw a dead body in the dress of a shepherd, to all appearance of one thirty years of age, and showing even in death that in life he had been of comely features and gallant bearing. Around him on the bier itself were laid some books, and several papers open and folded; and those who were looking on as well as those who were opening the grave and all the others who were there preserved a strange silence, until one of those who had borne the body said to another, “Observe carefully, Ambrosia if this is the place Chrysostom spoke of, since you are anxious that what he directed in his will should be so strictly complied with.”
“This is the place,” answered Ambrosia “for in it many a time did my poor friend tell me the story of his hard fortune. Here it was, he told me, that he saw for the first time that mortal enemy of the human race, and here, too, for the first time he declared to her his passion, as honourable as it was devoted, and here it was that at last Marcela ended by scorning and rejecting him so as to bring the tragedy of his wretched life to a close; here, in memory of misfortunes so great, he desired to be laid in the bowels of eternal oblivion.” Then turning to Don Quixote and the travellers he went on to say, “That body, sirs, on which you are looking with compassionate eyes, was the abode of a soul on which Heaven bestowed a vast share of its riches. That is the body of Chrysostom, who was unrivalled in wit, unequalled in courtesy, unapproached in gentle bearing, a phoenix in friendship, generous without limit, grave without arrogance, gay without vulgarity, and, in short, first in all that constitutes goodness and second to none in all that makes up misfortune. He loved deeply, he was hated; he adored, he was scorned; he wooed a wild beast, he pleaded with marble, he pursued the wind, he cried to the wilderness, he served ingratitude, and for reward was made the prey of death in the mid-course of life, cut short by a shepherdess whom he sought to immortalise in the memory of man, as these papers which you see could fully prove, had he not commanded me to consign them to the fire after having consigned his body to the earth.”
“You would deal with them more harshly and cruelly than their owner himself,” said Vivaldo, “for it is neither right nor proper to do the will of one who enjoins what is wholly unreasonable; it would not have been reasonable in Augustus Caesar had he permitted the directions left by the divine Mantuan in his will to be carried into effect. So that, Senor Ambrosia while you consign your friend’s body to the earth, you should not consign his writings to oblivion, for if he gave the order in bitterness of heart, it is not right that you should irrationally obey it. On the contrary, by granting life to those papers, let the cruelty of Marcela live for ever, to serve as a warning in ages to come to all men to shun and avoid falling into like danger; or I and all of us who have come here know already the story of this your love-stricken and heart-broken friend, and we know, too, your friendship, and the cause of his death, and the directions he gave at the close of his life; from which sad story may be gathered how great was the cruelty of Marcela, the love of Chrysostom, and the loyalty of your friendship, together with the end awaiting those who pursue rashly the path that insane passion opens to their eyes. Last night we learned the death of Chrysostom and that he was to be buried here, and out of curiosity and pity we left our direct road and resolved to come and see with our eyes that which when heard of had so moved our compassion, and in consideration of that compassion and our desire to prove it if we might by condolence, we beg of you, excellent Ambrosia, or at least I on my own account entreat you, that instead of burning those papers you allow me to carry away some of them.”
And without waiting for the shepherd’s answer, he stretched out his hand and took up some of those that were
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nearest to him; seeing which Ambrosio said, “Out of courtesy, senor, I will grant your request as to those you have taken, but it is idle to expect me to abstain from burning the remainder.”
Vivaldo, who was eager to see what the papers contained, opened one of them at once, and saw that its title was “Lay of Despair.”
Ambrosio hearing it said, “That is the last paper the unhappy man wrote; and that you may see, senor, to what an end his misfortunes brought him, read it so that you may be heard, for you will have time enough for that while we are waiting for the grave to be dug.”
“I will do so very willingly,” said Vivaldo; and as all the bystanders were equally eager they gathered round him, and he, reading in a loud voice, found that it ran as follows.
Chapter XIV Wherein are inserted the despairing verses of the dead shepherd, together with other incidents not looked for
The Lay of Chrysostom Since thou dost in thy cruelty desire The ruthless rigour of thy tyranny From tongue to tongue, from land to land proclaimed, The very Hell will I constrain to lend This stricken breast of mine deep notes of woe To serve my need of fitting utterance. And as I strive to body forth the tale Of all I suffer, all that thou hast done, Forth shall the dread voice roll, and bear along Shreds from my vitals torn for greater pain. Then listen, not to dulcet harmony, But to a discord wrung by mad despair Out of this bosom’s depths of bitterness, To ease my heart and plant a sting in thine.
The lion’s roar, the fierce wolf ’s savage howl, The horrid hissing of the scaly snake, The awesome cries of monsters yet unnamed, The crow’s ill-boding croak, the hollow moan Of wild winds wrestling with the restless sea, The wrathful bellow of the vanquished bull, The plaintive sobbing of the widowed dove, The envied owl’s sad note, the wail of woe That rises from the dreary choir of Hell, Commingled in one sound, confusing sense, Let all these come to aid my soul’s complaint, For pain like mine demands new modes of song.
No echoes of that discord shall be heard Where Father Tagus rolls, or on the banks Of olive-bordered Betis; to the rocks Or in deep caverns shall my plaint be told, And by a lifeless tongue in living words; Or in dark valleys or on lonely shores, Where neither foot of man nor sunbeam falls; Or in among the poison-breathing swarms Of monsters nourished by the sluggish Nile. For, though it be to solitudes remote The hoarse vague echoes of my sorrows sound Thy matchless cruelty, my dismal fate Shall carry them to all the spacious world.
Disdain hath power to kill, and patience dies
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Slain by suspicion, be it false or true; And deadly is the force of jealousy; Long absence makes of life a dreary void; No hope of happiness can give repose To him that ever fears to be forgot; And death, inevitable, waits in hall. But I, by some strange miracle, live on A prey to absence, jealousy, disdain; Racked by suspicion as by certainty; Forgotten, left to feed my flame alone. And while I suffer thus, there comes no ray Of hope to gladden me athwart the gloom; Nor do I look for it in my despair; But rather clinging to a cureless woe, All hope do I abjure for evermore.
Can there be hope where fear is? Were it well, When far more certain are the grounds of fear? Ought I to shut mine eyes to jealousy, If through a thousand heart-wounds it appears? Who would not give free access to distrust, Seeing disdain unveiled, and—bitter change!— All his suspicions turned to certainties, And the fair truth transformed into a lie? Oh, thou fierce tyrant of the realms of love, Oh, Jealousy! put chains upon these hands, And bind me with thy strongest cord, Disdain. But, woe is me! triumphant over all, My sufferings drown the memory of you.
And now I die, and since there is no hope Of happiness for me in life or death, Still to my fantasy I’ll fondly cling. I’ll say that he is wise who loveth well, And that the soul most free is that most bound In thraldom to the ancient tyrant Love. I’ll say that she who is mine enemy In that fair body hath as fair a mind, And that her coldness is but my desert, And that by virtue of the pain he sends Love rules his kingdom with a gentle sway. Thus, self-deluding, and in bondage sore, And wearing out the wretched shred of life To which I am reduced by her disdain, I’ll give this soul and body to the winds, All hopeless of a crown of bliss in store.
Thou whose injustice hath supplied the cause That makes me quit the weary life I loathe, As by this wounded bosom thou canst see How willingly thy victim I become, Let not my death, if haply worth a tear, Cloud the clear heaven that dwells in thy bright eyes; I would not have thee expiate in aught The crime of having made my heart thy prey; But rather let thy laughter gaily ring And prove my death to be thy festival.
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Fool that I am to bid thee! well I know Thy glory gains by my untimely end.
And now it is the time; from Hell’s abyss Come thirsting Tantalus, come Sisyphus Heaving the cruel stone, come Tityus With vulture, and with wheel Ixion come, And come the sisters of the ceaseless toil; And all into this breast transfer their pains, And (if such tribute to despair be due) Chant in their deepest tones a doleful dirge Over a corse unworthy of a shroud. Let the three-headed guardian of the gate, And all the monstrous progeny of hell, The doleful concert join: a lover dead Methinks can have no fitter obsequies.
Lay of despair, grieve not when thou art gone Forth from this sorrowing heart: my misery Brings fortune to the cause that gave thee birth; Then banish sadness even in the tomb.
The “Lay of Chrysostom” met with the approbation of the listeners, though the reader said it did not seem to him to agree with what he had heard of Marcela’s reserve and propriety, for Chrysostom complained in it of jealou- sy, suspicion, and absence, all to the prejudice of the good name and fame of Marcela; to which Ambrosio replied as one who knew well his friend’s most secret thoughts, “Senor, to remove that doubt I should tell you that when the unhappy man wrote this lay he was away from Marcela, from whom he had voluntarily separated himself, to try if absence would act with him as it is wont; and as everything distresses and every fear haunts the banished lover, so imaginary jealousies and suspicions, dreaded as if they were true, tormented Chrysostom; and thus the truth of what report declares of the virtue of Marcela remains unshaken, and with her envy itself should not and cannot find any fault save that of being cruel, somewhat haughty, and very scornful.”
“That is true,” said Vivaldo; and as he was about to read another paper of those he had preserved from the fire, he was stopped by a marvellous vision (for such it seemed) that unexpectedly presented itself to their eyes; for on the summit of the rock where they were digging the grave there appeared the shepherdess Marcela, so beautiful that her beauty exceeded its reputation. Those who had never till then beheld her gazed upon her in wonder and silence, and those who were accustomed to see her were not less amazed than those who had never seen her before. But the instant Ambrosio saw her he addressed her, with manifest indignation:
“Art thou come, by chance, cruel basilisk of these mountains, to see if in thy presence blood will flow from the wounds of this wretched being thy cruelty has robbed of life; or is it to exult over the cruel work of thy humours that thou art come; or like another pitiless Nero to look down from that height upon the ruin of his Rome in embers; or in thy arrogance to trample on this ill-fated corpse, as the ungrateful daughter trampled on her father Tarquin’s? Tell us quickly for what thou art come, or what it is thou wouldst have, for, as I know the thoughts of Chrysostom never failed to obey thee in life, I will make all these who call themselves his friends obey thee, though he be dead.”
“I come not, Ambrosia for any of the purposes thou hast named,” replied Marcela, “but to defend myself and to prove how unreasonable are all those who blame me for their sorrow and for Chrysostom’s death; and therefore I ask all of you that are here to give me your attention, for will not take much time or many words to bring the truth home to persons of sense. Heaven has made me, so you say, beautiful, and so much so that in spite of yourselves my beauty leads you to love me; and for the love you show me you say, and even urge, that I am bound to love you. By that natural understanding which God has given me I know that everything beautiful attracts love, but I cannot see how, by reason of being loved, that which is loved for its beauty is bound to love that which loves it; besides, it may happen that the lover of that which is beautiful may be ugly, and ugliness being detestable, it is very absurd to say, “I love thee because thou art beautiful, thou must love me though I be ugly.” But supposing the beauty equal on both sides, it does not follow that the inclinations must be therefore alike, for it is not every beauty that excites love, some but pleasing the eye without winning the affection; and if every sort of beauty excited love and won the heart, the will would wander vaguely to and fro unable to make choice of any; for as there is an infinity of beautiful objects
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there must be an infinity of inclinations, and true love, I have heard it said, is indivisible, and must be voluntary and not compelled. If this be so, as I believe it to be, why do you desire me to bend my will by force, for no other reason but that you say you love me? Nay—tell me—had Heaven made me ugly, as it has made me beautiful, could I with justice complain of you for not loving me? Moreover, you must remember that the beauty I possess was no choice of mine, for, be it what it may, Heaven of its bounty gave it me without my asking or choosing it; and as the viper, though it kills with it, does not deserve to be blamed for the poison it carries, as it is a gift of nature, neither do I de- serve reproach for being beautiful; for beauty in a modest woman is like fire at a distance or a sharp sword; the one does not burn, the other does not cut, those who do not come too near. Honour and virtue are the ornaments of the mind, without which the body, though it be so, has no right to pass for beautiful; but if modesty is one of the virtues that specially lend a grace and charm to mind and body, why should she who is loved for her beauty part with it to gratify one who for his pleasure alone strives with all his might and energy to rob her of it? I was born free, and that I might live in freedom I chose the solitude of the fields; in the trees of the mountains I find society, the clear waters of the brooks are my mirrors, and to the trees and waters I make known my thoughts and charms. I am a fire afar off, a sword laid aside. Those whom I have inspired with love by letting them see me, I have by words unde- ceived, and if their longings live on hope—and I have given none to Chrysostom or to any other—it cannot justly be said that the death of any is my doing, for it was rather his own obstinacy than my cruelty that killed him; and if it be made a charge against me that his wishes were honourable, and that therefore I was bound to yield to them, I answer that when on this very spot where now his grave is made he declared to me his purity of purpose, I told him that mine was to live in perpetual solitude, and that the earth alone should enjoy the fruits of my retirement and the spoils of my beauty; and if, after this open avowal, he chose to persist against hope and steer against the wind, what wonder is it that he should sink in the depths of his infatuation? If I had encouraged him, I should be false; if I had gratified him, I should have acted against my own better resolution and purpose. He was persistent in spite of warning, he despaired without being hated. Bethink you now if it be reasonable that his suffering should be laid to my charge. Let him who has been deceived complain, let him give way to despair whose encouraged hopes have proved vain, let him flatter himself whom I shall entice, let him boast whom I shall receive; but let not him call me cruel or homicide to whom I make no promise, upon whom I practise no deception, whom I neither entice nor receive. It has not been so far the will of Heaven that I should love by fate, and to expect me to love by choice is idle. Let this general declaration serve for each of my suitors on his own account, and let it be understood from this time forth that if anyone dies for me it is not of jealousy or misery he dies, for she who loves no one can give no cause for jealousy to any, and candour is not to be confounded with scorn. Let him who calls me wild beast and basilisk, leave me alone as something noxious and evil; let him who calls me ungrateful, withhold his service; who calls me way- ward, seek not my acquaintance; who calls me cruel, pursue me not; for this wild beast, this basilisk, this ungrateful, cruel, wayward being has no kind of desire to seek, serve, know, or follow them. If Chrysostom’s impatience and violent passion killed him, why should my modest behaviour and circumspection be blamed? If I preserve my puri- ty in the society of the trees, why should he who would have me preserve it among men, seek to rob me of it? I have, as you know, wealth of my own, and I covet not that of others; my taste is for freedom, and I have no relish for con- straint; I neither love nor hate anyone; I do not deceive this one or court that, or trifle with one or play with another. The modest converse of the shepherd girls of these hamlets and the care of my goats are my recreations; my desires are bounded by these mountains, and if they ever wander hence it is to contemplate the beauty of the heavens, steps by which the soul travels to its primeval abode.”
With these words, and not waiting to hear a reply, she turned and passed into the thickest part of a wood that was hard by, leaving all who were there lost in admiration as much of her good sense as of her beauty. Some—those wounded by the irresistible shafts launched by her bright eyes—made as though they would follow her, heedless of the frank declaration they had heard; seeing which, and deeming this a fitting occasion for the exercise of his chivalry in aid of distressed damsels, Don Quixote, laying his hand on the hilt of his sword, exclaimed in a loud and distinct voice:
“Let no one, whatever his rank or condition, dare to follow the beautiful Marcela, under pain of incurring my fierce indignation. She has shown by clear and satisfactory arguments that little or no fault is to be found with her for the death of Chrysostom, and also how far she is from yielding to the wishes of any of her lovers, for which reason, instead of being followed and persecuted, she should in justice be honoured and esteemed by all the good people of the world, for she shows that she is the only woman in it that holds to such a virtuous resolution.”
Whether it was because of the threats of Don Quixote, or because Ambrosio told them to fulfil their duty to their good friend, none of the shepherds moved or stirred from the spot until, having finished the grave and burned Chrysostom’s papers, they laid his body in it, not without many tears from those who stood by. They closed the grave with a heavy stone until a slab was ready which Ambrosio said he meant to have prepared, with an epitaph which was to be to this effect:
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Beneath the stone before your eyes The body of a lover lies; In life he was a shepherd swain, In death a victim to disdain. Ungrateful, cruel, coy, and fair, Was she that drove him to despair, And Love hath made her his ally For spreading wide his tyranny.
They then strewed upon the grave a profusion of flowers and branches, and all expressing their condolence with his friend ambrosio, took their Vivaldo and his companion did the same; and Don Quixote bade farewell to his hosts and to the travellers, who pressed him to come with them to Seville, as being such a convenient place for find- ing adventures, for they presented themselves in every street and round every corner oftener than anywhere else. Don Quixote thanked them for their advice and for the disposition they showed to do him a favour, and said that for the present he would not, and must not go to Seville until he had cleared all these mountains of highwaymen and robbers, of whom report said they were full. Seeing his good intention, the travellers were unwilling to press him further, and once more bidding him farewell, they left him and pursued their journey, in the course of which they did not fail to discuss the story of Marcela and Chrysostom as well as the madness of Don Quixote. He, on his part, resolved to go in quest of the shepherdess Marcela, and make offer to her of all the service he could render her; but things did not fall out with him as he expected, according to what is related in the course of this veracious history, of which the Second Part ends here.
Chapter XVIII In which is related the discourse Sancho Panza held with his master, Don Quixote, and other adventures worth relating
Sancho reached his master so limp and faint that he could not urge on his beast. When Don Quixote saw the state he was in he said, “I have now come to the conclusion, good Sancho, that this castle or inn is beyond a doubt enchanted, because those who have so atrociously diverted themselves with thee, what can they be but phantoms or beings of another world? and I hold this confirmed by having noticed that when I was by the wall of the yard witnessing the acts of thy sad tragedy, it was out of my power to mount upon it, nor could I even dismount from Rocinante, because they no doubt had me enchanted; for I swear to thee by the faith of what I am that if I had been able to climb up or dismount, I would have avenged thee in such a way that those braggart thieves would have remembered their freak for ever, even though in so doing I knew that I contravened the laws of chivalry, which, as I have often told thee, do not permit a knight to lay hands on him who is not one, save in case of urgent and great necessity in defence of his own life and person.”
“I would have avenged myself too if I could,” said Sancho, “whether I had been dubbed knight or not, but I could not; though for my part I am persuaded those who amused themselves with me were not phantoms or enchanted men, as your worship says, but men of flesh and bone like ourselves; and they all had their names, for I heard them name them when they were tossing me, and one was called Pedro Martinez, and another Tenorio Her- nandez, and the innkeeper, I heard, was called Juan Palomeque the Left-handed; so that, senor, your not being able to leap over the wall of the yard or dismount from your horse came of something else besides enchantments; and what I make out clearly from all this is, that these adventures we go seeking will in the end lead us into such misad- ventures that we shall not know which is our right foot; and that the best and wisest thing, according to my small wits, would be for us to return home, now that it is harvest-time, and attend to our business, and give over wander- ing from Zeca to Mecca and from pail to bucket, as the saying is.”
“How little thou knowest about chivalry, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote; “hold thy peace and have patience; the day will come when thou shalt see with thine own eyes what an honourable thing it is to wander in the pursuit of this calling; nay, tell me, what greater pleasure can there be in the world, or what delight can equal that of winning a battle, and triumphing over one’s enemy? None, beyond all doubt.”
“Very likely,” answered Sancho, “though I do not know it; all I know is that since we have been knights-errant, or since your worship has been one (for I have no right to reckon myself one of so honourable a number) we have never won any battle except the one with the Biscayan, and even out of that your worship came with half an ear and half a helmet the less; and from that till now it has been all cudgellings and more cudgellings, cuffs and more cuffs, I getting the blanketing over and above, and falling in with enchanted persons on whom I cannot avenge myself so as to know what the delight, as your worship calls it, of conquering an enemy is like.”
“That is what vexes me, and what ought to vex thee, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote; “but henceforward I will endeavour to have at hand some sword made by such craft that no kind of enchantments can take effect upon him
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who carries it, and it is even possible that fortune may procure for me that which belonged to Amadis when he was called ‘The Knight of the Burning Sword,’ which was one of the best swords that ever knight in the world possessed, for, besides having the said virtue, it cut like a razor, and there was no armour, however strong and enchanted it might be, that could resist it.”
“Such is my luck,” said Sancho, “that even if that happened and your worship found some such sword, it would, like the balsam, turn out serviceable and good for dubbed knights only, and as for the squires, they might sup sor- row.”
“Fear not that, Sancho,” said Don Quixote: “Heaven will deal better by thee.” Thus talking, Don Quixote and his squire were going along, when, on the road they were following, Don Quix-
ote perceived approaching them a large and thick cloud of dust, on seeing which he turned to Sancho and said: “This is the day, Sancho, on which will be seen the boon my fortune is reserving for me; this, I say, is the day on
which as much as on any other shall be displayed the might of my arm, and on which I shall do deeds that shall re- main written in the book of fame for all ages to come. Seest thou that cloud of dust which rises yonder? Well, then, all that is churned up by a vast army composed of various and countless nations that comes marching there.”
“According to that there must be two,” said Sancho, “for on this opposite side also there rises just such another cloud of dust.”
Don Quixote turned to look and found that it was true, and rejoicing exceedingly, he concluded that they were two armies about to engage and encounter in the midst of that broad plain; for at all times and seasons his fancy was full of the battles, enchantments, adventures, crazy feats, loves, and defiances that are recorded in the books of chivalry, and everything he said, thought, or did had reference to such things. Now the cloud of dust he had seen was raised by two great droves of sheep coming along the same road in opposite directions, which, because of the dust, did not become visible until they drew near, but Don Quixote asserted so positively that they were armies that Sancho was led to believe it and say, “Well, and what are we to do, senor?”
“What?” said Don Quixote: “give aid and assistance to the weak and those who need it; and thou must know, Sancho, that this which comes opposite to us is conducted and led by the mighty emperor Alifanfaron, lord of the great isle of Trapobana; this other that marches behind me is that of his enemy the king of the Garamantas, Penta- polin of the Bare Arm, for he always goes into battle with his right arm bare.”
“But why are these two lords such enemies?” “They are at enmity,” replied Don Quixote, “because this Alifanfaron is a furious pagan and is in love with the
daughter of Pentapolin, who is a very beautiful and moreover gracious lady, and a Christian, and her father is un- willing to bestow her upon the pagan king unless he first abandons the religion of his false prophet Mahomet, and adopts his own.”
“By my beard,” said Sancho, “but Pentapolin does quite right, and I will help him as much as I can.” “In that thou wilt do what is thy duty, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “for to engage in battles of this sort it is not
requisite to be a dubbed knight.” “That I can well understand,” answered Sancho; “but where shall we put this ass where we may be sure to find
him after the fray is over? for I believe it has not been the custom so far to go into battle on a beast of this kind.” “That is true,” said Don Quixote, “and what you had best do with him is to leave him to take his chance whether
he be lost or not, for the horses we shall have when we come out victors will be so many that even Rocinante will run a risk of being changed for another. But attend to me and observe, for I wish to give thee some account of the chief knights who accompany these two armies; and that thou mayest the better see and mark, let us withdraw to that hillock which rises yonder, whence both armies may be seen.”
They did so, and placed themselves on a rising ground from which the two droves that Don Quixote made armies of might have been plainly seen if the clouds of dust they raised had not obscured them and blinded the sight; nevertheless, seeing in his imagination what he did not see and what did not exist, he began thus in a loud voice:
“That knight whom thou seest yonder in yellow armour, who bears upon his shield a lion crowned crouching at the feet of a damsel, is the valiant Laurcalco, lord of the Silver Bridge; that one in armour with flowers of gold, who bears on his shield three crowns argent on an azure field, is the dreaded Micocolembo, grand duke of Quirocia; that other of gigantic frame, on his right hand, is the ever dauntless Brandabarbaran de Boliche, lord of the three Arabias, who for armour wears that serpent skin, and has for shield a gate which, according to tradition, is one of those of the temple that Samson brought to the ground when by his death he revenged himself upon his enemies. But turn thine eyes to the other side, and thou shalt see in front and in the van of this other army the ever victori- ous and never vanquished Timonel of Carcajona, prince of New Biscay, who comes in armour with arms quartered azure, vert, white, and yellow, and bears on his shield a cat or on a field tawny with a motto which says Miau, which is the beginning of the name of his lady, who according to report is the peerless Miaulina, daughter of the duke Alfeniquen of the Algarve; the other, who burdens and presses the loins of that powerful charger and bears arms
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white as snow and a shield blank and without any device, is a novice knight, a Frenchman by birth, Pierres Papin by name, lord of the baronies of Utrique; that other, who with iron-shod heels strikes the flanks of that nimble par- ti-coloured zebra, and for arms bears azure vair, is the mighty duke of Nerbia, Espartafilardo del Bosque, who bears for device on his shield an asparagus plant with a motto in Castilian that says, Rastrea mi suerte.” And so he went on naming a number of knights of one squadron or the other out of his imagination, and to all he assigned off- hand their arms, colours, devices, and mottoes, carried away by the illusions of his unheard-of craze; and without a pause, he continued, “People of divers nations compose this squadron in front; here are those that drink of the sweet waters of the famous Xanthus, those that scour the woody Massilian plains, those that sift the pure fine gold of Arabia Felix, those that enjoy the famed cool banks of the crystal Thermodon, those that in many and various ways divert the streams of the golden Pactolus, the Numidians, faithless in their promises, the Persians renowned in archery, the Parthians and the Medes that fight as they fly, the Arabs that ever shift their dwellings, the Scythians as cruel as they are fair, the Ethiopians with pierced lips, and an infinity of other nations whose features I recognise and descry, though I cannot recall their names. In this other squadron there come those that drink of the crystal streams of the olive-bearing Betis, those that make smooth their countenances with the water of the ever rich and golden Tagus, those that rejoice in the fertilising flow of the divine Genil, those that roam the Tartesian plains abounding in pasture, those that take their pleasure in the Elysian meadows of Jerez, the rich Manchegans crowned with ruddy ears of corn, the wearers of iron, old relics of the Gothic race, those that bathe in the Pisuerga renowned for its gentle current, those that feed their herds along the spreading pastures of the winding Guadiana famed for its hidden course, those that tremble with the cold of the pineclad Pyrenees or the dazzling snows of the lofty Apen- nine; in a word, as many as all Europe includes and contains.”
Good God! what a number of countries and nations he named! giving to each its proper attributes with marvel- lous readiness; brimful and saturated with what he had read in his lying books! Sancho Panza hung upon his words without speaking, and from time to time turned to try if he could see the knights and giants his master was describ- ing, and as he could not make out one of them he said to him:
“Senor, devil take it if there’s a sign of any man you talk of, knight or giant, in the whole thing; maybe it’s all enchantment, like the phantoms last night.”
“How canst thou say that!” answered Don Quixote; “dost thou not hear the neighing of the steeds, the braying of the trumpets, the roll of the drums?”
“I hear nothing but a great bleating of ewes and sheep,” said Sancho; which was true, for by this time the two flocks had come close.
“The fear thou art in, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “prevents thee from seeing or hearing correctly, for one of the effects of fear is to derange the senses and make things appear different from what they are; if thou art in such fear, withdraw to one side and leave me to myself, for alone I suffice to bring victory to that side to which I shall give my aid;” and so saying he gave Rocinante the spur, and putting the lance in rest, shot down the slope like a thunderbolt. Sancho shouted after him, crying, “Come back, Senor Don Quixote; I vow to God they are sheep and ewes you are charging! Come back! Unlucky the father that begot me! what madness is this! Look, there is no giant, nor knight, nor cats, nor arms, nor shields quartered or whole, nor vair azure or bedevilled. What are you about? Sinner that I am before God!” But not for all these entreaties did Don Quixote turn back; on the contrary he went on shouting out, “Ho, knights, ye who follow and fight under the banners of the valiant emperor Pentapolin of the Bare Arm, follow me all; ye shall see how easily I shall give him his revenge over his enemy Alifanfaron of the Trapobana.”
So saying, he dashed into the midst of the squadron of ewes, and began spearing them with as much spirit and intrepidity as if he were transfixing mortal enemies in earnest. The shepherds and drovers accompanying the flock shouted to him to desist; seeing it was no use, they ungirt their slings and began to salute his ears with stones as big as one’s fist. Don Quixote gave no heed to the stones, but, letting drive right and left kept saying:
“Where art thou, proud Alifanfaron? Come before me; I am a single knight who would fain prove thy prowess hand to hand, and make thee yield thy life a penalty for the wrong thou dost to the valiant Pentapolin Garamanta.” Here came a sugar-plum from the brook that struck him on the side and buried a couple of ribs in his body. Feeling himself so smitten, he imagined himself slain or badly wounded for certain, and recollecting his liquor he drew out his flask, and putting it to his mouth began to pour the contents into his stomach; but ere he had succeeded in swal- lowing what seemed to him enough, there came another almond which struck him on the hand and on the flask so fairly that it smashed it to pieces, knocking three or four teeth and grinders out of his mouth in its course, and sorely crushing two fingers of his hand. Such was the force of the first blow and of the second, that the poor knight in spite of himself came down backwards off his horse. The shepherds came up, and felt sure they had killed him; so in all haste they collected their flock together, took up the dead beasts, of which there were more than seven, and made off without waiting to ascertain anything further.
All this time Sancho stood on the hill watching the crazy feats his master was performing, and tearing his beard and cursing the hour and the occasion when fortune had made him acquainted with him. Seeing him, then,
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brought to the ground, and that the shepherds had taken themselves off, he ran to him and found him in very bad case, though not unconscious; and said he:
“Did I not tell you to come back, Senor Don Quixote; and that what you were going to attack were not armies but droves of sheep?”
“That’s how that thief of a sage, my enemy, can alter and falsify things,” answered Don Quixote; “thou must know, Sancho, that it is a very easy matter for those of his sort to make us believe what they choose; and this malig- nant being who persecutes me, envious of the glory he knew I was to win in this battle, has turned the squadrons of the enemy into droves of sheep. At any rate, do this much, I beg of thee, Sancho, to undeceive thyself, and see that what I say is true; mount thy ass and follow them quietly, and thou shalt see that when they have gone some little distance from this they will return to their original shape and, ceasing to be sheep, become men in all respects as I described them to thee at first. But go not just yet, for I want thy help and assistance; come hither, and see how many of my teeth and grinders are missing, for I feel as if there was not one left in my mouth.”
Sancho came so close that he almost put his eyes into his mouth; now just at that moment the balsam had acted on the stomach of Don Quixote, so, at the very instant when Sancho came to examine his mouth, he discharged all its contents with more force than a musket, and full into the beard of the compassionate squire.
“Holy Mary!” cried Sancho, “what is this that has happened me? Clearly this sinner is mortally wounded, as he vomits blood from the mouth;” but considering the matter a little more closely he perceived by the colour, taste, and smell, that it was not blood but the balsam from the flask which he had seen him drink; and he was taken with such a loathing that his stomach turned, and he vomited up his inside over his very master, and both were left in a precious state. Sancho ran to his ass to get something wherewith to clean himself, and relieve his master, out of his alforjas; but not finding them, he well-nigh took leave of his senses, and cursed himself anew, and in his heart resolved to quit his master and return home, even though he forfeited the wages of his service and all hopes of the promised island.
Don Quixote now rose, and putting his left hand to his mouth to keep his teeth from falling out altogether, with the other he laid hold of the bridle of Rocinante, who had never stirred from his master’s side—so loyal and well-behaved was he—and betook himself to where the squire stood leaning over his ass with his hand to his cheek, like one in deep dejection. Seeing him in this mood, looking so sad, Don Quixote said to him:
“Bear in mind, Sancho, that one man is no more than another, unless he does more than another; all these tempests that fall upon us are signs that fair weather is coming shortly, and that things will go well with us, for it is impossible for good or evil to last for ever; and hence it follows that the evil having lasted long, the good must be now nigh at hand; so thou must not distress thyself at the misfortunes which happen to me, since thou hast no share in them.”
“How have I not?” replied Sancho; “was he whom they blanketed yesterday perchance any other than my fa- ther’s son? and the alforjas that are missing to-day with all my treasures, did they belong to any other but myself ?”
“What! are the alforjas missing, Sancho?” said Don Quixote. “Yes, they are missing,” answered Sancho. “In that case we have nothing to eat to-day,” replied Don Quixote. “It would be so,” answered Sancho, “if there were none of the herbs your worship says you know in these mead-
ows, those with which knights-errant as unlucky as your worship are wont to supply such-like shortcomings.” “For all that,” answered Don Quixote, “I would rather have just now a quarter of bread, or a loaf and a couple of
pilchards’ heads, than all the herbs described by Dioscorides, even with Doctor Laguna’s notes. Nevertheless, San- cho the Good, mount thy beast and come along with me, for God, who provides for all things, will not fail us (more especially when we are so active in his service as we are), since he fails not the midges of the air, nor the grubs of the earth, nor the tadpoles of the water, and is so merciful that he maketh his sun to rise on the good and on the evil, and sendeth rain on the unjust and on the just.”
“Your worship would make a better preacher than knight-errant,” said Sancho. “Knights-errant knew and ought to know everything, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “for there were knights-er-
rant in former times as well qualified to deliver a sermon or discourse in the middle of an encampment, as if they had graduated in the University of Paris; whereby we may see that the lance has never blunted the pen, nor the pen the lance.”
“Well, be it as your worship says,” replied Sancho; “let us be off now and find some place of shelter for the night, and God grant it may be somewhere where there are no blankets, nor blanketeers, nor phantoms, nor enchanted Moors; for if there are, may the devil take the whole concern.”
“Ask that of God, my son,” said Don Quixote; “and do thou lead on where thou wilt, for this time I leave our lodging to thy choice; but reach me here thy hand, and feel with thy finger, and find out how many of my teeth and grinders are missing from this right side of the upper jaw, for it is there I feel the pain.”
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Sancho put in his fingers, and feeling about asked him, “How many grinders used your worship have on this side?”
“Four,” replied Don Quixote, “besides the back-tooth, all whole and quite sound.” “Mind what you are saying, senor.” “I say four, if not five,” answered Don Quixote, “for never in my life have I had tooth or grinder drawn, nor has
any fallen out or been destroyed by any decay or rheum.” “Well, then,” said Sancho, “in this lower side your worship has no more than two grinders and a half, and in the
upper neither a half nor any at all, for it is all as smooth as the palm of my hand.” “Luckless that I am!” said Don Quixote, hearing the sad news his squire gave him; “I had rather they despoiled
me of an arm, so it were not the sword-arm; for I tell thee, Sancho, a mouth without teeth is like a mill without a millstone, and a tooth is much more to be prized than a diamond; but we who profess the austere order of chivalry are liable to all this. Mount, friend, and lead the way, and I will follow thee at whatever pace thou wilt.”
Sancho did as he bade him, and proceeded in the direction in which he thought he might find refuge without quitting the high road, which was there very much frequented. As they went along, then, at a slow pace—for the pain in Don Quixote’s jaws kept him uneasy and ill-disposed for speed—Sancho thought it well to amuse and divert him by talk of some kind, and among the things he said to him was that which will be told in the following chapter.
Chapter XXII Of the freedom Don Quixote conferred on several unfortunates who against their will were being carried where they
had no wish to go Cide Hamete Benengeli, the Arab and Manchegan author, relates in this most grave, high-sounding, minute,
delightful, and original history that after the discussion between the famous Don Quixote of La Mancha and his squire Sancho Panza which is set down at the end of chapter twenty-one, Don Quixote raised his eyes and saw coming along the road he was following some dozen men on foot strung together by the neck, like beads, on a great iron chain, and all with manacles on their hands. With them there came also two men on horseback and two on foot; those on horseback with wheel-lock muskets, those on foot with javelins and swords, and as soon as Sancho saw them he said:
“That is a chain of galley slaves, on the way to the galleys by force of the king’s orders.” “How by force?” asked Don Quixote; “is it possible that the king uses force against anyone?” “I do not say that,” answered Sancho, “but that these are people condemned for their crimes to serve by force in
the king’s galleys.” “In fact,” replied Don Quixote, “however it may be, these people are going where they are taking them by force,
and not of their own will.” “Just so,” said Sancho. “Then if so,” said Don Quixote, “here is a case for the exercise of my office, to put down force and to succour
and help the wretched.” “Recollect, your worship,” said Sancho, “Justice, which is the king himself, is not using force or doing wrong to
such persons, but punishing them for their crimes.” The chain of galley slaves had by this time come up, and Don Quixote in very courteous language asked those
who were in custody of it to be good enough to tell him the reason or reasons for which they were conducting these people in this manner. One of the guards on horseback answered that they were galley slaves belonging to his maj- esty, that they were going to the galleys, and that was all that was to be said and all he had any business to know.
“Nevertheless,” replied Don Quixote, “I should like to know from each of them separately the reason of his misfortune;” to this he added more to the same effect to induce them to tell him what he wanted so civilly that the other mounted guard said to him:
“Though we have here the register and certificate of the sentence of every one of these wretches, this is no time to take them out or read them; come and ask themselves; they can tell if they choose, and they will, for these fellows take a pleasure in doing and talking about rascalities.”
With this permission, which Don Quixote would have taken even had they not granted it, he approached the chain and asked the first for what offences he was now in such a sorry case.
He made answer that it was for being a lover. “For that only?” replied Don Quixote; “why, if for being lovers they send people to the galleys I might have been
rowing in them long ago.” “The love is not the sort your worship is thinking of,” said the galley slave; “mine was that I loved a washer-
woman’s basket of clean linen so well, and held it so close in my embrace, that if the arm of the law had not forced it from me, I should never have let it go of my own will to this moment; I was caught in the act, there was no occasion
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for torture, the case was settled, they treated me to a hundred lashes on the back, and three years of gurapas besides, and that was the end of it.”
“What are gurapas?” asked Don Quixote. “Gurapas are galleys,” answered the galley slave, who was a young man of about four-and-twenty, and said he
was a native of Piedrahita. Don Quixote asked the same question of the second, who made no reply, so downcast and melancholy was he;
but the first answered for him, and said, “He, sir, goes as a canary, I mean as a musician and a singer.” “What!” said Don Quixote, “for being musicians and singers are people sent to the galleys too?” “Yes, sir,” answered the galley slave, “for there is nothing worse than singing under suffering.” “On the contrary, I have heard say,” said Don Quixote, “that he who sings scares away his woes.” “Here it is the reverse,” said the galley slave; “for he who sings once weeps all his life.” “I do not understand it,” said Don Quixote; but one of the guards said to him, “Sir, to sing under suffering
means with the non sancta fraternity to confess under torture; they put this sinner to the torture and he confessed his crime, which was being a cuatrero, that is a cattle-stealer, and on his confession they sentenced him to six years in the galleys, besides two bundred lashes that he has already had on the back; and he is always dejected and down- cast because the other thieves that were left behind and that march here ill-treat, and snub, and jeer, and despise him for confessing and not having spirit enough to say nay; for, say they, ‘nay’ has no more letters in it than ‘yea,’ and a culprit is well off when life or death with him depends on his own tongue and not on that of witnesses or evidence; and to my thinking they are not very far out.”
“And I think so too,” answered Don Quixote; then passing on to the third he asked him what he had asked the others, and the man answered very readily and unconcernedly, “I am going for five years to their ladyships the gurapas for the want of ten ducats.”
“I will give twenty with pleasure to get you out of that trouble,” said Don Quixote. “That,” said the galley slave, “is like a man having money at sea when he is dying of hunger and has no way of
buying what he wants; I say so because if at the right time I had had those twenty ducats that your worship now offers me, I would have greased the notary’s pen and freshened up the attorney’s wit with them, so that to-day I should be in the middle of the plaza of the Zocodover at Toledo, and not on this road coupled like a greyhound. But God is great; patience—there, that’s enough of it.”
Don Quixote passed on to the fourth, a man of venerable aspect with a white beard falling below his breast, who on hearing himself asked the reason of his being there began to weep without answering a word, but the fifth acted as his tongue and said, “This worthy man is going to the galleys for four years, after having gone the rounds in ceremony and on horseback.”
“That means,” said Sancho Panza, “as I take it, to have been exposed to shame in public.” “Just so,” replied the galley slave, “and the offence for which they gave him that punishment was having been an
ear-broker, nay body-broker; I mean, in short, that this gentleman goes as a pimp, and for having besides a certain touch of the sorcerer about him.”
“If that touch had not been thrown in,” said Don Quixote, “he would not deserve, for mere pimping, to row in the galleys, but rather to command and be admiral of them; for the office of pimp is no ordinary one, being the of- fice of persons of discretion, one very necessary in a well-ordered state, and only to be exercised by persons of good birth; nay, there ought to be an inspector and overseer of them, as in other offices, and recognised number, as with the brokers on change; in this way many of the evils would be avoided which are caused by this office and calling being in the hands of stupid and ignorant people, such as women more or less silly, and pages and jesters of little standing and experience, who on the most urgent occasions, and when ingenuity of contrivance is needed, let the crumbs freeze on the way to their mouths, and know not which is their right hand. I should like to go farther, and give reasons to show that it is advisable to choose those who are to hold so necessary an office in the state, but this is not the fit place for it; some day I will expound the matter to some one able to see to and rectify it; all I say now is, that the additional fact of his being a sorcerer has removed the sorrow it gave me to see these white hairs and this venerable countenance in so painful a position on account of his being a pimp; though I know well there are no sor- ceries in the world that can move or compel the will as some simple folk fancy, for our will is free, nor is there herb or charm that can force it. All that certain silly women and quacks do is to turn men mad with potions and poisons, pretending that they have power to cause love, for, as I say, it is an impossibility to compel the will.”
“It is true,” said the good old man, “and indeed, sir, as far as the charge of sorcery goes I was not guilty; as to that of being a pimp I cannot deny it; but I never thought I was doing any harm by it, for my only object was that all the world should enjoy itself and live in peace and quiet, without quarrels or troubles; but my good intentions were unavailing to save me from going where I never expect to come back from, with this weight of years upon me and a urinary ailment that never gives me a moment’s ease;” and again he fell to weeping as before, and such compassion
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did Sancho feel for him that he took out a real of four from his bosom and gave it to him in alms. Don Quixote went on and asked another what his crime was, and the man answered with no less but rather
much more sprightliness than the last one. “I am here because I carried the joke too far with a couple of cousins of mine, and with a couple of other
cousins who were none of mine; in short, I carried the joke so far with them all that it ended in such a complicated increase of kindred that no accountant could make it clear: it was all proved against me, I got no favour, I had no money, I was near having my neck stretched, they sentenced me to the galleys for six years, I accepted my fate, it is the punishment of my fault; I am a young man; let life only last, and with that all will come right. If you, sir, have anything wherewith to help the poor, God will repay it to you in heaven, and we on earth will take care in our pe- titions to him to pray for the life and health of your worship, that they may be as long and as good as your amiable appearance deserves.”
This one was in the dress of a student, and one of the guards said he was a great talker and a very elegant Latin scholar.
Behind all these there came a man of thirty, a very personable fellow, except that when he looked, his eyes turned in a little one towards the other. He was bound differently from the rest, for he had to his leg a chain so long that it was wound all round his body, and two rings on his neck, one attached to the chain, the other to what they call a “keep-friend” or “friend’s foot,” from which hung two irons reaching to his waist with two manacles fixed to them in which his hands were secured by a big padlock, so that he could neither raise his hands to his mouth nor lower his head to his hands. Don Quixote asked why this man carried so many more chains than the others. The guard replied that it was because he alone had committed more crimes than all the rest put together, and was so daring and such a villain, that though they marched him in that fashion they did not feel sure of him, but were in dread of his making his escape.
“What crimes can he have committed,” said Don Quixote, “if they have not deserved a heavier punishment than being sent to the galleys?”
“He goes for ten years,” replied the guard, “which is the same thing as civil death, and all that need be said is that this good fellow is the famous Gines de Pasamonte, otherwise called Ginesillo de Parapilla.”
“Gently, senor commissary,” said the galley slave at this, “let us have no fixing of names or surnames; my name is Gines, not Ginesillo, and my family name is Pasamonte, not Parapilla as you say; let each one mind his own busi- ness, and he will be doing enough.”
“Speak with less impertinence, master thief of extra measure,” replied the commissary, “if you don’t want me to make you hold your tongue in spite of your teeth.”
“It is easy to see,” returned the galley slave, “that man goes as God pleases, but some one shall know some day whether I am called Ginesillo de Parapilla or not.”
“Don’t they call you so, you liar?” said the guard. “They do,” returned Gines, “but I will make them give over calling me so, or I will be shaved, where, I only say
behind my teeth. If you, sir, have anything to give us, give it to us at once, and God speed you, for you are becoming tiresome with all this inquisitiveness about the lives of others; if you want to know about mine, let me tell you I am Gines de Pasamonte, whose life is written by these fingers.”
“He says true,” said the commissary, “for he has himself written his story as grand as you please, and has left the book in the prison in pawn for two hundred reals.”
“And I mean to take it out of pawn,” said Gines, “though it were in for two hundred ducats.” “Is it so good?” said Don Quixote. “So good is it,” replied Gines, “that a fig for ‘Lazarillo de Tormes,’ and all of that kind that have been written, or
shall be written compared with it: all I will say about it is that it deals with facts, and facts so neat and diverting that no lies could match them.”
“And how is the book entitled?” asked Don Quixote. “The ‘Life of Gines de Pasamonte,’” replied the subject of it. “And is it finished?” asked Don Quixote. “How can it be finished,” said the other, “when my life is not yet finished? All that is written is from my birth
down to the point when they sent me to the galleys this last time.” “Then you have been there before?” said Don Quixote. “In the service of God and the king I have been there for four years before now, and I know by this time what
the biscuit and courbash are like,” replied Gines; “and it is no great grievance to me to go back to them, for there I shall have time to finish my book; I have still many things left to say, and in the galleys of Spain there is more than enough leisure; though I do not want much for what I have to write, for I have it by heart.”
“You seem a clever fellow,” said Don Quixote. “And an unfortunate one,” replied Gines, “for misfortune always persecutes good wit.”
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“It persecutes rogues,” said the commissary. “I told you already to go gently, master commissary,” said Pasamonte; “their lordships yonder never gave you
that staff to ill-treat us wretches here, but to conduct and take us where his majesty orders you; if not, by the life of-never mind-; it may be that some day the stains made in the inn will come out in the scouring; let everyone hold his tongue and behave well and speak better; and now let us march on, for we have had quite enough of this enter- tainment.”
The commissary lifted his staff to strike Pasamonte in return for his threats, but Don Quixote came between them, and begged him not to ill-use him, as it was not too much to allow one who had his hands tied to have his tongue a trifle free; and turning to the whole chain of them he said:
“From all you have told me, dear brethren, make out clearly that though they have punished you for your faults, the punishments you are about to endure do not give you much pleasure, and that you go to them very much against the grain and against your will, and that perhaps this one’s want of courage under torture, that one’s want of money, the other’s want of advocacy, and lastly the perverted judgment of the judge may have been the cause of your ruin and of your failure to obtain the justice you had on your side. All which presents itself now to my mind, urging, persuading, and even compelling me to demonstrate in your case the purpose for which Heaven sent me into the world and caused me to make profession of the order of chivalry to which I belong, and the vow I took therein to give aid to those in need and under the oppression of the strong. But as I know that it is a mark of prudence not to do by foul means what may be done by fair, I will ask these gentlemen, the guards and commissary, to be so good as to release you and let you go in peace, as there will be no lack of others to serve the king under more favourable circumstances; for it seems to me a hard case to make slaves of those whom God and nature have made free. Moreover, sirs of the guard,” added Don Quixote, “these poor fellows have done nothing to you; let each answer for his own sins yonder; there is a God in Heaven who will not forget to punish the wicked or reward the good; and it is not fitting that honest men should be the instruments of punishment to others, they being therein no way concerned. This request I make thus gently and quietly, that, if you comply with it, I may have reason for thanking you; and, if you will not voluntarily, this lance and sword together with the might of my arm shall compel you to comply with it by force.”
“Nice nonsense!” said the commissary; “a fine piece of pleasantry he has come out with at last! He wants us to let the king’s prisoners go, as if we had any authority to release them, or he to order us to do so! Go your way, sir, and good luck to you; put that basin straight that you’ve got on your head, and don’t go looking for three feet on a cat.”
“’Tis you that are the cat, rat, and rascal,” replied Don Quixote, and acting on the word he fell upon him so sud- denly that without giving him time to defend himself he brought him to the ground sorely wounded with a lance- thrust; and lucky it was for him that it was the one that had the musket. The other guards stood thunderstruck and amazed at this unexpected event, but recovering presence of mind, those on horseback seized their swords, and those on foot their javelins, and attacked Don Quixote, who was waiting for them with great calmness; and no doubt it would have gone badly with him if the galley slaves, seeing the chance before them of liberating themselves, had not effected it by contriving to break the chain on which they were strung. Such was the confusion, that the guards, now rushing at the galley slaves who were breaking loose, now to attack Don Quixote who was waiting for them, did nothing at all that was of any use. Sancho, on his part, gave a helping hand to release Gines de Pasamon- te, who was the first to leap forth upon the plain free and unfettered, and who, attacking the prostrate commissary, took from him his sword and the musket, with which, aiming at one and levelling at another, he, without ever dis- charging it, drove every one of the guards off the field, for they took to flight, as well to escape Pasamonte’s musket, as the showers of stones the now released galley slaves were raining upon them. Sancho was greatly grieved at the affair, because he anticipated that those who had fled would report the matter to the Holy Brotherhood, who at the summons of the alarm-bell would at once sally forth in quest of the offenders; and he said so to his master, and entreated him to leave the place at once, and go into hiding in the sierra that was close by.
“That is all very well,” said Don Quixote, “but I know what must be done now;” and calling together all the gal- ley slaves, who were now running riot, and had stripped the commissary to the skin, he collected them round him to hear what he had to say, and addressed them as follows: “To be grateful for benefits received is the part of persons of good birth, and one of the sins most offensive to God is ingratitude; I say so because, sirs, ye have already seen by manifest proof the benefit ye have received of me; in return for which I desire, and it is my good pleasure that, laden with that chain which I have taken off your necks, ye at once set out and proceed to the city of El Toboso, and there present yourselves before the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, and say to her that her knight, he of the Rueful Counte- nance, sends to commend himself to her; and that ye recount to her in full detail all the particulars of this notable adventure, up to the recovery of your longed-for liberty; and this done ye may go where ye will, and good fortune attend you.”
Gines de Pasamonte made answer for all, saying, “That which you, sir, our deliverer, demand of us, is of all
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impossibilities the most impossible to comply with, because we cannot go together along the roads, but only singly and separate, and each one his own way, endeavouring to hide ourselves in the bowels of the earth to escape the Holy Brotherhood, which, no doubt, will come out in search of us. What your worship may do, and fairly do, is to change this service and tribute as regards the lady Dulcinea del Toboso for a certain quantity of ave-marias and credos which we will say for your worship’s intention, and this is a condition that can be complied with by night as by day, running or resting, in peace or in war; but to imagine that we are going now to return to the flesh-pots of Egypt, I mean to take up our chain and set out for El Toboso, is to imagine that it is now night, though it is not yet ten in the morning, and to ask this of us is like asking pears of the elm tree.”
“Then by all that’s good,” said Don Quixote (now stirred to wrath), “Don son of a bitch, Don Ginesillo de Paro- pillo, or whatever your name is, you will have to go yourself alone, with your tail between your legs and the whole chain on your back.”
Pasamonte, who was anything but meek (being by this time thoroughly convinced that Don Quixote was not quite right in his head as he had committed such a vagary as to set them free), finding himself abused in this fash- ion, gave the wink to his companions, and falling back they began to shower stones on Don Quixote at such a rate that he was quite unable to protect himself with his buckler, and poor Rocinante no more heeded the spur than if he had been made of brass. Sancho planted himself behind his ass, and with him sheltered himself from the hailstorm that poured on both of them. Don Quixote was unable to shield himself so well but that more pebbles than I could count struck him full on the body with such force that they brought him to the ground; and the instant he fell the student pounced upon him, snatched the basin from his head, and with it struck three or four blows on his shoul- ders, and as many more on the ground, knocking it almost to pieces. They then stripped him of a jacket that he wore over his armour, and they would have stripped off his stockings if his greaves had not prevented them. From Sancho they took his coat, leaving him in his shirt-sleeves; and dividing among themselves the remaining spoils of the battle, they went each one his own way, more solicitous about keeping clear of the Holy Brotherhood they dreaded, than about burdening themselves with the chain, or going to present themselves before the lady Dulcinea del Toboso. The ass and Rocinante, Sancho and Don Quixote, were all that were left upon the spot; the ass with drooping head, serious, shaking his ears from time to time as if he thought the storm of stones that assailed them was not yet over; Rocinante stretched beside his master, for he too had been brought to the ground by a stone; San- cho stripped, and trembling with fear of the Holy Brotherhood; and Don Quixote fuming to find himself so served by the very persons for whom he had done so much.
Chapter LII Of the quarrel that Don Quixote had with the goatherd, together with the rare adventure of the penitents, which with
an expenditure of sweat he brought to a happy conclusion The goatherd’s tale gave great satisfaction to all the hearers, and the canon especially enjoyed it, for he had
remarked with particular attention the manner in which it had been told, which was as unlike the manner of a clownish goatherd as it was like that of a polished city wit; and he observed that the curate had been quite right in saying that the woods bred men of learning. They all offered their services to Eugenio but he who showed himself most liberal in this way was Don Quixote, who said to him, “Most assuredly, brother goatherd, if I found myself in a position to attempt any adventure, I would, this very instant, set out on your behalf, and would rescue Lean- dra from that convent (where no doubt she is kept against her will), in spite of the abbess and all who might try to prevent me, and would place her in your hands to deal with her according to your will and pleasure, observing, however, the laws of chivalry which lay down that no violence of any kind is to be offered to any damsel. But I trust in God our Lord that the might of one malignant enchanter may not prove so great but that the power of another better disposed may prove superior to it, and then I promise you my support and assistance, as I am bound to do by my profession, which is none other than to give aid to the weak and needy.”
The goatherd eyed him, and noticing Don Quixote’s sorry appearance and looks, he was filled with wonder, and asked the barber, who was next him, “Senor, who is this man who makes such a figure and talks in such a strain?”
“Who should it be,” said the barber, “but the famous Don Quixote of La Mancha, the undoer of injustice, the righter of wrongs, the protector of damsels, the terror of giants, and the winner of battles?”
“That,” said the goatherd, “sounds like what one reads in the books of the knights-errant, who did all that you say this man does; though it is my belief that either you are joking, or else this gentleman has empty lodgings in his head.”
“You are a great scoundrel,” said Don Quixote, “and it is you who are empty and a fool. I am fuller than ever was the whoreson bitch that bore you;” and passing from words to deeds, he caught up a loaf that was near him and sent it full in the goatherd’s face, with such force that he flattened his nose; but the goatherd, who did not understand jokes, and found himself roughly handled in such good earnest, paying no respect to carpet, tablecloth, or diners,
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sprang upon Don Quixote, and seizing him by the throat with both hands would no doubt have throttled him, had not Sancho Panza that instant come to the rescue, and grasping him by the shoulders flung him down on the table, smashing plates, breaking glasses, and upsetting and scattering everything on it. Don Quixote, finding himself free, strove to get on top of the goatherd, who, with his face covered with blood, and soundly kicked by Sancho, was on all fours feeling about for one of the table-knives to take a bloody revenge with. The canon and the curate, however, prevented him, but the barber so contrived it that he got Don Quixote under him, and rained down upon him such a shower of fisticuffs that the poor knight’s face streamed with blood as freely as his own. The canon and the curate were bursting with laughter, the officers were capering with delight, and both the one and the other hissed them on as they do dogs that are worrying one another in a fight. Sancho alone was frantic, for he could not free himself from the grasp of one of the canon’s servants, who kept him from going to his master’s assistance.
At last, while they were all, with the exception of the two bruisers who were mauling each other, in high glee and enjoyment, they heard a trumpet sound a note so doleful that it made them all look in the direction whence the sound seemed to come. But the one that was most excited by hearing it was Don Quixote, who though sorely against his will he was under the goatherd, and something more than pretty well pummelled, said to him, “Brother devil (for it is impossible but that thou must be one since thou hast had might and strength enough to overcome mine), I ask thee to agree to a truce for but one hour for the solemn note of yonder trumpet that falls on our ears seems to me to summon me to some new adventure.” The goatherd, who was by this time tired of pummelling and being pummelled, released him at once, and Don Quixote rising to his feet and turning his eyes to the quar- ter where the sound had been heard, suddenly saw coming down the slope of a hill several men clad in white like penitents.
The fact was that the clouds had that year withheld their moisture from the earth, and in all the villages of the district they were organising processions, rogations, and penances, imploring God to open the hands of his mercy and send the rain; and to this end the people of a village that was hard by were going in procession to a holy her- mitage there was on one side of that valley. Don Quixote when he saw the strange garb of the penitents, without reflecting how often he had seen it before, took it into his head that this was a case of adventure, and that it fell to him alone as a knight-errant to engage in it; and he was all the more confirmed in this notion, by the idea that an image draped in black they had with them was some illustrious lady that these villains and discourteous thieves were carrying off by force. As soon as this occurred to him he ran with all speed to Rocinante who was grazing at large, and taking the bridle and the buckler from the saddle-bow, he had him bridled in an instant, and calling to Sancho for his sword he mounted Rocinante, braced his buckler on his arm, and in a loud voice exclaimed to those who stood by, “Now, noble company, ye shall see how important it is that there should be knights in the world professing the order of knight-errantry; now, I say, ye shall see, by the deliverance of that worthy lady who is borne captive there, whether knights-errant deserve to be held in estimation,” and so saying he brought his legs to bear on Rocinante—for he had no spurs—and at a full canter (for in all this veracious history we never read of Rocinante fairly galloping) set off to encounter the penitents, though the curate, the canon, and the barber ran to prevent him. But it was out of their power, nor did he even stop for the shouts of Sancho calling after him, “Where are you going, Senor Don Quixote? What devils have possessed you to set you on against our Catholic faith? Plague take me! mind, that is a procession of penitents, and the lady they are carrying on that stand there is the blessed image of the immaculate Virgin. Take care what you are doing, senor, for this time it may be safely said you don’t know what you are about.” Sancho laboured in vain, for his master was so bent on coming to quarters with these sheeted figures and releasing the lady in black that he did not hear a word; and even had he heard, he would not have turned back if the king had ordered him. He came up with the procession and reined in Rocinante, who was already anxious enough to slacken speed a little, and in a hoarse, excited voice he exclaimed, “You who hide your faces, perhaps because you are not good subjects, pay attention and listen to what I am about to say to you.” The first to halt were those who were carrying the image, and one of the four ecclesiastics who were chanting the Litany, struck by the strange figure of Don Quixote, the leanness of Rocinante, and the other ludicrous peculiarities he observed, said in reply to him, “Brother, if you have anything to say to us say it quickly, for these brethren are whipping themselves, and we cannot stop, nor is it reasonable we should stop to hear anything, unless indeed it is short enough to be said in two words.”
“I will say it in one,” replied Don Quixote, “and it is this; that at once, this very instant, ye release that fair lady whose tears and sad aspect show plainly that ye are carrying her off against her will, and that ye have committed some scandalous outrage against her; and I, who was born into the world to redress all such like wrongs, will not permit you to advance another step until you have restored to her the liberty she pines for and deserves.”
From these words all the hearers concluded that he must be a madman, and began to laugh heartily, and their laughter acted like gunpowder on Don Quixote’s fury, for drawing his sword without another word he made a rush at the stand. One of those who supported it, leaving the burden to his comrades, advanced to meet him, flourishing a forked stick that he had for propping up the stand when resting, and with this he caught a mighty cut Don Quixo- te made at him that severed it in two; but with the portion that remained in his hand he dealt such a thwack on the
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shoulder of Don Quixote’s sword arm (which the buckler could not protect against the clownish assault) that poor Don Quixote came to the ground in a sad plight.
Sancho Panza, who was coming on close behind puffing and blowing, seeing him fall, cried out to his assail- ant not to strike him again, for he was a poor enchanted knight, who had never harmed anyone all the days of his life; but what checked the clown was, not Sancho’s shouting, but seeing that Don Quixote did not stir hand or foot; and so, fancying he had killed him, he hastily hitched up his tunic under his girdle and took to his heels across the country like a deer.
By this time all Don Quixote’s companions had come up to where he lay; but the processionists seeing them come running, and with them the officers of the Brotherhood with their crossbows, apprehended mischief, and clustering round the image, raised their hoods, and grasped their scourges, as the priests did their tapers, and awaited the attack, resolved to defend themselves and even to take the offensive against their assailants if they could. Fortune, however, arranged the matter better than they expected, for all Sancho did was to fling himself on his mas- ter’s body, raising over him the most doleful and laughable lamentation that ever was heard, for he believed he was dead. The curate was known to another curate who walked in the procession, and their recognition of one another set at rest the apprehensions of both parties; the first then told the other in two words who Don Quixote was, and he and the whole troop of penitents went to see if the poor gentleman was dead, and heard Sancho Panza saying, with tears in his eyes, “Oh flower of chivalry, that with one blow of a stick hast ended the course of thy well-spent life! Oh pride of thy race, honour and glory of all La Mancha, nay, of all the world, that for want of thee will be full of evil-doers, no longer in fear of punishment for their misdeeds! Oh thou, generous above all the Alexanders, since for only eight months of service thou hast given me the best island the sea girds or surrounds! Humble with the proud, haughty with the humble, encounterer of dangers, endurer of outrages, enamoured without reason, imitator of the good, scourge of the wicked, enemy of the mean, in short, knight-errant, which is all that can be said!”
At the cries and moans of Sancho, Don Quixote came to himself, and the first word he said was, “He who lives separated from you, sweetest Dulcinea, has greater miseries to endure than these. Aid me, friend Sancho, to mount the enchanted cart, for I am not in a condition to press the saddle of Rocinante, as this shoulder is all knocked to pieces.”
“That I will do with all my heart, senor,” said Sancho; “and let us return to our village with these gentlemen, who seek your good, and there we will prepare for making another sally, which may turn out more profitable and creditable to us.”
“Thou art right, Sancho,” returned Don Quixote; “It will be wise to let the malign influence of the stars which now prevails pass off.”
The canon, the curate, and the barber told him he would act very wisely in doing as he said; and so, highly amused at Sancho Panza’s simplicities, they placed Don Quixote in the cart as before. The procession once more formed itself in order and proceeded on its road; the goatherd took his leave of the party; the officers of the Broth- erhood declined to go any farther, and the curate paid them what was due to them; the canon begged the curate to let him know how Don Quixote did, whether he was cured of his madness or still suffered from it, and then begged leave to continue his journey; in short, they all separated and went their ways, leaving to themselves the curate and the barber, Don Quixote, Sancho Panza, and the good Rocinante, who regarded everything with as great resigna- tion as his master. The carter yoked his oxen and made Don Quixote comfortable on a truss of hay, and at his usual deliberate pace took the road the curate directed, and at the end of six days they reached Don Quixote’s village, and entered it about the middle of the day, which it so happened was a Sunday, and the people were all in the plaza, through which Don Quixote’s cart passed. They all flocked to see what was in the cart, and when they recognised their townsman they were filled with amazement, and a boy ran off to bring the news to his housekeeper and his niece that their master and uncle had come back all lean and yellow and stretched on a truss of hay on an ox-cart. It was piteous to hear the cries the two good ladies raised, how they beat their breasts and poured out fresh male- dictions on those accursed books of chivalry; all which was renewed when they saw Don Quixote coming in at the gate.
At the news of Don Quixote’s arrival Sancho Panza’s wife came running, for she by this time knew that her hus- band had gone away with him as his squire, and on seeing Sancho, the first thing she asked him was if the ass was well. Sancho replied that he was, better than his master was.
“Thanks be to God,” said she, “for being so good to me; but now tell me, my friend, what have you made by your squirings? What gown have you brought me back? What shoes for your children?”
“I bring nothing of that sort, wife,” said Sancho; “though I bring other things of more consequence and value.” “I am very glad of that,” returned his wife; “show me these things of more value and consequence, my friend;
for I want to see them to cheer my heart that has been so sad and heavy all these ages that you have been away.” “I will show them to you at home, wife,” said Sancho; “be content for the present; for if it please God that we
should again go on our travels in search of adventures, you will soon see me a count, or governor of an island, and
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that not one of those everyday ones, but the best that is to be had.” “Heaven grant it, husband,” said she, “for indeed we have need of it. But tell me, what’s this about islands, for I
don’t understand it?” “Honey is not for the mouth of the ass,” returned Sancho; “all in good time thou shalt see, wife—nay, thou wilt
be surprised to hear thyself called ‘your ladyship’ by all thy vassals.” “What are you talking about, Sancho, with your ladyships, islands, and vassals?” returned Teresa Panza—for
so Sancho’s wife was called, though they were not relations, for in La Mancha it is customary for wives to take their husbands’ surnames.
“Don’t be in such a hurry to know all this, Teresa,” said Sancho; “it is enough that I am telling you the truth, so shut your mouth. But I may tell you this much by the way, that there is nothing in the world more delightful than to be a person of consideration, squire to a knight-errant, and a seeker of adventures. To be sure most of those one finds do not end as pleasantly as one could wish, for out of a hundred, ninety-nine will turn out cross and contrary. I know it by experience, for out of some I came blanketed, and out of others belaboured. Still, for all that, it is a fine thing to be on the look-out for what may happen, crossing mountains, searching woods, climbing rocks, visiting castles, putting up at inns, all at free quarters, and devil take the maravedi to pay.”
While this conversation passed between Sancho Panza and his wife, Don Quixote’s housekeeper and niece took him in and undressed him and laid him in his old bed. He eyed them askance, and could not make out where he was. The curate charged his niece to be very careful to make her uncle comfortable and to keep a watch over him lest he should make his escape from them again, telling her what they had been obliged to do to bring him home. On this the pair once more lifted up their voices and renewed their maledictions upon the books of chivalry, and implored heaven to plunge the authors of such lies and nonsense into the midst of the bottomless pit. They were, in short, kept in anxiety and dread lest their uncle and master should give them the slip the moment he found himself somewhat better, and as they feared so it fell out.
But the author of this history, though he has devoted research and industry to the discovery of the deeds achieved by Don Quixote in his third sally, has been unable to obtain any information respecting them, at any rate derived from authentic documents; tradition has merely preserved in the memory of La Mancha the fact that Don Quixote, the third time he sallied forth from his home, betook himself to Saragossa, where he was present at some famous jousts which came off in that city, and that he had adventures there worthy of his valour and high intelli- gence. Of his end and death he could learn no particulars, nor would he have ascertained it or known of it, if good fortune had not produced an old physician for him who had in his possession a leaden box, which, according to his account, had been discovered among the crumbling foundations of an ancient hermitage that was being rebuilt; in which box were found certain parchment manuscripts in Gothic character, but in Castilian verse, containing many of his achievements, and setting forth the beauty of Dulcinea, the form of Rocinante, the fidelity of Sancho Panza, and the burial of Don Quixote himself, together with sundry epitaphs and eulogies on his life and character; but all that could be read and deciphered were those which the trustworthy author of this new and unparalleled histo- ry here presents. And the said author asks of those that shall read it nothing in return for the vast toil which it has cost him in examining and searching the Manchegan archives in order to bring it to light, save that they give him the same credit that people of sense give to the books of chivalry that pervade the world and are so popular; for with this he will consider himself amply paid and fully satisfied, and will be encouraged to seek out and produce other histories, if not as truthful, at least equal in invention and not less entertaining. The first words written on the parchment found in the leaden box were these:
The academicians of Argamasilla, a village of La Mancha, on the life and death of Don Quixote of La Mancha, hoc scripserunt monicongo, academician of Argamasilla,
On The Tomb Of Don Quixote Epitaph The scatterbrain that gave La Mancha more Rich spoils than Jason’s; who a point so keen Had to his wit, and happier far had been If his wit’s weathercock a blunter bore; The arm renowned far as Gaeta’s shore, Cathay, and all the lands that lie between; The muse discreet and terrible in mien As ever wrote on brass in days of yore; He who surpassed the Amadises all, And who as naught the Galaors accounted, Supported by his love and gallantry:
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Who made the Belianises sing small, And sought renown on Rocinante mounted; Here, underneath this cold stone, doth he lie.
Paniaguado, Academician Of Argamasilla, In Laudem Dulcineae Del Toboso Sonnet
She, whose full features may be here descried, High-bosomed, with a bearing of disdain, Is Dulcinea, she for whom in vain The great Don Quixote of La Mancha sighed. For her, Toboso’s queen, from side to side He traversed the grim sierra, the champaign Of Aranjuez, and Montiel’s famous plain: On Rocinante oft a weary ride. Malignant planets, cruel destiny, Pursued them both, the fair Manchegan dame, And the unconquered star of chivalry. Nor youth nor beauty saved her from the claim Of death; he paid love’s bitter penalty, And left the marble to preserve his name.
Caprichoso, A Most Acute Academician Of Argamasilla, In Praise Of Rocinante, Steed Of Don Quixote Of La Mancha Sonnet
On that proud throne of diamantine sheen, Which the blood-reeking feet of Mars degrade, The mad Manchegan’s banner now hath been By him in all its bravery displayed. There hath he hung his arms and trenchant blade Wherewith, achieving deeds till now unseen, He slays, lays low, cleaves, hews; but art hath made A novel style for our new paladin. If Amadis be the proud boast of Gaul, If by his progeny the fame of Greece Through all the regions of the earth be spread, Great Quixote crowned in grim Bellona’s hall To-day exalts La Mancha over these, And above Greece or Gaul she holds her head. Nor ends his glory here, for his good steed Doth Brillador and Bayard far exceed; As mettled steeds compared with Rocinante, The reputation they have won is scanty.
Burlador, Academician Of Argamasilla, On Sancho Panza Sonnet
The worthy Sancho Panza here you see; A great soul once was in that body small, Nor was there squire upon this earthly ball So plain and simple, or of guile so free. Within an ace of being Count was he, And would have been but for the spite and gall Of this vile age, mean and illiberal, That cannot even let a donkey be. For mounted on an ass (excuse the word), By Rocinante’s side this gentle squire Was wont his wandering master to attend.
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Delusive hopes that lure the common herd With promises of ease, the heart’s desire, In shadows, dreams, and smoke ye always end.
Cachidiablo, Academician Of Argamasilla On The Tomb Of Don Quixote Epitaph
The knight lies here below, Ill-errant and bruised sore, Whom Rocinante bore In his wanderings to and fro. By the side of the knight is laid Stolid man Sancho too, Than whom a squire more true Was not in the esquire trade.
Tiquitoc, Academician Of Argamasilla, On The Tomb Of Dulcinea Del Toboso EPITAPH Here Dulcinea lies. Plump was she and robust: Now she is ashes and dust: The end of all flesh that dies. A lady of high degree, With the port of a lofty dame, And the great Don Quixote’s flame, And the pride of her village was she.
These were all the verses that could be deciphered; the rest, the writing being worm-eaten, were handed over to one of the Academicians to make out their meaning conjecturally. We have been informed that at the cost of many sleepless nights and much toil he has succeeded, and that he means to publish them in hopes of Don Quixote’s third sally.
“Forse altro cantera con miglior plectro.” End of Part I
Volume II Chapter III
Of the laughable conversation that passed between Don Quixote, sancho panza, and the bachelor samson carrasco Don Quixote remained very deep in thought, waiting for the bachelor Carrasco, from whom he was to hear
how he himself had been put into a book as Sancho said; and he could not persuade himself that any such history could be in existence, for the blood of the enemies he had slain was not yet dry on the blade of his sword, and now they wanted to make out that his mighty achievements were going about in print. For all that, he fancied some sage, either a friend or an enemy, might, by the aid of magic, have given them to the press; if a friend, in order to magnify and exalt them above the most famous ever achieved by any knight-errant; if an enemy, to bring them to naught and degrade them below the meanest ever recorded of any low squire, though as he said to himself, the achieve- ments of squires never were recorded. If, however, it were the fact that such a history were in existence, it must necessarily, being the story of a knight-errant, be grandiloquent, lofty, imposing, grand and true. With this he com- forted himself somewhat, though it made him uncomfortable to think that the author was a Moor, judging by the title of “Cide;” and that no truth was to be looked for from Moors, as they are all impostors, cheats, and schemers. He was afraid he might have dealt with his love affairs in some indecorous fashion, that might tend to the discredit and prejudice of the purity of his lady Dulcinea del Toboso; he would have had him set forth the fidelity and respect he had always observed towards her, spurning queens, empresses, and damsels of all sorts, and keeping in check the impetuosity of his natural impulses. Absorbed and wrapped up in these and divers other cogitations, he was found by Sancho and Carrasco, whom Don Quixote received with great courtesy.
The bachelor, though he was called Samson, was of no great bodily size, but he was a very great wag; he was of a
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sallow complexion, but very sharp-witted, somewhere about four-and-twenty years of age, with a round face, a flat nose, and a large mouth, all indications of a mischievous disposition and a love of fun and jokes; and of this he gave a sample as soon as he saw Don Quixote, by falling on his knees before him and saying, “Let me kiss your mighti- ness’s hand, Senor Don Quixote of La Mancha, for, by the habit of St. Peter that I wear, though I have no more than the first four orders, your worship is one of the most famous knights-errant that have ever been, or will be, all the world over. A blessing on Cide Hamete Benengeli, who has written the history of your great deeds, and a double blessing on that connoisseur who took the trouble of having it translated out of the Arabic into our Castilian vulgar tongue for the universal entertainment of the people!”
Don Quixote made him rise, and said, “So, then, it is true that there is a history of me, and that it was a Moor and a sage who wrote it?”
“So true is it, senor,” said Samson, “that my belief is there are more than twelve thousand volumes of the said history in print this very day. Only ask Portugal, Barcelona, and Valencia, where they have been printed, and more- over there is a report that it is being printed at Antwerp, and I am persuaded there will not be a country or language in which there will not be a translation of it.”
“One of the things,” here observed Don Quixote, “that ought to give most pleasure to a virtuous and eminent man is to find himself in his lifetime in print and in type, familiar in people’s mouths with a good name; I say with a good name, for if it be the opposite, then there is no death to be compared to it.”
“If it goes by good name and fame,” said the bachelor, “your worship alone bears away the palm from all the knights-errant; for the Moor in his own language, and the Christian in his, have taken care to set before us your gallantry, your high courage in encountering dangers, your fortitude in adversity, your patience under misfortunes as well as wounds, the purity and continence of the platonic loves of your worship and my lady Dona Dulcinea del Toboso-”
“I never heard my lady Dulcinea called Dona,” observed Sancho here; “nothing more than the lady Dulcinea del Toboso; so here already the history is wrong.”
“That is not an objection of any importance,” replied Carrasco. “Certainly not,” said Don Quixote; “but tell me, senor bachelor, what deeds of mine are they that are made most
of in this history?” “On that point,” replied the bachelor, “opinions differ, as tastes do; some swear by the adventure of the wind-
mills that your worship took to be Briareuses and giants; others by that of the fulling mills; one cries up the descrip- tion of the two armies that afterwards took the appearance of two droves of sheep; another that of the dead body on its way to be buried at Segovia; a third says the liberation of the galley slaves is the best of all, and a fourth that nothing comes up to the affair with the Benedictine giants, and the battle with the valiant Biscayan.”
“Tell me, senor bachelor,” said Sancho at this point, “does the adventure with the Yanguesans come in, when our good Rocinante went hankering after dainties?”
“The sage has left nothing in the ink-bottle,” replied Samson; “he tells all and sets down everything, even to the capers that worthy Sancho cut in the blanket.”
“I cut no capers in the blanket,” returned Sancho; “in the air I did, and more of them than I liked.” “There is no human history in the world, I suppose,” said Don Quixote, “that has not its ups and downs, but
more than others such as deal with chivalry, for they can never be entirely made up of prosperous adventures.” “For all that,” replied the bachelor, “there are those who have read the history who say they would have been
glad if the author had left out some of the countless cudgellings that were inflicted on Senor Don Quixote in various encounters.”
“That’s where the truth of the history comes in,” said Sancho. “At the same time they might fairly have passed them over in silence,” observed Don Quixote; “for there is no
need of recording events which do not change or affect the truth of a history, if they tend to bring the hero of it into contempt. AEneas was not in truth and earnest so pious as Virgil represents him, nor Ulysses so wise as Homer describes him.”
“That is true,” said Samson; “but it is one thing to write as a poet, another to write as a historian; the poet may describe or sing things, not as they were, but as they ought to have been; but the historian has to write them down, not as they ought to have been, but as they were, without adding anything to the truth or taking anything from it.”
“Well then,” said Sancho, “if this senor Moor goes in for telling the truth, no doubt among my master’s drub- bings mine are to be found; for they never took the measure of his worship’s shoulders without doing the same for my whole body; but I have no right to wonder at that, for, as my master himself says, the members must share the pain of the head.”
“You are a sly dog, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “i’ faith, you have no want of memory when you choose to re- member.”
“If I were to try to forget the thwacks they gave me,” said Sancho, “my weals would not let me, for they are still
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fresh on my ribs.” “Hush, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “and don’t interrupt the bachelor, whom I entreat to go on and tell all that is said about me in this history.” “And about me,” said Sancho, “for they say, too, that I am one of the principal presonages in it.” “Personages, not presonages, friend Sancho,” said Samson. “What! Another word-catcher!” said Sancho; “if that’s to be the way we shall not make an end in a lifetime.” “May God shorten mine, Sancho,” returned the bachelor, “if you are not the second person in the history, and
there are even some who would rather hear you talk than the cleverest in the whole book; though there are some, too, who say you showed yourself over-credulous in believing there was any possibility in the government of that island offered you by Senor Don Quixote.”
“There is still sunshine on the wall,” said Don Quixote; “and when Sancho is somewhat more advanced in life, with the experience that years bring, he will be fitter and better qualified for being a governor than he is at present.”
“By God, master,” said Sancho, “the island that I cannot govern with the years I have, I’ll not be able to govern with the years of Methuselah; the difficulty is that the said island keeps its distance somewhere, I know not where; and not that there is any want of head in me to govern it.”
“Leave it to God, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “for all will be and perhaps better than you think; no leaf on the tree stirs but by God’s will.”
“That is true,” said Samson; “and if it be God’s will, there will not be any want of a thousand islands, much less one, for Sancho to govern.”
“I have seen governors in these parts,” said Sancho, “that are not to be compared to my shoe-sole; and for all that they are called ‘your lordship’ and served on silver.”
“Those are not governors of islands,” observed Samson, “but of other governments of an easier kind: those that govern islands must at least know grammar.”
“I could manage the gram well enough,” said Sancho; “but for the mar I have neither leaning nor liking, for I don’t know what it is; but leaving this matter of the government in God’s hands, to send me wherever it may be most to his service, I may tell you, senor bachelor Samson Carrasco, it has pleased me beyond measure that the author of this history should have spoken of me in such a way that what is said of me gives no offence; for, on the faith of a true squire, if he had said anything about me that was at all unbecoming an old Christian, such as I am, the deaf would have heard of it.”
“That would be working miracles,” said Samson. “Miracles or no miracles,” said Sancho, “let everyone mind how he speaks or writes about people, and not set
down at random the first thing that comes into his head.” “One of the faults they find with this history,” said the bachelor, “is that its author inserted in it a novel called
‘The Ill-advised Curiosity;’ not that it is bad or ill-told, but that it is out of place and has nothing to do with the history of his worship Senor Don Quixote.”
“I will bet the son of a dog has mixed the cabbages and the baskets,” said Sancho. “Then, I say,” said Don Quixote, “the author of my history was no sage, but some ignorant chatterer, who, in a
haphazard and heedless way, set about writing it, let it turn out as it might, just as Orbaneja, the painter of Ubeda, used to do, who, when they asked him what he was painting, answered, ‘What it may turn out.’ Sometimes he would paint a cock in such a fashion, and so unlike, that he had to write alongside of it in Gothic letters, ‘This is a cock; and so it will be with my history, which will require a commentary to make it intelligible.”
“No fear of that,” returned Samson, “for it is so plain that there is nothing in it to puzzle over; the children turn its leaves, the young people read it, the grown men understand it, the old folk praise it; in a word, it is so thumbed, and read, and got by heart by people of all sorts, that the instant they see any lean hack, they say, ‘There goes Roci- nante.’ And those that are most given to reading it are the pages, for there is not a lord’s ante-chamber where there is not a ‘Don Quixote’ to be found; one takes it up if another lays it down; this one pounces upon it, and that begs for it. In short, the said history is the most delightful and least injurious entertainment that has been hitherto seen, for there is not to be found in the whole of it even the semblance of an immodest word, or a thought that is other than Catholic.”
“To write in any other way,” said Don Quixote, “would not be to write truth, but falsehood, and historians who have recourse to falsehood ought to be burned, like those who coin false money; and I know not what could have led the author to have recourse to novels and irrelevant stories, when he had so much to write about in mine; no doubt he must have gone by the proverb ‘with straw or with hay, etc,’ for by merely setting forth my thoughts, my sighs, my tears, my lofty purposes, my enterprises, he might have made a volume as large, or larger than all the works of El Tostado would make up. In fact, the conclusion I arrive at, senor bachelor, is, that to write histories, or books of any kind, there is need of great judgment and a ripe understanding. To give expression to humour, and write in a strain of graceful pleasantry, is the gift of great geniuses. The cleverest character in comedy is the clown,
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for he who would make people take him for a fool, must not be one. History is in a measure a sacred thing, for it should be true, and where the truth is, there God is; but notwithstanding this, there are some who write and fling books broadcast on the world as if they were fritters.”
“There is no book so bad but it has something good in it,” said the bachelor. “No doubt of that,” replied Don Quixote; “but it often happens that those who have acquired and attained a
well-deserved reputation by their writings, lose it entirely, or damage it in some degree, when they give them to the press.”
“The reason of that,” said Samson, “is, that as printed works are examined leisurely, their faults are easily seen; and the greater the fame of the writer, the more closely are they scrutinised. Men famous for their genius, great po- ets, illustrious historians, are always, or most commonly, envied by those who take a particular delight and pleasure in criticising the writings of others, without having produced any of their own.”
“That is no wonder,” said Don Quixote; “for there are many divines who are no good for the pulpit, but excel- lent in detecting the defects or excesses of those who preach.”
“All that is true, Senor Don Quixote,” said Carrasco; “but I wish such fault-finders were more lenient and less exacting, and did not pay so much attention to the spots on the bright sun of the work they grumble at; for if ali- quando bonus dormitat Homerus, they should remember how long he remained awake to shed the light of his work with as little shade as possible; and perhaps it may be that what they find fault with may be moles, that sometimes heighten the beauty of the face that bears them; and so I say very great is the risk to which he who prints a book exposes himself, for of all impossibilities the greatest is to write one that will satisfy and please all readers.”
“That which treats of me must have pleased few,” said Don Quixote. “Quite the contrary,” said the bachelor; “for, as stultorum infinitum est numerus, innumerable are those who
have relished the said history; but some have brought a charge against the author’s memory, inasmuch as he forgot to say who the thief was who stole Sancho’s Dapple; for it is not stated there, but only to be inferred from what is set down, that he was stolen, and a little farther on we see Sancho mounted on the same ass, without any reappearance of it. They say, too, that he forgot to state what Sancho did with those hundred crowns that he found in the valise in the Sierra Morena, as he never alludes to them again, and there are many who would be glad to know what he did with them, or what he spent them on, for it is one of the serious omissions of the work.”
“Senor Samson, I am not in a humour now for going into accounts or explanations,” said Sancho; “for there’s a sinking of the stomach come over me, and unless I doctor it with a couple of sups of the old stuff it will put me on the thorn of Santa Lucia. I have it at home, and my old woman is waiting for me; after dinner I’ll come back, and will answer you and all the world every question you may choose to ask, as well about the loss of the ass as about the spending of the hundred crowns;” and without another word or waiting for a reply he made off home.
Don Quixote begged and entreated the bachelor to stay and do penance with him. The bachelor accepted the invitation and remained, a couple of young pigeons were added to the ordinary fare, at dinner they talked chiv- alry, Carrasco fell in with his host’s humour, the banquet came to an end, they took their afternoon sleep, Sancho returned, and their conversation was resumed.
Chapter V Of the shrewd and droll conversation that passed between Sancho Panza and his wife Teresa Panza, and other matters
worthy of being duly recorded The translator of this history, when he comes to write this fifth chapter, says that he considers it apocryphal, be-
cause in it Sancho Panza speaks in a style unlike that which might have been expected from his limited intelligence, and says things so subtle that he does not think it possible he could have conceived them; however, desirous of doing what his task imposed upon him, he was unwilling to leave it untranslated, and therefore he went on to say:
Sancho came home in such glee and spirits that his wife noticed his happiness a bowshot off, so much so that it made her ask him, “What have you got, Sancho friend, that you are so glad?”
To which he replied, “Wife, if it were God’s will, I should be very glad not to be so well pleased as I show my- self.”
“I don’t understand you, husband,” said she, “and I don’t know what you mean by saying you would be glad, if it were God’s will, not to be well pleased; for, fool as I am, I don’t know how one can find pleasure in not having it.”
“Hark ye, Teresa,” replied Sancho, “I am glad because I have made up my mind to go back to the service of my master Don Quixote, who means to go out a third time to seek for adventures; and I am going with him again, for my necessities will have it so, and also the hope that cheers me with the thought that I may find another hundred crowns like those we have spent; though it makes me sad to have to leave thee and the children; and if God would be pleased to let me have my daily bread, dry-shod and at home, without taking me out into the byways and cross- roads—and he could do it at small cost by merely willing it—it is clear my happiness would be more solid and
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lasting, for the happiness I have is mingled with sorrow at leaving thee; so that I was right in saying I would be glad, if it were God’s will, not to be well pleased.”
“Look here, Sancho,” said Teresa; “ever since you joined on to a knight-errant you talk in such a roundabout way that there is no understanding you.”
“It is enough that God understands me, wife,” replied Sancho; “for he is the understander of all things; that will do; but mind, sister, you must look to Dapple carefully for the next three days, so that he may be fit to take arms; double his feed, and see to the pack-saddle and other harness, for it is not to a wedding we are bound, but to go round the world, and play at give and take with giants and dragons and monsters, and hear hissings and roarings and bellowings and howlings; and even all this would be lavender, if we had not to reckon with Yanguesans and enchanted Moors.”
“I know well enough, husband,” said Teresa, “that squires-errant don’t eat their bread for nothing, and so I will be always praying to our Lord to deliver you speedily from all that hard fortune.”
“I can tell you, wife,” said Sancho, “if I did not expect to see myself governor of an island before long, I would drop down dead on the spot.”
“Nay, then, husband,” said Teresa; “let the hen live, though it be with her pip, live, and let the devil take all the governments in the world; you came out of your mother’s womb without a government, you have lived until now without a government, and when it is God’s will you will go, or be carried, to your grave without a govern- ment. How many there are in the world who live without a government, and continue to live all the same, and are reckoned in the number of the people. The best sauce in the world is hunger, and as the poor are never without that, they always eat with a relish. But mind, Sancho, if by good luck you should find yourself with some govern- ment, don’t forget me and your children. Remember that Sanchico is now full fifteen, and it is right he should go to school, if his uncle the abbot has a mind to have him trained for the Church. Consider, too, that your daughter Mari-Sancha will not die of grief if we marry her; for I have my suspicions that she is as eager to get a husband as you to get a government; and, after all, a daughter looks better ill married than well whored.”
“By my faith,” replied Sancho, “if God brings me to get any sort of a government, I intend, wife, to make such a high match for Mari-Sancha that there will be no approaching her without calling her ‘my lady.”
“Nay, Sancho,” returned Teresa; “marry her to her equal, that is the safest plan; for if you put her out of wooden clogs into high-heeled shoes, out of her grey flannel petticoat into hoops and silk gowns, out of the plain ‘Marica’ and ‘thou,’ into ‘Dona So-and-so’ and ‘my lady,’ the girl won’t know where she is, and at every turn she will fall into a thousand blunders that will show the thread of her coarse homespun stuff.”
“Tut, you fool,” said Sancho; “it will be only to practise it for two or three years; and then dignity and decorum will fit her as easily as a glove; and if not, what matter? Let her be ‘my lady,’ and never mind what happens.”
“Keep to your own station, Sancho,” replied Teresa; “don’t try to raise yourself higher, and bear in mind the proverb that says, ‘wipe the nose of your neigbbour’s son, and take him into your house.’ A fine thing it would be, indeed, to marry our Maria to some great count or grand gentleman, who, when the humour took him, would abuse her and call her clown-bred and clodhopper’s daughter and spinning wench. I have not been bringing up my daughter for that all this time, I can tell you, husband. Do you bring home money, Sancho, and leave marrying her to my care; there is Lope Tocho, Juan Tocho’s son, a stout, sturdy young fellow that we know, and I can see he does not look sour at the girl; and with him, one of our own sort, she will be well married, and we shall have her always under our eyes, and be all one family, parents and children, grandchildren and sons-in-law, and the peace and blessing of God will dwell among us; so don’t you go marrying her in those courts and grand palaces where they won’t know what to make of her, or she what to make of herself.”
“Why, you idiot and wife for Barabbas,” said Sancho, “what do you mean by trying, without why or wherefore, to keep me from marrying my daughter to one who will give me grandchildren that will be called ‘your lordship’? Look ye, Teresa, I have always heard my elders say that he who does not know how to take advantage of luck when it comes to him, has no right to complain if it gives him the go-by; and now that it is knocking at our door, it will not do to shut it out; let us go with the favouring breeze that blows upon us.”
It is this sort of talk, and what Sancho says lower down, that made the translator of the history say he consid- ered this chapter apocryphal.
“Don’t you see, you animal,” continued Sancho, “that it will be well for me to drop into some profitable govern- ment that will lift us out of the mire, and marry Mari-Sancha to whom I like; and you yourself will find yourself called ‘Dona Teresa Panza,’ and sitting in church on a fine carpet and cushions and draperies, in spite and in defi- ance of all the born ladies of the town? No, stay as you are, growing neither greater nor less, like a tapestry figure— Let us say no more about it, for Sanchica shall be a countess, say what you will.”
“Are you sure of all you say, husband?” replied Teresa. “Well, for all that, I am afraid this rank of countess for my daughter will be her ruin. You do as you like, make a duchess or a princess of her, but I can tell you it will not be with my will and consent. I was always a lover of equality, brother, and I can’t bear to see people give themselves airs
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without any right. They called me Teresa at my baptism, a plain, simple name, without any additions or tags or fringes of Dons or Donas; Cascajo was my father’s name, and as I am your wife, I am called Teresa Panza, though by right I ought to be called Teresa Cascajo; but ‘kings go where laws like,’ and I am content with this name without having the ‘Don’ put on top of it to make it so heavy that I cannot carry it; and I don’t want to make people talk about me when they see me go dressed like a countess or governor’s wife; for they will say at once, ‘See what airs the slut gives herself ! Only yesterday she was always spinning flax, and used to go to mass with the tail of her petticoat over her head instead of a mantle, and there she goes to-day in a hooped gown with her broaches and airs, as if we didn’t know her!’ If God keeps me in my seven senses, or five, or whatever number I have, I am not going to bring myself to such a pass; go you, brother, and be a government or an island man, and swagger as much as you like; for by the soul of my mother, neither my daughter nor I are going to stir a step from our village; a respectable woman should have a broken leg and keep at home; and to be busy at something is a virtuous damsel’s holiday; be off to your adventures along with your Don Quix- ote, and leave us to our misadventures, for God will mend them for us according as we deserve it. I don’t know, I’m sure, who fixed the ‘Don’ to him, what neither his father nor grandfather ever had.”
“I declare thou hast a devil of some sort in thy body!” said Sancho. “God help thee, what a lot of things thou hast strung together, one after the other, without head or tail! What have Cascajo, and the broaches and the prov- erbs and the airs, to do with what I say? Look here, fool and dolt (for so I may call you, when you don’t understand my words, and run away from good fortune), if I had said that my daughter was to throw herself down from a tow- er, or go roaming the world, as the Infanta Dona Urraca wanted to do, you would be right in not giving way to my will; but if in an instant, in less than the twinkling of an eye, I put the ‘Don’ and ‘my lady’ on her back, and take her out of the stubble, and place her under a canopy, on a dais, and on a couch, with more velvet cushions than all the Almohades of Morocco ever had in their family, why won’t you consent and fall in with my wishes?”
“Do you know why, husband?” replied Teresa; “because of the proverb that says ‘who covers thee, discovers thee.’ At the poor man people only throw a hasty glance; on the rich man they fix their eyes; and if the said rich man was once on a time poor, it is then there is the sneering and the tattle and spite of backbiters; and in the streets here they swarm as thick as bees.”
“Look here, Teresa,” said Sancho, “and listen to what I am now going to say to you; maybe you never heard it in all your life; and I do not give my own notions, for what I am about to say are the opinions of his reverence the preacher, who preached in this town last Lent, and who said, if I remember rightly, that all things present that our eyes behold, bring themselves before us, and remain and fix themselves on our memory much better and more forc- ibly than things past.”
These observations which Sancho makes here are the other ones on account of which the translator says he regards this chapter as apocryphal, inasmuch as they are beyond Sancho’s capacity.
“Whence it arises,” he continued, “that when we see any person well dressed and making a figure with rich garments and retinue of servants, it seems to lead and impel us perforce to respect him, though memory may at the same moment recall to us some lowly condition in which we have seen him, but which, whether it may have been poverty or low birth, being now a thing of the past, has no existence; while the only thing that has any existence is what we see before us; and if this person whom fortune has raised from his original lowly state (these were the very words the padre used) to his present height of prosperity, be well bred, generous, courteous to all, without seeking to vie with those whose nobility is of ancient date, depend upon it, Teresa, no one will remember what he was, and everyone will respect what he is, except indeed the envious, from whom no fair fortune is safe.”
“I do not understand you, husband,” replied Teresa; “do as you like, and don’t break my head with any more speechifying and rethoric; and if you have revolved to do what you say-”
“Resolved, you should say, woman,” said Sancho, “not revolved.” “Don’t set yourself to wrangle with me, husband,” said Teresa; “I speak as God pleases, and don’t deal in out-
of-the-way phrases; and I say if you are bent upon having a government, take your son Sancho with you, and teach him from this time on how to hold a government; for sons ought to inherit and learn the trades of their fathers.”
“As soon as I have the government,” said Sancho, “I will send for him by post, and I will send thee money, of which I shall have no lack, for there is never any want of people to lend it to governors when they have not got it; and do thou dress him so as to hide what he is and make him look what he is to be.”
“You send the money,” said Teresa, “and I’ll dress him up for you as fine as you please.” “Then we are agreed that our daughter is to be a countess,” said Sancho. “The day that I see her a countess,” replied Teresa, “it will be the same to me as if I was burying her; but once
more I say do as you please, for we women are born to this burden of being obedient to our husbands, though they be dogs;” and with this she began to weep in earnest, as if she already saw Sanchica dead and buried.
Sancho consoled her by saying that though he must make her a countess, he would put it off as long as possible. Here their conversation came to an end, and Sancho went back to see Don Quixote, and make arrangements for their departure.
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Chapter X Wherein is related the crafty device sancho adopted to enchant the lady dulcinea, and other incidents as ludicrous as
they are true When the author of this great history comes to relate what is set down in this chapter he says he would have
preferred to pass it over in silence, fearing it would not be believed, because here Don Quixote’s madness reaches the confines of the greatest that can be conceived, and even goes a couple of bowshots beyond the greatest. But after all, though still under the same fear and apprehension, he has recorded it without adding to the story or leaving out a particle of the truth, and entirely disregarding the charges of falsehood that might be brought against him; and he was right, for the truth may run fine but will not break, and always rises above falsehood as oil above water; and so, going on with his story, he says that as soon as Don Quixote had ensconced himself in the forest, oak grove, or wood near El Toboso, he bade Sancho return to the city, and not come into his presence again without having first spoken on his behalf to his lady, and begged of her that it might be her good pleasure to permit herself to be seen by her enslaved knight, and deign to bestow her blessing upon him, so that he might thereby hope for a happy issue in all his encounters and difficult enterprises. Sancho undertook to execute the task according to the instructions, and to bring back an answer as good as the one he brought back before.
“Go, my son,” said Don Quixote, “and be not dazed when thou findest thyself exposed to the light of that sun of beauty thou art going to seek. Happy thou, above all the squires in the world! Bear in mind, and let it not escape thy memory, how she receives thee; if she changes colour while thou art giving her my message; if she is agitated and disturbed at hearing my name; if she cannot rest upon her cushion, shouldst thou haply find her seated in the sumptuous state chamber proper to her rank; and should she be standing, observe if she poises herself now on one foot, now on the other; if she repeats two or three times the reply she gives thee; if she passes from gentleness to austerity, from asperity to tenderness; if she raises her hand to smooth her hair though it be not disarranged. In short, my son, observe all her actions and motions, for if thou wilt report them to me as they were, I will gather what she hides in the recesses of her heart as regards my love; for I would have thee know, Sancho, if thou knowest it not, that with lovers the outward actions and motions they give way to when their loves are in question are the faithful messengers that carry the news of what is going on in the depths of their hearts. Go, my friend, may better fortune than mine attend thee, and bring thee a happier issue than that which I await in dread in this dreary soli- tude.”
“I will go and return quickly,” said Sancho; “cheer up that little heart of yours, master mine, for at the present moment you seem to have got one no bigger than a hazel nut; remember what they say, that a stout heart breaks bad luck, and that where there are no fletches there are no pegs; and moreover they say, the hare jumps up where it’s not looked for. I say this because, if we could not find my lady’s palaces or castles to-night, now that it is daylight I count upon finding them when I least expect it, and once found, leave it to me to manage her.”
“Verily, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “thou dost always bring in thy proverbs happily, whatever we deal with; may God give me better luck in what I am anxious about.”
With this, Sancho wheeled about and gave Dapple the stick, and Don Quixote remained behind, seated on his horse, resting in his stirrups and leaning on the end of his lance, filled with sad and troubled forebodings; and there we will leave him, and accompany Sancho, who went off no less serious and troubled than he left his master; so much so, that as soon as he had got out of the thicket, and looking round saw that Don Quixote was not within sight, he dismounted from his ass, and seating himself at the foot of a tree began to commune with himself, saying, “Now, brother Sancho, let us know where your worship is going. Are you going to look for some ass that has been lost? Not at all. Then what are you going to look for? I am going to look for a princess, that’s all; and in her for the sun of beauty and the whole heaven at once. And where do you expect to find all this, Sancho? Where? Why, in the great city of El Toboso. Well, and for whom are you going to look for her? For the famous knight Don Quixote of La Mancha, who rights wrongs, gives food to those who thirst and drink to the hungry. That’s all very well, but do you know her house, Sancho? My master says it will be some royal palace or grand castle. And have you ever seen her by any chance? Neither I nor my master ever saw her. And does it strike you that it would be just and right if the El Toboso people, finding out that you were here with the intention of going to tamper with their princesses and trou- ble their ladies, were to come and cudgel your ribs, and not leave a whole bone in you? They would, indeed, have very good reason, if they did not see that I am under orders, and that ‘you are a messenger, my friend, no blame belongs to you.’ Don’t you trust to that, Sancho, for the Manchegan folk are as hot-tempered as they are honest, and won’t put up with liberties from anybody. By the Lord, if they get scent of you, it will be worse for you, I promise you. Be off, you scoundrel! Let the bolt fall. Why should I go looking for three feet on a cat, to please another man; and what is more, when looking for Dulcinea will be looking for Marica in Ravena, or the bachelor in Salamanca? The devil, the devil and nobody else, has mixed me up in this business!”
Such was the soliloquy Sancho held with himself, and all the conclusion he could come to was to say to himself
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again, “Well, there’s remedy for everything except death, under whose yoke we have all to pass, whether we like it or not, when life’s finished. I have seen by a thousand signs that this master of mine is a madman fit to be tied, and for that matter, I too, am not behind him; for I’m a greater fool than he is when I follow him and serve him, if there’s any truth in the proverb that says, ‘Tell me what company thou keepest, and I’ll tell thee what thou art,’ or in that other, ‘Not with whom thou art bred, but with whom thou art fed.’ Well then, if he be mad, as he is, and with a madness that mostly takes one thing for another, and white for black, and black for white, as was seen when he said the windmills were giants, and the monks’ mules dromedaries, flocks of sheep armies of enemies, and much more to the same tune, it will not be very hard to make him believe that some country girl, the first I come across here, is the lady Dulcinea; and if he does not believe it, I’ll swear it; and if he should swear, I’ll swear again; and if he persists I’ll persist still more, so as, come what may, to have my quoit always over the peg. Maybe, by holding out in this way, I may put a stop to his sending me on messages of this kind another time; or maybe he will think, as I suspect he will, that one of those wicked enchanters, who he says have a spite against him, has changed her form for the sake of doing him an ill turn and injuring him.”
With this reflection Sancho made his mind easy, counting the business as good as settled, and stayed there till the afternoon so as to make Don Quixote think he had time enough to go to El Toboso and return; and things turned out so luckily for him that as he got up to mount Dapple, he spied, coming from El Toboso towards the spot where he stood, three peasant girls on three colts, or fillies—for the author does not make the point clear, though it is more likely they were she-asses, the usual mount with village girls; but as it is of no great consequence, we need not stop to prove it.
To be brief, the instant Sancho saw the peasant girls, he returned full speed to seek his master, and found him sighing and uttering a thousand passionate lamentations. When Don Quixote saw him he exclaimed, “What news, Sancho, my friend? Am I to mark this day with a white stone or a black?”
“Your worship,” replied Sancho, “had better mark it with ruddle, like the inscriptions on the walls of class rooms, that those who see it may see it plain.”
“Then thou bringest good news,” said Don Quixote. “So good,” replied Sancho, “that your worship has only to spur Rocinante and get out into the open field to see
the lady Dulcinea del Toboso, who, with two others, damsels of hers, is coming to see your worship.” “Holy God! what art thou saying, Sancho, my friend?” exclaimed Don Quixote. “Take care thou art not deceiv-
ing me, or seeking by false joy to cheer my real sadness.” “What could I get by deceiving your worship,” returned Sancho, “especially when it will so soon be shown
whether I tell the truth or not? Come, senor, push on, and you will see the princess our mistress coming, robed and adorned—in fact, like what she is. Her damsels and she are all one glow of gold, all bunches of pearls, all diamonds, all rubies, all cloth of brocade of more than ten borders; with their hair loose on their shoulders like so many sun- beams playing with the wind; and moreover, they come mounted on three piebald cackneys, the finest sight ever you saw.”
“Hackneys, you mean, Sancho,” said Don Quixote. “There is not much difference between cackneys and hackneys,” said Sancho; “but no matter what they come
on, there they are, the finest ladies one could wish for, especially my lady the princess Dulcinea, who staggers one’s senses.”
“Let us go, Sancho, my son,” said Don Quixote, “and in guerdon of this news, as unexpected as it is good, I be- stow upon thee the best spoil I shall win in the first adventure I may have; or if that does not satisfy thee, I promise thee the foals I shall have this year from my three mares that thou knowest are in foal on our village common.”
“I’ll take the foals,” said Sancho; “for it is not quite certain that the spoils of the first adventure will be good ones.”
By this time they had cleared the wood, and saw the three village lasses close at hand. Don Quixote looked all along the road to El Toboso, and as he could see nobody except the three peasant girls, he was completely puzzled, and asked Sancho if it was outside the city he had left them.
“How outside the city?” returned Sancho. “Are your worship’s eyes in the back of your head, that you can’t see that they are these who are coming here, shining like the very sun at noonday?”
“I see nothing, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “but three country girls on three jackasses.” “Now, may God deliver me from the devil!” said Sancho, “and can it be that your worship takes three hack-
neys—or whatever they’re called-as white as the driven snow, for jackasses? By the Lord, I could tear my beard if that was the case!”
“Well, I can only say, Sancho, my friend,” said Don Quixote, “that it is as plain they are jackasses—or jennyass- es—as that I am Don Quixote, and thou Sancho Panza: at any rate, they seem to me to be so.”
“Hush, senor,” said Sancho, “don’t talk that way, but open your eyes, and come and pay your respects to the lady of your thoughts, who is close upon us now;” and with these words he advanced to receive the three village lasses,
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and dismounting from Dapple, caught hold of one of the asses of the three country girls by the halter, and dropping on both knees on the ground, he said, “Queen and princess and duchess of beauty, may it please your haughtiness and greatness to receive into your favour and good-will your captive knight who stands there turned into marble stone, and quite stupefied and benumbed at finding himself in your magnificent presence. I am Sancho Panza, his squire, and he the vagabond knight Don Quixote of La Mancha, otherwise called ‘The Knight of the Rueful Counte- nance.’”
Don Quixote had by this time placed himself on his knees beside Sancho, and, with eyes starting out of his head and a puzzled gaze, was regarding her whom Sancho called queen and lady; and as he could see nothing in her except a village lass, and not a very well-favoured one, for she was platter-faced and snub-nosed, he was perplexed and bewildered, and did not venture to open his lips. The country girls, at the same time, were astonished to see these two men, so different in appearance, on their knees, preventing their companion from going on. She, howev- er, who had been stopped, breaking silence, said angrily and testily, “Get out of the way, bad luck to you, and let us pass, for we are in a hurry.”
To which Sancho returned, “Oh, princess and universal lady of El Toboso, is not your magnanimous heart soft- ened by seeing the pillar and prop of knight-errantry on his knees before your sublimated presence?”
On hearing this, one of the others exclaimed, “Woa then! why, I’m rubbing thee down, she-ass of my father- in-law! See how the lordlings come to make game of the village girls now, as if we here could not chaff as well as themselves. Go your own way, and let us go ours, and it will be better for you.”
“Get up, Sancho,” said Don Quixote at this; “I see that fortune, ‘with evil done to me unsated still,’ has taken possession of all the roads by which any comfort may reach ‘this wretched soul’ that I carry in my flesh. And thou, highest perfection of excellence that can be desired, utmost limit of grace in human shape, sole relief of this afflicted heart that adores thee, though the malign enchanter that persecutes me has brought clouds and cataracts on my eyes, and to them, and them only, transformed thy unparagoned beauty and changed thy features into those of a poor peasant girl, if so be he has not at the same time changed mine into those of some monster to render them loathsome in thy sight, refuse not to look upon me with tenderness and love; seeing in this submission that I make on my knees to thy transformed beauty the humility with which my soul adores thee.”
“Hey-day! My grandfather!” cried the girl, “much I care for your love-making! Get out of the way and let us pass, and we’ll thank you.”
Sancho stood aside and let her go, very well pleased to have got so well out of the hobble he was in. The instant the village lass who had done duty for Dulcinea found herself free, prodding her “cackney” with a spike she had at the end of a stick, she set off at full speed across the field. The she-ass, however, feeling the point more acutely than usual, began cutting such capers, that it flung the lady Dulcinea to the ground; seeing which, Don Quixote ran to raise her up, and Sancho to fix and girth the pack-saddle, which also had slipped under the ass’s belly. The pack-sad- dle being secured, as Don Quixote was about to lift up his enchanted mistress in his arms and put her upon her beast, the lady, getting up from the ground, saved him the trouble, for, going back a little, she took a short run, and putting both hands on the croup of the ass she dropped into the saddle more lightly than a falcon, and sat astride like a man, whereat Sancho said, “Rogue! but our lady is lighter than a lanner, and might teach the cleverest Cordo- van or Mexican how to mount; she cleared the back of the saddle in one jump, and without spurs she is making the hackney go like a zebra; and her damsels are no way behind her, for they all fly like the wind;” which was the truth, for as soon as they saw Dulcinea mounted, they pushed on after her, and sped away without looking back, for more than half a league.
Don Quixote followed them with his eyes, and when they were no longer in sight, he turned to Sancho and said, “How now, Sancho? thou seest how I am hated by enchanters! And see to what a length the malice and spite they bear me go, when they seek to deprive me of the happiness it would give me to see my lady in her own proper form. The fact is I was born to be an example of misfortune, and the target and mark at which the arrows of adver- sity are aimed and directed. Observe too, Sancho, that these traitors were not content with changing and transform- ing my Dulcinea, but they transformed and changed her into a shape as mean and ill-favoured as that of the village girl yonder; and at the same time they robbed her of that which is such a peculiar property of ladies of distinction, that is to say, the sweet fragrance that comes of being always among perfumes and flowers. For I must tell thee, Sancho, that when I approached to put Dulcinea upon her hackney (as thou sayest it was, though to me it appeared a she-ass), she gave me a whiff of raw garlic that made my head reel, and poisoned my very heart.”
“O scum of the earth!” cried Sancho at this, “O miserable, spiteful enchanters! O that I could see you all strung by the gills, like sardines on a twig! Ye know a great deal, ye can do a great deal, and ye do a great deal more. It ought to have been enough for you, ye scoundrels, to have changed the pearls of my lady’s eyes into oak galls, and her hair of purest gold into the bristles of a red ox’s tail, and in short, all her features from fair to foul, without med- dling with her smell; for by that we might somehow have found out what was hidden underneath that ugly rind; though, to tell the truth, I never perceived her ugliness, but only her beauty, which was raised to the highest pitch
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of perfection by a mole she had on her right lip, like a moustache, with seven or eight red hairs like threads of gold, and more than a palm long.”
“From the correspondence which exists between those of the face and those of the body,” said Don Quixote, “Dulcinea must have another mole resembling that on the thick of the thigh on that side on which she has the one on her face; but hairs of the length thou hast mentioned are very long for moles.”
“Well, all I can say is there they were as plain as could be,” replied Sancho. “I believe it, my friend,” returned Don Quixote; “for nature bestowed nothing on Dulcinea that was not perfect
and well-finished; and so, if she had a hundred moles like the one thou hast described, in her they would not be moles, but moons and shining stars. But tell me, Sancho, that which seemed to me to be a pack-saddle as thou wert fixing it, was it a flat-saddle or a side-saddle?”
“It was neither,” replied Sancho, “but a jineta saddle, with a field covering worth half a kingdom, so rich is it.” “And that I could not see all this, Sancho!” said Don Quixote; “once more I say, and will say a thousand times, I am the most unfortunate of men.” Sancho, the rogue, had enough to do to hide his laughter, at hearing the simplicity of the master he had so
nicely befooled. At length, after a good deal more conversation had passed between them, they remounted their beasts, and followed the road to Saragossa, which they expected to reach in time to take part in a certain grand festival which is held every year in that illustrious city; but before they got there things happened to them, so many, so important, and so strange, that they deserve to be recorded and read, as will be seen farther on.
Chapter XI Of the strange adventure which the valiant Don Quixote had with the car or cart of “the Cortes of Death”
Dejected beyond measure did Don Quixote pursue his journey, turning over in his mind the cruel trick the enchanters had played him in changing his lady Dulcinea into the vile shape of the village lass, nor could he think of any way of restoring her to her original form; and these reflections so absorbed him, that without being aware of it he let go Rocinante’s bridle, and he, perceiving the liberty that was granted him, stopped at every step to crop the fresh grass with which the plain abounded.
Sancho recalled him from his reverie. “Melancholy, senor,” said he, “was made, not for beasts, but for men; but if men give way to it overmuch they turn to beasts; control yourself, your worship; be yourself again; gather up Rocinante’s reins; cheer up, rouse yourself and show that gallant spirit that knights-errant ought to have. What the devil is this? What weakness is this? Are we here or in France? The devil fly away with all the Dulcineas in the world; for the well-being of a single knight-errant is of more consequence than all the enchantments and transfor- mations on earth.”
“Hush, Sancho,” said Don Quixote in a weak and faint voice, “hush and utter no blasphemies against that enchanted lady; for I alone am to blame for her misfortune and hard fate; her calamity has come of the hatred the wicked bear me.”
“So say I,” returned Sancho; “his heart rend in twain, I trow, who saw her once, to see her now.” “Thou mayest well say that, Sancho,” replied Don Quixote, “as thou sawest her in the full perfection of her
beauty; for the enchantment does not go so far as to pervert thy vision or hide her loveliness from thee; against me alone and against my eyes is the strength of its venom directed. Nevertheless, there is one thing which has occurred to me, and that is that thou didst ill describe her beauty to me, for, as well as I recollect, thou saidst that her eyes were pearls; but eyes that are like pearls are rather the eyes of a sea-bream than of a lady, and I am persuaded that Dulcinea’s must be green emeralds, full and soft, with two rainbows for eyebrows; take away those pearls from her eyes and transfer them to her teeth; for beyond a doubt, Sancho, thou hast taken the one for the other, the eyes for the teeth.”
“Very likely,” said Sancho; “for her beauty bewildered me as much as her ugliness did your worship; but let us leave it all to God, who alone knows what is to happen in this vale of tears, in this evil world of ours, where there is hardly a thing to be found without some mixture of wickedness, roguery, and rascality. But one thing, senor, troubles me more than all the rest, and that is thinking what is to be done when your worship conquers some giant, or some other knight, and orders him to go and present himself before the beauty of the lady Dulcinea. Where is this poor giant, or this poor wretch of a vanquished knight, to find her? I think I can see them wandering all over El Toboso, looking like noddies, and asking for my lady Dulcinea; and even if they meet her in the middle of the street they won’t know her any more than they would my father.”
“Perhaps, Sancho,” returned Don Quixote, “the enchantment does not go so far as to deprive conquered and presented giants and knights of the power of recognising Dulcinea; we will try by experiment with one or two of the first I vanquish and send to her, whether they see her or not, by commanding them to return and give me an
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account of what happened to them in this respect.” “I declare, I think what your worship has proposed is excellent,” said Sancho; “and that by this plan we shall find
out what we want to know; and if it be that it is only from your worship she is hidden, the misfortune will be more yours than hers; but so long as the lady Dulcinea is well and happy, we on our part will make the best of it, and get on as well as we can, seeking our adventures, and leaving Time to take his own course; for he is the best physician for these and greater ailments.”
Don Quixote was about to reply to Sancho Panza, but he was prevented by a cart crossing the road full of the most diverse and strange personages and figures that could be imagined. He who led the mules and acted as carter was a hideous demon; the cart was open to the sky, without a tilt or cane roof, and the first figure that presented itself to Don Quixote’s eyes was that of Death itself with a human face; next to it was an angel with large painted wings, and at one side an emperor, with a crown, to all appearance of gold, on his head. At the feet of Death was the god called Cupid, without his bandage, but with his bow, quiver, and arrows; there was also a knight in full armour, except that he had no morion or helmet, but only a hat decked with plumes of divers colours; and along with these there were others with a variety of costumes and faces. All this, unexpectedly encountered, took Don Quixote somewhat aback, and struck terror into the heart of Sancho; but the next instant Don Quixote was glad of it, be- lieving that some new perilous adventure was presenting itself to him, and under this impression, and with a spirit prepared to face any danger, he planted himself in front of the cart, and in a loud and menacing tone, exclaimed, “Carter, or coachman, or devil, or whatever thou art, tell me at once who thou art, whither thou art going, and who these folk are thou carriest in thy wagon, which looks more like Charon’s boat than an ordinary cart.”
To which the devil, stopping the cart, answered quietly, “Senor, we are players of Angulo el Malo’s company; we have been acting the play of ‘The Cortes of Death’ this morning, which is the octave of Corpus Christi, in a village behind that hill, and we have to act it this afternoon in that village which you can see from this; and as it is so near, and to save the trouble of undressing and dressing again, we go in the costumes in which we perform. That lad there appears as Death, that other as an angel, that woman, the manager’s wife, plays the queen, this one the soldier, that the emperor, and I the devil; and I am one of the principal characters of the play, for in this company I take the leading parts. If you want to know anything more about us, ask me and I will answer with the utmost exactitude, for as I am a devil I am up to everything.”
“By the faith of a knight-errant,” replied Don Quixote, “when I saw this cart I fancied some great adventure was presenting itself to me; but I declare one must touch with the hand what appears to the eye, if illusions are to be avoided. God speed you, good people; keep your festival, and remember, if you demand of me ought wherein I can render you a service, I will do it gladly and willingly, for from a child I was fond of the play, and in my youth a keen lover of the actor’s art.”
While they were talking, fate so willed it that one of the company in a mummers’ dress with a great number of bells, and armed with three blown ox-bladders at the end of a stick, joined them, and this merry-andrew approach- ing Don Quixote, began flourishing his stick and banging the ground with the bladders and cutting capers with great jingling of the bells, which untoward apparition so startled Rocinante that, in spite of Don Quixote’s efforts to hold him in, taking the bit between his teeth he set off across the plain with greater speed than the bones of his anatomy ever gave any promise of.
Sancho, who thought his master was in danger of being thrown, jumped off Dapple, and ran in all haste to help him; but by the time he reached him he was already on the ground, and beside him was Rocinante, who had come down with his master, the usual end and upshot of Rocinante’s vivacity and high spirits. But the moment Sancho quitted his beast to go and help Don Quixote, the dancing devil with the bladders jumped up on Dapple, and beat- ing him with them, more by the fright and the noise than by the pain of the blows, made him fly across the fields towards the village where they were going to hold their festival. Sancho witnessed Dapple’s career and his master’s fall, and did not know which of the two cases of need he should attend to first; but in the end, like a good squire and good servant, he let his love for his master prevail over his affection for his ass; though every time he saw the bladders rise in the air and come down on the hind quarters of his Dapple he felt the pains and terrors of death, and he would have rather had the blows fall on the apples of his own eyes than on the least hair of his ass’s tail. In this trouble and perplexity he came to where Don Quixote lay in a far sorrier plight than he liked, and having helped him to mount Rocinante, he said to him, “Senor, the devil has carried off my Dapple.”
“What devil?” asked Don Quixote. “The one with the bladders,” said Sancho. “Then I will recover him,” said Don Quixote, “even if he be shut up with him in the deepest and darkest dun-
geons of hell. Follow me, Sancho, for the cart goes slowly, and with the mules of it I will make good the loss of Dapple.”
“You need not take the trouble, senor,” said Sancho; “keep cool, for as I now see, the devil has let Dapple go and he is coming back to his old quarters;” and so it turned out, for, having come down with Dapple, in imitation of
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Don Quixote and Rocinante, the devil made off on foot to the town, and the ass came back to his master. “For all that,” said Don Quixote, “it will be well to visit the discourtesy of that devil upon some of those in the
cart, even if it were the emperor himself.” “Don’t think of it, your worship,” returned Sancho; “take my advice and never meddle with actors, for they are a
favoured class; I myself have known an actor taken up for two murders, and yet come off scot-free; remember that, as they are merry folk who give pleasure, everyone favours and protects them, and helps and makes much of them, above all when they are those of the royal companies and under patent, all or most of whom in dress and appear- ance look like princes.”
“Still, for all that,” said Don Quixote, “the player devil must not go off boasting, even if the whole human race favours him.”
So saying, he made for the cart, which was now very near the town, shouting out as he went, “Stay! halt! ye merry, jovial crew! I want to teach you how to treat asses and animals that serve the squires of knights-errant for steeds.”
So loud were the shouts of Don Quixote, that those in the cart heard and understood them, and, guessing by the words what the speaker’s intention was, Death in an instant jumped out of the cart, and the emperor, the devil carter and the angel after him, nor did the queen or the god Cupid stay behind; and all armed themselves with stones and formed in line, prepared to receive Don Quixote on the points of their pebbles. Don Quixote, when he saw them drawn up in such a gallant array with uplifted arms ready for a mighty discharge of stones, checked Rocinante and began to consider in what way he could attack them with the least danger to himself. As he halted Sancho came up, and seeing him disposed to attack this well-ordered squadron, said to him, “It would be the height of madness to attempt such an enterprise; remember, senor, that against sops from the brook, and plenty of them, there is no defensive armour in the world, except to stow oneself away under a brass bell; and besides, one should remember that it is rashness, and not valour, for a single man to attack an army that has Death in it, and where em- perors fight in person, with angels, good and bad, to help them; and if this reflection will not make you keep quiet, perhaps it will to know for certain that among all these, though they look like kings, princes, and emperors, there is not a single knight-errant.”
“Now indeed thou hast hit the point, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “which may and should turn me from the resolution I had already formed. I cannot and must not draw sword, as I have many a time before told thee, against anyone who is not a dubbed knight; it is for thee, Sancho, if thou wilt, to take vengeance for the wrong done to thy Dapple; and I will help thee from here by shouts and salutary counsels.”
“There is no occasion to take vengeance on anyone, senor,” replied Sancho; “for it is not the part of good Christians to revenge wrongs; and besides, I will arrange it with my ass to leave his grievance to my good-will and pleasure, and that is to live in peace as long as heaven grants me life.”
“Well,” said Don Quixote, “if that be thy determination, good Sancho, sensible Sancho, Christian Sancho, hon- est Sancho, let us leave these phantoms alone and turn to the pursuit of better and worthier adventures; for, from what I see of this country, we cannot fail to find plenty of marvellous ones in it.”
He at once wheeled about, Sancho ran to take possession of his Dapple, Death and his flying squadron returned to their cart and pursued their journey, and thus the dread adventure of the cart of Death ended happily, thanks to the advice Sancho gave his master; who had, the following day, a fresh adventure, of no less thrilling interest than the last, with an enamoured knight-errant.
Chapter XVI Of what befell Don Quixote with a discreet gentleman of La Mancha
Don Quixote pursued his journey in the high spirits, satisfaction, and self-complacency already described, fancying himself the most valorous knight-errant of the age in the world because of his late victory. All the adven- tures that could befall him from that time forth he regarded as already done and brought to a happy issue; he made light of enchantments and enchanters; he thought no more of the countless drubbings that had been administered to him in the course of his knight-errantry, nor of the volley of stones that had levelled half his teeth, nor of the ingratitude of the galley slaves, nor of the audacity of the Yanguesans and the shower of stakes that fell upon him; in short, he said to himself that could he discover any means, mode, or way of disenchanting his lady Dulcinea, he would not envy the highest fortune that the most fortunate knight-errant of yore ever reached or could reach.
He was going along entirely absorbed in these fancies, when Sancho said to him, “Isn’t it odd, senor, that I have still before my eyes that monstrous enormous nose of my gossip, Tom Cecial?”
“And dost thou, then, believe, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “that the Knight of the Mirrors was the bachelor Carrasco, and his squire Tom Cecial thy gossip?”
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“I don’t know what to say to that,” replied Sancho; “all I know is that the tokens he gave me about my own house, wife and children, nobody else but himself could have given me; and the face, once the nose was off, was the very face of Tom Cecial, as I have seen it many a time in my town and next door to my own house; and the sound of the voice was just the same.”
“Let us reason the matter, Sancho,” said Don Quixote. “Come now, by what process of thinking can it be sup- posed that the bachelor Samson Carrasco would come as a knight-errant, in arms offensive and defensive, to fight with me? Have I ever been by any chance his enemy? Have I ever given him any occasion to owe me a grudge? Am I his rival, or does he profess arms, that he should envy the fame I have acquired in them?”
“Well, but what are we to say, senor,” returned Sancho, “about that knight, whoever he is, being so like the bach- elor Carrasco, and his squire so like my gossip, Tom Cecial? And if that be enchantment, as your worship says, was there no other pair in the world for them to take the likeness of ?”
“It is all,” said Don Quixote, “a scheme and plot of the malignant magicians that persecute me, who, foreseeing that I was to be victorious in the conflict, arranged that the vanquished knight should display the countenance of my friend the bachelor, in order that the friendship I bear him should interpose to stay the edge of my sword and might of my arm, and temper the just wrath of my heart; so that he who sought to take my life by fraud and false- hood should save his own. And to prove it, thou knowest already, Sancho, by experience which cannot lie or de- ceive, how easy it is for enchanters to change one countenance into another, turning fair into foul, and foul into fair; for it is not two days since thou sawest with thine own eyes the beauty and elegance of the peerless Dulcinea in all its perfection and natural harmony, while I saw her in the repulsive and mean form of a coarse country wench, with cataracts in her eyes and a foul smell in her mouth; and when the perverse enchanter ventured to effect so wicked a transformation, it is no wonder if he effected that of Samson Carrasco and thy gossip in order to snatch the glory of victory out of my grasp. For all that, however, I console myself, because, after all, in whatever shape he may have been, I have victorious over my enemy.”
“God knows what’s the truth of it all,” said Sancho; and knowing as he did that the transformation of Dulcinea had been a device and imposition of his own, his master’s illusions were not satisfactory to him; but he did not like to reply lest he should say something that might disclose his trickery.
As they were engaged in this conversation they were overtaken by a man who was following the same road behind them, mounted on a very handsome flea-bitten mare, and dressed in a gaban of fine green cloth, with tawny velvet facings, and a montera of the same velvet. The trappings of the mare were of the field and jineta fashion, and of mulberry colour and green. He carried a Moorish cutlass hanging from a broad green and gold baldric; the buskins were of the same make as the baldric; the spurs were not gilt, but lacquered green, and so brightly polished that, matching as they did the rest of his apparel, they looked better than if they had been of pure gold.
When the traveller came up with them he saluted them courteously, and spurring his mare was passing them without stopping, but Don Quixote called out to him, “Gallant sir, if so be your worship is going our road, and has no occasion for speed, it would be a pleasure to me if we were to join company.”
“In truth,” replied he on the mare, “I would not pass you so hastily but for fear that horse might turn restive in the company of my mare.”
“You may safely hold in your mare, senor,” said Sancho in reply to this, “for our horse is the most virtuous and well-behaved horse in the world; he never does anything wrong on such occasions, and the only time he misbe- haved, my master and I suffered for it sevenfold; I say again your worship may pull up if you like; for if she was offered to him between two plates the horse would not hanker after her.”
The traveller drew rein, amazed at the trim and features of Don Quixote, who rode without his helmet, which Sancho carried like a valise in front of Dapple’s pack-saddle; and if the man in green examined Don Quixote closely, still more closely did Don Quixote examine the man in green, who struck him as being a man of intelligence. In appearance he was about fifty years of age, with but few grey hairs, an aquiline cast of features, and an expression between grave and gay; and his dress and accoutrements showed him to be a man of good condition. What he in green thought of Don Quixote of La Mancha was that a man of that sort and shape he had never yet seen; he marvelled at the length of his hair, his lofty stature, the lankness and sallowness of his countenance, his armour, his bearing and his gravity—a figure and picture such as had not been seen in those regions for many a long day.
Don Quixote saw very plainly the attention with which the traveller was regarding him, and read his curiosity in his astonishment; and courteous as he was and ready to please everybody, before the other could ask him any question he anticipated him by saying, “The appearance I present to your worship being so strange and so out of the common, I should not be surprised if it filled you with wonder; but you will cease to wonder when I tell you, as I do, that I am one of those knights who, as people say, go seeking adventures. I have left my home, I have mortgaged my estate, I have given up my comforts, and committed myself to the arms of Fortune, to bear me whithersoever she may please. My desire was to bring to life again knight-errantry, now dead, and for some time past, stumbling here, falling there, now coming down headlong, now raising myself up again, I have carried out a great portion of
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my design, succouring widows, protecting maidens, and giving aid to wives, orphans, and minors, the proper and natural duty of knights-errant; and, therefore, because of my many valiant and Christian achievements, I have been already found worthy to make my way in print to well-nigh all, or most, of the nations of the earth. Thirty thousand volumes of my history have been printed, and it is on the high-road to be printed thirty thousand thousands of times, if heaven does not put a stop to it. In short, to sum up all in a few words, or in a single one, I may tell you I am Don Quixote of La Mancha, otherwise called ‘The Knight of the Rueful Countenance;’ for though self-praise is degrading, I must perforce sound my own sometimes, that is to say, when there is no one at hand to do it for me. So that, gentle sir, neither this horse, nor this lance, nor this shield, nor this squire, nor all these arms put together, nor the sallowness of my countenance, nor my gaunt leanness, will henceforth astonish you, now that you know who I am and what profession I follow.”
With these words Don Quixote held his peace, and, from the time he took to answer, the man in green seemed to be at a loss for a reply; after a long pause, however, he said to him, “You were right when you saw curiosity in my amazement, sir knight; but you have not succeeded in removing the astonishment I feel at seeing you; for although you say, senor, that knowing who you are ought to remove it, it has not done so; on the contrary, now that I know, I am left more amazed and astonished than before. What! is it possible that there are knights-errant in the world in these days, and histories of real chivalry printed? I cannot realise the fact that there can be anyone on earth now-a- days who aids widows, or protects maidens, or defends wives, or succours orphans; nor should I believe it had I not seen it in your worship with my own eyes. Blessed be heaven! for by means of this history of your noble and genu- ine chivalrous deeds, which you say has been printed, the countless stories of fictitious knights-errant with which the world is filled, so much to the injury of morality and the prejudice and discredit of good histories, will have been driven into oblivion.”
“There is a good deal to be said on that point,” said Don Quixote, “as to whether the histories of the knights-er- rant are fiction or not.”
“Why, is there anyone who doubts that those histories are false?” said the man in green. “I doubt it,” said Don Quixote, “but never mind that just now; if our journey lasts long enough, I trust in God I
shall show your worship that you do wrong in going with the stream of those who regard it as a matter of certainty that they are not true.”
From this last observation of Don Quixote’s, the traveller began to have a suspicion that he was some crazy being, and was waiting for him to confirm it by something further; but before they could turn to any new subject Don Quixote begged him to tell him who he was, since he himself had rendered account of his station and life. To this, he in the green gaban replied “I, Sir Knight of the Rueful Countenance, am a gentleman by birth, native of the village where, please God, we are going to dine today; I am more than fairly well off, and my name is Don Diego de Miranda. I pass my life with my wife, children, and friends; my pursuits are hunting and fishing, but I keep nei- ther hawks nor greyhounds, nothing but a tame partridge or a bold ferret or two; I have six dozen or so of books, some in our mother tongue, some Latin, some of them history, others devotional; those of chivalry have not as yet crossed the threshold of my door; I am more given to turning over the profane than the devotional, so long as they are books of honest entertainment that charm by their style and attract and interest by the invention they display, though of these there are very few in Spain. Sometimes I dine with my neighbours and friends, and often invite them; my entertainments are neat and well served without stint of anything. I have no taste for tattle, nor do I allow tattling in my presence; I pry not into my neighbours’ lives, nor have I lynx-eyes for what others do. I hear mass every day; I share my substance with the poor, making no display of good works, lest I let hypocrisy and vainglory, those enemies that subtly take possession of the most watchful heart, find an entrance into mine. I strive to make peace between those whom I know to be at variance; I am the devoted servant of Our Lady, and my trust is ever in the infinite mercy of God our Lord.”
Sancho listened with the greatest attention to the account of the gentleman’s life and occupation; and thinking it a good and a holy life, and that he who led it ought to work miracles, he threw himself off Dapple, and running in haste seized his right stirrup and kissed his foot again and again with a devout heart and almost with tears.
Seeing this the gentleman asked him, “What are you about, brother? What are these kisses for?” “Let me kiss,” said Sancho, “for I think your worship is the first saint in the saddle I ever saw all the days of my
life.” “I am no saint,” replied the gentleman, “but a great sinner; but you are, brother, for you must be a good fellow,
as your simplicity shows.” Sancho went back and regained his pack-saddle, having extracted a laugh from his master’s profound melan-
choly, and excited fresh amazement in Don Diego. Don Quixote then asked him how many children he had, and observed that one of the things wherein the ancient philosophers, who were without the true knowledge of God, placed the summum bonum was in the gifts of nature, in those of fortune, in having many friends, and many and good children.
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“I, Senor Don Quixote,” answered the gentleman, “have one son, without whom, perhaps, I should count myself happier than I am, not because he is a bad son, but because he is not so good as I could wish. He is eighteen years of age; he has been for six at Salamanca studying Latin and Greek, and when I wished him to turn to the study of other sciences I found him so wrapped up in that of poetry (if that can be called a science) that there is no getting him to take kindly to the law, which I wished him to study, or to theology, the queen of them all. I would like him to be an honour to his family, as we live in days when our kings liberally reward learning that is virtuous and worthy; for learning without virtue is a pearl on a dunghill. He spends the whole day in settling whether Homer expressed himself correctly or not in such and such a line of the Iliad, whether Martial was indecent or not in such and such an epigram, whether such and such lines of Virgil are to be understood in this way or in that; in short, all his talk is of the works of these poets, and those of Horace, Perseus, Juvenal, and Tibullus; for of the moderns in our own language he makes no great account; but with all his seeming indifference to Spanish poetry, just now his thoughts are absorbed in making a gloss on four lines that have been sent him from Salamanca, which I suspect are for some poetical tournament.”
To all this Don Quixote said in reply, “Children, senor, are portions of their parents’ bowels, and therefore, be they good or bad, are to be loved as we love the souls that give us life; it is for the parents to guide them from infancy in the ways of virtue, propriety, and worthy Christian conduct, so that when grown up they may be the staff of their parents’ old age, and the glory of their posterity; and to force them to study this or that science I do not think wise, though it may be no harm to persuade them; and when there is no need to study for the sake of pane lucrando, and it is the student’s good fortune that heaven has given him parents who provide him with it, it would be my advice to them to let him pursue whatever science they may see him most inclined to; and though that of poetry is less useful than pleasurable, it is not one of those that bring discredit upon the possessor. Poetry, gentle sir, is, as I take it, like a tender young maiden of supreme beauty, to array, bedeck, and adorn whom is the task of several other maidens, who are all the rest of the sciences; and she must avail herself of the help of all, and all derive their lustre from her. But this maiden will not bear to be handled, nor dragged through the streets, nor exposed either at the corners of the market-places, or in the closets of palaces. She is the product of an Alchemy of such virtue that he who is able to practise it, will turn her into pure gold of inestimable worth. He that possesses her must keep her within bounds, not permitting her to break out in ribald satires or soulless sonnets. She must on no account be offered for sale, unless, indeed, it be in heroic poems, moving tragedies, or sprightly and ingenious comedies. She must not be touched by the buffoons, nor by the ignorant vulgar, incapable of comprehending or appreciating her hidden treasures. And do not suppose, senor, that I apply the term vulgar here merely to plebeians and the lower orders; for everyone who is ignorant, be he lord or prince, may and should be included among the vulgar. He, then, who shall embrace and cultivate poetry under the conditions I have named, shall become famous, and his name honoured throughout all the civilised nations of the earth. And with regard to what you say, senor, of your son having no great opinion of Spanish poetry, I am inclined to think that he is not quite right there, and for this reason: the great poet Homer did not write in Latin, because he was a Greek, nor did Virgil write in Greek, because he was a Latin; in short, all the ancient poets wrote in the language they imbibed with their mother’s milk, and never went in quest of foreign ones to express their sublime conceptions; and that being so, the usage should in justice extend to all nations, and the German poet should not be undervalued because he writes in his own lan- guage, nor the Castilian, nor even the Biscayan, for writing in his. But your son, senor, I suspect, is not prejudiced against Spanish poetry, but against those poets who are mere Spanish verse writers, without any knowledge of other languages or sciences to adorn and give life and vigour to their natural inspiration; and yet even in this he may be wrong; for, according to a true belief, a poet is born one; that is to say, the poet by nature comes forth a poet from his mother’s womb; and following the bent that heaven has bestowed upon him, without the aid of study or art, he produces things that show how truly he spoke who said, ‘Est Deus in nobis,’ etc. At the same time, I say that the poet by nature who calls in art to his aid will be a far better poet, and will surpass him who tries to be one relying upon his knowledge of art alone. The reason is, that art does not surpass nature, but only brings it to perfection; and thus, nature combined with art, and art with nature, will produce a perfect poet. To bring my argument to a close, I would say then, gentle sir, let your son go on as his star leads him, for being so studious as he seems to be, and having already successfully surmounted the first step of the sciences, which is that of the languages, with their help he will by his own exertions reach the summit of polite literature, which so well becomes an independent gentle- man, and adorns, honours, and distinguishes him, as much as the mitre does the bishop, or the gown the learned counsellor. If your son write satires reflecting on the honour of others, chide and correct him, and tear them up; but if he compose discourses in which he rebukes vice in general, in the style of Horace, and with elegance like his, commend him; for it is legitimate for a poet to write against envy and lash the envious in his verse, and the other vices too, provided he does not single out individuals; there are, however, poets who, for the sake of saying some- thing spiteful, would run the risk of being banished to the coast of Pontus. If the poet be pure in his morals, he will be pure in his verses too; the pen is the tongue of the mind, and as the thought engendered there, so will be the
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things that it writes down. And when kings and princes observe this marvellous science of poetry in wise, virtuous, and thoughtful subjects, they honour, value, exalt them, and even crown them with the leaves of that tree which the thunderbolt strikes not, as if to show that they whose brows are honoured and adorned with such a crown are not to be assailed by anyone.”
He of the green gaban was filled with astonishment at Don Quixote’s argument, so much so that he began to abandon the notion he had taken up about his being crazy. But in the middle of the discourse, it being not very much to his taste, Sancho had turned aside out of the road to beg a little milk from some shepherds, who were milking their ewes hard by; and just as the gentleman, highly pleased, was about to renew the conversation, Don Quixote, raising his head, perceived a cart covered with royal flags coming along the road they were travelling; and persuaded that this must be some new adventure, he called aloud to Sancho to come and bring him his helmet. Sancho, hearing himself called, quitted the shepherds, and, prodding Dapple vigorously, came up to his master, to whom there fell a terrific and desperate adventure.
Chapter XVII Wherein is shown the furthest and highest point which the unexampled courage of Don Quixote reached or could
reach; together with the happily achieved adventure of the lions The history tells that when Don Quixote called out to Sancho to bring him his helmet, Sancho was buying some
curds the shepherds agreed to sell him, and flurried by the great haste his master was in did not know what to do with them or what to carry them in; so, not to lose them, for he had already paid for them, he thought it best to throw them into his master’s helmet, and acting on this bright idea he went to see what his master wanted with him. He, as he approached, exclaimed to him:
“Give me that helmet, my friend, for either I know little of adventures, or what I observe yonder is one that will, and does, call upon me to arm myself.”
He of the green gaban, on hearing this, looked in all directions, but could perceive nothing, except a cart coming towards them with two or three small flags, which led him to conclude it must be carrying treasure of the King’s, and he said so to Don Quixote. He, however, would not believe him, being always persuaded and convinced that all that happened to him must be adventures and still more adventures; so he replied to the gentleman, “He who is prepared has his battle half fought; nothing is lost by my preparing myself, for I know by experience that I have enemies, visible and invisible, and I know not when, or where, or at what moment, or in what shapes they will attack me;” and turning to Sancho he called for his helmet; and Sancho, as he had no time to take out the curds, had to give it just as it was. Don Quixote took it, and without perceiving what was in it thrust it down in hot haste upon his head; but as the curds were pressed and squeezed the whey began to run all over his face and beard, whereat he was so startled that he cried out to Sancho:
“Sancho, what’s this? I think my head is softening, or my brains are melting, or I am sweating from head to foot! If I am sweating it is not indeed from fear. I am convinced beyond a doubt that the adventure which is about to befall me is a terrible one. Give me something to wipe myself with, if thou hast it, for this profuse sweat is blinding me.”
Sancho held his tongue, and gave him a cloth, and gave thanks to God at the same time that his master had not found out what was the matter. Don Quixote then wiped himself, and took off his helmet to see what it was that made his head feel so cool, and seeing all that white mash inside his helmet he put it to his nose, and as soon as he had smelt it he exclaimed:
“By the life of my lady Dulcinea del Toboso, but it is curds thou hast put here, thou treacherous, impudent, ill-mannered squire!”
To which, with great composure and pretended innocence, Sancho replied, “If they are curds let me have them, your worship, and I’ll eat them; but let the devil eat them, for it must have been he who put them there. I dare to dirty your helmet! You have guessed the offender finely! Faith, sir, by the light God gives me, it seems I must have enchanters too, that persecute me as a creature and limb of your worship, and they must have put that nastiness there in order to provoke your patience to anger, and make you baste my ribs as you are wont to do. Well, this time, indeed, they have missed their aim, for I trust to my master’s good sense to see that I have got no curds or milk, or anything of the sort; and that if I had it is in my stomach I would put it and not in the helmet.”
“May be so,” said Don Quixote. All this the gentleman was observing, and with astonishment, more especially when, after having wiped himself clean, his head, face, beard, and helmet, Don Quixote put it on, and settling him- self firmly in his stirrups, easing his sword in the scabbard, and grasping his lance, he cried, “Now, come who will, here am I, ready to try conclusions with Satan himself in person!”
By this time the cart with the flags had come up, unattended by anyone except the carter on a mule, and a man sitting in front. Don Quixote planted himself before it and said, “Whither are you going, brothers? What cart is
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this? What have you got in it? What flags are those?” To this the carter replied, “The cart is mine; what is in it is a pair of wild caged lions, which the governor of
Oran is sending to court as a present to his Majesty; and the flags are our lord the King’s, to show that what is here is his property.”
“And are the lions large?” asked Don Quixote. “So large,” replied the man who sat at the door of the cart, “that larger, or as large, have never crossed from
Africa to Spain; I am the keeper, and I have brought over others, but never any like these. They are male and female; the male is in that first cage and the female in the one behind, and they are hungry now, for they have eaten nothing to-day, so let your worship stand aside, for we must make haste to the place where we are to feed them.”
Hereupon, smiling slightly, Don Quixote exclaimed, “Lion-whelps to me! to me whelps of lions, and at such a time! Then, by God! those gentlemen who send them here shall see if I am a man to be frightened by lions. Get down, my good fellow, and as you are the keeper open the cages, and turn me out those beasts, and in the midst of this plain I will let them know who Don Quixote of La Mancha is, in spite and in the teeth of the enchanters who send them to me.”
“So, so,” said the gentleman to himself at this; “our worthy knight has shown of what sort he is; the curds, no doubt, have softened his skull and brought his brains to a head.”
At this instant Sancho came up to him, saying, “Senor, for God’s sake do something to keep my master, Don Quixote, from tackling these lions; for if he does they’ll tear us all to pieces here.”
“Is your master then so mad,” asked the gentleman, “that you believe and are afraid he will engage such fierce animals?”
“He is not mad,” said Sancho, “but he is venturesome.” “I will prevent it,” said the gentleman; and going over to Don Quixote, who was insisting upon the keeper’s
opening the cages, he said to him, “Sir knight, knights-errant should attempt adventures which encourage the hope of a successful issue, not those which entirely withhold it; for valour that trenches upon temerity savours rather of madness than of courage; moreover, these lions do not come to oppose you, nor do they dream of such a thing; they are going as presents to his Majesty, and it will not be right to stop them or delay their journey.”
“Gentle sir,” replied Don Quixote, “you go and mind your tame partridge and your bold ferret, and leave every- one to manage his own business; this is mine, and I know whether these gentlemen the lions come to me or not;” and then turning to the keeper he exclaimed, “By all that’s good, sir scoundrel, if you don’t open the cages this very instant, I’ll pin you to the cart with this lance.”
The carter, seeing the determination of this apparition in armour, said to him, “Please your worship, for chari- ty’s sake, senor, let me unyoke the mules and place myself in safety along with them before the lions are turned out; for if they kill them on me I am ruined for life, for all I possess is this cart and mules.”
“O man of little faith,” replied Don Quixote, “get down and unyoke; you will soon see that you are exerting yourself for nothing, and that you might have spared yourself the trouble.”
The carter got down and with all speed unyoked the mules, and the keeper called out at the top of his voice, “I call all here to witness that against my will and under compulsion I open the cages and let the lions loose, and that I warn this gentleman that he will be accountable for all the harm and mischief which these beasts may do, and for my salary and dues as well. You, gentlemen, place yourselves in safety before I open, for I know they will do me no harm.”
Once more the gentleman strove to persuade Don Quixote not to do such a mad thing, as it was tempting God to engage in such a piece of folly. To this, Don Quixote replied that he knew what he was about. The gentleman in return entreated him to reflect, for he knew he was under a delusion.
“Well, senor,” answered Don Quixote, “if you do not like to be a spectator of this tragedy, as in your opinion it will be, spur your flea-bitten mare, and place yourself in safety.”
Hearing this, Sancho with tears in his eyes entreated him to give up an enterprise compared with which the one of the windmills, and the awful one of the fulling mills, and, in fact, all the feats he had attempted in the whole course of his life, were cakes and fancy bread. “Look ye, senor,” said Sancho, “there’s no enchantment here, nor any- thing of the sort, for between the bars and chinks of the cage I have seen the paw of a real lion, and judging by that I reckon the lion such a paw could belong to must be bigger than a mountain.”
“Fear at any rate,” replied Don Quixote, “will make him look bigger to thee than half the world. Retire, Sancho, and leave me; and if I die here thou knowest our old compact; thou wilt repair to Dulcinea—I say no more.” To these he added some further words that banished all hope of his giving up his insane project. He of the green gaban would have offered resistance, but he found himself ill-matched as to arms, and did not think it prudent to come to blows with a madman, for such Don Quixote now showed himself to be in every respect; and the latter, renewing his commands to the keeper and repeating his threats, gave warning to the gentleman to spur his mare, Sancho his Dapple, and the carter his mules, all striving to get away from the cart as far as they could before the lions broke
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loose. Sancho was weeping over his master’s death, for this time he firmly believed it was in store for him from the claws of the lions; and he cursed his fate and called it an unlucky hour when he thought of taking service with him again; but with all his tears and lamentations he did not forget to thrash Dapple so as to put a good space between himself and the cart. The keeper, seeing that the fugitives were now some distance off, once more entreated and warned him as before; but he replied that he heard him, and that he need not trouble himself with any further warnings or entreaties, as they would be fruitless, and bade him make haste.
During the delay that occurred while the keeper was opening the first cage, Don Quixote was considering whether it would not be well to do battle on foot, instead of on horseback, and finally resolved to fight on foot, fear- ing that Rocinante might take fright at the sight of the lions; he therefore sprang off his horse, flung his lance aside, braced his buckler on his arm, and drawing his sword, advanced slowly with marvellous intrepidity and resolute courage, to plant himself in front of the cart, commending himself with all his heart to God and to his lady Dul- cinea.
It is to be observed, that on coming to this passage, the author of this veracious history breaks out into excla- mations. “O doughty Don Quixote! high-mettled past extolling! Mirror, wherein all the heroes of the world may see themselves! Second modern Don Manuel de Leon, once the glory and honour of Spanish knighthood! In what words shall I describe this dread exploit, by what language shall I make it credible to ages to come, what eulogies are there unmeet for thee, though they be hyperboles piled on hyperboles! On foot, alone, undaunted, high-souled, with but a simple sword, and that no trenchant blade of the Perrillo brand, a shield, but no bright polished steel one, there stoodst thou, biding and awaiting the two fiercest lions that Africa’s forests ever bred! Thy own deeds be thy praise, valiant Manchegan, and here I leave them as they stand, wanting the words wherewith to glorify them!”
Here the author’s outburst came to an end, and he proceeded to take up the thread of his story, saying that the keeper, seeing that Don Quixote had taken up his position, and that it was impossible for him to avoid letting out the male without incurring the enmity of the fiery and daring knight, flung open the doors of the first cage, con- taining, as has been said, the lion, which was now seen to be of enormous size, and grim and hideous mien. The first thing he did was to turn round in the cage in which he lay, and protrude his claws, and stretch himself thor- oughly; he next opened his mouth, and yawned very leisurely, and with near two palms’ length of tongue that he had thrust forth, he licked the dust out of his eyes and washed his face; having done this, he put his head out of the cage and looked all round with eyes like glowing coals, a spectacle and demeanour to strike terror into temerity itself. Don Quixote merely observed him steadily, longing for him to leap from the cart and come to close quarters with him, when he hoped to hew him in pieces.
So far did his unparalleled madness go; but the noble lion, more courteous than arrogant, not troubling himself about silly bravado, after having looked all round, as has been said, turned about and presented his hind-quarters to Don Quixote, and very coolly and tranquilly lay down again in the cage. Seeing this, Don Quixote ordered the keeper to take a stick to him and provoke him to make him come out.
“That I won’t,” said the keeper; “for if I anger him, the first he’ll tear in pieces will be myself. Be satisfied, sir knight, with what you have done, which leaves nothing more to be said on the score of courage, and do not seek to tempt fortune a second time. The lion has the door open; he is free to come out or not to come out; but as he has not come out so far, he will not come out to-day. Your worship’s great courage has been fully manifested already; no brave champion, so it strikes me, is bound to do more than challenge his enemy and wait for him on the field; if his adversary does not come, on him lies the disgrace, and he who waits for him carries off the crown of victory.”
“That is true,” said Don Quixote; “close the door, my friend, and let me have, in the best form thou canst, what thou hast seen me do, by way of certificate; to wit, that thou didst open for the lion, that I waited for him, that he did not come out, that I still waited for him, and that still he did not come out, and lay down again. I am not bound to do more; enchantments avaunt, and God uphold the right, the truth, and true chivalry! Close the door as I bade thee, while I make signals to the fugitives that have left us, that they may learn this exploit from thy lips.”
The keeper obeyed, and Don Quixote, fixing on the point of his lance the cloth he had wiped his face with after the deluge of curds, proceeded to recall the others, who still continued to fly, looking back at every step, all in a body, the gentleman bringing up the rear. Sancho, however, happening to observe the signal of the white cloth, exclaimed, “May I die, if my master has not overcome the wild beasts, for he is calling to us.”
They all stopped, and perceived that it was Don Quixote who was making signals, and shaking off their fears to some extent, they approached slowly until they were near enough to hear distinctly Don Quixote’s voice calling to them. They returned at length to the cart, and as they came up, Don Quixote said to the carter, “Put your mules to once more, brother, and continue your journey; and do thou, Sancho, give him two gold crowns for himself and the keeper, to compensate for the delay they have incurred through me.”
“That will I give with all my heart,” said Sancho; “but what has become of the lions? Are they dead or alive?” The keeper, then, in full detail, and bit by bit, described the end of the contest, exalting to the best of his power
and ability the valour of Don Quixote, at the sight of whom the lion quailed, and would not and dared not come
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out of the cage, although he had held the door open ever so long; and showing how, in consequence of his having represented to the knight that it was tempting God to provoke the lion in order to force him out, which he wished to have done, he very reluctantly, and altogether against his will, had allowed the door to be closed.
“What dost thou think of this, Sancho?” said Don Quixote. “Are there any enchantments that can prevail against true valour? The enchanters may be able to rob me of good fortune, but of fortitude and courage they can- not.”
Sancho paid the crowns, the carter put to, the keeper kissed Don Quixote’s hands for the bounty bestowed upon him, and promised to give an account of the valiant exploit to the King himself, as soon as he saw him at court.
“Then,” said Don Quixote, “if his Majesty should happen to ask who performed it, you must say THE KNIGHT OF THE LIONS; for it is my desire that into this the name I have hitherto borne of Knight of the Rueful Counte- nance be from this time forward changed, altered, transformed, and turned; and in this I follow the ancient usage of knights-errant, who changed their names when they pleased, or when it suited their purpose.”
The cart went its way, and Don Quixote, Sancho, and he of the green gaban went theirs. All this time, Don Diego de Miranda had not spoken a word, being entirely taken up with observing and noting all that Don Quixote did and said, and the opinion he formed was that he was a man of brains gone mad, and a madman on the verge of rationality. The first part of his history had not yet reached him, for, had he read it, the amazement with which his words and deeds filled him would have vanished, as he would then have understood the nature of his madness; but knowing nothing of it, he took him to be rational one moment, and crazy the next, for what he said was sensible, elegant, and well expressed, and what he did, absurd, rash, and foolish; and said he to himself, “What could be mad- der than putting on a helmet full of curds, and then persuading oneself that enchanters are softening one’s skull; or what could be greater rashness and folly than wanting to fight lions tooth and nail?”
Don Quixote roused him from these reflections and this soliloquy by saying, “No doubt, Senor Don Diego de Miranda, you set me down in your mind as a fool and a madman, and it would be no wonder if you did, for my deeds do not argue anything else. But for all that, I would have you take notice that I am neither so mad nor so foolish as I must have seemed to you. A gallant knight shows to advantage bringing his lance to bear adroitly upon a fierce bull under the eyes of his sovereign, in the midst of a spacious plaza; a knight shows to advantage arrayed in glittering armour, pacing the lists before the ladies in some joyous tournament, and all those knights show to advantage that entertain, divert, and, if we may say so, honour the courts of their princes by warlike exercises, or what resemble them; but to greater advantage than all these does a knight-errant show when he traverses deserts, solitudes, cross-roads, forests, and mountains, in quest of perilous adventures, bent on bringing them to a happy and successful issue, all to win a glorious and lasting renown. To greater advantage, I maintain, does the knight-er- rant show bringing aid to some widow in some lonely waste, than the court knight dallying with some city damsel. All knights have their own special parts to play; let the courtier devote himself to the ladies, let him add lustre to his sovereign’s court by his liveries, let him entertain poor gentlemen with the sumptuous fare of his table, let him arrange joustings, marshal tournaments, and prove himself noble, generous, and magnificent, and above all a good Christian, and so doing he will fulfil the duties that are especially his; but let the knight-errant explore the corners of the earth and penetrate the most intricate labyrinths, at each step let him attempt impossibilities, on desolate heaths let him endure the burning rays of the midsummer sun, and the bitter inclemency of the winter winds and frosts; let no lions daunt him, no monsters terrify him, no dragons make him quail; for to seek these, to attack those, and to vanquish all, are in truth his main duties. I, then, as it has fallen to my lot to be a member of knight-errantry, cannot avoid attempting all that to me seems to come within the sphere of my duties; thus it was my bounden duty to attack those lions that I just now attacked, although I knew it to be the height of rashness; for I know well what valour is, that it is a virtue that occupies a place between two vicious extremes, cowardice and temerity; but it will be a lesser evil for him who is valiant to rise till he reaches the point of rashness, than to sink until he reaches the point of cowardice; for, as it is easier for the prodigal than for the miser to become generous, so it is easier for a rash man to prove truly valiant than for a coward to rise to true valour; and believe me, Senor Don Diego, in attempting adventures it is better to lose by a card too many than by a card too few; for to hear it said, ‘such a knight is rash and daring,’ sounds better than ‘such a knight is timid and cowardly.’”
“I protest, Senor Don Quixote,” said Don Diego, “everything you have said and done is proved correct by the test of reason itself; and I believe, if the laws and ordinances of knight-errantry should be lost, they might be found in your worship’s breast as in their own proper depository and muniment-house; but let us make haste, and reach my village, where you shall take rest after your late exertions; for if they have not been of the body they have been of the spirit, and these sometimes tend to produce bodily fatigue.”
“I take the invitation as a great favour and honour, Senor Don Diego,” replied Don Quixote; and pressing for- ward at a better pace than before, at about two in the afternoon they reached the village and house of Don Diego, or, as Don Quixote called him, “The Knight of the Green Gaban.”
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Chapter XLII Of the counsels which Don Quixote gave Sancho Panza before he set out to govern the island, together with other
well-considered matters The duke and duchess were so well pleased with the successful and droll result of the adventure of the Distressed
One, that they resolved to carry on the joke, seeing what a fit subject they had to deal with for making it all pass for reality. So having laid their plans and given instructions to their servants and vassals how to behave to Sancho in his government of the promised island, the next day, that following Clavileno’s flight, the duke told Sancho to prepare and get ready to go and be governor, for his islanders were already looking out for him as for the showers of May.
Sancho made him an obeisance, and said, “Ever since I came down from heaven, and from the top of it beheld the earth, and saw how little it is, the great desire I had to be a governor has been partly cooled in me; for what is there grand in being ruler on a grain of mustard seed, or what dignity or authority in governing half a dozen men about as big as hazel nuts; for, so far as I could see, there were no more on the whole earth? If your lordship would be so good as to give me ever so small a bit of heaven, were it no more than half a league, I’d rather have it than the best island in the world.”
“Recollect, Sancho,” said the duke, “I cannot give a bit of heaven, no not so much as the breadth of my nail, to anyone; rewards and favours of that sort are reserved for God alone. What I can give I give you, and that is a real, genuine island, compact, well proportioned, and uncommonly fertile and fruitful, where, if you know how to use your opportunities, you may, with the help of the world’s riches, gain those of heaven.”
“Well then,” said Sancho, “let the island come; and I’ll try and be such a governor, that in spite of scoundrels I’ll go to heaven; and it’s not from any craving to quit my own humble condition or better myself, but from the desire I have to try what it tastes like to be a governor.”
“If you once make trial of it, Sancho,” said the duke, “you’ll eat your fingers off after the government, so sweet a thing is it to command and be obeyed. Depend upon it when your master comes to be emperor (as he will beyond a doubt from the course his affairs are taking), it will be no easy matter to wrest the dignity from him, and he will be sore and sorry at heart to have been so long without becoming one.”
“Senor,” said Sancho, “it is my belief it’s a good thing to be in command, if it’s only over a drove of cattle.” “May I be buried with you, Sancho,” said the duke, “but you know everything; I hope you will make as good a
governor as your sagacity promises; and that is all I have to say; and now remember to-morrow is the day you must set out for the government of the island, and this evening they will provide you with the proper attire for you to wear, and all things requisite for your departure.”
“Let them dress me as they like,” said Sancho; “however I’m dressed I’ll be Sancho Panza.” “That’s true,” said the duke; “but one’s dress must be suited to the office or rank one holds; for it would not do
for a jurist to dress like a soldier, or a soldier like a priest. You, Sancho, shall go partly as a lawyer, partly as a cap- tain, for, in the island I am giving you, arms are needed as much as letters, and letters as much as arms.”
“Of letters I know but little,” said Sancho, “for I don’t even know the A B C; but it is enough for me to have the Christus in my memory to be a good governor. As for arms, I’ll handle those they give me till I drop, and then, God be my help!”
“With so good a memory,” said the duke, “Sancho cannot go wrong in anything.” Here Don Quixote joined them; and learning what passed, and how soon Sancho was to go to his government,
he with the duke’s permission took him by the hand, and retired to his room with him for the purpose of giving him advice as to how he was to demean himself in his office. As soon as they had entered the chamber he closed the door after him, and almost by force made Sancho sit down beside him, and in a quiet tone thus addressed him: “I give infinite thanks to heaven, friend Sancho, that, before I have met with any good luck, fortune has come for- ward to meet thee. I who counted upon my good fortune to discharge the recompense of thy services, find myself still waiting for advancement, while thou, before the time, and contrary to all reasonable expectation, seest thyself blessed in the fulfillment of thy desires. Some will bribe, beg, solicit, rise early, entreat, persist, without attaining the object of their suit; while another comes, and without knowing why or wherefore, finds himself invested with the place or office so many have sued for; and here it is that the common saying, ‘There is good luck as well as bad luck in suits,’ applies. Thou, who, to my thinking, art beyond all doubt a dullard, without early rising or night watching or taking any trouble, with the mere breath of knight-errantry that has breathed upon thee, seest thyself without more ado governor of an island, as though it were a mere matter of course. This I say, Sancho, that thou attribute not the favour thou hast received to thine own merits, but give thanks to heaven that disposes matters beneficent- ly, and secondly thanks to the great power the profession of knight-errantry contains in itself. With a heart, then, inclined to believe what I have said to thee, attend, my son, to thy Cato here who would counsel thee and be thy polestar and guide to direct and pilot thee to a safe haven out of this stormy sea wherein thou art about to ingulf thyself; for offices and great trusts are nothing else but a mighty gulf of troubles.
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“First of all, my son, thou must fear God, for in the fear of him is wisdom, and being wise thou canst not err in aught.
“Secondly, thou must keep in view what thou art, striving to know thyself, the most difficult thing to know that the mind can imagine. If thou knowest thyself, it will follow thou wilt not puff thyself up like the frog that strove to make himself as large as the ox; if thou dost, the recollection of having kept pigs in thine own country will serve as the ugly feet for the wheel of thy folly.”
“That’s the truth,” said Sancho; “but that was when I was a boy; afterwards when I was something more of a man it was geese I kept, not pigs. But to my thinking that has nothing to do with it; for all who are governors don’t come of a kingly stock.”
“True,” said Don Quixote, “and for that reason those who are not of noble origin should take care that the dignity of the office they hold be accompanied by a gentle suavity, which wisely managed will save them from the sneers of malice that no station escapes.
“Glory in thy humble birth, Sancho, and be not ashamed of saying thou art peasant-born; for when it is seen thou art not ashamed no one will set himself to put thee to the blush; and pride thyself rather upon being one of lowly virtue than a lofty sinner. Countless are they who, born of mean parentage, have risen to the highest dignities, pontifical and imperial, and of the truth of this I could give thee instances enough to weary thee.
“Remember, Sancho, if thou make virtue thy aim, and take a pride in doing virtuous actions, thou wilt have no cause to envy those who have princely and lordly ones, for blood is an inheritance, but virtue an acquisition, and virtue has in itself alone a worth that blood does not possess.
“This being so, if perchance anyone of thy kinsfolk should come to see thee when thou art in thine island, thou art not to repel or slight him, but on the contrary to welcome him, entertain him, and make much of him; for in so doing thou wilt be approved of heaven (which is not pleased that any should despise what it hath made), and wilt comply with the laws of well-ordered nature.
“If thou carriest thy wife with thee (and it is not well for those that administer governments to be long without their wives), teach and instruct her, and strive to smooth down her natural roughness; for all that may be gained by a wise governor may be lost and wasted by a boorish stupid wife.
“If perchance thou art left a widower—a thing which may happen—and in virtue of thy office seekest a consort of higher degree, choose not one to serve thee for a hook, or for a fishing-rod, or for the hood of thy ‘won’t have it;’ for verily, I tell thee, for all the judge’s wife receives, the husband will be held accountable at the general calling to account; where he will have repay in death fourfold, items that in life he regarded as naught.
“Never go by arbitrary law, which is so much favoured by ignorant men who plume themselves on cleverness. “Let the tears of the poor man find with thee more compassion, but not more justice, than the pleadings of the
rich. “Strive to lay bare the truth, as well amid the promises and presents of the rich man, as amid the sobs and en-
treaties of the poor. “When equity may and should be brought into play, press not the utmost rigour of the law against the guilty; for
the reputation of the stern judge stands not higher than that of the compassionate. “If perchance thou permittest the staff of justice to swerve, let it be not by the weight of a gift, but by that of
mercy. “If it should happen to thee to give judgment in the cause of one who is thine enemy, turn thy thoughts away
from thy injury and fix them on the justice of the case. “Let not thine own passion blind thee in another man’s cause; for the errors thou wilt thus commit will be most
frequently irremediable; or if not, only to be remedied at the expense of thy good name and even of thy fortune. “If any handsome woman come to seek justice of thee, turn away thine eyes from her tears and thine ears from
her lamentations, and consider deliberately the merits of her demand, if thou wouldst not have thy reason swept away by her weeping, and thy rectitude by her sighs.
“Abuse not by word him whom thou hast to punish in deed, for the pain of punishment is enough for the un- fortunate without the addition of thine objurgations.
“Bear in mind that the culprit who comes under thy jurisdiction is but a miserable man subject to all the pro- pensities of our depraved nature, and so far as may be in thy power show thyself lenient and forbearing; for though the attributes of God are all equal, to our eyes that of mercy is brighter and loftier than that of justice.
“If thou followest these precepts and rules, Sancho, thy days will be long, thy fame eternal, thy reward abun- dant, thy felicity unutterable; thou wilt marry thy children as thou wouldst; they and thy grandchildren will bear titles; thou wilt live in peace and concord with all men; and, when life draws to a close, death will come to thee in calm and ripe old age, and the light and loving hands of thy great-grandchildren will close thine eyes.
“What I have thus far addressed to thee are instructions for the adornment of thy mind; listen now to those which tend to that of the body.”
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Chapter XLIII Of the second set of counsels Don Quixote gave Sancho Panza
Who, hearing the foregoing discourse of Don Quixote, would not have set him down for a person of great good sense and greater rectitude of purpose? But, as has been frequently observed in the course of this great history, he only talked nonsense when he touched on chivalry, and in discussing all other subjects showed that he had a clear and unbiassed understanding; so that at every turn his acts gave the lie to his intellect, and his intellect to his acts; but in the case of these second counsels that he gave Sancho, he showed himself to have a lively turn of humour, and displayed conspicuously his wisdom, and also his folly.
Sancho listened to him with the deepest attention, and endeavoured to fix his counsels in his memory, like one who meant to follow them and by their means bring the full promise of his government to a happy issue. Don Quixote, then, went on to say:
“With regard to the mode in which thou shouldst govern thy person and thy house, Sancho, the first charge I have to give thee is to be clean, and to cut thy nails, not letting them grow as some do, whose ignorance makes them fancy that long nails are an ornament to their hands, as if those excrescences they neglect to cut were nails, and not the talons of a lizard-catching kestrel—a filthy and unnatural abuse.
“Go not ungirt and loose, Sancho; for disordered attire is a sign of an unstable mind, unless indeed the slovenli- ness and slackness is to be set down to craft, as was the common opinion in the case of Julius Caesar.
“Ascertain cautiously what thy office may be worth; and if it will allow thee to give liveries to thy servants, give them respectable and serviceable, rather than showy and gay ones, and divide them between thy servants and the poor; that is to say, if thou canst clothe six pages, clothe three and three poor men, and thus thou wilt have pages for heaven and pages for earth; the vainglorious never think of this new mode of giving liveries.
“Eat not garlic nor onions, lest they find out thy boorish origin by the smell; walk slowly and speak deliberately, but not in such a way as to make it seem thou art listening to thyself, for all affectation is bad.
“Dine sparingly and sup more sparingly still; for the health of the whole body is forged in the workshop of the stomach.
“Be temperate in drinking, bearing in mind that wine in excess keeps neither secrets nor promises. “Take care, Sancho, not to chew on both sides, and not to eruct in anybody’s presence.” “Eruct!” said Sancho; “I don’t know what that means.” “To eruct, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “means to belch, and that is one of the filthiest words in the Spanish lan-
guage, though a very expressive one; and therefore nice folk have had recourse to the Latin, and instead of belch say eruct, and instead of belches say eructations; and if some do not understand these terms it matters little, for custom will bring them into use in the course of time, so that they will be readily understood; this is the way a language is enriched; custom and the public are all-powerful there.”
“In truth, senor,” said Sancho, “one of the counsels and cautions I mean to bear in mind shall be this, not to belch, for I’m constantly doing it.”
“Eruct, Sancho, not belch,” said Don Quixote. “Eruct, I shall say henceforth, and I swear not to forget it,” said Sancho. “Likewise, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “thou must not mingle such a quantity of proverbs in thy discourse as
thou dost; for though proverbs are short maxims, thou dost drag them in so often by the head and shoulders that they savour more of nonsense than of maxims.”
“God alone can cure that,” said Sancho; “for I have more proverbs in me than a book, and when I speak they come so thick together into my mouth that they fall to fighting among themselves to get out; that’s why my tongue lets fly the first that come, though they may not be pat to the purpose. But I’ll take care henceforward to use such as befit the dignity of my office; for ‘in a house where there’s plenty, supper is soon cooked,’ and ‘he who binds does not wrangle,’ and ‘the bell-ringer’s in a safe berth,’ and ‘giving and keeping require brains.’”
“That’s it, Sancho!” said Don Quixote; “pack, tack, string proverbs together; nobody is hindering thee! ‘My mother beats me, and I go on with my tricks.’ I am bidding thee avoid proverbs, and here in a second thou hast shot out a whole litany of them, which have as much to do with what we are talking about as ‘over the hills of Ubeda.’ Mind, Sancho, I do not say that a proverb aptly brought in is objectionable; but to pile up and string together prov- erbs at random makes conversation dull and vulgar.
“When thou ridest on horseback, do not go lolling with thy body on the back of the saddle, nor carry thy legs stiff or sticking out from the horse’s belly, nor yet sit so loosely that one would suppose thou wert on Dapple; for the seat on a horse makes gentlemen of some and grooms of others.
“Be moderate in thy sleep; for he who does not rise early does not get the benefit of the day; and remember, Sancho, diligence is the mother of good fortune, and indolence, its opposite, never yet attained the object of an honest ambition.
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“The last counsel I will give thee now, though it does not tend to bodily improvement, I would have thee carry carefully in thy memory, for I believe it will be no less useful to thee than those I have given thee already, and it is this—never engage in a dispute about families, at least in the way of comparing them one with another; for neces- sarily one of those compared will be better than the other, and thou wilt be hated by the one thou hast disparaged, and get nothing in any shape from the one thou hast exalted.
“Thy attire shall be hose of full length, a long jerkin, and a cloak a trifle longer; loose breeches by no means, for they are becoming neither for gentlemen nor for governors.
“For the present, Sancho, this is all that has occurred to me to advise thee; as time goes by and occasions arise my instructions shall follow, if thou take care to let me know how thou art circumstanced.”
“Senor,” said Sancho, “I see well enough that all these things your worship has said to me are good, holy, and profitable; but what use will they be to me if I don’t remember one of them? To be sure that about not letting my nails grow, and marrying again if I have the chance, will not slip out of my head; but all that other hash, muddle, and jumble—I don’t and can’t recollect any more of it than of last year’s clouds; so it must be given me in writing; for though I can’t either read or write, I’ll give it to my confessor, to drive it into me and remind me of it whenever it is necessary.”
“Ah, sinner that I am!” said Don Quixote, “how bad it looks in governors not to know how to read or write; for let me tell thee, Sancho, when a man knows not how to read, or is left-handed, it argues one of two things; either that he was the son of exceedingly mean and lowly parents, or that he himself was so incorrigible and ill-condi- tioned that neither good company nor good teaching could make any impression on him. It is a great defect that thou labourest under, and therefore I would have thee learn at any rate to sign thy name.” “I can sign my name well enough,” said Sancho, “for when I was steward of the brotherhood in my village I learned to make certain letters, like the marks on bales of goods, which they told me made out my name. Besides I can pretend my right hand is disabled and make some one else sign for me, for ‘there’s a remedy for everything except death;’ and as I shall be in command and hold the staff, I can do as I like; moreover, ‘he who has the alcalde for his father-,’ and I’ll be gover- nor, and that’s higher than alcalde. Only come and see! Let them make light of me and abuse me; ‘they’ll come for wool and go back shorn;’ ‘whom God loves, his house is known to Him;’ ‘the silly sayings of the rich pass for saws in the world;’ and as I’ll be rich, being a governor, and at the same time generous, as I mean to be, no fault will be seen in me. ‘Only make yourself honey and the flies will suck you;’ ‘as much as thou hast so much art thou worth,’ as my grandmother used to say; and ‘thou canst have no revenge of a man of substance.’”
“Oh, God’s curse upon thee, Sancho!” here exclaimed Don Quixote; “sixty thousand devils fly away with thee and thy proverbs! For the last hour thou hast been stringing them together and inflicting the pangs of torture on me with every one of them. Those proverbs will bring thee to the gallows one day, I promise thee; thy subjects will take the government from thee, or there will be revolts among them. Tell me, where dost thou pick them up, thou booby? How dost thou apply them, thou blockhead? For with me, to utter one and make it apply properly, I have to sweat and labour as if I were digging.”
“By God, master mine,” said Sancho, “your worship is making a fuss about very little. Why the devil should you be vexed if I make use of what is my own? And I have got nothing else, nor any other stock in trade except proverbs and more proverbs; and here are three just this instant come into my head, pat to the purpose and like pears in a basket; but I won’t repeat them, for ‘sage silence is called Sancho.’”
“That, Sancho, thou art not,” said Don Quixote; “for not only art thou not sage silence, but thou art pestilent prate and perversity; still I would like to know what three proverbs have just now come into thy memory, for I have been turning over mine own—and it is a good one—and none occurs to me.”
“What can be better,” said Sancho, “than ‘never put thy thumbs between two back teeth;’ and ‘to “get out of my house” and “what do you want with my wife?” there is no answer;’ and ‘whether the pitcher hits the stove, or the stove the pitcher, it’s a bad business for the pitcher;’ all which fit to a hair? For no one should quarrel with his gov- ernor, or him in authority over him, because he will come off the worst, as he does who puts his finger between two back and if they are not back teeth it makes no difference, so long as they are teeth; and to whatever the governor may say there’s no answer, any more than to ‘get out of my house’ and ‘what do you want with my wife?’ and then, as for that about the stone and the pitcher, a blind man could see that. So that he ‘who sees the mote in another’s eye had need to see the beam in his own,’ that it be not said of himself, ‘the dead woman was frightened at the one with her throat cut;’ and your worship knows well that ‘the fool knows more in his own house than the wise man in another’s.’”
“Nay, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “the fool knows nothing, either in his own house or in anybody else’s, for no wise structure of any sort can stand on a foundation of folly; but let us say no more about it, Sancho, for if thou gov- ernest badly, thine will be the fault and mine the shame; but I comfort myself with having done my duty in advising thee as earnestly and as wisely as I could; and thus I am released from my obligations and my promise. God guide thee, Sancho, and govern thee in thy government, and deliver me from the misgiving I have that thou wilt turn the
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whole island upside down, a thing I might easily prevent by explaining to the duke what thou art and telling him that all that fat little person of thine is nothing else but a sack full of proverbs and sauciness.”
“Senor,” said Sancho, “if your worship thinks I’m not fit for this government, I give it up on the spot; for the mere black of the nail of my soul is dearer to me than my whole body; and I can live just as well, simple Sancho, on bread and onions, as governor, on partridges and capons; and what’s more, while we’re asleep we’re all equal, great and small, rich and poor. But if your worship looks into it, you will see it was your worship alone that put me on to this business of governing; for I know no more about the government of islands than a buzzard; and if there’s any reason to think that because of my being a governor the devil will get hold of me, I’d rather go Sancho to heaven than governor to hell.”
“By God, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “for those last words thou hast uttered alone, I consider thou deservest to be governor of a thousand islands. Thou hast good natural instincts, without which no knowledge is worth any- thing; commend thyself to God, and try not to swerve in the pursuit of thy main object; I mean, always make it thy aim and fixed purpose to do right in all matters that come before thee, for heaven always helps good intentions; and now let us go to dinner, for I think my lord and lady are waiting for us.”
Chapter XLIV How Sancho Panza was conducted to his government, and of the strange adventure that befell Don Quixote in the castle
It is stated, they say, in the true original of this history, that when Cide Hamete came to write this chapter, his interpreter did not translate it as he wrote it—that is, as a kind of complaint the Moor made against himself for having taken in hand a story so dry and of so little variety as this of Don Quixote, for he found himself forced to speak perpetually of him and Sancho, without venturing to indulge in digressions and episodes more serious and more interesting. He said, too, that to go on, mind, hand, pen always restricted to writing upon one single subject, and speaking through the mouths of a few characters, was intolerable drudgery, the result of which was never equal to the author’s labour, and that to avoid this he had in the First Part availed himself of the device of novels, like “The Ill-advised Curiosity,” and “The Captive Captain,” which stand, as it were, apart from the story; the others are given there being incidents which occurred to Don Quixote himself and could not be omitted. He also thought, he says, that many, engrossed by the interest attaching to the exploits of Don Quixote, would take none in the novels, and pass them over hastily or impatiently without noticing the elegance and art of their composition, which would be very manifest were they published by themselves and not as mere adjuncts to the crazes of Don Quixote or the simplicities of Sancho. Therefore in this Second Part he thought it best not to insert novels, either separate or inter- woven, but only episodes, something like them, arising out of the circumstances the facts present; and even these sparingly, and with no more words than suffice to make them plain; and as he confines and restricts himself to the narrow limits of the narrative, though he has ability; capacity, and brains enough to deal with the whole universe, he requests that his labours may not be despised, and that credit be given him, not alone for what he writes, but for what he has refrained from writing.
And so he goes on with his story, saying that the day Don Quixote gave the counsels to Sancho, the same after- noon after dinner he handed them to him in writing so that he might get some one to read them to him. They had scarcely, however, been given to him when he let them drop, and they fell into the hands of the duke, who showed them to the duchess and they were both amazed afresh at the madness and wit of Don Quixote. To carry on the joke, then, the same evening they despatched Sancho with a large following to the village that was to serve him for an island. It happened that the person who had him in charge was a majordomo of the duke’s, a man of great discretion and humour—and there can be no humour without discretion—and the same who played the part of the Countess Trifaldi in the comical way that has been already described; and thus qualified, and instructed by his mas- ter and mistress as to how to deal with Sancho, he carried out their scheme admirably. Now it came to pass that as soon as Sancho saw this majordomo he seemed in his features to recognise those of the Trifaldi, and turning to his master, he said to him, “Senor, either the devil will carry me off, here on this spot, righteous and believing, or your worship will own to me that the face of this majordomo of the duke’s here is the very face of the Distressed One.”
Don Quixote regarded the majordomo attentively, and having done so, said to Sancho, “There is no reason why the devil should carry thee off, Sancho, either righteous or believing—and what thou meanest by that I know not; the face of the Distressed One is that of the majordomo, but for all that the majordomo is not the Distressed One; for his being so would involve a mighty contradiction; but this is not the time for going into questions of the sort, which would be involving ourselves in an inextricable labyrinth. Believe me, my friend, we must pray earnestly to our Lord that he deliver us both from wicked wizards and enchanters.”
“It is no joke, senor,” said Sancho, “for before this I heard him speak, and it seemed exactly as if the voice of the Trifaldi was sounding in my ears. Well, I’ll hold my peace; but I’ll take care to be on the look-out henceforth for any sign that may be seen to confirm or do away with this suspicion.”
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“Thou wilt do well, Sancho,” said Don Quixote, “and thou wilt let me know all thou discoverest, and all that befalls thee in thy government.”
Sancho at last set out attended by a great number of people. He was dressed in the garb of a lawyer, with a gab- an of tawny watered camlet over all and a montera cap of the same material, and mounted a la gineta upon a mule. Behind him, in accordance with the duke’s orders, followed Dapple with brand new ass-trappings and ornaments of silk, and from time to time Sancho turned round to look at his ass, so well pleased to have him with him that he would not have changed places with the emperor of Germany. On taking leave he kissed the hands of the duke and duchess and got his master’s blessing, which Don Quixote gave him with tears, and he received blubbering.
Let worthy Sancho go in peace, and good luck to him, Gentle Reader; and look out for two bushels of laughter, which the account of how he behaved himself in office will give thee. In the meantime turn thy attention to what happened his master the same night, and if thou dost not laugh thereat, at any rate thou wilt stretch thy mouth with a grin; for Don Quixote’s adventures must be honoured either with wonder or with laughter.
It is recorded, then, that as soon as Sancho had gone, Don Quixote felt his loneliness, and had it been possible for him to revoke the mandate and take away the government from him he would have done so. The duchess ob- served his dejection and asked him why he was melancholy; because, she said, if it was for the loss of Sancho, there were squires, duennas, and damsels in her house who would wait upon him to his full satisfaction.
“The truth is, senora,” replied Don Quixote, “that I do feel the loss of Sancho; but that is not the main cause of my looking sad; and of all the offers your excellence makes me, I accept only the good-will with which they are made, and as to the remainder I entreat of your excellence to permit and allow me alone to wait upon myself in my chamber.”
“Indeed, Senor Don Quixote,” said the duchess, “that must not be; four of my damsels, as beautiful as flowers, shall wait upon you.”
“To me,” said Don Quixote, “they will not be flowers, but thorns to pierce my heart. They, or anything like them, shall as soon enter my chamber as fly. If your highness wishes to gratify me still further, though I deserve it not, permit me to please myself, and wait upon myself in my own room; for I place a barrier between my inclina- tions and my virtue, and I do not wish to break this rule through the generosity your highness is disposed to display towards me; and, in short, I will sleep in my clothes, sooner than allow anyone to undress me.”
“Say no more, Senor Don Quixote, say no more,” said the duchess; “I assure you I will give orders that not even a fly, not to say a damsel, shall enter your room. I am not the one to undermine the propriety of Senor Don Quix- ote, for it strikes me that among his many virtues the one that is pre-eminent is that of modesty. Your worship may undress and dress in private and in your own way, as you please and when you please, for there will be no one to hinder you; and in your chamber you will find all the utensils requisite to supply the wants of one who sleeps with his door locked, to the end that no natural needs compel you to open it. May the great Dulcinea del Toboso live a thousand years, and may her fame extend all over the surface of the globe, for she deserves to be loved by a knight so valiant and so virtuous; and may kind heaven infuse zeal into the heart of our governor Sancho Panza to finish off his discipline speedily, so that the world may once more enjoy the beauty of so grand a lady.”
To which Don Quixote replied, “Your highness has spoken like what you are; from the mouth of a noble lady nothing bad can come; and Dulcinea will be more fortunate, and better known to the world by the praise of your highness than by all the eulogies the greatest orators on earth could bestow upon her.”
“Well, well, Senor Don Quixote,” said the duchess, it is nearly supper-time, and the duke is probably waiting; come let us go to supper, and retire to rest early, for the journey you made yesterday from Kandy was not such a short one but that it must have caused you some fatigue.”
“I feel none, senora,” said Don Quixote, “for I would go so far as to swear to your excellence that in all my life I never mounted a quieter beast, or a pleasanter paced one, than Clavileno; and I don’t know what could have in- duced Malambruno to discard a steed so swift and so gentle, and burn it so recklessly as he did.”
“Probably,” said the duchess, “repenting of the evil he had done to the Trifaldi and company, and others, and the crimes he must have committed as a wizard and enchanter, he resolved to make away with all the instruments of his craft; and so burned Clavileno as the chief one, and that which mainly kept him restless, wandering from land to land; and by its ashes and the trophy of the placard the valour of the great Don Quixote of La Mancha is established for ever.”
Don Quixote renewed his thanks to the duchess; and having supped, retired to his chamber alone, refusing to allow anyone to enter with him to wait on him, such was his fear of encountering temptations that might lead or drive him to forget his chaste fidelity to his lady Dulcinea; for he had always present to his mind the virtue of Amadis, that flower and mirror of knights-errant. He locked the door behind him, and by the light of two wax candles undressed himself, but as he was taking off his stockings—O disaster unworthy of such a personage!—there came a burst, not of sighs, or anything belying his delicacy or good breeding, but of some two dozen stitches in one of his stockings, that made it look like a window-lattice. The worthy gentleman was beyond measure distressed, and
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at that moment he would have given an ounce of silver to have had half a drachm of green silk there; I say green silk, because the stockings were green.
Here Cide Hamete exclaimed as he was writing, “O poverty, poverty! I know not what could have possessed the great Cordovan poet to call thee ‘holy gift ungratefully received.’ Although a Moor, I know well enough from the intercourse I have had with Christians that holiness consists in charity, humility, faith, obedience, and poverty; but for all that, I say he must have a great deal of godliness who can find any satisfaction in being poor; unless, indeed, it be the kind of poverty one of their greatest saints refers to, saying, ‘possess all things as though ye possessed them not;’ which is what they call poverty in spirit. But thou, that other poverty—for it is of thee I am speaking now— why dost thou love to fall out with gentlemen and men of good birth more than with other people? Why dost thou compel them to smear the cracks in their shoes, and to have the buttons of their coats, one silk, another hair, and another glass? Why must their ruffs be always crinkled like endive leaves, and not crimped with a crimping iron?” (From this we may perceive the antiquity of starch and crimped ruffs.) Then he goes on: “Poor gentleman of good family! always cockering up his honour, dining miserably and in secret, and making a hypocrite of the toothpick with which he sallies out into the street after eating nothing to oblige him to use it! Poor fellow, I say, with his ner- vous honour, fancying they perceive a league off the patch on his shoe, the sweat-stains on his hat, the shabbiness of his cloak, and the hunger of his stomach!”
All this was brought home to Don Quixote by the bursting of his stitches; however, he comforted himself on perceiving that Sancho had left behind a pair of travelling boots, which he resolved to wear the next day. At last he went to bed, out of spirits and heavy at heart, as much because he missed Sancho as because of the irreparable disaster to his stockings, the stitches of which he would have even taken up with silk of another colour, which is one of the greatest signs of poverty a gentleman can show in the course of his never-failing embarrassments. He put out the candles; but the night was warm and he could not sleep; he rose from his bed and opened slightly a grated window that looked out on a beautiful garden, and as he did so he perceived and heard people walking and talking in the garden. He set himself to listen attentively, and those below raised their voices so that he could hear these words:
“Urge me not to sing, Emerencia, for thou knowest that ever since this stranger entered the castle and my eyes beheld him, I cannot sing but only weep; besides my lady is a light rather than a heavy sleeper, and I would not for all the wealth of the world that she found us here; and even if she were asleep and did not waken, my singing would be in vain, if this strange AEneas, who has come into my neighbourhood to flout me, sleeps on and wakens not to hear it.”
“Heed not that, dear Altisidora,” replied a voice; “the duchess is no doubt asleep, and everybody in the house save the lord of thy heart and disturber of thy soul; for just now I perceived him open the grated window of his chamber, so he must be awake; sing, my poor sufferer, in a low sweet tone to the accompaniment of thy harp; and even if the duchess hears us we can lay the blame on the heat of the night.”
“That is not the point, Emerencia,” replied Altisidora, “it is that I would not that my singing should lay bare my heart, and that I should be thought a light and wanton maiden by those who know not the mighty power of love; but come what may; better a blush on the cheeks than a sore in the heart;” and here a harp softly touched made itself heard. As he listened to all this Don Quixote was in a state of breathless amazement, for immediately the countless adventures like this, with windows, gratings, gardens, serenades, lovemakings, and languishings, that he had read of in his trashy books of chivalry, came to his mind. He at once concluded that some damsel of the duchess’s was in love with him, and that her modesty forced her to keep her passion secret. He trembled lest he should fall, and made an inward resolution not to yield; and commending himself with all his might and soul to his lady Dulcinea he made up his mind to listen to the music; and to let them know he was there he gave a pretended sneeze, at which the damsels were not a little delighted, for all they wanted was that Don Quixote should hear them. So having tuned the harp, Altisidora, running her hand across the strings, began this ballad:
O thou that art above in bed, Between the holland sheets,
A-lying there from night till morn, With outstretched legs asleep;
O thou, most valiant knight of all The famed Manchegan breed,
Of purity and virtue more Than gold of Araby;
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Give ear unto a suffering maid, Well-grown but evil-starr’d,
For those two suns of thine have lit A fire within her heart.
Adventures seeking thou dost rove, To others bringing woe;
Thou scatterest wounds, but, ah, the balm To heal them dost withhold!
Say, valiant youth, and so may God Thy enterprises speed,
Didst thou the light mid Libya’s sands Or Jaca’s rocks first see?
Did scaly serpents give thee suck? Who nursed thee when a babe?
Wert cradled in the forest rude, Or gloomy mountain cave?
O Dulcinea may be proud, That plump and lusty maid;
For she alone hath had the power A tiger fierce to tame.
And she for this shall famous be From Tagus to Jarama,
From Manzanares to Genil, From Duero to Arlanza.
Fain would I change with her, and give A petticoat to boot,
The best and bravest that I have, All trimmed with gold galloon.
O for to be the happy fair Thy mighty arms enfold,
Or even sit beside thy bed And scratch thy dusty poll!
I rave,—to favours such as these Unworthy to aspire;
Thy feet to tickle were enough For one so mean as I.
What caps, what slippers silver-laced, Would I on thee bestow!
What damask breeches make for thee; What fine long holland cloaks!
And I would give thee pearls that should As big as oak-galls show;
So matchless big that each might well Be called the great «Alone.»
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Manchegan Nero, look not down From thy Tarpeian Rock
Upon this burning heart, nor add The fuel of thy wrath.
A virgin soft and young am I, Not yet fifteen years old;
(I’m only three months past fourteen, I swear upon my soul).
I hobble not nor do I limp, All blemish I’m without,
And as I walk my lily locks Are trailing on the ground.
And though my nose be rather flat, And though my mouth be wide,
My teeth like topazes exalt My beauty to the sky.
Thou knowest that my voice is sweet, That is if thou dost hear;
And I am moulded in a form Somewhat below the mean.
These charms, and many more, are thine, Spoils to thy spear and bow all;
A damsel of this house am I, By name Altisidora.
Here the lay of the heart-stricken Altisidora came to an end, while the warmly wooed Don Quixote began to feel alarm; and with a deep sigh he said to himself, “O that I should be such an unlucky knight that no damsel can set eyes on me but falls in love with me! O that the peerless Dulcinea should be so unfortunate that they cannot let her enjoy my incomparable constancy in peace! What would ye with her, ye queens? Why do ye persecute her, ye empresses? Why ye pursue her, ye virgins of from fourteen to fifteen? Leave the unhappy being to triumph, rejoice and glory in the lot love has been pleased to bestow upon her in surrendering my heart and yielding up my soul to her. Ye love-smitten host, know that to Dulcinea only I am dough and sugar-paste, flint to all others; for her I am honey, for you aloes. For me Dulcinea alone is beautiful, wise, virtuous, graceful, and high-bred, and all others are ill-favoured, foolish, light, and low-born. Nature sent me into the world to be hers and no other’s; Altisidora may weep or sing, the lady for whose sake they belaboured me in the castle of the enchanted Moor may give way to despair, but I must be Dulcinea’s, boiled or roast, pure, courteous, and chaste, in spite of all the magic-working powers on earth.” And with that he shut the window with a bang, and, as much out of temper and out of sorts as if some great misfortune had befallen him, stretched himself on his bed, where we will leave him for the present, as the great Sancho Panza, who is about to set up his famous government, now demands our attention.
Chapter XLV Of how the great Sancho Panza took possession of his island, and of how he made a beginning in governing
O perpetual discoverer of the antipodes, torch of the world, eye of heaven, sweet stimulator of the water-cool- ers! Thimbraeus here, Phoebus there, now archer, now physician, father of poetry, inventor of music; thou that always risest and, notwithstanding appearances, never settest! To thee, O Sun, by whose aid man begetteth man, to thee I appeal to help me and lighten the darkness of my wit that I may be able to proceed with scrupulous exacti- tude in giving an account of the great Sancho Panza’s government; for without thee I feel myself weak, feeble, and uncertain.
To come to the point, then—Sancho with all his attendants arrived at a village of some thousand inhabitants, and one of the largest the duke possessed. They informed him that it was called the island of Barataria, either because the name of the village was Baratario, or because of the joke by way of which the government had been
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conferred upon him. On reaching the gates of the town, which was a walled one, the municipality came forth to meet him, the bells rang out a peal, and the inhabitants showed every sign of general satisfaction; and with great pomp they conducted him to the principal church to give thanks to God, and then with burlesque ceremonies they presented him with the keys of the town, and acknowledged him as perpetual governor of the island of Barataria. The costume, the beard, and the fat squat figure of the new governor astonished all those who were not in on the se- cret, and even all who were, and they were not a few. Finally, leading him out of the church they carried him to the judgment seat and seated him on it, and the duke’s majordomo said to him, “It is an ancient custom in this island, senor governor, that he who comes to take possession of this famous island is bound to answer a question which shall be put to him, and which must be a somewhat knotty and difficult one; and by his answer the people take the measure of their new governor’s wit, and hail with joy or deplore his arrival accordingly.”
While the majordomo was making this speech Sancho was gazing at several large letters inscribed on the wall opposite his seat, and as he could not read he asked what that was that was painted on the wall. The answer was, “Senor, there is written and recorded the day on which your lordship took possession of this island, and the inscrip- tion says, ‘This day, the so-and-so of such-and-such a month and year, Senor Don Sancho Panza took possession of this island; many years may he enjoy it.’”
“And whom do they call Don Sancho Panza?” asked Sancho. “Your lordship,” replied the majordomo; “for no other Panza but the one who is now seated in that chair has
ever entered this island.” “Well then, let me tell you, brother,” said Sancho, “I haven’t got the ‘Don,’ nor has any one of my family ever
had it; my name is plain Sancho Panza, and Sancho was my father’s name, and Sancho was my grandfather’s and they were all Panzas, without any Dons or Donas tacked on; I suspect that in this island there are more Dons than stones; but never mind; God knows what I mean, and maybe if my government lasts four days I’ll weed out these Dons that no doubt are as great a nuisance as the midges, they’re so plenty. Let the majordomo go on with his ques- tion, and I’ll give the best answer I can, whether the people deplore or not.”
At this instant there came into court two old men, one carrying a cane by way of a walking-stick, and the one who had no stick said, “Senor, some time ago I lent this good man ten gold-crowns in gold to gratify him and do him a service, on the condition that he was to return them to me whenever I should ask for them. A long time passed before I asked for them, for I would not put him to any greater straits to return them than he was in when I lent them to him; but thinking he was growing careless about payment I asked for them once and several times; and not only will he not give them back, but he denies that he owes them, and says I never lent him any such crowns; or if I did, that he repaid them; and I have no witnesses either of the loan, or the payment, for he never paid me; I want your worship to put him to his oath, and if he swears he returned them to me I forgive him the debt here and before God.”
“What say you to this, good old man, you with the stick?” said Sancho. To which the old man replied, “I admit, senor, that he lent them to me; but let your worship lower your staff,
and as he leaves it to my oath, I’ll swear that I gave them back, and paid him really and truly.” The governor lowered the staff, and as he did so the old man who had the stick handed it to the other old man
to hold for him while he swore, as if he found it in his way; and then laid his hand on the cross of the staff, saying that it was true the ten crowns that were demanded of him had been lent him; but that he had with his own hand given them back into the hand of the other, and that he, not recollecting it, was always asking for them.
Seeing this the great governor asked the creditor what answer he had to make to what his opponent said. He said that no doubt his debtor had told the truth, for he believed him to be an honest man and a good Christian, and he himself must have forgotten when and how he had given him back the crowns; and that from that time forth he would make no further demand upon him.
The debtor took his stick again, and bowing his head left the court. Observing this, and how, without another word, he made off, and observing too the resignation of the plaintiff, Sancho buried his head in his bosom and re- mained for a short space in deep thought, with the forefinger of his right hand on his brow and nose; then he raised his head and bade them call back the old man with the stick, for he had already taken his departure. They brought him back, and as soon as Sancho saw him he said, “Honest man, give me that stick, for I want it.”
“Willingly,” said the old man; “here it is senor,” and he put it into his hand. Sancho took it and, handing it to the other old man, said to him, “Go, and God be with you; for now you are
paid.” “I, senor!” returned the old man; “why, is this cane worth ten gold-crowns?” “Yes,” said the governor, “or if not I am the greatest dolt in the world; now you will see whether I have got the
headpiece to govern a whole kingdom;” and he ordered the cane to be broken in two, there, in the presence of all. It was done, and in the middle of it they found ten gold-crowns. All were filled with amazement, and looked upon their governor as another Solomon. They asked him how he had come to the conclusion that the ten crowns were in
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the cane; he replied, that observing how the old man who swore gave the stick to his opponent while he was taking the oath, and swore that he had really and truly given him the crowns, and how as soon as he had done swearing he asked for the stick again, it came into his head that the sum demanded must be inside it; and from this he said it might be seen that God sometimes guides those who govern in their judgments, even though they may be fools; besides he had himself heard the curate of his village mention just such another case, and he had so good a memo- ry, that if it was not that he forgot everything he wished to remember, there would not be such a memory in all the island. To conclude, the old men went off, one crestfallen, and the other in high contentment, all who were present were astonished, and he who was recording the words, deeds, and movements of Sancho could not make up his mind whether he was to look upon him and set him down as a fool or as a man of sense.
As soon as this case was disposed of, there came into court a woman holding on with a tight grip to a man dressed like a well-to-do cattle dealer, and she came forward making a great outcry and exclaiming, “Justice, senor governor, justice! and if I don’t get it on earth I’ll go look for it in heaven. Senor governor of my soul, this wicked man caught me in the middle of the fields here and used my body as if it was an ill-washed rag, and, woe is me! got from me what I had kept these three-and-twenty years and more, defending it against Moors and Christians, natives and strangers; and I always as hard as an oak, and keeping myself as pure as a salamander in the fire, or wool among the brambles, for this good fellow to come now with clean hands to handle me!”
“It remains to be proved whether this gallant has clean hands or not,” said Sancho; and turning to the man he asked him what he had to say in answer to the woman’s charge.
He all in confusion made answer, “Sirs, I am a poor pig dealer, and this morning I left the village to sell (saving your presence) four pigs, and between dues and cribbings they got out of me little less than the worth of them. As I was returning to my village I fell in on the road with this good dame, and the devil who makes a coil and a mess out of everything, yoked us together. I paid her fairly, but she not contented laid hold of me and never let go until she brought me here; she says I forced her, but she lies by the oath I swear or am ready to swear; and this is the whole truth and every particle of it.”
The governor on this asked him if he had any money in silver about him; he said he had about twenty ducats in a leather purse in his bosom. The governor bade him take it out and hand it to the complainant; he obeyed trem- bling; the woman took it, and making a thousand salaams to all and praying to God for the long life and health of the senor governor who had such regard for distressed orphans and virgins, she hurried out of court with the purse grasped in both her hands, first looking, however, to see if the money it contained was silver.
As soon as she was gone Sancho said to the cattle dealer, whose tears were already starting and whose eyes and heart were following his purse, “Good fellow, go after that woman and take the purse from her, by force even, and come back with it here;” and he did not say it to one who was a fool or deaf, for the man was off like a flash of light- ning, and ran to do as he was bid.
All the bystanders waited anxiously to see the end of the case, and presently both man and woman came back at even closer grips than before, she with her petticoat up and the purse in the lap of it, and he struggling hard to take it from her, but all to no purpose, so stout was the woman’s defence, she all the while crying out, “Justice from God and the world! see here, senor governor, the shamelessness and boldness of this villain, who in the middle of the town, in the middle of the street, wanted to take from me the purse your worship bade him give me.”
“And did he take it?” asked the governor. “Take it!” said the woman; “I’d let my life be taken from me sooner than the purse. A pretty child I’d be! It’s
another sort of cat they must throw in my face, and not that poor scurvy knave. Pincers and hammers, mallets and chisels would not get it out of my grip; no, nor lions’ claws; the soul from out of my body first!”
“She is right,” said the man; “I own myself beaten and powerless; I confess I haven’t the strength to take it from her;” and he let go his hold of her.
Upon this the governor said to the woman, “Let me see that purse, my worthy and sturdy friend.” She handed it to him at once, and the governor returned it to the man, and said to the unforced mistress of force, “Sister, if you had shown as much, or only half as much, spirit and vigour in defending your body as you have shown in defending that purse, the strength of Hercules could not have forced you. Be off, and God speed you, and bad luck to you, and don’t show your face in all this island, or within six leagues of it on any side, under pain of two hundred lashes; be off at once, I say, you shameless, cheating shrew.”
The woman was cowed and went off disconsolately, hanging her head; and the governor said to the man, “Hon- est man, go home with your money, and God speed you; and for the future, if you don’t want to lose it, see that you don’t take it into your head to yoke with anybody.” The man thanked him as clumsily as he could and went his way, and the bystanders were again filled with admiration at their new governor’s judgments and sentences.
Next, two men, one apparently a farm labourer, and the other a tailor, for he had a pair of shears in his hand, presented themselves before him, and the tailor said, “Senor governor, this labourer and I come before your worship by reason of this honest man coming to my shop yesterday (for saving everybody’s presence I’m a passed tailor, God
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be thanked), and putting a piece of cloth into my hands and asking me, ‘Senor, will there be enough in this cloth to make me a cap?’ Measuring the cloth I said there would. He probably suspected—as I supposed, and I supposed right—that I wanted to steal some of the cloth, led to think so by his own roguery and the bad opinion people have of tailors; and he told me to see if there would be enough for two. I guessed what he would be at, and I said ‘yes.’ He, still following up his original unworthy notion, went on adding cap after cap, and I ‘yes’ after ‘yes,’ until we got as far as five. He has just this moment come for them; I gave them to him, but he won’t pay me for the making; on the contrary, he calls upon me to pay him, or else return his cloth.”
“Is all this true, brother?” said Sancho. “Yes,” replied the man; “but will your worship make him show the five caps he has made me?” “With all my heart,” said the tailor; and drawing his hand from under his cloak he showed five caps stuck upon
the five fingers of it, and said, “there are the caps this good man asks for; and by God and upon my conscience I haven’t a scrap of cloth left, and I’ll let the work be examined by the inspectors of the trade.”
All present laughed at the number of caps and the novelty of the suit; Sancho set himself to think for a moment, and then said, “It seems to me that in this case it is not necessary to deliver long-winded arguments, but only to give off-hand the judgment of an honest man; and so my decision is that the tailor lose the making and the labourer the cloth, and that the caps go to the prisoners in the gaol, and let there be no more about it.”
If the previous decision about the cattle dealer’s purse excited the admiration of the bystanders, this provoked their laughter; however, the governor’s orders were after all executed. All this, having been taken down by his chronicler, was at once despatched to the duke, who was looking out for it with great eagerness; and here let us leave the good Sancho; for his master, sorely troubled in mind by Altisidora’s music, has pressing claims upon us now.
Chapter XLVI Of the terrible bell and cat fright that Don Quixote got in the course of the enamoured Altisidora’s wooing
We left Don Quixote wrapped up in the reflections which the music of the enamourned maid Altisidora had given rise to. He went to bed with them, and just like fleas they would not let him sleep or get a moment’s rest, and the broken stitches of his stockings helped them. But as Time is fleet and no obstacle can stay his course, he came riding on the hours, and morning very soon arrived. Seeing which Don Quixote quitted the soft down, and, nowise slothful, dressed himself in his chamois suit and put on his travelling boots to hide the disaster to his stockings. He threw over him his scarlet mantle, put on his head a montera of green velvet trimmed with silver edging, flung across his shoulder the baldric with his good trenchant sword, took up a large rosary that he always carried with him, and with great solemnity and precision of gait proceeded to the antechamber where the duke and duchess were already dressed and waiting for him. But as he passed through a gallery, Altisidora and the other damsel, her friend, were lying in wait for him, and the instant Altisidora saw him she pretended to faint, while her friend caught her in her lap, and began hastily unlacing the bosom of her dress.
Don Quixote observed it, and approaching them said, “I know very well what this seizure arises from.” “I know not from what,” replied the friend, “for Altisidora is the healthiest damsel in all this house, and I have
never heard her complain all the time I have known her. A plague on all the knights-errant in the world, if they be all ungrateful! Go away, Senor Don Quixote; for this poor child will not come to herself again so long as you are here.”
To which Don Quixote returned, “Do me the favour, senora, to let a lute be placed in my chamber to-night; and I will comfort this poor maiden to the best of my power; for in the early stages of love a prompt disillusion is an approved remedy;” and with this he retired, so as not to be remarked by any who might see him there.
He had scarcely withdrawn when Altisidora, recovering from her swoon, said to her companion, “The lute must be left, for no doubt Don Quixote intends to give us some music; and being his it will not be bad.”
They went at once to inform the duchess of what was going on, and of the lute Don Quixote asked for, and she, delighted beyond measure, plotted with the duke and her two damsels to play him a trick that should be amusing but harmless; and in high glee they waited for night, which came quickly as the day had come; and as for the day, the duke and duchess spent it in charming conversation with Don Quixote.
When eleven o’clock came, Don Quixote found a guitar in his chamber; he tried it, opened the window, and perceived that some persons were walking in the garden; and having passed his fingers over the frets of the guitar and tuned it as well as he could, he spat and cleared his chest, and then with a voice a little hoarse but full-toned, he sang the following ballad, which he had himself that day composed:
Mighty Love the hearts of maidens Doth unsettle and perplex,
And the instrument he uses Most of all is idleness.
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Sewing, stitching, any labour, Having always work to do,
To the poison Love instilleth Is the antidote most sure.
And to proper-minded maidens Who desire the matron’s name
Modesty’s a marriage portion, Modesty their highest praise.
Men of prudence and discretion, Courtiers gay and gallant knights,
With the wanton damsels dally, But the modest take to wife.
There are passions, transient, fleeting, Loves in hostelries declar’d,
Sunrise loves, with sunset ended, When the guest hath gone his way.
Love that springs up swift and sudden, Here to-day, to-morrow flown,
Passes, leaves no trace behind it, Leaves no image on the soul.
Painting that is laid on painting Maketh no display or show;
Where one beauty’s in possession There no other can take hold.
Dulcinea del Toboso Painted on my heart I wear;
Never from its tablets, never, Can her image be eras’d.
The quality of all in lovers Most esteemed is constancy;
‘T is by this that love works wonders, This exalts them to the skies.
Don Quixote had got so far with his song, to which the duke, the duchess, Altisidora, and nearly the whole household of the castle were listening, when all of a sudden from a gallery above that was exactly over his window they let down a cord with more than a hundred bells attached to it, and immediately after that discharged a great sack full of cats, which also had bells of smaller size tied to their tails. Such was the din of the bells and the squall- ing of the cats, that though the duke and duchess were the contrivers of the joke they were startled by it, while Don Quixote stood paralysed with fear; and as luck would have it, two or three of the cats made their way in through the grating of his chamber, and flying from one side to the other, made it seem as if there was a legion of devils at large in it. They extinguished the candles that were burning in the room, and rushed about seeking some way of escape; the cord with the large bells never ceased rising and falling; and most of the people of the castle, not knowing what was really the matter, were at their wits’ end with astonishment. Don Quixote sprang to his feet, and drawing his sword, began making passes at the grating, shouting out, “Avaunt, malignant enchanters! avaunt, ye witch- craft-working rabble! I am Don Quixote of La Mancha, against whom your evil machinations avail not nor have any power.” And turning upon the cats that were running about the room, he made several cuts at them. They dashed at the grating and escaped by it, save one that, finding itself hard pressed by the slashes of Don Quixote’s sword, flew at his face and held on to his nose tooth and nail, with the pain of which he began to shout his loudest. The duke and duchess hearing this, and guessing what it was, ran with all haste to his room, and as the poor gentleman was striving with all his might to detach the cat from his face, they opened the door with a master-key and went in with
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lights and witnessed the unequal combat. The duke ran forward to part the combatants, but Don Quixote cried out aloud, “Let no one take him from me; leave me hand to hand with this demon, this wizard, this enchanter; I will teach him, I myself, who Don Quixote of La Mancha is.” The cat, however, never minding these threats, snarled and held on; but at last the duke pulled it off and flung it out of the window. Don Quixote was left with a face as full of holes as a sieve and a nose not in very good condition, and greatly vexed that they did not let him finish the battle he had been so stoutly fighting with that villain of an enchanter. They sent for some oil of John’s wort, and Altis- idora herself with her own fair hands bandaged all the wounded parts; and as she did so she said to him in a low voice. “All these mishaps have befallen thee, hardhearted knight, for the sin of thy insensibility and obstinacy; and God grant thy squire Sancho may forget to whip himself, so that that dearly beloved Dulcinea of thine may never be released from her enchantment, that thou mayest never come to her bed, at least while I who adore thee am alive.”
To all this Don Quixote made no answer except to heave deep sighs, and then stretched himself on his bed, thanking the duke and duchess for their kindness, not because he stood in any fear of that bell-ringing rabble of enchanters in cat shape, but because he recognised their good intentions in coming to his rescue. The duke and duchess left him to repose and withdrew greatly grieved at the unfortunate result of the joke; as they never thought the adventure would have fallen so heavy on Don Quixote or cost him so dear, for it cost him five days of confine- ment to his bed, during which he had another adventure, pleasanter than the late one, which his chronicler will not relate just now in order that he may turn his attention to Sancho Panza, who was proceeding with great diligence and drollery in his government.
Chapter XLVII Wherein is continued the account of how Sancho Panza conducted himself in his government
The history says that from the justice court they carried Sancho to a sumptuous palace, where in a spacious chamber there was a table laid out with royal magnificence. The clarions sounded as Sancho entered the room, and four pages came forward to present him with water for his hands, which Sancho received with great dignity. The music ceased, and Sancho seated himself at the head of the table, for there was only that seat placed, and no more than one cover laid. A personage, who it appeared afterwards was a physician, placed himself standing by his side with a whalebone wand in his hand. They then lifted up a fine white cloth covering fruit and a great variety of dish- es of different sorts; one who looked like a student said grace, and a page put a laced bib on Sancho, while another who played the part of head carver placed a dish of fruit before him. But hardly had he tasted a morsel when the man with the wand touched the plate with it, and they took it away from before him with the utmost celerity. The carver, however, brought him another dish, and Sancho proceeded to try it; but before he could get at it, not to say taste it, already the wand had touched it and a page had carried it off with the same promptitude as the fruit. Sancho seeing this was puzzled, and looking from one to another asked if this dinner was to be eaten after the fashion of a jugglery trick.
To this he with the wand replied, “It is not to be eaten, senor governor, except as is usual and customary in other islands where there are governors. I, senor, am a physician, and I am paid a salary in this island to serve its governors as such, and I have a much greater regard for their health than for my own, studying day and night and making myself acquainted with the governor’s constitution, in order to be able to cure him when he falls sick. The chief thing I have to do is to attend at his dinners and suppers and allow him to eat what appears to me to be fit for him, and keep from him what I think will do him harm and be injurious to his stomach; and therefore I ordered that plate of fruit to be removed as being too moist, and that other dish I ordered to be removed as being too hot and containing many spices that stimulate thirst; for he who drinks much kills and consumes the radical moisture wherein life consists.”
“Well then,” said Sancho, “that dish of roast partridges there that seems so savoury will not do me any harm.” To this the physician replied, “Of those my lord the governor shall not eat so long as I live.” “Why so?” said Sancho. “Because,” replied the doctor, “our master Hippocrates, the polestar and beacon of medicine, says in one of his
aphorisms omnis saturatio mala, perdicis autem pessima, which means ‘all repletion is bad, but that of partridge is the worst of all.”
“In that case,” said Sancho, “let senor doctor see among the dishes that are on the table what will do me most good and least harm, and let me eat it, without tapping it with his stick; for by the life of the governor, and so may God suffer me to enjoy it, but I’m dying of hunger; and in spite of the doctor and all he may say, to deny me food is the way to take my life instead of prolonging it.”
“Your worship is right, senor governor,” said the physician; “and therefore your worship, I consider, should not eat of those stewed rabbits there, because it is a furry kind of food; if that veal were not roasted and served with pickles, you might try it; but it is out of the question.”
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“That big dish that is smoking farther off,” said Sancho, “seems to me to be an olla podrida, and out of the diver- sity of things in such ollas, I can’t fail to light upon something tasty and good for me.”
“Absit,” said the doctor; “far from us be any such base thought! There is nothing in the world less nourishing than an olla podrida; to canons, or rectors of colleges, or peasants’ weddings with your ollas podridas, but let us have none of them on the tables of governors, where everything that is present should be delicate and refined; and the reason is, that always, everywhere and by everybody, simple medicines are more esteemed than compound ones, for we cannot go wrong in those that are simple, while in the compound we may, by merely altering the quan- tity of the things composing them. But what I am of opinion the governor should eat now in order to preserve and fortify his health is a hundred or so of wafer cakes and a few thin slices of conserve of quinces, which will settle his stomach and help his digestion.”
Sancho on hearing this threw himself back in his chair and surveyed the doctor steadily, and in a solemn tone asked him what his name was and where he had studied.
He replied, “My name, senor governor, is Doctor Pedro Recio de Aguero I am a native of a place called Tir- teafuera which lies between Caracuel and Almodovar del Campo, on the right-hand side, and I have the degree of doctor from the university of Osuna.”
To which Sancho, glowing all over with rage, returned, “Then let Doctor Pedro Recio de Malaguero, native of Tirteafuera, a place that’s on the right-hand side as we go from Caracuel to Almodovar del Campo, graduate of Osuna, get out of my presence at once; or I swear by the sun I’ll take a cudgel, and by dint of blows, beginning with him, I’ll not leave a doctor in the whole island; at least of those I know to be ignorant; for as to learned, wise, sensi- ble physicians, them I will reverence and honour as divine persons. Once more I say let Pedro Recio get out of this or I’ll take this chair I am sitting on and break it over his head. And if they call me to account for it, I’ll clear myself by saying I served God in killing a bad doctor—a general executioner. And now give me something to eat, or else take your government; for a trade that does not feed its master is not worth two beans.”
The doctor was dismayed when he saw the governor in such a passion, and he would have made a Tirteafuera out of the room but that the same instant a post-horn sounded in the street; and the carver putting his head out of the window turned round and said, “It’s a courier from my lord the duke, no doubt with some despatch of impor- tance.”
The courier came in all sweating and flurried, and taking a paper from his bosom, placed it in the governor’s hands. Sancho handed it to the majordomo and bade him read the superscription, which ran thus: To Don Sancho Panza, Governor of the Island of Barataria, into his own hands or those of his secretary. Sancho when he heard this said, “Which of you is my secretary?” “I am, senor,” said one of those present, “for I can read and write, and am a Biscayan.” “With that addition,” said Sancho, “you might be secretary to the emperor himself; open this paper and see what it says.” The new-born secretary obeyed, and having read the contents said the matter was one to be dis- cussed in private. Sancho ordered the chamber to be cleared, the majordomo and the carver only remaining; so the doctor and the others withdrew, and then the secretary read the letter, which was as follows:
It has come to my knowledge, Senor Don Sancho Panza, that certain enemies of mine and of the island are about to make a furious attack upon it some night, I know not when. It behoves you to be on the alert and keep watch, that they surprise you not. I also know by trustworthy spies that four persons have entered the town in disguise in order to take your life, because they stand in dread of your great capacity; keep your eyes open and take heed who approaches you to address you, and eat nothing that is presented to you. I will take care to send you aid if you find yourself in difficulty, but in all things you will act as may be expected of your judgment. From this place, the Sixteenth of August, at four in the morning.
Your friend, THE DUKE.
Sancho was astonished, and those who stood by made believe to be so too, and turning to the majordomo he said to him, “What we have got to do first, and it must be done at once, is to put Doctor Recio in the lock-up; for if anyone wants to kill me it is he, and by a slow death and the worst of all, which is hunger.”
“Likewise,” said the carver, “it is my opinion your worship should not eat anything that is on this table, for the whole was a present from some nuns; and as they say, ‘behind the cross there’s the devil.’”
“I don’t deny it,” said Sancho; “so for the present give me a piece of bread and four pounds or so of grapes; no poison can come in them; for the fact is I can’t go on without eating; and if we are to be prepared for these battles that are threatening us we must be well provisioned; for it is the tripes that carry the heart and not the heart the tripes. And you, secretary, answer my lord the duke and tell him that all his commands shall be obeyed to the letter, as he directs; and say from me to my lady the duchess that I kiss her hands, and that I beg of her not to forget to
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send my letter and bundle to my wife Teresa Panza by a messenger; and I will take it as a great favour and will not fail to serve her in all that may lie within my power; and as you are about it you may enclose a kiss of the hand to my master Don Quixote that he may see I am grateful bread; and as a good secretary and a good Biscayan you may add whatever you like and whatever will come in best; and now take away this cloth and give me something to eat, and I’ll be ready to meet all the spies and assassins and enchanters that may come against me or my island.”
At this instant a page entered saying, “Here is a farmer on business, who wants to speak to your lordship on a matter of great importance, he says.”
“It’s very odd,” said Sancho, “the ways of these men on business; is it possible they can be such fools as not to see that an hour like this is no hour for coming on business? We who govern and we who are judges—are we not men of flesh and blood, and are we not to be allowed the time required for taking rest, unless they’d have us made of marble? By God and on my conscience, if the government remains in my hands (which I have a notion it won’t), I’ll bring more than one man on business to order. However, tell this good man to come in; but take care first of all that he is not some spy or one of my assassins.”
“No, my lord,” said the page, “for he looks like a simple fellow, and either I know very little or he is as good as good bread.”
“There is nothing to be afraid of,” said the majordomo, “for we are all here.” “Would it be possible, carver,” said Sancho, “now that Doctor Pedro Recio is not here, to let me eat something
solid and substantial, if it were even a piece of bread and an onion?” “To-night at supper,” said the carver, “the shortcomings of the dinner shall be made good, and your lordship
shall be fully contented.” “God grant it,” said Sancho. The farmer now came in, a well-favoured man that one might see a thousand leagues off was an honest fellow
and a good soul. The first thing he said was, “Which is the lord governor here?” “Which should it be,” said the secretary, “but he who is seated in the chair?” “Then I humble myself before him,” said the farmer; and going on his knees he asked for his hand, to kiss it.
Sancho refused it, and bade him stand up and say what he wanted. The farmer obeyed, and then said, “I am a farm- er, senor, a native of Miguelturra, a village two leagues from Ciudad Real.”
“Another Tirteafuera!” said Sancho; “say on, brother; I know Miguelturra very well I can tell you, for it’s not very far from my own town.”
“The case is this, senor,” continued the farmer, “that by God’s mercy I am married with the leave and licence of the holy Roman Catholic Church; I have two sons, students, and the younger is studying to become bachelor, and the elder to be licentiate; I am a widower, for my wife died, or more properly speaking, a bad doctor killed her on my hands, giving her a purge when she was with child; and if it had pleased God that the child had been born, and was a boy, I would have put him to study for doctor, that he might not envy his brothers the bachelor and the licentiate.”
“So that if your wife had not died, or had not been killed, you would not now be a widower,” said Sancho. “No, senor, certainly not,” said the farmer. “We’ve got that much settled,” said Sancho; “get on, brother, for it’s more bed-time than business-time.” “Well then,” said the farmer, “this son of mine who is going to be a bachelor, fell in love in the said town with
a damsel called Clara Perlerina, daughter of Andres Perlerino, a very rich farmer; and this name of Perlerines does not come to them by ancestry or descent, but because all the family are paralytics, and for a better name they call them Perlerines; though to tell the truth the damsel is as fair as an Oriental pearl, and like a flower of the field, if you look at her on the right side; on the left not so much, for on that side she wants an eye that she lost by small- pox; and though her face is thickly and deeply pitted, those who love her say they are not pits that are there, but the graves where the hearts of her lovers are buried. She is so cleanly that not to soil her face she carries her nose turned up, as they say, so that one would fancy it was running away from her mouth; and with all this she looks extremely well, for she has a wide mouth; and but for wanting ten or a dozen teeth and grinders she might compare and compete with the comeliest. Of her lips I say nothing, for they are so fine and thin that, if lips might be reeled, one might make a skein of them; but being of a different colour from ordinary lips they are wonderful, for they are mottled, blue, green, and purple—let my lord the governor pardon me for painting so minutely the charms of her who some time or other will be my daughter; for I love her, and I don’t find her amiss.”
“Paint what you will,” said Sancho; “I enjoy your painting, and if I had dined there could be no dessert more to my taste than your portrait.”
“That I have still to furnish,” said the farmer; “but a time will come when we may be able if we are not now; and I can tell you, senor, if I could paint her gracefulness and her tall figure, it would astonish you; but that is impossible because she is bent double with her knees up to her mouth; but for all that it is easy to see that if she could stand up she’d knock her head against the ceiling; and she would have given her hand to my bachelor ere this, only that she
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can’t stretch it out, for it’s contracted; but still one can see its elegance and fine make by its long furrowed nails.” “That will do, brother,” said Sancho; “consider you have painted her from head to foot; what is it you want now?
Come to the point without all this beating about the bush, and all these scraps and additions.” “I want your worship, senor,” said the farmer, “to do me the favour of giving me a letter of recommendation to
the girl’s father, begging him to be so good as to let this marriage take place, as we are not ill-matched either in the gifts of fortune or of nature; for to tell the truth, senor governor, my son is possessed of a devil, and there is not a day but the evil spirits torment him three or four times; and from having once fallen into the fire, he has his face puckered up like a piece of parchment, and his eyes watery and always running; but he has the disposition of an angel, and if it was not for belabouring and pummelling himself he’d be a saint.”
“Is there anything else you want, good man?” said Sancho. “There’s another thing I’d like,” said the farmer, “but I’m afraid to mention it; however, out it must; for after all I
can’t let it be rotting in my breast, come what may. I mean, senor, that I’d like your worship to give me three hun- dred or six hundred ducats as a help to my bachelor’s portion, to help him in setting up house; for they must, in short, live by themselves, without being subject to the interferences of their fathers-in-law.”
“Just see if there’s anything else you’d like,” said Sancho, “and don’t hold back from mentioning it out of bashful- ness or modesty.”
“No, indeed there is not,” said the farmer. The moment he said this the governor started to his feet, and seizing the chair he had been sitting on exclaimed,
“By all that’s good, you ill-bred, boorish Don Bumpkin, if you don’t get out of this at once and hide yourself from my sight, I’ll lay your head open with this chair. You whoreson rascal, you devil’s own painter, and is it at this hour you come to ask me for six hundred ducats! How should I have them, you stinking brute? And why should I give them to you if I had them, you knave and blockhead? What have I to do with Miguelturra or the whole family of the Perlerines? Get out I say, or by the life of my lord the duke I’ll do as I said. You’re not from Miguelturra, but some knave sent here from hell to tempt me. Why, you villain, I have not yet had the government half a day, and you want me to have six hundred ducats already!”
The carver made signs to the farmer to leave the room, which he did with his head down, and to all appearance in terror lest the governor should carry his threats into effect, for the rogue knew very well how to play his part.
But let us leave Sancho in his wrath, and peace be with them all; and let us return to Don Quixote, whom we left with his face bandaged and doctored after the cat wounds, of which he was not cured for eight days; and on one of these there befell him what Cide Hamete promises to relate with that exactitude and truth with which he is wont to set forth everything connected with this great history, however minute it may be.
Chapter XLVIII Of what befell Don Quixote with Dona Rodriguez, the Duchess’s Duenna, together with other occurrences worthy of
record and eternal remembrance Exceedingly moody and dejected was the sorely wounded Don Quixote, with his face bandaged and marked,
not by the hand of God, but by the claws of a cat, mishaps incidental to knight-errantry. Six days he remained without appearing in public, and one night as he lay awake thinking of his misfortunes
and of Altisidora’s pursuit of him, he perceived that some one was opening the door of his room with a key, and he at once made up his mind that the enamoured damsel was coming to make an assault upon his chastity and put him in danger of failing in the fidelity he owed to his lady Dulcinea del Toboso. “No,” said he, firmly persuaded of the truth of his idea (and he said it loud enough to be heard), “the greatest beauty upon earth shall not avail to make me renounce my adoration of her whom I bear stamped and graved in the core of my heart and the secret depths of my bowels; be thou, lady mine, transformed into a clumsy country wench, or into a nymph of golden Tagus weaving a web of silk and gold, let Merlin or Montesinos hold thee captive where they will; whereer thou art, thou art mine, and where’er I am, must be thine.” The very instant he had uttered these words, the door opened. He stood up on the bed wrapped from head to foot in a yellow satin coverlet, with a cap on his head, and his face and his moustach- es tied up, his face because of the scratches, and his moustaches to keep them from drooping and falling down, in which trim he looked the most extraordinary scarecrow that could be conceived. He kept his eyes fixed on the door, and just as he was expecting to see the love-smitten and unhappy Altisidora make her appearance, he saw coming in a most venerable duenna, in a long white-bordered veil that covered and enveloped her from head to foot. Be- tween the fingers of her left hand she held a short lighted candle, while with her right she shaded it to keep the light from her eyes, which were covered by spectacles of great size, and she advanced with noiseless steps, treading very softly.
Don Quixote kept an eye upon her from his watchtower, and observing her costume and noting her silence, he concluded that it must be some witch or sorceress that was coming in such a guise to work him some mischief,
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and he began crossing himself at a great rate. The spectre still advanced, and on reaching the middle of the room, looked up and saw the energy with which Don Quixote was crossing himself; and if he was scared by seeing such a figure as hers, she was terrified at the sight of his; for the moment she saw his tall yellow form with the coverlet and the bandages that disfigured him, she gave a loud scream, and exclaiming, “Jesus! what’s this I see?” let fall the candle in her fright, and then finding herself in the dark, turned about to make off, but stumbling on her skirts in her consternation, she measured her length with a mighty fall.
Don Quixote in his trepidation began saying, “I conjure thee, phantom, or whatever thou art, tell me what thou art and what thou wouldst with me. If thou art a soul in torment, say so, and all that my powers can do I will do for thee; for I am a Catholic Christian and love to do good to all the world, and to this end I have embraced the order of knight-errantry to which I belong, the province of which extends to doing good even to souls in purgatory.”
The unfortunate duenna hearing herself thus conjured, by her own fear guessed Don Quixote’s and in a low plaintive voice answered, “Senor Don Quixote—if so be you are indeed Don Quixote—I am no phantom or spectre or soul in purgatory, as you seem to think, but Dona Rodriguez, duenna of honour to my lady the duchess, and I come to you with one of those grievances your worship is wont to redress.”
“Tell me, Senora Dona Rodriguez,” said Don Quixote, “do you perchance come to transact any go-between business? Because I must tell you I am not available for anybody’s purpose, thanks to the peerless beauty of my lady Dulcinea del Toboso. In short, Senora Dona Rodriguez, if you will leave out and put aside all love messages, you may go and light your candle and come back, and we will discuss all the commands you have for me and whatever you wish, saving only, as I said, all seductive communications.”
“I carry nobody’s messages, senor,” said the duenna; “little you know me. Nay, I’m not far enough advanced in years to take to any such childish tricks. God be praised I have a soul in my body still, and all my teeth and grinders in my mouth, except one or two that the colds, so common in this Aragon country, have robbed me of. But wait a little, while I go and light my candle, and I will return immediately and lay my sorrows before you as before one who relieves those of all the world;” and without staying for an answer she quitted the room and left Don Quixote tranquilly meditating while he waited for her. A thousand thoughts at once suggested themselves to him on the subject of this new adventure, and it struck him as being ill done and worse advised in him to expose himself to the danger of breaking his plighted faith to his lady; and said he to himself, “Who knows but that the devil, being wily and cunning, may be trying now to entrap me with a duenna, having failed with empresses, queens, duchesses, marchionesses, and countesses? Many a time have I heard it said by many a man of sense that he will sooner offer you a flat-nosed wench than a roman-nosed one; and who knows but this privacy, this opportunity, this silence, may awaken my sleeping desires, and lead me in these my latter years to fall where I have never tripped? In cases of this sort it is better to flee than to await the battle. But I must be out of my senses to think and utter such nonsense; for it is impossible that a long, white-hooded spectacled duenna could stir up or excite a wanton thought in the most graceless bosom in the world. Is there a duenna on earth that has fair flesh? Is there a duenna in the world that escapes being ill-tempered, wrinkled, and prudish? Avaunt, then, ye duenna crew, undelightful to all mankind. Oh, but that lady did well who, they say, had at the end of her reception room a couple of figures of duennas with spec- tacles and lace-cushions, as if at work, and those statues served quite as well to give an air of propriety to the room as if they had been real duennas.”
So saying he leaped off the bed, intending to close the door and not allow Senora Rodriguez to enter; but as he went to shut it Senora Rodriguez returned with a wax candle lighted, and having a closer view of Don Quixote, with the coverlet round him, and his bandages and night-cap, she was alarmed afresh, and retreating a couple of paces, exclaimed, “Am I safe, sir knight? for I don’t look upon it as a sign of very great virtue that your worship should have got up out of bed.”
“I may well ask the same, senora,” said Don Quixote; “and I do ask whether I shall be safe from being assailed and forced?”
“Of whom and against whom do you demand that security, sir knight?” said the duenna. “Of you and against you I ask it,” said Don Quixote; “for I am not marble, nor are you brass, nor is it now ten
o’clock in the morning, but midnight, or a trifle past it I fancy, and we are in a room more secluded and retired than the cave could have been where the treacherous and daring AEneas enjoyed the fair soft-hearted Dido. But give me your hand, senora; I require no better protection than my own continence, and my own sense of propriety; as well as that which is inspired by that venerable head-dress;” and so saying he kissed her right hand and took it in his own, she yielding it to him with equal ceremoniousness. And here Cide Hamete inserts a parenthesis in which he says that to have seen the pair marching from the door to the bed, linked hand in hand in this way, he would have given the best of the two tunics he had.
Don Quixote finally got into bed, and Dona Rodriguez took her seat on a chair at some little distance from his couch, without taking off her spectacles or putting aside the candle. Don Quixote wrapped the bedclothes round him and covered himself up completely, leaving nothing but his face visible, and as soon as they had both regained
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their composure he broke silence, saying, “Now, Senora Dona Rodriguez, you may unbosom yourself and out with everything you have in your sorrowful heart and afflicted bowels; and by me you shall be listened to with chaste ears, and aided by compassionate exertions.”
“I believe it,” replied the duenna; “from your worship’s gentle and winning presence only such a Christian answer could be expected. The fact is, then, Senor Don Quixote, that though you see me seated in this chair, here in the middle of the kingdom of Aragon, and in the attire of a despised outcast duenna, I am from the Asturias of Oviedo, and of a family with which many of the best of the province are connected by blood; but my untoward fate and the improvidence of my parents, who, I know not how, were unseasonably reduced to poverty, brought me to the court of Madrid, where as a provision and to avoid greater misfortunes, my parents placed me as seamstress in the service of a lady of quality, and I would have you know that for hemming and sewing I have never been surpassed by any all my life. My parents left me in service and returned to their own country, and a few years later went, no doubt, to heaven, for they were excellent good Catholic Christians. I was left an orphan with nothing but the miserable wages and trifling presents that are given to servants of my sort in palaces; but about this time, without any encouragement on my part, one of the esquires of the household fell in love with me, a man somewhat advanced in years, full-bearded and personable, and above all as good a gentleman as the king himself, for he came of a mountain stock. We did not carry on our loves with such secrecy but that they came to the knowledge of my lady, and she, not to have any fuss about it, had us married with the full sanction of the holy mother Roman Cath- olic Church, of which marriage a daughter was born to put an end to my good fortune, if I had any; not that I died in childbirth, for I passed through it safely and in due season, but because shortly afterwards my husband died of a certain shock he received, and had I time to tell you of it I know your worship would be surprised;” and here she began to weep bitterly and said, “Pardon me, Senor Don Quixote, if I am unable to control myself, for every time I think of my unfortunate husband my eyes fill up with tears. God bless me, with what an air of dignity he used to carry my lady behind him on a stout mule as black as jet! for in those days they did not use coaches or chairs, as they say they do now, and ladies rode behind their squires. This much at least I cannot help telling you, that you may observe the good breeding and punctiliousness of my worthy husband. As he was turning into the Calle de Santiago in Madrid, which is rather narrow, one of the alcaldes of the Court, with two alguacils before him, was coming out of it, and as soon as my good squire saw him he wheeled his mule about and made as if he would turn and accompany him. My lady, who was riding behind him, said to him in a low voice, ‘What are you about, you sneak, don’t you see that I am here?’ The alcalde like a polite man pulled up his horse and said to him, ‘Proceed, senor, for it is I, rather, who ought to accompany my lady Dona Casilda’—for that was my mistress’s name. Still my husband, cap in hand, persisted in trying to accompany the alcalde, and seeing this my lady, filled with rage and vexation, pulled out a big pin, or, I rather think, a bodkin, out of her needle-case and drove it into his back with such force that my husband gave a loud yell, and writhing fell to the ground with his lady. Her two lacqueys ran to rise her up, and the alcalde and the alguacils did the same; the Guadalajara gate was all in commotion—I mean the idlers congregated there; my mistress came back on foot, and my husband hurried away to a barber’s shop protest- ing that he was run right through the guts. The courtesy of my husband was noised abroad to such an extent, that the boys gave him no peace in the street; and on this account, and because he was somewhat shortsighted, my lady dismissed him; and it was chagrin at this I am convinced beyond a doubt that brought on his death. I was left a helpless widow, with a daughter on my hands growing up in beauty like the sea-foam; at length, however, as I had the character of being an excellent needlewoman, my lady the duchess, then lately married to my lord the duke, of- fered to take me with her to this kingdom of Aragon, and my daughter also, and here as time went by my daughter grew up and with her all the graces in the world; she sings like a lark, dances quick as thought, foots it like a gipsy, reads and writes like a schoolmaster, and does sums like a miser; of her neatness I say nothing, for the running water is not purer, and her age is now, if my memory serves me, sixteen years five months and three days, one more or less. To come to the point, the son of a very rich farmer, living in a village of my lord the duke’s not very far from here, fell in love with this girl of mine; and in short, how I know not, they came together, and under the promise of marrying her he made a fool of my daughter, and will not keep his word. And though my lord the duke is aware of it (for I have complained to him, not once but many and many a time, and entreated him to order the farmer to marry my daughter), he turns a deaf ear and will scarcely listen to me; the reason being that as the deceiver’s father is so rich, and lends him money, and is constantly going security for his debts, he does not like to offend or annoy him in any way. Now, senor, I want your worship to take it upon yourself to redress this wrong either by entreaty or by arms; for by what all the world says you came into it to redress grievances and right wrongs and help the unfor- tunate. Let your worship put before you the unprotected condition of my daughter, her youth, and all the perfec- tions I have said she possesses; and before God and on my conscience, out of all the damsels my lady has, there is not one that comes up to the sole of her shoe, and the one they call Altisidora, and look upon as the boldest and gayest of them, put in comparison with my daughter, does not come within two leagues of her. For I would have you know, senor, all is not gold that glitters, and that same little Altisidora has more forwardness than good looks,
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and more impudence than modesty; besides being not very sound, for she has such a disagreeable breath that one cannot bear to be near her for a moment; and even my lady the duchess—but I’ll hold my tongue, for they say that walls have ears.”
“For heaven’s sake, Dona Rodriguez, what ails my lady the duchess?” asked Don Quixote. “Adjured in that way,” replied the duenna, “I cannot help answering the question and telling the whole truth.
Senor Don Quixote, have you observed the comeliness of my lady the duchess, that smooth complexion of hers like a burnished polished sword, those two cheeks of milk and carmine, that gay lively step with which she treads or rather seems to spurn the earth, so that one would fancy she went radiating health wherever she passed? Well then, let me tell you she may thank, first of all God, for this, and next, two issues that she has, one in each leg, by which all the evil humours, of which the doctors say she is full, are discharged.”
“Blessed Virgin!” exclaimed Don Quixote; “and is it possible that my lady the duchess has drains of that sort? I would not have believed it if the barefoot friars had told it me; but as the lady Dona Rodriguez says so, it must be so. But surely such issues, and in such places, do not discharge humours, but liquid amber. Verily, I do believe now that this practice of opening issues is a very important matter for the health.”
Don Quixote had hardly said this, when the chamber door flew open with a loud bang, and with the start the noise gave her Dona Rodriguez let the candle fall from her hand, and the room was left as dark as a wolf ’s mouth, as the saying is. Suddenly the poor duenna felt two hands seize her by the throat, so tightly that she could not croak, while some one else, without uttering a word, very briskly hoisted up her petticoats, and with what seemed to be a slipper began to lay on so heartily that anyone would have felt pity for her; but although Don Quixote felt it he never stirred from his bed, but lay quiet and silent, nay apprehensive that his turn for a drubbing might be coming. Nor was the apprehension an idle one; for leaving the duenna (who did not dare to cry out) well basted, the silent executioners fell upon Don Quixote, and stripping him of the sheet and the coverlet, they pinched him so fast and so hard that he was driven to defend himself with his fists, and all this in marvellous silence. The battle lasted nearly half an hour, and then the phantoms fled; Dona Rodriguez gathered up her skirts, and bemoaning her fate went out without saying a word to Don Quixote, and he, sorely pinched, puzzled, and dejected, remained alone, and there we will leave him, wondering who could have been the perverse enchanter who had reduced him to such a state; but that shall be told in due season, for Sancho claims our attention, and the methodical arrangement of the story demands it.
Chapter XLIX Of what happened Sancho in making the round of his island
We left the great governor angered and irritated by that portrait-painting rogue of a farmer who, instructed the majordomo, as the majordomo was by the duke, tried to practise upon him; he however, fool, boor, and clown as he was, held his own against them all, saying to those round him and to Doctor Pedro Recio, who as soon as the private business of the duke’s letter was disposed of had returned to the room, “Now I see plainly enough that judges and governors ought to be and must be made of brass not to feel the importunities of the applicants that at all times and all seasons insist on being heard, and having their business despatched, and their own affairs and no others attended to, come what may; and if the poor judge does not hear them and settle the matter—either because he cannot or because that is not the time set apart for hearing them-forthwith they abuse him, and run him down, and gnaw at his bones, and even pick holes in his pedigree. You silly, stupid applicant, don’t be in a hurry; wait for the proper time and season for doing business; don’t come at dinner-hour, or at bed-time; for judges are only flesh and blood, and must give to Nature what she naturally demands of them; all except myself, for in my case I give her nothing to eat, thanks to Senor Doctor Pedro Recio Tirteafuera here, who would have me die of hunger, and declares that death to be life; and the same sort of life may God give him and all his kind—I mean the bad doctors; for the good ones deserve palms and laurels.”
All who knew Sancho Panza were astonished to hear him speak so elegantly, and did not know what to attribute it to unless it were that office and grave responsibility either smarten or stupefy men’s wits. At last Doctor Pedro Recio Agilers of Tirteafuera promised to let him have supper that night though it might be in contravention of all the aphorisms of Hippocrates. With this the governor was satisfied and looked forward to the approach of night and supper-time with great anxiety; and though time, to his mind, stood still and made no progress, nevertheless the hour he so longed for came, and they gave him a beef salad with onions and some boiled calves’ feet rather far gone. At this he fell to with greater relish than if they had given him francolins from Milan, pheasants from Rome, veal from Sorrento, partridges from Moron, or geese from Lavajos, and turning to the doctor at supper he said to him, “Look here, senor doctor, for the future don’t trouble yourself about giving me dainty things or choice dishes to eat, for it will be only taking my stomach off its hinges; it is accustomed to goat, cow, bacon, hung beef, turnips
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and onions; and if by any chance it is given these palace dishes, it receives them squeamishly, and sometimes with loathing. What the head-carver had best do is to serve me with what they call ollas podridas (and the rottener they are the better they smell); and he can put whatever he likes into them, so long as it is good to eat, and I’ll be obliged to him, and will requite him some day. But let nobody play pranks on me, for either we are or we are not; let us live and eat in peace and good-fellowship, for when God sends the dawn, he sends it for all. I mean to govern this island without giving up a right or taking a bribe; let everyone keep his eye open, and look out for the arrow; for I can tell them ‘the devil’s in Cantillana,’ and if they drive me to it they’ll see something that will astonish them. Nay! make yourself honey and the flies eat you.”
“Of a truth, senor governor,” said the carver, “your worship is in the right of it in everything you have said; and I promise you in the name of all the inhabitants of this island that they will serve your worship with all zeal, affection, and good-will, for the mild kind of government you have given a sample of to begin with, leaves them no ground for doing or thinking anything to your worship’s disadvantage.”
“That I believe,” said Sancho; “and they would be great fools if they did or thought otherwise; once more I say, see to my feeding and my Dapple’s for that is the great point and what is most to the purpose; and when the hour comes let us go the rounds, for it is my intention to purge this island of all manner of uncleanness and of all idle good-for-nothing vagabonds; for I would have you know that lazy idlers are the same thing in a State as the drones in a hive, that eat up the honey the industrious bees make. I mean to protect the husbandman, to preserve to the gentleman his privileges, to reward the virtuous, and above all to respect religion and honour its ministers. What say you to that, my friends? Is there anything in what I say, or am I talking to no purpose?”
“There is so much in what your worship says, senor governor,” said the majordomo, “that I am filled with wonder when I see a man like your worship, entirely without learning (for I believe you have none at all), say such things, and so full of sound maxims and sage remarks, very different from what was expected of your worship’s intelligence by those who sent us or by us who came here. Every day we see something new in this world; jokes become realities, and the jokers find the tables turned upon them.”
Night came, and with the permission of Doctor Pedro Recio, the governor had supper. They then got ready to go the rounds, and he started with the majordomo, the secretary, the head-carver, the chronicler charged with recording his deeds, and alguacils and notaries enough to form a fair-sized squadron. In the midst marched Sancho with his staff, as fine a sight as one could wish to see, and but a few streets of the town had been traversed when they heard a noise as of a clashing of swords. They hastened to the spot, and found that the combatants were but two, who seeing the authorities approaching stood still, and one of them exclaimed, “Help, in the name of God and the king! Are men to be allowed to rob in the middle of this town, and rush out and attack people in the very streets?”
“Be calm, my good man,” said Sancho, “and tell me what the cause of this quarrel is; for I am the governor.” Said the other combatant, “Senor governor, I will tell you in a very few words. Your worship must know that
this gentleman has just now won more than a thousand reals in that gambling house opposite, and God knows how. I was there, and gave more than one doubtful point in his favour, very much against what my conscience told me. He made off with his winnings, and when I made sure he was going to give me a crown or so at least by way of a present, as it is usual and customary to give men of quality of my sort who stand by to see fair or foul play, and back up swindles, and prevent quarrels, he pocketed his money and left the house. Indignant at this I followed him, and speaking him fairly and civilly asked him to give me if it were only eight reals, for he knows I am an honest man and that I have neither profession nor property, for my parents never brought me up to any or left me any; but the rogue, who is a greater thief than Cacus and a greater sharper than Andradilla, would not give me more than four reals; so your worship may see how little shame and conscience he has. But by my faith if you had not come up I’d have made him disgorge his winnings, and he’d have learned what the range of the steel-yard was.”
“What say you to this?” asked Sancho. The other replied that all his antagonist said was true, and that he did not choose to give him more than four reals because he very often gave him money; and that those who expected presents ought to be civil and take what is given them with a cheerful countenance, and not make any claim against winners unless they know them for certain to be sharpers and their winnings to be unfairly won; and that there could be no better proof that he himself was an honest man than his having refused to give anything; for sharpers always pay tribute to lookers-on who know them.
“That is true,” said the majordomo; “let your worship consider what is to be done with these men.” “What is to be done,” said Sancho, “is this; you, the winner, be you good, bad, or indifferent, give this assail-
ant of yours a hundred reals at once, and you must disburse thirty more for the poor prisoners; and you who have neither profession nor property, and hang about the island in idleness, take these hundred reals now, and some time of the day to-morrow quit the island under sentence of banishment for ten years, and under pain of completing it in another life if you violate the sentence, for I’ll hang you on a gibbet, or at least the hangman will by my orders; not a word from either of you, or I’ll make him feel my hand.”
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The one paid down the money and the other took it, and the latter quitted the island, while the other went home; and then the governor said, “Either I am not good for much, or I’ll get rid of these gambling houses, for it strikes me they are very mischievous.”
“This one at least,” said one of the notaries, “your worship will not be able to get rid of, for a great man owns it, and what he loses every year is beyond all comparison more than what he makes by the cards. On the minor gambling houses your worship may exercise your power, and it is they that do most harm and shelter the most barefaced practices; for in the houses of lords and gentlemen of quality the notorious sharpers dare not attempt to play their tricks; and as the vice of gambling has become common, it is better that men should play in houses of repute than in some tradesman’s, where they catch an unlucky fellow in the small hours of the morning and skin him alive.”
“I know already, notary, that there is a good deal to be said on that point,” said Sancho. And now a tipstaff came up with a young man in his grasp, and said, “Senor governor, this youth was coming
towards us, and as soon as he saw the officers of justice he turned about and ran like a deer, a sure proof that he must be some evil-doer; I ran after him, and had it not been that he stumbled and fell, I should never have caught him.”
“What did you run for, fellow?” said Sancho. To which the young man replied, “Senor, it was to avoid answering all the questions officers of justice put.” “What are you by trade?” “A weaver.” “And what do you weave?” “Lance heads, with your worship’s good leave.” “You’re facetious with me! You plume yourself on being a wag? Very good; and where were you going just
now?” “To take the air, senor.” “And where does one take the air in this island?” “Where it blows.” “Good! your answers are very much to the point; you are a smart youth; but take notice that I am the air, and
that I blow upon you a-stern, and send you to gaol. Ho there! lay hold of him and take him off; I’ll make him sleep there to-night without air.”
“By God,” said the young man, “your worship will make me sleep in gaol just as soon as make me king.” “Why shan’t I make thee sleep in gaol?” said Sancho. “Have I not the power to arrest thee and release thee
whenever I like?” “All the power your worship has,” said the young man, “won’t be able to make me sleep in gaol.” “How? not able!” said Sancho; “take him away at once where he’ll see his mistake with his own eyes, even if the
gaoler is willing to exert his interested generosity on his behalf; for I’ll lay a penalty of two thousand ducats on him if he allows him to stir a step from the prison.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said the young man; “the fact is, all the men on earth will not make me sleep in prison.” “Tell me, you devil,” said Sancho, “have you got any angel that will deliver you, and take off the irons I am going
to order them to put upon you?” “Now, senor governor,” said the young man in a sprightly manner, “let us be reasonable and come to the point.
Granted your worship may order me to be taken to prison, and to have irons and chains put on me, and to be shut up in a cell, and may lay heavy penalties on the gaoler if he lets me out, and that he obeys your orders; still, if I don’t choose to sleep, and choose to remain awake all night without closing an eye, will your worship with all your power be able to make me sleep if I don’t choose?”
“No, truly,” said the secretary, “and the fellow has made his point.” “So then,” said Sancho, “it would be entirely of your own choice you would keep from sleeping; not in opposi-
tion to my will?” “No, senor,” said the youth, “certainly not.” “Well then, go, and God be with you,” said Sancho; “be off home to sleep, and God give you sound sleep, for
I don’t want to rob you of it; but for the future, let me advise you don’t joke with the authorities, because you may come across some one who will bring down the joke on your own skull.”
The young man went his way, and the governor continued his round, and shortly afterwards two tipstaffs came up with a man in custody, and said, “Senor governor, this person, who seems to be a man, is not so, but a woman, and not an ill-favoured one, in man’s clothes.” They raised two or three lanterns to her face, and by their light they distinguished the features of a woman to all appearance of the age of sixteen or a little more, with her hair gathered into a gold and green silk net, and fair as a thousand pearls. They scanned her from head to foot, and observed that she had on red silk stockings with garters of white taffety bordered with gold and pearl; her breeches were of
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green and gold stuff, and under an open jacket or jerkin of the same she wore a doublet of the finest white and gold cloth; her shoes were white and such as men wear; she carried no sword at her belt, but only a richly ornamented dagger, and on her fingers she had several handsome rings. In short, the girl seemed fair to look at in the eyes of all, and none of those who beheld her knew her, the people of the town said they could not imagine who she was, and those who were in on the secret of the jokes that were to be practised upon Sancho were the ones who were most surprised, for this incident or discovery had not been arranged by them; and they watched anxiously to see how the affair would end.
Sancho was fascinated by the girl’s beauty, and he asked her who she was, where she was going, and what had induced her to dress herself in that garb. She with her eyes fixed on the ground answered in modest confusion, “I cannot tell you, senor, before so many people what it is of such consequence to me to have kept secret; one thing I wish to be known, that I am no thief or evildoer, but only an unhappy maiden whom the power of jealousy has led to break through the respect that is due to modesty.”
Hearing this the majordomo said to Sancho, “Make the people stand back, senor governor, that this lady may say what she wishes with less embarrassment.”
Sancho gave the order, and all except the majordomo, the head-carver, and the secretary fell back. Finding herself then in the presence of no more, the damsel went on to say, “I am the daughter, sirs, of Pedro Perez Mazorca, the wool-farmer of this town, who is in the habit of coming very often to my father’s house.”
“That won’t do, senora,” said the majordomo; “for I know Pedro Perez very well, and I know he has no child at all, either son or daughter; and besides, though you say he is your father, you add then that he comes very often to your father’s house.”
“I had already noticed that,” said Sancho. “I am confused just now, sirs,” said the damsel, “and I don’t know what I am saying; but the truth is that I am
the daughter of Diego de la Llana, whom you must all know.” “Ay, that will do,” said the majordomo; “for I know Diego de la Llana, and know that he is a gentleman of posi-
tion and a rich man, and that he has a son and a daughter, and that since he was left a widower nobody in all this town can speak of having seen his daughter’s face; for he keeps her so closely shut up that he does not give even the sun a chance of seeing her; and for all that report says she is extremely beautiful.”
“It is true,” said the damsel, “and I am that daughter; whether report lies or not as to my beauty, you, sirs, will have decided by this time, as you have seen me;” and with this she began to weep bitterly.
On seeing this the secretary leant over to the head-carver’s ear, and said to him in a low voice, “Something serious has no doubt happened this poor maiden, that she goes wandering from home in such a dress and at such an hour, and one of her rank too.” “There can be no doubt about it,” returned the carver, “and moreover her tears confirm your suspicion.” Sancho gave her the best comfort he could, and entreated her to tell them without any fear what had happened her, as they would all earnestly and by every means in their power endeavour to relieve her.
“The fact is, sirs,” said she, “that my father has kept me shut up these ten years, for so long is it since the earth received my mother. Mass is said at home in a sumptuous chapel, and all this time I have seen but the sun in the heaven by day, and the moon and the stars by night; nor do I know what streets are like, or plazas, or churches, or even men, except my father and a brother I have, and Pedro Perez the wool-farmer; whom, because he came frequently to our house, I took it into my head to call my father, to avoid naming my own. This seclusion and the restrictions laid upon my going out, were it only to church, have been keeping me unhappy for many a day and month past; I longed to see the world, or at least the town where I was born, and it did not seem to me that this wish was inconsistent with the respect maidens of good quality should have for themselves. When I heard them talking of bull-fights taking place, and of javelin games, and of acting plays, I asked my brother, who is a year younger than myself, to tell me what sort of things these were, and many more that I had never seen; he explained them to me as well as he could, but the only effect was to kindle in me a still stronger desire to see them. At last, to cut short the story of my ruin, I begged and entreated my brother—O that I had never made such an entreaty-” And once more she gave way to a burst of weeping.
“Proceed, senora,” said the majordomo, “and finish your story of what has happened to you, for your words and tears are keeping us all in suspense.”
“I have but little more to say, though many a tear to shed,” said the damsel; “for ill-placed desires can only be paid for in some such way.”
The maiden’s beauty had made a deep impression on the head-carver’s heart, and he again raised his lantern for another look at her, and thought they were not tears she was shedding, but seed-pearl or dew of the meadow, nay, he exalted them still higher, and made Oriental pearls of them, and fervently hoped her misfortune might not be so great a one as her tears and sobs seemed to indicate. The governor was losing patience at the length of time the girl was taking to tell her story, and told her not to keep them waiting any longer; for it was late, and there still remained a good deal of the town to be gone over.
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She, with broken sobs and half-suppressed sighs, went on to say, “My misfortune, my misadventure, is simply this, that I entreated my brother to dress me up as a man in a suit of his clothes, and take me some night, when our father was asleep, to see the whole town; he, overcome by my entreaties, consented, and dressing me in this suit and himself in clothes of mine that fitted him as if made for him (for he has not a hair on his chin, and might pass for a very beautiful young girl), to-night, about an hour ago, more or less, we left the house, and guided by our youthful and foolish impulse we made the circuit of the whole town, and then, as we were about to return home, we saw a great troop of people coming, and my brother said to me, ‘Sister, this must be the round, stir your feet and put wings to them, and follow me as fast as you can, lest they recognise us, for that would be a bad business for us;’ and so saying he turned about and began, I cannot say to run but to fly; in less than six paces I fell from fright, and then the officer of justice came up and carried me before your worships, where I find myself put to shame before all these people as whimsical and vicious.”
“So then, senora,” said Sancho, “no other mishap has befallen you, nor was it jealousy that made you leave home, as you said at the beginning of your story?”
“Nothing has happened me,” said she, “nor was it jealousy that brought me out, but merely a longing to see the world, which did not go beyond seeing the streets of this town.”
The appearance of the tipstaffs with her brother in custody, whom one of them had overtaken as he ran away from his sister, now fully confirmed the truth of what the damsel said. He had nothing on but a rich petticoat and a short blue damask cloak with fine gold lace, and his head was uncovered and adorned only with its own hair, which looked like rings of gold, so bright and curly was it. The governor, the majordomo, and the carver went aside with him, and, unheard by his sister, asked him how he came to be in that dress, and he with no less shame and embarrassment told exactly the same story as his sister, to the great delight of the enamoured carver; the governor, however, said to them, “In truth, young lady and gentleman, this has been a very childish affair, and to explain your folly and rashness there was no necessity for all this delay and all these tears and sighs; for if you had said we are so-and-so, and we escaped from our father’s house in this way in order to ramble about, out of mere curiosity and with no other object, there would have been an end of the matter, and none of these little sobs and tears and all the rest of it.”
“That is true,” said the damsel, “but you see the confusion I was in was so great it did not let me behave as I ought.”
“No harm has been done,” said Sancho; “come, we will leave you at your father’s house; perhaps they will not have missed you; and another time don’t be so childish or eager to see the world; for a respectable damsel should have a broken leg and keep at home; and the woman and the hen by gadding about are soon lost; and she who is eager to see is also eager to be seen; I say no more.”
The youth thanked the governor for his kind offer to take them home, and they directed their steps towards the house, which was not far off. On reaching it the youth threw a pebble up at a grating, and immediately a wom- an-servant who was waiting for them came down and opened the door to them, and they went in, leaving the party marvelling as much at their grace and beauty as at the fancy they had for seeing the world by night and without quitting the village; which, however, they set down to their youth.
The head-carver was left with a heart pierced through and through, and he made up his mind on the spot to demand the damsel in marriage of her father on the morrow, making sure she would not be refused him as he was a servant of the duke’s; and even to Sancho ideas and schemes of marrying the youth to his daughter Sanchica sug- gested themselves, and he resolved to open the negotiation at the proper season, persuading himself that no hus- band could be refused to a governor’s daughter. And so the night’s round came to an end, and a couple of days later the government, whereby all his plans were overthrown and swept away, as will be seen farther on.
Chapter L Wherein is set forth who the enchanters and executioners were who flogged the Duenna and pinched Don Quixote,
and also what befell the page who carried the letter to Teresa Panza, Sancho Panza’s wife Cide Hamete, the painstaking investigator of the minute points of this veracious history, says that when Dona
Rodriguez left her own room to go to Don Quixote’s, another duenna who slept with her observed her, and as all duennas are fond of prying, listening, and sniffing, she followed her so silently that the good Rodriguez never per- ceived it; and as soon as the duenna saw her enter Don Quixote’s room, not to fail in a duenna’s invariable practice of tattling, she hurried off that instant to report to the duchess how Dona Rodriguez was closeted with Don Quix- ote. The duchess told the duke, and asked him to let her and Altisidora go and see what the said duenna wanted with Don Quixote. The duke gave them leave, and the pair cautiously and quietly crept to the door of the room and posted themselves so close to it that they could hear all that was said inside. But when the duchess heard how the Rodriguez had made public the Aranjuez of her issues she could not restrain herself, nor Altisidora either; and so,
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filled with rage and thirsting for vengeance, they burst into the room and tormented Don Quixote and flogged the duenna in the manner already described; for indignities offered to their charms and self-esteem mightily provoke the anger of women and make them eager for revenge. The duchess told the duke what had happened, and he was much amused by it; and she, in pursuance of her design of making merry and diverting herself with Don Quixote, despatched the page who had played the part of Dulcinea in the negotiations for her disenchantment (which San- cho Panza in the cares of government had forgotten all about) to Teresa Panza his wife with her husband’s letter and another from herself, and also a great string of fine coral beads as a present.
Now the history says this page was very sharp and quick-witted; and eager to serve his lord and lady he set off very willingly for Sancho’s village. Before he entered it he observed a number of women washing in a brook, and asked them if they could tell him whether there lived there a woman of the name of Teresa Panza, wife of one Sancho Panza, squire to a knight called Don Quixote of La Mancha. At the question a young girl who was washing stood up and said, “Teresa Panza is my mother, and that Sancho is my father, and that knight is our master.”
“Well then, miss,” said the page, “come and show me where your mother is, for I bring her a letter and a present from your father.”
“That I will with all my heart, senor,” said the girl, who seemed to be about fourteen, more or less; and leaving the clothes she was washing to one of her companions, and without putting anything on her head or feet, for she was bare-legged and had her hair hanging about her, away she skipped in front of the page’s horse, saying, “Come, your worship, our house is at the entrance of the town, and my mother is there, sorrowful enough at not having had any news of my father this ever so long.”
“Well,” said the page, “I am bringing her such good news that she will have reason to thank God.” And then, skipping, running, and capering, the girl reached the town, but before going into the house she called
out at the door, “Come out, mother Teresa, come out, come out; here’s a gentleman with letters and other things from my good father.” At these words her mother Teresa Panza came out spinning a bundle of flax, in a grey petti- coat (so short was it one would have fancied “they to her shame had cut it short”), a grey bodice of the same stuff, and a smock. She was not very old, though plainly past forty, strong, healthy, vigorous, and sun-dried; and seeing her daughter and the page on horseback, she exclaimed, “What’s this, child? What gentleman is this?”
“A servant of my lady, Dona Teresa Panza,” replied the page; and suiting the action to the word he flung him- self off his horse, and with great humility advanced to kneel before the lady Teresa, saying, “Let me kiss your hand, Senora Dona Teresa, as the lawful and only wife of Senor Don Sancho Panza, rightful governor of the island of Barataria.”
“Ah, senor, get up, do that,” said Teresa; “for I’m not a bit of a court lady, but only a poor country woman, the daughter of a clodcrusher, and the wife of a squire-errant and not of any governor at all.”
“You are,” said the page, “the most worthy wife of a most arch-worthy governor; and as a proof of what I say accept this letter and this present;” and at the same time he took out of his pocket a string of coral beads with gold clasps, and placed it on her neck, and said, “This letter is from his lordship the governor, and the other as well as these coral beads from my lady the duchess, who sends me to your worship.”
Teresa stood lost in astonishment, and her daughter just as much, and the girl said, “May I die but our master Don Quixote’s at the bottom of this; he must have given father the government or county he so often promised him.”
“That is the truth,” said the page; “for it is through Senor Don Quixote that Senor Sancho is now governor of the island of Barataria, as will be seen by this letter.”
“Will your worship read it to me, noble sir?” said Teresa; “for though I can spin I can’t read, not a scrap.” “Nor I either,” said Sanchica; “but wait a bit, and I’ll go and fetch some one who can read it, either the curate
himself or the bachelor Samson Carrasco, and they’ll come gladly to hear any news of my father.” “There is no need to fetch anybody,” said the page; “for though I can’t spin I can read, and I’ll read it;” and so he
read it through, but as it has been already given it is not inserted here; and then he took out the other one from the duchess, which ran as follows:
Friend Teresa,—Your husband Sancho’s good qualities, of heart as well as of head, induced and compelled me to request my husband the duke to give him the government of one of his many islands. I am told he governs like a gerfalcon, of which I am very glad, and my lord the duke, of course, also; and I am very thankful to heaven that I have not made a mistake in choosing him for that same government; for I would have Senora Teresa know that a good governor is hard to find in this world and may God make me as good as Sancho’s way of governing. Herewith I send you, my dear, a string of coral beads with gold clasps; I wish they were Oriental pearls; but “he who gives thee a bone does not wish to see thee dead;” a time will come when we shall become acquainted and meet one another, but God knows the future. Commend me to your daughter Sanchica, and tell her from me to hold herself in readiness, for I mean to make a high match for her when she least expects it. They tell me there are big acorns in
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your village; send me a couple of dozen or so, and I shall value them greatly as coming from your hand; and write to me at length to assure me of your health and well-being; and if there be anything you stand in need of, it is but to open your mouth, and that shall be the measure; and so God keep you.
From this place. Your loving friend, THE DUCHESS.
“Ah, what a good, plain, lowly lady!” said Teresa when she heard the letter; “that I may be buried with ladies of that sort, and not the gentlewomen we have in this town, that fancy because they are gentlewomen the wind must not touch them, and go to church with as much airs as if they were queens, no less, and seem to think they are disgraced if they look at a farmer’s wife! And see here how this good lady, for all she’s a duchess, calls me ‘friend,’ and treats me as if I was her equal—and equal may I see her with the tallest church-tower in La Mancha! And as for the acorns, senor, I’ll send her ladyship a peck and such big ones that one might come to see them as a show and a wonder. And now, Sanchica, see that the gentleman is comfortable; put up his horse, and get some eggs out of the stable, and cut plenty of bacon, and let’s give him his dinner like a prince; for the good news he has brought, and his own bonny face deserve it all; and meanwhile I’ll run out and give the neighbours the news of our good luck, and father curate, and Master Nicholas the barber, who are and always have been such friends of thy father’s.”
“That I will, mother,” said Sanchica; “but mind, you must give me half of that string; for I don’t think my lady the duchess could have been so stupid as to send it all to you.”
“It is all for thee, my child,” said Teresa; “but let me wear it round my neck for a few days; for verily it seems to make my heart glad.”
“You will be glad too,” said the page, “when you see the bundle there is in this portmanteau, for it is a suit of the finest cloth, that the governor only wore one day out hunting and now sends, all for Senora Sanchica.”
“May he live a thousand years,” said Sanchica, “and the bearer as many, nay two thousand, if needful.” With this Teresa hurried out of the house with the letters, and with the string of beads round her neck, and
went along thrumming the letters as if they were a tambourine, and by chance coming across the curate and Sam- son Carrasco she began capering and saying, “None of us poor now, faith! We’ve got a little government! Ay, let the finest fine lady tackle me, and I’ll give her a setting down!”
“What’s all this, Teresa Panza,” said they; “what madness is this, and what papers are those?” “The madness is only this,” said she, “that these are the letters of duchesses and governors, and these I have on
my neck are fine coral beads, with ave-marias and paternosters of beaten gold, and I am a governess.” “God help us,” said the curate, “we don’t understand you, Teresa, or know what you are talking about.” “There, you may see it yourselves,” said Teresa, and she handed them the letters. The curate read them out for Samson Carrasco to hear, and Samson and he regarded one another with looks of
astonishment at what they had read, and the bachelor asked who had brought the letters. Teresa in reply bade them come with her to her house and they would see the messenger, a most elegant youth, who had brought another present which was worth as much more. The curate took the coral beads from her neck and examined them again and again, and having satisfied himself as to their fineness he fell to wondering afresh, and said, “By the gown I wear I don’t know what to say or think of these letters and presents; on the one hand I can see and feel the fineness of these coral beads, and on the other I read how a duchess sends to beg for a couple of dozen of acorns.”
“Square that if you can,” said Carrasco; “well, let’s go and see the messenger, and from him we’ll learn some- thing about this mystery that has turned up.”
They did so, and Teresa returned with them. They found the page sifting a little barley for his horse, and Sanchica cutting a rasher of bacon to be paved with eggs for his dinner. His looks and his handsome apparel pleased them both greatly; and after they had saluted him courteously, and he them, Samson begged him to give them his news, as well of Don Quixote as of Sancho Panza, for, he said, though they had read the letters from Sancho and her ladyship the duchess, they were still puzzled and could not make out what was meant by Sancho’s government, and above all of an island, when all or most of those in the Mediterranean belonged to his Majesty.
To this the page replied, “As to Senor Sancho Panza’s being a governor there is no doubt whatever; but whether it is an island or not that he governs, with that I have nothing to do; suffice it that it is a town of more than a thou- sand inhabitants; with regard to the acorns I may tell you my lady the duchess is so unpretending and unassuming that, not to speak of sending to beg for acorns from a peasant woman, she has been known to send to ask for the loan of a comb from one of her neighbours; for I would have your worships know that the ladies of Aragon, though they are just as illustrious, are not so punctilious and haughty as the Castilian ladies; they treat people with greater familiarity.”
In the middle of this conversation Sanchica came in with her skirt full of eggs, and said she to the page, “Tell me, senor, does my father wear trunk-hose since he has been governor?”
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“I have not noticed,” said the page; “but no doubt he wears them.” “Ah! my God!” said Sanchica, “what a sight it must be to see my father in tights! Isn’t it odd that ever since I was
born I have had a longing to see my father in trunk-hose?” “As things go you will see that if you live,” said the page; “by God he is in the way to take the road with a sun-
shade if the government only lasts him two months more.” The curate and the bachelor could see plainly enough that the page spoke in a waggish vein; but the fineness
of the coral beads, and the hunting suit that Sancho sent (for Teresa had already shown it to them) did away with the impression; and they could not help laughing at Sanchica’s wish, and still more when Teresa said, “Senor curate, look about if there’s anybody here going to Madrid or Toledo, to buy me a hooped petticoat, a proper fashionable one of the best quality; for indeed and indeed I must do honour to my husband’s government as well as I can; nay, if I am put to it and have to, I’ll go to Court and set a coach like all the world; for she who has a governor for her husband may very well have one and keep one.”
“And why not, mother!” said Sanchica; “would to God it were to-day instead of to-morrow, even though they were to say when they saw me seated in the coach with my mother, ‘See that rubbish, that garlic-stuffed fellow’s daughter, how she goes stretched at her ease in a coach as if she was a she-pope!’ But let them tramp through the mud, and let me go in my coach with my feet off the ground. Bad luck to backbiters all over the world; ‘let me go warm and the people may laugh.’ Do I say right, mother?”
“To be sure you do, my child,” said Teresa; “and all this good luck, and even more, my good Sancho foretold me; and thou wilt see, my daughter, he won’t stop till he has made me a countess; for to make a beginning is everything in luck; and as I have heard thy good father say many a time (for besides being thy father he’s the father of proverbs too), ‘When they offer thee a heifer, run with a halter; when they offer thee a government, take it; when they would give thee a county, seize it; when they say, “Here, here!” to thee with something good, swallow it.’ Oh no! go to sleep, and don’t answer the strokes of good fortune and the lucky chances that are knocking at the door of your house!”
“And what do I care,” added Sanchica, “whether anybody says when he sees me holding my head up, ‘The dog saw himself in hempen breeches,’ and the rest of it?”
Hearing this the curate said, “I do believe that all this family of the Panzas are born with a sackful of proverbs in their insides, every one of them; I never saw one of them that does not pour them out at all times and on all occasions.”
“That is true,” said the page, “for Senor Governor Sancho utters them at every turn; and though a great many of them are not to the purpose, still they amuse one, and my lady the duchess and the duke praise them highly.”
“Then you still maintain that all this about Sancho’s government is true, senor,” said the bachelor, “and that there actually is a duchess who sends him presents and writes to him? Because we, although we have handled the present and read the letters, don’t believe it and suspect it to be something in the line of our fellow-townsman Don Quixote, who fancies that everything is done by enchantment; and for this reason I am almost ready to say that I’d like to touch and feel your worship to see whether you are a mere ambassador of the imagination or a man of flesh and blood.”
“All I know, sirs,” replied the page, “is that I am a real ambassador, and that Senor Sancho Panza is governor as a matter of fact, and that my lord and lady the duke and duchess can give, and have given him this same government, and that I have heard it said Sancho Panza bears himself very stoutly therein; whether there be any enchantment in all this or not, it is for your worships to settle between you; for that’s all I know by the oath I swear, and that is by the life of my parents whom I have still alive, and love dearly.”
“It may be so,” said the bachelor; “but dubitat Augustinus.” “Doubt who will,” said the page; “what I have told you is the truth, and that will always rise above falsehood as
oil above water; if not operibus credite, et non verbis. Let one of you come with me, and he will see with his eyes what he does not believe with his ears.”
“It’s for me to make that trip,” said Sanchica; “take me with you, senor, behind you on your horse; for I’ll go with all my heart to see my father.”
“Governors’ daughters,” said the page, “must not travel along the roads alone, but accompanied by coaches and litters and a great number of attendants.”
“By God,” said Sanchica, “I can go just as well mounted on a she-ass as in a coach; what a dainty lass you must take me for!”
“Hush, girl,” said Teresa; “you don’t know what you’re talking about; the gentleman is quite right, for ‘as the time so the behaviour;’ when it was Sancho it was ‘Sancha;’ when it is governor it’s ‘senora;’ I don’t know if I’m right.”
“Senora Teresa says more than she is aware of,” said the page; “and now give me something to eat and let me go at once, for I mean to return this evening.”
“Come and do penance with me,” said the curate at this; “for Senora Teresa has more will than means to serve so worthy a guest.” The page refused, but had to consent at last for his own sake; and the curate took him home with him very
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gladly, in order to have an opportunity of questioning him at leisure about Don Quixote and his doings. The bach- elor offered to write the letters in reply for Teresa; but she did not care to let him mix himself up in her affairs, for she thought him somewhat given to joking; and so she gave a cake and a couple of eggs to a young acolyte who was a penman, and he wrote for her two letters, one for her husband and the other for the duchess, dictated out of her own head, which are not the worst inserted in this great history, as will be seen farther on.
Chapter LI Of the progress of Sancho’s government, and other such entertaining matters
Day came after the night of the governor’s round; a night which the head-carver passed without sleeping, so were his thoughts of the face and air and beauty of the disguised damsel, while the majordomo spent what was left of it in writing an account to his lord and lady of all Sancho said and did, being as much amazed at his sayings as at his doings, for there was a mixture of shrewdness and simplicity in all his words and deeds. The senor governor got up, and by Doctor Pedro Recio’s directions they made him break his fast on a little conserve and four sups of cold water, which Sancho would have readily exchanged for a piece of bread and a bunch of grapes; but seeing there was no help for it, he submitted with no little sorrow of heart and discomfort of stomach; Pedro Recio having persuaded him that light and delicate diet enlivened the wits, and that was what was most essential for persons placed in com- mand and in responsible situations, where they have to employ not only the bodily powers but those of the mind also.
By means of this sophistry Sancho was made to endure hunger, and hunger so keen that in his heart he cursed the government, and even him who had given it to him; however, with his hunger and his conserve he undertook to deliver judgments that day, and the first thing that came before him was a question that was submitted to him by a stranger, in the presence of the majordomo and the other attendants, and it was in these words: “Senor, a large river separated two districts of one and the same lordship—will your worship please to pay attention, for the case is an important and a rather knotty one? Well then, on this river there was a bridge, and at one end of it a gallows, and a sort of tribunal, where four judges commonly sat to administer the law which the lord of river, bridge and the lordship had enacted, and which was to this effect, ‘If anyone crosses by this bridge from one side to the other he shall declare on oath where he is going to and with what object; and if he swears truly, he shall be allowed to pass, but if falsely, he shall be put to death for it by hanging on the gallows erected there, without any remission.’ Though the law and its severe penalty were known, many persons crossed, but in their declarations it was easy to see at once they were telling the truth, and the judges let them pass free. It happened, however, that one man, when they came to take his declaration, swore and said that by the oath he took he was going to die upon that gallows that stood there, and nothing else. The judges held a consultation over the oath, and they said, ‘If we let this man pass free he has sworn falsely, and by the law he ought to die; but if we hang him, as he swore he was going to die on that gallows, and therefore swore the truth, by the same law he ought to go free.’ It is asked of your worship, senor gov- ernor, what are the judges to do with this man? For they are still in doubt and perplexity; and having heard of your worship’s acute and exalted intellect, they have sent me to entreat your worship on their behalf to give your opinion on this very intricate and puzzling case.”
To this Sancho made answer, “Indeed those gentlemen the judges that send you to me might have spared them- selves the trouble, for I have more of the obtuse than the acute in me; but repeat the case over again, so that I may understand it, and then perhaps I may be able to hit the point.”
The querist repeated again and again what he had said before, and then Sancho said, “It seems to me I can set the matter right in a moment, and in this way; the man swears that he is going to die upon the gallows; but if he dies upon it, he has sworn the truth, and by the law enacted deserves to go free and pass over the bridge; but if they don’t hang him, then he has sworn falsely, and by the same law deserves to be hanged.”
“It is as the senor governor says,” said the messenger; “and as regards a complete comprehension of the case, there is nothing left to desire or hesitate about.”
“Well then I say,” said Sancho, “that of this man they should let pass the part that has sworn truly, and hang the part that has lied; and in this way the conditions of the passage will be fully complied with.”
“But then, senor governor,” replied the querist, “the man will have to be divided into two parts; and if he is divided of course he will die; and so none of the requirements of the law will be carried out, and it is absolutely necessary to comply with it.”
“Look here, my good sir,” said Sancho; “either I’m a numskull or else there is the same reason for this passenger dying as for his living and passing over the bridge; for if the truth saves him the falsehood equally condemns him; and that being the case it is my opinion you should say to the gentlemen who sent you to me that as the arguments for condemning him and for absolving him are exactly balanced, they should let him pass freely, as it is always more praiseworthy to do good than to do evil; this I would give signed with my name if I knew how to sign; and what I
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have said in this case is not out of my own head, but one of the many precepts my master Don Quixote gave me the night before I left to become governor of this island, that came into my mind, and it was this, that when there was any doubt about the justice of a case I should lean to mercy; and it is God’s will that I should recollect it now, for it fits this case as if it was made for it.”
“That is true,” said the majordomo; “and I maintain that Lycurgus himself, who gave laws to the Lacedemoni- ans, could not have pronounced a better decision than the great Panza has given; let the morning’s audience close with this, and I will see that the senor governor has dinner entirely to his liking.”
“That’s all I ask for—fair play,” said Sancho; “give me my dinner, and then let it rain cases and questions on me, and I’ll despatch them in a twinkling.”
The majordomo kept his word, for he felt it against his conscience to kill so wise a governor by hunger; par- ticularly as he intended to have done with him that same night, playing off the last joke he was commissioned to practise upon him.
It came to pass, then, that after he had dined that day, in opposition to the rules and aphorisms of Doctor Tir- teafuera, as they were taking away the cloth there came a courier with a letter from Don Quixote for the governor. Sancho ordered the secretary to read it to himself, and if there was nothing in it that demanded secrecy to read it aloud. The secretary did so, and after he had skimmed the contents he said, “It may well be read aloud, for what Senor Don Quixote writes to your worship deserves to be printed or written in letters of gold, and it is as follows.”
Don Quixote of La Mancha’s letter to Sancho Panza, governor of the island of Barataria. When I was expecting to hear of thy stupidities and blunders, friend Sancho, I have received intelligence of thy
displays of good sense, for which I give special thanks to heaven that can raise the poor from the dunghill and of fools to make wise men. They tell me thou dost govern as if thou wert a man, and art a man as if thou wert a beast, so great is the humility wherewith thou dost comport thyself. But I would have thee bear in mind, Sancho, that very often it is fitting and necessary for the authority of office to resist the humility of the heart; for the seemly array of one who is invested with grave duties should be such as they require and not measured by what his own humble tastes may lead him to prefer. Dress well; a stick dressed up does not look like a stick; I do not say thou shouldst wear trinkets or fine raiment, or that being a judge thou shouldst dress like a soldier, but that thou shouldst array thyself in the apparel thy office requires, and that at the same time it be neat and handsome. To win the good-will of the people thou governest there are two things, among others, that thou must do; one is to be civil to all (this, how- ever, I told thee before), and the other to take care that food be abundant, for there is nothing that vexes the heart of the poor more than hunger and high prices. Make not many proclamations; but those thou makest take care that they be good ones, and above all that they be observed and carried out; for proclamations that are not observed are the same as if they did not exist; nay, they encourage the idea that the prince who had the wisdom and authority to make them had not the power to enforce them; and laws that threaten and are not enforced come to be like the log, the king of the frogs, that frightened them at first, but that in time they despised and mounted upon. Be a father to virtue and a stepfather to vice. Be not always strict, nor yet always lenient, but observe a mean between these two extremes, for in that is the aim of wisdom. Visit the gaols, the slaughter-houses, and the market-places; for the pres- ence of the governor is of great importance in such places; it comforts the prisoners who are in hopes of a speedy release, it is the bugbear of the butchers who have then to give just weight, and it is the terror of the market-women for the same reason. Let it not be seen that thou art (even if perchance thou art, which I do not believe) covetous, a follower of women, or a glutton; for when the people and those that have dealings with thee become aware of thy special weakness they will bring their batteries to bear upon thee in that quarter, till they have brought thee down to the depths of perdition. Consider and reconsider, con and con over again the advices and the instructions I gave thee before thy departure hence to thy government, and thou wilt see that in them, if thou dost follow them, thou hast a help at hand that will lighten for thee the troubles and difficulties that beset governors at every step. Write to thy lord and lady and show thyself grateful to them, for ingratitude is the daughter of pride, and one of the greatest sins we know of; and he who is grateful to those who have been good to him shows that he will be so to God also who has bestowed and still bestows so many blessings upon him.
My lady the duchess sent off a messenger with thy suit and another present to thy wife Teresa Panza; we expect the answer every moment. I have been a little indisposed through a certain scratching I came in for, not very much to the benefit of my nose; but it was nothing; for if there are enchanters who maltreat me, there are also some who defend me. Let me know if the majordomo who is with thee had any share in the Trifaldi performance, as thou didst suspect; and keep me informed of everything that happens thee, as the distance is so short; all the more as I am thinking of giving over very shortly this idle life I am now leading, for I was not born for it. A thing has oc- curred to me which I am inclined to think will put me out of favour with the duke and duchess; but though I am sorry for it I do not care, for after all I must obey my calling rather than their pleasure, in accordance with the com- mon saying, amicus Plato, sed magis amica veritas. I quote this Latin to thee because I conclude that since thou hast
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been a governor thou wilt have learned it. Adieu; God keep thee from being an object of pity to anyone. Thy friend, DON QUIXOTE OF LA MANCHA.
Sancho listened to the letter with great attention, and it was praised and considered wise by all who heard it; he then rose up from table, and calling his secretary shut himself in with him in his own room, and without putting it off any longer set about answering his master Don Quixote at once; and he bade the secretary write down what he told him without adding or suppressing anything, which he did, and the answer was to the following effect.
Sancho Panza’s letter to Don Quixote of La Mancha. The pressure of business is so great upon me that I have no time to scratch my head or even to cut my nails; and
I have them so long-God send a remedy for it. I say this, master of my soul, that you may not be surprised if I have not until now sent you word of how I fare, well or ill, in this government, in which I am suffering more hunger than when we two were wandering through the woods and wastes.
My lord the duke wrote to me the other day to warn me that certain spies had got into this island to kill me; but up to the present I have not found out any except a certain doctor who receives a salary in this town for killing all the governors that come here; he is called Doctor Pedro Recio, and is from Tirteafuera; so you see what a name he has to make me dread dying under his hands. This doctor says of himself that he does not cure diseases when there are any, but prevents them coming, and the medicines he uses are diet and more diet until he brings one down to bare bones; as if leanness was not worse than fever.
In short he is killing me with hunger, and I am dying myself of vexation; for when I thought I was coming to this government to get my meat hot and my drink cool, and take my ease between holland sheets on feather beds, I find I have come to do penance as if I was a hermit; and as I don’t do it willingly I suspect that in the end the devil will carry me off.
So far I have not handled any dues or taken any bribes, and I don’t know what to think of it; for here they tell me that the governors that come to this island, before entering it have plenty of money either given to them or lent to them by the people of the town, and that this is the usual custom not only here but with all who enter upon gov- ernments.
Last night going the rounds I came upon a fair damsel in man’s clothes, and a brother of hers dressed as a wom- an; my head-carver has fallen in love with the girl, and has in his own mind chosen her for a wife, so he says, and I have chosen the youth for a son-in-law; to-day we are going to explain our intentions to the father of the pair, who is one Diego de la Llana, a gentleman and an old Christian as much as you please.
I have visited the market-places, as your worship advises me, and yesterday I found a stall-keeper selling new hazel nuts and proved her to have mixed a bushel of old empty rotten nuts with a bushel of new; I confiscated the whole for the children of the charity-school, who will know how to distinguish them well enough, and I sentenced her not to come into the market-place for a fortnight; they told me I did bravely. I can tell your worship it is com- monly said in this town that there are no people worse than the market-women, for they are all barefaced, uncon- scionable, and impudent, and I can well believe it from what I have seen of them in other towns.
I am very glad my lady the duchess has written to my wife Teresa Panza and sent her the present your worship speaks of; and I will strive to show myself grateful when the time comes; kiss her hands for me, and tell her I say she has not thrown it into a sack with a hole in it, as she will see in the end. I should not like your worship to have any difference with my lord and lady; for if you fall out with them it is plain it must do me harm; and as you give me ad- vice to be grateful it will not do for your worship not to be so yourself to those who have shown you such kindness, and by whom you have been treated so hospitably in their castle.
That about the scratching I don’t understand; but I suppose it must be one of the ill-turns the wicked enchanters are always doing your worship; when we meet I shall know all about it. I wish I could send your worship something; but I don’t know what to send, unless it be some very curious clyster pipes, to work with bladders, that they make in this island; but if the office remains with me I’ll find out something to send, one way or another. If my wife Teresa Panza writes to me, pay the postage and send me the letter, for I have a very great desire to hear how my house and wife and children are going on. And so, may God deliver your worship from evil-minded enchanters, and bring me well and peacefully out of this government, which I doubt, for I expect to take leave of it and my life together, from the way Doctor Pedro Recio treats me.
Your worship’s servant, SANCHO PANZA THE GOVERNOR.
The secretary sealed the letter, and immediately dismissed the courier; and those who were carrying on the joke against Sancho putting their heads together arranged how he was to be dismissed from the government.
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Sancho spent the afternoon in drawing up certain ordinances relating to the good government of what he fancied the island; and he ordained that there were to be no provision hucksters in the State, and that men might import wine into it from any place they pleased, provided they declared the quarter it came from, so that a price might be put upon it according to its quality, reputation, and the estimation it was held in; and he that watered his wine, or changed the name, was to forfeit his life for it. He reduced the prices of all manner of shoes, boots, and stockings, but of shoes in particular, as they seemed to him to run extravagantly high. He established a fixed rate for servants’ wages, which were becoming recklessly exorbitant. He laid extremely heavy penalties upon those who sang lewd or loose songs either by day or night. He decreed that no blind man should sing of any miracle in verse, unless he could produce authentic evidence that it was true, for it was his opinion that most of those the blind men sing are trumped up, to the detriment of the true ones. He established and created an alguacil of the poor, not to harass them, but to examine them and see whether they really were so; for many a sturdy thief or drunkard goes about under cover of a make-believe crippled limb or a sham sore. In a word, he made so many good rules that to this day they are preserved there, and are called The constitutions of the great governor Sancho Panza.
Chapter LII Wherein is related the adventure of the second distressed or afflicted Duenna, otherwise called Dona Rodriguez Cide Hamete relates that Don Quixote being now cured of his scratches felt that the life he was leading in
the castle was entirely inconsistent with the order of chivalry he professed, so he determined to ask the duke and duchess to permit him to take his departure for Saragossa, as the time of the festival was now drawing near, and he hoped to win there the suit of armour which is the prize at festivals of the sort. But one day at table with the duke and duchess, just as he was about to carry his resolution into effect and ask for their permission, lo and behold suddenly there came in through the door of the great hall two women, as they afterwards proved to be, draped in mourning from head to foot, one of whom approaching Don Quixote flung herself at full length at his feet, pressing her lips to them, and uttering moans so sad, so deep, and so doleful that she put all who heard and saw her into a state of perplexity; and though the duke and duchess supposed it must be some joke their servants were playing off upon Don Quixote, still the earnest way the woman sighed and moaned and wept puzzled them and made them feel uncertain, until Don Quixote, touched with compassion, raised her up and made her unveil herself and remove the mantle from her tearful face. She complied and disclosed what no one could have ever anticipated, for she disclosed the countenance of Dona Rodriguez, the duenna of the house; the other female in mourning being her daughter, who had been made a fool of by the rich farmer’s son. All who knew her were filled with astonishment, and the duke and duchess more than any; for though they thought her a simpleton and a weak creature, they did not think her capable of crazy pranks. Dona Rodriguez, at length, turning to her master and mistress said to them, “Will your excellences be pleased to permit me to speak to this gentleman for a moment, for it is requisite I should do so in order to get successfully out of the business in which the boldness of an evil-minded clown has involved me?”
The duke said that for his part he gave her leave, and that she might speak with Senor Don Quixote as much as she liked.
She then, turning to Don Quixote and addressing herself to him said, “Some days since, valiant knight, I gave you an account of the injustice and treachery of a wicked farmer to my dearly beloved daughter, the unhappy dam- sel here before you, and you promised me to take her part and right the wrong that has been done her; but now it has come to my hearing that you are about to depart from this castle in quest of such fair adventures as God may vouchsafe to you; therefore, before you take the road, I would that you challenge this froward rustic, and compel him to marry my daughter in fulfillment of the promise he gave her to become her husband before he seduced her; for to expect that my lord the duke will do me justice is to ask pears from the elm tree, for the reason I stated pri- vately to your worship; and so may our Lord grant you good health and forsake us not.”
To these words Don Quixote replied very gravely and solemnly, “Worthy duenna, check your tears, or rather dry them, and spare your sighs, for I take it upon myself to obtain redress for your daughter, for whom it would have been better not to have been so ready to believe lovers’ promises, which are for the most part quickly made and very slowly performed; and so, with my lord the duke’s leave, I will at once go in quest of this inhuman youth, and will find him out and challenge him and slay him, if so be he refuses to keep his promised word; for the chief object of my profession is to spare the humble and chastise the proud; I mean, to help the distressed and destroy the oppressors.”
“There is no necessity,” said the duke, “for your worship to take the trouble of seeking out the rustic of whom this worthy duenna complains, nor is there any necessity, either, for asking my leave to challenge him; for I admit him duly challenged, and will take care that he is informed of the challenge, and accepts it, and comes to answer it in person to this castle of mine, where I shall afford to both a fair field, observing all the conditions which are usual-
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ly and properly observed in such trials, and observing too justice to both sides, as all princes who offer a free field to combatants within the limits of their lordships are bound to do.”
“Then with that assurance and your highness’s good leave,” said Don Quixote, “I hereby for this once waive my privilege of gentle blood, and come down and put myself on a level with the lowly birth of the wrong-doer, making myself equal with him and enabling him to enter into combat with me; and so, I challenge and defy him, though absent, on the plea of his malfeasance in breaking faith with this poor damsel, who was a maiden and now by his misdeed is none; and say that he shall fulfill the promise he gave her to become her lawful husband, or else stake his life upon the question.”
And then plucking off a glove he threw it down in the middle of the hall, and the duke picked it up, saying, as he had said before, that he accepted the challenge in the name of his vassal, and fixed six days thence as the time, the courtyard of the castle as the place, and for arms the customary ones of knights, lance and shield and full armour, with all the other accessories, without trickery, guile, or charms of any sort, and examined and passed by the judges of the field. “But first of all,” he said, “it is requisite that this worthy duenna and unworthy damsel should place their claim for justice in the hands of Don Quixote; for otherwise nothing can be done, nor can the said chal- lenge be brought to a lawful issue.”
“I do so place it,” replied the duenna. “And I too,” added her daughter, all in tears and covered with shame and confusion. This declaration having been made, and the duke having settled in his own mind what he would do in the
matter, the ladies in black withdrew, and the duchess gave orders that for the future they were not to be treated as servants of hers, but as lady adventurers who came to her house to demand justice; so they gave them a room to themselves and waited on them as they would on strangers, to the consternation of the other women-servants, who did not know where the folly and imprudence of Dona Rodriguez and her unlucky daughter would stop.
And now, to complete the enjoyment of the feast and bring the dinner to a satisfactory end, lo and behold the page who had carried the letters and presents to Teresa Panza, the wife of the governor Sancho, entered the hall; and the duke and duchess were very well pleased to see him, being anxious to know the result of his journey; but when they asked him the page said in reply that he could not give it before so many people or in a few words, and begged their excellences to be pleased to let it wait for a private opportunity, and in the meantime amuse themselves with these letters; and taking out the letters he placed them in the duchess’s hand. One bore by way of address, Letter for my lady the Duchess So-and-so, of I don’t know where; and the other To my husband Sancho Panza, governor of the island of Barataria, whom God prosper longer than me. The duchess’s bread would not bake, as the saying is, until she had read her letter; and having looked over it herself and seen that it might be read aloud for the duke and all present to hear, she read out as follows.
Teresa Panza’s letter to the Duchess. The letter your highness wrote me, my lady, gave me great pleasure, for indeed I found it very welcome. The
string of coral beads is very fine, and my husband’s hunting suit does not fall short of it. All this village is very much pleased that your ladyship has made a governor of my good man Sancho; though nobody will believe it, particularly the curate, and Master Nicholas the barber, and the bachelor Samson Carrasco; but I don’t care for that, for so long as it is true, as it is, they may all say what they like; though, to tell the truth, if the coral beads and the suit had not come I would not have believed it either; for in this village everybody thinks my husband a numskull, and except for governing a flock of goats, they cannot fancy what sort of government he can be fit for. God grant it, and direct him according as he sees his children stand in need of it. I am resolved with your wor- ship’s leave, lady of my soul, to make the most of this fair day, and go to Court to stretch myself at ease in a coach, and make all those I have envying me already burst their eyes out; so I beg your excellence to order my husband to send me a small trifle of money, and to let it be something to speak of, because one’s expenses are heavy at the Court; for a loaf costs a real, and meat thirty maravedis a pound, which is beyond everything; and if he does not want me to go let him tell me in time, for my feet are on the fidgets to be off; and my friends and neighbours tell me that if my daughter and I make a figure and a brave show at Court, my husband will come to be known far more by me than I by him, for of course plenty of people will ask, “Who are those ladies in that coach?” and some servant of mine will answer, “The wife and daughter of Sancho Panza, governor of the island of Barataria;” and in this way Sancho will become known, and I’ll be thought well of, and “to Rome for everything.” I am as vexed as vexed can be that they have gathered no acorns this year in our village; for all that I send your highness about half a peck that I went to the wood to gather and pick out one by one myself, and I could find no bigger ones; I wish they were as big as ostrich eggs.
Let not your high mightiness forget to write to me; and I will take care to answer, and let you know how I am, and whatever news there may be in this place, where I remain, praying our Lord to have your highness in his keep- ing and not to forget me.
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Sancha my daughter, and my son, kiss your worship’s hands. She who would rather see your ladyship than write to you, Your servant, TERESA PANZA.
All were greatly amused by Teresa Panza’s letter, but particularly the duke and duchess; and the duchess asked Don Quixote’s opinion whether they might open the letter that had come for the governor, which she suspected must be very good. Don Quixote said that to gratify them he would open it, and did so, and found that it ran as follows.
Teresa Panza’s letter to her husband Sancho Panza. I got thy letter, Sancho of my soul, and I promise thee and swear as a Catholic Christian that I was within two
fingers’ breadth of going mad I was so happy. I can tell thee, brother, when I came to hear that thou wert a governor I thought I should have dropped dead with pure joy; and thou knowest they say sudden joy kills as well as great sorrow; and as for Sanchica thy daughter, she leaked from sheer happiness. I had before me the suit thou didst send me, and the coral beads my lady the duchess sent me round my neck, and the letters in my hands, and there was the bearer of them standing by, and in spite of all this I verily believed and thought that what I saw and handled was all a dream; for who could have thought that a goatherd would come to be a governor of islands? Thou knowest, my friend, what my mother used to say, that one must live long to see much; I say it because I expect to see more if I live longer; for I don’t expect to stop until I see thee a farmer of taxes or a collector of revenue, which are offices where, though the devil carries off those who make a bad use of them, still they make and handle money. My lady the duchess will tell thee the desire I have to go to the Court; consider the matter and let me know thy pleasure; I will try to do honour to thee by going in a coach.
Neither the curate, nor the barber, nor the bachelor, nor even the sacristan, can believe that thou art a governor, and they say the whole thing is a delusion or an enchantment affair, like everything belonging to thy master Don Quixote; and Samson says he must go in search of thee and drive the government out of thy head and the madness out of Don Quixote’s skull; I only laugh, and look at my string of beads, and plan out the dress I am going to make for our daughter out of thy suit. I sent some acorns to my lady the duchess; I wish they had been gold. Send me some strings of pearls if they are in fashion in that island. Here is the news of the village; La Berrueca has married her daughter to a good-for-nothing painter, who came here to paint anything that might turn up. The council gave him an order to paint his Majesty’s arms over the door of the town-hall; he asked two ducats, which they paid him in advance; he worked for eight days, and at the end of them had nothing painted, and then said he had no turn for painting such trifling things; he returned the money, and for all that has married on the pretence of being a good workman; to be sure he has now laid aside his paint-brush and taken a spade in hand, and goes to the field like a gentleman. Pedro Lobo’s son has received the first orders and tonsure, with the intention of becoming a priest. Min- guilla, Mingo Silvato’s granddaughter, found it out, and has gone to law with him on the score of having given her promise of marriage. Evil tongues say she is with child by him, but he denies it stoutly. There are no olives this year, and there is not a drop of vinegar to be had in the whole village. A company of soldiers passed through here; when they left they took away with them three of the girls of the village; I will not tell thee who they are; perhaps they will come back, and they will be sure to find those who will take them for wives with all their blemishes, good or bad. Sanchica is making bonelace; she earns eight maravedis a day clear, which she puts into a moneybox as a help to- wards house furnishing; but now that she is a governor’s daughter thou wilt give her a portion without her working for it. The fountain in the plaza has run dry. A flash of lightning struck the gibbet, and I wish they all lit there. I look for an answer to this, and to know thy mind about my going to the Court; and so, God keep thee longer than me, or as long, for I would not leave thee in this world without me.
Thy wife, TERESA PANZA.
The letters were applauded, laughed over, relished, and admired; and then, as if to put the seal to the business, the courier arrived, bringing the one Sancho sent to Don Quixote, and this, too, was read out, and it raised some doubts as to the governor’s simplicity. The duchess withdrew to hear from the page about his adventures in San- cho’s village, which he narrated at full length without leaving a single circumstance unmentioned. He gave her the acorns, and also a cheese which Teresa had given him as being particularly good and superior to those of Tronchon. The duchess received it with greatest delight, in which we will leave her, to describe the end of the government of the great Sancho Panza, flower and mirror of all governors of islands.
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Chapter LIII Of the troublous end and termination Sancho Panza’s government came to
To fancy that in this life anything belonging to it will remain for ever in the same state is an idle fancy; on the contrary, in it everything seems to go in a circle, I mean round and round. The spring succeeds the summer, the summer the fall, the fall the autumn, the autumn the winter, and the winter the spring, and so time rolls with nev- er-ceasing wheel. Man’s life alone, swifter than time, speeds onward to its end without any hope of renewal, save it be in that other life which is endless and boundless. Thus saith Cide Hamete the Mahometan philosopher; for there are many that by the light of nature alone, without the light of faith, have a comprehension of the fleeting nature and instability of this present life and the endless duration of that eternal life we hope for; but our author is here speaking of the rapidity with which Sancho’s government came to an end, melted away, disappeared, vanished as it were in smoke and shadow. For as he lay in bed on the night of the seventh day of his government, sated, not with bread and wine, but with delivering judgments and giving opinions and making laws and proclamations, just as sleep, in spite of hunger, was beginning to close his eyelids, he heard such a noise of bell-ringing and shouting that one would have fancied the whole island was going to the bottom. He sat up in bed and remained listening intently to try if he could make out what could be the cause of so great an uproar; not only, however, was he unable to dis- cover what it was, but as countless drums and trumpets now helped to swell the din of the bells and shouts, he was more puzzled than ever, and filled with fear and terror; and getting up he put on a pair of slippers because of the dampness of the floor, and without throwing a dressing gown or anything of the kind over him he rushed out of the door of his room, just in time to see approaching along a corridor a band of more than twenty persons with lighted torches and naked swords in their hands, all shouting out, “To arms, to arms, senor governor, to arms! The enemy is in the island in countless numbers, and we are lost unless your skill and valour come to our support.”
Keeping up this noise, tumult, and uproar, they came to where Sancho stood dazed and bewildered by what he saw and heard, and as they approached one of them called out to him, “Arm at once, your lordship, if you would not have yourself destroyed and the whole island lost.”
“What have I to do with arming?” said Sancho. “What do I know about arms or supports? Better leave all that to my master Don Quixote, who will settle it and make all safe in a trice; for I, sinner that I am, God help me, don’t understand these scuffles.”
“Ah, senor governor,” said another, “what slackness of mettle this is! Arm yourself; here are arms for you, offen- sive and defensive; come out to the plaza and be our leader and captain; it falls upon you by right, for you are our governor.”
“Arm me then, in God’s name,” said Sancho, and they at once produced two large shields they had come pro- vided with, and placed them upon him over his shirt, without letting him put on anything else, one shield in front and the other behind, and passing his arms through openings they had made, they bound him tight with ropes, so that there he was walled and boarded up as straight as a spindle and unable to bend his knees or stir a single step. In his hand they placed a lance, on which he leant to keep himself from falling, and as soon as they had him thus fixed they bade him march forward and lead them on and give them all courage; for with him for their guide and lamp and morning star, they were sure to bring their business to a successful issue.
“How am I to march, unlucky being that I am?” said Sancho, “when I can’t stir my knee-caps, for these boards I have bound so tight to my body won’t let me. What you must do is carry me in your arms, and lay me across or set me upright in some postern, and I’ll hold it either with this lance or with my body.”
“On, senor governor!” cried another, “it is fear more than the boards that keeps you from moving; make haste, stir yourself, for there is no time to lose; the enemy is increasing in numbers, the shouts grow louder, and the dan- ger is pressing.”
Urged by these exhortations and reproaches the poor governor made an attempt to advance, but fell to the ground with such a crash that he fancied he had broken himself all to pieces. There he lay like a tortoise enclosed in its shell, or a side of bacon between two kneading-troughs, or a boat bottom up on the beach; nor did the gang of jokers feel any compassion for him when they saw him down; so far from that, extinguishing their torches they began to shout afresh and to renew the calls to arms with such energy, trampling on poor Sancho, and slashing at him over the shield with their swords in such a way that, if he had not gathered himself together and made himself small and drawn in his head between the shields, it would have fared badly with the poor governor, as, squeezed into that narrow compass, he lay, sweating and sweating again, and commending himself with all his heart to God to deliver him from his present peril. Some stumbled over him, others fell upon him, and one there was who took up a position on top of him for some time, and from thence as if from a watchtower issued orders to the troops, shouting out, “Here, our side! Here the enemy is thickest! Hold the breach there! Shut that gate! Barricade those ladders! Here with your stink-pots of pitch and resin, and kettles of boiling oil! Block the streets with feather beds!” In short, in his ardour he mentioned every little thing, and every implement and engine of war by means of which
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an assault upon a city is warded off, while the bruised and battered Sancho, who heard and suffered all, was saying to himself, “O if it would only please the Lord to let the island be lost at once, and I could see myself either dead or out of this torture!” Heaven heard his prayer, and when he least expected it he heard voices exclaiming, “Victory, victory! The enemy retreats beaten! Come, senor governor, get up, and come and enjoy the victory, and divide the spoils that have been won from the foe by the might of that invincible arm.”
“Lift me up,” said the wretched Sancho in a woebegone voice. They helped him to rise, and as soon as he was on his feet said, “The enemy I have beaten you may nail to my forehead; I don’t want to divide the spoils of the foe, I only beg and entreat some friend, if I have one, to give me a sup of wine, for I’m parched with thirst, and wipe me dry, for I’m turning to water.”
They rubbed him down, fetched him wine and unbound the shields, and he seated himself upon his bed, and with fear, agitation, and fatigue he fainted away. Those who had been concerned in the joke were now sorry they had pushed it so far; however, the anxiety his fainting away had caused them was relieved by his returning to him- self. He asked what o’clock it was; they told him it was just daybreak. He said no more, and in silence began to dress himself, while all watched him, waiting to see what the haste with which he was putting on his clothes meant.
He got himself dressed at last, and then, slowly, for he was sorely bruised and could not go fast, he proceeded to the stable, followed by all who were present, and going up to Dapple embraced him and gave him a loving kiss on the forehead, and said to him, not without tears in his eyes, “Come along, comrade and friend and partner of my toils and sorrows; when I was with you and had no cares to trouble me except mending your harness and feeding your little carcass, happy were my hours, my days, and my years; but since I left you, and mounted the towers of ambition and pride, a thousand miseries, a thousand troubles, and four thousand anxieties have entered into my soul;” and all the while he was speaking in this strain he was fixing the pack-saddle on the ass, without a word from anyone. Then having Dapple saddled, he, with great pain and difficulty, got up on him, and addressing himself to the majordomo, the secretary, the head-carver, and Pedro Recio the doctor and several others who stood by, he said, “Make way, gentlemen, and let me go back to my old freedom; let me go look for my past life, and raise myself up from this present death. I was not born to be a governor or protect islands or cities from the enemies that choose to attack them. Ploughing and digging, vinedressing and pruning, are more in my way than defending provinces or kingdoms. ‘Saint Peter is very well at Rome; I mean each of us is best following the trade he was born to. A reap- ing-hook fits my hand better than a governor’s sceptre; I’d rather have my fill of gazpacho’ than be subject to the misery of a meddling doctor who tortures me with hunger, and I’d rather lie in summer under the shade of an oak, and in winter wrap myself in a double sheepskin jacket in freedom, than go to bed between holland sheets and dress in sables under the restraint of a government. God be with your worships, and tell my lord the duke that ‘naked I was born, naked I find myself, I neither lose nor gain;’ I mean that without a farthing I came into this government, and without a farthing I go out of it, very different from the way governors commonly leave other islands. Stand aside and let me go; I have to plaster myself, for I believe every one of my ribs is crushed, thanks to the enemies that have been trampling over me to-night.”
“That is unnecessary, senor governor,” said Doctor Recio, “for I will give your worship a draught against falls and bruises that will soon make you as sound and strong as ever; and as for your diet I promise your worship to behave better, and let you eat plentifully of whatever you like.”
“You spoke late,” said Sancho. “I’d as soon turn Turk as stay any longer. Those jokes won’t pass a second time. By God I’d as soon remain in this government, or take another, even if it was offered me between two plates, as fly to heaven without wings. I am of the breed of the Panzas, and they are every one of them obstinate, and if they once say ‘odds,’ odds it must be, no matter if it is evens, in spite of all the world. Here in this stable I leave the ant’s wings that lifted me up into the air for the swifts and other birds to eat me, and let’s take to level ground and our feet once more; and if they’re not shod in pinked shoes of cordovan, they won’t want for rough sandals of hemp; ‘every ewe to her like,’ ‘and let no one stretch his leg beyond the length of the sheet;’ and now let me pass, for it’s growing late with me.”
To this the majordomo said, “Senor governor, we would let your worship go with all our hearts, though it sorely grieves us to lose you, for your wit and Christian conduct naturally make us regret you; but it is well known that every governor, before he leaves the place where he has been governing, is bound first of all to render an account. Let your worship do so for the ten days you have held the government, and then you may go and the peace of God go with you.”
“No one can demand it of me,” said Sancho, “but he whom my lord the duke shall appoint; I am going to meet him, and to him I will render an exact one; besides, when I go forth naked as I do, there is no other proof needed to show that I have governed like an angel.”
“By God the great Sancho is right,” said Doctor Recio, “and we should let him go, for the duke will be beyond measure glad to see him.”
They all agreed to this, and allowed him to go, first offering to bear him company and furnish him with all he
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wanted for his own comfort or for the journey. Sancho said he did not want anything more than a little barley for Dapple, and half a cheese and half a loaf for himself; for the distance being so short there was no occasion for any better or bulkier provant. They all embraced him, and he with tears embraced all of them, and left them filled with admiration not only at his remarks but at his firm and sensible resolution.
Chapter LVII Which treats of how Don Quixote took leave of the Duke, and of what followed with the witty and impudent Altisidora,
one of the Duchess’s damsels Don Quixote now felt it right to quit a life of such idleness as he was leading in the castle; for he fancied that he
was making himself sorely missed by suffering himself to remain shut up and inactive amid the countless luxu- ries and enjoyments his hosts lavished upon him as a knight, and he felt too that he would have to render a strict account to heaven of that indolence and seclusion; and so one day he asked the duke and duchess to grant him per- mission to take his departure. They gave it, showing at the same time that they were very sorry he was leaving them.
The duchess gave his wife’s letters to Sancho Panza, who shed tears over them, saying, “Who would have thought that such grand hopes as the news of my government bred in my wife Teresa Panza’s breast would end in my going back now to the vagabond adventures of my master Don Quixote of La Mancha? Still I’m glad to see my Teresa behaved as she ought in sending the acorns, for if she had not sent them I’d have been sorry, and she’d have shown herself ungrateful. It is a comfort to me that they can’t call that present a bribe; for I had got the government already when she sent them, and it’s but reasonable that those who have had a good turn done them should show their gratitude, if it’s only with a trifle. After all I went into the government naked, and I come out of it naked; so I can say with a safe conscience—and that’s no small matter—’naked I was born, naked I find myself, I neither lose nor gain.’”
Thus did Sancho soliloquise on the day of their departure, as Don Quixote, who had the night before taken leave of the duke and duchess, coming out made his appearance at an early hour in full armour in the courtyard of the castle. The whole household of the castle were watching him from the corridors, and the duke and duchess, too, came out to see him. Sancho was mounted on his Dapple, with his alforjas, valise, and proven, supremely happy because the duke’s majordomo, the same that had acted the part of the Trifaldi, had given him a little purse with two hundred gold crowns to meet the necessary expenses of the road, but of this Don Quixote knew nothing as yet. While all were, as has been said, observing him, suddenly from among the duennas and handmaidens the impudent and witty Altisidora lifted up her voice and said in pathetic tones:
Give ear, cruel knight; Draw rein; where’s the need
Of spurring the flanks Of that ill-broken steed?
From what art thou flying? No dragon I am,
Not even a sheep, But a tender young lamb.
Thou hast jilted a maiden As fair to behold
As nymph of Diana Or Venus of old.
Bireno, AEneas, what worse shall I call thee?
Barabbas go with thee! All evil befall thee!
In thy claws, ruthless robber, Thou bearest away
The heart of a meek Loving maid for thy prey,
Three kerchiefs thou stealest, And garters a pair,
From legs than the whitest Of marble more fair;
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And the sighs that pursue thee Would burn to the ground
Two thousand Troy Towns, If so many were found.
Bireno, AEneas, what worse shall I call thee?
Barabbas go with thee! All evil befall thee!
May no bowels of mercy To Sancho be granted,
And thy Dulcinea Be left still enchanted,
May thy falsehood to me Find its punishment in her,
For in my land the just Often pays for the sinner.
May thy grandest adventures Discomfitures prove,
May thy joys be all dreams, And forgotten thy love.
Bireno, AEneas, what worse shall I call thee?
Barabbas go with thee! All evil befall thee!
May thy name be abhorred For thy conduct to ladies,
From London to England, From Seville to Cadiz;
May thy cards be unlucky, Thy hands contain ne’er a
King, seven, or ace When thou playest primera;
When thy corns are cut May it be to the quick;
When thy grinders are drawn May the roots of them stick.
Bireno, AEneas, what worse shall I call thee?
Barabbas go with thee! All evil befall thee!
All the while the unhappy Altisidora was bewailing herself in the above strain Don Quixote stood staring at her; and without uttering a word in reply to her he turned round to Sancho and said, “Sancho my friend, I conjure thee by the life of thy forefathers tell me the truth; say, hast thou by any chance taken the three kerchiefs and the garters this love-sick maid speaks of ?”
To this Sancho made answer, “The three kerchiefs I have; but the garters, as much as ‘over the hills of Ubeda.’” The duchess was amazed at Altisidora’s assurance; she knew that she was bold, lively, and impudent, but not so
much so as to venture to make free in this fashion; and not being prepared for the joke, her astonishment was all the greater. The duke had a mind to keep up the sport, so he said, “It does not seem to me well done in you, sir knight, that after having received the hospitality that has been offered you in this very castle, you should have ventured to carry off even three kerchiefs, not to say my handmaid’s garters. It shows a bad heart and does not tally with your reputation. Restore her garters, or else I defy you to mortal combat, for I am not afraid of rascally enchanters changing or altering my features as they changed his who encountered you into those of my lacquey, Tosilos.”
“God forbid,” said Don Quixote, “that I should draw my sword against your illustrious person from which I have received such great favours. The kerchiefs I will restore, as Sancho says he has them; as to the garters that is
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impossible, for I have not got them, neither has he; and if your handmaiden here will look in her hiding-places, depend upon it she will find them. I have never been a thief, my lord duke, nor do I mean to be so long as I live, if God cease not to have me in his keeping. This damsel by her own confession speaks as one in love, for which I am not to blame, and therefore need not ask pardon, either of her or of your excellence, whom I entreat to have a better opinion of me, and once more to give me leave to pursue my journey.”
“And may God so prosper it, Senor Don Quixote,” said the duchess, “that we may always hear good news of your exploits; God speed you; for the longer you stay, the more you inflame the hearts of the damsels who behold you; and as for this one of mine, I will so chastise her that she will not transgress again, either with her eyes or with her words.”
“One word and no more, O valiant Don Quixote, I ask you to hear,” said Altisidora, “and that is that I beg your pardon about the theft of the garters; for by God and upon my soul I have got them on, and I have fallen into the same blunder as he did who went looking for his ass being all the while mounted on it.”
“Didn’t I say so?” said Sancho. “I’m a likely one to hide thefts! Why if I wanted to deal in them, opportunities came ready enough to me in my government.”
Don Quixote bowed his head, and saluted the duke and duchess and all the bystanders, and wheeling Rocinante round, Sancho following him on Dapple, he rode out of the castle, shaping his course for Saragossa.
Chapter LXIV Treating of the adventure which gave Don Quixote more unhappiness than all that had hitherto befallen him
The wife of Don Antonio Moreno, so the history says, was extremely happy to see Ana Felix in her house. She welcomed her with great kindness, charmed as well by her beauty as by her intelligence; for in both respects the fair Morisco was richly endowed, and all the people of the city flocked to see her as though they had been summoned by the ringing of the bells.
Don Quixote told Don Antonio that the plan adopted for releasing Don Gregorio was not a good one, for its risks were greater than its advantages, and that it would be better to land himself with his arms and horse in Bar- bary; for he would carry him off in spite of the whole Moorish host, as Don Gaiferos carried off his wife Melisendra.
“Remember, your worship,” observed Sancho on hearing him say so, “Senor Don Gaiferos carried off his wife from the mainland, and took her to France by land; but in this case, if by chance we carry off Don Gregorio, we have no way of bringing him to Spain, for there’s the sea between.” “There’s a remedy for everything except death,” said Don Quixote; “if they bring the vessel close to the shore we
shall be able to get on board though all the world strive to prevent us.” “Your worship hits it off mighty well and mighty easy,” said Sancho; “but ‘it’s a long step from saying to doing;’
and I hold to the renegade, for he seems to me an honest good-hearted fellow.” Don Antonio then said that if the renegade did not prove successful, the expedient of the great Don Quixote’s
expedition to Barbary should be adopted. Two days afterwards the renegade put to sea in a light vessel of six oars a-side manned by a stout crew, and two days later the galleys made sail eastward, the general having begged the viceroy to let him know all about the release of Don Gregorio and about Ana Felix, and the viceroy promised to do as he requested.
One morning as Don Quixote went out for a stroll along the beach, arrayed in full armour (for, as he often said, that was “his only gear, his only rest the fray,” and he never was without it for a moment), he saw coming towards him a knight, also in full armour, with a shining moon painted on his shield, who, on approaching sufficiently near to be heard, said in a loud voice, addressing himself to Don Quixote, “Illustrious knight, and never sufficiently extolled Don Quixote of La Mancha, I am the Knight of the White Moon, whose unheard-of achievements will per- haps have recalled him to thy memory. I come to do battle with thee and prove the might of thy arm, to the end that I make thee acknowledge and confess that my lady, let her be who she may, is incomparably fairer than thy Dul- cinea del Toboso. If thou dost acknowledge this fairly and openly, thou shalt escape death and save me the trouble of inflicting it upon thee; if thou fightest and I vanquish thee, I demand no other satisfaction than that, laying aside arms and abstaining from going in quest of adventures, thou withdraw and betake thyself to thine own village for the space of a year, and live there without putting hand to sword, in peace and quiet and beneficial repose, the same being needful for the increase of thy substance and the salvation of thy soul; and if thou dost vanquish me, my head shall be at thy disposal, my arms and horse thy spoils, and the renown of my deeds transferred and added to thine. Consider which will be thy best course, and give me thy answer speedily, for this day is all the time I have for the despatch of this business.”
Don Quixote was amazed and astonished, as well at the Knight of the White Moon’s arrogance, as at his reason for delivering the defiance, and with calm dignity he answered him, “Knight of the White Moon, of whose achieve- ments I have never heard until now, I will venture to swear you have never seen the illustrious Dulcinea; for had
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you seen her I know you would have taken care not to venture yourself upon this issue, because the sight would have removed all doubt from your mind that there ever has been or can be a beauty to be compared with hers; and so, not saying you lie, but merely that you are not correct in what you state, I accept your challenge, with the condi- tions you have proposed, and at once, that the day you have fixed may not expire; and from your conditions I except only that of the renown of your achievements being transferred to me, for I know not of what sort they are nor what they may amount to; I am satisfied with my own, such as they be. Take, therefore, the side of the field you choose, and I will do the same; and to whom God shall give it may Saint Peter add his blessing.”
The Knight of the White Moon had been seen from the city, and it was told the viceroy how he was in conver- sation with Don Quixote. The viceroy, fancying it must be some fresh adventure got up by Don Antonio Moreno or some other gentleman of the city, hurried out at once to the beach accompanied by Don Antonio and several other gentlemen, just as Don Quixote was wheeling Rocinante round in order to take up the necessary distance. The viceroy upon this, seeing that the pair of them were evidently preparing to come to the charge, put himself between them, asking them what it was that led them to engage in combat all of a sudden in this way. The Knight of the White Moon replied that it was a question of precedence of beauty; and briefly told him what he had said to Don Quixote, and how the conditions of the defiance agreed upon on both sides had been accepted. The viceroy went over to Don Antonio, and asked in a low voice did he know who the Knight of the White Moon was, or was it some joke they were playing on Don Quixote. Don Antonio replied that he neither knew who he was nor whether the de- fiance was in joke or in earnest. This answer left the viceroy in a state of perplexity, not knowing whether he ought to let the combat go on or not; but unable to persuade himself that it was anything but a joke he fell back, saying, “If there be no other way out of it, gallant knights, except to confess or die, and Don Quixote is inflexible, and your worship of the White Moon still more so, in God’s hand be it, and fall on.”
He of the White Moon thanked the viceroy in courteous and well-chosen words for the permission he gave them, and so did Don Quixote, who then, commending himself with all his heart to heaven and to his Dulcinea, as was his custom on the eve of any combat that awaited him, proceeded to take a little more distance, as he saw his antagonist was doing the same; then, without blast of trumpet or other warlike instrument to give them the signal to charge, both at the same instant wheeled their horses; and he of the White Moon, being the swifter, met Don Quixote after having traversed two-thirds of the course, and there encountered him with such violence that, without touching him with his lance (for he held it high, to all appearance purposely), he hurled Don Quixote and Rocinante to the earth, a perilous fall. He sprang upon him at once, and placing the lance over his visor said to him, “You are vanquished, sir knight, nay dead unless you admit the conditions of our defiance.”
Don Quixote, bruised and stupefied, without raising his visor said in a weak feeble voice as if he were speaking out of a tomb, “Dulcinea del Toboso is the fairest woman in the world, and I the most unfortunate knight on earth; it is not fitting that this truth should suffer by my feebleness; drive your lance home, sir knight, and take my life, since you have taken away my honour.”
“That will I not, in sooth,” said he of the White Moon; “live the fame of the lady Dulcinea’s beauty undimmed as ever; all I require is that the great Don Quixote retire to his own home for a year, or for so long a time as shall by me be enjoined upon him, as we agreed before engaging in this combat.”
The viceroy, Don Antonio, and several others who were present heard all this, and heard too how Don Quixote replied that so long as nothing in prejudice of Dulcinea was demanded of him, he would observe all the rest like a true and loyal knight. The engagement given, he of the White Moon wheeled about, and making obeisance to the viceroy with a movement of the head, rode away into the city at a half gallop. The viceroy bade Don Antonio hasten after him, and by some means or other find out who he was. They raised Don Quixote up and uncovered his face, and found him pale and bathed with sweat.
Rocinante from the mere hard measure he had received lay unable to stir for the present. Sancho, wholly de- jected and woebegone, knew not what to say or do. He fancied that all was a dream, that the whole business was a piece of enchantment. Here was his master defeated, and bound not to take up arms for a year. He saw the light of the glory of his achievements obscured; the hopes of the promises lately made him swept away like smoke before the wind; Rocinante, he feared, was crippled for life, and his master’s bones out of joint; for if he were only shaken out of his madness it would be no small luck. In the end they carried him into the city in a hand-chair which the viceroy sent for, and thither the viceroy himself returned, eager to ascertain who this Knight of the White Moon was who had left Don Quixote in such a sad plight.
Chapter LXV Wherein is made known who the knight of the white moon was; likewise Don Gregorio’s release, and other events Don Antonia Moreno followed the Knight of the White Moon, and a number of boys followed him too, nay
pursued him, until they had him fairly housed in a hostel in the heart of the city. Don Antonio, eager to make his
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acquaintance, entered also; a squire came out to meet him and remove his armour, and he shut himself into a lower room, still attended by Don Antonio, whose bread would not bake until he had found out who he was. He of the White Moon, seeing then that the gentleman would not leave him, said, “I know very well, senor, what you have come for; it is to find out who I am; and as there is no reason why I should conceal it from you, while my servant here is taking off my armour I will tell you the true state of the case, without leaving out anything. You must know, senor, that I am called the bachelor Samson Carrasco. I am of the same village as Don Quixote of La Mancha, whose craze and folly make all of us who know him feel pity for him, and I am one of those who have felt it most; and persuaded that his chance of recovery lay in quiet and keeping at home and in his own house, I hit upon a device for keeping him there. Three months ago, therefore, I went out to meet him as a knight-errant, under the assumed name of the Knight of the Mirrors, intending to engage him in combat and overcome him without hurt- ing him, making it the condition of our combat that the vanquished should be at the disposal of the victor. What I meant to demand of him (for I regarded him as vanquished already) was that he should return to his own village, and not leave it for a whole year, by which time he might be cured. But fate ordered it otherwise, for he vanquished me and unhorsed me, and so my plan failed. He went his way, and I came back conquered, covered with shame, and sorely bruised by my fall, which was a particularly dangerous one. But this did not quench my desire to meet him again and overcome him, as you have seen to-day. And as he is so scrupulous in his observance of the laws of knight-errantry, he will, no doubt, in order to keep his word, obey the injunction I have laid upon him. This, senor, is how the matter stands, and I have nothing more to tell you. I implore of you not to betray me, or tell Don Quixote who I am; so that my honest endeavours may be successful, and that a man of excellent wits—were he only rid of the fooleries of chivalry—may get them back again.”
“O senor,” said Don Antonio, “may God forgive you the wrong you have done the whole world in trying to bring the most amusing madman in it back to his senses. Do you not see, senor, that the gain by Don Quixote’s sanity can never equal the enjoyment his crazes give? But my belief is that all the senor bachelor’s pains will be of no avail to bring a man so hopelessly cracked to his senses again; and if it were not uncharitable, I would say may Don Quixote never be cured, for by his recovery we lose not only his own drolleries, but his squire Sancho Panza’s too, any one of which is enough to turn melancholy itself into merriment. However, I’ll hold my peace and say nothing to him, and we’ll see whether I am right in my suspicion that Senor Carrasco’s efforts will be fruitless.”
The bachelor replied that at all events the affair promised well, and he hoped for a happy result from it; and putting his services at Don Antonio’s commands he took his leave of him; and having had his armour packed at once upon a mule, he rode away from the city the same day on the horse he rode to battle, and returned to his own country without meeting any adventure calling for record in this veracious history.
Don Antonio reported to the viceroy what Carrasco told him, and the viceroy was not very well pleased to hear it, for with Don Quixote’s retirement there was an end to the amusement of all who knew anything of his mad doings.
Six days did Don Quixote keep his bed, dejected, melancholy, moody and out of sorts, brooding over the unhappy event of his defeat. Sancho strove to comfort him, and among other things he said to him, “Hold up your head, senor, and be of good cheer if you can, and give thanks to heaven that if you have had a tumble to the ground you have not come off with a broken rib; and, as you know that ‘where they give they take,’ and that ‘there are not always fletches where there are pegs,’ a fig for the doctor, for there’s no need of him to cure this ailment. Let us go home, and give over going about in search of adventures in strange lands and places; rightly looked at, it is I that am the greater loser, though it is your worship that has had the worse usage. With the government I gave up all wish to be a governor again, but I did not give up all longing to be a count; and that will never come to pass if your worship gives up becoming a king by renouncing the calling of chivalry; and so my hopes are going to turn into smoke.”
“Peace, Sancho,” said Don Quixote; “thou seest my suspension and retirement is not to exceed a year; I shall soon return to my honoured calling, and I shall not be at a loss for a kingdom to win and a county to bestow on thee.”
“May God hear it and sin be deaf,” said Sancho; “I have always heard say that ‘a good hope is better than a bad holding.”
As they were talking Don Antonio came in looking extremely pleased and exclaiming, “Reward me for my good news, Senor Don Quixote! Don Gregorio and the renegade who went for him have come ashore—ashore do I say? They are by this time in the viceroy’s house, and will be here immediately.”
Don Quixote cheered up a little and said, “Of a truth I am almost ready to say I should have been glad had it turned out just the other way, for it would have obliged me to cross over to Barbary, where by the might of my arm I should have restored to liberty, not only Don Gregorio, but all the Christian captives there are in Barbary. But what am I saying, miserable being that I am? Am I not he that has been conquered? Am I not he that has been overthrown? Am I not he who must not take up arms for a year? Then what am I making professions for; what am I bragging about; when it is fitter for me to handle the distaff than the sword?”
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“No more of that, senor,” said Sancho; “’let the hen live, even though it be with her pip; ‘today for thee and to-morrow for me;’ in these affairs of encounters and whacks one must not mind them, for he that falls to-day may get up to-morrow; unless indeed he chooses to lie in bed, I mean gives way to weakness and does not pluck up fresh spirit for fresh battles; let your worship get up now to receive Don Gregorio; for the household seems to be in a bustle, and no doubt he has come by this time;” and so it proved, for as soon as Don Gregorio and the renegade had given the viceroy an account of the voyage out and home, Don Gregorio, eager to see Ana Felix, came with the renegade to Don Antonio’s house. When they carried him away from Algiers he was in woman’s dress; on board the vessel, however, he exchanged it for that of a captive who escaped with him; but in whatever dress he might be he looked like one to be loved and served and esteemed, for he was surpassingly well-favoured, and to judge by appearances some seventeen or eighteen years of age. Ricote and his daughter came out to welcome him, the father with tears, the daughter with bashfulness. They did not embrace each other, for where there is deep love there will never be overmuch boldness. Seen side by side, the comeliness of Don Gregorio and the beauty of Ana Felix were the admiration of all who were present. It was silence that spoke for the lovers at that moment, and their eyes were the tongues that declared their pure and happy feelings. The renegade explained the measures and means he had adopted to rescue Don Gregorio, and Don Gregorio at no great length, but in a few words, in which he showed that his intelligence was in advance of his years, described the peril and embarrassment he found himself in among the women with whom he had sojourned. To conclude, Ricote liberally recompensed and rewarded as well the rene- gade as the men who had rowed; and the renegade effected his readmission into the body of the Church and was reconciled with it, and from a rotten limb became by penance and repentance a clean and sound one.
Two days later the viceroy discussed with Don Antonio the steps they should take to enable Ana Felix and her father to stay in Spain, for it seemed to them there could be no objection to a daughter who was so good a Christian and a father to all appearance so well disposed remaining there. Don Antonio offered to arrange the matter at the capital, whither he was compelled to go on some other business, hinting that many a difficult affair was settled there with the help of favour and bribes.
“Nay,” said Ricote, who was present during the conversation, “it will not do to rely upon favour or bribes, because with the great Don Bernardino de Velasco, Conde de Salazar, to whom his Majesty has entrusted our expulsion, neither entreaties nor promises, bribes nor appeals to compassion, are of any use; for though it is true he mingles mercy with justice, still, seeing that the whole body of our nation is tainted and corrupt, he applies to it the cautery that burns rather than the salve that soothes; and thus, by prudence, sagacity, care and the fear he inspires, he has borne on his mighty shoulders the weight of this great policy and carried it into effect, all our schemes and plots, importunities and wiles, being ineffectual to blind his Argus eyes, ever on the watch lest one of us should remain behind in concealment, and like a hidden root come in course of time to sprout and bear poisonous fruit in Spain, now cleansed, and relieved of the fear in which our vast numbers kept it. Heroic resolve of the great Philip the Third, and unparalleled wisdom to have entrusted it to the said Don Bernardino de Velasco!”
“At any rate,” said Don Antonio, “when I am there I will make all possible efforts, and let heaven do as pleases it best; Don Gregorio will come with me to relieve the anxiety which his parents must be suffering on account of his absence; Ana Felix will remain in my house with my wife, or in a monastery; and I know the viceroy will be glad that the worthy Ricote should stay with him until we see what terms I can make.”
The viceroy agreed to all that was proposed; but Don Gregorio on learning what had passed declared he could not and would not on any account leave Ana Felix; however, as it was his purpose to go and see his parents and de- vise some way of returning for her, he fell in with the proposed arrangement. Ana Felix remained with Don Anto- nio’s wife, and Ricote in the viceroy’s house.
The day for Don Antonio’s departure came; and two days later that for Don Quixote’s and Sancho’s, for Don Quixote’s fall did not suffer him to take the road sooner. There were tears and sighs, swoonings and sobs, at the parting between Don Gregorio and Ana Felix. Ricote offered Don Gregorio a thousand crowns if he would have them, but he would not take any save five which Don Antonio lent him and he promised to repay at the capital. So the two of them took their departure, and Don Quixote and Sancho afterwards, as has been already said, Don Quix- ote without his armour and in travelling gear, and Sancho on foot, Dapple being loaded with the armour.
Chapter LXIX Of the strangest and most extraordinary adventure that befell Don Quixote in the whole course of this great history
The horsemen dismounted, and, together with the men on foot, without a moment’s delay taking up San- cho and Don Quixote bodily, they carried them into the court, all round which near a hundred torches fixed in sockets were burning, besides above five hundred lamps in the corridors, so that in spite of the night, which was somewhat dark, the want of daylight could not be perceived. In the middle of the court was a catafalque, raised about two yards above the ground and covered completely by an immense canopy of black velvet, and on the
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steps all round it white wax tapers burned in more than a hundred silver candlesticks. Upon the catafalque was seen the dead body of a damsel so lovely that by her beauty she made death itself look beautiful. She lay with her head resting upon a cushion of brocade and crowned with a garland of sweet-smelling flowers of divers sorts, her hands crossed upon her bosom, and between them a branch of yellow palm of victory. On one side of the court was erected a stage, where upon two chairs were seated two persons who from having crowns on their heads and sceptres in their hands appeared to be kings of some sort, whether real or mock ones. By the side of this stage, which was reached by steps, were two other chairs on which the men carrying the prisoners seated Don Quixote and Sancho, all in silence, and by signs giving them to understand that they too were to be silent; which, how- ever, they would have been without any signs, for their amazement at all they saw held them tongue-tied. And now two persons of distinction, who were at once recognised by Don Quixote as his hosts the duke and duchess, ascended the stage attended by a numerous suite, and seated themselves on two gorgeous chairs close to the two kings, as they seemed to be. Who would not have been amazed at this? Nor was this all, for Don Quixote had perceived that the dead body on the catafalque was that of the fair Altisidora. As the duke and duchess mounted the stage Don Quixote and Sancho rose and made them a profound obeisance, which they returned by bowing their heads slightly. At this moment an official crossed over, and approaching Sancho threw over him a robe of black buckram painted all over with flames of fire, and taking off his cap put upon his head a mitre such as those undergoing the sentence of the Holy Office wear; and whispered in his ear that he must not open his lips, or they would put a gag upon him, or take his life. Sancho surveyed himself from head to foot and saw himself all ablaze with flames; but as they did not burn him, he did not care two farthings for them. He took off the mitre, and seeing it painted with devils he put it on again, saying to himself, “Well, so far those don’t burn me nor do these carry me off.” Don Quixote surveyed him too, and though fear had got the better of his faculties, he could not help smiling to see the figure Sancho presented. And now from underneath the catafalque, so it seemed, there rose a low sweet sound of flutes, which, coming unbroken by human voice (for there silence itself kept silence), had a soft and languishing effect. Then, beside the pillow of what seemed to be the dead body, suddenly appeared a fair youth in a Roman habit, who, to the accompaniment of a harp which he himself played, sang in a sweet and clear voice these two stanzas:
While fair Altisidora, who the sport Of cold Don Quixote’s cruelty hath been, Returns to life, and in this magic court The dames in sables come to grace the scene, And while her matrons all in seemly sort My lady robes in baize and bombazine, Her beauty and her sorrows will I sing With defter quill than touched the Thracian string.
But not in life alone, methinks, to me Belongs the office; Lady, when my tongue Is cold in death, believe me, unto thee My voice shall raise its tributary song. My soul, from this strait prison-house set free, As o’er the Stygian lake it floats along, Thy praises singing still shall hold its way, And make the waters of oblivion stay.
At this point one of the two that looked like kings exclaimed, “Enough, enough, divine singer! It would be an endless task to put before us now the death and the charms of the peerless Altisidora, not dead as the ignorant world imagines, but living in the voice of fame and in the penance which Sancho Panza, here present, has to under- go to restore her to the long-lost light. Do thou, therefore, O Rhadamanthus, who sittest in judgment with me in the murky caverns of Dis, as thou knowest all that the inscrutable fates have decreed touching the resuscitation of this damsel, announce and declare it at once, that the happiness we look forward to from her restoration be no longer deferred.”
No sooner had Minos the fellow judge of Rhadamanthus said this, than Rhadamanthus rising up said: “Ho, officials of this house, high and low, great and small, make haste hither one and all, and print on Sancho’s
face four-and-twenty smacks, and give him twelve pinches and six pin thrusts in the back and arms; for upon this ceremony depends the restoration of Altisidora.”
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On hearing this Sancho broke silence and cried out, “By all that’s good, I’ll as soon let my face be smacked or handled as turn Moor. Body o’ me! What has handling my face got to do with the resurrection of this damsel? ‘The old woman took kindly to the blits; they enchant Dulcinea, and whip me in order to disenchant her; Altisidora dies of ailments God was pleased to send her, and to bring her to life again they must give me four-and-twenty smacks, and prick holes in my body with pins, and raise weals on my arms with pinches! Try those jokes on a brother-in- law; ‘I’m an old dog, and “tus, tus” is no use with me.’”
“Thou shalt die,” said Rhadamanthus in a loud voice; “relent, thou tiger; humble thyself, proud Nimrod; suffer and be silent, for no impossibilities are asked of thee; it is not for thee to inquire into the difficulties in this matter; smacked thou must be, pricked thou shalt see thyself, and with pinches thou must be made to howl. Ho, I say, offi- cials, obey my orders; or by the word of an honest man, ye shall see what ye were born for.”
At this some six duennas, advancing across the court, made their appearance in procession, one after the other, four of them with spectacles, and all with their right hands uplifted, showing four fingers of wrist to make their hands look longer, as is the fashion now-a-days. No sooner had Sancho caught sight of them than, bellowing like a bull, he exclaimed, “I might let myself be handled by all the world; but allow duennas to touch me—not a bit of it! Scratch my face, as my master was served in this very castle; run me through the body with burnished daggers; pinch my arms with red-hot pincers; I’ll bear all in patience to serve these gentlefolk; but I won’t let duennas touch me, though the devil should carry me off !”
Here Don Quixote, too, broke silence, saying to Sancho, “Have patience, my son, and gratify these noble per- sons, and give all thanks to heaven that it has infused such virtue into thy person, that by its sufferings thou canst disenchant the enchanted and restore to life the dead.”
The duennas were now close to Sancho, and he, having become more tractable and reasonable, settling himself well in his chair presented his face and beard to the first, who delivered him a smack very stoutly laid on, and then made him a low curtsey.
“Less politeness and less paint, senora duenna,” said Sancho; “by God your hands smell of vinegar-wash.” In fine, all the duennas smacked him and several others of the household pinched him; but what he could not
stand was being pricked by the pins; and so, apparently out of patience, he started up out of his chair, and seizing a lighted torch that stood near him fell upon the duennas and the whole set of his tormentors, exclaiming, “Begone, ye ministers of hell; I’m not made of brass not to feel such out-of-the-way tortures.”
At this instant Altisidora, who probably was tired of having been so long lying on her back, turned on her side; seeing which the bystanders cried out almost with one voice, “Altisidora is alive! Altisidora lives!”
Rhadamanthus bade Sancho put away his wrath, as the object they had in view was now attained. When Don Quixote saw Altisidora move, he went on his knees to Sancho saying to him, “Now is the time, son of my bowels, not to call thee my squire, for thee to give thyself some of those lashes thou art bound to lay on for the disenchant- ment of Dulcinea. Now, I say, is the time when the virtue that is in thee is ripe, and endowed with efficacy to work the good that is looked for from thee.”
To which Sancho made answer, “That’s trick upon trick, I think, and not honey upon pancakes; a nice thing it would be for a whipping to come now, on the top of pinches, smacks, and pin-proddings! You had better take a big stone and tie it round my neck, and pitch me into a well; I should not mind it much, if I’m to be always made the cow of the wedding for the cure of other people’s ailments. Leave me alone; or else by God I’ll fling the whole thing to the dogs, let come what may.”
Altisidora had by this time sat up on the catafalque, and as she did so the clarions sounded, accompanied by the flutes, and the voices of all present exclaiming, “Long life to Altisidora! long life to Altisidora!” The duke and duch- ess and the kings Minos and Rhadamanthus stood up, and all, together with Don Quixote and Sancho, advanced to receive her and take her down from the catafalque; and she, making as though she were recovering from a swoon, bowed her head to the duke and duchess and to the kings, and looking sideways at Don Quixote, said to him, “God forgive thee, insensible knight, for through thy cruelty I have been, to me it seems, more than a thousand years in the other world; and to thee, the most compassionate upon earth, I render thanks for the life I am now in posses- sion of. From this day forth, friend Sancho, count as thine six smocks of mine which I bestow upon thee, to make as many shirts for thyself, and if they are not all quite whole, at any rate they are all clean.”
Sancho kissed her hands in gratitude, kneeling, and with the mitre in his hand. The duke bade them take it from him, and give him back his cap and doublet and remove the flaming robe. Sancho begged the duke to let them leave him the robe and mitre; as he wanted to take them home for a token and memento of that unexampled adven- ture. The duchess said they must leave them with him; for he knew already what a great friend of his she was. The duke then gave orders that the court should be cleared, and that all should retire to their chambers, and that Don Quixote and Sancho should be conducted to their old quarters.
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Chapter LXX Which follows sixty-nine and deals with matters indispensable for the clear comprehension of this history
Sancho slept that night in a cot in the same chamber with Don Quixote, a thing he would have gladly excused if he could for he knew very well that with questions and answers his master would not let him sleep, and he was in no humour for talking much, as he still felt the pain of his late martyrdom, which interfered with his freedom of speech; and it would have been more to his taste to sleep in a hovel alone, than in that luxurious chamber in company. And so well founded did his apprehension prove, and so correct was his anticipation, that scarcely had his master got into bed when he said, “What dost thou think of tonight’s adventure, Sancho? Great and mighty is the power of cold-hearted scorn, for thou with thine own eyes hast seen Altisidora slain, not by arrows, nor by the sword, nor by any warlike weapon, nor by deadly poisons, but by the thought of the sternness and scorn with which I have always treated her.”
“She might have died and welcome,” said Sancho, “when she pleased and how she pleased; and she might have left me alone, for I never made her fall in love or scorned her. I don’t know nor can I imagine how the recovery of Altisidora, a damsel more fanciful than wise, can have, as I have said before, anything to do with the sufferings of Sancho Panza. Now I begin to see plainly and clearly that there are enchanters and enchanted people in the world; and may God deliver me from them, since I can’t deliver myself; and so I beg of your worship to let me sleep and not ask me any more questions, unless you want me to throw myself out of the window.”
“Sleep, Sancho my friend,” said Don Quixote, “if the pinprodding and pinches thou hast received and the smacks administered to thee will let thee.”
“No pain came up to the insult of the smacks,” said Sancho, “for the simple reason that it was duennas, con- found them, that gave them to me; but once more I entreat your worship to let me sleep, for sleep is relief from misery to those who are miserable when awake.”
“Be it so, and God be with thee,” said Don Quixote. They fell asleep, both of them, and Cide Hamete, the author of this great history, took this opportunity to re-
cord and relate what it was that induced the duke and duchess to get up the elaborate plot that has been described. The bachelor Samson Carrasco, he says, not forgetting how he as the Knight of the Mirrors had been vanquished and overthrown by Don Quixote, which defeat and overthrow upset all his plans, resolved to try his hand again, hoping for better luck than he had before; and so, having learned where Don Quixote was from the page who brought the letter and present to Sancho’s wife, Teresa Panza, he got himself new armour and another horse, and put a white moon upon his shield, and to carry his arms he had a mule led by a peasant, not by Tom Cecial his former squire for fear he should be recognised by Sancho or Don Quixote. He came to the duke’s castle, and the duke informed him of the road and route Don Quixote had taken with the intention of being present at the jousts at Saragossa. He told him, too, of the jokes he had practised upon him, and of the device for the disenchantment of Dulcinea at the expense of Sancho’s backside; and finally he gave him an account of the trick Sancho had played upon his master, making him believe that Dulcinea was enchanted and turned into a country wench; and of how the duchess, his wife, had persuaded Sancho that it was he himself who was deceived, inasmuch as Dulcinea was really enchanted; at which the bachelor laughed not a little, and marvelled as well at the sharpness and simplicity of Sancho as at the length to which Don Quixote’s madness went. The duke begged of him if he found him (whether he overcame him or not) to return that way and let him know the result. This the bachelor did; he set out in quest of Don Quixote, and not finding him at Saragossa, he went on, and how he fared has been already told. He returned to the duke’s castle and told him all, what the conditions of the combat were, and how Don Quixote was now, like a loyal knight-errant, returning to keep his promise of retiring to his village for a year, by which time, said the bache- lor, he might perhaps be cured of his madness; for that was the object that had led him to adopt these disguises, as it was a sad thing for a gentleman of such good parts as Don Quixote to be a madman. And so he took his leave of the duke, and went home to his village to wait there for Don Quixote, who was coming after him. Thereupon the duke seized the opportunity of practising this mystification upon him; so much did he enjoy everything connected with Sancho and Don Quixote. He had the roads about the castle far and near, everywhere he thought Don Quixote was likely to pass on his return, occupied by large numbers of his servants on foot and on horseback, who were to bring him to the castle, by fair means or foul, if they met him. They did meet him, and sent word to the duke, who, having already settled what was to be done, as soon as he heard of his arrival, ordered the torches and lamps in the court to be lit and Altisidora to be placed on the catafalque with all the pomp and ceremony that has been described, the whole affair being so well arranged and acted that it differed but little from reality. And Cide Hamete says, more- over, that for his part he considers the concocters of the joke as crazy as the victims of it, and that the duke and duchess were not two fingers’ breadth removed from being something like fools themselves when they took such pains to make game of a pair of fools.
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As for the latter, one was sleeping soundly and the other lying awake occupied with his desultory thoughts, when daylight came to them bringing with it the desire to rise; for the lazy down was never a delight to Don Quixo- te, victor or vanquished. Altisidora, come back from death to life as Don Quixote fancied, following up the freak of her lord and lady, entered the chamber, crowned with the garland she had worn on the catafalque and in a robe of white taffeta embroidered with gold flowers, her hair flowing loose over her shoulders, and leaning upon a staff of fine black ebony. Don Quixote, disconcerted and in confusion at her appearance, huddled himself up and well-nigh covered himself altogether with the sheets and counterpane of the bed, tongue-tied, and unable to offer her any civility. Altisidora seated herself on a chair at the head of the bed, and, after a deep sigh, said to him in a feeble, soft voice, “When women of rank and modest maidens trample honour under foot, and give a loose to the tongue that breaks through every impediment, publishing abroad the inmost secrets of their hearts, they are reduced to sore extremities. Such a one am I, Senor Don Quixote of La Mancha, crushed, conquered, love-smitten, but yet patient under suffering and virtuous, and so much so that my heart broke with grief and I lost my life. For the last two days I have been dead, slain by the thought of the cruelty with which thou hast treated me, obdurate knight,
O harder thou than marble to my plaint; or at least believed to be dead by all who saw me; and had it not been that Love, taking pity on me, let my re-
covery rest upon the sufferings of this good squire, there I should have remained in the other world.” “Love might very well have let it rest upon the sufferings of my ass, and I should have been obliged to him,” said
Sancho. “But tell me, senora—and may heaven send you a tenderer lover than my master-what did you see in the other world? What goes on in hell? For of course that’s where one who dies in despair is bound for.”
“To tell you the truth,” said Altisidora, “I cannot have died outright, for I did not go into hell; had I gone in, it is very certain I should never have come out again, do what I might. The truth is, I came to the gate, where some dozen or so of devils were playing tennis, all in breeches and doublets, with falling collars trimmed with Flemish bonelace, and ruffles of the same that served them for wristbands, with four fingers’ breadth of the arms exposed to make their hands look longer; in their hands they held rackets of fire; but what amazed me still more was that books, apparently full of wind and rubbish, served them for tennis balls, a strange and marvellous thing; this, how- ever, did not astonish me so much as to observe that, although with players it is usual for the winners to be glad and the losers sorry, there in that game all were growling, all were snarling, and all were cursing one another.” “That’s no wonder,” said Sancho; “for devils, whether playing or not, can never be content, win or lose.”
“Very likely,” said Altisidora; “but there is another thing that surprises me too, I mean surprised me then, and that was that no ball outlasted the first throw or was of any use a second time; and it was wonderful the constant succession there was of books, new and old. To one of them, a brand-new, well-bound one, they gave such a stroke that they knocked the guts out of it and scattered the leaves about. ‘Look what book that is,’ said one devil to anoth- er, and the other replied, ‘It is the “Second Part of the History of Don Quixote of La Mancha,” not by Cide Hamete, the original author, but by an Aragonese who by his own account is of Tordesillas.’ ‘Out of this with it,’ said the first, ‘and into the depths of hell with it out of my sight.’ ‘Is it so bad?’ said the other. ‘So bad is it,’ said the first, ‘that if I had set myself deliberately to make a worse, I could not have done it.’ They then went on with their game, knocking other books about; and I, having heard them mention the name of Don Quixote whom I love and adore so, took care to retain this vision in my memory.”
“A vision it must have been, no doubt,” said Don Quixote, “for there is no other I in the world; this history has been going about here for some time from hand to hand, but it does not stay long in any, for everybody gives it a taste of his foot. I am not disturbed by hearing that I am wandering in a fantastic shape in the darkness of the pit or in the daylight above, for I am not the one that history treats of. If it should be good, faithful, and true, it will have ages of life; but if it should be bad, from its birth to its burial will not be a very long journey.”
Altisidora was about to proceed with her complaint against Don Quixote, when he said to her, “I have several times told you, senora that it grieves me you should have set your affections upon me, as from mine they can only receive gratitude, but no return. I was born to belong to Dulcinea del Toboso, and the fates, if there are any, dedi- cated me to her; and to suppose that any other beauty can take the place she occupies in my heart is to suppose an impossibility. This frank declaration should suffice to make you retire within the bounds of your modesty, for no one can bind himself to do impossibilities.”
Hearing this, Altisidora, with a show of anger and agitation, exclaimed, “God’s life! Don Stockfish, soul of a mortar, stone of a date, more obstinate and obdurate than a clown asked a favour when he has his mind made up, if I fall upon you I’ll tear your eyes out! Do you fancy, Don Vanquished, Don Cudgelled, that I died for your sake? All that you have seen to-night has been make-believe; I’m not the woman to let the black of my nail suffer for such a camel, much less die!”
“That I can well believe,” said Sancho; “for all that about lovers pining to death is absurd; they may talk of it, but as for doing it-Judas may believe that!”
While they were talking, the musician, singer, and poet, who had sung the two stanzas given above came in, and making a profound obeisance to Don Quixote said, “Will your worship, sir knight, reckon and retain me in the
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number of your most faithful servants, for I have long been a great admirer of yours, as well because of your fame as because of your achievements?” “Will your worship tell me who you are,” replied Don Quixote, “so that my courte- sy may be answerable to your deserts?” The young man replied that he was the musician and songster of the night before. “Of a truth,” said Don Quixote, “your worship has a most excellent voice; but what you sang did not seem to me very much to the purpose; for what have Garcilasso’s stanzas to do with the death of this lady?”
“Don’t be surprised at that,” returned the musician; “for with the callow poets of our day the way is for every one to write as he pleases and pilfer where he chooses, whether it be germane to the matter or not, and now-a-days there is no piece of silliness they can sing or write that is not set down to poetic licence.”
Don Quixote was about to reply, but was prevented by the duke and duchess, who came in to see him, and with them there followed a long and delightful conversation, in the course of which Sancho said so many droll and saucy things that he left the duke and duchess wondering not only at his simplicity but at his sharpness. Don Quixote begged their permission to take his departure that same day, inasmuch as for a vanquished knight like himself it was fitter he should live in a pig-sty than in a royal palace. They gave it very readily, and the duchess asked him if Altisidora was in his good graces.
He replied, “Senora, let me tell your ladyship that this damsel’s ailment comes entirely of idleness, and the cure for it is honest and constant employment. She herself has told me that lace is worn in hell; and as she must know how to make it, let it never be out of her hands; for when she is occupied in shifting the bobbins to and fro, the image or images of what she loves will not shift to and fro in her thoughts; this is the truth, this is my opinion, and this is my advice.”
“And mine,” added Sancho; “for I never in all my life saw a lace-maker that died for love; when damsels are at work their minds are more set on finishing their tasks than on thinking of their loves. I speak from my own ex- perience; for when I’m digging I never think of my old woman; I mean my Teresa Panza, whom I love better than my own eyelids.” “You say well, Sancho,” said the duchess, “and I will take care that my Altisidora employs herself henceforward in needlework of some sort; for she is extremely expert at it.” “There is no occasion to have recourse to that remedy, senora,” said Altisidora; “for the mere thought of the cruelty with which this vagabond villain has treated me will suffice to blot him out of my memory without any other device; with your highness’s leave I will re- tire, not to have before my eyes, I won’t say his rueful countenance, but his abominable, ugly looks.” “That reminds me of the common saying, that ‘he that rails is ready to forgive,’” said the duke.
Altisidora then, pretending to wipe away her tears with a handkerchief, made an obeisance to her master and mistress and quitted the room.
“Ill luck betide thee, poor damsel,” said Sancho, “ill luck betide thee! Thou hast fallen in with a soul as dry as a rush and a heart as hard as oak; had it been me, i’faith ‘another cock would have crowed to thee.’”
So the conversation came to an end, and Don Quixote dressed himself and dined with the duke and duchess, and set out the same evening.
Chapter LXXIII Of the omens Don Quixote had as he entered his own village, and other incidents that embellish and give a colour to
this great history At the entrance of the village, so says Cide Hamete, Don Quixote saw two boys quarrelling on the village thresh-
ing-floor one of whom said to the other, “Take it easy, Periquillo; thou shalt never see it again as long as thou livest.” Don Quixote heard this, and said he to Sancho, “Dost thou not mark, friend, what that boy said, ‘Thou shalt
never see it again as long as thou livest’?” “Well,” said Sancho, “what does it matter if the boy said so?” “What!” said Don Quixote, “dost thou not see that, applied to the object of my desires, the words mean that I
am never to see Dulcinea more?” Sancho was about to answer, when his attention was diverted by seeing a hare come flying across the plain pur-
sued by several greyhounds and sportsmen. In its terror it ran to take shelter and hide itself under Dapple. Sancho caught it alive and presented it to Don Quixote, who was saying, “Malum signum, malum signum! a hare flies, greyhounds chase it, Dulcinea appears not.”
“Your worship’s a strange man,” said Sancho; “let’s take it for granted that this hare is Dulcinea, and these grey- hounds chasing it the malignant enchanters who turned her into a country wench; she flies, and I catch her and put her into your worship’s hands, and you hold her in your arms and cherish her; what bad sign is that, or what ill omen is there to be found here?”
The two boys who had been quarrelling came over to look at the hare, and Sancho asked one of them what their quarrel was about. He was answered by the one who had said, “Thou shalt never see it again as long as thou livest,” that he had taken a cage full of crickets from the other boy, and did not mean to give it back to him as long as he lived. Sancho took out four cuartos from his pocket and gave them to the boy for the cage, which he placed in Don
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Quixote’s hands, saying, “There, senor! there are the omens broken and destroyed, and they have no more to do with our affairs, to my thinking, fool as I am, than with last year’s clouds; and if I remember rightly I have heard the curate of our village say that it does not become Christians or sensible people to give any heed to these silly things; and even you yourself said the same to me some time ago, telling me that all Christians who minded omens were fools; but there’s no need of making words about it; let us push on and go into our village.”
The sportsmen came up and asked for their hare, which Don Quixote gave them. They then went on, and upon the green at the entrance of the town they came upon the curate and the bachelor Samson Carrasco busy with their breviaries. It should be mentioned that Sancho had thrown, by way of a sumpter-cloth, over Dapple and over the bundle of armour, the buckram robe painted with flames which they had put upon him at the duke’s castle the night Altisidora came back to life. He had also fixed the mitre on Dapple’s head, the oddest transformation and decoration that ever ass in the world underwent. They were at once recognised by both the curate and the bachelor, who came towards them with open arms. Don Quixote dismounted and received them with a close embrace; and the boys, who are lynxes that nothing escapes, spied out the ass’s mitre and came running to see it, calling out to one another, “Come here, boys, and see Sancho Panza’s ass figged out finer than Mingo, and Don Quixote’s beast leaner than ever.”
So at length, with the boys capering round them, and accompanied by the curate and the bachelor, they made their entrance into the town, and proceeded to Don Quixote’s house, at the door of which they found his house- keeper and niece, whom the news of his arrival had already reached. It had been brought to Teresa Panza, Sancho’s wife, as well, and she with her hair all loose and half naked, dragging Sanchica her daughter by the hand, ran out to meet her husband; but seeing him coming in by no means as good case as she thought a governor ought to be, she said to him, “How is it you come this way, husband? It seems to me you come tramping and footsore, and looking more like a disorderly vagabond than a governor.”
“Hold your tongue, Teresa,” said Sancho; “often ‘where there are pegs there are no flitches;’ let’s go into the house and there you’ll hear strange things. I bring money, and that’s the main thing, got by my own industry with- out wronging anybody.”
“You bring the money, my good husband,” said Teresa, “and no matter whether it was got this way or that; for, however you may have got it, you’ll not have brought any new practice into the world.”
Sanchica embraced her father and asked him if he brought her anything, for she had been looking out for him as for the showers of May; and she taking hold of him by the girdle on one side, and his wife by the hand, while the daughter led Dapple, they made for their house, leaving Don Quixote in his, in the hands of his niece and house- keeper, and in the company of the curate and the bachelor.
Don Quixote at once, without any regard to time or season, withdrew in private with the bachelor and the curate, and in a few words told them of his defeat, and of the engagement he was under not to quit his village for a year, which he meant to keep to the letter without departing a hair’s breadth from it, as became a knight-errant bound by scrupulous good faith and the laws of knight-errantry; and of how he thought of turning shepherd for that year, and taking his diversion in the solitude of the fields, where he could with perfect freedom give range to his thoughts of love while he followed the virtuous pastoral calling; and he besought them, if they had not a great deal to do and were not prevented by more important business, to consent to be his companions, for he would buy sheep enough to qualify them for shepherds; and the most important point of the whole affair, he could tell them, was settled, for he had given them names that would fit them to a T. The curate asked what they were. Don Quixote replied that he himself was to be called the shepherd Quixotize and the bachelor the shepherd Carrascon, and the curate the shepherd Curambro, and Sancho Panza the shepherd Pancino.
Both were astounded at Don Quixote’s new craze; however, lest he should once more make off out of the village from them in pursuit of his chivalry, they trusting that in the course of the year he might be cured, fell in with his new project, applauded his crazy idea as a bright one, and offered to share the life with him. “And what’s more,” said Samson Carrasco, “I am, as all the world knows, a very famous poet, and I’ll be always making verses, pastoral, or courtly, or as it may come into my head, to pass away our time in those secluded regions where we shall be roam- ing. But what is most needful, sirs, is that each of us should choose the name of the shepherdess he means to glorify in his verses, and that we should not leave a tree, be it ever so hard, without writing up and carving her name on it, as is the habit and custom of love-smitten shepherds.”
“That’s the very thing,” said Don Quixote; “though I am relieved from looking for the name of an imaginary shepherdess, for there’s the peerless Dulcinea del Toboso, the glory of these brooksides, the ornament of these meadows, the mainstay of beauty, the cream of all the graces, and, in a word, the being to whom all praise is appro- priate, be it ever so hyperbolical.”
“Very true,” said the curate; “but we the others must look about for accommodating shepherdesses that will answer our purpose one way or another.”
“And,” added Samson Carrasco, “if they fail us, we can call them by the names of the ones in print that the world is filled with, Filidas, Amarilises, Dianas, Fleridas, Galateas, Belisardas; for as they sell them in the mar-
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ket-places we may fairly buy them and make them our own. If my lady, or I should say my shepherdess, happens to be called Ana, I’ll sing her praises under the name of Anarda, and if Francisca, I’ll call her Francenia, and if Lucia, Lucinda, for it all comes to the same thing; and Sancho Panza, if he joins this fraternity, may glorify his wife Teresa Panza as Teresaina.”
Don Quixote laughed at the adaptation of the name, and the curate bestowed vast praise upon the worthy and honourable resolution he had made, and again offered to bear him company all the time that he could spare from his imperative duties. And so they took their leave of him, recommending and beseeching him to take care of his health and treat himself to a suitable diet.
It so happened his niece and the housekeeper overheard all the three of them said; and as soon as they were gone they both of them came in to Don Quixote, and said the niece, “What’s this, uncle? Now that we were thinking you had come back to stay at home and lead a quiet respectable life there, are you going to get into fresh entangle- ments, and turn ‘young shepherd, thou that comest here, young shepherd going there?’ Nay! indeed ‘the straw is too hard now to make pipes of.’”
“And,” added the housekeeper, “will your worship be able to bear, out in the fields, the heats of summer, and the chills of winter, and the howling of the wolves? Not you; for that’s a life and a business for hardy men, bred and sea- soned to such work almost from the time they were in swaddling-clothes. Why, to make choice of evils, it’s better to be a knight-errant than a shepherd! Look here, senor; take my advice—and I’m not giving it to you full of bread and wine, but fasting, and with fifty years upon my head—stay at home, look after your affairs, go often to confession, be good to the poor, and upon my soul be it if any evil comes to you.”
“Hold your peace, my daughters,” said Don Quixote; “I know very well what my duty is; help me to bed, for I don’t feel very well; and rest assured that, knight-errant now or wandering shepherd to be, I shall never fail to have a care for your interests, as you will see in the end.” And the good wenches (for that they undoubtedly were), the housekeeper and niece, helped him to bed, where they gave him something to eat and made him as comfortable as possible.
Chapter LXXIV Of how Don Quixote fell sick, and of the will he made, and how he died
As nothing that is man’s can last for ever, but all tends ever downwards from its beginning to its end, and above all man’s life, and as Don Quixote’s enjoyed no special dispensation from heaven to stay its course, its end and close came when he least looked for it. For whether it was of the dejection the thought of his defeat produced, or of heav- en’s will that so ordered it—a fever settled upon him and kept him in his bed for six days, during which he was often visited by his friends the curate, the bachelor, and the barber, while his good squire Sancho Panza never quitted his bedside. They, persuaded that it was grief at finding himself vanquished, and the object of his heart, the liberation and disenchantment of Dulcinea, unattained, that kept him in this state, strove by all the means in their power to cheer him up; the bachelor bidding him take heart and get up to begin his pastoral life, for which he himself, he said, had already composed an eclogue that would take the shine out of all Sannazaro had ever written, and had bought with his own money two famous dogs to guard the flock, one called Barcino and the other Butron, which a herdsman of Quintanar had sold him.
But for all this Don Quixote could not shake off his sadness. His friends called in the doctor, who felt his pulse and was not very well satisfied with it, and said that in any case it would be well for him to attend to the health of his soul, as that of his body was in a bad way. Don Quixote heard this calmly; but not so his housekeeper, his niece, and his squire, who fell weeping bitterly, as if they had him lying dead before them. The doctor’s opinion was that melancholy and depression were bringing him to his end. Don Quixote begged them to leave him to himself, as he had a wish to sleep a little. They obeyed, and he slept at one stretch, as the saying is, more than six hours, so that the housekeeper and niece thought he was going to sleep for ever. But at the end of that time he woke up, and in a loud voice exclaimed, “Blessed be Almighty God, who has shown me such goodness. In truth his mercies are boundless, and the sins of men can neither limit them nor keep them back!”
The niece listened with attention to her uncle’s words, and they struck her as more coherent than what usually fell from him, at least during his illness, so she asked, “What are you saying, senor? Has anything strange occurred? What mercies or what sins of men are you talking of ?”
“The mercies, niece,” said Don Quixote, “are those that God has this moment shown me, and with him, as I said, my sins are no impediment to them. My reason is now free and clear, rid of the dark shadows of ignorance that my unhappy constant study of those detestable books of chivalry cast over it. Now I see through their absurdi- ties and deceptions, and it only grieves me that this destruction of my illusions has come so late that it leaves me no time to make some amends by reading other books that might be a light to my soul. Niece, I feel myself at the point of death, and I would fain meet it in such a way as to show that my life has not been so ill that I should leave behind me the name of a madman; for though I have been one, I would not that the fact should be made plainer at my
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death. Call in to me, my dear, my good friends the curate, the bachelor Samson Carrasco, and Master Nicholas the barber, for I wish to confess and make my will.” But his niece was saved the trouble by the entrance of the three. The instant Don Quixote saw them he exclaimed, “Good news for you, good sirs, that I am no longer Don Quixote of La Mancha, but Alonso Quixano, whose way of life won for him the name of Good. Now am I the enemy of Amadis of Gaul and of the whole countless troop of his descendants; odious to me now are all the profane stories of knight-er- rantry; now I perceive my folly, and the peril into which reading them brought me; now, by God’s mercy schooled into my right senses, I loathe them.”
When the three heard him speak in this way, they had no doubt whatever that some new craze had taken pos- session of him; and said Samson, “What? Senor Don Quixote! Now that we have intelligence of the lady Dulcinea being disenchanted, are you taking this line; now, just as we are on the point of becoming shepherds, to pass our lives singing, like princes, are you thinking of turning hermit? Hush, for heaven’s sake, be rational and let’s have no more nonsense.”
“All that nonsense,” said Don Quixote, “that until now has been a reality to my hurt, my death will, with heav- en’s help, turn to my good. I feel, sirs, that I am rapidly drawing near death; a truce to jesting; let me have a confes- sor to confess me, and a notary to make my will; for in extremities like this, man must not trifle with his soul; and while the curate is confessing me let some one, I beg, go for the notary.”
They looked at one another, wondering at Don Quixote’s words; but, though uncertain, they were inclined to believe him, and one of the signs by which they came to the conclusion he was dying was this so sudden and com- plete return to his senses after having been mad; for to the words already quoted he added much more, so well ex- pressed, so devout, and so rational, as to banish all doubt and convince them that he was sound of mind. The curate turned them all out, and left alone with him confessed him. The bachelor went for the notary and returned shortly afterwards with him and with Sancho, who, having already learned from the bachelor the condition his master was in, and finding the housekeeper and niece weeping, began to blubber and shed tears.
The confession over, the curate came out saying, “Alonso Quixano the Good is indeed dying, and is indeed in his right mind; we may now go in to him while he makes his will.”
This news gave a tremendous impulse to the brimming eyes of the housekeeper, niece, and Sancho Panza his good squire, making the tears burst from their eyes and a host of sighs from their hearts; for of a truth, as has been said more than once, whether as plain Alonso Quixano the Good, or as Don Quixote of La Mancha, Don Quixote was always of a gentle disposition and kindly in all his ways, and hence he was beloved, not only by those of his own house, but by all who knew him.
The notary came in with the rest, and as soon as the preamble of the will had been set out and Don Quixote had commended his soul to God with all the devout formalities that are usual, coming to the bequests, he said, “Item, it is my will that, touching certain moneys in the hands of Sancho Panza (whom in my madness I made my squire), inasmuch as between him and me there have been certain accounts and debits and credits, no claim be made against him, nor any account demanded of him in respect of them; but that if anything remain over and above, after he has paid himself what I owe him, the balance, which will be but little, shall be his, and much good may it do him; and if, as when I was mad I had a share in giving him the government of an island, so, now that I am in my senses, I could give him that of a kingdom, it should be his, for the simplicity of his character and the fidelity of his conduct deserve it.” And then, turning to Sancho, he said, “Forgive me, my friend, that I led thee to seem as mad as myself, making thee fall into the same error I myself fell into, that there were and still are knights-errant in the world.”
“Ah!” said Sancho weeping, “don’t die, master, but take my advice and live many years; for the foolishest thing a man can do in this life is to let himself die without rhyme or reason, without anybody killing him, or any hands but melancholy’s making an end of him. Come, don’t be lazy, but get up from your bed and let us take to the fields in shepherd’s trim as we agreed. Perhaps behind some bush we shall find the lady Dulcinea disenchanted, as fine as fine can be. If it be that you are dying of vexation at having been vanquished, lay the blame on me, and say you were overthrown because I had girthed Rocinante badly; besides you must have seen in your books of chivalry that it is a common thing for knights to upset one another, and for him who is conquered to-day to be conqueror tomorrow.”
“Very true,” said Samson, “and good Sancho Panza’s view of these cases is quite right.” “Sirs, not so fast,” said Don Quixote, “’in last year’s nests there are no birds this year.’ I was mad, now I am in my
senses; I was Don Quixote of La Mancha, I am now, as I said, Alonso Quixano the Good; and may my repentance and sincerity restore me to the esteem you used to have for me; and now let Master Notary proceed.
“Item, I leave all my property absolutely to Antonia Quixana my niece, here present, after all has been deducted from the most available portion of it that may be required to satisfy the bequests I have made. And the first disburse- ment I desire to be made is the payment of the wages I owe for the time my housekeeper has served me, with twenty ducats, over and above, for a gown. The curate and the bachelor Samson Carrasco, now present, I appoint my executors.
“Item, it is my wish that if Antonia Quixana, my niece, desires to marry, she shall marry a man of whom it shall be first of all ascertained by information taken that he does not know what books of chivalry are; and if it should be proved that he does, and if, in spite of this, my niece insists upon marrying him, and does marry him, then that she
Image 11.6: A Deceased Don Quixote | A deceased Don Quixote lays in bed with a crucifix laid upon his chest
Author: Gustave Doré Source: Project Gutenberg License: Public Domain
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death. Call in to me, my dear, my good friends the curate, the bachelor Samson Carrasco, and Master Nicholas the barber, for I wish to confess and make my will.” But his niece was saved the trouble by the entrance of the three. The instant Don Quixote saw them he exclaimed, “Good news for you, good sirs, that I am no longer Don Quixote of La Mancha, but Alonso Quixano, whose way of life won for him the name of Good. Now am I the enemy of Amadis of Gaul and of the whole countless troop of his descendants; odious to me now are all the profane stories of knight-er- rantry; now I perceive my folly, and the peril into which reading them brought me; now, by God’s mercy schooled into my right senses, I loathe them.”
When the three heard him speak in this way, they had no doubt whatever that some new craze had taken pos- session of him; and said Samson, “What? Senor Don Quixote! Now that we have intelligence of the lady Dulcinea being disenchanted, are you taking this line; now, just as we are on the point of becoming shepherds, to pass our lives singing, like princes, are you thinking of turning hermit? Hush, for heaven’s sake, be rational and let’s have no more nonsense.”
“All that nonsense,” said Don Quixote, “that until now has been a reality to my hurt, my death will, with heav- en’s help, turn to my good. I feel, sirs, that I am rapidly drawing near death; a truce to jesting; let me have a confes- sor to confess me, and a notary to make my will; for in extremities like this, man must not trifle with his soul; and while the curate is confessing me let some one, I beg, go for the notary.”
They looked at one another, wondering at Don Quixote’s words; but, though uncertain, they were inclined to believe him, and one of the signs by which they came to the conclusion he was dying was this so sudden and com- plete return to his senses after having been mad; for to the words already quoted he added much more, so well ex- pressed, so devout, and so rational, as to banish all doubt and convince them that he was sound of mind. The curate turned them all out, and left alone with him confessed him. The bachelor went for the notary and returned shortly afterwards with him and with Sancho, who, having already learned from the bachelor the condition his master was in, and finding the housekeeper and niece weeping, began to blubber and shed tears.
The confession over, the curate came out saying, “Alonso Quixano the Good is indeed dying, and is indeed in his right mind; we may now go in to him while he makes his will.”
This news gave a tremendous impulse to the brimming eyes of the housekeeper, niece, and Sancho Panza his good squire, making the tears burst from their eyes and a host of sighs from their hearts; for of a truth, as has been said more than once, whether as plain Alonso Quixano the Good, or as Don Quixote of La Mancha, Don Quixote was always of a gentle disposition and kindly in all his ways, and hence he was beloved, not only by those of his own house, but by all who knew him.
The notary came in with the rest, and as soon as the preamble of the will had been set out and Don Quixote had commended his soul to God with all the devout formalities that are usual, coming to the bequests, he said, “Item, it is my will that, touching certain moneys in the hands of Sancho Panza (whom in my madness I made my squire), inasmuch as between him and me there have been certain accounts and debits and credits, no claim be made against him, nor any account demanded of him in respect of them; but that if anything remain over and above, after he has paid himself what I owe him, the balance, which will be but little, shall be his, and much good may it do him; and if, as when I was mad I had a share in giving him the government of an island, so, now that I am in my senses, I could give him that of a kingdom, it should be his, for the simplicity of his character and the fidelity of his conduct deserve it.” And then, turning to Sancho, he said, “Forgive me, my friend, that I led thee to seem as mad as myself, making thee fall into the same error I myself fell into, that there were and still are knights-errant in the world.”
“Ah!” said Sancho weeping, “don’t die, master, but take my advice and live many years; for the foolishest thing a man can do in this life is to let himself die without rhyme or reason, without anybody killing him, or any hands but melancholy’s making an end of him. Come, don’t be lazy, but get up from your bed and let us take to the fields in shepherd’s trim as we agreed. Perhaps behind some bush we shall find the lady Dulcinea disenchanted, as fine as fine can be. If it be that you are dying of vexation at having been vanquished, lay the blame on me, and say you were overthrown because I had girthed Rocinante badly; besides you must have seen in your books of chivalry that it is a common thing for knights to upset one another, and for him who is conquered to-day to be conqueror tomorrow.”
“Very true,” said Samson, “and good Sancho Panza’s view of these cases is quite right.” “Sirs, not so fast,” said Don Quixote, “’in last year’s nests there are no birds this year.’ I was mad, now I am in my
senses; I was Don Quixote of La Mancha, I am now, as I said, Alonso Quixano the Good; and may my repentance and sincerity restore me to the esteem you used to have for me; and now let Master Notary proceed.
“Item, I leave all my property absolutely to Antonia Quixana my niece, here present, after all has been deducted from the most available portion of it that may be required to satisfy the bequests I have made. And the first disburse- ment I desire to be made is the payment of the wages I owe for the time my housekeeper has served me, with twenty ducats, over and above, for a gown. The curate and the bachelor Samson Carrasco, now present, I appoint my executors.
“Item, it is my wish that if Antonia Quixana, my niece, desires to marry, she shall marry a man of whom it shall be first of all ascertained by information taken that he does not know what books of chivalry are; and if it should be proved that he does, and if, in spite of this, my niece insists upon marrying him, and does marry him, then that she
Image 11.6: A Deceased Don Quixote | A deceased Don Quixote lays in bed with a crucifix laid upon his chest
Author: Gustave Doré Source: Project Gutenberg License: Public Domain
shall forfeit the whole of what I have left her, which my executors shall de- vote to works of charity as they please.
“Item, I entreat the aforesaid gentlemen my executors, that, if any happy chance should lead them to discover the author who is said to have written a history now going about under the title of ‘Second Part of the Achievements of Don Quixote of La Mancha,’ they beg of him on my behalf as earnestly as they can to forgive me for having been, without intending it, the cause of his writing so many and such monstrous absur- dities as he has written in it; for I am leaving the world with a feeling of compunction at having provoked him to write them.”
With this he closed his will, and a faintness coming over him he stretched himself out at full length on the bed. All were in a flutter and made haste to relieve him, and during the three days he lived after that on which he made his will he fainted away very often. The house was all in confusion; but still the niece ate and the house- keeper drank and Sancho Panza enjoyed himself; for inheriting property wipes out or softens down in the heir the feeling of grief the dead man might be expected to leave behind him.
At last Don Quixote’s end came, after he had received all the sacraments, and had in full and forcible terms expressed his detestation of books of chivalry. The notary was there at the time, and he said that in no book of chiv- alry had he ever read of any knight-errant dying in his bed so calmly and so like a Christian as Don Quixote, who amid the tears and lamentations of all present yielded up his spirit, that is to say died. On perceiving it the curate begged the notary to bear witness that Alonso Quixano the Good, commonly called Don Quixote of La Mancha, had passed away from this present life, and died naturally; and said he desired this testimony in order to remove the possibility of any other author save Cide Hamete Benengeli bringing him to life again falsely and making intermi- nable stories out of his achievements.
Such was the end of the Ingenious Gentleman of La Mancha, whose village Cide Hamete would not indicate precisely, in order to leave all the towns and villages of La Mancha to contend among themselves for the right to adopt him and claim him as a son, as the seven cities of Greece contended for Homer. The lamentations of Sancho and the niece and housekeeper are omitted here, as well as the new epitaphs upon his tomb; Samson Carrasco, how- ever, put the following lines:
A doughty gentleman lies here; A stranger all his life to fear; Nor in his death could Death prevail, In that last hour, to make him quail. He for the world but little cared; And at his feats the world was scared; A crazy man his life he passed, But in his senses died at last.
And said most sage Cide Hamete to his pen, “Rest here, hung up by this brass wire, upon this shelf, O my pen, whether of skilful make or clumsy cut I know not; here shalt thou remain long ages hence, unless presumptuous or malig- nant story-tellers take thee down to profane thee. But ere they touch thee warn them, and, as best thou canst, say to them:
Hold off ! ye weaklings; hold your hands! Adventure it let none,
For this emprise, my lord the king, Was meant for me alone.
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For me alone was Don Quixote born, and I for him; it was his to act, mine to write; we two together make but one, notwithstanding and in spite of that pretended Tordesillesque writer who has ventured or would venture with his great, coarse, ill-trimmed ostrich quill to write the achievements of my valiant knight;—no burden for his shoulders, nor subject for his frozen wit: whom, if perchance thou shouldst come to know him, thou shalt warn to leave at rest where they lie the weary mouldering bones of Don Quixote, and not to attempt to carry him off, in opposition to all the privileges of death, to Old Castile, making him rise from the grave where in reality and truth he lies stretched at full length, powerless to make any third expedition or new sally; for the two that he has already made, so much to the enjoyment and approval of everybody to whom they have become known, in this as well as in foreign countries, are quite sufficient for the purpose of turning into ridicule the whole of those made by the whole set of the knights-errant; and so doing shalt thou discharge thy Christian calling, giving good counsel to one that bears ill-will to thee. And I shall remain satisfied, and proud to have been the first who has ever enjoyed the fruit of his writings as fully as he could desire; for my desire has been no other than to deliver over to the detestation of mankind the false and foolish tales of the books of chivalry, which, thanks to that of my true Don Quixote, are even now tottering, and doubtless doomed to fall for ever. Farewell.”
GARGANTUA AND PANTAGRUEL
Francois Rabelais (ca. 1494 C.E.-ca. 1553 C.E.)
Published in five books from ca. 1532 C.E. to ca.1564 C.E. France
Francois Rabelais embraced the full potential of the Renaissance, celebrat- ing the idea of a “Renaissance man” in his works. Rabelais took folktales about a giant named Gargantua, gave him a son named Pantagruel, and made the giants metaphors: Gargantua is a symbol of Rabelais’s view of medieval education (comically portrayed as making the student less educated), while his son Pan- tagruel is a product of Renaissance thinking, learning anything and everything about all fields of study. Rabelais’s comedy is all about excess, with lofty ideas mixing with slapstick humor; the term “Rabelaisian” now means bawdy humor and extreme caricature. Rabelais himself lived a life of extremes; he left his life as a monk (because he thought it was too strict), became a physician, and used his impressive education to write works that challenged the established order—es- pecially those secular and religious authorities who banned the study of Greek texts and tried to limit educational opportunities All five books of Gargantua and Pantagruel were banned, ostensibly for obscenity, but equally for the challenge to the status quo that they presented (the fifth book, published after his death, may have been assembled from his notes). They were also wildly popular, making a mark on both audiences and writers of comedy alike.
Written by Laura J. Getty
Selections from Five Books of the Lives, Heroic Deeds and Sayings of Gargantua and His Son Pantagruel [Gargantua and Pantagruel]
François Rabelais, Translated by Sir Thomas Urguhart of Cromarty and Peter Antony Motteux
Chapter 1: XIV How Gargantua was taught Latin by a Sophister
The good man Grangousier having heard this discourse, was ravished with admiration, considering the high reach and marvellous understanding of his son Gargantua, and said to his governesses, Philip, king of Macedon, knew the great wit of his son Alexander by his skilful managing of a horse; for his horse Bucephalus was so fierce and unruly that none durst adventure to ride him, after that he had given to his riders such devilish falls, breaking
Image 11.7: Pantagruel | The giant Pantagruel looks down at small hu- mans, with a gloomy background and statues surrounding them.
Author: Gustave Doré Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
License: Public Domain
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the neck of this man, the other man’s leg, braining one, and putting another out of his jawbone. This by Alexander being considered, one day in the hippodrome (which was a place appointed for the breaking and managing of great horses), he perceived that the fury of the horse proceeded merely from the fear he had of his own shadow, where- upon getting on his back, he run him against the sun, so that the shadow fell behind, and by that means tamed the horse and brought him to his hand. Whereby his father, knowing the divine judgment that was in him, caused him most carefully to be instructed by Aristotle, who at that time was highly renowned above all the philosophers of Greece. After the same manner I tell you, that by this only discourse, which now I have here had before you with my son Gargantua, I know that his understanding doth participate of some divinity, and that, if he be well taught, and have that education which is fitting, he will attain to a supreme degree of wisdom. Therefore will I commit him to some learned man, to have him indoctrinated according to his capacity, and will spare no cost. Presently they appointed him a great sophister-doctor, called Master Tubal Holofernes, who taught him his ABC so well, that he could say it by heart backwards; and about this he was five years and three months. Then read he to him Donat, Le Facet, Theodolet, and Alanus in parabolis. About this he was thirteen years, six months, and two weeks. But you must remark that in the mean time he did learn to write in Gothic characters, and that he wrote all his books—for the art of printing was not then in use—and did ordinarily carry a great pen and inkhorn, weighing about seven thousand quintals (that is, 700,000 pound weight), the penner whereof was as big and as long as the great pillars of Enay, and the horn was hanging to it in great iron chains, it being of the wideness of a tun of merchant ware. After that he read unto him the book de modis significandi, with the commentaries of Hurtbise, of Fasquin, of Tropdieux, of Gualhaut, of John Calf, of Billonio, of Berlinguandus, and a rabble of others; and herein he spent more than eighteen years and eleven months, and was so well versed in it that, to try masteries in school disputes with his con- disciples, he would recite it by heart backwards, and did sometimes prove on his finger-ends to his mother, quod de modis significandi non erat scientia. Then did he read to him the compost for knowing the age of the moon, the seasons of the year, and tides of the sea, on which he spent sixteen years and two months, and that justly at the time that his said preceptor died of the French pox, which was in the year one thousand four hundred and twenty. After- wards he got an old coughing fellow to teach him, named Master Jobelin Bride, or muzzled dolt, who read unto him Hugutio, Hebrard(‘s) Grecism, the Doctrinal, the Parts, the Quid est, the Supplementum, Marmotretus, De moribus in mensa servandis, Seneca de quatuor virtutibus cardinalibus, Passavantus cum commento, and Dormi secure for the holidays, and some other of such like mealy stuff, by reading whereof he became as wise as any we ever since baked in an oven.
Chapter 1: XV How Gargantua was put under other schoolmasters
At the last his father perceived that indeed he studied hard, and that, although he spent all his time in it, he did nevertheless profit nothing, but which is worse, grew thereby foolish, simple, doted, and blockish, whereof making a heavy regret to Don Philip of Marays, Viceroy or Depute King of Papeligosse, he found that it were better for him to learn nothing at all, than to be taught such-like books, under such schoolmasters; because their knowledge was nothing but brutishness, and their wisdom but blunt foppish toys, serving only to bastardize good and noble spirits, and to corrupt all the flower of youth. That it is so, take, said he, any young boy of this time who hath only studied two years,—if he have not a better judgment, a better discourse, and that expressed in better terms than your son, with a completer carriage and civility to all manner of persons, account me for ever hereafter a very clounch and bacon-slicer of Brene. This pleased Grangousier very well, and he commanded that it should be done. At night at supper, the said Des Marays brought in a young page of his, of Ville-gouges, called Eudemon, so neat, so trim, so handsome in his apparel, so spruce, with his hair in so good order, and so sweet and comely in his behaviour, that he had the resemblance of a little angel more than of a human creature. Then he said to Grangousier, Do you see this young boy? He is not as yet full twelve years old. Let us try, if it please you, what difference there is betwixt the knowledge of the doting Mateologians of old time and the young lads that are now. The trial pleased Grangousier, and he commanded the page to begin. Then Eudemon, asking leave of the vice-king his master so to do, with his cap in his hand, a clear and open countenance, beautiful and ruddy lips, his eyes steady, and his looks fixed upon Gargantua with a youthful modesty, standing up straight on his feet, began very gracefully to commend him; first, for his virtue and good manners; secondly, for his knowledge, thirdly, for his nobility; fourthly, for his bodily ac- complishments; and, in the fifth place, most sweetly exhorted him to reverence his father with all due observancy, who was so careful to have him well brought up. In the end he prayed him, that he would vouchsafe to admit of him amongst the least of his servants; for other favour at that time desired he none of heaven, but that he might do him some grateful and acceptable service. All this was by him delivered with such proper gestures, such distinct pronun- ciation, so pleasant a delivery, in such exquisite fine terms, and so good Latin, that he seemed rather a Gracchus, a Cicero, an Aemilius of the time past, than a youth of this age. But all the countenance that Gargantua kept was,
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that he fell to crying like a cow, and cast down his face, hiding it with his cap, nor could they possibly draw one word from him, no more than a fart from a dead ass. Whereat his father was so grievously vexed that he would have killed Master Jobelin, but the said Des Marays withheld him from it by fair persuasions, so that at length he pacified his wrath. Then Grangousier commanded he should be paid his wages, that they should whittle him up soundly, like a sophister, with good drink, and then give him leave to go to all the devils in hell. At least, said he, today shall it not cost his host much if by chance he should die as drunk as a Switzer. Master Jobelin being gone out of the house, Grangousier consulted with the Viceroy what schoolmaster they should choose for him, and it was betwixt them resolved that Ponocrates, the tutor of Eudemon, should have the charge, and that they should go altogether to Paris, to know what was the study of the young men of France at that time.
Chapter 1: XXIII How Gargantua was instructed by Ponocrates, and in such sort disciplinated, that he lost not one hour of the day
When Ponocrates knew Gargantua’s vicious manner of living, he resolved to bring him up in another kind; but for a while he bore with him, considering that nature cannot endure a sudden change, without great violence. Therefore, to begin his work the better, he requested a learned physician of that time, called Master Theodorus, seriously to perpend, if it were possible, how to bring Gargantua into a better course. The said physician purged him canonically with Anticyrian hellebore, by which medicine he cleansed all the alteration and perverse habitude of his brain. By this means also Ponocrates made him forget all that he had learned under his ancient preceptors, as Timotheus did to his disciples, who had been instructed under other musicians. To do this the better, they brought him into the company of learned men, which were there, in whose imitation he had a great desire and affection to study otherwise, and to improve his parts. Afterwards he put himself into such a road and way of studying, that he lost not any one hour in the day, but employed all his time in learning and honest knowledge. Gargantua awaked, then, about four o’clock in the morning. Whilst they were in rubbing of him, there was read unto him some chapter of the holy Scripture aloud and clearly, with a pronunciation fit for the matter, and hereunto was appointed a young page born in Basche, named Anagnostes. According to the purpose and argument of that lesson, he oftentimes gave himself to worship, adore, pray, and send up his supplications to that good God, whose Word did show his majesty and marvellous judgment. Then went he unto the secret places to make excretion of his natural digestions. There his master repeated what had been read, expounding unto him the most obscure and difficult points. In returning, they considered the face of the sky, if it was such as they had observed it the night before, and into what signs the sun was entering, as also the moon for that day. This done, he was apparelled, combed, curled, trimmed, and per- fumed, during which time they repeated to him the lessons of the day before. He himself said them by heart, and upon them would ground some practical cases concerning the estate of man, which he would prosecute sometimes two or three hours, but ordinarily they ceased as soon as he was fully clothed. Then for three good hours he had a lecture read unto him. This done they went forth, still conferring of the substance of the lecture, either unto a field near the university called the Brack, or unto the meadows, where they played at the ball, the long-tennis, and at the piletrigone (which is a play wherein we throw a triangular piece of iron at a ring, to pass it), most gallantly exercising their bodies, as formerly they had done their minds. All their play was but in liberty, for they left off when they pleased, and that was commonly when they did sweat over all their body, or were otherwise weary. Then were they very well wiped and rubbed, shifted their shirts, and, walking soberly, went to see if dinner was ready. Whilst they stayed for that, they did clearly and eloquently pronounce some sentences that they had retained of the lecture. In the meantime Master Appetite came, and then very orderly sat they down at table. At the beginning of the meal there was read some pleasant history of the warlike actions of former times, until he had taken a glass of wine. Then, if they thought good, they continued reading, or began to discourse merrily together; speaking first of the virtue, propriety, efficacy, and nature of all that was served in at the table; of bread, of wine, of water, of salt, of fleshes, fishes, fruits, herbs, roots, and of their dressing. By means whereof he learned in a little time all the passages competent for this that were to be found in Pliny, Athenaeus, Dioscorides, Julius Pollux, Galen, Porphyry, Oppian, Polybius, Heliodore, Aristotle, Aelian, and others. Whilst they talked of these things, many times, to be the more certain, they caused the very books to be brought to the table, and so well and perfectly did he in his memory retain the things above said, that in that time there was not a physician that knew half so much as he did. Afterwards they conferred of the lessons read in the morning, and, ending their repast with some conserve or marmalade of quinc- es, he picked his teeth with mastic tooth-pickers, washed his hands and eyes with fair fresh water, and gave thanks unto God in some fine cantiques, made in praise of the divine bounty and munificence. This done, they brought in cards, not to play, but to learn a thousand pretty tricks and new inventions, which were all grounded upon arithme- tic. By this means he fell in love with that numerical science, and every day after dinner and supper he passed his time in it as pleasantly as he was wont to do at cards and dice; so that at last he understood so well both the theory and practical part thereof, that Tunstall the Englishman, who had written very largely of that purpose, confessed
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that verily in comparison of him he had no skill at all. And not only in that, but in the other mathematical sciences, as geometry, astronomy, music, &c. For in waiting on the concoction and attending the digestion of his food, they made a thousand pretty instruments and geometrical figures, and did in some measure practise the astronomical canons.
After this they recreated themselves with singing musically, in four or five parts, or upon a set theme or ground at random, as it best pleased them. In matter of musical instruments, he learned to play upon the lute, the virginals, the harp, the Almain flute with nine holes, the viol, and the sackbut. This hour thus spent, and digestion finished, he did purge his body of natural excrements, then betook himself to his principal study for three hours together, or more, as well to repeat his matutinal lectures as to proceed in the book wherein he was, as also to write handsomely, to draw and form the antique and Roman letters. This being done, they went out of their house, and with them a young gentleman of Touraine, named the Esquire Gymnast, who taught him the art of riding. Changing then his clothes, he rode a Naples courser, a Dutch roussin, a Spanish jennet, a barded or trapped steed, then a light fleet horse, unto whom he gave a hundred carieres, made him go the high saults, bounding in the air, free the ditch with a skip, leap over a stile or pale, turn short in a ring both to the right and left hand. There he broke not his lance; for it is the greatest foolery in the world to say, I have broken ten lances at tilts or in fight. A carpenter can do even as much. But it is a glorious and praise-worthy action with one lance to break and overthrow ten enemies. Therefore, with a sharp, stiff, strong, and well-steeled lance would he usually force up a door, pierce a harness, beat down a tree, carry away the ring, lift up a cuirassier saddle, with the mail-coat and gauntlet. All this he did in complete arms from head to foot. As for the prancing flourishes and smacking popisms for the better cherishing of the horse, commonly used in riding, none did them better than he. The cavallerize of Ferrara was but as an ape compared to him. He was singularly skilful in leaping nimbly from one horse to another without putting foot to ground, and these horses were called desultories. He could likewise from either side, with a lance in his hand, leap on horseback without stirrups, and rule the horse at his pleasure without a bridle, for such things are useful in military engage- ments. Another day he exercised the battle-axe, which he so dexterously wielded, both in the nimble, strong, and smooth management of that weapon, and that in all the feats practicable by it, that he passed knight of arms in the field, and at all essays.
Then tossed he the pike, played with the two-handed sword, with the backsword, with the Spanish tuck, the dagger, poniard, armed, unarmed, with a buckler, with a cloak, with a target. Then would he hunt the hart, the roe- buck, the bear, the fallow deer, the wild boar, the hare, the pheasant, the partridge, and the bustard. He played at the balloon, and made it bound in the air, both with fist and foot. He wrestled, ran, jumped—not at three steps and a leap, called the hops, nor at clochepied, called the hare’s leap, nor yet at the Almains; for, said Gymnast, these jumps are for the wars altogether unprofitable, and of no use—but at one leap he would skip over a ditch, spring over a hedge, mount six paces upon a wall, ramp and grapple after this fashion up against a window of the full height of a lance. He did swim in deep waters on his belly, on his back, sideways, with all his body, with his feet only, with one hand in the air, wherein he held a book, crossing thus the breadth of the river of Seine without wetting it, and dragged along his cloak with his teeth, as did Julius Caesar; then with the help of one hand he entered forcibly into a boat, from whence he cast himself again headlong into the water, sounded the depths, hollowed the rocks, and plunged into the pits and gulfs. Then turned he the boat about, governed it, led it swiftly or slowly with the stream and against the stream, stopped it in his course, guided it with one hand, and with the other laid hard about him with a huge great oar, hoisted the sail, hied up along the mast by the shrouds, ran upon the edge of the decks, set the compass in order, tackled the bowlines, and steered the helm. Coming out of the water, he ran furiously up against a hill, and with the same alacrity and swiftness ran down again. He climbed up at trees like a cat, and leaped from the one to the other like a squirrel. He did pull down the great boughs and branches like another Milo; then with two sharp well-steeled daggers and two tried bodkins would he run up by the wall to the very top of a house like a rat; then suddenly came down from the top to the bottom, with such an even composition of members that by the fall he would catch no harm.
He did cast the dart, throw the bar, put the stone, practise the javelin, the boar-spear or partisan, and the halbert. He broke the strongest bows in drawing, bended against his breast the greatest crossbows of steel, took his aim by the eye with the hand-gun, and shot well, traversed and planted the cannon, shot at butt-marks, at the papgay from below upwards, or to a height from above downwards, or to a descent; then before him, sideways, and behind him, like the Parthians. They tied a cable-rope to the top of a high tower, by one end whereof hanging near the ground he wrought himself with his hands to the very top; then upon the same track came down so sturdily and firm that you could not on a plain meadow have run with more assurance. They set up a great pole fixed upon two trees. There would he hang by his hands, and with them alone, his feet touching at nothing, would go back and fore along the foresaid rope with so great swiftness that hardly could one overtake him with running; and then, to exer- cise his breast and lungs, he would shout like all the devils in hell. I heard him once call Eudemon from St. Victor’s gate to Montmartre. Stentor had never such a voice at the siege of Troy. Then for the strengthening of his nerves
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or sinews they made him two great sows of lead, each of them weighing eight thousand and seven hundred quintals, which they called alteres. Those he took up from the ground, in each hand one, then lifted them up over his head, and held them so without stirring three quarters of an hour and more, which was an inimitable force. He fought at barriers with the stoutest and most vigorous champions; and when it came to the cope, he stood so sturdily on his feet that he abandoned himself unto the strongest, in case they could remove him from his place, as Milo was wont to do of old. In whose imitation, likewise, he held a pomegranate in his hand, to give it unto him that could take it from him. The time being thus bestowed, and himself rubbed, cleansed, wiped, and refreshed with other clothes, he returned fair and softly; and passing through certain meadows, or other grassy places, beheld the trees and plants, comparing them with what is written of them in the books of the ancients, such as Theophrast, Dioscorides, Marinus, Pliny, Nicander, Macer, and Galen, and carried home to the house great handfuls of them, whereof a young page called Rizotomos had charge; together with little mattocks, pickaxes, grubbing-hooks, cabbies, pruning-knives, and other instruments requisite for herborizing. Being come to their lodging, whilst supper was making ready, they repeated certain passages of that which hath been read, and sat down to table. Here remark, that his dinner was sober and thrifty, for he did then eat only to prevent the gnawings of his stomach, but his supper was copious and large, for he took then as much as was fit to maintain and nourish him; which, indeed, is the true diet prescribed by the art of good and sound physic, al- though a rabble of loggerheaded physicians, nuzzeled in the brabbling shop of sophisters, counsel the contrary. During that repast was continued the lesson read at dinner as long as they thought good; the rest was spent in good discourse, learned and profitable. After that they had given thanks, he set himself to sing vocally, and play upon harmonious instruments, or otherwise passed his time at some pretty sports, made with cards or dice, or in practising the feats of legerdemain with cups and balls. There they stayed some nights in frolicking thus, and making themselves merry till it was time to go to bed; and on other nights they would go make visits unto learned men, or to such as had been travellers in strange and remote countries. When it was full night before they retired themselves, they went unto the most open place of the house to see the face of the sky, and there beheld the comets, if any were, as likewise the figures, situations, aspects, oppositions, and conjunctions of both the fixed stars and planets.
Then with his master did he briefly recapitulate, after the manner of the Pythagoreans, that which he had read, seen, learned, done, and understood in the whole course of that day.
Then prayed they unto God the Creator, in falling down before him, and strengthening their faith towards him, and glorifying him for his boundless bounty; and, giving thanks unto him for the time that was past, they recom- mended themselves to his divine clemency for the future. Which being done, they went to bed, and betook them- selves to their repose and rest.
Chapter 1: XXIV How Gargantua spent his time in rainy weather
If it happened that the weather were anything cloudy, foul, and rainy, all the forenoon was employed, as before specified, according to custom, with this difference only, that they had a good clear fire lighted to correct the distem- pers of the air. But after dinner, instead of their wonted exercitations, they did abide within, and, by way of apotherapy (that is, a making the body healthful by exercise), did recreate themselves in bottling up of hay, in cleaving and sawing of wood, and in threshing sheaves of corn at the barn. Then they studied the art of painting or carving; or brought into use the antique play of tables, as Leonicus hath written of it, and as our good friend Lascaris playeth at it. In playing they examined the passages of ancient authors wherein the said play is mentioned or any metaphor drawn from it. They went likewise to see the drawing of metals, or the casting of great ordnance; how the lapidaries did work; as also the goldsmiths and cutters of precious stones. Nor did they omit to visit the alchemists, money-coiners, upholsterers, weavers, velvet-workers, watchmakers, looking-glass framers, printers, organists, and other such kind of artificers, and, everywhere giving them somewhat to drink, did learn and consider the industry and invention of the trades. They went also to hear the public lectures, the solemn commencements, the repetitions, the acclamations, the pleadings of the gentle lawyers, and sermons of evangelical preachers. He went through the halls and places appointed for fencing, and there played against the masters themselves at all weapons, and showed them by experience that he knew as much in it as, yea, more than, they. And, instead of herborizing, they visited the shops of druggists, herbalists, and apothecar- ies, and diligently considered the fruits, roots, leaves, gums, seeds, the grease and ointments of some foreign parts, as also how they did adulterate them. He went to see the jugglers, tumblers, mountebanks, and quacksalvers, and consid- ered their cunning, their shifts, their somersaults and smooth tongue, especially of those of Chauny in Picardy, who are naturally great praters, and brave givers of fibs, in matter of green apes.
At their return they did eat more soberly at supper than at other times, and meats more desiccative and exten- uating; to the end that the intemperate moisture of the air, communicated to the body by a necessary confinitive, might by this means be corrected, and that they might not receive any prejudice for want of their ordinary bodily exercise. Thus was Gargantua governed, and kept on in this course of education, from day to day profiting, as you
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may understand such a young man of his age may, of a pregnant judgment, with good discipline well continued. Which, although at the beginning it seemed difficult, became a little after so sweet, so easy, and so delightful, that it seemed rather the recreation of a king than the study of a scholar. Nevertheless Ponocrates, to divert him from this vehement intension of the spirits, thought fit, once in a month, upon some fair and clear day, to go out of the city betimes in the morning, either towards Gentilly, or Boulogne, or to Montrouge, or Charanton bridge, or to Vanves, or St. Clou, and there spend all the day long in making the greatest cheer that could be devised, sporting, making merry, drinking healths, playing, singing, dancing, tumbling in some fair meadow, unnestling of sparrows, taking of quails, and fishing for frogs and crabs. But although that day was passed without books or lecture, yet was it not spent without profit; for in the said meadows they usually repeated certain pleasant verses of Virgil’s agriculture, of Hesiod and of Politian’s husbandry, would set a-broach some witty Latin epigrams, then immediately turned them into roundelays and songs for dancing in the French language. In their feasting they would sometimes separate the water from the wine that was therewith mixed, as Cato teacheth, De re rustica, and Pliny with an ivy cup would wash the wine in a basinful of water, then take it out again with a funnel as pure as ever. They made the water go from one glass to another, and contrived a thousand little automatory engines, that is to say, moving of themselves.
Chapter 1: LII How Gargantua caused to be built for the Monk the Abbey of Theleme
There was left only the monk to provide for, whom Gargantua would have made Abbot of Seville, but he refused it. He would have given him the Abbey of Bourgueil, or of Sanct Florent, which was bet- ter, or both, if it pleased him; but the monk gave him a very peremptory answer, that he would never take upon him the charge nor government of monks. For how shall I be able, said he, to rule over others, that have not full power and command of myself ? If you think I have done you, or may hereafter do any acceptable service, give me leave to found an abbey after my own mind and fancy. The motion pleased Gargantua very well, who thereupon offered him all the country of Theleme by the river of Loire till within two leagues of the great forest of Port-Huaulx. The monk then requested Gargantua to institute his religious order contrary to all others. First, then, said Gargantua, you must not build a wall about your convent, for all other abbeys are strongly walled and mured about. See, said the monk, and not without cause (seeing wall and mur signify but one and the same thing); where there is mur before and mur behind, there is store of murmur, envy, and mutual conspiracy. Moreover, seeing there are certain convents in the world whereof the custom is, if any woman come in, I mean chaste and hon- est women, they immediately sweep the ground which they have trod upon; therefore was it ordained, that if any man or woman entered into religious orders should by chance come within this new abbey, all the rooms should be thoroughly washed and cleansed through which they had passed. And because in all other monasteries and nunneries all is compassed, limited, and regulated by hours, it was decreed that in this new structure there should be neither clock nor dial, but that according to the opportunities and incident occasions all their hours should be disposed of; for, said Gargantua, the greatest loss of time that I know is to count the hours. What good comes of it? Nor can there be any greater dotage in the world than for one to guide and direct his courses by the sound of a bell, and not by his own judgment and discretion.
Item, Because at that time they put no women into nunneries but such as were either purblind, blinkards, lame, crooked, ill-favoured, misshapen, fools, senseless, spoiled, or corrupt; nor encloistered any men but those that were either sickly, subject to defluxions, ill-bred louts, simple sots, or peevish trouble-houses. But to the purpose, said the monk. A woman that is neither fair nor good, to what use serves she? To make a nun of, said Gargantua. Yea, said the monk, and to make shirts and smocks. Therefore was it ordained that into this religious order should be admit- ted no women that were not fair, well-featured, and of a sweet disposition; nor men that were not comely, person- able, and well conditioned.
Item, Because in the convents of women men come not but underhand, privily, and by stealth, it was therefore enacted that in this house there shall be no women in case there be not men, nor men in case there be not women.
Image 11.8: Gargantua | The giant Gargan- tua walks through a crowd.
Author: Gustave Doré Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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Item, Because both men and women that are received into religious orders after the expiring of their noviciate or probation year were constrained and forced perpetually to stay there all the days of their life, it was therefore or- dered that all whatever, men or women, admitted within this abbey, should have full leave to depart with peace and contentment whensoever it should seem good to them so to do.
Item, for that the religious men and women did ordinarily make three vows, to wit, those of chastity, poverty, and obedience, it was therefore constituted and appointed that in this convent they might be honourably married, that they might be rich, and live at liberty. In regard of the legitimate time of the persons to be initiated, and years under and above which they were not capable of reception, the women were to be admitted from ten till fifteen, and the men from twelve till eighteen.
Chapter 1: LIII How the abbey of the Thelemites was built and endowed
For the fabric and furniture of the abbey Gargantua caused to be delivered out in ready money seven-and-twenty hundred thousand, eight hundred and one-and-thirty of those golden rams of Berry which have a sheep stamped on the one side and a flowered cross on the other; and for every year, until the whole work were completed, he allotted threescore nine thousand crowns of the sun, and as many of the seven stars, to be charged all upon the receipt of the custom. For the foundation and maintenance thereof for ever, he settled a perpetual fee-farm-rent of three-and-twenty hundred, three score and nine thousand, five hundred and fourteen rose nobles, exempted from all homage, fealty, service, or burden whatsoever, and payable every year at the gate of the abbey; and of this by letters patent passed a very good grant. The architecture was in a figure hexagonal, and in such a fashion that in every one of the six corners there was built a great round tower of threescore foot in diameter, and were all of a like form and bigness. Upon the north side ran along the river of Loire, on the bank whereof was situated the tower called Arctic. Going towards the east, there was another called Calaer,—the next following Anatole,—the next Mesembrine,—the next Hesperia, and the last Criere. Every tower was distant from other the space of three hundred and twelve paces. The whole edifice was everywhere six storeys high, reckoning the cellars underground for one. The second was arched after the fashion of a basket-handle; the rest were ceiled with pure wainscot, flourished with Flanders fretwork, in the form of the foot of a lamp, and covered above with fine slates, with an endorsement of lead, carrying the antique figures of little puppets and animals of all sorts, notably well suited to one another, and gilt, together with the gutters, which, jutting without the walls from betwixt the crossbars in a diagonal figure, painted with gold and azure, reached to the very ground, where they ended into great conduit-pipes, which carried all away unto the river from under the house.
This same building was a hundred times more sumptuous and magnificent than ever was Bonnivet, Cham- bourg, or Chantilly; for there were in it nine thousand, three hundred and two-and-thirty chambers, every one whereof had a withdrawing-room, a handsome closet, a wardrobe, an oratory, and neat passage, leading into a great and spacious hall. Between every tower in the midst of the said body of building there was a pair of winding, such as we now call lantern stairs, whereof the steps were part of porphyry, which is a dark red marble spotted with white, part of Numidian stone, which is a kind of yellowishly-streaked marble upon various colours, and part of serpentine marble, with light spots on a dark green ground, each of those steps being two-and-twenty foot in length and three fingers thick, and the just number of twelve betwixt every rest, or, as we now term it, landing-place. In every resting-place were two fair antique arches where the light came in: and by those they went into a cabinet, made even with and of the breadth of the said winding, and the reascending above the roofs of the house ended conically in a pavilion. By that vise or winding they entered on every side into a great hall, and from the halls into the chambers. From the Arctic tower unto the Criere were the fair great libraries in Greek, Latin, Hebrew, French, Italian, and Spanish, respectively distributed in their several cantons, according to the diversity of these languages. In the midst there was a wonderful scalier or winding-stair, the entry whereof was without the house, in a vault or arch six fathom broad. It was made in such symmetry and largeness that six men-at-arms with their lances in their rests might together in a breast ride all up to the very top of all the palace. From the tower Anatole to the Mesem- brine were fair spacious galleries, all coloured over and painted with the ancient prowesses, histories, and descrip- tions of the world. In the midst thereof there was likewise such another ascent and gate as we said there was on the river-side. Upon that gate was written in great antique letters that which followeth.
Chapter 1: LIV The inscription set upon the great gate of Theleme
Here enter not vile bigots, hypocrites, Externally devoted apes, base snites, Puffed-up, wry-necked beasts, worse than the Huns,
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Or Ostrogoths, forerunners of baboons: Cursed snakes, dissembled varlets, seeming sancts, Slipshod caffards, beggars pretending wants, Fat chuffcats, smell-feast knockers, doltish gulls, Out-strouting cluster-fists, contentious bulls, Fomenters of divisions and debates, Elsewhere, not here, make sale of your deceits.
Your filthy trumperies Stuffed with pernicious lies
(Not worth a bubble), Would do but trouble
Our earthly paradise, Your filthy trumperies.
Here enter not attorneys, barristers, Nor bridle-champing law-practitioners: Clerks, commissaries, scribes, nor pharisees, Wilful disturbers of the people’s ease: Judges, destroyers, with an unjust breath, Of honest men, like dogs, even unto death. Your salary is at the gibbet-foot: Go drink there! for we do not here fly out On those excessive courses, which may draw A waiting on your courts by suits in law.
Lawsuits, debates, and wrangling Hence are exiled, and jangling.
Here we are very Frolic and merry,
And free from all entangling, Lawsuits, debates, and wrangling.
Here enter not base pinching usurers, Pelf-lickers, everlasting gatherers, Gold-graspers, coin-gripers, gulpers of mists, Niggish deformed sots, who, though your chests Vast sums of money should to you afford, Would ne’ertheless add more unto that hoard, And yet not be content,—you clunchfist dastards, Insatiable fiends, and Pluto’s bastards, Greedy devourers, chichy sneakbill rogues, Hell-mastiffs gnaw your bones, you ravenous dogs.
You beastly-looking fellows, Reason doth plainly tell us
That we should not To you allot
Room here, but at the gallows, You beastly-looking fellows.
Here enter not fond makers of demurs In love adventures, peevish, jealous curs, Sad pensive dotards, raisers of garboils, Hags, goblins, ghosts, firebrands of household broils, Nor drunkards, liars, cowards, cheaters, clowns, Thieves, cannibals, faces o’ercast with frowns,
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Nor lazy slugs, envious, covetous, Nor blockish, cruel, nor too credulous,— Here mangy, pocky folks shall have no place, No ugly lusks, nor persons of disgrace.
Grace, honour, praise, delight, Here sojourn day and night.
Sound bodies lined With a good mind,
Do here pursue with might Grace, honour, praise, delight.
Here enter you, and welcome from our hearts, All noble sparks, endowed with gallant parts. This is the glorious place, which bravely shall Afford wherewith to entertain you all. Were you a thousand, here you shall not want For anything; for what you’ll ask we’ll grant. Stay here, you lively, jovial, handsome, brisk, Gay, witty, frolic, cheerful, merry, frisk, Spruce, jocund, courteous, furtherers of trades, And, in a word, all worthy gentle blades.
Blades of heroic breasts Shall taste here of the feasts,
Both privily And civilly
Of the celestial guests, Blades of heroic breasts.
Here enter you, pure, honest, faithful, true Expounders of the Scriptures old and new. Whose glosses do not blind our reason, but Make it to see the clearer, and who shut Its passages from hatred, avarice, Pride, factions, covenants, and all sort of vice. Come, settle here a charitable faith, Which neighbourly affection nourisheth. And whose light chaseth all corrupters hence, Of the blest word, from the aforesaid sense.
The holy sacred Word, May it always afford
T’ us all in common, Both man and woman,
A spiritual shield and sword, The holy sacred Word.
Here enter you all ladies of high birth, Delicious, stately, charming, full of mirth, Ingenious, lovely, miniard, proper, fair, Magnetic, graceful, splendid, pleasant, rare, Obliging, sprightly, virtuous, young, solacious, Kind, neat, quick, feat, bright, compt, ripe, choice, dear, precious. Alluring, courtly, comely, fine, complete, Wise, personable, ravishing, and sweet, Come joys enjoy. The Lord celestial
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Hath given enough wherewith to please us all.
Gold give us, God forgive us, And from all woes relieve us;
That we the treasure May reap of pleasure,
And shun whate’er is grievous, Gold give us, God forgive us.
Chapter 1: LV What manner of dwelling the Thelemites had
In the middle of the lower court there was a stately fountain of fair alabaster. Upon the top thereof stood the three Graces, with their cornucopias, or horns of abundance, and did jet out the water at their breasts, mouth, ears, eyes, and other open passages of the body. The inside of the buildings in this lower court stood upon great pillars of chalcedony stone and porphyry marble made archways after a goodly antique fashion. Within those were spa- cious galleries, long and large, adorned with curious pictures, the horns of bucks and unicorns: with rhinoceroses, water-horses called hippopotames, the teeth and tusks of elephants, and other things well worth the beholding. The lodging of the ladies, for so we may call those gallant women, took up all from the tower Arctic unto the gate Mesembrine. The men possessed the rest. Before the said lodging of the ladies, that they might have their recre- ation, between the two first towers, on the outside, were placed the tiltyard, the barriers or lists for tournaments, the hippodrome or riding-court, the theatre or public playhouse, and natatory or place to swim in, with most admirable baths in three stages, situated above one another, well furnished with all necessary accommodation, and store of myrtle-water. By the river-side was the fair garden of pleasure, and in the midst of that the glorious labyrinth. Between the two other towers were the courts for the tennis and the balloon. Towards the tower Criere stood the orchard full of all fruit-trees, set and ranged in a quincuncial order. At the end of that was the great park, abounding with all sort of venison. Betwixt the third couple of towers were the butts and marks for shooting with a snapwork gun, an ordinary bow for common archery, or with a crossbow. The office-houses were without the tower Hesperia, of one storey high. The stables were beyond the offices, and before them stood the falconry, managed by ostrich-keepers and falconers very expert in the art, and it was yearly supplied and furnished by the Candians, Venetians, Sarmates, now called Muscoviters, with all sorts of most excellent hawks, eagles, gerfalcons, goshawks, sacres, lanners, falcons, sparrowhawks, marlins, and other kinds of them, so gentle and perfectly well manned, that, flying of themselves sometimes from the castle for their own disport, they would not fail to catch whatever they encountered. The venery, where the beagles and hounds were kept, was a little farther off, drawing towards the park.
All the halls, chambers, and closets or cabinets were richly hung with tapestry and hangings of divers sorts, according to the variety of the seasons of the year. All the pavements and floors were covered with green cloth. The beds were all embroidered. In every back-chamber or withdrawing-room there was a looking-glass of pure crys- tal set in a frame of fine gold, garnished all about with pearls, and was of such greatness that it would represent to the full the whole lineaments and proportion of the person that stood before it. At the going out of the halls which belong to the ladies’ lodgings were the perfumers and trimmers through whose hands the gallants passed when they were to visit the ladies. Those sweet artificers did every morning furnish the ladies’ chambers with the spirit of roses, orange-flower-water, and angelica; and to each of them gave a little precious casket vapouring forth the most odoriferous exhalations of the choicest aromatical scents.
Chapter 1: LVI How the men and women of the religious order of Theleme were apparelled
The ladies at the foundation of this order were apparelled after their own pleasure and liking; but, since that of their own accord and free will they have reformed themselves, their accoutrement is in manner as followeth. They wore stockings of scarlet crimson, or ingrained purple dye, which reached just three inches above the knee, having a list beautified with exquisite embroideries and rare incisions of the cutter’s art. Their garters were of the colour of their bracelets, and circled the knee a little both over and under. Their shoes, pumps, and slippers were either of red, violet, or crimson-velvet, pinked and jagged like lobster waddles.
Next to their smock they put on the pretty kirtle or vasquin of pure silk camlet: above that went the taffety or tabby farthingale, of white, red, tawny, grey, or of any other colour. Above this taffety petticoat they had another of cloth of tissue or brocade, embroidered with fine gold and interlaced with needlework, or as they thought good, and according to the temperature and disposition of the weather had their upper coats of satin, damask, or velvet,
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and those either orange, tawny, green, ash-coloured, blue, yellow, bright red, crimson, or white, and so forth; or had them of cloth of gold, cloth of silver, or some other choice stuff, enriched with purl, or embroidered according to the dignity of the festival days and times wherein they wore them.
Their gowns, being still correspondent to the season, were either of cloth of gold frizzled with a silver-raised work; of red satin, covered with gold purl; of tabby, or taffety, white, blue, black, tawny, &c., of silk serge, silk camlet, velvet, cloth of silver, silver tissue, cloth of gold, gold wire, figured velvet, or figured satin tinselled and overcast with golden threads, in divers variously purfled draughts.
In the summer some days instead of gowns they wore light handsome mantles, made either of the stuff of the aforesaid attire, or like Moresco rugs, of violet velvet frizzled, with a raised work of gold upon silver purl, or with a knotted cord-work of gold embroidery, everywhere garnished with little Indian pearls. They always carried a fair panache, or plume of feathers, of the colour of their muff, bravely adorned and tricked out with glistering spangles of gold. In the winter time they had their taffety gowns of all colours, as above-named, and those lined with the rich furrings of hind-wolves, or speckled lynxes, black-spotted weasels, martlet skins of Calabria, sables, and other cost- ly furs of an inestimable value. Their beads, rings, bracelets, collars, carcanets, and neck-chains were all of precious stones, such as carbuncles, rubies, baleus, diamonds, sapphires, emeralds, turquoises, garnets, agates, beryls, and excellent margarites. Their head-dressing also varied with the season of the year, according to which they decked themselves. In winter it was of the French fashion; in the spring, of the Spanish; in summer, of the fashion of Tusca- ny, except only upon the holy days and Sundays, at which times they were accoutred in the French mode, because they accounted it more honourable and better befitting the garb of a matronal pudicity.
The men were apparelled after their fashion. Their stockings were of tamine or of cloth serge, of white, black, scarlet, or some other ingrained colour. Their breeches were of velvet, of the same colour with their stockings, or very near, embroidered and cut according to their fancy. Their doublet was of cloth of gold, of cloth of silver, of velvet, satin, damask, taffeties, &c., of the same colours, cut, embroidered, and suitably trimmed up in perfection. The points were of silk of the same colours; the tags were of gold well enamelled. Their coats and jerkins were of cloth of gold, cloth of silver, gold, tissue or velvet embroidered, as they thought fit. Their gowns were every whit as costly as those of the ladies. Their girdles were of silks, of the colour of their doublets. Every one had a gallant sword by his side, the hilt and handle whereof were gilt, and the scabbard of velvet, of the colour of his breeches, with a chape of gold, and pure goldsmith’s work. The dagger was of the same. Their caps or bonnets were of black velvet, adorned with jewels and buttons of gold. Upon that they wore a white plume, most prettily and minion-like parted by so many rows of gold spangles, at the end whereof hung dangling in a more sparkling resplendency fair rubies, emeralds, diamonds, &c., but there was such a sympathy betwixt the gallants and the ladies, that every day they were apparelled in the same livery. And that they might not miss, there were certain gentlemen appointed to tell the youths every morning what vestments the ladies would on that day wear: for all was done according to the pleasure of the ladies. In these so handsome clothes, and habiliments so rich, think not that either one or other of either sex did waste any time at all; for the masters of the wardrobes had all their raiments and apparel so ready for every morning, and the chamber-ladies so well skilled, that in a trice they would be dressed and completely in their clothes from head to foot. And to have those accoutrements with the more conveniency, there was about the wood of Theleme a row of houses of the extent of half a league, very neat and cleanly, wherein dwelt the goldsmiths, lapidaries, jewellers, embroiderers, tailors, gold-drawers, velvet-weavers, tapestry-makers and upholsterers, who wrought there every one in his own trade, and all for the aforesaid jolly friars and nuns of the new stamp. They were furnished with matter and stuff from the hands of the Lord Nausiclete, who every year brought them seven ships from the Perlas and Cannibal Islands, laden with ingots of gold, with raw silk, with pearls and precious stones. And if any margarites, called unions, began to grow old and lose somewhat of their natural whiteness and lustre, those with their art they did renew by tendering them to eat to some pretty cocks, as they use to give casting unto hawks.
Chapter 1: LVII How the Thelemites were governed, and of their manner of living
All their life was spent not in laws, statutes, or rules, but according to their own free will and pleasure. They rose out of their beds when they thought good; they did eat, drink, labour, sleep, when they had a mind to it and were disposed for it. None did awake them, none did offer to constrain them to eat, drink, nor to do any other thing; for so had Gargantua established it. In all their rule and strictest tie of their order there was but this one clause to be observed,
Do What Thou Wilt; because men that are free, well-born, well-bred, and conversant in honest companies, have naturally an instinct and spur that prompteth them unto virtuous actions, and withdraws them from vice, which is called honour. Those same men, when by base subjection and constraint they are brought under and kept down, turn aside from that noble disposition by which they formerly were inclined to virtue, to shake off and break that
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bond of servitude wherein they are so tyrannously enslaved; for it is agreeable with the nature of man to long after things forbidden and to desire what is denied us.
By this liberty they entered into a very laudable emulation to do all of them what they saw did please one. If any of the gallants or ladies should say, Let us drink, they would all drink. If any one of them said, Let us play, they all played. If one said, Let us go a-walking into the fields they went all. If it were to go a-hawking or a-hunting, the ladies mounted upon dainty well-paced nags, seated in a stately palfrey saddle, carried on their lovely fists, min- iardly begloved every one of them, either a sparrowhawk or a laneret or a marlin, and the young gallants carried the other kinds of hawks. So nobly were they taught, that there was neither he nor she amongst them but could read, write, sing, play upon several musical instruments, speak five or six several languages, and compose in them all very quaintly, both in verse and prose. Never were seen so valiant knights, so noble and worthy, so dexterous and skilful both on foot and a-horse-back, more brisk and lively, more nimble and quick, or better handling all manner of weapons than were there. Never were seen ladies so proper and handsome, so miniard and dainty, less froward, or more ready with their hand and with their needle in every honest and free action belonging to that sex, than were there. For this reason, when the time came that any man of the said abbey, either at the request of his parents, or for some other cause, had a mind to go out of it, he carried along with him one of the ladies, namely, her whom he had before that chosen for his mistress, and (they) were married together. And if they had formerly in Theleme lived in good devotion and amity, they did continue therein and increase it to a greater height in their state of matrimony; and did entertain that mutual love till the very last day of their life, in no less vigour and fervency than at the very day of their wedding. Here must not I forget to set down unto you a riddle which was found under the ground as they were laying the foundation of the abbey, engraven in a copper plate, and it was thus as followeth.
Chapter 1: LVIII A prophetical riddle
Poor mortals, who wait for a happy day, Cheer up your hearts, and hear what I shall say: If it be lawful firmly to believe That the celestial bodies can us give Wisdom to judge of things that are not yet; Or if from heaven such wisdom we may get As may with confidence make us discourse Of years to come, their destiny and course; I to my hearers give to understand That this next winter, though it be at hand, Yea and before, there shall appear a race Of men who, loth to sit still in one place, Shall boldly go before all people’s eyes, Suborning men of divers qualities To draw them unto covenants and sides, In such a manner that, whate’er betides, They’ll move you, if you give them ear, no doubt, With both your friends and kindred to fall out. They’ll make a vassal to gain-stand his lord, And children their own parents; in a word, All reverence shall then be banished, No true respect to other shall be had. They’ll say that every man should have his turn, Both in his going forth and his return; And hereupon there shall arise such woes, Such jarrings, and confused to’s and fro’s, That never were in history such coils Set down as yet, such tumults and garboils. Then shall you many gallant men see by Valour stirr’d up, and youthful fervency, Who, trusting too much in their hopeful time, Live but a while, and perish in their prime. Neither shall any, who this course shall run,
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Leave off the race which he hath once begun, Till they the heavens with noise by their contention Have fill’d, and with their steps the earth’s dimension. Then those shall have no less authority, That have no faith, than those that will not lie; For all shall be governed by a rude, Base, ignorant, and foolish multitude; The veriest lout of all shall be their judge, O horrible and dangerous deluge! Deluge I call it, and that for good reason, For this shall be omitted in no season; Nor shall the earth of this foul stir be free, Till suddenly you in great store shall see The waters issue out, with whose streams the Most moderate of all shall moistened be, And justly too; because they did not spare The flocks of beasts that innocentest are, But did their sinews and their bowels take, Not to the gods a sacrifice to make, But usually to serve themselves for sport: And now consider, I do you exhort, In such commotions so continual, What rest can take the globe terrestrial? Most happy then are they, that can it hold, And use it carefully as precious gold, By keeping it in gaol, whence it shall have No help but him who being to it gave. And to increase his mournful accident, The sun, before it set in th’ occident, Shall cease to dart upon it any light, More than in an eclipse, or in the night,— So that at once its favour shall be gone, And liberty with it be left alone. And yet, before it come to ruin thus, Its quaking shall be as impetuous As Aetna’s was when Titan’s sons lay under, And yield, when lost, a fearful sound like thunder. Inarime did not more quickly move, When Typheus did the vast huge hills remove, And for despite into the sea them threw.
Thus shall it then be lost by ways not few, And changed suddenly, when those that have it To other men that after come shall leave it. Then shall it be high time to cease from this So long, so great, so tedious exercise; For the great waters told you now by me, Will make each think where his retreat shall be; And yet, before that they be clean disperst, You may behold in th’ air, where nought was erst, The burning heat of a great flame to rise, Lick up the water, and the enterprise.
It resteth after those things to declare, That those shall sit content who chosen are, With all good things, and with celestial man (ne,) And richly recompensed every man: The others at the last all stripp’d shall be, That after this great work all men may see,
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How each shall have his due. This is their lot; O he is worthy praise that shrinketh not!
No sooner was this enigmatical monument read over, but Gargantua, fetching a very deep sigh, said unto those that stood by, It is not now only, I perceive, that people called to the faith of the gospel, and convinced with the certainty of evangelical truths, are persecuted. But happy is that man that shall not be scandalized, but shall always continue to the end in aiming at that mark which God by his dear Son hath set before us, without being distracted or diverted by his carnal affections and depraved nature.
The monk then said, What do you think in your conscience is meant and signified by this riddle? What? said Gargantua,—the progress and carrying on of the divine truth. By St. Goderan, said the monk, that is not my expo- sition. It is the style of the prophet Merlin. Make upon it as many grave allegories and glosses as you will, and dote upon it you and the rest of the world as long as you please; for my part, I can conceive no other meaning in it but a description of a set at tennis in dark and obscure terms. The suborners of men are the makers of matches, which are commonly friends. After the two chases are made, he that was in the upper end of the tennis-court goeth out, and the other cometh in. They believe the first that saith the ball was over or under the line. The waters are the heats that the players take till they sweat again. The cords of the rackets are made of the guts of sheep or goats. The globe terrestrial is the tennis-ball. After playing, when the game is done, they refresh themselves before a clear fire, and change their shirts; and very willingly they make all good cheer, but most merrily those that have gained. And so, farewell!
Chapter 2: II Of the nativity of the most dread and redoubted Pantagruel
Gargantua at the age of four hundred fourscore forty and four years begat his son Pantagruel, upon his wife named Badebec, daughter to the king of the Amaurots in Utopia, who died in childbirth; for he was so wonderful- ly great and lumpish that he could not possibly come forth into the light of the world without thus suffocating his mother. But that we may fully understand the cause and reason of the name of Pantagruel which at his baptism was given him, you are to remark that in that year there was so great drought over all the country of Africa that there passed thirty and six months, three weeks, four days, thirteen hours and a little more without rain, but with a heat so vehement that the whole earth was parched and withered by it. Neither was it more scorched and dried up with heat in the days of Elijah than it was at that time; for there was not a tree to be seen that had either leaf or bloom upon it. The grass was without verdure or greenness, the rivers were drained, the fountains dried up, the poor fishes, abandoned and forsaken by their proper element, wandering and crying upon the ground most horribly. The birds did fall down from the air for want of moisture and dew wherewith to refresh them. The wolves, foxes, harts, wild boars, fallow deer, hares, coneys, weasels, brocks, badgers, and other such beasts, were found dead in the fields with their mouths open. In respect of men, there was the pity, you should have seen them lay out their tongues like hares that have been run six hours. Many did throw themselves into the wells. Others entered within a cow’s belly to be in the shade; those Homer calls Alibants. All the country was idle, and could do no virtue. It was a most lamen- table case to have seen the labour of mortals in defending themselves from the vehemency of this horrific drought; for they had work enough to do to save the holy water in the churches from being wasted; but there was such order taken by the counsel of my lords the cardinals and of our holy Father, that none did dare to take above one lick. Yet when anyone came into the church, you should have seen above twenty poor thirsty fellows hang upon him that was the distributor of the water, and that with a wide open throat, gaping for some little drop, like the rich glutton in Luke, that might fall by, lest anything should be lost. O how happy was he in that year who had a cool cellar un- der ground, well plenished with fresh wine!
The philosopher reports, in moving the question, Wherefore it is that the sea-water is salt, that at the time when Phoebus gave the government of his resplendent chariot to his son Phaeton, the said Phaeton, unskilful in the art, and not knowing how to keep the ecliptic line betwixt the two tropics of the latitude of the sun’s course, strayed out of his way, and came so near the earth that he dried up all the countries that were under it, burning a great part of the heavens which the philosophers call Via lactea, and the huffsnuffs St. James’s way; although the most coped, lofty, and high-crested poets affirm that to be the place where Juno’s milk fell when she gave suck to Hercules. The earth at that time was so excessively heated that it fell into an enormous sweat, yea, such a one as made it sweat out the sea, which is therefore salt, because all sweat is salt; and this you cannot but confess to be true if you will taste of your own, or of those that have the pox, when they are put into sweating, it is all one to me.
Just such another case fell out this same year: for on a certain Friday, when the whole people were bent upon their devotions, and had made goodly processions, with store of litanies, and fair preachings, and beseechings of God Almighty to look down with his eye of mercy upon their miserable and disconsolate condition, there was
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even then visibly seen issue out of the ground great drops of water, such as fall from a puff-bagged man in a top sweat, and the poor hoidens began to rejoice as if it had been a thing very profitable unto them; for some said that there was not one drop of moisture in the air whence they might have any rain, and that the earth did supply the default of that. Other learned men said that it was a shower of the antipodes, as Seneca saith in his fourth book Quaestionum naturalium, speaking of the source and spring of Nilus. But they were deceived, for, the procession being ended, when everyone went about to gather of this dew, and to drink of it with full bowls, they found that it was nothing but pickle and the very brine of salt, more brackish in taste than the saltest water of the sea. And because in that very day Pantagruel was born, his father gave him that name; for Panta in Greek is as much to say as all, and Gruel in the Hagarene language doth signify thirsty, inferring hereby that at his birth the whole world was a-dry and thirsty, as likewise foreseeing that he would be some day supreme lord and sovereign of the thirsty Ethrappels, which was shown to him at that very same hour by a more evident sign. For when his mother Badebec was in the bringing of him forth, and that the midwives did wait to receive him, there came first out of her belly three score and eight trege- neers, that is, salt-sellers, every one of them leading in a halter a mule heavy laden with salt; after whom issued forth nine dromedaries, with great loads of gammons of bacon and dried neat’s tongues on their backs. Then followed seven camels loaded with links and chitterlings, hogs’ puddings, and sausages. After them came out five great wains, full of leeks, garlic, onions, and chibots, drawn with five-and-thirty strong cart-horses, which was six for every one, besides the thiller. At the sight hereof the said midwives were much amazed, yet some of them said, Lo, here is good provi- sion, and indeed we need it; for we drink but lazily, as if our tongues walked on crutches, and not lustily like Lansman Dutches. Truly this is a good sign; there is nothing here but what is fit for us; these are the spurs of wine, that set it a-going. As they were tattling thus together after their own manner of chat, behold! out comes Pantagruel all hairy like a bear, whereupon one of them, inspired with a prophetical spirit, said, This will be a terrible fellow; he is born with all his hair; he is undoubtedly to do wonderful things, and if he live he shall have age.
Chapter 2: VIII How Pantagruel, being at Paris, received letters from his father Gargantua, and the copy of them
Pantagruel studied very hard, as you may well conceive, and profited accordingly; for he had an excellent un- derstanding and notable wit, together with a capacity in memory equal to the measure of twelve oil budgets or butts of olives. And, as he was there abiding one day, he received a letter from his father in manner as followeth.
Most dear Son,—Amongst the gifts, graces, and prerogatives, with which the sovereign plasmator God Al- mighty hath endowed and adorned human nature at the beginning, that seems to me most singular and excellent by which we may in a mortal state attain to a kind of immortality, and in the course of this transitory life perpetuate our name and seed, which is done by a progeny issued from us in the lawful bonds of matrimony. Whereby that in some measure is restored unto us which was taken from us by the sin of our first parents, to whom it was said that, because they had not obeyed the commandment of God their Creator, they should die, and by death should be brought to nought that so stately frame and plasmature wherein the man at first had been created.
But by this means of seminal propagation there (“Which continueth” in the old copy.) continueth in the chil- dren what was lost in the parents, and in the grandchildren that which perished in their fathers, and so successively until the day of the last judgment, when Jesus Christ shall have rendered up to God the Father his kingdom in a peaceable condition, out of all danger and contamination of sin; for then shall cease all generations and corrup- tions, and the elements leave off their continual transmutations, seeing the so much desired peace shall be attained unto and enjoyed, and that all things shall be brought to their end and period. And, therefore, not without just and reasonable cause do I give thanks to God my Saviour and Preserver, for that he hath enabled me to see my bald old age reflourish in thy youth; for when, at his good pleasure, who rules and governs all things, my soul shall leave this mortal habitation, I shall not account myself wholly to die, but to pass from one place unto another, considering that, in and by that, I continue in my visible image living in the world, visiting and conversing with people of hon- our, and other my good friends, as I was wont to do. Which conversation of mine, although it was not without sin, because we are all of us trespassers, and therefore ought continually to beseech his divine majesty to blot our trans- gressions out of his memory, yet was it, by the help and grace of God, without all manner of reproach before men.
Wherefore, if those qualities of the mind but shine in thee wherewith I am endowed, as in thee remaineth the perfect image of my body, thou wilt be esteemed by all men to be the perfect guardian and treasure of the immor- tality of our name. But, if otherwise, I shall truly take but small pleasure to see it, considering that the lesser part of me, which is the body, would abide in thee, and the best, to wit, that which is the soul, and by which our name continues blessed amongst men, would be degenerate and abastardized. This I do not speak out of any distrust that I have of thy virtue, which I have heretofore already tried, but to encourage thee yet more earnestly to proceed from good to better. And that which I now write unto thee is not so much that thou shouldst live in this virtuous course,
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as that thou shouldst rejoice in so living and having lived, and cheer up thyself with the like resolution in time to come; to the prosecution and accomplishment of which enterprise and generous undertaking thou mayst easily remember how that I have spared nothing, but have so helped thee, as if I had had no other treasure in this world but to see thee once in my life completely well-bred and accomplished, as well in virtue, honesty, and valour, as in all liberal knowledge and civility, and so to leave thee after my death as a mirror representing the person of me thy father, and if not so excellent, and such in deed as I do wish thee, yet such in my desire.
But although my deceased father of happy memory, Grangousier, had bent his best endeavours to make me profit in all perfection and political knowledge, and that my labour and study was fully correspondent to, yea, went beyond his desire, nevertheless, as thou mayest well understand, the time then was not so proper and fit for learning as it is at present, neither had I plenty of such good masters as thou hast had. For that time was darksome, obscured with clouds of ignorance, and savouring a little of the infelicity and calamity of the Goths, who had, wher- ever they set footing, destroyed all good literature, which in my age hath by the divine goodness been restored unto its former light and dignity, and that with such amendment and increase of the knowledge, that now hardly should I be admitted unto the first form of the little grammar-schoolboys—I say, I, who in my youthful days was, and that justly, reputed the most learned of that age. Which I do not speak in vain boasting, although I might lawfully do it in writing unto thee—in verification whereof thou hast the authority of Marcus Tullius in his book of old age, and the sentence of Plutarch in the book entitled How a man may praise himself without envy—but to give thee an emulous encouragement to strive yet further.
Now is it that the minds of men are qualified with all manner of discipline, and the old sciences revived which for many ages were extinct. Now it is that the learned languages are to their pristine purity restored, viz., Greek, without which a man may be ashamed to account himself a scholar, Hebrew, Arabic, Chaldaean, and Latin. Printing likewise is now in use, so elegant and so correct that better cannot be imagined, although it was found out but in my time by divine inspiration, as by a diabolical suggestion on the other side was the invention of ordnance. All the world is full of knowing men, of most learned schoolmasters, and vast libraries; and it appears to me as a truth, that neither in Plato’s time, nor Cicero’s, nor Papinian’s, there was ever such conveniency for studying as we see at this day there is. Nor must any adventure henceforward to come in public, or present himself in company, that hath not been pretty well polished in the shop of Minerva. I see robbers, hangmen, freebooters, tapsters, ostlers, and such like, of the very rubbish of the people, more learned now than the doctors and preachers were in my time.
What shall I say? The very women and children have aspired to this praise and celestial manner of good learn- ing. Yet so it is that, in the age I am now of, I have been constrained to learn the Greek tongue—which I contemned not like Cato, but had not the leisure in my younger years to attend the study of it—and take much delight in the reading of Plutarch’s Morals, the pleasant Dialogues of Plato, the Monuments of Pausanias, and the Antiquities of Athenaeus, in waiting on the hour wherein God my Creator shall call me and command me to depart from this earth and transitory pilgrimage. Wherefore, my son, I admonish thee to employ thy youth to profit as well as thou canst, both in thy studies and in virtue. Thou art at Paris, where the laudable examples of many brave men may stir up thy mind to gallant actions, and hast likewise for thy tutor and pedagogue the learned Epistemon, who by his lively and vocal documents may instruct thee in the arts and sciences.
I intend, and will have it so, that thou learn the languages perfectly; first of all the Greek, as Quintilian will have it; secondly, the Latin; and then the Hebrew, for the Holy Scripture sake; and then the Chaldee and Arabic likewise, and that thou frame thy style in Greek in imitation of Plato, and for the Latin after Cicero. Let there be no history which thou shalt not have ready in thy memory; unto the prosecuting of which design, books of cosmography will be very conducible and help thee much. Of the liberal arts of geometry, arithmetic, and music, I gave thee some taste when thou wert yet little, and not above five or six years old. Proceed further in them, and learn the remainder if thou canst. As for astronomy, study all the rules thereof. Let pass, nevertheless, the divining and judicial astrology, and the art of Lullius, as being nothing else but plain abuses and vanities. As for the civil law, of that I would have thee to know the texts by heart, and then to confer them with philosophy.
Now, in matter of the knowledge of the works of nature, I would have thee to study that exactly, and that so there be no sea, river, nor fountain, of which thou dost not know the fishes; all the fowls of the air; all the sever- al kinds of shrubs and trees, whether in forests or orchards; all the sorts of herbs and flowers that grow upon the ground; all the various metals that are hid within the bowels of the earth; together with all the diversity of precious stones that are to be seen in the orient and south parts of the world. Let nothing of all these be hidden from thee. Then fail not most carefully to peruse the books of the Greek, Arabian, and Latin physicians, not despising the Talmudists and Cabalists; and by frequent anatomies get thee the perfect knowledge of the other world, called the microcosm, which is man. And at some hours of the day apply thy mind to the study of the Holy Scriptures; first in Greek, the New Testament, with the Epistles of the Apostles; and then the Old Testament in Hebrew. In brief, let me see thee an abyss and bottomless pit of knowledge; for from henceforward, as thou growest great and becomest a man, thou must part from this tranquillity and rest of study, thou must learn chivalry, warfare, and the exercises of
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the field, the better thereby to defend my house and our friends, and to succour and protect them at all their needs against the invasion and assaults of evildoers.
Furthermore, I will that very shortly thou try how much thou hast profited, which thou canst not better do than by maintaining publicly theses and conclusions in all arts against all persons whatsoever, and by haunting the com- pany of learned men, both at Paris and otherwhere. But because, as the wise man Solomon saith, Wisdom entereth not into a malicious mind, and that knowledge without conscience is but the ruin of the soul, it behoveth thee to serve, to love, to fear God, and on him to cast all thy thoughts and all thy hope, and by faith formed in charity to cleave unto him, so that thou mayst never be separated from him by thy sins. Suspect the abuses of the world. Set not thy heart upon vanity, for this life is transitory, but the Word of the Lord endureth for ever. Be serviceable to all thy neighbours, and love them as thyself. Reverence thy preceptors: shun the conversation of those whom thou desirest not to resemble, and receive not in vain the graces which God hath bestowed upon thee. And, when thou shalt see that thou hast attained to all the knowledge that is to be acquired in that part, return unto me, that I may see thee and give thee my blessing before I die. My son, the peace and grace of our Lord be with thee. Amen.
Thy father Gargantua. From Utopia the 17th day of the month of March.
These letters being received and read, Pantagruel plucked up his heart, took a fresh courage to him, and was inflamed with a desire to profit in his studies more than ever, so that if you had seen him, how he took pains, and how he advanced in learning, you would have said that the vivacity of his spirit amidst the books was like a great fire amongst dry wood, so active it was, vigorous and indefatigable.
Chapter 2: XXXII How Pantagruel with his tongue covered a whole army, and what the author saw in his mouth
Thus, as Pantagruel with all his army had entered into the country of the Dipsodes, everyone was glad of it, and incontinently rendered themselves unto him, bringing him out of their own good wills the keys of all the cities where he went, the Almirods only excepted, who, being resolved to hold out against him, made answer to his her- alds that they would not yield but upon very honourable and good conditions.
What! said Pantagruel, do they ask any better terms than the hand at the pot and the glass in their fist? Come, let us go sack them, and put them all to the sword. Then did they put themselves in good order, as being fully de- termined to give an assault, but by the way, passing through a large field, they were overtaken with a great shower of rain, whereat they began to shiver and tremble, to crowd, press, and thrust close to one another. When Panta- gruel saw that, he made their captains tell them that it was nothing, and that he saw well above the clouds that it would be nothing but a little dew; but, howsoever, that they should put themselves in order, and he would cover them. Then did they put themselves in a close order, and stood as near to (each) other as they could, and Pantagruel drew out his tongue only half-way and covered them all, as a hen doth her chickens. In the meantime, I, who relate to you these so veritable stories, hid myself under a burdock-leaf, which was not much less in largeness than the arch of the bridge of Montrible, but when I saw them thus covered, I went towards them to shelter myself likewise; which I could not do, for that they were so, as the saying is, At the yard’s end there is no cloth left. Then, as well as I could, I got upon it, and went along full two leagues upon his tongue, and so long marched that at last I came into his mouth. But, O gods and goddesses! what did I see there? Jupiter confound me with his trisulc lightning if I lie! I walked there as they do in Sophia (at) Constantinople, and saw there great rocks, like the mountains in Denmark—I believe that those were his teeth. I saw also fair meadows, large forests, great and strong cities not a jot less than Lyons or Poictiers. The first man I met with there was a good honest fellow planting coleworts, whereat being very much amazed, I asked him, My friend, what dost thou make here? I plant coleworts, said he. But how, and wherewith? said I. Ha, sir, said he, everyone cannot have his ballocks as heavy as a mortar, neither can we be all rich. Thus do I get my poor living, and carry them to the market to sell in the city which is here behind. Jesus! said I, is there here a new world? Sure, said he, it is never a jot new, but it is commonly reported that, without this, there is an earth, whereof the inhabitants enjoy the light of a sun and a moon, and that it is full of and replenished with very good commodities; but yet this is more ancient than that. Yea but, said I, my friend, what is the name of that city whither thou carriest thy coleworts to sell? It is called Aspharage, said he, and all the indwellers are Christians, very honest men, and will make you good cheer. To be brief, I resolved to go thither. Now, in my way, I met with a fellow that was lying in wait to catch pigeons, of whom I asked, My friend, from whence come these pigeons? Sir, said he, they come from the other world. Then I thought that, when Pantagruel yawned, the pigeons went into his mouth in whole flocks, thinking that it had been a pigeon-house.
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Then I went into the city, which I found fair, very strong, and seated in a good air; but at my entry the guard demanded of me my pass or ticket. Whereat I was much astonished, and asked them, My masters, is there any danger of the plague here? O Lord! said they, they die hard by here so fast that the cart runs about the streets. Good God! said I, and where? Whereunto they answered that it was in Larynx and Pharynx, which are two great cities such as Rouen and Nantes, rich and of great trading. And the cause of the plague was by a stinking and infectious exhalation which lately vapoured out of the abysms, whereof there have died above two and twenty hundred and threescore thousand and sixteen persons within this sevennight. Then I considered, calculated, and found that it was a rank and unsavoury breathing which came out of Pantagruel’s stomach when he did eat so much garlic, as we have aforesaid.
Parting from thence, I passed amongst the rocks, which were his teeth, and never left walking till I got up on one of them; and there I found the pleasantest places in the world, great large tennis-courts, fair galleries, sweet meadows, store of vines, and an infinite number of banqueting summer outhouses in the fields, after the Italian fashion, full of pleasure and delight, where I stayed full four months, and never made better cheer in my life as then. After that I went down by the hinder teeth to come to the chaps. But in the way I was robbed by thieves in a great forest that is in the territory towards the ears. Then, after a little further travelling, I fell upon a pretty petty village—truly I have forgot the name of it—where I was yet merrier than ever, and got some certain money to live by. Can you tell how? By sleeping. For there they hire men by the day to sleep, and they get by it sixpence a day, but they that can snort hard get at least ninepence. How I had been robbed in the valley I informed the senators, who told me that, in very truth, the people of that side were bad livers and naturally thievish, whereby I perceived well that, as we have with us the countries Cisalpine and Transalpine, that is, behither and beyond the mountains, so have they there the countries Cidentine and Tradentine, that is, behither and beyond the teeth. But it is far better living on this side, and the air is purer. Then I began to think that it is very true which is commonly said, that the one half of the world knoweth not how the other half liveth; seeing none before myself had ever written of that country, wherein are above five-and-twenty kingdoms inhabited, besides deserts, and a great arm of the sea. Con- cerning which purpose I have composed a great book, entitled, The History of the Throttias, because they dwell in the throat of my master Pantagruel.
At last I was willing to return, and, passing by his beard, I cast myself upon his shoulders, and from thence slid down to the ground, and fell before him. As soon as I was perceived by him, he asked me, Whence comest thou, Alcof- ribas? I answered him, Out of your mouth, my lord. And how long hast thou been there? said he. Since the time, said I, that you went against the Almirods. That is about six months ago, said he. And wherewith didst thou live? What didst thou drink? I answered, My lord, of the same that you did, and of the daintiest morsels that passed through your throat I took toll. Yea but, said he, where didst thou shite? In your throat, my lord, said I. Ha, ha! thou art a merry fellow, said he. We have with the help of God conquered all the land of the Dipsodes; I will give thee the Chastelleine, or Lairdship of Salmigondin. Gramercy, my lord, said I, you gratify me beyond all that I have deserved of you.
HAMLET
William Shakespeare (ca. 1564 C.E.-1616 C.E.)
First performed ca. 1600 C.E.-1601 C.E. England
We know relatively little about Shakespeare’s life, and what we do know does not necessarily add to our un- derstanding of his plays. The impact of those plays, however, is beyond question. Shakespeare is credited with introducing about 1700 words to the English language (by invention, by turning nouns into verbs, by pulling words from other languages, etc.). When we talk about a gust of wind, or someone swaggering into a room, or bumping into someone, we are using Shakespeare’s words. Many phrases introduced by Shakespeare are also in common usage: such as if someone catches a cold after too much of a good thing and is now a sorry sight who has seen better days. It is Shakespeare’s use of language that has kept him so popular; the basic plot of Hamlet was based on his- torical events recounted by Saxo Grammaticus and written about by previous authors, but like Homer’s version of the story of the Trojan War, Shakespeare’s presentation of the material surpasses all others. Hamlet’s grief about his father’s death—and his mother’s subsequent marriage to his uncle—could have led to a straightforward Elizabethan revenge tragedy. In Shakespeare’s hands, the play instead explores the philosophical, psychological, and physical ramifications of revenge. Shakespeare’s plays are well known around the world, and they have influenced countless authors. Hamlet is a particularly good example of this phenomenon; Goethe’s Faust (a masterpiece in its own right) includes quotations from Hamlet and rewrites the Hamlet/Ophelia relationship in the context of Romanticism,
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while Fyodor Dostoevsky rewrites the relationship in the context of Realism in his Notes from Underground. Shake- speare’s plays have been adapted successfully in many countries, which is an argument for their timeless appeal. For example, Japanese filmmaker Akira Kurosawa’s Throne of Blood (1957) takes Macbeth and sets it in feudal Japan, with the title character as a samurai. Of all of the plays, Hamlet is both the most well-known and the most frequent- ly adapted, both on the stage and in film.
Written by Laura J. Getty
Hamlet, Prince of Denmark
William Shakespeare
Persons Represented: Claudius, King of Denmark Hamlet, Son to the former, and Nephew to the present King Polonius, Lord Chamberlain Horatio, Friend to Hamlet Laertes, Son to Polonius Voltimand, Courtier Cornelius, Courtier Rosencrantz, Courtier Guildenstern, Courtier Osric, Courtier A Gentleman, Courtier A Priest Marcellus, Officer Bernardo, Officer Francisco, a Soldier Reynaldo, Servant to Polonius Players Two Clowns, Grave-diggers Fortinbras, Prince of Norway A Captain English Ambassadors Ghost of Hamlet’s Father Gertrude, Queen of Denmark, and Mother of Hamlet Ophelia, Daughter to Polonius Lords, Ladies, Officers, Soldiers, Sailors, Messengers, and other Attendants
ACT I Scene I—Elsinore—A platform before the Castle
[Francisco at his post. Enter to him Bernardo.]
BER. Who’s there? 1
FRAN. Nay, answer me: stand, and unfold yourself.
BER. Long live the king!
FRAN. Bernardo?
BER. He. 5
License: Public Domain
Image 11.9: Hamlet Title Page | The frontis- piece of William Shakespeare’s Hamlet, with title and introduction.
Author: Paul Barlow Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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FRAN. You come most carefully upon your hour.
BER. ‘Tis now struck twelve. Get thee to bed, Francisco.
FRAN. For this relief much thanks: ‘tis bitter cold, And I am sick at heart.
BER. Have you had quiet guard? 10
FRAN. Not a mouse stirring.
BER. Well, good night. If you do meet Horatio and Marcellus, The rivals of my watch, bid them make haste.
FRAN. I think I hear them.—Stand, ho! Who is there? 15 [Enter Horatio and Marcellus.]
HOR. Friends to this ground.
MAR. And liegemen to the Dane.
FRAN. Give you good-night.
MAR. O, farewell, honest soldier; Who hath reliev’d you? 20
FRAN. Bernardo has my place. Give you good-night. [Exit.]
MAR. Holla! Bernardo!
BER. Say. What, is Horatio there? 25
HOR. A piece of him.
BER. Welcome, Horatio:—Welcome, good Marcellus.
MAR. What, has this thing appear’d again to-night?
BER. I have seen nothing.
MAR.
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Horatio says ‘tis but our fantasy, 30 And will not let belief take hold of him Touching this dreaded sight, twice seen of us: Therefore I have entreated him along With us to watch the minutes of this night; That, if again this apparition come 35 He may approve our eyes and speak to it.
HOR. Tush, tush, ‘twill not appear.
BER. Sit down awhile, And let us once again assail your ears, That are so fortified against our story, 40 What we two nights have seen.
HOR. Well, sit we down, And let us hear Bernardo speak of this.
BER. Last night of all, When yond same star that’s westward from the pole 45 Had made his course to illume that part of heaven Where now it burns, Marcellus and myself, The bell then beating one,—
MAR. Peace, break thee off; look where it comes again! [Enter Ghost, armed.]
BER. In the same figure, like the king that’s dead. 50
MAR. Thou art a scholar; speak to it, Horatio.
BER. Looks it not like the King? Mark it, Horatio.
HOR. Most like:—it harrows me with fear and wonder.
BER. It would be spoke to.
MAR. Question it, Horatio. 55
HOR. What art thou, that usurp’st this time of night, Together with that fair and warlike form In which the majesty of buried Denmark Did sometimes march? By heaven I charge thee, speak!
MAR. It is offended. 60
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BER. See, it stalks away!
HOR. Stay! speak, speak! I charge thee speak! [Exit Ghost]
MAR. ‘Tis gone, and will not answer.
BER. How now, Horatio! You tremble and look pale: Is not this something more than fantasy? 65 What think you on’t?
HOR. Before my God, I might not this believe Without the sensible and true avouch Of mine own eyes.
MAR. Is it not like the King? 70
HOR. As thou art to thyself: Such was the very armour he had on When he the ambitious Norway combated; So frown’d he once when, in an angry parle, He smote the sledded Polacks on the ice. 75 ‘Tis strange.
MAR. Thus twice before, and jump at this dead hour, With martial stalk hath he gone by our watch.
HOR. In what particular thought to work I know not; But, in the gross and scope of my opinion, 80 This bodes some strange eruption to our state.
MAR. Good now, sit down, and tell me, he that knows, Why this same strict and most observant watch So nightly toils the subject of the land; And why such daily cast of brazen cannon, 85 And foreign mart for implements of war; Why such impress of shipwrights, whose sore task Does not divide the Sunday from the week; What might be toward, that this sweaty haste Doth make the night joint-labourer with the day: 90 Who is’t that can inform me?
HOR. That can I; At least, the whisper goes so. Our last king, Whose image even but now appear’d to us, Was, as you know, by Fortinbras of Norway, 95 Thereto prick’d on by a most emulate pride,
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Dar’d to the combat; in which our valiant Hamlet,— For so this side of our known world esteem’d him,— Did slay this Fortinbras; who, by a seal’d compact, Well ratified by law and heraldry, 100 Did forfeit, with his life, all those his lands, Which he stood seiz’d of, to the conqueror: Against the which, a moiety competent Was gaged by our king; which had return’d To the inheritance of Fortinbras, 105 Had he been vanquisher; as by the same cov’nant, And carriage of the article design’d, His fell to Hamlet. Now, sir, young Fortinbras, Of unimproved mettle hot and full, Hath in the skirts of Norway, here and there, 110 Shark’d up a list of lawless resolutes, For food and diet, to some enterprise That hath a stomach in’t; which is no other,— As it doth well appear unto our state,— But to recover of us, by strong hand, 115 And terms compulsatory, those foresaid lands So by his father lost: and this, I take it, Is the main motive of our preparations, The source of this our watch, and the chief head Of this post-haste and romage in the land. 120
BER. I think it be no other but e’en so: Well may it sort, that this portentous figure Comes armed through our watch; so like the king That was and is the question of these wars.
HOR. A mote it is to trouble the mind’s eye. 125 In the most high and palmy state of Rome, A little ere the mightiest Julius fell, The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets; As, stars with trains of fire and dews of blood, 130 Disasters in the sun; and the moist star, Upon whose influence Neptune’s empire stands, Was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse: And even the like precurse of fierce events,— As harbingers preceding still the fates, 135 And prologue to the omen coming on,— Have heaven and earth together demonstrated Unto our climature and countrymen.— But, soft, behold! lo, where it comes again! [Re-enter Ghost]
I’ll cross it, though it blast me.—Stay, illusion! 140 If thou hast any sound, or use of voice, Speak to me: If there be any good thing to be done, That may to thee do ease, and, race to me, Speak to me: 145 If thou art privy to thy country’s fate, Which, happily, foreknowing may avoid,
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O, speak! Or if thou hast uphoarded in thy life Extorted treasure in the womb of earth, 150 For which, they say, you spirits oft walk in death, [The cock crows.] Speak of it:—stay, and speak!—Stop it, Marcellus!
MAR. Shall I strike at it with my partisan?
HOR. Do, if it will not stand.
BER. ‘Tis here! 155
HOR. ‘Tis here!
MAR. ‘Tis gone! [Exit Ghost]
We do it wrong, being so majestical, To offer it the show of violence; For it is, as the air, invulnerable, 160 And our vain blows malicious mockery.
BER. It was about to speak, when the cock crew.
HOR. And then it started, like a guilty thing Upon a fearful summons. I have heard The cock, that is the trumpet to the morn, 165 Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat Awake the god of day; and at his warning, Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air, The extravagant and erring spirit hies To his confine: and of the truth herein 170 This present object made probation.
MAR. It faded on the crowing of the cock. Some say that ever ‘gainst that season comes Wherein our Saviour’s birth is celebrated, The bird of dawning singeth all night long; 175 And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad; The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike, No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm; So hallow’d and so gracious is the time.
HOR. So have I heard, and do in part believe it. 180 But, look, the morn, in russet mantle clad, Walks o’er the dew of yon high eastward hill:
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Break we our watch up: and by my advice, Let us impart what we have seen to-night Unto young Hamlet; for, upon my life, 185 This spirit, dumb to us, will speak to him: Do you consent we shall acquaint him with it, As needful in our loves, fitting our duty?
MAR. Let’s do’t, I pray; and I this morning know Where we shall find him most conveniently. 190 [Exeunt.]
Scene II—Elsinore—A room of state in the Castle [Enter the King, Queen, Hamlet, Polonius, Laertes, Voltimand,Cornelius, Lords, and Attendant.]
KING Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother’s death The memory be green, and that it us befitted To bear our hearts in grief, and our whole kingdom To be contracted in one brow of woe; Yet so far hath discretion fought with nature 195 That we with wisest sorrow think on him, Together with remembrance of ourselves. Therefore our sometime sister, now our queen, Th’ imperial jointress to this warlike state, Have we, as ‘twere with a defeated joy,— 200 With an auspicious and one dropping eye, With mirth in funeral, and with dirge in marriage, In equal scale weighing delight and dole,— Taken to wife; nor have we herein barr’d Your better wisdoms, which have freely gone 205 With this affair along:—or all, our thanks. Now follows, that you know, young Fortinbras, Holding a weak supposal of our worth, Or thinking by our late dear brother’s death Our state to be disjoint and out of frame, 210 Colleagued with this dream of his advantage, He hath not fail’d to pester us with message, Importing the surrender of those lands Lost by his father, with all bonds of law, To our most valiant brother. So much for him,— 215 Now for ourself and for this time of meeting: Thus much the business is:—we have here writ To Norway, uncle of young Fortinbras,— Who, impotent and bed-rid, scarcely hears Of this his nephew’s purpose,—to suppress 220 His further gait herein; in that the levies, The lists, and full proportions are all made Out of his subject:—and we here dispatch You, good Cornelius, and you, Voltimand, For bearers of this greeting to old Norway; 225 Giving to you no further personal power To business with the king, more than the scope Of these dilated articles allow. Farewell; and let your haste commend your duty.
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COR. AND VOLT. In that and all things will we show our duty. 230
KING We doubt it nothing: heartily farewell. [Exeunt Voltimand and Cornelius.]
And now, Laertes, what’s the news with you? You told us of some suit; what is’t, Laertes? You cannot speak of reason to the Dane, And lose your voice: what wouldst thou beg, Laertes, 235 That shall not be my offer, not thy asking? The head is not more native to the heart, The hand more instrumental to the mouth, Than is the throne of Denmark to thy father. What wouldst thou have, Laertes? 240
LAER. Dread my lord, Your leave and favour to return to France; From whence though willingly I came to Denmark, To show my duty in your coronation; Yet now, I must confess, that duty done, 245 My thoughts and wishes bend again toward France, And bow them to your gracious leave and pardon.
KING Have you your father’s leave? What says Polonius?
POL. He hath, my lord, wrung from me my slow leave By laboursome petition; and at last 250 Upon his will I seal’d my hard consent: I do beseech you, give him leave to go.
KING Take thy fair hour, Laertes; time be thine, And thy best graces spend it at thy will!— But now, my cousin Hamlet, and my son— 255
HAM. [Aside.] A little more than kin, and less than kind!
KING How is it that the clouds still hang on you?
HAM. Not so, my lord; I am too much i’ the sun.
QUEEN Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off, And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark. 260 Do not for ever with thy vailed lids Seek for thy noble father in the dust: Thou know’st ‘tis common,—all that lives must die, Passing through nature to eternity.
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HAM. Ay, madam, it is common. 265
QUEEN If it be, Why seems it so particular with thee?
HAM. Seems, madam! Nay, it is; I know not seems. ‘Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black, 270 Nor windy suspiration of forc’d breath, No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, Nor the dejected ‘havior of the visage, Together with all forms, moods, shows of grief, That can denote me truly: these, indeed, seem; 275 For they are actions that a man might play; But I have that within which passeth show; These but the trappings and the suits of woe.
KING ‘Tis sweet and commendable in your nature, Hamlet, To give these mourning duties to your father; 280 But, you must know, your father lost a father; That father lost, lost his; and the survivor bound, In filial obligation, for some term To do obsequious sorrow: but to persevere In obstinate condolement is a course 285 Of impious stubbornness; ‘tis unmanly grief; It shows a will most incorrect to heaven; A heart unfortified, a mind impatient; An understanding simple and unschool’d; For what we know must be, and is as common 290 As any the most vulgar thing to sense, Why should we, in our peevish opposition, Take it to heart? Fie! ‘tis a fault to heaven, A fault against the dead, a fault to nature, To reason most absurd; whose common theme 295 Is death of fathers, and who still hath cried, From the first corse till he that died to-day, ‘This must be so.’ We pray you, throw to earth This unprevailing woe; and think of us As of a father: for let the world take note 300 You are the most immediate to our throne; And with no less nobility of love Than that which dearest father bears his son Do I impart toward you. For your intent In going back to school in Wittenberg, 305 It is most retrograde to our desire: And we beseech you bend you to remain Here in the cheer and comfort of our eye, Our chiefest courtier, cousin, and our son.
QUEEN Let not thy mother lose her prayers, Hamlet: 310 I pray thee stay with us; go not to Wittenberg.
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HAM. I shall in all my best obey you, madam.
KING Why, ‘tis a loving and a fair reply: Be as ourself in Denmark.—Madam, come; This gentle and unforc’d accord of Hamlet 315 Sits smiling to my heart: in grace whereof, No jocund health that Denmark drinks to-day But the great cannon to the clouds shall tell; And the king’s rouse the heaven shall bruit again, Re-speaking earthly thunder. Come away. 320 [Exeunt all but Hamlet.]
HAM. O that this too too solid flesh would melt, Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew! Or that the Everlasting had not fix’d His canon ‘gainst self-slaughter! O God! O God! How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable 325 Seem to me all the uses of this world! Fie on’t! O fie! ‘tis an unweeded garden, That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature Possess it merely. That it should come to this! But two months dead!—nay, not so much, not two: 330 So excellent a king; that was, to this, Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother, That he might not beteem the winds of heaven Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth! Must I remember? Why, she would hang on him 335 As if increase of appetite had grown By what it fed on: and yet, within a month,— Let me not think on’t,—Frailty, thy name is woman!— A little month; or ere those shoes were old With which she followed my poor father’s body 340 Like Niobe, all tears;—why she, even she,— O God! a beast that wants discourse of reason, Would have mourn’d longer,—married with mine uncle, My father’s brother; but no more like my father Than I to Hercules: within a month; 345 Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Had left the flushing in her galled eyes, She married:— O, most wicked speed, to post With such dexterity to incestuous sheets! It is not, nor it cannot come to good; 350 But break my heart,—for I must hold my tongue! [Enter Horatio, Marcellus, and Bernardo.]
HOR. Hail to your lordship!
HAM. I am glad to see you well: Horatio,—or I do forget myself.
HOR. The same, my lord, and your poor servant ever. 355
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HAM. Sir, my good friend; I’ll change that name with you: And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio?— Marcellus?
MAR. My good lord,—
HAM. I am very glad to see you.—Good even, sir.— 360 But what, in faith, make you from Wittenberg?
HOR. A truant disposition, good my Lord
HAM. I would not hear your enemy say so; Nor shall you do my ear that violence, To make it truster of your own report 365 Against yourself: I know you are no truant. But what is your affair in Elsinore? We’ll teach you to drink deep ere you depart.
HOR. My lord, I came to see your father’s funeral.
HAM. I prithee do not mock me, fellow-student. 370 I think it was to see my mother’s wedding.
HOR. Indeed, my lord, it follow’d hard upon.
HAM. Thrift, thrift, Horatio! The funeral bak’d meats Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables. Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven 375 Or ever I had seen that day, Horatio!— My father,—methinks I see my father.
HOR. Where, my lord?
HAM. In my mind’s eye, Horatio.
HOR. I saw him once; he was a goodly king 380
HAM. He was a man, take him for all in all, I shall not look upon his like again.
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HOR. My lord, I think I saw him yesternight.
HAM. Saw who?
HOR. My lord, the king your father. 385
HAM. The King my father!
HOR. Season your admiration for awhile With an attent ear, till I may deliver, Upon the witness of these gentlemen, This marvel to you. 390
HAM. For God’s love let me hear.
HOR. Two nights together had these gentlemen, Marcellus and Bernardo, on their watch In the dead vast and middle of the night, Been thus encounter’d. A figure like your father, 395 Armed at point exactly, cap-a-pe, Appears before them and with solemn march Goes slow and stately by them: thrice he walk’d By their oppress’d and fear-surprised eyes, Within his truncheon’s length; whilst they, distill’d 400 Almost to jelly with the act of fear, Stand dumb, and speak not to him. This to me In dreadful secrecy impart they did; And I with them the third night kept the watch: Where, as they had deliver’d, both in time, 405 Form of the thing, each word made true and good, The apparition comes: I knew your father; These hands are not more like.
HAM. But where was this?
MAR. My lord, upon the platform where we watch’d. 410
HAM. Did you not speak to it?
HOR. My lord, I did; But answer made it none: yet once methought It lifted up it head, and did address Itself to motion, like as it would speak: 415 But even then the morning cock crew loud, And at the sound it shrunk in haste away, And vanish’d from our sight.
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HAM. ‘Tis very strange.
HOR. As I do live, my honour’d lord, ‘tis true; 420 And we did think it writ down in our duty To let you know of it.
HAM. Indeed, indeed, sirs, but this troubles me. Hold you the watch to-night?
MAR. AND BER. We do, my Lord 425
HAM. Arm’d, say you?
BOTH. Arm’d, my Lord
HAM. From top to toe?
BOTH. My lord, from head to foot.
HAM. Then saw you not his face? 430
HOR. O, yes, my lord: he wore his beaver up.
HAM. What, look’d he frowningly?
HOR. A countenance more in sorrow than in anger.
HAM. Pale or red?
HOR. Nay, very pale. 435
HAM. And fix’d his eyes upon you?
HOR. Most constantly.
HAM. I would I had been there.
HOR. It would have much amaz’d you.
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HAM. Very like, very like. Stay’d it long? 440
HOR. While one with moderate haste might tell a hundred.
MAR. AND BER. Longer, longer.
HOR. Not when I saw’t.
HAM. His beard was grizzled,—no?
HOR. It was, as I have seen it in his life, 445 A sable silver’d.
HAM. I will watch to-night; Perchance ‘twill walk again.
HOR. I warr’nt it will.
HAM. If it assume my noble father’s person, 450 I’ll speak to it, though hell itself should gape And bid me hold my peace. I pray you all, If you have hitherto conceal’d this sight, Let it be tenable in your silence still; And whatsoever else shall hap to-night, 455 Give it an understanding, but no tongue: I will requite your loves. So, fare ye well: Upon the platform, ‘twixt eleven and twelve, I’ll visit you.
ALL Our duty to your honour. 460
HAM. Your loves, as mine to you: farewell. [Exeunt Horatio, Marcellus, and Bernardo.]
My father’s spirit in arms! All is not well; I doubt some foul play: would the night were come! Till then sit still, my soul: foul deeds will rise, Though all the earth o’erwhelm them, to men’s eyes. 465 [Exit.]
Scene III—A room in Polonius‘s house [Enter Laertes and Ophelia.]
LAER. My necessaries are embark’d: farewell:
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And, sister, as the winds give benefit And convoy is assistant, do not sleep, But let me hear from you.
OPH. Do you doubt that? 470
LAER. For Hamlet, and the trifling of his favour, Hold it a fashion, and a toy in blood: A violet in the youth of primy nature, Forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting; The perfume and suppliance of a minute; 475 No more.
OPH. No more but so?
LAER. Think it no more: For nature, crescent, does not grow alone In thews and bulk; but as this temple waxes, 480 The inward service of the mind and soul Grows wide withal. Perhaps he loves you now; And now no soil nor cautel doth besmirch The virtue of his will: but you must fear, His greatness weigh’d, his will is not his own; 485 For he himself is subject to his birth: He may not, as unvalu’d persons do, Carve for himself; for on his choice depends The safety and health of this whole state; And therefore must his choice be circumscrib’d 490 Unto the voice and yielding of that body Whereof he is the head. Then if he says he loves you, It fits your wisdom so far to believe it As he in his particular act and place May give his saying deed; which is no further 495 Than the main voice of Denmark goes withal. Then weigh what loss your honour may sustain If with too credent ear you list his songs, Or lose your heart, or your chaste treasure open To his unmaster’d importunity. 500 Fear it, Ophelia, fear it, my dear sister; And keep you in the rear of your affection, Out of the shot and danger of desire. The chariest maid is prodigal enough If she unmask her beauty to the moon: 505 Virtue itself scopes not calumnious strokes: The canker galls the infants of the spring Too oft before their buttons be disclos’d: And in the morn and liquid dew of youth Contagious blastments are most imminent. 510 Be wary then; best safety lies in fear: Youth to itself rebels, though none else near.
OPH. I shall th’ effect of this good lesson keep
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As watchman to my heart. But, good my brother, Do not, as some ungracious pastors do, 515 Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven; Whilst, like a puff ’d and reckless libertine, Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads And recks not his own read.
LAER. O, fear me not. 520 I stay too long:—but here my father comes. [Enter Polonius.]
A double blessing is a double grace; Occasion smiles upon a second leave.
POL. Yet here, Laertes! aboard, aboard, for shame! The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail, 525 And you are stay’d for. There,—my blessing with thee! [Laying his hand on Laertes’s head.]
And these few precepts in thy memory Look thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue, Nor any unproportion’d thought his act. Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar. 530 Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them unto thy soul with hoops of steel; But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new-hatch’d, unfledg’d comrade. Beware Of entrance to a quarrel; but, being in, 535 Bear’t that the opposed may beware of thee. Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice: Take each man’s censure, but reserve thy judgment. Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not express’d in fancy; rich, not gaudy: 540 For the apparel oft proclaims the man; And they in France of the best rank and station Are most select and generous chief in that. Neither a borrower nor a lender be: For loan oft loses both itself and friend; 545 And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. This above all,—to thine own self be true; And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man. Farewell: my blessing season this in thee! 550
LAER. Most humbly do I take my leave, my Lord
POL. The time invites you; go, your servants tend.
LAER. Farewell, Ophelia; and remember well What I have said to you.
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OPH. ‘Tis in my memory lock’d, 555 And you yourself shall keep the key of it.
LAER. Farewell. [Exit.]
POL. What is’t, Ophelia, he hath said to you?
OPH. So please you, something touching the Lord Hamlet.
POL. Marry, well bethought: 560 ‘Tis told me he hath very oft of late Given private time to you; and you yourself Have of your audience been most free and bounteous; If it be so,—as so ‘tis put on me, And that in way of caution,—I must tell you 565 You do not understand yourself so clearly As it behooves my daughter and your honour. What is between you? give me up the truth.
OPH. He hath, my lord, of late made many tenders Of his affection to me. 570
POL. Affection! pooh! you speak like a green girl, Unsifted in such perilous circumstance. Do you believe his tenders, as you call them?
OPH. I do not know, my lord, what I should think.
POL. Marry, I’ll teach you: think yourself a baby; 575 That you have ta’en these tenders for true pay, Which are not sterling. Tender yourself more dearly; Or,—not to crack the wind of the poor phrase, Wronging it thus,—you’ll tender me a fool.
OPH. My lord, he hath importun’d me with love 580 In honourable fashion.
POL. Ay, fashion you may call it; go to, go to.
OPH. And hath given countenance to his speech, my lord, With almost all the holy vows of heaven.
POL. Ay, springes to catch woodcocks. I do know, 585
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When the blood burns, how prodigal the soul Lends the tongue vows: these blazes, daughter, Giving more light than heat,—extinct in both, Even in their promise, as it is a-making,— You must not take for fire. From this time 590 Be something scanter of your maiden presence; Set your entreatments at a higher rate Than a command to parley. For Lord Hamlet, Believe so much in him, that he is young; And with a larger tether may he walk 595 Than may be given you: in few, Ophelia, Do not believe his vows; for they are brokers,— Not of that dye which their investments show, But mere implorators of unholy suits, Breathing like sanctified and pious bawds, 600 The better to beguile. This is for all,— I would not, in plain terms, from this time forth Have you so slander any moment leisure As to give words or talk with the Lord Hamlet. Look to’t, I charge you; come your ways. 605
OPH. I shall obey, my Lord [Exeunt.]
Scene IV—The platform [Enter Hamlet, Horatio, and Marcellus.]
HAM. The air bites shrewdly; it is very cold.
HOR. It is a nipping and an eager air.
HAM. What hour now?
HOR. I think it lacks of twelve. 610
MAR. No, it is struck.
HOR. Indeed? I heard it not: then draws near the season Wherein the spirit held his wont to walk. [A flourish of trumpets, and ordnance shot off within.]
What does this mean, my lord?
HAM. The King doth wake to-night and takes his rouse, 615 Keeps wassail, and the swaggering up-spring reels; And, as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down, The kettle-drum and trumpet thus bray out The triumph of his pledge.
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HOR. Is it a custom? 620
HAM. Ay, marry, is’t; But to my mind,—though I am native here, And to the manner born,—it is a custom More honour’d in the breach than the observance. This heavy-headed revel east and west 625 Makes us traduc’d and tax’d of other nations: They clepe us drunkards, and with swinish phrase Soil our addition; and, indeed, it takes From our achievements, though perform’d at height, The pith and marrow of our attribute. 630 So oft it chances in particular men That, for some vicious mole of nature in them, As in their birth,—wherein they are not guilty, Since nature cannot choose his origin,— By the o’ergrowth of some complexion, 635 Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason; Or by some habit, that too much o’er-leavens The form of plausive manners;—that these men,— Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect, Being nature’s livery, or fortune’s star,— 640 Their virtues else,—be they as pure as grace, As infinite as man may undergo,— Shall in the general censure take corruption From that particular fault: the dram of eale Doth all the noble substance often doubt 645 To his own scandal.
HOR. Look, my lord, it comes! [Enter Ghost]
HAM. Angels and ministers of grace defend us!— Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn’d, Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell, 650 Be thy intents wicked or charitable, Thou com’st in such a questionable shape That I will speak to thee: I’ll call thee Hamlet, King, father, royal Dane; O, answer me! Let me not burst in ignorance; but tell 655 Why thy canoniz’d bones, hearsed in death, Have burst their cerements; why the sepulchre, Wherein we saw thee quietly in-urn’d, Hath op’d his ponderous and marble jaws To cast thee up again! What may this mean, 660 That thou, dead corse, again in complete steel, Revisit’st thus the glimpses of the moon, Making night hideous, and we fools of nature So horridly to shake our disposition With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls? 665 Say, why is this? wherefore? What should we do? [Ghost beckons Hamlet.]
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HOR. It beckons you to go away with it, As if it some impartment did desire To you alone.
MAR. Look with what courteous action 670 It waves you to a more removed ground: But do not go with it!
HOR. No, by no means.
HAM. It will not speak; then will I follow it.
HOR. Do not, my Lord 675
HAM. Why, what should be the fear? I do not set my life at a pin’s fee; And for my soul, what can it do to that, Being a thing immortal as itself ? It waves me forth again;—I’ll follow it. 680
HOR. What if it tempt you toward the flood, my lord, Or to the dreadful summit of the cliff That beetles o’er his base into the sea, And there assume some other horrible form Which might deprive your sovereignty of reason, 685 And draw you into madness? think of it: The very place puts toys of desperation, Without more motive, into every brain That looks so many fadoms to the sea And hears it roar beneath. 690
HAM. It waves me still.— Go on; I’ll follow thee.
MAR. You shall not go, my Lord
HAM. Hold off your hands.
HOR. Be rul’d; you shall not go. 695
HAM. My fate cries out, And makes each petty artery in this body As hardy as the Nemean lion’s nerve.— [Ghost beckons.]
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Still am I call’d;—unhand me, gentlemen;— [Breaking free from them.]
By heaven, I’ll make a ghost of him that lets me!— 700 I say, away!—Go on; I’ll follow thee. [Exeunt Ghost and Hamlet.]
HOR. He waxes desperate with imagination.
MAR. Let’s follow; ‘tis not fit thus to obey him.
HOR. Have after.—To what issue will this come?
MAR. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark. 705
HOR. Heaven will direct it.
MAR. Nay, let’s follow him. [Exeunt.]
Scene V—A more remote part of the Castle [Enter Ghost and Hamlet.]
HAM. Whither wilt thou lead me? Speak! I’ll go no further.
GHOST Mark me.
HAM. I will. 710
GHOST My hour is almost come, When I to sulph’uous and tormenting flames Must render up myself.
HAM. Alas, poor ghost!
GHOST Pity me not, but lend thy serious hearing 715 To what I shall unfold.
HAM. Speak; I am bound to hear.
GHOST So art thou to revenge, when thou shalt hear.
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HAM. What?
GHOST I am thy father’s spirit; 720 Doom’d for a certain term to walk the night, And for the day confin’d to wastein fires, Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature Are burnt and purg’d away. But that I am forbid To tell the secrets of my prison-house, 725 I could a tale unfold whose lightest word Would harrow up thy soul; freeze thy young blood; Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres; Thy knotted and combined locks to part, And each particular hair to stand on end 730 Like quills upon the fretful porcupine: But this eternal blazon must not be To ears of flesh and blood.—List, list, O, list!— If thou didst ever thy dear father love—
HAM. O God! 735
GHOST Revenge his foul and most unnatural murder.
HAM. Murder!
GHOST Murder most foul, as in the best it is; But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.
HAM. Haste me to know’t, that I, with wings as swift 740 As meditation or the thoughts of love, May sweep to my revenge.
GHOST I find thee apt; And duller shouldst thou be than the fat weed That rots itself in ease on Lethe wharf, 745 Wouldst thou not stir in this. Now, Hamlet, hear. ‘Tis given out that, sleeping in my orchard, A serpent stung me; so the whole ear of Denmark Is by a forged process of my death Rankly abus’d; but know, thou noble youth, 750 The serpent that did sting thy father’s life Now wears his crown.
HAM. O my prophetic soul! Mine uncle!
GHOST Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast, 755
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With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts,— O wicked wit and gifts, that have the power So to seduce!—won to his shameful lust The will of my most seeming-virtuous queen: O Hamlet, what a falling-off was there! 760 From me, whose love was of that dignity That it went hand in hand even with the vow I made to her in marriage; and to decline Upon a wretch whose natural gifts were poor To those of mine! 765 But virtue, as it never will be mov’d, Though lewdness court it in a shape of heaven; So lust, though to a radiant angel link’d, Will sate itself in a celestial bed And prey on garbage. 770 But soft! methinks I scent the morning air; Brief let me be.—Sleeping within my orchard, My custom always of the afternoon, Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole, With juice of cursed hebenon in a vial, 775 And in the porches of my ears did pour The leperous distilment; whose effect Holds such an enmity with blood of man That, swift as quicksilver, it courses through The natural gates and alleys of the body; 780 And with a sudden vigour it doth posset And curd, like eager droppings into milk, The thin and wholesome blood; so did it mine; And a most instant tetter bark’d about, Most lazar-like, with vile and loathsome crust 785 All my smooth body. Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother’s hand, Of life, of crown, of queen, at once dispatch’d: Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin, Unhous’led, disappointed, unanel’d; 790 No reckoning made, but sent to my account With all my imperfections on my head: O, horrible! O, horrible! most horrible! If thou hast nature in thee, bear it not; Let not the royal bed of Denmark be 795 A couch for luxury and damned incest. But, howsoever thou pursu’st this act, Taint not thy mind, nor let thy soul contrive Against thy mother aught: leave her to heaven, And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge, 800 To prick and sting her. Fare thee well at once! The glowworm shows the matin to be near, And ‘gins to pale his uneffectual fire: Adieu, adieu! Hamlet, remember me. [Exit.]
HAM. O all you host of heaven! O earth! what else? 805 And shall I couple hell? O, fie!—Hold, my heart; And you, my sinews, grow not instant old, But bear me stiffly up.—Remember thee! Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat In this distracted globe. Remember thee! 810
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Yea, from the table of my memory I’ll wipe away all trivial fond records, All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past, That youth and observation copied there; And thy commandment all alone shall live 815 Within the book and volume of my brain, Unmix’d with baser matter: yes, by heaven!— O most pernicious woman! O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain! My tables,—meet it is I set it down, 820 That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain; At least, I am sure, it may be so in Denmark: [Writing.]
So, uncle, there you are. Now to my word; It is ‘Adieu, adieu! remember me:’ I have sworn’t. 825
HOR. [Within.] My lord, my lord,—
MAR. [Within.] Lord Hamlet,—
HOR. [Within.] Heaven secure him!
HAM. So be it!
MAR. [Within.] Illo, ho, ho, my lord! 830
HAM. Hillo, ho, ho, boy! Come, bird, come. [Enter Horatio and Marcellus.]
MAR. How is’t, my noble lord?
HOR. What news, my lord?
HAM. O, wonderful!
HOR. Good my lord, tell it. 835
HAM. No; you’ll reveal it.
HOR. Not I, my lord, by heaven.
MAR. Nor I, my Lord
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HAM. How say you then; would heart of man once think it?— But you’ll be secret? 840
HOR. AND MAR. Ay, by heaven, my Lord
HAM. There’s ne’er a villain dwelling in all Denmark But he’s an arrant knave.
HOR. There needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave To tell us this. 845
HAM. Why, right; you are i’ the right; And so, without more circumstance at all, I hold it fit that we shake hands and part: You, as your business and desires shall point you,— For every man hath business and desire, 850 Such as it is;—and for my own poor part, Look you, I’ll go pray.
HOR. These are but wild and whirling words, my Lord
HAM. I’m sorry they offend you, heartily; Yes, faith, heartily. 855
HOR. There’s no offence, my Lord
HAM. Yes, by Saint Patrick, but there is, Horatio, And much offence too. Touching this vision here,— It is an honest ghost, that let me tell you: For your desire to know what is between us, 860 O’ermaster’t as you may. And now, good friends, As you are friends, scholars, and soldiers, Give me one poor request.
HOR. What is’t, my lord? we will.
HAM. Never make known what you have seen to-night. 865
HOR. AND MAR. My lord, we will not.
HAM. Nay, but swear’t.
HOR. In faith, My lord, not I.
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MAR. Nor I, my lord, in faith. 870
HAM. Upon my sword.
MAR. We have sworn, my lord, already.
HAM. Indeed, upon my sword, indeed.
GHOST [Beneath.] Swear.
HAM. Ha, ha boy! say’st thou so? art thou there, truepenny?— 875 Come on!—you hear this fellow in the cellarage,— Consent to swear.
HOR. Propose the oath, my Lord
HAM. Never to speak of this that you have seen, Swear by my sword. 880
GHOST [Beneath.] Swear.
HAM. Hic et ubique? then we’ll shift our ground.— Come hither, gentlemen, And lay your hands again upon my sword: Never to speak of this that you have heard, 885 Swear by my sword.
GHOST [Beneath.] Swear.
HAM. Well said, old mole! canst work i’ the earth so fast? A worthy pioner!—Once more remove, good friends.
HOR. O day and night, but this is wondrous strange! 890
HAM. And therefore as a stranger give it welcome. There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy. But come;— Here, as before, never, so help you mercy, 895 How strange or odd soe’er I bear myself,— As I, perchance, hereafter shall think meet To put an antic disposition on,— That you, at such times seeing me, never shall, With arms encumber’d thus, or this head-shake, 900
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Or by pronouncing of some doubtful phrase, As ‘Well, well, we know’; or ‘We could, an if we would’;— Or ‘If we list to speak’; or ‘There be, an if they might’;— Or such ambiguous giving out, to note That you know aught of me:—this is not to do, 905 So grace and mercy at your most need help you, Swear.
GHOST [Beneath.] Swear.
HAM. Rest, rest, perturbed spirit!—So, gentlemen, With all my love I do commend me to you: 910 And what so poor a man as Hamlet is May do, to express his love and friending to you, God willing, shall not lack. Let us go in together; And still your fingers on your lips, I pray. The time is out of joint:—O cursed spite, 915 That ever I was born to set it right!— Nay, come, let’s go together. [Exeunt.]
Act II
Scene I—A room in Polonius‘s house [Enter Polonius and Reynaldo.]
POL. Give him this money and these notes, Reynaldo.
REY. I will, my Lord
POL. You shall do marvellous wisely, good Reynaldo, 920 Before You visit him, to make inquiry Of his behaviour.
REY. My lord, I did intend it.
POL. Marry, well said; very well said. Look you, sir, Enquire me first what Danskers are in Paris; 925 And how, and who, what means, and where they keep, What company, at what expense; and finding, By this encompassment and drift of question, That they do know my son, come you more nearer Than your particular demands will touch it: 930 Take you, as ‘twere, some distant knowledge of him; As thus, ‘I know his father and his friends, And in part him;—do you mark this, Reynaldo?
REY. Ay, very well, my Lord
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POL. ‘And in part him;—but,’ you may say, ‘not well: 935 But if ’t be he I mean, he’s very wild; Addicted so and so;’ and there put on him What forgeries you please; marry, none so rank As may dishonour him; take heed of that; But, sir, such wanton, wild, and usual slips 940 As are companions noted and most known To youth and liberty.
REY. As gaming, my Lord
POL. Ay, or drinking, fencing, swearing, quarrelling, Drabbing:—you may go so far. 945
REY. My lord, that would dishonour him.
POL. Faith, no; as you may season it in the charge. You must not put another scandal on him, That he is open to incontinency; That’s not my meaning: but breathe his faults so quaintly 950 That they may seem the taints of liberty; The flash and outbreak of a fiery mind; A savageness in unreclaimed blood, Of general assault.
REY. But, my good lord,— 955
POL. Wherefore should you do this?
REY. Ay, my lord, I would know that.
POL. Marry, sir, here’s my drift; And I believe it is a fetch of warrant: 960 You laying these slight sullies on my son As ‘twere a thing a little soil’d i’ the working, Mark you, Your party in converse, him you would sound, Having ever seen in the prenominate crimes 965 The youth you breathe of guilty, be assur’d He closes with you in this consequence; ‘Good sir,’ or so; or ‘friend,’ or ‘gentleman’— According to the phrase or the addition Of man and country. 970
REY. Very good, my Lord
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POL. And then, sir, does he this,—he does—What was I about to say?—By the mass, I was about to say something: —Where did I leave? Rey. At ‘closes in the consequence,’ at ‘friend or so,’ and gentleman.’ 975
POL. At—closes in the consequence’—ay, marry! He closes with you thus:—’I know the gentleman; I saw him yesterday, or t’other day, Or then, or then; with such, or such; and, as you say, There was he gaming; there o’ertook in’s rouse; 980 There falling out at tennis’: or perchance, ‘I saw him enter such a house of sale,’— Videlicet, a brothel,—or so forth.— See you now; Your bait of falsehood takes this carp of truth: 985 And thus do we of wisdom and of reach, With windlaces, and with assays of bias, By indirections find directions out: So, by my former lecture and advice, Shall you my son. You have me, have you not? 990
REY. My lord, I have.
POL. God b’ wi’ you, fare you well.
REY. Good my lord!
POL. Observe his inclination in yourself.
REY. I shall, my Lord 995
POL. And let him ply his music.
REY. Well, my Lord
POL. Farewell! [Exit Reynaldo.] [Enter Ophelia.] How now, Ophelia! what’s the matter?
OPH. Alas, my lord, I have been so affrighted! 1000
POL. With what, i’ the name of God?
OPH. My lord, as I was sewing in my chamber,
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Lord Hamlet,—with his doublet all unbrac’d; No hat upon his head; his stockings foul’d, Ungart’red, and down-gyved to his ankle; 1005 Pale as his shirt; his knees knocking each other; And with a look so piteous in purport As if he had been loosed out of hell To speak of horrors,—he comes before me.
POL. Mad for thy love? 1010
OPH. My lord, I do not know; But truly I do fear it.
POL. What said he?
OPH. He took me by the wrist, and held me hard; Then goes he to the length of all his arm; 1015 And with his other hand thus o’er his brow, He falls to such perusal of my face As he would draw it. Long stay’d he so; At last,—a little shaking of mine arm, And thrice his head thus waving up and down,— 1020 He rais’d a sigh so piteous and profound As it did seem to shatter all his bulk And end his being: that done, he lets me go: And, with his head over his shoulder turn’d He seem’d to find his way without his eyes; 1025 For out o’ doors he went without their help, And to the last bended their light on me.
POL. Come, go with me: I will go seek the king This is the very ecstasy of love; Whose violent property fordoes itself, 1030 And leads the will to desperate undertakings, As oft as any passion under heaven That does afflict our natures. I am sorry,— What, have you given him any hard words of late?
OPH. No, my good lord; but, as you did command, 1035 I did repel his letters and denied His access to me.
POL. That hath made him mad. I am sorry that with better heed and judgment I had not quoted him: I fear’d he did but trifle, 1040 And meant to wreck thee; but beshrew my jealousy! It seems it as proper to our age To cast beyond ourselves in our opinions As it is common for the younger sort To lack discretion. Come, go we to the king: 1045 This must be known; which, being kept close, might move
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More grief to hide than hate to utter love. [Exeunt.]
Scene II—A room in the Castle [Enter King, Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, and Attendants.]
KING Welcome, dear Rosencrantz and Guildenstern! Moreover that we much did long to see you, The need we have to use you did provoke 1050 Our hasty sending. Something have you heard Of Hamlet’s transformation; so I call it, Since nor the exterior nor the inward man Resembles that it was. What it should be, More than his father’s death, that thus hath put him 1055 So much from the understanding of himself, I cannot dream of: I entreat you both That, being of so young days brought up with him, And since so neighbour’d to his youth and humour, That you vouchsafe your rest here in our court 1060 Some little time: so by your companies To draw him on to pleasures, and to gather, So much as from occasion you may glean, Whether aught, to us unknown, afflicts him thus, That, open’d, lies within our remedy. 1065
QUEEN Good gentlemen, he hath much talk’d of you, And sure I am two men there are not living To whom he more adheres. If it will please you To show us so much gentry and good-will As to expend your time with us awhile, 1070 For the supply and profit of our hope, Your visitation shall receive such thanks As fits a king’s remembrance.
ROS. Both your majesties Might, by the sovereign power you have of us, 1075 Put your dread pleasures more into command Than to entreaty.
GUIL. We both obey, And here give up ourselves, in the full bent, To lay our service freely at your feet, 1080 To be commanded.
KING Thanks, Rosencrantz and gentle Guildenstern.
QUEEN Thanks, Guildenstern and gentle Rosencrantz: And I beseech you instantly to visit My too-much-changed son.—Go, some of you, 1085 And bring these gentlemen where Hamlet is.
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GUIL. Heavens make our presence and our practices Pleasant and helpful to him!
QUEEN Ay, amen! [Exeunt Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, and some Attendants] [Enter Polonius]
POL. Th’ ambassadors from Norway, my good lord, 1090 Are joyfully return’d.
KING Thou still hast been the father of good news.
POL. Have I, my lord? Assure you, my good liege, I hold my duty, as I hold my soul, Both to my God and to my gracious king: 1095 And I do think,—or else this brain of mine Hunts not the trail of policy so sure As it hath us’d to do,—that I have found The very cause of Hamlet’s lunacy.
KING O, speak of that; that do I long to hear. 1100
POL. Give first admittance to the ambassadors; My news shall be the fruit to that great feast.
KING Thyself do grace to them, and bring them in. [Exit Polonius]
He tells me, my sweet queen, he hath found The head and source of all your son’s distemper. 1105
QUEEN I doubt it is no other but the main,— His father’s death and our o’erhasty marriage.
KING Well, we shall sift him. [Enter Polonius, with Voltimand and Cornelius.]
Welcome, my good friends! Say, Voltimand, what from our brother Norway? 1110
VOLT. Most fair return of greetings and desires. Upon our first, he sent out to suppress His nephew’s levies; which to him appear’d To be a preparation ‘gainst the Polack; But, better look’d into, he truly found 1115
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It was against your highness; whereat griev’d,— That so his sickness, age, and impotence Was falsely borne in hand,—sends out arrests On Fortinbras; which he, in brief, obeys; Receives rebuke from Norway; and, in fine, 1120 Makes vow before his uncle never more To give th’ assay of arms against your majesty. Whereon old Norway, overcome with joy, Gives him three thousand crowns in annual fee; And his commission to employ those soldiers, 1125 So levied as before, against the Polack: With an entreaty, herein further shown, [Gives a paper.] That it might please you to give quiet pass Through your dominions for this enterprise, On such regards of safety and allowance 1130 As therein are set down.
KING It likes us well; And at our more consider’d time we’ll read, Answer, and think upon this business. Meantime we thank you for your well-took labour: 1135 Go to your rest; at night we’ll feast together: Most welcome home! [Exeunt Voltimand and Cornelius.]
POL. This business is well ended.— My liege, and madam,—to expostulate What majesty should be, what duty is, 1140 Why day is day, night is night, and time is time. Were nothing but to waste night, day, and time. Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit, And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief:—your noble son is mad: 1145 Mad call I it; for to define true madness, What is’t but to be nothing else but mad? But let that go.
QUEEN More matter, with less art.
POL. Madam, I swear I use no art at all 1150 That he is mad, ‘tis true: ‘tis true ‘tis pity; And pity ‘tis ‘tis true: a foolish figure; But farewell it, for I will use no art. Mad let us grant him then: and now remains That we find out the cause of this effect; 1155 Or rather say, the cause of this defect, For this effect defective comes by cause: Thus it remains, and the remainder thus. Perpend. I have a daughter,—have whilst she is mine,— 1160 Who, in her duty and obedience, mark,
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Hath given me this: now gather, and surmise. [Reads.] ‘To the celestial, and my soul’s idol, the most beautified Ophelia,’— That’s an ill phrase, a vile phrase; ‘beautified’ is a vile 1165 phrase: but you shall hear. Thus: [Reads.] ‘In her excellent white bosom, these, &c.’
QUEEN Came this from Hamlet to her?
POL. Good madam, stay awhile; I will be faithful. [Reads.] ’Doubt thou the stars are fire; 1170 Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love. ‘O dear Ophelia, I am ill at these numbers; I have not art to reckon my groans: but that I love thee best, O most best, believe 1175 it. Adieu. ’Thine evermore, most dear lady, whilst this machine is to him, HAMLET.’ This, in obedience, hath my daughter show’d me; And more above, hath his solicitings, 1180 As they fell out by time, by means, and place, All given to mine ear.
KING But how hath she Receiv’d his love?
POL. What do you think of me? 1185
KING As of a man faithful and honourable.
POL. I would fain prove so. But what might you think, When I had seen this hot love on the wing,— As I perceiv’d it, I must tell you that, Before my daughter told me,— what might you, 1190 Or my dear majesty your queen here, think, If I had play’d the desk or table-book, Or given my heart a winking, mute and dumb; Or look’d upon this love with idle sight;— What might you think? No, I went round to work, 1195 And my young mistress thus I did bespeak: ‘Lord Hamlet is a prince, out of thy sphere; This must not be:’ and then I precepts gave her, That she should lock herself from his resort, Admit no messengers, receive no tokens. 1200 Which done, she took the fruits of my advice; And he, repulsed,—a short tale to make,— Fell into a sadness; then into a fast;
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Thence to a watch; thence into a weakness; Thence to a lightness; and, by this declension, 1205 Into the madness wherein now he raves, And all we wail for.
KING Do you think ‘tis this?
QUEEN It may be, very likely.
POL. Hath there been such a time,—I’d fain know that— 1210 That I have positively said ‘‘Tis so,’ When it prov’d otherwise?
KING Not that I know.
POL. Take this from this, if this be otherwise: [Points to his head and shoulder.] If circumstances lead me, I will find 1215 Where truth is hid, though it were hid indeed Within the centre.
KING How may we try it further?
POL. You know sometimes he walks for hours together Here in the lobby. 1220
QUEEN So he does indeed.
POL. At such a time I’ll loose my daughter to him: Be you and I behind an arras then; Mark the encounter: if he love her not, And he not from his reason fall’n thereon 1225 Let me be no assistant for a state, But keep a farm and carters.
KING We will try it.
QUEEN But look where sadly the poor wretch comes reading.
POL. Away, I do beseech you, both away 1230 I’ll board him presently:—O, give me leave. [Exeunt King, Queen, and Attendants.] [Enter Hamlet, reading.] How does my good Lord Hamlet?
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HAM. Well, God-a-mercy.
POL. Do you know me, my lord?
HAM. Excellent well; you’re a fishmonger. 1235
POL. Not I, my Lord
HAM. Then I would you were so honest a man.
POL. Honest, my lord!
HAM. Ay, sir; to be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand. 1240
POL. That’s very true, my Lord
HAM. For if the sun breed maggots in a dead dog, being a god-kissing carrion,—Have you a daughter?
POL. I have, my Lord
HAM. Let her not walk i’ the sun: conception is a blessing, 1245 but not as your daughter may conceive:—friend, look to’t.
POL. How say you by that?— [Aside.] Still harping on my daughter:—yet he knew me not at first; he said I was a fishmonger: he is far gone, far gone: and truly in my youth I suffered much extremity for love; 1250 very near this. I’ll speak to him again.—What do you read, my lord?
HAM. Words, words, words.
POL. What is the matter, my lord?
HAM. Between who? 1255
POL. I mean, the matter that you read, my Lord
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HAM. Slanders, sir: for the satirical slave says here that old men have grey beards; that their faces are wrinkled; their eyes purging thick amber and plum-tree gum; and that they have a plentiful lack of wit, together with most weak hams: all which, 1260 sir, though I most powerfully and potently believe, yet I hold it not honesty to have it thus set down; for you yourself, sir, should be old as I am, if, like a crab, you could go backward.
POL. [Aside.] Though this be madness, yet there is a method in’t.— Will you walk out of the air, my lord? 1265
HAM. Into my grave?
POL. Indeed, that is out o’ the air. [Aside.] How pregnant sometimes his replies are! A happiness that often madness hits on, which reason and sanity could not so prosperously be delivered of. I will leave 1270 him and suddenly contrive the means of meeting between him and my daughter.—My honourable lord, I will most humbly take my leave of you.
HAM. You cannot, sir, take from me anything that I will more willingly part withal,—except my life, except my life, except my 1275 life.
POL. Fare you well, my Lord
HAM. These tedious old fools! [Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.]
POL. You go to seek the Lord Hamlet; there he is.
ROS. [To Polonius.] God save you, sir! 1280 [Exit Polonius.]
GUIL. My honoured lord!
ROS. My most dear lord!
HAM. My excellent good friends! How dost thou, Guildenstern? Ah, Rosencrantz! Good lads, how do ye both?
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ROS. As the indifferent children of the earth. 1285
GUIL. Happy in that we are not over-happy; On fortune’s cap we are not the very button.
HAM. Nor the soles of her shoe?
ROS. Neither, my Lord
HAM. Then you live about her waist, or in the middle of her favours? 1290
GUIL. Faith, her privates we.
HAM. In the secret parts of fortune? O, most true; she is a strumpet. What’s the news?
ROS. None, my lord, but that the world’s grown honest.
HAM. Then is doomsday near; but your news is not true. Let me 1295 question more in particular: what have you, my good friends, deserved at the hands of fortune, that she sends you to prison hither?
GUIL. Prison, my lord!
HAM. Denmark’s a prison.
ROS. Then is the world one. 1300
HAM. A goodly one; in which there are many confines, wards, and dungeons, Denmark being one o’ the worst.
ROS. We think not so, my Lord
HAM. Why, then ‘tis none to you; for there is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so: to me it is a prison. 1305
ROS. Why, then, your ambition makes it one; ‘tis too narrow for your mind.
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HAM. O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.
GUIL. Which dreams, indeed, are ambition; for the very substance 1310 of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream.
HAM. A dream itself is but a shadow.
ROS. Truly, and I hold ambition of so airy and light a quality that it is but a shadow’s shadow.
HAM. Then are our beggars bodies, and our monarchs and 1315 outstretch’d heroes the beggars’ shadows. Shall we to the court? for, by my fay, I cannot reason.
ROS. AND GUIL. We’ll wait upon you.
HAM. No such matter: I will not sort you with the rest of my servants; for, to speak to you like an honest man, I am 1320 most dreadfully attended. But, in the beaten way of friendship, what make you at Elsinore?
ROS. To visit you, my lord; no other occasion.
HAM. Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks; but I thank you: and sure, dear friends, my thanks are too dear a halfpenny. 1325 Were you not sent for? Is it your own inclining? Is it a free visitation? Come, deal justly with me: come, come; nay, speak.
GUIL. What should we say, my lord?
HAM. Why, anything—but to the purpose. You were sent for; and there is a kind of confession in your looks, which your 1330 modesties have not craft enough to colour: I know the good king and queen have sent for you.
ROS. To what end, my lord?
HAM. That you must teach me. But let me conjure you, by the rights of our fellowship, by the consonancy of our youth, 1335 by the obligation of our ever-preserved love, and by what more dear a better proposer could charge you withal, be even and direct with me, whether you were sent for or no.
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ROS. [To Guildenstern.] What say you?
HAM. [Aside.] Nay, then, I have an eye of you.—If you love me, hold not off. 1340
GUIL. My lord, we were sent for.
HAM. I will tell you why; so shall my anticipation prevent your discovery, and your secrecy to the king and queen moult no feather. I have of late,—but wherefore I know not,—lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of 1345 exercises; and indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o’erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire,—why, it appears no other 1350 thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! how infinite in faculties! in form and moving, how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension, how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! 1355 And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me; no, nor woman neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so.
ROS. My lord, there was no such stuff in my thoughts.
HAM. Why did you laugh then, when I said ‘Man delights not me’? 1360
ROS. To think, my lord, if you delight not in man, what lenten entertainment the players shall receive from you: we coted them on the way; and hither are they coming to offer you service.
HAM. He that plays the king shall be welcome,—his majesty shall have tribute of me; the adventurous knight shall use 1365 his foil and target; the lover shall not sigh gratis; the humorous man shall end his part in peace; the clown shall make those laugh whose lungs are tickle o’ the sere; and the lady shall say her mind freely, or the blank verse shall halt for’t. What players are they? 1370
ROS. Even those you were wont to take such delight in,— the tragedians of the city.
HAM. How chances it they travel? their residence, both in reputation and profit, was better both ways.
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ROS. I think their inhibition comes by the means of the 1375 late innovation.
HAM. Do they hold the same estimation they did when I was in the city? Are they so followed?
ROS. No, indeed, are they not.
HAM. How comes it? do they grow rusty? 1380
ROS. Nay, their endeavour keeps in the wonted pace: but there is, sir, an aery of children, little eyases, that cry out on the top of question, and are most tyrannically clapped for’t: these are now the fashion; and so berattle the common stages, —so they call them,—that many wearing rapiers are afraid 1385 of goose-quills and dare scarce come thither.
HAM. What, are they children? who maintains ‘em? How are they escoted? Will they pursue the quality no longer than they can sing? will they not say afterwards, if they should grow themselves to common players,—as it is 1390 most like, if their means are no better,—their writers do them wrong to make them exclaim against their own succession?
ROS. Faith, there has been much to do on both sides; and the nation holds it no sin to tarre them to controversy: there 1395 was, for awhile, no money bid for argument unless the poet and the player went to cuffs in the question.
HAM. Is’t possible?
GUIL. O, there has been much throwing about of brains.
HAM. Do the boys carry it away? 1400
ROS. Ay, that they do, my lord; Hercules and his load too.
HAM. It is not very strange; for my uncle is king of Denmark, and those that would make mouths at him while my father lived, give twenty, forty, fifty, a hundred ducats a-piece for his picture in little. ‘Sblood, there is something in this more 1405 than natural, if philosophy could find it out. [Flourish of trumpets within.]
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GUIL. There are the players.
HAM. Gentlemen, you are welcome to Elsinore. Your hands, come: the appurtenance of welcome is fashion and ceremony: let me comply with you in this garb; lest my 1410 extent to the players, which I tell you must show fairly outward, should more appear like entertainment than yours. You are welcome: but my uncle-father and aunt-mother are deceived.
GUIL. In what, my dear lord?
HAM. I am but mad north-north-west: when the wind is 1415 southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw. [Enter Polonius.]
POL. Well be with you, gentlemen!
HAM. Hark you, Guildenstern;—and you too;—at each ear a hearer: that great baby you see there is not yet out of his swaddling clouts. 1420
ROS. Happily he’s the second time come to them; for they say an old man is twice a child.
HAM. I will prophesy he comes to tell me of the players; mark it.—You say right, sir: o’ Monday morning; ‘twas so indeed.
POL. My lord, I have news to tell you. 1425
HAM. My lord, I have news to tell you. When Roscius was an actor in Rome,—
POL. The actors are come hither, my Lord
HAM. Buzz, buzz!
POL. Upon my honour,— 1430
HAM. Then came each actor on his ass,—
POL. The best actors in the world, either for tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral,
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tragical-historical, tragical-comical-historical-pastoral, scene individable, or poem unlimited: Seneca cannot be too 1435 heavy nor Plautus too light. For the law of writ and the liberty, these are the only men.
HAM. O Jephthah, judge of Israel, what a treasure hadst thou!
POL. What treasure had he, my lord?
HAM. Why— 1440 ’One fair daughter, and no more, The which he loved passing well.’
POL. [Aside.] Still on my daughter.
HAM. Am I not i’ the right, old Jephthah?
POL. If you call me Jephthah, my lord, I have a daughter 1445 that I love passing well.
HAM. Nay, that follows not.
POL. What follows, then, my lord?
HAM. Why— ‘As by lot, God wot,’ and then, you know, ‘It came to pass, as most like it was—’ The first row of the 1450 pious chanson will show you more; for look where my abridgment comes. [Enter four or five Players.] You are welcome, masters; welcome, all:—I am glad to see thee well.—welcome, good friends.—O, my old friend! Thy face is valanc’d since I saw thee last; comest thou to beard me 1455 in Denmark?—What, my young lady and mistress! By’r lady, your ladyship is nearer to heaven than when I saw you last, by the altitude of a chopine. Pray God, your voice, like a piece of uncurrent gold, be not cracked within the ring.—Masters, you are all welcome. We’ll e’en to’t like French falconers, fly at 1460 anything we see: we’ll have a speech straight: come, give us a taste of your quality: come, a passionate speech.
I PLAY. What speech, my lord?
HAM. I heard thee speak me a speech once,—but it was never acted; or if it was, not above once; for the play, I remember, pleased 1465 not the million, ‘twas caviare to the general; but it was,—as I
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received it, and others, whose judgments in such matters cried in the top of mine,—an excellent play, well digested in the scenes, set down with as much modesty as cunning. I remember, one said there were no sallets in the lines to 1470 make the matter savoury, nor no matter in the phrase that might indite the author of affectation; but called it an honest method, as wholesome as sweet, and by very much more handsome than fine. One speech in it I chiefly loved: ‘twas AEneas’ tale to Dido, and thereabout of it especially 1475 where he speaks of Priam’s slaughter: if it live in your memory, begin at this line;—let me see, let me see:— The rugged Pyrrhus, like th’ Hyrcanian beast,— it is not so:— it begins with Pyrrhus:— ’The rugged Pyrrhus,—he whose sable arms, 1480 Black as his purpose, did the night resemble When he lay couched in the ominous horse,— Hath now this dread and black complexion smear’d With heraldry more dismal; head to foot Now is he total gules; horridly trick’d 1485 With blood of fathers, mothers, daughters, sons, Bak’d and impasted with the parching streets, That lend a tyrannous and a damned light To their vile murders: roasted in wrath and fire, And thus o’ersized with coagulate gore, 1490 With eyes like carbuncles, the hellish Pyrrhus Old grandsire Priam seeks.’ So, proceed you.
POL. ‘Fore God, my lord, well spoken, with good accent and good discretion. 1495
I PLAY. Anon he finds him, Striking too short at Greeks: his antique sword, Rebellious to his arm, lies where it falls, Repugnant to command: unequal match’d, Pyrrhus at Priam drives; in rage strikes wide; 1500 But with the whiff and wind of his fell sword The unnerved father falls. Then senseless Ilium, Seeming to feel this blow, with flaming top Stoops to his base; and with a hideous crash Takes prisoner Pyrrhus’ ear: for lo! his sword, 1505 Which was declining on the milky head Of reverend Priam, seem’d i’ the air to stick: So, as a painted tyrant, Pyrrhus stood; And, like a neutral to his will and matter, Did nothing. 1510 But as we often see, against some storm, A silence in the heavens, the rack stand still, The bold winds speechless, and the orb below As hush as death, anon the dreadful thunder Doth rend the region; so, after Pyrrhus’ pause, 1515 A roused vengeance sets him new a-work; And never did the Cyclops’ hammers fall On Mars’s armour, forg’d for proof eterne, With less remorse than Pyrrhus’ bleeding sword
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Now falls on Priam.— 1520 Out, out, thou strumpet, Fortune! All you gods, In general synod, take away her power; Break all the spokes and fellies from her wheel, And bowl the round nave down the hill of heaven, As low as to the fiends! 1525
POL. This is too long.
HAM. It shall to the barber’s, with your beard.—Pr’ythee say on.— He’s for a jig or a tale of bawdry, or he sleeps:—say on; come to Hecuba.
I PLAY. But who, O who, had seen the mobled queen,— 1530
HAM. ‘The mobled queen’?
POL. That’s good! ‘Mobled queen’ is good.
I PLAY. Run barefoot up and down, threatening the flames With bisson rheum; a clout upon that head Where late the diadem stood, and for a robe, 1535 About her lank and all o’erteemed loins, A blanket, in the alarm of fear caught up;— Who this had seen, with tongue in venom steep’d, ’Gainst Fortune’s state would treason have pronounc’d: But if the gods themselves did see her then, 1540 When she saw Pyrrhus make malicious sport In mincing with his sword her husband’s limbs, The instant burst of clamour that she made,— Unless things mortal move them not at all,— Would have made milch the burning eyes of heaven, 1545 And passion in the gods.
POL. Look, whether he has not turn’d his colour, and has tears in’s eyes.—Pray you, no more! Ham. ‘Tis well. I’ll have thee speak out the rest of this soon.— Good my lord, will you see the players 1550 well bestowed? Do you hear? Let them be well used; for they are the abstracts and brief chronicles of the time; after your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live.
POL. My lord, I will use them according to their desert. 1555
HAM. Odd’s bodikin, man, better: use every man after his desert, and who should scape whipping? Use them
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after your own honour and dignity: the less they deserve, the more merit is in your bounty. Take them in.
POL. Come, sirs. 1560
HAM. Follow him, friends: we’ll hear a play to-morrow. [Exeunt Polonius with all the Players but the First.] Dost thou hear me, old friend? Can you play ‘The Murder of Gonzago’?
I PLAY. Ay, my Lord
HAM. We’ll ha’t to-morrow night. You could, for a need, study 1565 a speech of some dozen or sixteen lines which I would set down and insert in’t? could you not?
I PLAY. Ay, my Lord
HAM. Very well.—Follow that lord; and look you mock him not. [Exit First Player.] —My good friends [to Ros. and Guild.], I’ll leave you till 1570 night: you are welcome to Elsinore.
ROS. Good my lord! [Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.]
HAM. Ay, so, God b’ wi’ ye! Now I am alone. O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I! 1575 Is it not monstrous that this player here, But in a fiction, in a dream of passion, Could force his soul so to his own conceit That from her working all his visage wan’d; Tears in his eyes, distraction in’s aspect, 1580 A broken voice, and his whole function suiting With forms to his conceit? And all for nothing! For Hecuba? What’s Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, That he should weep for her? What would he do, 1585 Had he the motive and the cue for passion That I have? He would drown the stage with tears And cleave the general ear with horrid speech; Make mad the guilty, and appal the free; Confound the ignorant, and amaze, indeed, 1590 The very faculties of eyes and ears. Yet I, A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak, Like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause,
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And can say nothing; no, not for a king 1595 Upon whose property and most dear life A damn’d defeat was made. Am I a coward? Who calls me villain? breaks my pate across? Plucks off my beard and blows it in my face? Tweaks me by the nose? gives me the lie i’ the throat 1600 As deep as to the lungs? who does me this, ha? ‘Swounds, I should take it: for it cannot be But I am pigeon-liver’d, and lack gall To make oppression bitter; or ere this I should have fatted all the region kites 1605 With this slave’s offal: bloody, bawdy villain! Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain! O, vengeance! Why, what an ass am I! This is most brave, That I, the son of a dear father murder’d, 1610 Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell, Must, like a whore, unpack my heart with words And fall a-cursing like a very drab, A scullion! Fie upon’t! foh!—About, my brain! I have heard 1615 That guilty creatures, sitting at a play, Have by the very cunning of the scene Been struck so to the soul that presently They have proclaim’d their malefactions; For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak 1620 With most miraculous organ, I’ll have these players Play something like the murder of my father Before mine uncle: I’ll observe his looks; I’ll tent him to the quick: if he but blench, I know my course. The spirit that I have seen 1625 May be the devil: and the devil hath power To assume a pleasing shape; yea, and perhaps Out of my weakness and my melancholy,— As he is very potent with such spirits,— Abuses me to damn me: I’ll have grounds 1630 More relative than this.—the play’s the thing Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king [Exit.]
ACT III Scene I—A room in the Castle
[Enter King, Queen, Polonius, Ophelia, Rosencrantz, and Guildenstern.]
KING And can you, by no drift of circumstance, Get from him why he puts on this confusion, Grating so harshly all his days of quiet 1635 With turbulent and dangerous lunacy?
ROS. He does confess he feels himself distracted, But from what cause he will by no means speak.
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GUIL. Nor do we find him forward to be sounded, But, with a crafty madness, keeps aloof 1640 When we would bring him on to some confession Of his true state.
QUEEN Did he receive you well?
ROS. Most like a gentleman.
GUIL. But with much forcing of his disposition. 1645
ROS. Niggard of question; but, of our demands, Most free in his reply.
QUEEN Did you assay him To any pastime?
ROS. Madam, it so fell out that certain players 1650 We o’er-raught on the way: of these we told him, And there did seem in him a kind of joy To hear of it: they are about the court, And, as I think, they have already order This night to play before him. 1655
POL. ‘Tis most true; And he beseech’d me to entreat your majesties To hear and see the matter.
KING With all my heart; and it doth much content me To hear him so inclin’d.— 1660 Good gentlemen, give him a further edge, And drive his purpose on to these delights.
ROS. We shall, my Lord [Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.]
KING Sweet Gertrude, leave us too; For we have closely sent for Hamlet hither, 1665 That he, as ‘twere by accident, may here Affront Ophelia: Her father and myself,—lawful espials,— Will so bestow ourselves that, seeing, unseen, We may of their encounter frankly judge; 1670 And gather by him, as he is behav’d, If ’t be the affliction of his love or no That thus he suffers for.
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QUEEN I shall obey you:— And for your part, Ophelia, I do wish 1675 That your good beauties be the happy cause Of Hamlet’s wildness: so shall I hope your virtues Will bring him to his wonted way again, To both your honours.
OPH. Madam, I wish it may. 1680 [Exit Queen]
POL. Ophelia, walk you here.—Gracious, so please you, We will bestow ourselves.—[To Ophelia.] Read on this book; That show of such an exercise may colour Your loneliness.—We are oft to blame in this,— ‘Tis too much prov’d,—that with devotion’s visage 1685 And pious action we do sugar o’er The Devil himself.
KING [Aside.] O, ‘tis too true! How smart a lash that speech doth give my conscience! The harlot’s cheek, beautied with plastering art, 1690 Is not more ugly to the thing that helps it Than is my deed to my most painted word: O heavy burden!
POL. I hear him coming: let’s withdraw, my Lord [Exeunt King and Polonius.] [Enter Hamlet.]
HAM. To be, or not to be,—that is the question:— 1695 Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them?—To die,—to sleep,— No more; and by a sleep to say we end 1700 The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to,—’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish’d. To die,—to sleep;— To sleep! perchance to dream:—ay, there’s the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, 1705 When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause: there’s the respect That makes calamity of so long life; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely, 1710 The pangs of despis’d love, the law’s delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make
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With a bare bodkin? who would these fardels bear, 1715 To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death,— The undiscover’d country, from whose bourn No traveller returns,—puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have 1720 Than fly to others that we know not of ? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought; And enterprises of great pith and moment, 1725 With this regard, their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action.—Soft you now! The fair Ophelia!—Nymph, in thy orisons Be all my sins remember’d.
OPH. Good my lord, 1730 How does your honour for this many a day?
HAM. I humbly thank you; well, well, well.
OPH. My lord, I have remembrances of yours That I have longed long to re-deliver. I pray you, now receive them. 1735
HAM. No, not I; I never gave you aught.
OPH. My honour’d lord, you know right well you did; And with them words of so sweet breath compos’d As made the things more rich; their perfume lost, 1740 Take these again; for to the noble mind Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind. There, my Lord
HAM. Ha, ha! Are you honest?
OPH. My lord? 1745
HAM. Are you fair?
OPH. What means your lordship?
HAM. That if you be honest and fair, your honesty should admit no discourse to your beauty.
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OPH. Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with 1750 honesty?
HAM. Ay, truly; for the power of beauty will sooner transform honesty from what it is to a bawd than the force of honesty can translate beauty into his likeness: this was sometime a paradox, but now the time gives it proof. I did love you once. 1755
OPH. Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so.
HAM. You should not have believ’d me; for virtue cannot so inoculate our old stock but we shall relish of it: I loved you not.
OPH. I was the more deceived.
HAM. Get thee to a nunnery: why wouldst thou be a breeder of 1760 sinners? I am myself indifferent honest; but yet I could accuse me of such things that it were better my mother had not borne me: I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious; with more offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape, or time to act them 1765 in. What should such fellows as I do crawling between earth and heaven? We are arrant knaves, all; believe none of us. Go thy ways to a nunnery. Where’s your father?
OPH. At home, my Lord
HAM. Let the doors be shut upon him, that he may play the 1770 fool nowhere but in’s own house. Farewell.
OPH. O, help him, you sweet heavens!
HAM. If thou dost marry, I’ll give thee this plague for thy dowry,— be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny. Get thee to a nunnery, go: farewell. Or, if thou wilt 1775 needs marry, marry a fool; for wise men know well enough what monsters you make of them. To a nunnery, go; and quickly too. Farewell.
OPH. O heavenly powers, restore him!
HAM. I have heard of your paintings too, well enough; God hath 1780 given you one face, and you make yourselves another: you jig, you amble, and you lisp, and nickname God’s creatures, and make your wantonness your ignorance.
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Go to, I’ll no more on’t; it hath made me mad. I say, we will have no more marriages: those that are married 1785 already, all but one, shall live; the rest shall keep as they are. To a nunnery, go. [Exit.]
OPH. O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown! The courtier’s, scholar’s, soldier’s, eye, tongue, sword, The expectancy and rose of the fair state, 1790 The glass of fashion and the mould of form, The observ’d of all observers,—quite, quite down! And I, of ladies most deject and wretched That suck’d the honey of his music vows, Now see that noble and most sovereign reason, 1795 Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh; That unmatch’d form and feature of blown youth Blasted with ecstasy: O, woe is me, To have seen what I have seen, see what I see! [Re-enter King and Polonius.]
KING Love! His affections do not that way tend; 1800 Nor what he spake, though it lack’d form a little, Was not like madness. There’s something in his soul O’er which his melancholy sits on brood; And I do doubt the hatch and the disclose Will be some danger: which for to prevent, 1805 I have in quick determination Thus set it down:—he shall with speed to England For the demand of our neglected tribute: Haply the seas, and countries different, With variable objects, shall expel 1810 This something-settled matter in his heart; Whereon his brains still beating puts him thus From fashion of himself. What think you on’t?
POL. It shall do well: but yet do I believe The origin and commencement of his grief 1815 Sprung from neglected love.—How now, Ophelia! You need not tell us what Lord Hamlet said; We heard it all—My lord, do as you please; But if you hold it fit, after the play, Let his queen mother all alone entreat him 1820 To show his grief: let her be round with him; And I’ll be plac’d, so please you, in the ear Of all their conference. If she find him not, To England send him; or confine him where Your wisdom best shall think. 1825
KING It shall be so: Madness in great ones must not unwatch’d go. [Exeunt.]
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Scene II—A hall in the Castle [Enter Hamlet and certain Players.]
HAM. Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue: but if you mouth it, as many of your players do, I had as lief the town crier spoke 1830 my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus, but use all gently: for in the very torrent, tempest, and, as I may say, whirlwind of passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. O, it offends me to the soul, to hear a robustious 1835 periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who, for the most part, are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb shows and noise: I would have such a fellow whipped for o’erdoing Termagant; it out-herods Herod: pray you avoid it. 1840
I PLAYER. I warrant your honour.
HAM. Be not too tame neither; but let your own discretion be your tutor: suit the action to the word, the word to the action; with this special observance, that you o’erstep not the modesty of nature: for anything so overdone is from 1845 the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as ‘twere, the mirror up to nature; to show virtue her own image, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure. Now, this overdone, or come 1850 tardy off, though it make the unskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve; the censure of the which one must in your allowance, o’erweigh a whole theatre of others. O, there be players that I have seen play,—and heard others praise, and that highly,—not to speak it profanely, 1855 that, neither having the accent of Christians, nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellowed that I have thought some of nature’s journeymen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably.
I PLAYER. I hope we have reform’d that indifferently with us, sir. 1860
HAM. O, reform it altogether. And let those that play your clowns speak no more than is set down for them: for there be of them that will themselves laugh, to set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh too, though in the meantime some necessary question of the play be then to be considered: that’s villanous 1865 and shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it. Go make you ready. [Exeunt Players.] [Enter Polonius, Rosencrantz, and Guildenstern.] How now, my lord! will the king hear this piece of work?
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POL. And the queen too, and that presently.
HAM. Bid the players make haste. 1870 [Exit Polonius.] Will you two help to hasten them?
ROS. AND GUIL. We will, my Lord [Exeunt Ros. and Guil.]
HAM. What, ho, Horatio! [Enter Horatio.]
HOR. Here, sweet lord, at your service.
HAM. Horatio, thou art e’en as just a man 1875 As e’er my conversation cop’d withal.
HOR. O, my dear lord,—
HAM. Nay, do not think I flatter; For what advancement may I hope from thee, That no revenue hast, but thy good spirits, 1880 To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be flatter’d? No, let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp; And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee Where thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou hear? Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice, 1885 And could of men distinguish, her election Hath seal’d thee for herself: for thou hast been As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing; A man that Fortune’s buffets and rewards Hast ta’en with equal thanks: and bles’d are those 1890 Whose blood and judgment are so well commingled That they are not a pipe for Fortune’s finger To sound what stop she please. Give me that man That is not passion’s slave, and I will wear him In my heart’s core, ay, in my heart of heart, 1895 As I do thee.—Something too much of this.— There is a play to-night before the king; One scene of it comes near the circumstance, Which I have told thee, of my father’s death: I pr’ythee, when thou see’st that act a-foot, 1900 Even with the very comment of thy soul Observe mine uncle: if his occulted guilt Do not itself unkennel in one speech, It is a damned ghost that we have seen; And my imaginations are as foul 1905 As Vulcan’s stithy. Give him heedful note; For I mine eyes will rivet to his face;
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And, after, we will both our judgments join In censure of his seeming.
HOR. Well, my lord: 1910 If he steal aught the whilst this play is playing, And scape detecting, I will pay the theft.
HAM. They are coming to the play. I must be idle: Get you a place. [Danish march. A flourish. Enter King, Queen, Polonius, Ophelia, Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, and others.]
KING How fares our cousin Hamlet? 1915
HAM. Excellent, i’ faith; of the chameleon’s dish: I eat the air, promise-crammed: you cannot feed capons so.
KING I have nothing with this answer, Hamlet; these words are not mine.
HAM. No, nor mine now. My lord, you play’d once i’ the university, you say? 1920 [To Polonius.]
POL. That did I, my lord, and was accounted a good actor.
HAM. What did you enact?
POL. I did enact Julius Caesar; I was kill’d i’ the Capitol; Brutus killed me.
HAM. It was a brute part of him to kill so capital a calf there. 1925 —Be the players ready?
ROS. Ay, my lord; they stay upon your patience.
QUEEN Come hither, my dear Hamlet, sit by me.
HAM. No, good mother, here’s metal more attractive.
POL. O, ho! do you mark that? 1930 [To the King]
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HAM. Lady, shall I lie in your lap? [Lying down at Ophelia’s feet.]
OPH. No, my Lord
HAM. I mean, my head upon your lap?
OPH. Ay, my Lord
HAM. Do you think I meant country matters? 1935
OPH. I think nothing, my Lord
HAM. That’s a fair thought to lie between maids’ legs.
OPH. What is, my lord?
HAM. Nothing.
OPH. You are merry, my Lord 1940
HAM. Who, I?
OPH. Ay, my Lord
HAM. O, your only jig-maker! What should a man do but be merry? For look you how cheerfully my mother looks, and my father died within ‘s two hours. 1945
OPH. Nay, ‘tis twice two months, my Lord
HAM. So long? Nay then, let the devil wear black, for I’ll have a suit of sables. O heavens! die two months ago, and not forgotten yet? Then there’s hope a great man’s memory may outlive his life half a year: but, by’r lady, 1950 he must build churches then; or else shall he suffer not thinking on, with the hobby-horse, whose epitaph is ‘For, O, for, O, the hobby-horse is forgot!’ [Trumpets sound. The dumb show enters.] [Enter a King and a Queen very lovingly; the Queen embracing him and he her. She kneels, and makes show of pro- testation unto him. He takes her up, and declines his head upon her neck: lays him down upon a bank of flowers: she, seeing him asleep, leaves him. Anon comes in a fellow, takes off his crown, kisses it, pours poison in the king’s ears,
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and exit. The Queen returns, finds the King dead, and makes passionate action. The Poisoner with some three or four Mutes, comes in again, seeming to lament with her. The dead body is carried away. The Poisoner wooes the Queen with gifts; she seems loth and unwilling awhile, but in the end accepts his love.] [Exeunt.]
OPH. What means this, my lord?
HAM. Marry, this is miching mallecho; it means mischief. 1955
OPH. Belike this show imports the argument of the play. [Enter Prologue.]
HAM. We shall know by this fellow: the players cannot keep counsel; they’ll tell all
OPH. Will he tell us what this show meant?
HAM. Ay, or any show that you’ll show him: be not you ashamed to show, 1960 he’ll not shame to tell you what it means.
OPH. You are naught, you are naught: I’ll mark the play.
PRO. For us, and for our tragedy, Here stooping to your clemency, We beg your hearing patiently. 1965
HAM. Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring?
OPH. ‘Tis brief, my Lord
HAM. As woman’s love. [Enter a King and a Queen]
P. KING Full thirty times hath Phoebus’ cart gone round Neptune’s salt wash and Tellus’ orbed ground, 1970 And thirty dozen moons with borrow’d sheen About the world have times twelve thirties been, Since love our hearts, and Hymen did our hands, Unite commutual in most sacred bands.
P. QUEEN So many journeys may the sun and moon 1975 Make us again count o’er ere love be done! But, woe is me, you are so sick of late, So far from cheer and from your former state.
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That I distrust you. Yet, though I distrust, Discomfort you, my lord, it nothing must: 1980 For women’s fear and love holds quantity; In neither aught, or in extremity. Now, what my love is, proof hath made you know; And as my love is siz’d, my fear is so: Where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear; 1985 Where little fears grow great, great love grows there.
P. KING Faith, I must leave thee, love, and shortly too; My operant powers their functions leave to do: And thou shalt live in this fair world behind, Honour’d, belov’d, and haply one as kind 1990 For husband shalt thou,—
P. QUEEN O, confound the rest! Such love must needs be treason in my breast: In second husband let me be accurst! None wed the second but who kill’d the first. 1995
HAM. [Aside.] Wormwood, wormwood!
P. QUEEN The instances that second marriage move Are base respects of thrift, but none of love. A second time I kill my husband dead When second husband kisses me in bed. 2000
P. KING I do believe you think what now you speak; But what we do determine oft we break. Purpose is but the slave to memory; Of violent birth, but poor validity: Which now, like fruit unripe, sticks on the tree; 2005 But fall unshaken when they mellow be. Most necessary ‘tis that we forget To pay ourselves what to ourselves is debt: What to ourselves in passion we propose, The passion ending, doth the purpose lose. 2010 The violence of either grief or joy Their own enactures with themselves destroy: Where joy most revels, grief doth most lament; Grief joys, joy grieves, on slender accident. This world is not for aye; nor ‘tis not strange 2015 That even our loves should with our fortunes change; For ‘tis a question left us yet to prove, Whether love lead fortune, or else fortune love. The great man down, you mark his favourite flies, The poor advanc’d makes friends of enemies; 2020 And hitherto doth love on fortune tend: For who not needs shall never lack a friend; And who in want a hollow friend doth try, Directly seasons him his enemy.
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But, orderly to end where I begun,— 2025 Our wills and fates do so contrary run That our devices still are overthrown; Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own: So think thou wilt no second husband wed; But die thy thoughts when thy first lord is dead. 2030
P. QUEEN Nor earth to me give food, nor heaven light! Sport and repose lock from me day and night! To desperation turn my trust and hope! An anchor’s cheer in prison be my scope! Each opposite that blanks the face of joy 2035 Meet what I would have well, and it destroy! Both here and hence pursue me lasting strife, If, once a widow, ever I be wife!
HAM. If she should break it now! [To Ophelia.]
P. KING ‘Tis deeply sworn. Sweet, leave me here awhile; 2040 My spirits grow dull, and fain I would beguile The tedious day with sleep. [Sleeps.]
P. QUEEN Sleep rock thy brain, And never come mischance between us twain! [Exit.]
HAM. Madam, how like you this play? 2045
QUEEN The lady protests too much, methinks.
HAM. O, but she’ll keep her word.
KING Have you heard the argument? Is there no offence in’t?
HAM. No, no! They do but jest, poison in jest; no offence i’ the world. 2050
KING What do you call the play?
HAM. The Mouse-trap. Marry, how? Tropically. This play is the image of a murder done in Vienna: Gonzago is the duke’s name; his wife, Baptista: you shall see anon; ‘tis a knavish piece of work: but what o’ that? your majesty, 2055 and we that have free souls, it touches us not: let the
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gall’d jade wince; our withers are unwrung. [Enter Lucianus.] This is one Lucianus, nephew to the King
OPH. You are a good chorus, my Lord
HAM. I could interpret between you and your love, if I 2060 could see the puppets dallying.
OPH. You are keen, my lord, you are keen.
HAM. It would cost you a groaning to take off my edge.
OPH. Still better, and worse.
HAM. So you must take your husbands.—Begin, murderer; 2065 pox, leave thy damnable faces, and begin. Come: —’The croaking raven doth bellow for revenge.’
LUC. Thoughts black, hands apt, drugs fit, and time agreeing; Confederate season, else no creature seeing; Thou mixture rank, of midnight weeds collected, 2070 With Hecate’s ban thrice blasted, thrice infected, Thy natural magic and dire property On wholesome life usurp immediately. [Pours the poison into the sleeper’s ears.]
HAM. He poisons him i’ the garden for’s estate. His name’s Gonzago: The story is extant, and written in very choice Italian; you 2075 shall see anon how the murderer gets the love of Gonzago’s wife.
OPH. The King rises.
HAM. What, frighted with false fire!
QUEEN How fares my lord?
POL. Give o’er the play. 2080
KING Give me some light:—away!
ALL Lights, lights, lights! [Exeunt all but Hamlet and Horatio.]
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HAM. Why, let the strucken deer go weep, The hart ungalled play; For some must watch, while some must sleep: 2085 So runs the world away.— Would not this, sir, and a forest of feathers—if the rest of my fortunes turn Turk with me,—with two Provincial roses on my razed shoes, get me a fellowship in a cry of players, sir?
HOR. Half a share. 2090
HAM. A whole one, I. For thou dost know, O Damon dear, This realm dismantled was Of Jove himself; and now reigns here A very, very—pajock. 2095
HOR. You might have rhymed.
HAM. O good Horatio, I’ll take the ghost’s word for a thousand pound! Didst perceive?
HOR. Very well, my Lord
HAM. Upon the talk of the poisoning?— 2100
HOR. I did very well note him.
HAM. Ah, ha!—Come, some music! Come, the recorders!— For if the king like not the comedy, Why then, belike he likes it not, perdy. Come, some music! 2105 [Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.]
GUIL. Good my lord, vouchsafe me a word with you.
HAM. Sir, a whole history.
GUIL. The king, sir—
HAM. Ay, sir, what of him?
GUIL. Is, in his retirement, marvellous distempered. 2110
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HAM. With drink, sir?
GUIL. No, my lord; rather with choler.
HAM. Your wisdom should show itself more richer to signify this to the doctor; for me to put him to his purgation would perhaps plunge him into far more choler. 2115
GUIL. Good my lord, put your discourse into some frame, and start not so wildly from my affair.
HAM. I am tame, sir:—pronounce.
GUIL. The queen, your mother, in most great affliction of spirit, hath sent me to you. 2120
HAM. You are welcome.
GUIL. Nay, good my lord, this courtesy is not of the right breed. If it shall please you to make me a wholesome answer, I will do your mother’s commandment: if not, your pardon and my return shall be the end of my business. 2125
HAM. Sir, I cannot.
GUIL. What, my lord?
HAM. Make you a wholesome answer; my wit’s diseased: but, sir, such answer as I can make, you shall command; or rather, as you say, my mother: therefore no more, 2130 but to the matter: my mother, you say,—
ROS. Then thus she says: your behaviour hath struck her into amazement and admiration.
HAM. O wonderful son, that can so stonish a mother! —But is there no sequel at the heels of this mother’s 2135 admiration?
ROS. She desires to speak with you in her closet ere you go to bed.
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HAM. We shall obey, were she ten times our mother. Have you any further trade with us?
ROS. My lord, you once did love me. 2140
HAM. And so I do still, by these pickers and stealers.
ROS. Good my lord, what is your cause of distemper? you do, surely, bar the door upon your own liberty if you deny your griefs to your friend.
HAM. Sir, I lack advancement. 2145
ROS. How can that be, when you have the voice of the king himself for your succession in Denmark?
HAM. Ay, sir, but ‘While the grass grows’—the proverb is something musty. [Re-enter the Players, with recorders.] O, the recorders:—let me see one.—To withdraw with you: 2150 —why do you go about to recover the wind of me, as if you would drive me into a toil?
GUIL. O my lord, if my duty be too bold, my love is too unmannerly.
HAM. I do not well understand that. Will you play upon this pipe?
GUIL. My lord, I cannot. 2155
HAM. I pray you.
GUIL. Believe me, I cannot.
HAM. I do beseech you.
GUIL. I know, no touch of it, my Lord
HAM. ‘Tis as easy as lying: govern these ventages with 2160 your finger and thumb, give it breath with your mouth, and it will discourse most eloquent music. Look you, these are the stops.
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GUIL. But these cannot I command to any utterance of harmony; I have not the skill. 2165
HAM. Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me! You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass; and there 2170 is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ, yet cannot you make it speak. ‘Sblood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me. 2175 [Enter Polonius.] God bless you, sir!
POL. My lord, the queen would speak with you, and presently.
HAM. Do you see yonder cloud that’s almost in shape of a camel?
POL. By the mass, and ‘tis like a camel indeed.
HAM. Methinks it is like a weasel. 2180
POL. It is backed like a weasel.
HAM. Or like a whale.
POL. Very like a whale.
HAM. Then will I come to my mother by and by. —They fool me to the top of my bent. 2185 —I will come by and by.
POL. I will say so. [Exit.]
HAM. By-and-by is easily said. [Exit Polonius.] —Leave me, friends. [Exeunt Ros, Guil., Hor., and Players.] ‘Tis now the very witching time of night, 2190 When churchyards yawn, and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world: now could I drink hot blood, And do such bitter business as the day
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Would quake to look on. Soft! now to my mother.— O heart, lose not thy nature; let not ever 2195 The soul of Nero enter this firm bosom: Let me be cruel, not unnatural; I will speak daggers to her, but use none; My tongue and soul in this be hypocrites,— How in my words somever she be shent, 2200 To give them seals never, my soul, consent! [Exit.]
Scene III—A room in the Castle [Enter King, Rosencrantz, and Guildenstern.]
KING I like him not; nor stands it safe with us To let his madness range. Therefore prepare you; I your commission will forthwith dispatch, And he to England shall along with you: 2205 The terms of our estate may not endure Hazard so near us as doth hourly grow Out of his lunacies.
GUIL. We will ourselves provide: Most holy and religious fear it is 2210 To keep those many many bodies safe That live and feed upon your majesty.
ROS. The single and peculiar life is bound, With all the strength and armour of the mind, To keep itself from ‘noyance; but much more 2215 That spirit upon whose weal depend and rest The lives of many. The cease of majesty Dies not alone; but like a gulf doth draw What’s near it with it: it is a massy wheel, Fix’d on the summit of the highest mount, 2220 To whose huge spokes ten thousand lesser things Are mortis’d and adjoin’d; which, when it falls, Each small annexment, petty consequence, Attends the boisterous ruin. Never alone Did the king sigh, but with a general groan. 2225
KING Arm you, I pray you, to this speedy voyage; For we will fetters put upon this fear, Which now goes too free-footed.
ROS AND GUIL. We will haste us. [Exeunt Ros. and Guil.] [Enter Polonius.]
POL. My lord, he’s going to his mother’s closet: 2230 Behind the arras I’ll convey myself To hear the process; I’ll warrant she’ll tax him home:
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And, as you said, and wisely was it said, ‘Tis meet that some more audience than a mother, Since nature makes them partial, should o’erhear 2235 The speech, of vantage. Fare you well, my liege: I’ll call upon you ere you go to bed, And tell you what I know.
KING Thanks, dear my Lord [Exit Polonius.] O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven; 2240 It hath the primal eldest curse upon’t,— A brother’s murder!—Pray can I not, Though inclination be as sharp as will: My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent; And, like a man to double business bound, 2245 I stand in pause where I shall first begin, And both neglect. What if this cursed hand Were thicker than itself with brother’s blood,— Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy 2250 But to confront the visage of offence? And what’s in prayer but this twofold force,— To be forestalled ere we come to fall, Or pardon’d being down? Then I’ll look up; My fault is past. But, O, what form of prayer 2255 Can serve my turn? Forgive me my foul murder!— That cannot be; since I am still possess’d Of those effects for which I did the murder,— My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen May one be pardon’d and retain the offence? 2260 In the corrupted currents of this world Offence’s gilded hand may shove by justice; And oft ‘tis seen the wicked prize itself Buys out the law; but ‘tis not so above; There is no shuffling;—there the action lies 2265 In his true nature; and we ourselves compell’d, Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults, To give in evidence. What then? what rests? Try what repentance can: what can it not? Yet what can it when one cannot repent? 2270 O wretched state! O bosom black as death! O limed soul, that, struggling to be free, Art more engag’d! Help, angels! Make assay: Bow, stubborn knees; and, heart, with strings of steel, Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe! 2275 All may be well. [Retires and kneels.] [Enter Hamlet.]
HAM. Now might I do it pat, now he is praying; And now I’ll do’t;—and so he goes to heaven; And so am I reveng’d.—that would be scann’d: A villain kills my father; and for that, I, his sole son, do this same villain send 2280 To heaven.
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O, this is hire and salary, not revenge. He took my father grossly, full of bread; With all his crimes broad blown, as flush as May; And how his audit stands, who knows save heaven? 2285 But in our circumstance and course of thought, ‘Tis heavy with him: and am I, then, reveng’d, To take him in the purging of his soul, When he is fit and season’d for his passage? No. 2290 Up, sword, and know thou a more horrid hent: When he is drunk asleep; or in his rage; Or in the incestuous pleasure of his bed; At gaming, swearing; or about some act That has no relish of salvation in’t;— 2295 Then trip him, that his heels may kick at heaven; And that his soul may be as damn’d and black As hell, whereto it goes. My mother stays: This physic but prolongs thy sickly days. [Exit.] [The King rises and advances.]
KING My words fly up, my thoughts remain below: 2300 Words without thoughts never to heaven go. [Exit.]
Scene IV—Another room in the castle [Enter Queen and Polonius.]
POL. He will come straight. Look you lay home to him: Tell him his pranks have been too broad to bear with, And that your grace hath screen’d and stood between Much heat and him. I’ll silence me e’en here. 2305 Pray you, be round with him.
HAM. [Within.] Mother, mother, mother!
QUEEN I’ll warrant you: Fear me not:—withdraw; I hear him coming. [Polonius goes behind the arras.] [Enter Hamlet.]
HAM. Now, mother, what’s the matter?
QUEEN Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended. 2310
HAM. Mother, you have my father much offended.
QUEEN Come, come, you answer with an idle tongue.
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HAM. Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue.
QUEEN Why, how now, Hamlet!
HAM. What’s the matter now? 2315
QUEEN Have you forgot me?
HAM. No, by the rood, not so: You are the Queen, your husband’s brother’s wife, And,—would it were not so!—you are my mother.
QUEEN Nay, then, I’ll set those to you that can speak. 2320
HAM. Come, come, and sit you down; you shall not budge; You go not till I set you up a glass Where you may see the inmost part of you.
QUEEN What wilt thou do? thou wilt not murder me?— Help, help, ho! 2325
POL. [Behind.] What, ho! help, help, help!
HAM. How now? A rat? [Draws.] Dead for a ducat, dead! [Makes a pass through the arras.]
POL. [Behind.] O, I am slain! [Falls and dies.]
QUEEN O me, what hast thou done? 2330
HAM. Nay, I know not: is it the king? [Draws forth Polonius.]
QUEEN O, what a rash and bloody deed is this!
HAM. A bloody deed!—almost as bad, good mother, As kill a king and marry with his brother.
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QUEEN As kill a king! 2335
HAM. Ay, lady, ‘twas my word.— Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell! [To Polonius.] I took thee for thy better: take thy fortune; Thou find’st to be too busy is some danger.— Leave wringing of your hands: peace! sit you down, 2340 And let me wring your heart: for so I shall, If it be made of penetrable stuff; If damned custom have not braz’d it so That it is proof and bulwark against sense.
QUEEN What have I done, that thou dar’st wag thy tongue 2345 In noise so rude against me?
HAM. Such an act That blurs the grace and blush of modesty; Calls virtue hypocrite; takes off the rose From the fair forehead of an innocent love, 2350 And sets a blister there; makes marriage-vows As false as dicers’ oaths: O, such a deed As from the body of contraction plucks The very soul, and sweet religion makes A rhapsody of words: heaven’s face doth glow; 2355 Yea, this solidity and compound mass, With tristful visage, as against the doom, Is thought-sick at the act.
QUEEN Ah me, what act, That roars so loud, and thunders in the index? 2360
HAM. Look here upon this picture, and on this,— The counterfeit presentment of two brothers. See what a grace was seated on this brow; Hyperion’s curls; the front of Jove himself; An eye like Mars, to threaten and command; 2365 A station like the herald Mercury New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill: A combination and a form, indeed, Where every god did seem to set his seal, To give the world assurance of a man; 2370 This was your husband.—Look you now what follows: Here is your husband, like a milldew’d ear Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes? Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed, And batten on this moor? Ha! have you eyes? 2375 You cannot call it love; for at your age The hey-day in the blood is tame, it’s humble, And waits upon the judgment: and what judgment Would step from this to this? Sense, sure, you have, Else could you not have motion: but sure that sense 2380
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Is apoplex’d; for madness would not err; Nor sense to ecstacy was ne’er so thrall’d But it reserv’d some quantity of choice To serve in such a difference. What devil was’t That thus hath cozen’d you at hoodman-blind? 2385 Eyes without feeling, feeling without sight, Ears without hands or eyes, smelling sans all, Or but a sickly part of one true sense Could not so mope. O shame! where is thy blush? Rebellious hell, 2390 If thou canst mutine in a matron’s bones, To flaming youth let virtue be as wax, And melt in her own fire: proclaim no shame When the compulsive ardour gives the charge, Since frost itself as actively doth burn, 2395 And reason panders will.
QUEEN O Hamlet, speak no more: Thou turn’st mine eyes into my very soul; And there I see such black and grained spots As will not leave their tinct. 2400
HAM. Nay, but to live In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed, Stew’d in corruption, honeying and making love Over the nasty sty,—
QUEEN O, speak to me no more; 2405 These words like daggers enter in mine ears; No more, sweet Hamlet.
HAM. A murderer and a villain; A slave that is not twentieth part the tithe Of your precedent lord; a vice of kings; 2410 A cutpurse of the empire and the rule, That from a shelf the precious diadem stole And put it in his pocket!
QUEEN No more.
HAM. A king of shreds and patches!— 2415 [Enter Ghost] Save me and hover o’er me with your wings, You heavenly guards!—What would your gracious figure?
QUEEN Alas, he’s mad!
HAM. Do you not come your tardy son to chide, That, laps’d in time and passion, lets go by 2420
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The important acting of your dread command? O, say!
GHOST Do not forget. This visitation Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose. But, look, amazement on thy mother sits: 2425 O, step between her and her fighting soul,— Conceit in weakest bodies strongest works,— Speak to her, Hamlet.
HAM. How is it with you, lady?
QUEEN Alas, how is’t with you, 2430 That you do bend your eye on vacancy, And with the incorporal air do hold discourse? Forth at your eyes your spirits wildly peep; And, as the sleeping soldiers in the alarm, Your bedded hairs, like life in excrements, 2435 Start up and stand an end. O gentle son, Upon the heat and flame of thy distemper Sprinkle cool patience! Whereon do you look?
HAM. On him, on him! Look you how pale he glares! His form and cause conjoin’d, preaching to stones, 2440 Would make them capable.—Do not look upon me; Lest with this piteous action you convert My stern effects: then what I have to do Will want true colour; tears perchance for blood.
QUEEN To whom do you speak this? 2445
HAM. Do you see nothing there?
QUEEN Nothing at all; yet all that is I see.
HAM. Nor did you nothing hear?
QUEEN No, nothing but ourselves.
HAM. Why, look you there! look how it steals away! 2450 My father, in his habit as he liv’d! Look, where he goes, even now out at the portal! [Exit Ghost]
QUEEN This is the very coinage of your brain:
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This bodiless creation ecstasy Is very cunning in. 2455
HAM. Ecstasy! My pulse, as yours, doth temperately keep time, And makes as healthful music: it is not madness That I have utter’d: bring me to the test, And I the matter will re-word; which madness 2460 Would gambol from. Mother, for love of grace, Lay not that flattering unction to your soul That not your trespass, but my madness speaks: It will but skin and film the ulcerous place, Whilst rank corruption, mining all within, 2465 Infects unseen. Confess yourself to heaven; Repent what’s past; avoid what is to come; And do not spread the compost on the weeds, To make them ranker. Forgive me this my virtue; For in the fatness of these pursy times 2470 Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg, Yea, curb and woo for leave to do him good.
QUEEN O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain.
HAM. O, throw away the worser part of it, And live the purer with the other half. 2475 Good night: but go not to mine uncle’s bed; Assume a virtue, if you have it not. That monster custom, who all sense doth eat, Of habits evil, is angel yet in this,— That to the use of actions fair and good 2480 He likewise gives a frock or livery That aptly is put on. Refrain to-night; And that shall lend a kind of easiness To the next abstinence: the next more easy; For use almost can change the stamp of nature, 2485 And either curb the devil, or throw him out With wondrous potency. Once more, good-night: And when you are desirous to be bles’d, I’ll blessing beg of you.—For this same lord [Pointing to Polonius.] I do repent; but heaven hath pleas’d it so, 2490 To punish me with this, and this with me, That I must be their scourge and minister. I will bestow him, and will answer well The death I gave him. So again, good-night.— I must be cruel, only to be kind: 2495 Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.— One word more, good lady.
QUEEN What shall I do?
HAM. Not this, by no means, that I bid you do:
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Let the bloat king tempt you again to bed; 2500 Pinch wanton on your cheek; call you his mouse; And let him, for a pair of reechy kisses, Or paddling in your neck with his damn’d fingers, Make you to ravel all this matter out, That I essentially am not in madness, 2505 But mad in craft. ‘Twere good you let him know; For who that’s but a queen, fair, sober, wise, Would from a paddock, from a bat, a gib, Such dear concernings hide? who would do so? No, in despite of sense and secrecy, 2510 Unpeg the basket on the house’s top, Let the birds fly, and, like the famous ape, To try conclusions, in the basket creep And break your own neck down.
QUEEN Be thou assur’d, if words be made of breath, 2515 And breath of life, I have no life to breathe What thou hast said to me.
HAM. I must to England; you know that?
QUEEN Alack, I had forgot: ‘tis so concluded on. 2520
HAM. There’s letters seal’d: and my two schoolfellows,— Whom I will trust as I will adders fang’d,— They bear the mandate; they must sweep my way And marshal me to knavery. Let it work; For ‘tis the sport to have the enginer 2525 Hoist with his own petard: and ‘t shall go hard But I will delve one yard below their mines And blow them at the moon: O, ‘tis most sweet, When in one line two crafts directly meet.— This man shall set me packing: 2530 I’ll lug the guts into the neighbour room.— Mother, good-night.—Indeed, this counsellor Is now most still, most secret, and most grave, Who was in life a foolish peating knave. Come, sir, to draw toward an end with you:— 2535 Good night, mother. [Exeunt severally; Hamlet, dragging out Polonius.]
ACT IV Scene I—A room in the Castle
[Enter King, Queen, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.]
KING There’s matter in these sighs. These profound heaves You must translate: ‘tis fit we understand them. Where is your son?
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QUEEN Bestow this place on us a little while. 2540 [To Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, who go out.] Ah, my good lord, what have I seen to-night!
KING What, Gertrude? How does Hamlet?
QUEEN Mad as the sea and wind, when both contend Which is the mightier: in his lawless fit Behind the arras hearing something stir, 2545 Whips out his rapier, cries ‘A rat, a rat!’ And in this brainish apprehension, kills The unseen good old man.
KING O heavy deed! It had been so with us, had we been there: 2550 His liberty is full of threats to all; To you yourself, to us, to every one. Alas, how shall this bloody deed be answer’d? It will be laid to us, whose providence Should have kept short, restrain’d, and out of haunt 2555 This mad young man. But so much was our love We would not understand what was most fit; But, like the owner of a foul disease, To keep it from divulging, let it feed Even on the pith of life. Where is he gone? 2560
QUEEN To draw apart the body he hath kill’d: O’er whom his very madness, like some ore Among a mineral of metals base, Shows itself pure: he weeps for what is done.
KING O Gertrude, come away! 2565 The sun no sooner shall the mountains touch But we will ship him hence: and this vile deed We must with all our majesty and skill Both countenance and excuse.—Ho, Guildenstern! [Re-enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.] Friends both, go join you with some further aid: 2570 Hamlet in madness hath Polonius slain, And from his mother’s closet hath he dragg’d him: Go seek him out; speak fair, and bring the body Into the chapel. I pray you, haste in this. [Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.] Come, Gertrude, we’ll call up our wisest friends; 2575 And let them know both what we mean to do And what’s untimely done: so haply slander,— Whose whisper o’er the world’s diameter, As level as the cannon to his blank, Transports his poison’d shot,—may miss our name, 2580 And hit the woundless air.—O, come away!
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My soul is full of discord and dismay. [Exeunt.]
Scene II—Another room in the Castle [Enter Hamlet.]
HAM. Safely stowed.
ROS. AND GUIL. [Within.] Hamlet! Lord Hamlet!
HAM. What noise? Who calls on Hamlet? O, here they come. 2585 [Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.]
ROS. What have you done, my lord, with the dead body?
HAM. Compounded it with dust, whereto ‘tis kin.
ROS. Tell us where ‘tis, that we may take it thence, And bear it to the chapel.
HAM. Do not believe it. 2590
ROS. Believe what?
HAM. That I can keep your counsel, and not mine own. Besides, to be demanded of a sponge!—what replication should be made by the son of a king?
ROS. Take you me for a sponge, my lord? 2595
HAM. Ay, sir; that soaks up the King’s countenance, his rewards, his authorities. But such officers do the king best service in the end: he keeps them, like an ape, in the corner of his jaw; first mouthed, to be last swallowed: when he needs what you 2600 have gleaned, it is but squeezing you, and, sponge, you shall be dry again.
ROS. I understand you not, my Lord
HAM. I am glad of it: a knavish speech sleeps in a foolish ear.
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ROS. My lord, you must tell us where the body is 2605 and go with us to the king
HAM. The body is with the king, but the king is not with the body. The king is a thing,—
GUIL. A thing, my lord!
HAM. Of nothing: bring me to him. Hide fox, and all after. 2610 [Exeunt.]
Scene III—Another room in the Castle [Enter King,attended.]
KING I have sent to seek him and to find the body. How dangerous is it that this man goes loose! Yet must not we put the strong law on him: He’s lov’d of the distracted multitude, Who like not in their judgment, but their eyes; 2615 And where ‘tis so, the offender’s scourge is weigh’d, But never the offence. To bear all smooth and even, This sudden sending him away must seem Deliberate pause: diseases desperate grown By desperate appliance are reliev’d, 2620 Or not at all [Enter Rosencrantz.] How now! what hath befall’n?
ROS. Where the dead body is bestow’d, my lord, We cannot get from him.
KING But where is he? 2625
ROS. Without, my lord; guarded, to know your pleasure.
KING Bring him before us.
ROS. Ho, Guildenstern! bring in my Lord [Enter Hamlet and Guildenstern.]
KING Hamlet, where’s Polonius?
HAM. At supper. 2630
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KING At supper! Where?
HAM. Not where he eats, but where he is eaten: a certain convocation of politic worms are e’en at him. Your worm is your only emperor for diet: we fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat 2635 ourselves for maggots: your fat king and your lean beggar is but variable service, —two dishes, but to one table: that’s the end.
KING Alas, alas!
HAM. A man may fish with the worm that hath eat 2640 of a king, and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm.
KING What dost thou mean by this?
HAM. Nothing but to show you how a king may go a progress through the guts of a beggar.
KING Where is Polonius? 2645
HAM. In heaven: send thither to see: if your messenger find him not there, seek him i’ the other place yourself. But, indeed, if you find him not within this month, you shall nose him as you go up the stairs into the lobby. 2650
KING Go seek him there. [To some Attendants.]
HAM. He will stay till you come. [Exeunt Attendants.]
KING Hamlet, this deed, for thine especial safety,— Which we do tender, as we dearly grieve For that which thou hast done,—must send thee hence 2655 With fiery quickness: therefore prepare thyself; The bark is ready, and the wind at help, The associates tend, and everything is bent For England.
HAM. For England! 2660
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KING Ay, Hamlet.
HAM. Good.
KING So is it, if thou knew’st our purposes.
HAM. I see a cherub that sees them.—But, come; for England!— Farewell, dear mother. 2665
KING Thy loving father, Hamlet.
HAM. My mother: father and mother is man and wife; man and wife is one flesh; and so, my mother.—Come, for England! [Exit.]
KING Follow him at foot; tempt him with speed aboard; Delay it not; I’ll have him hence to-night: 2670 Away! for everything is seal’d and done That else leans on the affair: pray you, make haste. [Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.] And, England, if my love thou hold’st at aught,— As my great power thereof may give thee sense, Since yet thy cicatrice looks raw and red 2675 After the Danish sword, and thy free awe Pays homage to us,—thou mayst not coldly set Our sovereign process; which imports at full, By letters conjuring to that effect, The present death of Hamlet. Do it, England; 2680 For like the hectic in my blood he rages, And thou must cure me: till I know ‘tis done, Howe’er my haps, my joys were ne’er begun. [Exit.]
Scene IV—A plain in Denmark [Enter Fortinbras, and Forces marching.]
FOR. Go, Captain, from me greet the Danish king: Tell him that, by his license, Fortinbras 2685 Craves the conveyance of a promis’d march Over his kingdom. You know the rendezvous. If that his majesty would aught with us, We shall express our duty in his eye; And let him know so. 2690
CAPT. I will do’t, my Lord
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FOR. Go softly on. [Exeunt all For. and Forces.] [Enter Hamlet, Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, &c.]
HAM. Good sir, whose powers are these?
CAPT. They are of Norway, sir.
HAM. How purpos’d, sir, I pray you? 2695
CAPT. Against some part of Poland.
HAM. Who commands them, sir?
CAPT. The nephew to old Norway, Fortinbras.
HAM. Goes it against the main of Poland, sir, Or for some frontier? 2700
CAPT. Truly to speak, and with no addition, We go to gain a little patch of ground That hath in it no profit but the name. To pay five ducats, five, I would not farm it; Nor will it yield to Norway or the Pole 2705 A ranker rate, should it be sold in fee.
HAM. Why, then the Polack never will defend it.
CAPT. Yes, it is already garrison’d.
HAM. Two thousand souls and twenty thousand ducats Will not debate the question of this straw: 2710 This is the imposthume of much wealth and peace, That inward breaks, and shows no cause without Why the man dies.—I humbly thank you, sir.
CAPT. God b’ wi’ you, sir. [Exit.]
ROS. Will’t please you go, my lord? 2715
HAM. I’ll be with you straight. Go a little before.
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[Exeunt all but Hamlet.]
How all occasions do inform against me And spur my dull revenge! What is a man, If his chief good and market of his time Be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more. 2720 Sure he that made us with such large discourse, Looking before and after, gave us not That capability and godlike reason To fust in us unus’d. Now, whether it be Bestial oblivion, or some craven scruple 2725 Of thinking too precisely on the event,— A thought which, quarter’d, hath but one part wisdom And ever three parts coward,—I do not know Why yet I live to say ‘This thing’s to do;’ Sith I have cause, and will, and strength, and means 2730 To do’t. Examples, gross as earth, exhort me: Witness this army, of such mass and charge, Led by a delicate and tender prince; Whose spirit, with divine ambition puff ’d, Makes mouths at the invisible event; 2735 Exposing what is mortal and unsure To all that fortune, death, and danger dare, Even for an egg-shell. Rightly to be great Is not to stir without great argument, But greatly to find quarrel in a straw 2740 When honour’s at the stake. How stand I, then, That have a father kill’d, a mother stain’d, Excitements of my reason and my blood, And let all sleep? while, to my shame, I see The imminent death of twenty thousand men 2745 That, for a fantasy and trick of fame, Go to their graves like beds; fight for a plot Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause, Which is not tomb enough and continent To hide the slain?—O, from this time forth, 2750 My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth! [Exit.]
Scene V—Elsinore—A room in the Castle [Enter Queen and Horatio.]
QUEEN I will not speak with her.
GENT. She is importunate; indeed distract: Her mood will needs be pitied.
QUEEN What would she have? 2755
GENT. She speaks much of her father; says she hears There’s tricks i’ the world, and hems, and beats her heart; Spurns enviously at straws; speaks things in doubt,
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That carry but half sense: her speech is nothing, Yet the unshaped use of it doth move 2760 The hearers to collection; they aim at it, And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts; Which, as her winks, and nods, and gestures yield them, Indeed would make one think there might be thought, Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily. 2765 ‘Twere good she were spoken with; for she may strew Dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding minds.
QUEEN Let her come in. [Exit Horatio.] To my sick soul, as sin’s true nature is, Each toy seems Prologue to some great amiss: 2770 So full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt. [Re-enter Horatio with Ophelia.]
OPH. Where is the beauteous majesty of Denmark?
QUEEN How now, Ophelia?
OPH. [Sings.] How should I your true love know 2775 From another one? By his cockle bat and’ staff And his sandal shoon.
QUEEN Alas, sweet lady, what imports this song?
OPH. Say you? nay, pray you, mark. 2780 [Sings.] He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone; At his head a grass green turf, At his heels a stone.
QUEEN Nay, but Ophelia— 2785
OPH. Pray you, mark. [Sings.] White his shroud as the mountain snow,
[Enter King]
QUEEN Alas, look here, my lord!
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OPH. [Sings.] Larded all with sweet flowers; Which bewept to the grave did go 2790 With true-love showers.
KING How do you, pretty lady?
OPH. Well, God dild you! They say the owl was a baker’s daughter. Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be. God be at your table! 2795
KING Conceit upon her father.
OPH. Pray you, let’s have no words of this; but when they ask you what it means, say you this: [Sings.] To-morrow is Saint Valentine’s day All in the morning bedtime, 2800 And I a maid at your window, To be your Valentine. Then up he rose and donn’d his clothes, And dupp’d the chamber door, Let in the maid, that out a maid 2805 Never departed more.
KING Pretty Ophelia!
OPH. Indeed, la, without an oath, I’ll make an end on’t: [Sings.] By Gis and by Saint Charity, Alack, and fie for shame! 2810 Young men will do’t if they come to’t; By cock, they are to blame. Quoth she, before you tumbled me, You promis’d me to wed. So would I ha’ done, by yonder sun, 2815 An thou hadst not come to my bed.
KING How long hath she been thus?
OPH. I hope all will be well. We must be patient: but I cannot choose but weep, to think they would lay him i’ the cold ground. My brother shall know of it: and so 2820 I thank you for your good counsel.—Come, my coach! —Good night, ladies; good night, sweet ladies; good night, good night. [Exit.]
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KING Follow her close; give her good watch, I pray you. [Exit Horatio.] O, this is the poison of deep grief; it springs 2825 All from her father’s death. O Gertrude, Gertrude, When sorrows come, they come not single spies, But in battalions! First, her father slain: Next, your son gone; and he most violent author Of his own just remove: the people muddied, 2830 Thick and and unwholesome in their thoughts and whispers For good Polonius’ death; and we have done but greenly In hugger-mugger to inter him: poor Ophelia Divided from herself and her fair judgment, Without the which we are pictures or mere beasts: 2835 Last, and as much containing as all these, Her brother is in secret come from France; Feeds on his wonder, keeps himself in clouds, And wants not buzzers to infect his ear With pestilent speeches of his father’s death; 2840 Wherein necessity, of matter beggar’d, Will nothing stick our person to arraign In ear and ear. O my dear Gertrude, this, Like to a murdering piece, in many places Give, me superfluous death. 2845 [A noise within.]
QUEEN Alack, what noise is this?
KING Where are my Switzers? let them guard the door. [Enter a Gentleman.] What is the matter?
GENT. Save yourself, my lord: The ocean, overpeering of his list, 2850 Eats not the flats with more impetuous haste Than young Laertes, in a riotous head, O’erbears your offices. The rabble call him lord; And, as the world were now but to begin, Antiquity forgot, custom not known, 2855 The ratifiers and props of every word, They cry ‘Choose we! Laertes shall be king!’ Caps, hands, and tongues applaud it to the clouds, ‘Laertes shall be king! Laertes king!’
QUEEN How cheerfully on the false trail they cry! 2860 O, this is counter, you false Danish dogs! [A noise within.]
KING The doors are broke. [Enter Laertes, armed; Danes following.]
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LAER. Where is this king?—Sirs, stand you all without.
DANES. No, let’s come in.
LAER. I pray you, give me leave. 2865
DANES. We will, we will. [They retire without the door.]
LAER. I thank you:—keep the door.—O thou vile king, Give me my father!
QUEEN Calmly, good Laertes.
LAER. That drop of blood that’s calm proclaims me bastard; 2870 Cries cuckold to my father; brands the harlot Even here, between the chaste unsmirched brow Of my true mother.
KING What is the cause, Laertes, That thy rebellion looks so giant-like?— 2875 Let him go, Gertrude; do not fear our person: There’s such divinity doth hedge a king, That treason can but peep to what it would, Acts little of his will.—Tell me, Laertes, Why thou art thus incens’d.—Let him go, Gertrude:— 2880 Speak, man.
LAER. Where is my father?
KING Dead.
QUEEN But not by him.
KING Let him demand his fill. 2885
LAER. How came he dead? I’ll not be juggled with: To hell, allegiance! vows, to the blackest devil! Conscience and grace, to the profoundest pit! I dare damnation:—to this point I stand,— That both the worlds, I give to negligence, 2890 Let come what comes; only I’ll be reveng’d Most throughly for my father.
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KING Who shall stay you?
LAER. My will, not all the world: And for my means, I’ll husband them so well, 2895 They shall go far with little.
KING Good Laertes, If you desire to know the certainty Of your dear father’s death, is’t writ in your revenge That, sweepstake, you will draw both friend and foe, 2900 Winner and loser?
LAER. None but his enemies.
KING Will you know them then?
LAER. To his good friends thus wide I’ll ope my arms; And, like the kind life-rendering pelican, 2905 Repast them with my blood.
KING Why, now you speak Like a good child and a true gentleman. That I am guiltless of your father’s death, And am most sensibly in grief for it, 2910 It shall as level to your judgment pierce As day does to your eye.
DANES. [Within] Let her come in.
LAER. How now! What noise is that? [Re-enter Ophelia, fantastically dressed with straws and flowers.] O heat, dry up my brains! Tears seven times salt, 2915 Burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye!— By heaven, thy madness shall be paid by weight, Till our scale turn the beam. O rose of May! Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia!— O heavens! Is’t possible a young maid’s wits 2920 Should be as mortal as an old man’s life? Nature is fine in love; and where ‘tis fine, It sends some precious instance of itself After the thing it loves.
OPH. [Sings.] They bore him barefac’d on the bier 2925 Hey no nonny, nonny, hey nonny And on his grave rain’d many a tear.— Fare you well, my dove!
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LAER. Hadst thou thy wits, and didst persuade revenge, It could not move thus. 2930
OPH. You must sing ‘Down a-down, an you call him a-down-a. ‘ O, how the wheel becomes it! It is the false steward, that stole his master’s daughter.
LAER. This nothing’s more than matter.
OPH. There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance; pray, love, 2935 remember: and there is pansies, that’s for thoughts.
LAER. A document in madness,—thoughts and remembrance fitted.
OPH. There’s fennel for you, and columbines:—there’s rue for you; and here’s some for me:—we may call it herb of grace o’ Sundays:—O, you must wear 2940 your rue with a difference.—There’s a daisy: —I would give you some violets, but they wither’d all when my father died:—they say he made a good end,— [Sings.] For bonny sweet Robin is all my joy,— 2945
LAER. Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself, She turns to favour and to prettiness.
OPH. [Sings.] And will he not come again? And will he not come again? No, no, he is dead, 2950 Go to thy death-bed, He never will come again. His beard was as white as snow, All flaxen was his poll: He is gone, he is gone, 2955 And we cast away moan: God ha’ mercy on his soul! And of all Christian souls, I pray God.—God b’ wi’ ye. [Exit.]
LAER. Do you see this, O God?
KING Laertes, I must commune with your grief, 2960 Or you deny me right. Go but apart, Make choice of whom your wisest friends you will, And they shall hear and judge ‘twixt you and me. If by direct or by collateral hand
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They find us touch’d, we will our kingdom give, 2965 Our crown, our life, and all that we call ours, To you in satisfaction; but if not, Be you content to lend your patience to us, And we shall jointly labour with your soul To give it due content. 2970
LAER. Let this be so; His means of death, his obscure burial,— No trophy, sword, nor hatchment o’er his bones, No noble rite nor formal ostentation,— Cry to be heard, as ‘twere from heaven to earth, 2975 That I must call’t in question.
KING So you shall; And where the offence is let the great axe fall I pray you go with me. [Exeunt.]
Scene VI—Another room in the Castle [Enter Horatio and a Servant.]
HOR. What are they that would speak with me? 2980
SERVANT. Sailors, sir: they say they have letters for you.
HOR. Let them come in. [Exit Servant.] I do not know from what part of the world I should be greeted, if not from Lord Hamlet. [Enter Sailors.]
I SAILOR. God bless you, sir. 2985
HOR. Let him bless thee too.
SAILOR. He shall, sir, an’t please him. There’s a letter for you, sir,—it comes from the ambassador that was bound for England; if your name be Horatio, as I am let to know it is.
HOR. [Reads.] ‘Horatio, when thou shalt have overlooked this, 2990 give these fellows some means to the king: they have letters for him. Ere we were two days old at sea, a pirate of very warlike appointment gave us chase. Finding ourselves too slow of sail, we put on a compelled valour, and in the grapple I boarded them: 2995
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on the instant they got clear of our ship; so I alone became their prisoner. They have dealt with me like thieves of mercy: but they knew what they did; I am to do a good turn for them. Let the king have the letters I have sent; and repair thou to me with as 3000 much haste as thou wouldst fly death. I have words to speak in thine ear will make thee dumb; yet are they much too light for the bore of the matter. These good fellows will bring thee where I am. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern hold their course for England: of 3005 them I have much to tell thee. Farewell. He that thou knowest thine, HAMLET.’ Come, I will give you way for these your letters; And do’t the speedier, that you may direct me To him from whom you brought them. 3010 [Exeunt.]
Scene VII—Another room in the Castle [Enter King and Laertes.]
KING Now must your conscience my acquittance seal, And you must put me in your heart for friend, Sith you have heard, and with a knowing ear, That he which hath your noble father slain Pursu’d my life. 3015
LAER. It well appears:—but tell me Why you proceeded not against these feats, So crimeful and so capital in nature, As by your safety, wisdom, all things else, You mainly were stirr’d up. 3020
KING O, for two special reasons; Which may to you, perhaps, seem much unsinew’d, But yet to me they are strong. The queen his mother Lives almost by his looks; and for myself,— My virtue or my plague, be it either which,— 3025 She’s so conjunctive to my life and soul, That, as the star moves not but in his sphere, I could not but by her. The other motive, Why to a public count I might not go, Is the great love the general gender bear him; 3030 Who, dipping all his faults in their affection, Would, like the spring that turneth wood to stone, Convert his gyves to graces; so that my arrows, Too slightly timber’d for so loud a wind, Would have reverted to my bow again, 3035 And not where I had aim’d them.
LAER. And so have I a noble father lost; A sister driven into desperate terms,— Whose worth, if praises may go back again,
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Stood challenger on mount of all the age 3040 For her perfections:—but my revenge will come.
KING Break not your sleeps for that:—you must not think That we are made of stuff so flat and dull That we can let our beard be shook with danger, And think it pastime. You shortly shall hear more: 3045 I lov’d your father, and we love ourself; And that, I hope, will teach you to imagine,— [Enter a Messenger.] How now! What news?
MESS. Letters, my lord, from Hamlet: This to your majesty; this to the queen 3050
KING From Hamlet! Who brought them?
MESS. Sailors, my lord, they say; I saw them not: They were given me by Claudio:—he receiv’d them Of him that brought them.
KING Laertes, you shall hear them. 3055 Leave us. [Exit Messenger.] [Reads] ‘High and mighty,—You shall know I am set naked on your kingdom. To-morrow shall I beg leave to see your kingly eyes: when I shall, first asking your pardon thereunto, recount the occasions of my sudden and more strange return. 3060 HAMLET.’ What should this mean? Are all the rest come back? Or is it some abuse, and no such thing?
LAER. Know you the hand?
KING ‘Tis Hamlet’s character:—’Naked!’— 3065 And in a postscript here, he says ‘alone.’ Can you advise me?
LAER. I am lost in it, my Lord But let him come; It warms the very sickness in my heart That I shall live and tell him to his teeth, 3070 ‘Thus didest thou.’
KING If it be so, Laertes,— As how should it be so? how otherwise?— Will you be rul’d by me?
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LAER. Ay, my lord; 3075 So you will not o’errule me to a peace.
KING To thine own peace. If he be now return’d— As checking at his voyage, and that he means No more to undertake it,—I will work him To exploit, now ripe in my device, 3080 Under the which he shall not choose but fall: And for his death no wind shall breathe; But even his mother shall uncharge the practice And call it accident.
LAER. My lord, I will be rul’d; 3085 The rather if you could devise it so That I might be the organ.
KING It falls right. You have been talk’d of since your travel much, And that in Hamlet’s hearing, for a quality 3090 Wherein they say you shine: your sum of parts Did not together pluck such envy from him As did that one; and that, in my regard, Of the unworthiest siege.
LAER. What part is that, my lord? 3095
KING A very riband in the cap of youth, Yet needful too; for youth no less becomes The light and careless livery that it wears Than settled age his sables and his weeds, Importing health and graveness.—Two months since, 3100 Here was a gentleman of Normandy,— I’ve seen myself, and serv’d against, the French, And they can well on horseback: but this gallant Had witchcraft in’t: he grew unto his seat; And to such wondrous doing brought his horse, 3105 As had he been incorps’d and demi-natur’d With the brave beast: so far he topp’d my thought That I, in forgery of shapes and tricks, Come short of what he did.
LAER. A Norman was’t? 3110
KING A Norman.
LAER. Upon my life, Lamond.
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KING The very same.
LAER. I know him well: he is the brooch indeed And gem of all the nation. 3115
KING He made confession of you; And gave you such a masterly report For art and exercise in your defence, And for your rapier most especially, That he cried out, ‘twould be a sight indeed 3120 If one could match you: the scrimers of their nation He swore, had neither motion, guard, nor eye, If you oppos’d them. Sir, this report of his Did Hamlet so envenom with his envy That he could nothing do but wish and beg 3125 Your sudden coming o’er, to play with him. Now, out of this,—
LAER. What out of this, my lord?
KING Laertes, was your father dear to you? Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, 3130 A face without a heart?
LAER. Why ask you this?
KING Not that I think you did not love your father; But that I know love is begun by time, And that I see, in passages of proof, 3135 Time qualifies the spark and fire of it. There lives within the very flame of love A kind of wick or snuff that will abate it; And nothing is at a like goodness still; For goodness, growing to a plurisy, 3140 Dies in his own too much: that we would do, We should do when we would; for this ‘would’ changes, And hath abatements and delays as many As there are tongues, are hands, are accidents; And then this ‘should’ is like a spendthrift sigh, 3145 That hurts by easing. But to the quick o’ the ulcer:— Hamlet comes back: what would you undertake To show yourself your father’s son in deed More than in words?
LAER. To cut his throat i’ the church. 3150
KING No place, indeed, should murder sanctuarize; Revenge should have no bounds. But, good Laertes,
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Will you do this, keep close within your chamber. Hamlet return’d shall know you are come home: We’ll put on those shall praise your excellence 3155 And set a double varnish on the fame The Frenchman gave you; bring you in fine together And wager on your heads: he, being remiss, Most generous, and free from all contriving, Will not peruse the foils; so that with ease, 3160 Or with a little shuffling, you may choose A sword unbated, and, in a pass of practice, Requite him for your father.
LAER. I will do’t: And for that purpose I’ll anoint my sword. 3165 I bought an unction of a mountebank, So mortal that, but dip a knife in it, Where it draws blood no cataplasm so rare, Collected from all simples that have virtue Under the moon, can save the thing from death 3170 This is but scratch’d withal: I’ll touch my point With this contagion, that, if I gall him slightly, It may be death.
KING Let’s further think of this; Weigh what convenience both of time and means 3175 May fit us to our shape: if this should fail, And that our drift look through our bad performance. ‘Twere better not assay’d: therefore this project Should have a back or second, that might hold If this did blast in proof. Soft! let me see:— 3180 We’ll make a solemn wager on your cunnings,— I ha’t: When in your motion you are hot and dry,— As make your bouts more violent to that end,— And that he calls for drink, I’ll have prepar’d him 3185 A chalice for the nonce; whereon but sipping, If he by chance escape your venom’d stuck, Our purpose may hold there. [Enter Queen] How now, sweet queen!
QUEEN One woe doth tread upon another’s heel, 3190 So fast they follow:—your sister’s drown’d, Laertes.
LAER. Drown’d! O, where?
QUEEN There is a willow grows aslant a brook, That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream; There with fantastic garlands did she come 3195 Of crowflowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples, That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, But our cold maids do dead men’s fingers call them.
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There, on the pendant boughs her coronet weeds Clamb’ring to hang, an envious sliver broke; 3200 When down her weedy trophies and herself Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide; And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up; Which time she chaunted snatches of old tunes; As one incapable of her own distress, 3205 Or like a creature native and indu’d Unto that element: but long it could not be Till that her garments, heavy with their drink, Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay To muddy death. 3210
LAER. Alas, then she is drown’d?
QUEEN Drown’d, drown’d.
LAER. Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, And therefore I forbid my tears: but yet It is our trick; nature her custom holds, 3215 Let shame say what it will: when these are gone, The woman will be out.—Adieu, my lord: I have a speech of fire, that fain would blaze, But that this folly douts it. [Exit.]
KING Let’s follow, Gertrude; 3220 How much I had to do to calm his rage! Now fear I this will give it start again; Therefore let’s follow. [Exeunt.]
ACT V Scene I—A churchyard
[Enter two Clowns, with spades, &c.]
1 CLOWN Is she to be buried in Christian burial when she wilfully seeks her own salvation? 3225
2 CLOWN I tell thee she is; and therefore make her grave straight: the crowner hath sat on her, and finds it Christian burial.
1 CLOWN How can that be, unless she drowned herself in her own defence?
2 CLOWN Why, ‘tis found so.
1 CLOWN It must be se offendendo; it cannot be else. For here lies 3230
Image 11.10: Ophelia | Ophelia drowns, having committed suicide in grief.
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the point: if I drown myself wittingly, it argues an act: and an act hath three branches; it is to act, to do, and to perform: argal, she drowned herself wittingly.
2 CLOWN Nay, but hear you, goodman delver,—
1 CLOWN Give me leave. Here lies the water; good: here stands 3235 the man; good: if the man go to this water and drown himself, it is, will he, nill he, he goes,—mark you that: but if the water come to him and drown him, he drowns not himself; argal, he that is not guilty of his own death shortens not his own life. 3240
2 CLOWN But is this law?
1 CLOWN Ay, marry, is’t—crowner’s quest law.
2 CLOWN Will you ha’ the truth on’t? If this had not been a gentlewoman, she should have been buried out o’ Christian burial.
1 CLOWN Why, there thou say’st: and the more pity that great 3245 folk should have countenance in this world to drown
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There, on the pendant boughs her coronet weeds Clamb’ring to hang, an envious sliver broke; 3200 When down her weedy trophies and herself Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide; And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up; Which time she chaunted snatches of old tunes; As one incapable of her own distress, 3205 Or like a creature native and indu’d Unto that element: but long it could not be Till that her garments, heavy with their drink, Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay To muddy death. 3210
LAER. Alas, then she is drown’d?
QUEEN Drown’d, drown’d.
LAER. Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, And therefore I forbid my tears: but yet It is our trick; nature her custom holds, 3215 Let shame say what it will: when these are gone, The woman will be out.—Adieu, my lord: I have a speech of fire, that fain would blaze, But that this folly douts it. [Exit.]
KING Let’s follow, Gertrude; 3220 How much I had to do to calm his rage! Now fear I this will give it start again; Therefore let’s follow. [Exeunt.]
ACT V Scene I—A churchyard
[Enter two Clowns, with spades, &c.]
1 CLOWN Is she to be buried in Christian burial when she wilfully seeks her own salvation? 3225
2 CLOWN I tell thee she is; and therefore make her grave straight: the crowner hath sat on her, and finds it Christian burial.
1 CLOWN How can that be, unless she drowned herself in her own defence?
2 CLOWN Why, ‘tis found so.
1 CLOWN It must be se offendendo; it cannot be else. For here lies 3230
Image 11.10: Ophelia | Ophelia drowns, having committed suicide in grief.
Author: John Everett Millais Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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or hang themselves more than their even Christian. —Come, my spade. There is no ancient gentlemen but gardeners, ditchers, and grave-makers: they hold up Adam’s profession. 3250
2 CLOWN Was he a gentleman?
1 CLOWN He was the first that ever bore arms.
2 CLOWN Why, he had none.
1 CLOWN What, art a heathen? How dost thou understand the Scripture? The Scripture says Adam digg’d: 3255 could he dig without arms? I’ll put another question to thee: if thou answerest me not to the purpose, confess thyself,—
2 CLOWN Go to.
1 CLOWN What is he that builds stronger than either the mason, 3260 the shipwright, or the carpenter?
2 CLOWN The gallows-maker; for that frame outlives a thousand tenants.
1 CLOWN I like thy wit well, in good faith: the gallows does well; but how does it well? it does well to those that do ill: now, thou dost ill to say the gallows is built stronger 3265 than the church; argal, the gallows may do well to thee. To’t again, come.
2 CLOWN Who builds stronger than a mason, a shipwright, or a carpenter?
1 CLOWN Ay, tell me that, and unyoke.
2 CLOWN Marry, now I can tell. 3270
1 CLOWN To’t.
2 CLOWN Mass, I cannot tell. [Enter Hamlet and Horatio, at a distance.]
1 CLOWN Cudgel thy brains no more about it, for your dull ass will not mend his pace with beating; and
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when you are asked this question next, say 3275 ‘a grave-maker;’ the houses he makes last till doomsday. Go, get thee to Yaughan; fetch me a stoup of liquor. [Exit Second Clown.] [Digs and sings.] In youth when I did love, did love, Methought it was very sweet; To contract, O, the time for, ah, my behove, 3280 O, methought there was nothing meet.
HAM. Has this fellow no feeling of his business, that he sings at grave-making?
HOR. Custom hath made it in him a property of easiness.
HAM. ‘Tis e’en so: the hand of little employment hath the daintier sense. 3285
1 CLOWN [Sings.] But age, with his stealing steps, Hath claw’d me in his clutch, And hath shipp’d me into the land, As if I had never been such. [Throws up a skull.]
HAM. That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once: 3290 how the knave jowls it to the ground,as if ‘twere Cain’s jawbone, that did the first murder! This might be the pate of a politician, which this ass now o’erreaches; one that would circumvent God, might it not?
HOR. It might, my Lord 3295
HAM. Or of a courtier, which could say ‘Good morrow, sweet lord! How dost thou, good lord?’ This might be my lord such-a-one, that praised my lord such-a-one’s horse when he meant to beg it,—might it not?
HOR. Ay, my Lord 3300
HAM. Why, e’en so: and now my Lady Worm’s; chapless, and knocked about the mazard with a sexton’s spade: here’s fine revolution, an we had the trick to see’t. Did these bones cost no more the breeding but to play at loggets with ‘em? mine ache to think on’t. 3305
1 CLOWN [Sings.] A pickaxe and a spade, a spade,
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For and a shrouding sheet; O, a pit of clay for to be made For such a guest is meet. [Throws up another skull].
HAM. There’s another: why may not that be the skull of a lawyer? 3310 Where be his quiddits now, his quillets, his cases, his tenures, and his tricks? why does he suffer this rude knave now to knock him about the sconce with a dirty shovel, and will not tell him of his action of battery? Hum! This fellow might be in’s time a great 3315 buyer of land, with his statutes, his recognizances, his fines, his double vouchers, his recoveries: is this the fine of his fines, and the recovery of his recoveries, to have his fine pate full of fine dirt? will his vouchers vouch him no more of his purchases, and double ones 3320 too, than the length and breadth of a pair of indentures? The very conveyances of his lands will scarcely lie in this box; and must the inheritor himself have no more, ha?
HOR. Not a jot more, my Lord
HAM. Is not parchment made of sheep-skins? 3325
HOR. Ay, my lord, And of calf-skins too.
HAM. They are sheep and calves which seek out assurance in that. I will speak to this fellow.—Whose grave’s this, sir?
1 CLOWN Mine, sir. [Sings.] O, a pit of clay for to be made 3330 For such a guest is meet.
HAM. I think it be thine indeed, for thou liest in’t.
1 CLOWN You lie out on’t, sir, and therefore ‘tis not yours: for my part, I do not lie in’t, yet it is mine.
HAM. Thou dost lie in’t, to be in’t and say it is thine: ‘tis for 3335 the dead, not for the quick; therefore thou liest.
1 CLOWN ‘Tis a quick lie, sir; ‘t will away again from me to you.
HAM. What man dost thou dig it for?
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1 CLOWN For no man, sir.
HAM. What woman then? 3340
1 CLOWN For none neither.
HAM. Who is to be buried in’t?
1 CLOWN One that was a woman, sir; but, rest her soul, she’s dead.
HAM. How absolute the knave is! We must speak by the card, or equivocation will undo us. By the Lord, Horatio, these 3345 three years I have taken note of it, the age is grown so picked that the toe of the peasant comes so near the heel of the courtier he galls his kibe.—How long hast thou been a grave-maker?
1 CLOWN Of all the days i’ the year, I came to’t that day that our last King Hamlet overcame Fortinbras. 3350
HAM. How long is that since?
1 CLOWN Cannot you tell that? every fool can tell that: it was the very day that young Hamlet was born, —he that is mad, and sent into England.
HAM. Ay, marry, why was be sent into England? 3355
1 CLOWN Why, because he was mad: he shall recover his wits there; or, if he do not, it’s no great matter there.
HAM. Why?
1 CLOWN ‘Twill not he seen in him there; there the men are as mad as he.
HAM. How came he mad? 3360
1 CLOWN Very strangely, they say.
HAM. How strangely?
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1 CLOWN Faith, e’en with losing his wits.
HAM. Upon what ground?
1 CLOWN Why, here in Denmark: I have been sexton here, man 3365 and boy, thirty years.
HAM. How long will a man lie i’ the earth ere he rot?
1 CLOWN Faith, if he be not rotten before he die,—as we have many pocky corses now-a-days that will scarce hold the laying in,—he will last you some 3370 eight year or nine year: a tanner will last you nine year.
HAM. Why he more than another?
1 CLOWN Why, sir, his hide is so tann’d with his trade that he will keep out water a great while; and your water is a sore decayer of your whoreson dead body. 3375 Here’s a skull now; this skull hath lain in the earth three-and-twenty years.
HAM. Whose was it?
1 CLOWN A whoreson, mad fellow’s it was: whose do you think it was?
HAM. Nay, I know not. 3380
1 CLOWN A pestilence on him for a mad rogue! ‘a pour’d a flagon of Rhenish on my head once. This same skull, sir, was Yorick’s skull, the king’s jester.
HAM. This?
1 CLOWN E’en that. 3385
HAM. Let me see. [Takes the skull.] Alas, poor Yorick!—I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge 3390 rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kiss’d
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I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? 3395 quite chap-fallen? Now, get you to my lady’s chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come; make her laugh at that.—Pr’ythee, Horatio, tell me one thing.
HOR. What’s that, my lord? 3400
HAM. Dost thou think Alexander looked o’ this fashion i’ the earth?
HOR. E’en so.
HAM. And smelt so? Pah! [Throws down the skull.]
HOR. E’en so, my Lord
HAM. To what base uses we may return, Horatio! Why may 3405 not imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander till he find it stopping a bung-hole?
HOR. ‘Twere to consider too curiously to consider so.
HAM. No, faith, not a jot; but to follow him thither with modesty enough, and likelihood to lead it: as thus: 3410 Alexander died, Alexander was buried, Alexander returneth into dust; the dust is earth; of earth we make loam; and why of that loam whereto he was converted might they not stop a beer-barrel? Imperious Caesar, dead and turn’d to clay, 3415 Might stop a hole to keep the wind away. O, that that earth which kept the world in awe Should patch a wall to expel the winter’s flaw! But soft! but soft! aside!—Here comes the king [Enter priests, &c, in procession; the corpse of Ophelia, Laertes, and Mourners following; King, Queen, their Trains, &c.] The queen, the courtiers: who is that they follow? 3420 And with such maimed rites? This doth betoken The corse they follow did with desperate hand Fordo it own life: ‘twas of some estate. Couch we awhile and mark. [Retiring with Horatio.]
LAER. What ceremony else? 3425
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HAM. That is Laertes, A very noble youth: mark.
LAER. What ceremony else?
1 PRIEST Her obsequies have been as far enlarg’d As we have warranties: her death was doubtful; 3430 And, but that great command o’ersways the order, She should in ground unsanctified have lodg’d Till the last trumpet; for charitable prayers, Shards, flints, and pebbles should be thrown on her, Yet here she is allowed her virgin rites, 3435 Her maiden strewments, and the bringing home Of bell and burial.
LAER. Must there no more be done?
1 PRIEST No more be done; We should profane the service of the dead 3440 To sing a requiem and such rest to her As to peace-parted souls.
LAER. Lay her i’ the earth;— And from her fair and unpolluted flesh May violets spring!—I tell thee, churlish priest, 3445 A ministering angel shall my sister be When thou liest howling.
HAM. What, the fair Ophelia?
QUEEN Sweets to the sweet: farewell. [Scattering flowers.] I hop’d thou shouldst have been my Hamlet’s wife; 3450 I thought thy bride-bed to have deck’d, sweet maid, And not have strew’d thy grave.
LAER. O, treble woe Fall ten times treble on that cursed head Whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense 3455 Depriv’d thee of !—Hold off the earth awhile, Till I have caught her once more in mine arms: [Leaps into the grave.] Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead, Till of this flat a mountain you have made, To o’ertop old Pelion or the skyish head 3460 Of blue Olympus.
HAM. [Advancing.]
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What is he whose grief Bears such an emphasis? Whose phrase of sorrow Conjures the wandering stars, and makes them stand Like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I, 3465 Hamlet the Dane. [Leaps into the grave.]
LAER. The devil take thy soul! [Grappling with him.]
HAM. Thou pray’st not well. I pr’ythee, take thy fingers from my throat; For, though I am not splenetive and rash, 3470 Yet have I in me something dangerous, Which let thy wiseness fear: away thy hand!
KING Pluck them asunder.
QUEEN Hamlet! Hamlet!
ALL Gentlemen!— 3475
HOR. Good my lord, be quiet. [The Attendants part them, and they come out of the grave.]
HAM. Why, I will fight with him upon this theme Until my eyelids will no longer wag.
QUEEN O my son, what theme?
HAM. I lov’d Ophelia; forty thousand brothers 3480 Could not, with all their quantity of love, Make up my sum.—What wilt thou do for her?
KING O, he is mad, Laertes.
QUEEN For love of God, forbear him!
HAM. ‘Swounds, show me what thou’lt do: 3485 Woul’t weep? woul’t fight? woul’t fast? woul’t tear thyself ? Woul’t drink up eisel? eat a crocodile? I’ll do’t.—Dost thou come here to whine? To outface me with leaping in her grave? Be buried quick with her, and so will I: 3490 And, if thou prate of mountains, let them throw Millions of acres on us, till our ground,
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Singeing his pate against the burning zone, Make Ossa like a wart! Nay, an thou’lt mouth, I’ll rant as well as thou. 3495
QUEEN This is mere madness: And thus a while the fit will work on him; Anon, as patient as the female dove, When that her golden couplets are disclos’d, His silence will sit drooping. 3500
HAM. Hear you, sir; What is the reason that you use me thus? I lov’d you ever: but it is no matter; Let Hercules himself do what he may, The cat will mew, and dog will have his day. 3505 [Exit.]
KING I pray thee, good Horatio, wait upon him.— [Exit Horatio.] [To Laertes] Strengthen your patience in our last night’s speech; We’ll put the matter to the present push.— Good Gertrude, set some watch over your son.— This grave shall have a living monument: 3510 An hour of quiet shortly shall we see; Till then in patience our proceeding be. [Exeunt.]
Scene II—A hall in the Castle [Enter Hamlet and Horatio.]
HAM. So much for this, sir: now let me see the other; You do remember all the circumstance?
HOR. Remember it, my lord! 3515
HAM. Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting That would not let me sleep: methought I lay Worse than the mutinies in the bilboes. Rashly, And prais’d be rashness for it,—let us know, Our indiscretion sometime serves us well, 3520 When our deep plots do fail; and that should teach us There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.
HOR. That is most certain.
HAM. Up from my cabin, 3525
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My sea-gown scarf ’d about me, in the dark Grop’d I to find out them: had my desire; Finger’d their packet; and, in fine, withdrew To mine own room again: making so bold, My fears forgetting manners, to unseal 3530 Their grand commission; where I found, Horatio, O royal knavery! an exact command,— Larded with many several sorts of reasons, Importing Denmark’s health, and England’s too, With, ho! such bugs and goblins in my life,— 3535 That, on the supervise, no leisure bated, No, not to stay the grinding of the axe, My head should be struck off.
HOR. Is’t possible?
HAM. Here’s the commission: read it at more leisure. 3540 But wilt thou bear me how I did proceed?
HOR. I beseech you.
HAM. Being thus benetted round with villanies,— Or I could make a prologue to my brains, They had begun the play,—I sat me down; 3545 Devis’d a new commission; wrote it fair: I once did hold it, as our statists do, A baseness to write fair, and labour’d much How to forget that learning; but, sir, now It did me yeoman’s service. Wilt thou know 3550 The effect of what I wrote?
HOR. Ay, good my Lord
HAM. An earnest conjuration from the king,— As England was his faithful tributary; As love between them like the palm might flourish; 3555 As peace should still her wheaten garland wear And stand a comma ‘tween their amities; And many such-like as’s of great charge,— That, on the view and know of these contents, Without debatement further, more or less, 3560 He should the bearers put to sudden death, Not shriving-time allow’d.
HOR. How was this seal’d?
HAM. Why, even in that was heaven ordinant. I had my father’s signet in my purse, 3565 Which was the model of that Danish seal:
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Folded the writ up in the form of the other; Subscrib’d it: gave’t the impression; plac’d it safely, The changeling never known. Now, the next day Was our sea-fight; and what to this was sequent 3570 Thou know’st already.
HOR. So Guildenstern and Rosencrantz go to’t.
HAM. Why, man, they did make love to this employment; They are not near my conscience; their defeat Does by their own insinuation grow: 3575 ‘Tis dangerous when the baser nature comes Between the pass and fell incensed points Of mighty opposites.
HOR. Why, what a king is this!
HAM. Does it not, thinks’t thee, stand me now upon,— 3580 He that hath kill’d my king, and whor’d my mother; Popp’d in between the election and my hopes; Thrown out his angle for my proper life, And with such cozenage—is’t not perfect conscience To quit him with this arm? and is’t not to be damn’d 3585 To let this canker of our nature come In further evil?
HOR. It must be shortly known to him from England What is the issue of the business there.
HAM. It will be short: the interim is mine; 3590 And a man’s life is no more than to say One. But I am very sorry, good Horatio, That to Laertes I forgot myself; For by the image of my cause I see The portraiture of his: I’ll court his favours: 3595 But, sure, the bravery of his grief did put me Into a towering passion.
HOR. Peace; who comes here? [Enter Osric.]
OSR. Your lordship is right welcome back to Denmark.
HAM. I humbly thank you, sir. Dost know this water-fly? 3600
HOR. No, my good Lord
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HAM. Thy state is the more gracious; for ‘tis a vice to know him. He hath much land, and fertile: let a beast be lord of beasts, and his crib shall stand at the king’s mess; ‘tis a chough; but, as I say, spacious in the possession of dirt. 3605
OSR. Sweet lord, if your lordship were at leisure, I should impart a thing to you from his majesty.
HAM. I will receive it with all diligence of spirit. Put your bonnet to his right use; ‘tis for the head.
OSR. I thank your lordship, t’is very hot. 3610
HAM. No, believe me, ‘tis very cold; the wind is northerly.
OSR. It is indifferent cold, my lord, indeed.
HAM. Methinks it is very sultry and hot for my complexion.
OSR. Exceedingly, my lord; it is very sultry,—as ‘twere —I cannot tell how. But, my lord, his majesty 3615 bade me signify to you that he has laid a great wager on your head. Sir, this is the matter,—
HAM. I beseech you, remember,— [Hamlet moves him to put on his hat.]
OSR. Nay, in good faith; for mine ease, in good faith. Sir, here is newly come to court Laertes; 3620 believe me, an absolute gentleman, full of most excellent differences, of very soft society and great showing: indeed, to speak feelingly of him, he is the card or calendar of gentry; for you shall find in him the continent of what part a gentleman would see. 3625
HAM. Sir, his definement suffers no perdition in you;—though, I know, to divide him inventorially would dizzy the arithmetic of memory, and yet but yaw neither, in respect of his quick sail. But, in the verity of extolment, I take him to be a soul of great article, and his infusion 3630 of such dearth and rareness as, to make true diction of him, his semblable is his mirror, and who else would trace him, his umbrage, nothing more.
OSR. Your lordship speaks most infallibly of him.
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HAM. The concernancy, sir? why do we wrap the gentleman 3635 in our more rawer breath?
OSR. Sir?
HOR. Is’t not possible to understand in another tongue? You will do’t, sir, really.
HAM. What imports the nomination of this gentleman? 3640
OSR. Of Laertes?
HOR. His purse is empty already; all’s golden words are spent.
HAM. Of him, sir.
OSR. I know, you are not ignorant,—
HAM. I would you did, sir; yet, in faith, if you did, it would 3645 not much approve me.—Well, sir.
OSR. You are not ignorant of what excellence Laertes is,—
HAM. I dare not confess that, lest I should compare with him in excellence; but to know a man well were to know himself.
OSR. I mean, sir, for his weapon; but in the imputation laid 3650 on him by them, in his meed he’s unfellowed.
HAM. What’s his weapon?
OSR. Rapier and dagger.
HAM. That’s two of his weapons:—but well.
OSR. The king, sir, hath wager’d with him six Barbary horses: 3655 against the which he has imponed, as I take it, six French rapiers and poniards, with their assigns, as girdle, hangers, and so: three of the carriages, in faith, are very dear to fancy, very responsive to the hilts, most delicate carriages, and of very liberal conceit. 3660
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HAM. What call you the carriages?
HOR. I knew you must be edified by the margent ere you had done.
OSR. The carriages, sir, are the hangers.
HAM. The phrase would be more german to the matter if we could carry cannon by our sides. I would it 3665 might be hangers till then. But, on: six Barbary horses against six French swords, their assigns, and three liberal conceited carriages: that’s the French bet against the Danish: why is this all imponed, as you call it? 3670
OSR. The king, sir, hath laid that, in a dozen passes between your and him, he shall not exceed you three hits: he hath laid on twelve for nine; and it would come to immediate trial if your lordship would vouchsafe the answer. 3675
HAM. How if I answer no?
OSR. I mean, my lord, the opposition of your person in trial.
HAM. Sir, I will walk here in the hall: if it please his majesty, it is the breathing time of day with me: let the foils be brought, the gentleman willing, and the king hold 3680 his purpose, I will win for him if I can; if not, I will gain nothing but my shame and the odd hits.
OSR. Shall I re-deliver you e’en so?
HAM. To this effect, sir; after what flourish your nature will.
OSR. I commend my duty to your lordship. 3685
HAM. Yours, yours. [Exit Osric.] He does well to commend it himself; there are no tongues else for’s turn.
HOR. This lapwing runs away with the shell on his head.
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HAM. He did comply with his dug before he suck’d it. Thus 3690 has he,—and many more of the same bevy that I know the drossy age dotes on,— only got the tune of the time and outward habit of encounter; a kind of yesty collection, which carries them through and through the most fanned and winnowed 3695 opinions; and do but blow them to their trial, the bubbles are out. [Enter a Lord] Lord My lord, his majesty commended him to you by young Osric, who brings back to him that you attend him in the hall: he sends to know if your 3700 pleasure hold to play with Laertes, or that you will take longer time.
HAM. I am constant to my purposes; they follow the king’s pleasure: if his fitness speaks, mine is ready; now or whensoever, provided I be so able as now.
LORD The King and Queen and all are coming down. 3705
HAM. In happy time.
LORD The queen desires you to use some gentle entertainment to Laertes before you fall to play.
HAM. She well instructs me. [Exit Lord]
HOR. You will lose this wager, my Lord 3710
HAM. I do not think so; since he went into France I have been in continual practice: I shall win at the odds. But thou wouldst not think how ill all’s here about my heart: but it is no matter.
HOR. Nay, good my lord,— 3715
HAM. It is but foolery; but it is such a kind of gain-giving as would perhaps trouble a woman.
HOR. If your mind dislike anything, obey it: I will forestall their repair hither, and say you are not fit.
HAM. Not a whit, we defy augury: there’s a special providence 3720 in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, ‘tis not to come;
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if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all: since no man has aught of what he leaves, what is’t to leave betimes? [Enter King, Queen, Laertes, Lords, Osric, and Attendants with foils &c.]
KING Come, Hamlet, come, and take this hand from me. 3725 [The King puts Laertes’ hand into Hamlet’s.]
HAM. Give me your pardon, sir: I have done you wrong: But pardon’t, as you are a gentleman. This presence knows, and you must needs have heard, How I am punish’d with sore distraction. What I have done 3730 That might your nature, honour, and exception Roughly awake, I here proclaim was madness. Was’t Hamlet wrong’d Laertes? Never Hamlet: If Hamlet from himself be ta’en away, And when he’s not himself does wrong Laertes, 3735 Then Hamlet does it not, Hamlet denies it. Who does it, then? His madness: if ’t be so, Hamlet is of the faction that is wrong’d; His madness is poor Hamlet’s enemy. Sir, in this audience, 3740 Let my disclaiming from a purpos’d evil Free me so far in your most generous thoughts That I have shot my arrow o’er the house And hurt my brother.
LAER. I am satisfied in nature, 3745 Whose motive, in this case, should stir me most To my revenge. But in my terms of honour I stand aloof; and will no reconcilement Till by some elder masters of known honour I have a voice and precedent of peace 3750 To keep my name ungor’d. But till that time I do receive your offer’d love like love, And will not wrong it.
HAM. I embrace it freely; And will this brother’s wager frankly play.— 3755 Give us the foils; come on.
LAER. Come, one for me.
HAM. I’ll be your foil, Laertes; in mine ignorance Your skill shall, like a star in the darkest night, Stick fiery off indeed. 3760
LAER. You mock me, sir.
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HAM. No, by this hand.
KING Give them the foils, young Osric. Cousin Hamlet, You know the wager?
HAM. Very well, my lord; 3765 Your grace has laid the odds o’ the weaker side.
KING I do not fear it; I have seen you both; But since he’s better’d, we have therefore odds.
LAER. This is too heavy, let me see another.
HAM. This likes me well. These foils have all a length? 3770 [They prepare to play.]
OSR. Ay, my good Lord
KING Set me the stoups of wine upon that table,— If Hamlet give the first or second hit, Or quit in answer of the third exchange, Let all the battlements their ordnance fire; 3775 The king shall drink to Hamlet’s better breath; And in the cup an union shall he throw, Richer than that which four successive kings In Denmark’s crown have worn. Give me the cups; And let the kettle to the trumpet speak, 3780 The trumpet to the cannoneer without, The cannons to the heavens, the heavens to earth, ‘Now the king drinks to Hamlet.’—Come, begin:— And you, the judges, bear a wary eye.
HAM. Come on, sir. 3785
LAER. Come, my Lord [They play.]
HAM. One.
LAER. No.
HAM Judgment!
OSR. A hit, a very palpable hit. 3790
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LAER. Well;—again.
KING Stay, give me drink.—Hamlet, this pearl is thine; Here’s to thy health.— [Trumpets sound, and cannon shot off within.] Give him the cup.
HAM. I’ll play this bout first; set it by awhile.— 3795 Come.—Another hit; what say you? [They play.]
LAER. A touch, a touch, I do confess.
KING Our son shall win.
QUEEN He’s fat, and scant of breath.— Here, Hamlet, take my napkin, rub thy brows: 3800 The queen carouses to thy fortune, Hamlet.
HAM. Good madam!
KING Gertrude, do not drink.
QUEEN I will, my lord; I pray you pardon me.
KING [Aside.] It is the poison’d cup; it is too late. 3805
HAM. I dare not drink yet, madam; by-and-by.
QUEEN Come, let me wipe thy face.
LAER. My lord, I’ll hit him now.
KING I do not think’t.
LAER. [Aside.] And yet ‘tis almost ‘gainst my conscience. 3810
HAM. Come, for the third, Laertes: you but dally;
Image 11.11: Claudius at Prayer | While Claudius prays, Hamlet approaches behind him, drawing his sword.
Author: Eugène Delacroix Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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I pray you pass with your best violence: I am afeard you make a wanton of me.
LAER. Say you so? come on. [They play.]
OSR. Nothing, neither way. 3815
LAER. Have at you now! [Laertes wounds Hamlet; then, in scuffling, they change rapiers, and Hamlet wounds Laertes.]
KING Part them; they are incens’d.
HAM. Nay, come again! [The Queen falls.]
OSR. Look to the queen there, ho!
HOR. They bleed on both sides.—How is it, my lord? 3820
OSR. How is’t, Laertes?
LAER. Why, as a woodcock to my own springe, Osric; I am justly kill’d with mine own treachery.
HAM. How does the Queen?
KING She swoons to see them bleed. 3825
QUEEN No, no! the drink, the drink!—O my dear Hamlet!— The drink, the drink!—I am poison’d. [Dies.]
HAM. O villany!—Ho! let the door be lock’d: Treachery! seek it out. [Laertes falls.]
LAER. It is here, Hamlet: Hamlet, thou art slain; 3830 No medicine in the world can do thee good; In thee there is not half an hour of life; The treacherous instrument is in thy hand, Unbated and envenom’d: the foul practice Hath turn’d itself on me; lo, here I lie, 3835
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Never to rise again: thy mother’s poison’d: I can no more:—the king, the king’s to blame.
HAM. The point envenom’d too!— Then, venom, to thy work. [Stabs the King]
Osric and Lords. 3840 Treason! treason!
KING O, yet defend me, friends! I am but hurt.
HAM. Here, thou incestuous, murderous, damned Dane, Drink off this potion.—Is thy union here? Follow my mother. 3845 [King dies.]
LAER. He is justly serv’d; It is a poison temper’d by himself.— Exchange forgiveness with me, noble Hamlet: Mine and my father’s death come not upon thee, Nor thine on me! 3850 [Dies.]
HAM. Heaven make thee free of it! I follow thee.— I am dead, Horatio.—Wretched queen, adieu!— You that look pale and tremble at this chance, That are but mutes or audience to this act, Had I but time,—as this fell sergeant, death, 3855 Is strict in his arrest,—O, I could tell you,— But let it be.—Horatio, I am dead; Thou liv’st; report me and my cause aright To the unsatisfied.
HOR. Never believe it: 3860 I am more an antique Roman than a Dane.— Here’s yet some liquor left.
HAM. As thou’rt a man, Give me the cup; let go; by heaven, I’ll have’t.— O good Horatio, what a wounded name, 3865 Things standing thus unknown, shall live behind me! If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, Absent thee from felicity awhile, And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain, To tell my story.— 3870 [March afar off, and shot within.] What warlike noise is this?
OSR. Young Fortinbras, with conquest come from Poland,
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To the ambassadors of England gives This warlike volley.
HAM. O, I die, Horatio; 3875 The potent poison quite o’er-crows my spirit: I cannot live to hear the news from England; But I do prophesy the election lights On Fortinbras: he has my dying voice; So tell him, with the occurrents, more and less, 3880 Which have solicited.—the rest is silence. [Dies.]
HOR. Now cracks a noble heart.—Good night, sweet prince, And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest! Why does the drum come hither? [March within.] [Enter Fortinbras, the English Ambassadors, and others.]
FORT. Where is this sight? 3885
HOR. What is it you will see? If aught of woe or wonder, cease your search.
FORT. This quarry cries on havoc.—O proud death, What feast is toward in thine eternal cell, That thou so many princes at a shot 3890 So bloodily hast struck?
1 AMBASSADOR The sight is dismal; And our affairs from England come too late: The ears are senseless that should give us hearing, To tell him his commandment is fulfill’d 3895 That Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead: Where should we have our thanks?
HOR. Not from his mouth, Had it the ability of life to thank you: He never gave commandment for their death. 3900 But since, so jump upon this bloody question, You from the Polack wars, and you from England, Are here arriv’d, give order that these bodies High on a stage be placed to the view; And let me speak to the yet unknowing world 3905 How these things came about: so shall you hear Of carnal, bloody and unnatural acts; Of accidental judgments, casual slaughters; Of deaths put on by cunning and forc’d cause; And, in this upshot, purposes mistook 3910 Fall’n on the inventors’ heads: all this can I Truly deliver.
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FORT. Let us haste to hear it, And call the noblest to the audience. For me, with sorrow I embrace my fortune: 3915 I have some rights of memory in this kingdom, Which now, to claim my vantage doth invite me.
HOR. Of that I shall have also cause to speak, And from his mouth whose voice will draw on more: But let this same be presently perform’d, 3920 Even while men’s minds are wild: lest more mischance On plots and errors happen.
FORT. Let four captains Bear Hamlet like a soldier to the stage; For he was likely, had he been put on, 3925 To have prov’d most royally: and, for his passage, The soldiers’ music and the rites of war Speak loudly for him.— Take up the bodies.—Such a sight as this Becomes the field, but here shows much amiss. 3930 Go, bid the soldiers shoot. [A dead march.] [Exeunt, bearing off the dead bodies; after the which a peal of ordnance is shot off.]
THE JOURNALS OF CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS (DURING HIS FIRST VOYAGE, 1492-1493)
Christopher Columbus (1451-1506 C.E.)
Composed between 1492-93 C.E. Italy
Christopher Columbus was a Genoese Italian sailor and navigator who persuaded Spanish King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella to fund an expedition in 1492 to find a shorter route to India by sailing west. In October 1492, Co- lumbus and his crew arrived in the Bahamas, believing that they had found Asia. Columbus made four transatlantic voyages and wrote letters, reports, and journal entries (not private entries, but entries to be read by other people) about his voyages. Some of the journal entries were entirely or partially lost. The journal for the first voyage was lost but partly reconstructed. Although Columbus was once celebrated as a hero who “discovered” America, this view has been challenged by other records of earlier travelers and the destructive consequences that European explora- tion and colonization of the Americas have had on indigenous peoples. Columbus’s journal entries and letters shed light on transatlantic cross-cultural encounters in the fifteenth and sixteenth century.
Written by Kyounghye Kwon
Selections from The Journals of Christopher Columbus - The First Voyage
Christopher Columbus, Translated by Clements R. Markham
This is the first voyage and the routes and direction taken by the Admiral Don Cristobal Colon when he discovered the Indies, summarized; except the prologue made for the Sovereigns, which is given
word for word and commences in this manner. In the name of our Lord Jesus Christ. BECAUSE, O most Christian, and very high, very excellent, and puissant Princes, King and Queen of the
Spains and of the islands of the Sea, our Lords, in this present year of 1492, after your Highnesses had given an end to the war with the Moors who reigned in Europe, and had finished it in the very great city of Granada, where in this present year, on the second day of the month of January, by force of arms, I saw the royal banners of your
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Highnesses placed on the towers of Alfambra, which is the fortress of that city, and I saw the Moorish King come forth from the gates of the city and kiss the royal hands of your Highnesses, and of the Prince my Lord, and presently in that same month, acting on the information that I had given to your Highnesses touching the lands of India, and respecting a Prince who is called Gran Can, which means in our language King of Kings, how he and his ancestors had sent to Rome many times to ask for learned men of our holy faith to teach him, and how the Holy Father had never complied, insomuch that many people believing in idolatries were lost by receiving doctrine of perdition: YOUR Highnesses, as Catholic Christians and Princes who love the holy Christian faith, and the propagation of it, and who are enemies to the sect of Mahoma and to all idolatries and heresies, resolved to send me, Cristobal Co- lon, to the said parts of India to see the said princes, and the cities and lands, and their disposition, with a view that they might be converted to our holy faith; and ordered that I should not go by land to the eastward, as had been customary, but that I should go by way of the west, whith- er up to this day, we do not know for certain that any one has gone.
Thus, after having turned out all the Jews from all your kingdoms and lordships, in the same month of January, your Highnesses gave orders to me that with a suffi- cient fleet
I should go to the said parts of India, and for this they made great concessions to me, and ennobled me, so that henceforward I should be called Don, and should be Chief Admiral of the Ocean Sea, perpetual Viceroy and Gov- ernor of all the islands and continents that I should discover and gain, and that I might hereafter discover and gain in the Ocean Sea, and that my eldest son should succeed, and so on from generation to generation for ever.
I left the city of Granada on the 12th day of May, in the same year of 1492, being Saturday, and came to the town of Palos, which is a seaport; where I equipped three vessels well suited for such service; and departed from that port, well supplied with provisions and with many sailors, on the 3d day of August of the same year, being Fri- day, half an hour before sunrise, taking the route to the islands of Canaria, belonging to your Highnesses, which are in the said Ocean Sea, that I might thence take my departure for navigating until I should arrive at the Indies, and give the letters of your Highnesses to those princes, so as to comply with my orders. As part of my duty I thought it well to write an account of all the voyage very punctually, noting from day to day all that I should do and see, and that should happen, as will be seen further on. Also, Lords Princes, I resolved to describe each night what passed in the day, and to note each day how I navigated at night. I propose to construct a new chart for navigating, on which I shall delineate all the sea and lands of the Ocean in their proper positions under their bearings; and further, I propose to prepare a book, and to put down all as it were in a picture, by latitude from the equator, and western longitude. Above all, I shall have accomplished much, for I shall forget sleep, and shall work at the business of navi- gation, that so the service may be performed; all which will entail great labour.
Friday, 3d of August We departed on Friday, the 3d of August, in the year 1492, from the bar of Saltes, at 8 o’clock, and proceed-
ed with a strong sea breeze until sunset, towards the south, for 60 miles, equal to 15 leagues; afterwards S.W. and W.S.W., which was the course for the Canaries.
Saturday, 4th of August They steered S.W. \ S.
Sunday, 5th of August They continued their course day and night more than 40 leagues.
Image 11.12: Monument to Columbus | Statues of Christo- pher Columbus and Queen Isabella in Madrid.
Author: Luis García Source: Wikimedia Commons License: CC BY-SA 2.5
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Monday, 6th of August The rudder of the caravel Pinta became unshipped, and Martin Alonso Pinzon, who was in command,
believed or suspected that it was by contrivance of Gomes Rascon and Cristobal Quintero, to whom the caravel belonged, for they dreaded to go on that voyage. The Admiral says that, before they sailed, these men had been displaying a certain backwardness, so to speak. The Admiral was much disturbed at not being able to help the said caravel without danger, and he says that he was eased of some anxiety when he reflected that Martin Alonso Pinzon was a man of energy and ingenuity. They made, during the day and night, 29 leagues.
Tuesday, 7th of August The rudder of the Pinta was shipped and secured, and they proceeded on a course for the island of Lanza-
rote, one of the Canaries. They made, during the day and night, 25 leagues.
Wednesday, 8th of August Opinions respecting their position varied among the pilots of the three caravels; but that of the Admiral
proved to be nearer the truth. He wished to go to Gran Canaria, to leave the caravel Pinta, because she was disabled by the faulty hanging of her rudder, and was making water. He intended to obtain another there if one could be found. They could not reach the place that day.
Thursday, 9th of August The Admiral was not able to reach Gomera until the night of Sunday, while Martin Alonso remained on
that coast of Gran Canaria by order of the Admiral, because his vessel could not be navigated. Afterwards the Ad- miral took her to Canaria, and they repaired the Pinta very
thoroughly through the pains and labour of the Admiral, of Martin Alonso, and of the rest. Finally they came to Gomera. They saw a great fire issue from the mountain of the island of Tenerife, which is of great height. They rigged the Pinta with square sails, for she was lateen rigged; and the Admiral reached Gomera on Sunday, the 2nd of September, with the Pinta repaired.
The Admiral says that many honourable Spanish gentlemen who were at Gomera with Dona Ines Peraza, mother of Guillen Peraza (who was afterwards the first Count of Gomera), and who were natives of the island of Hierro, declared that every year they saw land to the west of the Canaries; and others, natives of Gomera, affirmed the same on oath. The Admiral here says that he remembers, when in Portugal in the year 1484, a man came to the King from the island of Madeira, to beg for a caravel to go to this land that was seen, who swore that it could be seen every year, and always in the same way. He also says that he recollects the same thing being affirmed in the is- lands of the Azores; and all these lands were described as in the same direction, and as being like each other, and of the same size. Having taken in water, wood, and meat, and all else that the men had who were left at Gomera by the Admiral when he went to the island of Canaria to repair the caravel Pinta, he finally made sail from the said island of Gomera, with his three caravels, on Thursday, the 6th day of September.
Thursday, 6th of September He departed on that day from the port of Gomera in the morning, and shaped a course to go on his voy-
age; having received tidings from a caravel that came from the island of Hierro that three Portuguese caravels were off that island with the object of taking him. There was a calm all that day and night, and in the morning he found himself between Gomera and Tenerife.
Friday, 7th of September The calm continued all Friday and Saturday, until the third hour of the night.
Saturday, 8th of September At the third hour of Saturday night it began to blow from the N.E., and the Admiral shaped a course to the
west. He took in much sea over the bows, which retarded progress, and 9 leagues were made in that day and night.
Sunday, 9th of September This day the Admiral made 19 leagues, and he arranged to reckon less than the number run, because if the
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voyage was of long duration, the people would not be so terrified and disheartened. In the night he made 120 miles, at the rate of 12 miles an hour, which are 30 leagues. The sailors steered badly, letting the ship fall off to N.E., and even more, respecting which the Admiral complained many times.
Monday, 10th of September In this day and night he made 60 leagues, at the rate of 10 miles an hour, which are 2 1/2 leagues; but he only
counted 48 leagues, that the people might not be alarmed if the voyage should be long.
Tuesday, 11th of September That day they sailed on their course, which was west, and made 20 leagues and more. They saw a large piece
of the mast of a ship of 120 tons, but were unable to get it. In the night they made nearly 20 leagues, but only count- ed 16, for the reason already given.
Wednesday, 12th of September That day, steering their course, they made 33 leagues during the day and night, counting less.
Thursday, 13th of September That day and night, steering their course, which was west, they made 33 leagues, counting 3 or 4 less. The cur-
rents were against them. On this day, at the commencement of the night, the needles turned a half point to north- west, and in the morning they turned somewhat more north-west.
Friday, 14th of September
That day they navigated, on their westerly course, day and night, 20 leagues, counting a little less. Here those of the caravel Niña reported that they had seen a tern and a boatswain bird, and these birds never go more than 25 leagues from the land.
Saturday, 15th of September That day and night they made 27 leagues and rather more on their west course; and in the early part of the
night there fell from heaven into the sea a marvellous flame of fire, at a distance of about 4 or 5 leagues from them.
Sunday, 16th of September That day and night they steered their course west, making 39 leagues, but the Admiral only counted 36. There
were some clouds and small rain. The Admiral says that on that day, and ever afterwards, they met with very temperate breezes, so that there was great pleasure in enjoying the mornings, nothing being wanted but the song of nightingales. He says that the weather was like April in Andalusia. Here they began to see many tufts of grass which were very green, and appeared to have been quite recently torn from the land. From this they judged that they were near some is- land, but not the main land, according to the Admiral, “because,” as he says, “I make the main land to be more distant.”
Monday, 17th of September They proceeded on their west course, and made over 50 leagues in the day and night, but the Admiral only
counted 47. They were aided by the current. They saw much very fine grass and herbs from rocks, which came from the west. They, therefore, considered that they were near land. The pilots observed the north point, and found that the needles turned a full point to the west of north. So the mariners were alarmed and dejected, and did not give their reason. But the Admiral knew, and ordered that the north should be again observed at dawn. They then found that the needles were true. The cause was that the star makes the movement, and not the needles.
At dawn, on that Monday, they saw much more weed appearing, like herbs from rivers, in which they found a live crab, which the Admiral kept. He says that these crabs are certain signs of land. The sea-water was found to be less salt than it had been since leaving the Canaries. The breezes were always soft. Everyone was pleased, and the best sailers went ahead to sight the first land. They saw many tunny-fish, and the crew of the Niña killed one. The Admiral here says that these signs of land came from the west, “in which direction I trust in that high God in whose hands are all victories that very soon we shall sight land”. In that morning he says that a white bird was seen which has not the habit of sleeping on the sea, called rabo de junco (boatswain-bird).
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Tuesday, 18th of September This day and night they made over 55 leagues, the Admiral only counting 48. In all these days the sea was very
smooth, like the river at Seville. This day Martin Alonso, with the Pinta, which was a fast sailer, did not wait, for he said to the Admiral, from his caravel, that he had seen a great multitude of birds flying westward, that he hoped to see land that night, and that he therefore pressed onward, A great cloud appeared in the north, which is a sign of the proximity of land.
Wednesday, 17th of September The Admiral continued on his course, and during the day and night he made but 25 leagues because it was
calm. He counted 22. This day, at 10 o’clock, a booby came to the ship, and in the afternoon another arrived, these birds not generally going more than 20 leagues from the land. There was also some drizzling rain without wind, which is a sure sign of land. The Admiral did not wish to cause delay by beating to windward to ascertain whether land was near, but he considered it certain that there were islands both to the north and south of his position, (as indeed there were, and he was passing through the middle of them). For his desire was to press onwards to the Indies, the weather being fine. For on his return, God willing, he could see all. These are his own words. Here the pilots found their positions. He of the Niña made the Canaries 440 leagues distant, the Pinta 420. The pilot of the Admiral’s ship made the distance exactly 400 leagues.
Thursday, 20th of September This day the course was W. b. N., and as her head was all round the compass owing to the calm that prevailed,
the ships made only 7 or 8 leagues. Two boobies came to the ship, and afterwards another, a sign of the proximity of land. They saw much weed, although none was seen on the previous day. They caught a bird with the hand, which was like a tern. But it was a river-bird, not a sea-bird, the feet being like those of a gull. At dawn two or three land- birds came singing to the ship, and they disappeared before sunset. Afterwards a booby came from W.N.VV., and flew to the S.VV., which was a sign that it left land in the W.N.VV.; for these birds sleep on shore, and go to sea in the mornings in search of food, not extending their flight more than 20 leagues from the land.
Friday, 21st of September Most of the day it was calm, and later there was a little wind. During the day and night they did not make good
more than 13 leagues. At dawn they saw so much weed that the sea appeared to be covered with it, and it came from the west. A booby was seen. The sea was very smooth, like a river, and the air the best in the world. They saw a whale, which is a sign that they were near land, because they always keep near the shore.
Saturday, 22nd of September They shaped a course W.N.W. more or less, her head turning from one to the other point, and made 30 leagues.
Scarcely any weed was seen. They saw some sandpipers and another bird. Here the Admiral says: “This contrary wind was very necessary for me, because my people were much excited at the thought that in these seas no wind ever blew in the direction of Spain.” Part of the day there was no weed, and later it was very thick.
Sunday, 23rd of September They shaped a course N.W., and at times more northerly; occasionally they were on their course, which was
west, and they made about 22 leagues. They saw a dove and a booby, another river-bird, and some white birds. There was a great deal of weed, and they found crabs in it. The sea being smooth and calm, the crew began to mur- mur, saying that here there was no great sea, and that the wind would never blow so that they could return to Spain. Afterwards the sea rose very much, without wind, which astonished them. The Admiral here says: “Thus the high sea was very necessary to me, such as had not appeared but in the time of the Jews when they went out of Egypt and murmured against Moses, who delivered them out of captivity.”
Monday, 24th of September The Admiral went on his west course all day and night, making 14 leagues. He counted 12. A booby came
to the ship, and many sandpipers.
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Tuesday, 25th of September This day began with a calm, and afterwards there was wind. They were on their west course until night. The Ad-
miral conversed with Martin Alonso Pinzon, captain of the other caravel Pinta, respecting a chart which he had sent to the caravel three days before, on which, as it would appear, the Admiral had certain islands depicted in that sea. Martin Alonso said that the ships were in the position on which the islands were placed, and the Admiral replied that so it appeared to him: but it might be that they had not fallen in with them, owing to the currents which had always set the ships to the N.E., and that they had not made so much as the pilots reported. The Admiral then asked for the chart to be returned, and it was sent back on a line. The Admiral then began to plot the position on it, with the pilot and mariners. At sunset Martin Alonso went up on the poop of his ship, and with much joy called to the Admiral, claiming the reward as he had sighted land. When the Admiral heard this positively declared, he says that he gave thanks to the Lord on his knees, while Martin Alonso said the Gloria in excelsis with his people. The Admiral’s crew did the same. Those of the Niña all went up on the mast and into the rigging, and declared that it was land. It so seemed to the Admiral, and that it was distant 25 leagues. They all continued to declare it was land until night. The Admiral ordered the course to be altered from VV. to S.W., in which direction the land had appeared. That day they made 4 leagues on a west course, and 17 S.W. during the night, in all 21; but the people were told that 13 was the dis- tance made good: for it was always feigned to them that the distances were less, so that the voyage might not appear so long. Thus two reckonings were kept on this voyage, the shorter being feigned, and the longer being the true one. The sea was very smooth, so that many sailors bathed alongside. They saw many dorados and other fish.
Wednesday, 26th of September The Admiral continued on the west course until after noon. Then he altered course to S.W., until he made
out that what had been said to be land was only clouds. Day and night they made 31 leagues, counting 24 for the
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people. The sea was like a river, the air pleasant and very mild.
Thursday, 27th of September The course west, and distance made good during day and night 24 leagues, 20 being counted for the people.
Many dorados came. One was killed. A boatswain-bird came.
Friday, 28th of September The course was west, and the distance, owing to calms, only 14 leagues in day and night, 13 leagues being
counted. They met with little weed; but caught two dorados, and more in the other ships.
Saturday, 29th of September The course was west, and they made 24 leagues, counting 21 for the people. Owing to calms, the distance
made good during day and night was not much. They saw a bird called rabiforcado (man-o’-war bird), which makes the boobies vomit what they have swallowed, and eats it, maintaining itself on nothing else. It is a sea-bird, but does not sleep on the sea, and does not go more than 20 leagues from the land. There are many of them at the Cape Verde Islands. Afterwards they saw two boobies. The air was very mild and agreeable, and the Admiral says that nothing was wanting but to hear the nightingale. The sea smooth as a river. Later, three boobies and a man-o’-war bird were seen three times. There was much weed.
Sunday, 30th of September The western course was steered, and during the day and night, owing to calms, only 14 leagues were made,
11 being counted. Four boatswain-birds came to the ship, which is a great sign of land, for so many birds of this kind together is a sign that they are not straying or lost. They also twice saw four boobies. There was much weed. Note that the stars which are called las guardias (the Pointers), when night comes on, are near the western point, and when dawn breaks they are near the N.E. point; so that, during the whole night, they do not appear to move more than three lines or 9 hours, and this on each night. The Admiral says this, and also that at nightfall the needles vary a point westerly, while at dawn they agree exactly with the star. From this it would appear that the north star has a movement like the other stars, while the needles always point correctly.
Monday, 1st of October Course west, and 25 leagues made good, counted for the crew as 20 leagues. There was a heavy shower of
rain. At dawn the Admiral’s pilot made the distance from Hierro 578 leagues to the west. The reduced reckoning which the Admiral showed to the crew made it 584 leagues; but the truth which the Admiral observed and kept secret was 707.
Tuesday, 2nd of October Course west, and during the day and night 39 leagues were made good, counted for the crew as 30. The sea
always smooth. Many thanks be given to God, says the Admiral, that the weed is coming from east to west, contrary to its usual course. Many fish were seen, and one was killed. A white bird was also seen that appeared to be a gull.
Wednesday, 3rd of October They navigated on the usual course, and made good 47 leagues, counted as 40. Sandpipers appeared, and
much weed, some of it very old and some quite fresh and having fruit. They saw no birds. The Admiral, therefore, thought that they had left the islands behind them which were depicted on the charts. The Admiral here says that he did not wish to keep the ships beating about during the last week, and in the last few days when there were so many signs of land, although he had information of certain islands in this region. For he wished to avoid delay, his object being to reach the Indies. He says that to delay would not be wise.
Thursday, 4th of October Course west, and 63 leagues made good during the day and night, counted as 46. More than forty sandpip-
ers came to the ship in a flock, and two boobies, and a ship’s boy hit one with a stone. There also came a man-o’-war bird and a white bird like a gull.
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Friday, 5th of October The Admiral steered his course, going 11 miles an hour, and during the day and night they made good 57
leagues, as the wind increased somewhat during the night: 45 were counted. The sea was smooth and quiet. “To God”, he says, “be many thanks given, the air being pleasant and temperate, with no weed, many sandpipers, and flying-fish coming on the deck in numbers.”
Saturday, 6th of October The Admiral continued his west course, and during day and night they made good 40 leagues, 33 being
counted. This night Martin Alonso said that it would be well to steer south of west, and it appeared to the Admiral that Martin Alonso did not say this with respect to the island of Cipango. He saw that if an error was made the land would not be reached so quickly, and that consequently it would be better to go at once to the continent and after- wards to the islands.
Sunday, 7th of October The west course was continued; for two hours they went at the rate of 12 miles an hour, and afterwards 8
miles an hour. They made good 23 leagues, counting 18 for the people. This day, at sunrise, the caravel Niña, which went ahead, being the best sailer, and pushed forward as much as possible to sight the land first, so as to enjoy the reward which the Sovereigns had promised to whoever should see it first, hoisted a flag at the mast-head and fired a gun, as a signal that she had sighted land, for such was the Admiral’s order. He had also ordered that, at sunrise and sunset, all the ships should join him; because those two times are most proper for seeing the greatest distance, the haze clearing away. No land was seen during the afternoon, as reported by the caravel Niña, and they passed a great number of birds flying from N. to S.W. This gave rise to the belief that the birds were either going to sleep on land, or were flying from the winter which might be supposed to be near in the land whence they were coming The Admiral was aware that most of the islands held by the Portuguese were discovered by the flight of birds. For this reason he resolved to give up the west course, and to shape a course W.S.W. for the two following days. He began the new course one hour before sunset. They made good, during the night, about 5 leagues, and 23 in the day, alto- gether 28 leagues.
Monday, 8th of October The course was W.S.W., and 11 1/2 or 12 leagues were made good in the day and night; and at times it
appears that they went at the rate of 1 5 miles an hour during the night (if the handwriting is not deceptive). The sea was like the river at Seville. “Thanks be to God,” says the Admiral, “the air is very soft like the April at Seville; and it is a pleasure to be here, so balmy are the breezes.” The weed seemed to be very fresh. There were many land-birds, and they took one that was flying to the S.W. Terns, ducks, and a booby were also seen.
Tuesday, 9th of October The course was S.W., and they made 5 leagues. The wind then changed, and the Admiral steered W. by N.
4 leagues. Altogether, in day and night, they made 11 leagues by day and 20 1/2 leagues by night; counted as 17 leagues altogether. Throughout the night birds were heard passing.
Wednesday, 10th of October The course was W.S.W., and they went at the rate of 10 miles an hour, occasionally 12 miles, and sometimes
7. During the day and night they made 59 leagues, counted as no more than 44. Here the people could endure no longer. They complained of the length of the voyage. But the Admiral cheered them up in the best way he could, giving them good hopes of the advantages they might gain from it. He added that, however much they might com- plain, he had to go to the Indies, and that he would go on until he found them, with the help of our Lord.
Thursday, 11th of October The course was W.S.W., and there was more sea than there had been during the whole of the voyage. They
saw sandpipers, and a green reed near the ship. Those of the caravel Pinta saw a cane and a pole, and they took up another small pole which appeared to have been worked with iron; also another bit of cane, a land-plant, and a small board. The crew of the caravel Niña also saw signs of land, and a small branch covered with berries. Everyone breathed afresh and rejoiced at these signs. The run until sunset was 26 leagues.
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After sunset the Admiral returned to his original west course, and they went along at the rate of 12 miles an hour. Up to two hours after midnight they had gone 90 miles, equal to 22 1/2 leagues. As the caravel Pinta was a better sailer, and went ahead of the Admiral, she found the land, and made the signals ordered by the Admiral. The land was first seen by a sailor named Rodrigo de Triana. But the Admiral, at ten in the previous night, being on the castle of the poop, saw a light, though it was so uncertain that he could not affirm it was land. He called Pero Gutierrez, a gentleman of the Kings bedchamber, and said that there seemed to be a light, and that he should look at it. He did so, and saw it. The Admiral said the same to Rodrigo Sanchez of Segovia, whom the King and Queen had sent with the fleet as inspector, but he could see nothing, because he was not in a place whence anything could be seen. After the Admiral had spoken he saw the light once or twice, and it was like a wax candle rising and falling. It seemed to few to be an indication of land; but the Admiral made certain that land was close. When they said the Salve, which all the sailors were accustomed to sing in their way, the Admiral asked and admonished the men to keep a good look-out on the forecastle, and to watch well for land; and to him who should first cry out that he saw land, he would give a silk doublet, besides the other rewards promised by the Sovereigns, which were 10,000 mar- avedis to him who should first see it. At two hours after midnight the land was sighted at a distance of two leagues. They shortened sail, and lay by under the mainsail without the bonnets. The vessels were hove to, waiting for daylight; and on Friday they arrived at a small island of the Lucayos, called, in the language of the Indians, Guana- hani. Presently they saw naked people. The Admiral went on shore in the armed boat, and Martin Alonso Pinzon, and Vicente Yanez, his brother, who was captain of the Niña. The Admiral took the royal standard, and the captains went with two banners of the green cross, which the Admiral took in all the ships as a sign, with an F and a Y and a crown over each letter, one on one side of the cross and the other on the other. Having landed, they saw trees very green, and much water, and fruits of diverse kinds. The Admiral called to the two captains, and to the others who leaped on shore, and to Rodrigo Escovedo, secretary of the whole fleet, and to Rodrigo Sanchez of Segovia, and said that they should bear faithful testimony that he, in presence of all, had taken, as he now took, possession of the said island for the King and for the Queen, his Lords making the declarations that are required, as is more largely set forth in the testimonies which were then made in writing.
Presently many inhabitants of the island assembled. What follows is in the actual words of the Admiral in his book of the first navigation and discovery of the Indies. “I,” he says, “that we might form great friendship, for I knew that they were a people who could be more easily freed and converted to our holy faith by love than by force, gave to some of them red caps, and glass beads to put round their necks, and many other things of little value, which gave them great pleasure, and made them so much our friends that it was a marvel to see. They afterwards came to the ship’s boats where we were, swimming and bringing us parrots, cotton threads in skeins, darts, and many other things; and we exchanged them for other things that we gave them, such as glass beads and small bells. In fine, they took all, and gave what they had with good will. It appeared to me to be a race of people very poor in everything. They go as naked as when their mothers bore them, and so do the women, although I did not see more than one young girl. All I saw were youths, none more than thirty years of age. They are very well made, with very handsome bodies, and very good countenances. Their hair is short and coarse, almost like the hairs of a horse’s tail. They wear the hairs brought down to the eyebrows, except a few locks behind, which they wear long and never cut. They paint themselves black, and they arc the colour of the Canarians, neither black nor white. Some paint them- selves white, others red, and others of what colour they find. Some paint their faces, others the whole body, some only round the eyes, others only on the nose. They neither carry nor know anything of arms, for I showed them swords, and they took them by the blade and cut themselves through ignorance. They
have no iron, their darts being wands without iron, some of them having a fish’s tooth at the end, and others being pointed in various ways. They are all of fair stature and size, with good faces, and well made. I saw some with marks of wounds on their bodies, and I made signs to ask what it was, and they gave me to understand that people from other adjacent islands came with the intention of seizing them, and that they defended themselves. I believed, and still believe, that they come here from the mainland to take them prisoners. They should be good servants and intelligent, for I observed that they quickly took in what was said to them, and I believe that they would easily be made Christians, as it appeared to me that they had no religion. I, our Lord being pleased, will take hence, at the time of my departure, six natives for your Highnesses, that they may learn to speak. I saw no beast of any kind ex- cept parrots, on this island.” The above is in the words of the Admiral.
Saturday, 13th of October “As soon as dawn broke many of these people came to the beach, all youths, as I have said, and all of good
stature, a very handsome people. Their hair is not curly, but loose and coarse, like horse hair. In all the forehead is broad, more so than in any other people I have hitherto seen. Their eyes are very beautiful and not small, and them- selves far from black, but the colour of the Canarians. Nor should anything; else be expected, as this island is in a
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line east and west from the island of Hierro in the Canaries. Their legs are very straight, all in one line, and no belly, but very well formed. They came to the ship in small canoes, made out of the trunk of a tree like a long boat, and all of one piece, and wonderfully worked, considering the country. They are large, some of them holding 40 to 45 men, others smaller, and some only large enough to hold one man. They are propelled with a paddle like a baker’s shovel, and go at a marvellous rate. If the canoe capsizes they all promptly begin to swim, and to bale it out with calabash- es that they take with them. They brought skeins of cotton thread, parrots, darts, and other small things which it would be tedious to recount, and they give all in exchange for anything that may be given to them. I was attentive, and took trouble to ascertain if there was gold. I saw that some of them had a small piece fastened in a hole they have in the nose, and by signs I was able to make out that to the south, or going from the island to the south, there was a king who had great cups full, and who possessed a great quantity. I tried to get them to go there, but after- wards I saw that they had no inclination. I resolved to wait until to-morrow in the afternoon and then to depart, shaping a course to the S.W., for, according to what many of them told me, there was land to the S., to the S.W., and N.W., and that the natives from the N.W. often came to attack them, and went on to the S.W. in search of gold and precious stones.
“This island is rather large and very flat, with bright green trees, much water, and a very large lake in the centre, without any mountain, and the whole land so green that it is a pleasure to look on it. The people are very docile, and for the longing to possess our things, and not having anything to give in return, they take what they can get, and presently swim away. Still, they give away all they have got, for whatever may be given to them, down to broken bits of crockery and glass. I saw one give 16 skeins of cotton for three ceotis of Portugal, equal to one blanca of Spain, the skeins being as much as an arroba of cotton thread. I shall keep it, and shall allow no one to take it, preserving it all for your Highnesses, for it may be obtained in abundance. It is grown in this island, though the short time did not admit of my ascertaining this for a certainty. Here also is found the gold they wear fastened in their noses. But, in order not to lose time, I intend to go and see if I can find the island of Cipango. Now, as it is night, all the natives have gone on shore with their canoes.”
Sunday, 14th of October “At dawn I ordered the ship’s boat and the boats of the caravels to be got ready, and I went along the coast
of the island to the N.N.E., to see the other side, which was on the other side to the east, and also to see the villages. Presently I saw two or three, and the people all came to the shore, calling out and giving thanks to God. Some of them brought us water, others came with food, and when they saw that I did not want to land, they got into the sea, and came swimming to us. We understood that they asked us if we had come from heaven. One old man came into the boat, and others cried out, in loud voices, to all the men and women, to come and see the men who had come from heaven, and to bring them to eat and drink. Many came, including women, each bringing something, giving thanks to God, throwing themselves on the ground and shouting to us to come on shore. But I was afraid to land, seeing an extensive reef of rocks which surrounded the island, with deep water between it and the shore forming a port large enough for as many ships as there are in Christendom, but with a very narrow entrance. It is true that within this reef there are some sunken rocks, but the sea has no more motion than the water in a well. In order to see all this I went this morning, that I might be able to give a full account to your Highnesses, and also where a fortress might be established. I saw a piece of land which appeared like an island, although it is not one, and on it there were six houses. It might be converted into an island in two days, though I do not see that it would be neces- sary, for these people are very simple as regards the use of arms, as your Highnesses will see from the seven that I caused to be taken, to bring home and learn our language and return; unless your Highnesses should order them all to be brought to Castille, or to be kept as captives on the same island; for with fifty men they can all be subjugated and made to do what is required of them. Close to the above peninsula there are gardens of the most beautiful trees I ever saw, and with leaves as green as those of Castille in the month of April and May, and much water. I examined all that port, and afterwards I returned to the ship and made sail. I saw so many islands that I hardly knew how to determine to which I should go first. Those natives I had with me said, by signs, that there were so many that they could not be numbered, and they gave the names of more than a hundred. At last I looked out for the largest, and resolved to shape a course for it, and so I did. It will be distant five leagues from this of San Salvador, and the others some more, some less. All are very flat, and all are inhabited. The natives make war on each other, although these are very simple-minded and handsomely-formed people.”
Monday, 15th of October “I had laid by during the night, with the fear of reaching the land to anchor before daylight, not knowing
whether the coast was clear of rocks, and at dawn I made sail. As the island was more than 5 leagues distant and nearer 7, and the tide checked my way, it was noon when we arrived at the said island. I found that side facing to-
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wards the island of San Salvador trended north and south with a length of 5 leagues, and the other which I followed ran east and west for more than 10 leagues. As from this island I saw another larger one to the west, I clued up the sails, after having run all that day until night, otherwise I could not have reached the western cape. I gave the name of Santa Maria de la Concepcion to the island, and almost as the sun set I anchored near the said cape to ascertain if it contained gold. For the people I had taken from the island of San Salvador told me that here they wore very large rings of gold on their arms and legs. I really believed that all they said was nonsense, invented that they might escape. My desire was not to pass any island without taking possession, so that, one having been taken, the same may be said of all. I anchored, and remained until to-day, Tuesday, when I went to the shore with the boats armed, and landed. The people, who were numerous, went naked, and were like those of the other island of San Salvador. They let us go over the island, and gave us what we required. As the wind changed to the S.E., I did not like to stay, and returned to the ship. A large canoe was alongside the Niña, and one of the men of the island of San Salvador, who was on board, jumped into the sea and got into the canoe. In the middle of the night before, another swam away behind the canoe, which fled, for there never was boat that could have overtaken her, seeing that in speed they have a great advantage. So they reached the land and left the canoe. Some of my people went on shore in chase of them, but they all fled like fowls, and the canoe they had left was brought alongside the caravel Niña, whither, from another direction, another small canoe came, with a man who wished to barter with skeins of cotton. Some sailors jumped into the sea, because he would not come on board the caravel, and seized him. I was on the poop of my ship, and saw everything. So I sent for the man, gave him a red cap, some small beads of green glass, which I put on his arms, and small bells, which I put in his ears, and ordered his canoe, which was also on board, to be returned to him. I sent him on shore, and presently made sail to go to the other large island which was in sight to the westward. I also ordered the other large canoe, which the caravel Niña was towing astern, to be cast adrift; and I soon saw that it reached the land at the same time as the man to whom I had given the above things. I had not wished to take the skein of cotton that he offered me. All the others came round him and seemed astonished, for it appeared clear to them that we were good people. The other man who had fled might do us some harm, because we had carried him off, and for that reason I ordered this man to be set free and gave him the above things, that he might think well of us, otherwise, when your Highnesses again send an expedition, they might not be friendly. All the presents I gave were not worth four maravedis. At lo we departed with the wind S.W., and made for the south, to reach that other island, which is very large, and respecting which all the men that I bring from San Salvador make signs that there is much gold, and that they wear it as bracelets on the arms, on the legs, in the ears and nose, and round the neck. The distance of this island from that of Santa Maria is 9 leagues on a course east to west. All this part of the island trends N.W. and S.E., and it appeared that this coast must have a length of 28 leagues. It is very flat, without any mountain, like San Salvador and Santa Maria, all being beach without rocks, except that there are some sunken rocks near the land, whence it is necessary to keep a good lookout when it is desired to anchor, and not to come to very near the land; but the water is always very clear, and the bottom is visible. At a distance of two shots of a lombard, there is, off all these islands, such a depth that the bottom cannot be reached. These islands arc very green and fertile, the climate very mild. They may contain many things of which I have no knowledge, for I do not wish to stop, in discovering and visiting many islands, to find gold. These people make signs that it is worn on the arms and legs; and it must be gold, for they point to some pieces that I have. I cannot err, with the help of our Lord, in finding out where this gold has its origin. Being in the middle of the channel between these two islands, that is to say, that of Santa Maria and this large one, to which I give the name of Fernandina, I came upon a man alone in a canoe going from Santa Maria to Fernandina. He had a little of their bread, about the size of a fist, a calabash of water, a piece of brown earth powdered and then kneaded, and some dried leaves, which must be a thing highly valued by them, for they bartered with it at San Salvador. He also had with him a native basket with a string of glass beads, and two blancas, by which I knew that he had come from the island of San Salvador, and had been to Santa Maria, and thence to Fernandina. He came alongside the ship, and I made him come on board as he desired, also getting the canoe inboard, and taking care of all his property. I ordered him to be given to eat bread and treacle, and also to drink: and so I shall take him on to Fernandina, where I shall return everything to him, in order that he may give a good account of us, that, our Lord pleasing, when your Highnesses shall send here, those who come may receive honor, and that the natives may give them all they require.”
Tuesday, 16th of October “I sailed from the island of Santa Maria de la Concepcion at about noon, to go to Fernandina island, which
appeared very large to the westward, and I navigated all that day with light winds. I could not arrive in time to be able to see the bottom, so as to drop the anchor on a clear place, for it is necessary to be very careful not to lose the anchors. So I stood off and on all that night until day, when I came to an inhabited place where I anchored, and whence that man had come that I found yesterday in the canoe in mid channel. He had given such a good report
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of us that there was no want of canoes alongside the ship all that night, which brought us water and what they had to offer. I ordered each one to be given something, such as a few beads, ten or twelve of those made of glass on a thread, some timbrels made of brass such as are worth a maravedi in Spain, and some straps, all which they looked upon as most excellent. I also ordered them to be given treacle to eat when they came on board. At three o’clock I sent the ship’s boat on shore for water, and the natives with good will showed my people where the water was, and they themselves brought the full casks down to the boat, and did all they could to please us. “This island is very large, and I have determined to sail round it, because, so far as I can understand, there is a mine in or near it. The island is eight leagues from Santa Maria, nearly east and west; and this point I had reached, as well as all the coast, trends N.N.W. and S.S.E. I saw at least 20 leagues of it, and then it had not ended. Now, as I am writing this, I made sail with the wind at the south, to sail round the island, and to navigate until I find Samaot, which is the island or city where there is gold, as all the natives say who are on board, and as those of San Salvador and Santa Maria told us. These people resemble those of the said islands, with the same language and customs, except that these appear to me a rather more domestic and tractable people, yet also more subtle. For I observed that those who brought cotton and other trifles to the ship, knew better than the others how to make a bargain. In this island I saw cotton cloths made like mantles. The people were better disposed, and the women wore in front of their bodies a small piece of cotton which scarcely covered them.
“It is a very green island, level and very fertile, and I have no doubt that they sow and gather corn all the year round, as well as other things. I saw many trees very unlike those of our country. Many of them have their branches growing in different ways and all from one trunk, and one twig is one form, and another in a different shape, and so unlike that it is the greatest wonder in the world to see the great diversity; thus one branch has leaves like those of a cane, and others like those of a mastick tree: and on a single tree there are five or six different kinds. Nor are these grafted, for it may be said that grafting is unknown, the trees being wild, and untended by these peo- ple. They do not know any religion, and I believe they could easily be converted to Christianity, for they are very in- telligent. Here the fish are so unlike ours that it is wonderful. Some are the shape of dories, and of the finest colours in the world, blue, yellow, red, and other tints, all painted in various ways, and the colours are so bright that there is not a man who would not be astonished, and would not take great delight in seeing them. There are also whales. I saw no beasts on the land of any kind, except parrots and lizards. A boy told me that he saw a large serpent. I saw neither sheep, nor goats, nor any other quadruped. It is true I have been here a short time, since noon, yet I could not have failed to see some if there had been any. I will write respecting the circuit of this island after I have been round it.”
Wednesday, 17th of October “At noon I departed from the village off which I was anchored, and where I took in water, to sail round this
island of Fernandina. The wind was S.W. and South. My wish was to follow the coast of this island to the S.E., from where I was, the whole coast trending N.N.W. and S.S.E.; because all the Indians I bring with me, and others, made signs to this southern quarter, as the direction of the island they call Samoet, where the gold is. Martin Alonso Pinzon, captain of the caravel Pinta, on board of which I had three of the Indians, came to me and said that one of them had given him to understand very positively that the island might be sailed round much quicker by shaping a N.N.W. course. I saw that the wind would not help me to take the course I desired, and that it was fair for the other, so I made sail to the N.N.W. When I was two leagues from the cape of the island, I discovered a very wonderful harbour. It has one mouth, or, rather, it may be said to have two, for there is an islet in the middle. Both are very narrow, and within it is wide enough for a hundred ships, if there was depth and a clean bottom, and the entrance was deep enough. It seemed desirable to explore it and take soundings, so I anchored outside, and went in with all the ship’s boats, when we saw there was insufficient depth. As I thought, when I first saw it, that it was the mouth of some river, I ordered the water-casks to be brought. On shore I found eight or ten men, who presently came to us and showed us the village, whither I sent the people for water, some with arms, and others with the casks: and, as it was some little distance, I waited two hours for them.
“During that time I walked among the trees, which was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, behold- ing as much verdure as in the month of May in Andalusia. The trees are as unlike ours as night from day, as are the fruits, the herbs, the stones, and everything. It is true that some of the trees bore some resemblance to those in Cas- tille, but most of them are very different, and some were so unlike that no one could compare them to anything in Castille. The people were all like those already mentioned: like them naked, and the same size. They give what they possess in exchange for anything that may be given to them. I here saw some of the ship’s boys bartering broken bits of glass and crockery for darts. The men who went for water told me that they had been in the houses of the natives, and that they were very plain and clean inside. Their beds and bags for holding things were like nets of cotton. The
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houses are like booths, and very high, with good chimneys. But, among many villages that I saw, there was none that consisted of more than from twelve to fifteen houses. Here they found that the married women wore clouts of cotton, but not the young girls, except a few who were over eighteen years of age. They had dogs, mastiffs and hounds; and here they found a man who had a piece of gold in his nose, the size of half a castellano, on which they saw letters. I quarrelled with these people because they would not exchange or give what was required; as I wished to see what and whose this money was; and they replied that they were not accustomed to barter.
“After the water was taken I returned to the ship, made sail, and shaped a course N.W., until I had discov- ered all the part of the coast of the island which trends east to west. Then all the Indians turned round and said that this island was smaller than Samoet, and that it would be well to return back so as to reach it sooner. The wind pres- ently went down, and then sprang up from W.N.W., which was contrary for us to continue on the previous course. So I turned back, and navigated all that night to E.S.E., sometimes to east and to S.E. This course was steered to keep me clear of the land, for there were very heavy clouds and thick weather, which did not admit of my approach- ing the land to anchor. On that night it rained very heavily from midnight until nearly dawn, and even afterwards the clouds threatened rain. We found ourselves at the S.W. end of the island, where I hoped to anchor until it cleared up, so as to see the other island whither I have to go. On all these days, since I arrived in these Indies, it has rained more or less. Your Highnesses may believe that this land is the best and most fertile, and with a good climate, level, and as good as there is in the world.”
Thursday, 18th of October “After it had cleared up I went before the wind, approaching the island as near as I could, and anchored
when it was no longer light enough to keep under sail. But I did not go on shore, and made sail at dawn.”
Friday, 19th of October “I weighed the anchors at daylight, sending the caravel Pinta on an E.S.E. course, the caravel Niña S.S.E.,
while I shaped a S.E. course, giving orders that these courses were to be steered until noon, and that then the two caravels should alter course so as to join company with me. Before we had sailed for three hours we saw an island to the east, for which we steered, and all three vessels arrived at the north point before noon. Here there is an islet, and a reef of rocks to seaward of it, besides one between the islet and the large island. The men of San Salvador, whom I bring with me, called it Saomete, and I gave it the name of Isabella. The wind was north, and the said islet bore from the island of Fernandina, whence I had taken my departure, east and west. Afterwards we ran along the coast of the island, westward from the islet, and found its length to be 12 leagues as far as a cape, which I named Cabo Her- moso, at the western end. The island is beautiful, and the coast very deep, without sunken rocks off it. Outside the shore is rocky, but further in there is a sandy beach, and here I anchored on that Friday night until morning. This coast and the part of the island I saw is almost flat, and the island is very beautiful; for if the other islands are lovely, this is more so. It has many very green trees, which are very large. The land is higher than in the other islands, and in it there are some hills, which cannot be called mountains; and it appears that there is much water inland. From this point to the N.E. the coast makes a great angle, and there are many thick and extensive groves. I wanted to go and anchor there, so as to go on shore and see so much beauty; but the water was shallow, and we could only an- chor at a distance from the land. The wind also was fair for going to this cape, where I am now anchored, to which I gave the name of Cabo Hermoso, because it is so. Thus it was that I do not anchor in that angle, but as I saw this cape so green and so beautiful, like all the other lands of these islands, I scarcely knew which to visit first; for I can never tire my eyes in looking at such lovely vegetation, so different from ours. I believe that there are many herbs and many trees that are worth much in Europe for dyes and for medicines; but I do not know, and this causes me great sorrow. Arriving at this cape, I found the smell of the trees and flowers so delicious that it seemed the pleas- antest thing in the world. To-morrow, before I leave this place, I shall go on shore to see what there is at this cape. There are no people, but there are villages in the interior, where, the Indians I bring with me say, there is a king who has much gold. To-morrow I intend to go so far inland as to find the village, and see and have some speech with this king, who, according to the signs they make, rules over all the neighbouring islands, goes about clothed, and wears much gold on his person. I do not give much faith to what they say, as well because I do not understand them as because they are so poor in gold that even a little that this king may have would appear much to them. This cape, to which I have given the name of Cabo Fermoso, is, I believe, on an island separated from Saometo, and there is an- other small islet between them. I did not try to examine them in detail, because it could not be done in 50 years. For my desire is to see and discover as much as I can before returning to your Highnesses, our Lord willing, in April. It is true that in the event of finding places where there is gold or spices in quantity I should stop until I had collected as much as I could. I, therefore, proceed in the hope of coming across such places.”
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Saturday, 20th of October “To-day, at sunrise, I weighed the anchors from where I was with the ship, and anchored off the S.W. point
of the island of Saometo, to which I gave the name of Cabo de la Laguna, and to the island Isabella. My intention was to navigate to the north-east and east from the south-east and south, where, I understood from the Indians I brought with me, was the village of the king. I found the sea so shallow that I could not enter nor navigate in it, and I saw that to follow a route by the south-east would be a great round. So I determined to return by the route that I had taken from the N.N.E. to the western part, and to sail round this island to. . . .
“I had so little wind that I never could sail along the coast, except during the night. As it was dangerous to anchor off these islands except in the day, when one can see where to let go the anchor: for the bottom is all in patches, some clear and some rocky: I lay to all this Sunday night. The caravels anchored because they found them- selves near the shore, and they thought that, owing to the signals that they were in the habit of making, I would come to anchor, but I did not wish to do so.”
Sunday, 21st of October “At ten o’clock I arrived here, off this islet, and anchored, as well as the caravels. After breakfast I went on
shore, and found only one house, in which there was no one, and I supposed they had fled from fear, because all their property was left in the house. I would not allow anything to be touched, but set out with the captains and people to explore the island. If the others already seen are very beautiful, green, and fertile, this is much more so, with large trees and very green. Here there are large lagoons with wonderful vegetation on their banks. Through- out the island all is green, and the herbage like April in Andalusia. The songs of the birds were so pleasant that it seemed as if a man could never wish to leave the place. The flocks of parrots concealed the sun; and the birds were so numerous, and of so many different kinds, that it was wonderful. There are trees of a thousand sorts, and all have their several fruits; and I feel the most unhappy man in the world not to know them, for I am well assured that they are all valuable. I bring home specimens of them, and also of the land. Thus walking along round one of the lakes I saw a serpent, which we killed, and I bring home the skin for your Highnesses. As soon as it saw us it went into the lagoon, and we followed, as the water was not very deep, until we killed it with lances. It is 7 palmos long, and I believe that there are many like it in these lagoons. Here I came upon some aloes, and I have determined to take ten quintals on board to-morrow, for they tell me that they are worth a good deal. Also, while in search of good water, we came to a village about half a league from our anchorage. The people, as soon as they heard us, all fled and left their houses, hiding their property in the wood. I would not allow a thing to be touched, even the value of a pin. Presently some men among them came to us, and one came quite close. I gave him some bells and glass beads, which made him very content and happy. That our friendship might be further increased, I resolved to ask him for something; I requested him to get some water. After I had gone on board, the natives came to the beach with cala- bashes full of water, and they delighted much in giving it to us. I ordered another string of glass beads to be present- ed to them, and they said they would come again to-morrow. I wished to fill up all the ships with water at this place, and, if there should be time, I intended to search the island until I had had speech with the king, and seen whether he had the gold of which I had heard. I shall then shape a course for another much larger island, which I believe to be Cipango, judging from the signs made by the Indians I bring with me. They call it Cuba, and they say that there are ships and many skilful sailors there. Beyond this island there is another called Bosio, which they also say is very large, and others we shall see as we pass, lying between. According as I obtain tidings of gold or spices I shall settle what should be done. I am still resolved to go to the mainland and the city of Guisay, and to deliver the letters of your Highnesses to the Gran Can, requesting a reply and returning with it.”
Monday, 22nd of October “All last night and to-day I was here, waiting to see if the king or other person would bring gold or anything
of value. Many of these people came, like those of the other islands, equally naked and equally painted, some white, some red, some black, and others in many ways. They brought darts and skeins of cotton to barter, which they exchanged with the sailors for bits of glass, broken crockery, and pieces of earthenware. Some of them had pieces of gold fastened in their noses, which they willingly gave for a hawk’s bell and glass beads. But there was so little that it counts for nothing. It is true that they looked upon any little thing that I gave them as a wonder, and they held our arrival to be a great marvel, believing that we came from heaven. We got water for the ships from a lagoon which is near the Cabo del Isleo (Cape of the islet), as we named it. In the said lagoon Martin Alonso Pinzon, captain of the Pinta, killed another serpent 7 palmos long, like the one we got yesterday. I made them gather here as much of the aloe as they could find.”
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Tuesday, 23rd of October “I desired to set out to-day for the island of Cuba, which I think must be Cipango, according to the signs
these people make, indicative of its size and riches, and I did not delay any more here nor round this island to the residence of this King or Lord, and have speech with him, as I had intended. This would cause me much delay, and I see that there is no gold mine here. To sail round would need several winds, for it does not blow here as men may wish. It is better to go where there is great entertainment, so I say that it is not reasonable to wait, but rather to con- tinue the voyage and inspect much land, until some very profitable country is reached, my belief being that it will be rich in spices. That I have no personal knowledge of these products causes me the greatest sorrow in the world, for I see a thousand kinds of trees, each one with its own special fruit, all green now as in Spain during the months of May and June, as well as a thousand kinds of herbs with their flowers; yet I know none of them except this aloe, of which I ordered a quantity to be brought on board to bring to your Highnesses. I have not made sail for Cuba because there is no wind, but a dead calm with much rain. It rained a great deal yesterday without causing any cold. On the contrary, the days are hot and the nights cool, like May in Andalusia.”
Wednesday, 24th of October “At midnight I weighed the anchors and left the anchorage at Cabo del Isleo, in the island of Isabella. From
the northern side, where I was, I intended to go to the island of Cuba, where I heard of the people who were very great, and had gold, spices, merchandise, and large ships. They showed me that the course thither would be W.S.W., and so I hold. For I believe that it is so, as all the Indians of these islands, as well as those I brought with me in the ships, told me by signs. I cannot understand their language, but I believe that it is of the island of Cipango that they recount these wonders. On the spheres I saw, and on the delineations of the map of the world, Cipango is in this region. So I shaped a course W.S.W. until daylight, but at dawn it fell calm and began to rain, and went on nearly all night. I remained thus, with little wind, until the afternoon, when it began to blow fresh. I set all the sails in the ship, the mainsail with two bonnets, the foresail, spritsail, mizen, main topsail, and the boat’s sail on the poop. So I proceeded until nightfall, when the Cabo Verde of the island of Fernandina, which is at the S.W. end, bore N.W. dis- tant 7 leagues. As it was now blowing hard, and I did not know how far it was to this island of Cuba, I resolved not to go in search of it during the night; all these islands being very steep-to, with no bottom round them for a distance of two shots of a lombard. The bottom is all in patches, one bit of sand and another of rock, and for this reason it is not safe to anchor without inspection with the eye. So I determined to take in all the sails except the foresail, and to go on under that reduced canvas. Soon the wind increased, while the route was doubtful, and there was very thick weather, with rain. I ordered the foresail to be furled, and we did not make two leagues during that night.”
Thursday, 25th of October “I steered W.S.W, from after sunset until 9 o’clock, making 5 leagues. Afterwards I altered course to west,
and went 8 miles an hour until one in the afternoon; and from that time until three made good 44 miles. Then land was sighted, consisting of 7 or 8 islands, the group running north and south, distant from us 5 leagues.”
Friday, 26th of October “The ship was on the south side of the islands, which were all low, distant 5 or 6 leagues. I anchored there.
The Indians on board said that thence to Cuba was a voyage in their canoes of a day and a half; these being small dug-outs without a sail. Such are their canoes. I departed thence for Cuba, for by the signs the Indians made of its greatness, And of its gold and pearls, I thought that it must be Cipango.”
Saturday, 27th of October “I weighed from these islands at sunrise, and gave them the name of Las Islas de Arena, owing to the little
depth the sea had for a distance of 6 leagues to the southward of them. We went 8 miles an hour on a S.S.W. course until one o’clock, having made 40 miles. Until night we had run 28 miles on the same course, and before dark the land was sighted. At night there was much rain. The vessels, on Saturday until sunset, made 17 leagues on a S.S.W. course.”
Sunday, 28th of October “I went thence in search of the island of Cuba on a S.S.W. coast, making for the nearest point of it, and
entered a very beautiful river without danger of sunken rocks or other impediments. All the coast was clear of dangers up to the shore. The mouth of the river was 12 brazos across, and it is wide enough for a vessel to beat in.
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I anchored about a lombard-shot inside.” The Admiral says that “he never beheld such a beautiful place, with trees bordering the river, handsome, green, and different from ours, having fruits and flowers each one according to its nature. There are many birds, which sing very sweetly. There are a great number of palm trees of a different kind from those in Guinea and from ours, of a middling height, the trunks without that covering, and the leaves very large, with which they thatch their houses. The country is very level.” The Admiral jumped into his boat and went on shore. He came to two houses, which he believed to belong to fishermen who had fled from fear. In one of them he found a kind of dog that never barks, and in both there were nets of palm-fibre and cordage, as well as horn fish-hooks, bone harpoons, and other apparatus “for fishing, and several hearths. He believed that many people lived together in one house. He gave orders that nothing in the houses should be touched, and so it was done.” The herbage was as thick as in Andalusia during April and
May. He found much purslane and wild amaranth. He returned to the boat and went up the river for some dis- tance, and he says it was great pleasure to see the bright verdure, and the birds, which he could not leave to go back. He says that this island is the most beautiful that eyes have seen, full of good harbours and deep rivers, and the sea appeared as if it never rose; for the herbage on the beach nearly reached the waves, which does not happen where the sea is rough. (Up to that time they had not experienced a rough sea among all those islands.) He says that the island is full of very beautiful mountains, although they are not very extensive as regards length, but high; and all the country is high like Sicily. It is abundantly supplied with water, as they gathered from the Indians they had tak- en with them from the island of Guanahani. These said by signs that there are ten great rivers, and that they cannot go round the island in twenty days. When they came near land with the ships, two canoes came out; and, when they saw the sailors get into a boat and row about to find the depth of the river where they could anchor, the canoes fled. The Indians say that in this island there are gold mines and pearls, and the Admiral saw a likely place for them and mussel-shells, which are signs of them. He understood that large ships of the Gran Can came here, and that from here to the mainland was a voyage of ten days. The Admiral called this river and harbour San Salvador.
Monday, 29th of October The Admiral weighed anchor from this port and sailed to the westward, to go to the city, where, as it
seemed, the Indians said that there was a king. They doubled a point six leagues to the N.W., and then another point, then east ten leagues. After another league he saw a river with no very large entrance, to which he gave the name of Rio de la Luna. He went on until the hour of Vespers. He saw another river much larger than the others, as the Indians told him by signs, and near he saw goodly villages of houses. He called the river Rio de Mares. He sent two boats on shore to a village to communicate, and one of the Indians he had brought with him, for now they understood a little, and show themselves content with Christians. All the men, women, and children fled, abandon- ing their houses with all they contained. The Admiral gave orders that nothing should be touched. The houses were better than those he had seen before, and he believed that the houses would improve as he approached the main- land. They were made like booths, very large, and looking like tents in a camp without regular streets, but one here and another there. Within they were clean and well swept, with the furniture well made. All are of palm branches beautifully constructed. They found many images in the shape of women, and many heads like masks, very well carved. It was not known whether these were used as ornaments, or to be worshipped. They had dogs which never bark, and wild birds tamed in their houses. There was a wonderful supply of nets and other fishing implements, but nothing was touched. He believed that all the people on the coast were fishermen, who took the fish inland, for this island is very large, and so beautiful, that he is never tired of praising it. He says that he found trees and fruits of very marvellous taste; and adds that they must have cows or other cattle, for he saw skulls which were like those of cows. The songs of the birds and the chirping of crickets throughout the night lulled everyone to rest, while the air was soft and healthy, and the nights neither hot nor cold. On the voyage through the other islands there was great heat, but here it is tempered like the month of May. He attributed the heat of the other islands to their flatness, and to the wind coming from the east, which is hot. The water of the rivers was salt at the mouth, and they did not know whence the natives got their drinking-water, though they have sweet water in their houses. Ships are able to turn in this river, both entering and coming out, and there are very good leading-marks. He says that all this sea appears to be constantly smooth, like the river at Seville, and the water suitable for the growth of pearls. He found large shells unlike those of Spain. Remarking on the position of the river and port, to which he gave the name of San Salvador, he describes its mountains as lofty and beautiful, like the Pena de las Enamoradas, and one of them has another lit- tle hill on its summit, like a graceful mosque. The other river and port, in which he now was, has two round moun- tains to the S.W., and a fine low cape running out to the W.S.W.
Tuesday, 30th of October He left the Rio de Mares and steered N.W., seeing a cape covered with palm trees, to which he gave the
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name of Cabo de Palmas after having made good 15 leagues. The Indians on board the caravel Pinta said that be- yond that cape there was a river, and that from the river to Cuba it was four days journey. The captain of the Pinta reported that he understood from that, that this Cuba was a city, and that the land was a great continent trending far to the north. The king of that country, he gathered, was at war with the Gran Can, whom they called Cami, and his land or city Fava, with many other names. The Admiral resolved to proceed to that river, and to send a present, with the letter of the Sovereigns, to the king of that land. For this service there was a sailor who had been to Guin- ea, and some of the Indians of Guanahani wished to go with him, and afterwards to return to their homes. The Admiral calculated that he was forty-two degrees to the north of the equinoctial line (but the handwriting is here illegible). He says that he must attempt to reach the Gran Can, who he thought was here or at the city of Cathay, which belongs to him, and is very grand, as he was informed before leaving Spain. All this land, he adds, is low and beautiful, and the sea deep.
Wednesday, 31st of October All Tuesday night he was beating to windward, and he saw a river, but could not enter it because the
entrance was narrow. The Indians fancied that the ships could enter wherever their canoes could go. Navigating onwards, he came to a cape running out very far, and surrounded by sunken rocks, and he saw a bay where small vessels might take shelter. He could not proceed because the wind had come round to the north, and all the coast runs N.W. and S.E. Another cape further on ran out still more. For these reasons, and because the sky showed signs of a gale, he had to return to the Rio de Mares.
Thursday, November the 1st At sunrise the Admiral sent the boats on shore to the houses that were there, and they found that all the
people had fled. After some time a man made his appearance. The Admiral ordered that he should be left to him- self, and the sailors returned to the boats. After dinner, one of the Indians on board was sent on shore. He called out from a distance that there was nothing to fear, because the strangers were good people and would do no harm to anyone, nor were they people of the Gran Can, but they had given away their things in many islands where they had been. The Indian then swam on shore, and two of the natives took him by the arms and brought him to a house, where they heard what he had to say. When they were certain that no harm would be done to them they were reassured, and presently more than sixteen canoes came to the ships with cotton-thread and other trifles. The Admiral ordered that nothing should be taken from them, that they might understand that he sought for nothing but gold, which they call nucay. Thus they went to and fro between the ships and the shore all day, and they came to the Christians on shore with confidence. The Admiral saw no gold whatever among them, but he says that he saw one of them with a piece of worked silver fastened to his nose. They said, by signs, that within three days many merchants from inland would come to buy the things brought by the Christians, and would give information re- specting the king of that land. So far as could be understood from their signs, he resided at a distance of four days’ journey. They had sent many messengers in all directions, with news of the arrival of the Admiral. “These people”, says the Admiral, “are of the same appearance and have the same customs as those of the other islands, without any religion so far as I know, for up to this day I have never seen the Indians on board say any prayer; though they repeat the Salve and Ave Maria with their hands raised to heaven, and they make the sign of the cross. The language is also the same, and they are all friends; but I believe that all these islands are at war with the Gran Can, whom they called Cavila, and his province Bafan. They all go naked like the others.” This is what the Admiral says. “The river,” he adds, “is very deep, and the ships can enter the mouth, going close to the shore. The sweet water does not come within a league of the mouth. It is certain,” says the Admiral, “that this is the mainland, and that I am in front of Zayto and Guinsay, a hundred leagues, a little more or less, distant the one from the other. It is very clear that no one before has been so far as this by sea. Yesterday, with wind from the N.W., I found it cold.”
Friday, 2nd of November The Admiral decided upon sending two Spaniards, one named Rodrigo de Jerez, who lived in Ayamonte,
and the other Luis de Torres, who had .served in the household of the Adelantado of Murcia, and had been a Jew, knowing Hebrew, Chaldee, and even some Arabic. With these men he sent two Indians, one from among those he had brought from Guanahani, and another a native of the houses by the river-side. He gave them strings of beads with which to buy food if they should be in need, and ordered them to return in six days. He gave them specimens of spices, to see if any were to be found. Their instructions were to ask for the king of that land, and they were told what to say on the part of the Sovereigns of Castille, how they had sent the Admiral with letters and a present, to inquire after his health and establish friendship, favouring him in what he might desire from them. They were to
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collect information respecting certain provinces, ports, and rivers of which the Admiral had notice, and to ascertain their distances from where he was.
This night the Admiral took an altitude with a quadrant, and found that the distance from the equinoctial line was 42 degrees. He says that, by his reckoning, he finds that he has gone over 1,142 leagues from the island of Hierro. He still believes that he has reached the mainland.
Saturday, 3rd of November In the morning the Admiral got into the boat, and, as the river is like a great lake at the mouth, forming a
very excellent port, very deep, and clear of rocks, with a good beach for careening ships, and plenty of fuel, he ex- plored it until he came to fresh water at a distance of two leagues from the mouth. He ascended a small mountain to obtain a view of the surrounding country, but could see nothing, owing to the dense foliage of the trees, which were very fresh and odoriferous, so that he felt no doubt that there were aromatic herbs among them. He said that all he saw was so beautiful that his eyes could never tire of gazing upon such loveliness, nor his ears of listening to the songs of birds. That day many canoes came to the ships, to barter with cotton threads and with the nets in which they sleep, called hamacas.
Sunday, 4th of November At sunrise the Admiral again went away in the boat, and landed to hunt the birds he had seen the day
before. After a time, Martin Alonso Pinzon came to him with two pieces of cinnamon, and said that a Portuguese, who was one of his crew, had seen an Indian carrying two very large bundles of it; but he had not bartered for it, because of the penalty imposed by the Admiral on anyone who bartered. He further said that this Indian carried some brown things like nutmegs. The master of the Pinta said that he had found the cinnamon trees. The Admiral went to the place, and found that they were not cinnamon trees. The Admiral showed the Indians some specimens of cinnamon and pepper he had brought from Castillo, and they knew it, and said, by signs, that there was plenty in the vicinity, pointing to the S.E. He also showed them gold and pearls, on which certain old men said that there was an infinite quantity in a place called Bohio, and that the people wore it on their necks, ears, arms, and legs, as well as pearls. He further understood them to say that there were great ships and much merchandise, all to the S.E. He also understood that, far away, there were men with one eye, and others with dogs’ noses who were cannibals, and that when they captured an enemy they beheaded him and drank his blood.
The Admiral then determined to return to the ship and wait for the return of the two men he had sent, intending to depart and seek for those lands, if his envoys brought some good news touching what he desired. The Admiral further says: “These people arc very gentle and timid; they go naked, as I have said, without arms and without law. The country is very fertile. The people have plenty of roots called zanahorias (yams), with a smell like chesnuts; and they have beans of kinds very different from ours. They also have much cotton, which they do not sow, as it is wild in the mountains, and I believe they collect it throughout the year, because I saw pods empty, oth- ers full, and flowers all on one tree. There are a thousand other kinds of fruits which it is impossible for me to write about, and all must be profitable.” All this the Admiral says.
Monday, 5th of November This morning the Admiral ordered the ship to be careened, afterwards the other vessels, but not all at the
same time. Two were always to be at the anchorage, as a precaution; although he says that these people were very safe, and that without fear all the vessels might have been careened at the same time. Things being in this state, the master of the Niña came to claim a reward from the Admiral because he had found mastick, but he did not bring the specimen, as he had dropped it. The Admiral promised him a reward, and sent Rodrigo Sanchez and master Diego to the trees. They collected some, which was kept to present to the Sovereigns, as well as the tree. The Admi- ral says that he knew it was mastick, though it ought to be gathered at the proper season. There is enough in that district for a yield of 1,000 qnintals every year. The Admiral also found here a great deal of the plant called aloe. He further says that the Puerto de Mares is the best in the world, with the finest climate and the most gentle people. As it has a high, rocky cape, a fortress might be built, so that, in the event of the place becoming rich and import- ant, the merchants would be safe from any other nations. He adds: “The Lord, in whose hands are all victories, will ordain all things for his service. An Indian said by signs that the mastick was good for pains in the stomach.”
Tuesday, 6th of November “Yesterday, at night”, says the Admiral, “the two men came back who had been sent to explore the interior.
They said that after walking 12 leagues they came to a village of 50 houses, were there were a thousand inhabitants,
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for many live in one house. These houses are like very large booths. They said that they were received with great solemnity, according to custom, and all, both men and women, came out to see them. They were lodged in the best houses, and the people touched them, kissing their hands and feet, marvelling and believing that they came from heaven, and so they gave them to understand. They gave them to eat of what they had. When they arrived, the chief people conducted them by the arms to the principal house, gave them two chairs on which to sit, and all the natives sat round them on the ground. The Indian who came with them described the manner of living of the Christians, and said that they were good people. Presently the men went out, and the women came sitting round them in the same way, kissing their hands and feet, and looking to see if they were of flesh and bones like themselves. They begged the Spaniards to remain with them at least five days.” The Spaniards showed the natives specimens of cin- namon, pepper, and other spices which the Admiral had given them, and they said, by signs, that there was plenty at a short distance from thence to S.E., but that there they did not know whether there was any. Finding that they had no information respecting cities, the Spaniards returned; and if they had desired to take those who wished to accompany them, more than 500 men and women would have come, because they thought the Spaniards were returning to heaven. There came, however, a principal man of the village and his son, with a servant. The
Admiral conversed with them, and showed them much honour. They made signs respecting many lands and is- lands in those parts. The Admiral thought of bringing them to the Sovereigns. He says that he knew not what fancy took them; either from fear, or owing to the dark night, they wanted to land. The ship was at the time high and dry, but, not wishing to make them angry, he let them go on their saying that they would return at dawn, but they never came back. The two Christians met with many people on the road going home, men and women with a half-burnt weed in their hands, being the herbs they are accustomed to smoke. They did not find villages on the road of more than five houses, all receiving them with the same reverence. They saw many kinds of trees, herbs, and sweet-smell- ing flowers; and birds of many different kinds, unlike those of Spain, except the partridges, geese, of which there are many, and singing nightingales. They saw no quadrupeds except the dogs that do not bark. The land is very fertile, and is cultivated with yams and several kinds of beans different from ours, as well as corn. There were great quan- tities of cotton gathered, spun, and worked up. In a single house they saw more than 500 arrobas, and as much as 4,000 quintals could be yielded every year. The Admiral said that “it did not appear to be cultivated, and that it bore all the year round. It is very fine, and has a large boll. All that was possessed by these people they gave at a very low price, and a great bundle of cotton was exchanged for the point of a needle or other trifle. They are a people”, says the Admiral, “guileless and unwarlike. Men and women go as naked as when their mothers bore them. It is true that the women wear a very small rag of cotton-cloth, and they are of very good appearance, not very dark, less so than the Canarians. I hold, most serene Princes, that if devout religious persons were here, knowing the language, they would all turn Christians. I trust in our Lord that your Highnesses will resolve upon this with much diligence, to bring so many great nations within the Church, and to convert them; as you have destroyed those who would not confess the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. And after your days, all of us being mortal, may your kingdoms remain in peace, and free from heresy and evil, and may you be well received before the eternal Creator, to whom I pray that you may have long life and great increase of kingdoms and lordships, with the will and disposition to increase the holy Christian religion as you have done hitherto. Amen!” “To day I got the ship afloat, and prepared to depart on Thursday, in the name of God, and to steer S.E. in search of gold and spices, and to discover land.” These are the words of the Admiral, who intended to depart on Thursday, but, the wind being contrary, he could not go until the 12th of November.
Monday, 12th of November The Admiral left the port and river of Mares before dawn to visit the island called Babeque, so much talked
of by the Indians on board, where, according to their signs, the people gather the gold on the beach at night with candles, and afterwards beat it into bars with hammers. To go thither it was necessary to shape a course E. b. S. Af- ter having made 8 leagues along the coast, a river was sighted, and another 4 leagues brought them to another river, which appeared to be of great volume, and larger than any they had yet seen. The Admiral did not wish to stop nor to enter any of these rivers, for two reasons: the first and principal one being that wind and weather were favourable for going in search of the said island of Babeque; the other, that, if there was a populous and famous city near the sea, it would be visible, while, to go up the rivers, small vessels are necessary, which those of the expedition were not. Much time would thus be lost; moreover, the exploration of such rivers is a separate enterprise. All that coast was peopled near the river, to which the name of Rio del Sol was given.
The Admiral says that, on the previous Sunday, the 11th of November, it seemed good to take some persons from amongst those at Rio de Mares, to bring to the Sovereigns, that they might learn our language, so as to be able to tell us what there is in their lands. Returning, they would be the mouthpieces of the Christians, and would adopt our customs and the things of the faith. “ I saw and knew” (says the Admiral) “ that these people arc without any religion, not idolaters, but very gentle, not knowing what is evil, nor the sins of murder and theft, being without
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arms, and so timid that a hundred would fly before one Spaniard, although they joke with them. They, however, believe and know that there is a God in heaven, and say that we have come from heaven. At any prayer that we say, they repeat, and make the sign of the cross. Thus your Highnesses should resolve to make them Christians, for I believe that, if the work was begun, in a little time a multitude of nations would be converted to our faith, with the acquisition of great lordships, peoples, and riches for Spain. Without doubt, there is in these lands a vast quantity of gold, and the Indians I have on board do not speak without reason when they say that in these islands there are places where they dig out gold, and wear it on their necks, ears, arms, and legs, the rings being very large. There are also precious stones, pearls, and an infinity of spices. In this river of Mares, whence we departed to-night, there is undoubtedly a great quantity of mastick, and much more could be raised, because the trees may be planted, and will yield abundantly. The leaf and fruit are like the mastick, but the tree and leaf are larger. As Pliny describes it, I have seen it on the island of Chios in the Archipelago. I ordered many of these trees to be tapped, to see if any of them would yield resin; but, as it rained all the time I was in that river, I could not get any, except a very little, which I am bringing to your Highnesses. It may not be the right season for tapping, which is, I believe, when the trees come forth after winter and begin to flower. But when I was there the fruit was nearly ripe. Here also there is a great quantity of cotton, and I believe it would have a good sale here without sending it to Spain, but to the great cities of the Gran Can, which will be discovered without doubt, and many others ruled over by other lords, who will be pleased to serve your Highnesses, and whither will be brought other commodities of Spain and of the Eastern lands; but these are to the west as regards us. There is also here a great yield of aloes, though this is not a commodity that will yield great profit. The mastick, however, is important, for it is only obtained from the said island of Chios, and I believe the harvest is worth 50,000 ducats, if I remember right. There is here, in the mouth of the river, the best port I have seen up to this time, wide, deep, and clear of rocks. It is an excellent site for a town and fort, for any ship could come close up to the walls; the land is high, with a temperate climate, and very good water.
“Yesterday a canoe came alongside the ship, with six youths in it. Five came on board, and I ordered them to be detained. They are now here. I afterwards sent to a house on the western side of the river, and seized seven women, old and young, and three children. I did this because the men would behave better in Spain if they had women of their own land, than without them. For on many occasions the men of Guinea have been brought to learn the language in Portugal, and afterwards, when they returned, and it was expected that they would be useful in their land, owing to the good company they had enjoyed and the gifts they had received, they never appeared after arriving. Others may not act thus. But, having women, they have the wish to perform what they are required to do; besides, the women would teach our people their language, which is the same in all these islands, so that those who make voyages in their canoes are understood everywhere. On the other hand, there are a thousand different languages in Guinea, and one native does not understand another.
“The same night the husband of one of the women came alongside in a canoe, who was father of the three children—one boy and two girls. He asked me to let him come with them, and besought me much. They are now all consoled at being with one who is a relation of them all. He is a man of about 45 years of age.” All these are the words of the Admiral. He also says that he had felt some cold, and that it would not be wise to continue discoveries in a northerly direction in the winter. On this Monday, until sunset, he steered a course E. b. S., making 18 leagues, and reaching a cape, to which he gave the name of Cabo de Cuba.
Tuesday, 13th of November This night the ships were on a bowline, as the sailors say, beating to windward without making any prog-
ress. At sunset they began to see an opening in the mountains, where two very high peaks were visible. It appeared that here was the division between the land of Cuba and that
of Bohio, and this was affirmed by signs, by the Indians who were on board. As soon as the day had dawned, the Admiral made sail towards the land, passing a point which appeared at night to be distant two leagues. He then entered a large gulf, 5 leagues to the S.S.E., and there remained 5 more, to arrive at the point where, between two great mountains, there appeared to be an opening; but it could not be made out whether it was an inlet of the sea. As he desired to go to the island called Babeque, where, according to the information he had received, there was much gold; and as it bore east, and as no large town was in sight, the wind freshening more than ever, he resolved to put out to sea, and work to the east with a northerly wind. The ship made 8 miles an hour, and from ten in the forenoon, when that course was taken, until sunset, 56 miles, which is 14 leagues to the eastward from the Cabo de Cuba. The other land of Bohio was left to leeward. Commencing from the cape of the said gulf, he discovered, according to his reckoning, 80 miles, equal to 20 leagues, all that coast running E.S.E. and W.N.W.
Wednesday, 14th of November All last night the Admiral was boating to windward (he said that it would be unreasonable to navigate
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among those islands during the night, until they had been explored), for the Indians said yesterday that it would take three days to go from Rio de Mares to the island of Babeque, by which should be understood days’ journeys in their canoes equal to about 7 leagues. The wind fell, and, the course being east, she could not lay her course nearer than S.E., and, owing to other mischances, he was detained until the morning. At sunrise he determined to go in search of a port, because the wind had shifted from north to N.E., and, if a port could not be found, it would be necessary to go back to the ports in the island of Cuba, whence they came. The Admiral approached the shore, having gone over 28 miles E.S.E. that night. He steered south ….. miles to the land, where he saw many islets and openings. As the wind was high and the sea rough, he did not dare to risk an attempt to enter, but ran along the coast W.N.W., looking out for a port, and saw many, but none very clear of rocks. After having proceeded for 64 miles, he found a very deep opening, a quarter of a mile wide, with a good port and river. He ran in with her head S.S.W., afterwards south to S.E. The port was spacious and very deep, and he saw so many islands that he could not count them all, with very high land covered with trees of many kinds, and an infinite number of palms. He was much astonished to see so many lofty islands; and assured the Sovereigns that the mountains and isles he had seen since yesterday seemed to him to be second to none in the world; so high and clear of clouds and snow, with the sea at their bases so deep. He believes that these islands are those innumerable ones that are depicted on the maps of the world in the Far East. He believed that they yielded very great riches in precious stones and spices, and that they extend much further to the south, widening out in all directions. He gave the name of La Mar de Nuestra Señora, and to the haven, which is near the mouth of the
entrance to these islands, Puerto del Principe. He did not enter it, but examined it from outside, until another time, on Saturday of the next week, as will there appear. He speaks highly of the fertility, beauty, and height of the islands which he found in this gulf, and he tells the Sovereigns not to wonder at his praise of them, for that he has not told them the hundredth part. Some of them seemed to reach to heaven, running up into peaks like diamonds. Others have a flat top like a table. At their bases the sea is of a great depth, with enough water for a very large car- rack. All are covered with foliage and without rocks.
Thursday, 15th of November The Admiral went to examine these islands in the ships’ boats, and speaks marvels of them, how he found ma-
stick, and aloes without end. Some of them were cultivated with the roots of which the Indians make bread; and he found that fires had been lighted in several places. He saw no fresh water. There were some natives, but they fled. In all parts of the sea where the vessels were navigated he found a depth of 15 or 16 fathoms, and all basa, by which he means that the ground is sand, and not rocks; a thing much desired by sailors, for the rocks cut their anchor cables.
Friday, 16th of November As in all parts, whether islands or mainlands, that he visited, the Admiral always left a cross; so, on this occa-
sion, he went in a boat to the entrance of these havens, and found two very large trees on a point of land, one longer than the other. One being placed over the other, made a cross, and he said that a carpenter could not have made it better. He ordered a very large and high cross to be made out of these timbers. He found canes on the beach, and did not know where they had grown, but thought they must have been brought down by some river, and washed up on the beach (in which opinion he had reason). He went to a creek on the south-east side of the entrance to the port. Here, under a height of rock and stone like a cape, there was depth enough for the largest carrack in the world close in shore, and there was a corner where six ships might lie without anchors as in a room. It seemed to the Admiral that a fortress might be built here at small cost, if at any time any famous trade should arise in that sea of islands.
Returning to the ship, he found that the Indians who were on board had fished up very large shells found in those seas. He made the people examine them, to see if there was mother-o’-pearl, which is in the shells where pearls grow. They found a great deal, but no pearls, and their absence was attributed to its not being the season, which is May and June. The sailors found an animal which seemed to be a taso, or taxor. They also fished with nets, and, among many others, caught a fish which was exactly like a pig, not like a tunny, but all covered with a very hard shell, without a soft place except the eyes. It was ordered to be salted, to bring home for the Sovereigns to see.
Saturday, 17th of November The Admiral got into the boat, and went to visit the islands he had not yet seen to the S.W. He saw many more
very fertile and pleasant islands, with a great depth between them. Some of them had springs of fresh water, and he believed that the water of those streams came from some sources at the summits of the mountains. He went on, and found a beach bordering on very sweet water, which was very cold. There was a beautiful meadow, and many
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very tall palms. They found a large nut of the kind belonging to India, great rats, and enormous crabs. He saw many birds, and there was a strong smell of musk, which made him think it must be there. This day the two eldest of the six youths brought from the Rio de Mares, who were on board the caravel Niña, made their escape.
Sunday, 18th of November The Admiral again went away with the boats, accompanied by many of the sailors, to set up the cross which he
had ordered to be made out of the two large trees at the entrance to the Puerto del Principe, on a fair site cleared of trees, whence there was an extensive and very beautiful view. He says that there is a greater rise and fall there than in any other port he has seen, and that this is no marvel, considering the numerous islands. The tide is the reverse of ours, because here, when the moon is S.S.W., it is low water in the port. He did not get under weigh, because it was Sunday.
Monday, 19th of November The Admiral Qt under weigh before sunrise, in a calm. In the afternoon there was some wind from the east,
and lie shaped a N.N.E. course. At sunset the Puerto del Principe bore S.S.W. 7 leagues. He saw the island of Babeque bearing due east about 60 miles. He steered N.E. all that night, making 60 miles, and up to ten o’clock of Tuesday another dozen; altogether 18 leagues N.E. b. W.
Tuesday, 20th of November They left Babeque, or the islands of Babeque, to the E.S.E., the wind being contrary; and, seeing that no prog-
ress was being made, and the sea was getting rough, the Admiral determined to return to the Puerto del Principe, whence he had started, which was 25 leagues distant. He did not wish to go to the island he had called Isabella, which was twelve leagues off, and where he might have anchored that night, for two reasons: one was that he had seen two islands to the south which he wished to explore; the other, because the Indians he brought with him, whom he had taken at the island of Guanahani, which he named San Salvador, eight leagues from Isabella, might get away, and he said that he wanted them to take to Spain. They thought that, when the Admiral had found gold, he would let them return to their homes. He came near the Puerto del Principe, but could not reach it, because it was night, and because the current drifted them to the N.W. He turned her head to N.E. with a light wind. At three o’clock in the morning the wind changed, and a course was shaped E.N.E., the wind being S.S.W., and changing at dawn to south and S.E. At sunset Puerto del Principe bore nearly S.W. by W. 48 miles, which are 12 leagues.
Wednesday, 21st of November At sunrise the Admiral steered cast, with a southerly wind, but made little progress, owing to a contrary sea. At
vespers he had gone 24 miles. Afterwards the wind changed to east, and he steered S. b. E., at sunset having gone 12 miles. Here he found himself forty-two degrees north of the equinoctial line, as in the port of Mares, but he says that he kept the result from the quadrant in suspense until he reached the shore, that it might be adjusted (as it would seem that he thought this distance was too great, and he had reason, it not being possible, as these islands are only in. . . . .degrees).
This day Martin Alonso Pinzon parted company with the caravel Pinta, in disobedience to and against the wish of the Admiral, and out of avarice, thinking that an Indian who had been put on board his caravel could show him where there was much gold. So he parted company, not owing to bad weather, but because he chose. Here the Ad- miral says: “He had done and said many other things to me.”
Thursday, 22nd of November On Wednesday night the Admiral steered S.S.E., with the wind east, but it was nearly calm. At 3 it began to
blow from N.N.E.; and he continued to steer south to see the land he had seen in that quarter. When the sun rose he was as far off as the day before, owing to adverse currents, the land being 40 miles off. This night Martin Alonso shaped a course to the east, to go to the island of Babeque, where the Indians say there is much gold. He did this in sight of the Admiral, from whom he was distant 16 miles. The Admiral stood towards the land all night. He short- ened sail, and showed a lantern, because Pinzon would thus have an opportunity of joining him, the night being very clear, and the wind fair to come, if he had wished to do so.
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Friday, 23rd of November The Admiral stood towards the land all day, always steering south with little wind, but the current would never
let them reach it, being as far off at sunset as in the morning. The wind was E.N.E., and they could shape a southerly course, but there was little of it. Beyond this cape there stretched out another land or cape, also trending east, which the Indians on board called Bohio. They said that it was very large, and that there were people in it who had one eye in their foreheads, and others who were cannibals, and of whom they were much afraid. When they saw that this course was taken, they said that they could not talk to these people because they would be eaten, and that they were very well armed. The Admiral says that he well believes that there were such people, and that if they are armed they must have some ability. He thought that they may have captured some of the Indians, and because they did not return to their homes, the others believed that they had been eaten. They thought the same of the Christians and of the Admiral when some of them first saw the strangers.
Saturday, 24th of November They navigated all night, and at 3 they reached the island at the very same point they had come to the week
before, when they started for the island of Babeque. At first the Admiral did not dare to approach the shore, be- cause it seemed that there would be a great surf in that mountain-girded bay. Finally he reached the sea of Nuestra Señora, where there are many islands, and entered a port near the mouth of the opening to the islands. He says that if he had known of this port before he need not have occupied himself in exploring the islands, and it would not have been necessary to go back. He, however, considered that the time was well spent in examining the islands. On nearing the land he sent in the boat to sound; finding a good sandy bottom in 6 to 20 fathoms. He entered the hav- en, pointing the ship’s head S.W. and then west, the flat island bearing north. This, with another island near it, forms a harbour which would hold all the ships of Spain safe from all winds. This entrance on the S.W. side is passed by steering S.S.W., the outlet being to the west very deep and wide. Thus a vessel can pass amidst these islands, and he who approaches from the north, with a knowledge of them, can pass along the coast. These islands are at the foot of a great mountain-chain running east and west, which is longer and higher than any others on this coast, where there are many. A reef of rocks outside runs parallel with the said mountains, like a bench, extending to the en- trance. On the side of the flat island, and also to the S.E., there is another small reef, but between them there is great width and depth. Within the port, near the S.E. side of the entrance, they saw a large and very fine river, with more volume than any they had yet met with, and fresh water could be taken from it as far as the sea. At the entrance there is a bar, but within it is very deep, 19 fathoms. The banks are lined with palms and many other trees.
Sunday, 25th of November Before sunrise the Admiral got into the boat, and went to see a cape or point of land to the S.E. of the flat island,
about a league and a half distant, because there appeared to be a good river there. Presently, near to S.E. side of the cape, at a distance of two cross-bow shots, he saw a large stream of beautiful water falling from the mountains above, with a loud noise. He went to it, and saw some stones shining in its bed like gold. He remembered that in the river Tejo, near its junction with the sea, there was gold; so it seemed to him that this should contain gold, and he ordered some of these stones to be collected, to be brought to the Sovereigns. Just then the sailor boys called out that they had found large pines. The Admiral looked up the hill, and saw that they were so wonderfully large that he could not exaggerate their height and straightness, like stout yet fine spindles. He perceived that here there was ma- terial for great store of planks and masts for the largest ships in Spain. He saw oaks and arbutus trees, with a good river, and the means of making water-power. The climate was temperate, owing to the height of the mountains. On the beach he saw many other stones of the colour of iron, and others that some said were like silver ore, all brought down by the river. Here he obtained a new mast and yard for the mizen of the caravel Niña. He came to the mouth of the river, and entered a creek which was deep and wide, at the foot of that S.E. part of the cape, which would ac- commodate a hundred ships without any anchor or hawsers. Eyes never beheld a better harbour. The mountains are very high, whence descend many limpid streams, and all the hills are covered with pines, and an infinity of diverse and beautiful trees. Two or three other rivers were not visited.
The Admiral described all this, in much detail, to the Sovereigns, and declared that he had derived unspeakable joy and pleasure at seeing it, more especially the pines, because they enable as many ships as is desired to be built here, bringing out the rigging, but finding here abundant supplies of wood and provisions. He affirms that he has not enumerated a hundredth part of what there is here, and that it pleased our Lord always to show him one thing better than another, as well on the ground and among the trees, herbs, fruits, and flowers, as in the people, and always something different in each place. It had been the same as regards the havens and the waters. Finally, he says that if it caused him who saw it so much wonder, how much more will it affect those who hear about it; yet no one can believe until he sees it.
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Monday, 26th of November At sunrise the Admiral weighed the anchors in the haven of Santa Catalina, where he was behind the flat island,
and steered along the coast in the direction of Cabo del Pico, which was S.E. He reached the cape late, because the wind failed, and then saw another cape, S.E. b. E. 60 miles, which, when 20 miles off, was named Cabo de Campa- na, but it could not be reached that day. They made good 32 miles during the day, which is 8 leagues. During this time the Admiral noted nine remarkable ports, which all the sailors thought wonderfully good, and five large rivers; for they sailed close along the land, so as to see everything. All along the coast there are very high and beautiful mountains, not arid or rocky, but all accessible, and very lovely. The valleys, like the mountains, were full of tall and fine trees, so that it was a glory to look upon them, and there seemed to be many pines. Also, beyond the said Cabo de Pico to the S.E. there are two islets, each about two leagues round, and inside them three excellent havens and two large rivers. Along the whole coast no inhabited places were visible from the sea. There may have been some, and there were indications of them, for, when the men landed, they found signs of people and numerous remains of fires. The Admiral conjectured that the land he saw to-day S.E. of the Cabo de Campana was the island called by the Indians Bohio: it looked as if this cape was separated from the mainland. The Admiral says that all the people he has hitherto met with have very great fear of those of Caniba or Canima. They affirm that they live in the island of Bohio, which must be very large, according to all accounts. The Admiral understood that those of Caniba come to take people from their homes, they being very cowardly, and without knowledge of arms. For this cause it appears that these Indians do not settle on the sea-coast, owing to being near the land of Caniba. When the natives who were on board saw a course shaped for that land, they feared to speak, thinking they were going to be eaten; nor could they rid themselves of their fear. They declared that the Canibas had only one eye and dogs’ faces. The Admi- ral thought they lied, and was inclined to believe that it was people from the dominions of the Gran Can who took them into captivity.
Tuesday, 27th of November Yesterday, at sunset, they arrived near a cape named Campana by the Admiral; and, as the sky was clear and
the wind light, he did not wish to run in close to the land and anchor, although he had five or six singularly good havens under his lee. The Admiral was attracted on the one hand by the longing and delight he felt to gaze upon the beauty and freshness of those lands, and on the other by a desire to complete the work he had undertaken. For these reasons he remained close hauled, and stood off and on during the night. But, as the currents had set him more than 5 or 6 leagues to the S.E. beyond where he had been at nightfall, passing the land of Campana, he came in sight of a great opening beyond that cape, which seemed to divide one land from another, leaving an island between them. He decided to go back, with the wind S.E., steering to the point where the opening had appeared, where he found that it was only a large bay; and at the end of it, on the S.E. side, there was a point of land on which was a high and square-cut hill, which had looked like an island. A breeze sprang up from the north, and the Admi- ral continued on a S.E. course, to explore the coast and discover all that was there. Presently he saw, at the foot of the Cabo de Campana a wonderfully good port, and a large river, and, a quarter of a league on, another river, and a third, and a fourth to a seventh at similar distances, from the furthest one to Cabo de Campana being 20 miles S.E. Most of these rivers have wide and deep mouths, with excellent havens for large ships, without sandbanks or sunken rocks. Proceeding onwards from the last of these rivers, on a S.E, course, they came to the largest inhabited place they had yet seen, and a vast concourse of people came down to the beach with loud shouts, all naked, with their darts in their hands. The Admiral desired to have speech with them, so he furled sails and anchored. The boats of the ship and the caravel were sent on shore, with orders to do no harm whatever to the Indians, but to give them presents. The Indians made as if they would resist the landing, but, seeing that the boats of the Spaniards continued to advance without fear, they retired from the beach. Thinking that they would not be terrified if only two or three landed, three Christians were put on shore, who told them not to be afraid, in their own language, for they had been able to learn a little from the natives who were on board. But all ran away, neither great nor small remaining. The Christians went to the houses, which were of straw, and built like the others they had seen, but found no one in any of them. They returned to the ships, and made sail at noon in the direction of a fine cape to the eastward, about 8 leagues distant. Having gone about half a league, the Admiral saw, on the south side of the same bay, a very remark- able harbour, and to the S.E. some wonderfully beautiful country like a valley among the mountains, whence much smoke arose, indicating a large population, with signs of much cultivation. So he resolved to stop at this port, and see if he could have any speech or intercourse with the inhabitants. It was so that, if the Admiral had praised the other havens, he must praise this still more for its lands, climate, and people. He tells marvels of the beauty of the country and of the trees, there being palms and pine trees; and also of the great valley, which is not flat, but diversi- fied by hill and dale, the most lovely scene in the world. Many streams flow from it, which fall from the mountains.
As soon as the ship was at anchor the Admiral jumped into the boat, to get soundings in the port, which is the
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shape of a hammer. When he was facing the entrance he found the mouth of a river on the south side of sufficient width for a galley to enter it, but so concealed that it is not visible until close to. Entering it for the length of the boat, there was a depth of from 5 to 8 fathoms. In passing up it the freshness and beauty of the trees, the clearness of the water, and the birds, made it all so delightful that he wished never to leave them. He said to the men who were with him that to give a true relation to the Sovereigns of the things they had seen, a thousand tongues would not suffice, nor his hand to write it, for that it was like a scene of enchantment. He desired that many other prudent and credible witnesses might see it, and he was sure that they would be as unable to exaggerate the scene as he was.
The Admiral also says:—“How great the benefit that is to be derived from this country would be, I cannot say. It is certain that where there are such lands there must be an infinite number of things that would be profitable. But I did not remain long in one port, because I wished to see as much of the country as possible, in order to make a re- port upon it to your Highnesses; and besides, I do not know the language, and these people neither understand me nor any other in my company; while the Indians I have on board often misunderstand. Moreover, I have not been able to see much of the natives, because they often take to flight. But now, if our Lord pleases, I will see as much as possible, and will proceed by little and little, learning and comprehending; and I will make some of my followers learn the language. For I have perceived that there is only one language up to this point. After they understand the advantages, I shall labour to make all these people Christians. They will become so readily, because they have no religion nor idolatry, and your Highnesses will send orders to build a city and fortress, and to convert the people. I assure your Highnesses that it does not appear to me that there can be a more fertile country nor a better climate under the sun, with abundant supplies of water. This is not like the rivers of Guinea, which are all pestilential. I thank our Lord that, up to this time, there has not been a person of my company who has so much as had a head- ache, or been in bed from illness, except an old man who has suffered from the stone all his life, and he was well again in two days. I speak of all three vessels. If it will please God that your Highnesses should send learned men out here, they will see the truth of all I have said. I have related already how good a place Rio de Mares would be for a town and fortress, and this is perfectly true; but it bears no comparison with this place, nor with the Mar de Nuestra Señora. For here there must be a large population, and very valuable productions, which I hope to discover before I return to Castille. I say that if Christendom will find profit among these people, how much more will Spain, to whom the whole country should be subject. Your Highnesses ought not to consent that any stranger should trade here, or put his foot in the country, except Catholic Christians, for this was the beginning and end of the undertak- ing; namely, the increase and glory of the Christian religion, and that no one should come to these parts who was not a good Christian.”
All the above are the Admiral’s words. He ascended the river for some distance, examined some branches of it, and, returning to the mouth, he found some pleasant groves of trees, like a delightful orchard. Here he came upon a canoe, dug out of one tree, as big as a galley of twelve, benches, fastened under a boat-house made of wood, and thatched with palm-leaves, so that it could be neither injured by sun nor by the water. He says that here would be the proper site for a town and fort, by reason of the good port, good water, good land, and abundance of fuel.
Wednesday, 28th of November The Admiral remained during this day, in consequence of the rain and thick weather, though he might have run
along the coast, the wind being S.W., but he did not weigh, because he was unacquainted with the coast beyond, and did not know what danger there might be for the vessels. The sailors of the two vessels went on shore to wash their clothes, and some of them walked inland for a short distance. They found indications of a large population, but the houses were all empty, everyone having fled. They returned by the banks of another river, larger than that which they knew of, at the port.
Thursday, 29th of November The rain and thick weather continuing, the Admiral did not get under weigh. Some of the Christians went to
another village to the N.W., but found no one, and nothing in the houses. On the road they met an old man who could not run away, and caught him. They told him they did not wish to do him any harm, gave him a few pres- ents, and let him go. The Admiral would have liked to have had speech with him, for he was exceedingly satisfied with the delights of that land, and wished that a settlement might be formed there, judging that it must support a large population. In one house they found a cake of wax, which was taken to the Sovereigns, the Admiral saying that where there was wax there were also a thousand other good things. The sailors also found, in one house, the head of a man in a basket, covered with another basket, and fastened to a post of the house. They found the same things in another village. The Admiral believed that they must be the heads of some founder, or principal ancestor of a lineage, for the houses are built to contain a great number of people in each; and these should be relations, and descendants of a common ancestor.
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Friday, 30th of November They could not get under weigh to-day because the wind was cast, and dead against them. The Admiral sent
8 men well armed, accompanied by two of the Indians he had on board, to examine the villages inland, and get speech with the people. They came to many houses, but found no one and nothing, all having fled. They saw four youths who were digging in their fields, but, as soon as they saw the Christians, they ran away, and could not be overtaken. They marched a long distance, and saw many villages and a most fertile land, with much cultivation and many streams of water. Near one river they saw a canoe dug out of a single tree, 95 palmos long, and capable of carrying 150 persons.
Saturday, 1st of December They did not depart, because there was still a foul wind, with much rain. The Admiral set up a cross at the
entrance of this port, which he called Puerto Santo on some bare rocks. The point is that which is on the S.E. side of the entrance; but he who has to enter should make more over to the N.W.; for at the foot of both, near the rock, there are 12 fathoms and a very clean bottom. At the entrance of the port, towards the S.E. point, there is a reef of rocks above water, sufficiently far from the shore to be able to pass between if it is necessary; for both on the side of the rock and the shore there is a depth of 12 to 15 fathoms: and, on entering, a ship’s head should be turned S.W.
Sunday, 2nd of December The wind was still contrary, and they could not depart. Every night the wind blows on the land, but no vessel need
be alarmed at all the gales in the world, for they cannot blow home by reason of a reef of rocks at the opening to the haven. A sailor-boy found, at the mouth of the river, some stones which looked as if they contained gold; so they were taken to be shown to the Sovereigns. The Admiral says that there are great rivers at the distance of a lombard shot.
Monday, 3rd of December By reason of the continuance of an easterly wind the Admiral did not leave this port. He arranged to visit a very
beautiful headland a quarter of a league to the S.E. of the anchorage. He went with the boats and some armed men. At the foot of the cape there was the mouth of a fair river, and on entering it they found the width to be a hundred paces, with a depth of one fathom. Inside they found 12, 5, 4, and 2 fathoms, so that it would hold all the ships there are in Spain. Leaving the river, they came to a cove in which were five very large canoes, so well constructed that it was a pleasure to look at them. They were under spreading trees, and a path led from them to a very well-built boat-house, so thatched that neither sun nor rain could do any harm. Within it there was another canoe made out of a single tree like the others, like a galley with 17 benches. It was a pleasant sight to look upon such goodly work. The Admiral ascended a mountain, and afterwards found the country level, and cultivated with many things of that land, including such calabashes, as it was a glory to look upon them. In the middle there was a large village, and they came upon the people suddenly; but, as soon as they were seen, men and women took to flight. The Indian from on board, who was with the Admiral, cried out to them that they need not be afraid, as the strangers were good people. The Admiral made him give them bells, copper ornaments, and glass beads, green and yellow, with which they were well content. He saw that they had no gold nor any other precious thing, and that it would suffice to leave them in peace. The whole district was well peopled, the rest having fled from fear. The Admiral assures the Sovereigns that ten thousand of these men would run from ten, so cowardly and timid are they. No arms are carried by them, except wands, on the point of which a short piece of wood is fixed, hardened by fire, and these they are very ready to exchange. Returning to where he had left the boats, he sent back some men up the hill, because he fancied he had seen a large apiary. Before those he had sent could return, they were joined by many Indians, and they went to the boats, where the Admiral was waiting with all his people. One of the natives advanced into the riv- er near the stern of the boat, and made a long speech, which the Admiral did not understand. At intervals the other Indians raised their hands to heaven, and shouted. The Admiral thought he was assuring him that he was pleased at his arrival; but he saw the Indian who came from the ship change the colour of his face, and turn as yellow as wax, trembling much, and letting the Admiral know by signs that he should leave the river, as they were going to kill him. He pointed to a cross-bow which one of the Spaniards had, and showed it to the Indians, and the Admiral let it be understood that they would all be slain, because that cross-bow carried far and killed people. He also took a sword and drew it out of the sheath, showing it to them, and saying the same, which, when they had heard, they all took to flight; while the Indian from the ship still trembled from cowardice, though he was a tall, strong man. The Admiral did not want to leave the river, but pulled towards the place where the natives had assembled in great numbers, all painted, and as naked as when their mothers bore them. Some had tufts of feathers on their heads, and all had their bundles of darts.
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The Admiral says: “I came to them, and gave them some mouthfuls of bread, asking for the darts, for which I gave in exchange copper ornaments, bells, and glass beads. This made them peaceable, so that they came to the boats again, and gave us what they had. The sailors had killed a turtle, and the shell was in the boat in pieces. The .sailor-boys gave them some in exchange for a bundle of darts. These are like the other people we have seen, and with the same belief that we came from heaven. They are ready to give whatever thing they have in exchange for any trifle without saying it is little; and I believe they would do the same with gold and spices if they had any. I saw a fine house, not very large, and with two doors, as all the rest have. On entering, I saw a marvellous work, there be- ing rooms made in a peculiar way, that I scarcely know how to describe it. Shells and other things were fastened to the ceiling. I thought it was a temple, and I called them and asked, by signs, whether prayers were offered up there. They said that they were not, and one of them climbed up and offered me all the things that were there, of which I took some.”
Tuesday, 4th of December The Admiral made sail with little wind, and left that port, which he called Puerto Santo. After going two
leagues, he saw the great river of which he spoke yesterday. Passing along the land, and beating to windward on S.E. and W.N.W. courses, they reached Cabo Lindo, which is E.S.E. 5 leagues from Cabo del Monte. A league and a half from Cabo del Monte there is an important but rather narrow river, which seemed to have a good entrance, and to be deep. Three-quarters of a league further on, the Admiral saw another very large river, and he thought it must have its source at a great distance. It had a hundred paces at its mouth, and no bar, with a depth of 8 fathoms. The Admiral sent the boat in, to take soundings, and they found the water fresh until it enters the sea.
This river had great volume, and must have a large population on its banks. Beyond Cabo Lindo there is a great bay, which would be open for navigation to E.N.E. and S.E. and S.S.W.
Wednesday, 5th of December All this night they were beating to windward off Cape Lindo, to reach the land to the east, and at sunrise the
Admiral sighted another cape, two and a half leagues to the east. Having passed it, he saw that the land trended S. and S.W., and presently saw a fine high cape in that direction, 7 leagues distant. He would have wished to go there, but his object was to reach the island of Babeque, which, according to the Indians, bore N.E.; so he gave up the intention. He could not go to Babeque either, because the wind was N.E. Looking to the S.E., he saw land, which was a very large island, according to the information of the Indians, well peopled, and called by them Bohio. The Admiral say that the inhabitants of Cuba, or Juana, and of all the other islands, are much afraid of the inhabitants of Bohio, because they say that they eat people.
The Indians relate other things, by signs, which are very wonderful; but the Admiral did not believe them. He only inferred that those of Bohio must have more cleverness and cunning to be able to capture the others, who, however, are very poor-spirited. The wind veered from N.E. to North, so the Admiral determined to leave Cuba, or Juana, which, up to this time, he had supposed to be the mainland, on account of its size, having coasted along it for 120 leagues. He shaped a course S.E. b. E., the land he had sighted hearing S.E.; taking this precaution because the wind always veered from N. to N.E. again, and thence to East and S.E. The wind increased, and he made all sail, the current helping them; so that they were making 8 miles an hour from the morning until one in the afternoon (which is barely 6 hours, for they say that the nights were nearly 15 hours). Afterwards they went 10 miles an hour, making good 88 miles by sunset, equal to 22 leagues, all to the S.E. As night was coming on, the Admiral ordered the caravel Niña, being a good sailer, to proceed ahead, so as to sight a harbour at daylight. Arriving at the entrance of a port which was like the Bay of Cadiz, while it was still dark, a boat was sent in to take soundings, which showed a light from a lantern. Before the Admiral could beat up to where the caravel was, hoping that the boat would show a leading-mark for entering the port, the candle in the lantern went out. The caravel, not seeing the light, showed a light to the Admiral, and, running down to him, related what had happened. The boat’s crew then showed another light, and the caravel made for it; but the Admiral could not do so, and was standing off and on all night.
Thursday, 6th of December When daylight arrived the Admiral found himself four leagues from the port, to which he gave the name of
Puerto Maria and to a fine cape bearing S.S.W, he gave the name of Cabo del Estrella. It seemed to be the furthest point of the island towards the south, distant 28 miles. Another point of land, like an island, appeared about 40 miles to the east. To another fine point, 54 miles to the east, he gave the name of Cabo del Elefante, and he called another, 28 miles to the S.E., Cabo de Cinquin. There was a great opening or bay, which might be the mouth of a river, distant 20 miles. It seemed that between Cabo del Elefante and that of Cinquin there was a great opening,
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and some of the sailors said that it formed an island, to which the name of Isla de la Tortuga was given. The island appeared to be very high land, not closed in with mountains, but with beautiful valleys, well cultivated, the crops appearing like the wheat on the plain of Cordova in May. That night they saw many fires, and much smoke, as if from workshops, in the day time; it appeared to be a signal made by people who were at war. All the coast of this land trends to the cast.
At the hour of vespers the Admiral reached this port, to which he gave the name of Puerto de San Nicolas, in honour of St. Nicholas, whose day it was; and on entering it he was astonished at its beauty and excellence. Al- though he had given great praise to the ports of Cuba, he had no doubt that this one not only equalled, but excelled them, and none of them are like it. At the entrance it is a league and a half wide, and a vessel’s head should be turned S.S.E., though, owing to the great width, she may be steered on any bearing that is convenient; proceeding on this course for two leagues. On the south side of the entrance the coast forms a cape, and thence the course is almost the same as far as a point where there is a fine beach, and a plain covered with fruit-bearing trees of many kinds; so that the Admiral thought there must be nutmegs and other spices among them, but he did not know them, and they were not ripe. There is a river falling into the harbour, near the middle of the beach. The depth of this port is surprising, for, until reaching the land, for a distance of. . . . .the lead did not reach the bottom at 40 fath- oms; and up to this length there are 15 fathoms with a very clean bottom. Throughout the port there is a depth of 1 5 fathoms, with a clean bottom, at a short distance from the shore; and all along the coast there are soundings with clean bottom, and not a single sunken rock. Inside, at the length of a boat’s oar from the land, there are 5 fathoms. Beyond the limit of the port to the S.S.E. a thousand carracks could beat up. One branch of the port to the N.E. runs into the land for a long half league, and always the same width, as if it had been measured with a cord. Being in this creek, which is 25 paces wide, the principal entrance to the harbour is not in sight, so that it appears land-locked. The depth of this creek is 11 fathoms throughout, all with clean bottom; and close to the land, where one might put the gangboards on the grass, there are eight fathoms.
The whole port is open to the air, and clear of trees. All the island appeared to be more rocky than any that had been discovered. The trees are smaller, and many of them of the same kinds as are found in Spain, such as the ilex, the arbutus, and others, and it is the same with the herbs. It is a very high country, all open and clear, with a very fine air, and no such cold has been met with elsewhere, though it cannot be called cold except by comparison. Towards the front of the haven there is a beautiful valley, watered by a river; and in that district there must be many inhabitants, judging from the number of large canoes, like galleys, with 15 benches. All the natives fled as soon as they saw the ships. The Indians who were on board had such a longing to return to their homes that the Admiral considered whether he should not take them back when he should depart from here. They were already suspicious, because he did not shape a course towards their country; whence he neither believed what they said, nor could he understand them, nor they him, properly. The Indians on board had the greatest fear in the world of the people of this island. In order to get speech of the people it would be necessary to remain some days in harbour; but the Admiral did not do so, because he had to continue his discoveries, and because he could not tell how long he might be detained. He trusted in our Lord that the Indians he brought with him would understand the language of the people of this island; and afterwards he would communicate with them, trusting that it might please God’s Majesty that he might find trade in gold before he returned.
Friday, 7th of December At daybreak the Admiral got under weigh, made sail, and left the port of St. Nicholas. He went on with the
wind in the west for two leagues, until he reached the point which forms the Carenero, when the angle in the coast bore S.E., and the Cabo de la Estrella was 24 miles to the S.W. Thence he steered along the coast eastward to Cabo Cinquin about 48 miles, 20 of them being on an E.N.E. coast. All the coast is very high, with a deep sea. Close in shore there are 20 to 30 fathoms, and at the distance of a lombard-shot there is no bottom; all which the Admiral discovered that day, as he sailed along the coast with the wind S.W., much to his satisfaction. The cape, which runs out in the port of St. Nicholas the length of a shot from a lombard, could be made an island by cutting across it, while to sail round it is a circuit of 3 or 4 miles. All that land is very high, not clothed with very high trees, but with ilex, arbutus, and others proper to the land of Castille. Before reaching Cape Cinquin by two leagues, the Admiral discovered an opening in the mountains, through which he could see a very large valley, covered with crops like barley, and he therefore judged that it must sustain a large population. Behind there was a high range of mountains. On reaching Cabo Cinquin, the Cabo de la Tortuga bore N.E. 32 miles. Off Cabo Cinquin, at the distance of a lom- bard-shot, there is a high rock, which is a good landmark. The Admiral being there, he took the bearing of Cabo del Elefante, which was E.S.E. about 70 miles, the intervening land being very high. At a distance of 6 leagues there was a conspicuous cape, and he saw many large valleys and plains, and high mountains inland, all reminding him of Spain. After 8 leagues he came to a very deep but narrow river, though a carrack might easily enter it, and the
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mouth without bar or rocks. After 16 miles there was a wide and deep harbour, with no bottom at the entrance, nor, at 3 paces from the shore, less than 15 fathoms; and it runs inland a quarter of a league. It being yet very early, only one o’clock in the afternoon, and the wind being aft and blowing fresh, yet, as the sky threatened much rain, and it was very thick, which is dangerous even on a known coast, how much more in an unknown country, the
Admiral resolved to enter the port, which he called Puerto de la Concepcion. He landed near a small river at the point of the haven, flowing from valleys and plains, the beauty of which was a marvel to behold. He took fishing-nets with him; and, before he landed, a skate, like those of Spain, jumped into the boat, this being the first time they had seen fish resembling the fish of Castille. The sailors caught and killed others. Walking a short distance inland, the Admiral found much land under cultivation, and heard the singing of nightingales and other birds of Castille. Five men were seen, but they would not stop, running away. The Admiral found myrtles and other Spanish plants, while land and mountains were like those of Castille.
Saturday, 8th of December In this port there was heavy rain, with a fresh breeze from the north. The harbour is protected from all winds
except the north; but even this can do no harm whatever, because there is a great surf outside, which prevents such a sea within the river as would make a ship work on her cables. After midnight the wind veered to N.E., and then to East, from which winds this port is well sheltered by the island of Tortuga, distant 36 miles.
Sunday, 9th of December To-day it rained, and the weather was wintry, like October in Castille. No habitations had been seen except a
very beautiful house in the Puerto de S. Nicolas, which was better built than any that had been in other parts. “The island is very large,” says the Admiral: “it would not be much if it has a circumference of 200 leagues. All the parts he had seen were well cultivated. He believed that the villages must be at a distance from the sea, whither they went when the ships arrived; for they all took to flight, taking everything with them, and they made smoke-signals, like a people at war.” This port has a width of a thousand paces at its entrance, equal to a quarter of a league. There is nei- ther bank nor reef within, and there are scarcely soundings close in shore. Its length, running inland, is 3,000 paces, all clean, and with a sandy bottom; so that any ship may anchor in it without fear, and enter it without precaution. At the upper end there are the mouths of two rivers, with the most beautiful campaign country, almost like the lands of Spain: these even have the advantage; for which reasons the Admiral gave the name of the said island Isla Española
Monday, 10th of December It blew hard from the N.E., which made them drag their anchors half a cable’s length. This surprised the Ad-
miral, who had seen that the anchors had taken good hold of the ground. As he saw that the wind was foul for the direction in which he wanted to steer, he sent six men on shore, well armed, to go two or three leagues inland, and endeavour to open communications with the natives. They came and returned without having seen either people or houses. But they found some hovels, wide roads, and some places where many fires had been made. They saw excellent lands, and many mastick trees, some specimens of which they took; but this is not the time for collecting it, as it does not coagulate.
Tuesday, 11th of December The Admiral did not depart, because the wind was still east and S.E. In front of this port, as has been said, is
the island of La Tortuga. It appears to be a large island, with the coast almost like that of Española, and the distance between them is about ten leagues. It is well to know that from the Cabo de Cinquin, opposite Tortuga, the coast trends to the south. The Admiral had a great desire to see that channel between these two islands, and to examine the island of Española, which is the most beautiful thing in the world. According to what the Indians said who were on board, he would have to go to the island of Babeque. They declared that it was very large, with great mountains, rivers, and valleys; and that the island of Bohio was larger than Juana, which they call Cuba, and that it is not sur- rounded by water. They seem to imply that there is mainland behind Española, and they call it Caritaba, and say it is of vast extent. They have reason in saying that the inhabitants are a clever race, for all the people of these islands arc in great fear of those of Caniba. So the Admiral repeats, what he has said before, that Caniba is nothing else but the Gran Can, who ought now to be very near. He sends ships to capture the islanders; and as they do not return, their countrymen believe that they have been eaten. Each day we understand better what the Indians say, and they us, so that very often we are intelligible to each other. The Admiral sent people on shore, who found a great deal of mastick, but did not gather it. He says that the rains make it, and that in Chios they collect it in March. In these
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lands, being warmer, they might take it in January. They caught many fish like those of Castille—dace, salmon, hake, dory, gilt heads, skates, corbinas, shrimps, and they saw sardines. They found many aloes.
Wednesday, 12th of December The Admiral did not leave the port to-day, for the same reason: a contrary wind. He set up a great cross on the
west side of the entrance, on a very picturesque height, “in sign”, he says, “that your Highnesses hold this land for your own, but chiefly as a sign of our Lord Jesus Christ.” This being done, three sailors strolled into the woods to see the trees and bushes. Suddenly they came upon a crowd of people, all naked like the rest. They called to them, and went towards them, but they ran away. At last they caught a woman; for I had ordered that some should be caught, that they might be treated well, and made to lose their fear. This would be a useful event, for it could scarcely be otherwise, considering the beauty of the country. So they took the woman, who was very young and beautiful, to the ship, where she talked to the Indians on board; for they all speak the same language. The Admiral caused her to be dressed, and gave her glass beads, hawks’ bells, and brass ornaments; then he sent her back to the shore very courteously, according to his custom. He sent three of the crew with her, and three of the Indians he had on board, that they might open communications with her people. The sailors in the boat, who took her on shore, told the Admiral that she did not want to leave the ship, but would rather remain with the other women he had seized at the port of Mares, in the island of Juana or Cuba. The Indians who went to put the woman on shore said that the na- tives came in a canoe, which is their caravel, in which they navigate from one place to another; but when they came to the entrance of the harbour, and saw the ships, they turned back, left the canoe, and took the road to the village. The woman pointed out the position of the village. She had a piece of gold in her nose, which showed that there was gold in that island.
Thursday, 13th of December The three men who had been sent by the Admiral with the woman returned at 3 o’clock in the morning, not
having gone with her to the village, because the distance appeared to be long, or because they were afraid. They said that next day many people would come to the ships, as they would have been reassured by the news brought them by the woman. The Admiral, with the desire of ascertaining whether there were any profitable commodities in that land, being so beautiful and fertile, and of having some speech with the people, and being desirous of serving the Sovereigns, determined to send again to the village, trusting in the news brought by the woman that the Christians were good people. For this service he selected nine men well armed, and suited for such an enterprise, with whom an Indian went from those who were on board. They reached the village, which is 4 1/2 leagues to the S.E., and found that it was situated in a very large and open valley. As soon as the inhabitants saw the Christians coming they all fled inland, leaving all their goods behind them. The village consisted of a thousand houses, with over three thousand inhabitants. The Indian whom the Christians had brought with them ran after the fugitives, saying that they should have no fear, for the Christians did not come from Cariba, but were from heaven, and that they gave many beautiful things to all the people they met. They were so impressed with what he said, that upwards of two thousand came close up to the Christians, putting their hands on their heads, which was a sign of great reverence and friendship; and they were all trembling until they were reassured. The Christians related that, as soon as the na- tives had cast off their fear, they all went to the houses, and each one brought what he had to eat, consisting of yams, which are roots like large radishes, which they sow and cultivate in all their lands, and is their staple food. They make bread of it, and roast it. The yam has the smell of a chesnut, and anyone would think he was eating chesnuts. They gave their guests bread and fish, and all they had. As the Indians who came in the ship had understood that the Admiral wanted to have some parrots, one of those who accompanied the Spaniards mentioned this, and the natives brought out parrots, and gave them as many as they wanted, without asking anything for them. The natives asked the Spaniards not to go that night, and that they would give them many other things that they had in the mountains. While all these people were with the Spaniards, a great multitude was seen to come, with the husband of the woman whom the Admiral had honoured and sent away. They wore hair over their shoulders, and came to give thanks to the Christians for the honour the Admiral had done them, and for the gifts. The Christians reported to the Admiral that this was a handsomer and finer people than any that had hitherto been met with. But the Admiral says that he does not see how they can be a finer people than the others, giving to understand that all those he had found in the other islands were very well conditioned. As regards beauty, the Christians said there was no compar- ison, both men and women, and that their skins are whiter than the others. They saw two girls whose skins were as white as any that could be seen in Spain. They also said, with regard to the beauty of the country they saw, that the best land in Castille could not be compared with it. The Admiral also, comparing the lands they had seen before with these, said that there was no comparison between them, nor did the plain of Cordova come near them, the dif- ference being as great as between night and day. They said that all these lands were cultivated, and that a very wide
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and large river passed through the centre of the valley, and could irrigate all the fields. All the trees were green and full of fruit, and the plants tall and covered with flowers. The roads were broad and good. The climate was like April in Castille; the nightingale and other birds sang as they do in Spain during that month, and it was the most pleasant place in the world. Some birds sing sweetly at night. The crickets and frogs are heard a good deal. The fish are like those of Spain. They saw much aloe and mastick, and cotton-fields. Gold was not found, and it is not wonderful that it should not have been found in so short a time.
Here the Admiral calculated the number of hours in the day and night, and from sunrise to sunset. He found that twenty half-hour glasses passed, though he says that here there may be a mistake, either because they were not turned with equal quickness, or because some sand may not have passed. He also observed with a quadrant, and found that he was 34 degrees from the equinoctial line.
Friday, 14th of December The Admiral left the Puerto de la Concepcion with the land-breeze, but soon afterwards it fell calm (and this
is experienced every day by those who are on this coast). Later an east wind sprang up, so he steered N.N.E., and arrived at the island of Tortuga. He sighted a point which he named Punta Pierna, E.N.E. of the end of the island 12 miles; and from thence another point was seen and named Punta Lanzada, in the same N.E. direction 16 miles. Thus from the end of Tortuga to Punta Aguda the distance is 44 miles, which is 11 leagues E.N.E. Along this route there are several long stretches of beach. The island of Tortuga is very high, but not mountainous, and is very beau- tiful and populous, like Española, and the land is cultivated, so that it looked like the plain of Cordova. Seeing that the wind was foul, and that he could not steer for the island of Baneque, he determined to return to the Puerto de la Concepcion whence he had come; but he could not fetch a river which is two leagues to the east of that port.
Saturday, 15th of December Once more the Admiral left the Puerto de la Concepcion, but, on leaving the port, he was again met by a
contrary east wind. He stood over to Tortuga, and then steered with the object of exploring the river he had been unable to reach yesterday; nor was he able to fetch the river this time, but he anchored half a league to leeward of it, where there was clean and good anchoring ground. As soon as the vessels were secured, he went with the boats to the river, entering an arm of the sea, which proved not to be the river. Returning, he found the mouth, there being only one, and the current very strong. He went in with the boats to find the villagers that had been seen the day be- fore. He ordered a tow-rope to be got out and manned by the sailors, who hauled the boats up for a distance of two lombard-shots. They could not get further owing to the strength of the current. He saw some houses, and the large valley where the villages were, and he said that a more beautiful valley he had never seen, this river flowing through the centre of it. He also saw people at the entrance, but they all took to flight. He further says that these people must be much hunted, for they live in such a state of fear. When the ships arrived at any port, they presently made smoke signals throughout the country; and this is done more in this island of Española and in Tortuga, which is also a large island, than in the others that were visited before. He called this valley Valle del Paraiso, and the river Gua- dalquivir; because he says that it is the size of the Guadalquivir at Cordova. The banks consist of shingle, suitable for walking.
Sunday, 16th of December At midnight the Admiral made sail with the land-breeze to get clear of that gulf. Passing along the coast of Es-
pañola on a bowline, for the wind had veered to the cast, he met a canoe in the middle of the gulf, with a single In- dian in it. The Admiral was surprised how he could have kept afloat with such a gale blowing. Both the Indian and his canoe were taken on board, and he was given glass beads, bells, and brass trinkets, and taken in the ship, until she was off a village 17 miles from the former anchorage, where the Admiral came to again. The village appeared to have been lately built, for all the houses were new. The Indian then went on shore in his canoe, bringing the news that the Admiral and his companions were good people; although the intelligence had already been conveyed to the village from the place where the natives had their interview with the six Spaniards. Presently more than five hun- dred natives with their king came to the shore opposite the ships, which were anchored very close to the land. Pres- ently one by one, then many by many, came to the ship without bringing anything with them, except that some had a few grains of very fine gold in their ears and noses, which they readily gave away. The Admiral ordered them all to be well treated; and he says: “for they are the best people in the world, and the gentlest; and above all I entertain the hope in our Lord that your Highnesses will make them all Christians, and that they will be all your subjects, for as yours I hold them.” He also saw that they all treated the king with respect, who was on the sea-shore. The Admiral sent him a present, which he received in great state. He was a youth of about 21 years of age, and he had with him
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an aged tutor, and other councillors who advised and answered him, but he uttered very few words. One of the Indians who had come in the Admiral’s ship spoke to him, telling him how the Christians had come from heaven, and how they came in search of gold, and wished to find the island of Baneque. He said that it was well, and that there was much gold in the said island. He explained to the alguazil of the Admiral that the way they were going was the right way, and that in two days they would be there; adding, that if they wanted anything from the shore he would give it them with great pleasure. This king, and all the others, go naked as their mothers bore them, as do the women without any covering, and these were the most beautiful men and women that had yet been met with. They are fairly white, and if they were clothed and protected from the sun and air, they would be almost as fair as people in Spain. This land is cool, and the best that words can describe. It is very high, yet the top of the highest mountain could be ploughed with bullocks; and all is diversified with plains and valleys. In all Castille there is no land that can be compared with this for beauty and fertility. All this island, as well as the island of Tortuga, is cultivated like the plain of Cordova. They raise on these lands crops of yams, which are small branches, at the foot of which grow roots like carrots, which serve as bread. They powder and knead them, and make them into bread; then they plant the same branch in another part, which again sends out four or five of the same roots, which are very nutritious, with the taste of chesnuts. Here they have the largest the Admiral had seen in any part of the world, for he says that they have the same plant in Guinea. At this place they were as thick as a man’s leg. All the people were stout and lusty, not thin, like the natives that had been seen before, and of a very pleasant manner, without religious belief. The trees were so luxuriant that the leaves left off being green, and were dark coloured with verdure. It was a won- derful thing to see those valleys, and rivers of sweet water, and the cultivated fields, and land fit for cattle, though they have none, for orchards, and for anything in the world that a man could seek for.
In the afternoon the king came on board the ship, where the Admiral received him in due form, and caused him to be told that the ships belonged to the Sovereigns of Castille, who were the greatest Princes in the world. But neither the Indians who were on board, who acted as interpreters, nor the king, believed a word of it. They main- tained that the Spaniards came from heaven, and that the Sovereigns of Castille must be in heaven, and not in this world. They placed Spanish food before the king to eat, and he ate a mouthful, and gave the rest to his councillors and tutor, and to the rest who came with him.
“Your Highnesses may believe that these lands are so good and fertile, especially these of the island of Españo- la, that there is no one who would know how to describe them, and no one who could believe if he had not seen them. And your Highnesses may believe that this island, and all the others, are as much yours as Castille. Here there is only wanting a settlement and the order to the people to do what is required. For I, with the force I have under me, which is not large, could march over all these islands without opposition. I have seen only three sailors land, without wishing to do harm, and a multitude of Indians fled before them. They have no arms, and are without war- like instincts; they all go naked, and are so timid that a thousand would not stand before three of our men. So that they are good to be ordered about, to work and sow, and do all that may be necessary, and to build towns, and they should be taught to go about clothed and to adopt our customs.”
Monday, 17th of December It blew very hard during the night from E.N.E., but there was not much sea, as this part of the coast is enclosed
and sheltered by the island of Tortuga. The sailors were sent away to fish with nets. They had much intercourse with the natives, who brought them certain arrows of the Caribas or Canibales. They are made of reeds, pointed with sharp bits of wood hardened by fire, and are very long. They pointed out two men who wanted certain pieces of flesh on their bodies, giving to understand that the Canibales had eaten them by mouthfuls. The Admiral did not believe it. Some Christians were again sent to the village, and, in exchange for glass beads, obtained some pieces of gold beaten out into fine leaf. They saw one man, whom the Admiral supposed to be Governor of that province, called by them Cacique, with a piece of gold leaf as large as a hand, and it appears that he wanted to barter with it. He went into his house, and the other remained in the open space outside. He cut the leaf into small pieces, and each time he came out he brought a piece and exchanged it. When he had no more left, he said by signs that he had sent for more, and that he would bring it another day. The Admiral says that all these things, and the manner of doing them, with their gentleness and the information they gave, showed these people to be more lively and intel- ligent than any that had hitherto been met with. In the afternoon a canoe arrived from the island of Tortuga with a crew of forty men; and when they arrived on the beach, all the people of the village sat down in sign of peace, and nearly all the crew came on shore. The Cacique rose by himself, and, with words that appeared to be of a menacing character, made them go back to the canoe and shove off. He took up stones from the beach and threw them into the water, all having obediently gone back into the canoe. He also took a stone and put it in the hands of my Algua- zil, that he might throw it. He had been sent on shore with the Secretary to see if the canoe had brought anything of value. The Alguazil did not wish to throw the stone. That Cacique showed that he was well disposed to the Admiral.
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Presently the canoe departed, and afterwards they said to the Admiral that there was more gold in Tortuga than in Española, because it is nearer to Baneque. The Admiral did not think that there were gold mines either in Española or Tortuga, but that the gold was brought from Baneque in small quantities, there being nothing to give in return. That land is so rich that there is no necessity to work much to sustain life, nor to clothe themselves, as they go naked. He believed that they were very near the source, and that our Lord would point out where the gold has its origin. He had information that from here to Baneque was four days’ journey, about 34 leagues, which might be traversed with a fair wind in a single day.
Tuesday, 18th of December The Admiral remained at the same anchorage, because there was no wind, and also because the Cacique had
said that he had sent for gold. The Admiral did not expect much from what might be brought, but he wanted to understand better whence it came. Presently he ordered the ship and caravel to be adorned with arms and dressed with flags, in honour of the feast of Santa Maria de la O, or commemoration of the Annunciation, which was on that day, and many rounds were fired from the lombards. The king of that island of Española had got up very early and left his house, which is about five leagues away, reaching the village at three in the morning.
There were several men from the ship in the village, who had been sent by the Admiral to see if any gold had arrived. They said that the king came with two hundred men; that he was carried in a litter by four men; and that he was a youth, as has already been said. To-day, when the Admiral was dining under the poop, the king came on board with all his people.
The Admiral says to the Sovereigns: “Without doubt, his state, and the reverence with which he is treated by all his people, would appear good to your Highnesses, though they all go naked. When he came on board, he found that I was dining at a table under the poop, and, at a quick walk, he came to sit down by me, and did not wish that I should give place by coming to receive him or rising from the table, but that I should go on with my dinner. I thought that he would like to eat of our viands, and ordered them to be brought for him to eat. When he came under the poop, he made signs with his hand that all the rest should remain outside, and so they did, with the greatest possible promptitude and reverence. They all sat on the deck, except the men of mature age, whom I believe to be his councillors and tutor, who came and sat at his feet. Of the viands which I put before him, he took of each as much as would serve to taste it, sending the rest to his people, who all partook of the dishes. The same thing in drinking: he just touched with his lips, giving the rest to his followers. They were all of fine presence and very few words. What they did say, so far as I could make out, was very clear and intelligent. The two at his feet watched his mouth, speaking to him and for him, and with much reverence. After dinner, an attendant brought a girdle, made like those of Castille, but of different material, which he took and gave to me, with pieces of worked gold, very thin. I believe they get very little here, but they say that they are very near the place where it is found, and where there is plenty. I saw that he was pleased with some drapery I had over my bed, so I gave it him, with some very good amber beads I wore on my neck, some coloured shoes, and a bottle of orange-flower water. He was marvellously well content, and both he and his tutor and councillors were very sorry that they could not understand me, nor I them. However, I knew that they said that, if I wanted anything, the whole island was at my disposal. I sent for some beads of mine, with which, as a charm, I had a gold excelente, on which your Highnesses were stamped. I showed it to him, and said, as I had done yesterday, that your Highnesses ruled the best part of the world, and that there were no Princes so great. I also showed him the royal standards, and the others with a cross, of which he thought much. He said to his councillors what great lords your Highnesses must be to have sent me from so far, even from heaven to this country, without fear. Many other things passed between them which I did not understand, except that it was easy to see that they held everything to be very wonderful.”
When it got late, and the king wanted to go, the Admiral sent him on shore in his boat very honourably, and saluted him with many guns. Having landed, he got into his litter, and departed with his 200 men, his son being carried behind on the shoulders of an Indian, a man highly respected. All the sailors and people from the ships were given to eat, and treated with much honour wherever they liked to stop. One sailor said that he had stopped in the road and seen all the things given by the Admiral. A man carried each one before the king, and these men appeared to be among those who were most respected. His son came a good distance behind the king, with a simi- lar number of attendants, and the same with a brother of the king, except that the brother went on foot, supported under the arms by two honoured attendants. This brother came to the ship after the king, and the Admiral present- ed him with some of the things used for barter. It was then that the Admiral learnt that a king was called Cacique in their language. This day little gold was got by barter, but the Admiral heard from an old man that there were many neighbouring islands, at a distance of a hundred leagues or more, as he understood, in which much gold is found; and there is even one island that was all gold. In the others there was so much that it was said they gather it with sieves, and they fuse it and make bars, and work it in a thousand ways. They explained the work by signs. This old
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man pointed out to the Admiral the direction and position, and he determined to go there, saying that if the old man had not been a principal councillor of the king he would detain him, and make him go, too; or if he knew the language he would ask him, and he believed, as the old man was friendly with him and the other Christians, that he would go of his own accord. But as these people were now subjects of the King of Castille, and it would not be right to injure them, he decided upon leaving him. The Admiral set up a very large cross in the centre of the square of that village, the Indians giving much help; they made prayers and worshipped it, and, from the feeling they show, the Admiral trusted in our Lord that all the people of those islands would become Christians.
Wednesday, 19th of December This night the Admiral got under weigh to leave the gulf formed between the islands of Tortuga and Española,
but at dawn of day a breeze sprang up from the cast, against which he was unable to get clear of the strait between the two islands during the whole day. At night he was unable to reach a port which was in sight. He made out four points of land, and a great bay with a river, and beyond he saw a large bay, where there was a village, with a valley behind it among high mountains covered with trees, which appeared to be pines. Over the Two Brothers there is a very high mountain-range running N.E. and S.W., and E.S.E. from the Cabo de Torres is a small island to which the Admiral gave the name of Santo Tomas, because to-morrow was his vigil. The whole circuit of this island alternates with capes and excellent harbours, so far as could be judged from the sea. Before coming to the island on the west side, there is a cape which runs far into the sea, in part high, the rest low; and for this reason the Admiral named it Cabo Alto y Bajo. From the road of Torres to E.S.E. 60 miles, there is a mountain higher than any that reaches the sea, and from a distance it looks like an island, owing to a depression on the land side. It was named Monte Cari- bata, because that province was called Caribata. It is very beautiful, and covered with green trees, without snow or clouds. The weather was then, as regards the air and temperature, like March in Castille, and as regards vegetation, like May. The nights lasted 14 hours.
Thursday, 20th of December At sunrise they entered a port between the island of Santo Tomas and the Cabo de Caribata, and anchored. This
port is very beautiful, and would hold all the ships in Christendom. The entrance appears impossible from the sea to those who have never entered, owing to some reefs of rocks which run from the mountainous cape almost to the island. They are not placed in a row, but one here, another there, some towards the sea, others near the land. It is therefore necessary to keep a good look-out for the entrances, which are wide and with a depth of 7 fathoms, so that they can be used without fear. Inside the reefs there is a depth of 12 fathoms. A ship can lie with a cable made fast, against any wind that blows. At the entrance of this port there is a channel on the west side of a sandy islet with 7 fathoms, and many trees on its shore. But there are many sunken rocks in that direction, and a look-out should be kept up until the port is reached. Afterwards there is no need to fear the greatest storm in the world. From this port a very beautiful cultivated valley is in sight, descending from the S.E., surrounded by such lofty mountains that they appear to reach the sky, and covered with green trees. Without doubt there are mountains here which are higher than the island of Tenerife in the Canaries, which is held to be the highest yet known. On this side of the island of Santo Tomas, at a distance of a league, there is another islet, and beyond it another, forming wonderful harbours; though a good look- out must be kept for sunken rocks. The Admiral also saw villages, and smoke made by them.
Friday, 21st of December To-day the Admiral went with the ship’s boats to examine this port, which he found to be such that it could not
be equalled by any he had yet seen; but, having praised the others so much, he knew not how to express himself, fearing that he will be looked upon as one who goes beyond the truth. He therefore contents himself with saying that he had old sailors with him who say the same. All the praises he has bestowed on the other ports are true, and that this is better than any of them is equally true. He further says: “I have traversed the sea for 23 years, without leaving it for any time worth counting, and I saw all in the east and the west, going on the route of the north, which is England, and I have been to Guinea, but in all those parts there will not be found perfection of harbours. . . . .always found. . . . .better than another, that I, with good care, saw written; and I again affirm it was well written, that this one is better than all others, and will hold all the ships of the world, secured with the oldest cables.” From the entrance to the end is a distance of five leagues. The Admiral saw some very well cultivated lands, although they are all so, and he sent two of the boat’s crew to the top of a hill to see if any village was near, for none could be seen from the sea. At about ten o’clock that night, certain Indians came in a canoe to see the Admiral and the Christians, and they were given presents, with which they were much pleased. The two men returned, and reported that they had seen a very large village at a short distance from the sea. The Admiral ordered the boat to row towards the place
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where the village was until they came near the land, when he saw two Indians, who came to the shore apparently in a state of fear. So he ordered the boats to stop, and the Indians that were with the Admiral were told to assure the two natives that no harm whatever was intended to them. Then they came nearer the sea, and the Admiral nearer the land. As soon as the natives had got rid of their fear, so many came that they covered the ground, with women and children, giving a thousand thanks. They ran hither and thither to bring us bread made of yams, which they call ajes, which is very white and good, and water in calabashes, and in earthen jars made like those of Spain, and everything else they had and that they thought the Admiral could want, and all so willingly and cheerfully that it was wonderful. “It cannot be said that, because what they gave was worth little, therefore they gave liberally, be- cause those who had pieces of gold gave as freely as those who had a calabash of water; and it is easy to know when a thing is given with a hearty desire to give.” These are the Admiral’s words. “These people have no spears nor any other arms, nor have any of the inhabitants of the whole island, which I believe to be very large. They go naked as when their mothers bore them, both men and women. In Cuba and the other islands the women wear a small clout of cotton in front, as well as the men, as soon as they have passed the age of twelve years, but here neither old nor young do so. Also, the men in the other islands jealously hide their women from the Christians, but here they do not.” The women have very beautiful bodies, and they were the first to come and give thanks to heaven, and to bring what they had, especially things to eat, such as bread of ajes (yams), nuts, and four or five kinds of fruits, some of which the Admiral ordered to be preserved, to be taken to the Sovereigns. He says that the women did not do less in other ports before they were hidden; and he always gave orders that none of his people should annoy them; that nothing should be taken against their wills, and that everything that was taken should be paid for. Finally, he says that no one could believe that there could be such good-hearted people, so free to give, anxious to let the Christians have all they wanted, and, when visitors arrived, running to bring everything to them.
Afterwards the Admiral sent six Christians to the village to see what it was like, and the natives showed them all the honour they could devise, and gave them all they had; for no doubt was any longer entertained that the Admiral and all his people had come from heaven; and the same was believed by the Indians who were brought from the other islands, although they had now been told what they ought to think. When the six Christians had gone, some canoes came with people to ask the Admiral to come to their village when he left the place where he was. Canoa is a boat in which they navigate, some large and others small. Seeing that this village of the Chief was on the road, and that many people were waiting there for him, the Admiral went there; but, before he could depart, an enor- mous crowd came to the shore, men, women, and children, crying out to him not to go, but to stay with them. The messengers from the other Chief, who had come to invite him, were waiting with their canoes, that he might not go away, but come to see their Chief, and so he did. On arriving where the Chief was waiting for him with many things to eat, he ordered that all the people should sit down, and that the food should be taken to the boats, where the Ad- miral was, on the sea-shore. When he saw that the Admiral had received what he sent, all or most of the Indians ran to the village, which was near, to bring more food, parrots, and other things they had, with such frankness of heart that it was marvellous. The Admiral gave them glass beads, brass trinkets, and bells: not because they asked for any- thing in return, but because it seemed right, and, above all, because he now looked upon them as future Christians, and subjects of the Sovereigns, as much as the people of Castille. He further says that they want nothing except to know the language and be under governance; for all they may be told to do will be done without any contradiction. The Admiral left this place to go to the ships, and the people, men, women, and children, cried out to him not to go, but remain with them. After the boats departed, several canoes full of people followed after them to the ship, who were received with much honour, and given to eat. There had also come before another Chief from the west, and many people even came swimming, the ship being over a good half-league from the shore. I sent certain persons to the Chief, who had gone back, to ask him about these islands. He received them very well, and took them to his vil- lage, to give them some large pieces of gold. They arrived at a large river, which the Indians crossed by swimming. The Christians were unable, so they turned back. In all this district there are very high mountains which seem to reach the sky, so that the mountain in the island of Tenerife appears as nothing in height and beauty, and they are all green with trees. Between them there are very delicious valleys, and at the end of this port, to the south, there is a valley so large that the end of it is not visible, though no mountains intervene, so that it seems to be 15 or 20 leagues long. A river flows through it, and it is all inhabited and cultivated and as green as Castille in May or June; but the night contains 14 hours, the land being so far north. This port is very good for all the winds that can blow, being enclosed and deep, and the shores peopled by a good and gentle race without arms or evil designs. Any ship may lie within it without fear that other ships will enter at night to attack her, because, although the entrance is over two leagues wide, it is protected by reefs of rocks which are barely awash; and there is only a very narrow channel through the reef, which looks as if it had been artificially made, leaving an open door by which ships may enter. In the entrance there are 7 fathoms of depth up to the shore of a small flat island, which has a beach fringed with trees.
The entrance is on the west side, and a ship can come without fear until she is close to the rock. On the N.W. side there are three islands, and a great river a league from the cape on one side of the port. It is the best harbour in
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the world, and the Admiral gave it the name of Puerto de la mar de Santo Tomas, because to-day it was that Saint’s day. The Admiral called it a sea, owing to its size.
Saturday, 22nd of December At dawn the Admiral made sail to shape a course in search of the islands which the Indians had told him
contained much gold, some of them having more gold than earth. But the weather was not favourable, so he an- chored again, and sent away the boat to fish with a net. The Lord of that land, who had a place near there, sent a large canoe full of people, including one of his principal attendants, to invite the Admiral to come with the ships to his land, where he would give him all he wanted. The Chief sent, by this servant, a girdle which, instead of a bag, had attached to it a mask with two large ears made of beaten gold, the tongue, and the nose. These people are very open-hearted, and whatever they are asked for they give most willingly; while, when they themselves ask for anything, they do so as if receiving a great favour. So says the Admiral. They brought the canoe alongside the boat, and gave the girdle to a boy; then they came on board with their mission. It took a good part of the day before they could be understood. Not even the Indians who were on board understood them well, because they have some dif- ferences of words for the names of things. At last their invitation was understood by signs. The Admiral determined to start to-morrow, although he did not usually sail on a Sunday, owing to a devout feeling, and not on account of any superstition whatever. But in the hope that these people would become Christians through the willingness they show, and that they will be subjects of the Sovereigns of Castille, and because he now holds them to be so, and that they may serve with love, he wished and endeavoured to please them. Before leaving, to-day, the
Admiral sent six men to a large village three leagues to the westward, because the Chief had come the day before and said that he had some pieces of gold. When the Christians arrived, the Secretary of the Admiral, who was one of them, took the Chief by the hand. The Admiral had sent him, to prevent the others from imposing upon the Indians. As the Indians are so simple, and the Spaniards so avaricious and grasping, it does not suffice that the Indians should give them all they want in exchange for a bead or a bit of glass, but the Spaniards would take every- thing without any return at all. The Admiral always prohibits this, although, with the exception of gold, the things given by the Indians are of little value. But the Admiral, seeing the simplicity of the Indians, and that they will give a piece of gold in exchange for six beads, gave the order that nothing should be received from them unless something had been given in exchange. Thus the Chief took the Secretary by the hand and led him to his house, followed by the whole village, which was very large. He made his guests eat, and the Indians brought them many cotton fabrics, and spun-cotton in skeins. In the afternoon the Chief gave them three very fat geese and some small pieces of gold. A great number of people went back with them, carrying all the things they had got by barter, and they also carried the Spaniards themselves across streams and muddy places. The Admiral ordered some things to be given to the Chief, and both he and his people were very well satisfied, truly believing that the Christians had come from heav- en, so that they considered themselves fortunate in beholding them. On this day more than 120 canoes came to the ships, all full of people, and all bringing something, especially their bread and fish, and fresh water in earthen jars. They also brought seeds of good kinds, and there was a grain which they put into a porringer of water and drank it. The Indians who were on board said that this was very wholesome.
Sunday, 23rd of December The Admiral could not go with the ships to that land whither he had been invited by the Chief, because there
was no wind. But he sent, with the three messengers who were waiting for the boats, some people, including the Secretary. While they were gone, he sent two of the Indians he had on board with him to the villages which were near the anchorage. They returned to the ship with a chief, who brought the news that there was a great quantity of gold in that island of Española, and that people from other parts came to buy it. They said that here the Admi- ral would find as much as he wanted. Others came, who confirmed the statement that there was much gold in the island, and explained the way it was collected. The Admiral understood all this with much difficulty; nevertheless, he concluded that there was a very great quantity in those parts, and that, if he could find the place whence it was got, there would be abundance; and, if not, there would be nothing. He believed there must be a great deal, because, during the three days that he had been in that port, he had got several pieces of gold, and he could not believe that it was brought from another land. “Our Lord, who holds all things in his hands, look upon me, and grant what shall be for his service.” These are the Admiral’s words. He says that, according to his reckoning, a thousand people had visited the ship, all of them bringing something. Before they come alongside, at a distance of a crossbow-shot, they stand up in the canoe with what they bring in their hands, crying out, “Take it! take it!” He also reckoned that 500 came to the ship swimming, because they had no canoes, the ship being near a league from the shore. Among the visitors, five chiefs had come, sons of chiefs, with all their families of wives and children, to see the Christians. The Admiral ordered something to be given to all, because such gifts were all well employed. “May our Lord favour me
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by his clemency, that I may find this gold, I mean the mine of gold, which I hold to be here, many saying that they know it.” These are his words. The boats arrived at night, and said that there was a grand road as far as they went, and they found many canoes, with people who went to see the Admiral and the Christians, at the mountain of Cari- batan. They held it for certain that, if the Christmas festival was kept in that port, all the people of the island would come, which they calculated to be larger than England. All the people went with them to the village which they said was the largest, and the best laid out with streets, of any they had seen. The Admiral says it is part of the Punta Santa, almost three leagues S.E. The canoes go very fast with paddles; so they went ahead to apprise the Cacique, as they call the chief. They also have another greater name—Nitayno; but it was not clear whether they used it for lord, or governor, or judge. At last the Cacique came to them, and joined them in the square, which was clean-swept, as was all the village. The population numbered over 2,000 men. This king did great honour to the people from the ship, and every inhabitant brought them something to eat and drink. Afterwards the king gave each of them cotton cloths such as women wear, with parrots for the Admiral, and some pieces of gold. The people also gave cloths and other things from their houses to the sailors; and as for the trifles they got in return, they seemed to look upon them as relics. When they wanted to return in the afternoon, he asked them to stay until the next day, and all the people did the same. When they saw that the Spaniards were determined to go, they accompanied them most of the way, carrying the gifts of the Cacique on their backs as far as the boats, which had been left at the mouth of the river.
Monday, 24th of December Before sunrise the Admiral got under weigh with the land-breeze. Among the numerous Indians who had come
to the ship yesterday, and had made signs that there was gold in the island, naming the places whence it was col- lected, the Admiral noticed one who seemed more fully informed, or who spoke with more willingness, so he asked him to come with the Christians and show them the position of the gold mines. This Indian has a companion or relation with him, and among other places they mentioned where gold was found, they named Cipango, which they called Civao. Here they said that there was a great quantity of gold, and that the Cacique carried banners of beaten gold. But they added that it was very far off to the eastward.
Here the Admiral addresses the following words to the Sovereigns: “Your Highnesses may believe that there is no better nor gentler people in the world. Your Highnesses ought to rejoice that they will soon become Christians, and that they will be taught the good customs of your kingdom. A better race there cannot be, and both the people and the lands are in such quantity that I know not how to write it. I have spoken in the superlative degree of the country and people of Juana, which they call Cuba, but there is as much difference between them and this island and people as between day and night. I believe that no one who should see them could say less than I have said, and I repeat that the things and the great villages of this island of Española, which they call Bohio, are wonderful. All here have a loving manner and gentle speech, unlike the others, who seem to be menacing when they speak. Both men and women are of good stature, and not black. It is true that they all paint, some with black, others with other colours, but most with red. I know that they are tanned by the sun, but this does not affect them much. Their hous- es and villages are pretty, each with a chief, who acts as their judge, and who is obeyed by them. All these lords use few words, and have excellent manners. Most of their orders are given by a sign with the hand, which is understood with surprising quickness.” All these are the words of the Admiral.
He who would enter the sea of Santo Tomé ought to stand for a good league across the mouth to a flat island in the middle, which was named La Amiga, pointing her head towards it. When the ship is within a stone’s-throw of it the course should be altered to make for the eastern shore, leaving the west side, and this shore, and not the other, should be kept on board, because a great reef runs out from the west, and even beyond that there are three sunken rocks. This reef comes within a lombard-shot of the Amiga island. Between them there are seven fathoms at least, with a gravelly bottom. Within, a harbour will be found large enough for all the ships in the world, which would be there without need of cables. There is another reef, with sunken rocks, on the east side of the island of Amiga, which are extensive and run out to sea, reaching within two leagues of the cape. But it appeared that between them there was an entrance, within two lombard-shots of Amiga, on the west side of Monte Caribatan, where there was a good and very large port.
Tuesday, 25th of December. Christmas Navigating yesterday, with little wind, from Santo Tomé to Punta Santa, and being a league from it, at about
eleven o’clock at night the Admiral went down to get some sleep, for he had not had any rest for two days and a night. As it was calm, the sailor who steered the ship thought he would go to sleep, leaving the tiller in charge of a boy. The Admiral had forbidden this throughout the voyage, whether it was blowing or whether it was calm. The
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boys were never to be entrusted with the helm. The Admiral had no anxiety respecting sand-banks and rocks, because, when he sent the boats to that king on Sunday, they had passed to the east of Punta Santa at least three leagues and a half, and the sailors had seen all the coast, and the rocks there arc from Punta Santa, for a distance of three leagues to the E.S.E. They saw the course that should be taken, which had not been the case before, during this voyage. It pleased our Lord that, at twelve o’clock at night, when the Admiral had retired to rest, and when all had fallen asleep, seeing that it was a dead calm and the sea like glass, the tiller being in the hands of a boy, the current carried the ship on one of the sand-banks. If it had not been night the bank could have been seen, and the surf on it could be heard for a good league. But the ship ran upon it so gently that it could scarcely be felt. The boy, who felt the helm and heard the rush of the sea, cried out. The Admiral at once came up, and so quickly that no one had felt that the ship was aground. Presently the master of the ship, whose watch it was, came on deck. The Admiral ordered him and others to launch the boat, which was on the poop, and lay out an anchor astern. The master, with several others, got into the boat, and the Admiral thought that they did so with the object of obeying his orders. But they did so in order to take refuge with the caravel, which was half a league to leeward. The caravel would not allow them to come on board, acting judiciously, and they therefore returned to the ship; but the caravel’s boat arrived first. When the Admiral saw that his own people fled in this way, the water rising and the ship being across the sea, seeing no other course, he ordered the masts to be cut away and the ship to be lightened as much as possible, to see if she would come off. But, as the water continued to rise, nothing more could be done. Her side fell over across the sea, but it was nearly calm. Then the timbers opened, and the ship was lost. The Admiral went to the caravel to ar- range about the reception of the ship’s crew, and as a light breeze was blowing from the land, and continued during the greater part of the night, while it was unknown how far the bank extended, he hove her to until daylight. He then went back to the ship, inside the reef; first having sent a boat on shore with Diego de Arana of Cordova, Algua- zil of the Fleet, and Pedro Gutierrez, Gentleman of the King’s Bed-chamber, to inform the king, who had invited the ships to come on the previous Saturday. His town was about a league and a half from the sand-bank. They reported that he wept when he heard the news, and he sent all his people with large canoes to unload the ship. This was done, and they landed all there was between decks in a very short time. Such was the great promptitude and diligence shown by that king. He himself, with brothers and relations, were actively assisting as well in the ship as in the care of the property when it was landed, that all might be properly guarded. Now and then he sent one of his relations weeping to the Admiral, to console him, saying that he must not feel sorrow or annoyance, for he would supply all that was needed. The Admiral assured the Sovereigns that there could not have been such good watch kept in any part of Castille, for that there was not even a needle missing. He ordered that all the property should be placed by some houses which the king placed at his disposal, until they were emptied, when everything would be stowed and guarded in them. Armed men were placed round the stores to watch all night. “The king and all his people wept. They are a loving people, without covetousness, and fit for anything; and I assure your Highnesses that there is no better land nor people. They love their neighbours as themselves, and their speech is the sweetest and gentlest in the world, and always with a smile. Men and women go as naked as when their mothers bore them. Your Highnesses should believe that they have very good customs among themselves. The king is a man of remarkable presence, and with a certain self-contained manner that is a pleasure to see. They have good memories, wish to see everything, and ask the use of what they see.” All this is written by the Admiral.
Wednesday, 26th of December To-day, at sunrise, the king of that land came to the caravel Niña, where the Admiral was, and said to him,
almost weeping, that he need not be sorry, for that he would give him all he had; that he had placed two large houses at the disposal of the Christians who were on shore, and that he would give more if they were required, and as many canoes as could load from the ship and discharge on shore, with as many people as were wanted. This had all been done yesterday, without so much as a needle being missed. “So honest are they,” says the Admiral, “without any covetousness for the goods of others, and so above all was that virtuous king.” While the Admiral was talking to him, another canoe arrived from a different place, bringing some pieces of gold, which the people in the canoe wanted to exchange for a hawk’s bell; for there was nothing they desired more than these bells. They had scarcely come alongside when they called and held up the gold, saying Chuq chuq for the bells, for they are quite mad about them. After the king had seen this, and when the canoes which came from other places had departed, he called the Admiral and asked him to give orders that one of the bells was to be kept for another day, when he would bring four pieces of gold the size of a man’s hand. The Admiral rejoiced to hear this, and afterwards a sailor, who came from the shore, told him that it was wonderful what pieces of gold the men on shore were getting in exchange for next to nothing. For a needle they got a piece of gold worth two castellanos and that this was nothing to what it would be within a month. The king rejoiced much when he saw that the Admiral was pleased. He understood that his friend
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wanted much gold, and he said, by signs, that he knew where there was, in the vicinity, a very large quantity; so that he must be in good heart, for he should have as much as he wanted. He gave some account of it, especially saying that in Cipango, which they call Cibao, it is so abundant that it is of no value, and that they will bring it, although there is also much more in the island of Española which they call Bohio, and in the province of Caritaba. The king dined on board the caravel with the Admiral and afterwards went on shore, where he received the Admiral with much honour. He gave him a collation consisting of three or four kinds of yams, with shellfish and game, and other viands they have, besides the bread they call cazavi. He then took the Admiral to see some groves of trees near the houses, and they were accompanied by at least a thousand people, all naked. The Lord had on a shirt and a pair of gloves, given to him by the Admiral, and he was more delighted with the gloves than with anything else. In his manner of eating, both as regards the high-bred air and the peculiar cleanliness he clearly showed his nobility. After he had eaten, he remained some time at table, and they brought him certain herbs, with which he rubbed his hands. The Admiral thought that this was done to make them soft, and they also gave him water for his hands. After the meal he took the Admiral to the beach. The Admiral then sent for a Turkish bow and a quiver of arrows, and took a shot at a man of his company, who had been warned. The chief, who knew nothing about arms, as they neither have them nor use them, thought this a wonderful thing. He, however, began to talk of those of Caniba, whom they call Caribes. They come to capture the natives, and have bows and arrows without iron, of which there is no memory in any of these lands, nor of steel, nor any other metal except gold and copper. Of copper the Admiral had only seen very little. The Admiral said, by signs, that the Sovereigns of Castille would order the Caribs to be destroyed, and that all should be taken with their heads tied together. He ordered a lombard and a hand-gun to be fired off, and seeing the effect caused by its force and what the shots penetrated, the king was astonished. When his people heard the explosion they all fell on the ground. They brought the Admiral a large mask, which had pieces of gold for the eyes and ears and in other parts, and this they gave, with other trinkets of gold that the same king had put on the head and round the neck of the Admiral, and of other Christians, to whom they also gave many pieces. The Admi- ral received much pleasure and consolation from these things, which tempered the anxiety and sorrow he felt at the loss of the ship. He knew our Lord had caused the ship to stop here, that a settlement might be formed. “From this”, he says, “originated so many things that, in truth, the disaster was really a piece of good fortune. For it is certain that, if I had not lost the ship, I should have gone on without anchoring in this place, which is within a great bay, having two or three reefs of rock. I should not have left people in the country during this voyage, nor even, if I had desired to leave them, should I have been able to obtain so much information, nor such supplies and provisions for a fortress. And true it is that many people had asked me to give them leave to remain. Now I have given orders for a tower and a fort, both well built, and a large cellar, not because I believe that such defences will be necessary. I believe that with the force I have with me I could subjugate the whole island, which I believe to be larger than Portugal, and the population double. But they are naked and without arms, and hopelessly timid. Still, it is advisable to build this tower, being so far from your Highnesses. The people may thus know the skill of the subjects of your Highnesses, and what they can do; and will obey them with love and fear. So they make preparations to build the fortress, with provision of bread and wine for more than a year, with seeds for sowing, the ship’s boat, a caulker and carpenter, a gunner and cooper. Many among these men have a great desire to serve your Highnesses and to please me, by finding out where the mine is whence the gold is brought. Thus everything is got in readiness to begin the work. Above all, it was so calm that there was scarcely wind nor wave when the ship ran aground.” This is what the Admiral says; and he adds more to show that it was great good luck, and the settled design of God, that the ship should be lost in order that people might be left behind. If it had not been for the treachery of the master and his boat’s crew, who were all or mostly his countrymen, in neglecting to lay out the anchor so as to haul the ship off in obedience to the
Admiral’s orders, she would have been saved. In that case, the same knowledge of the land as has been gained in these days would not have been secured, for the Admiral always proceeded with the object of discovering, and never intended to stop more than a day at any one place, unless he was detained by the wind. Still, the ship was very heavy and unsuited for discovery. It was the people of Palos who obliged him to take such a ship, by not complying “with what they had promised to the King and Queen, namely, to supply suitable vessels for this expedition. This they did not do. Of all that there was on board the ship, not a needle, nor a board, nor a nail was lost, for she re- mained as whole as when she sailed, except that it was necessary to cut away and level down in order to get out the jars and merchandise, which were landed and carefully guarded.” He trusted in God that, when he returned from Spain, according to his intention, he would find a ton of gold collected by barter by those he was to leave behind, and that they would have found the mine, and spices in such quantities that the Sovereigns would, in three years, be able to undertake and fit out an expedition to go and conquer the Holy Sepulchre. “Thus”, he says, “I protest to your Highnesses that all the profits of this my enterprise may be spent in the conquest of Jerusalem. Your Highnesses may laugh, and say that it is pleasing to you, and that, without this, you entertain that desire.” These are the Admi- ral’s words.
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Thursday, 27th of December The king of that land came alongside the caravel at sunrise, and said that he had sent for gold, and that he
would collect all he could before the Admiral departed; but he begged him not to go. The king and one of his brothers, with another very intimate relation, dined with the Admiral, and the two latter said they wished to go to Castille with him. At this time the news came that the caravel Pinta was in a river at the end of this island. Presently the Cacique sent a canoe there, and the Admiral sent a sailor in it. For it was wonderful how devoted the Cacique was to the Admiral. The necessity was now evident of hurrying on preparations for the return to Castille.
Friday, 28th of December The Admiral went on shore to give orders and hurry on the work of building the fort, and to settle what men
should remain behind. The king, it would seem, had watched him getting into the boat, and quickly went into his house, dissimulating, sending one of his brothers to receive the Admiral, and conduct him to one of the houses that had been set aside for the Spaniards, which was the largest and best in the town. In it there was a couch made of palm matting, where they sat down. Afterwards the brother sent an attendant to say that the Admiral was there, as if the king did not know that he had come. The Admiral, however, believed that this was a feint in order to do him more honour. The attendant gave the message, and the Cacique came in great haste, and put a large soft piece of gold he had in his hand round the Admiral’s neck. They remained together until the evening, arranging what had to be done.
Saturday, 29th of December A very youthful nephew of the king came to the caravel at sunrise, who showed a good understanding and dis-
position. As the Admiral was always working to find out the origin of the gold, he asked everyone, for he could now understand somewhat by signs. This youth told him that, at a distance of four days’ journey, there was an island to the eastward called Guarionex, and others called Macorix, Mayonic, Fuma, Cibao, and Coroay, in which there was plenty of gold. The Admiral wrote these names down, and now understood what had been said by a brother of the king, who was annoyed with him, as the Admiral understood. At other times the Admiral had suspected that the king had worked against his knowing where the gold had its origin and was collected, that he might not go away to barter in another part of the island. For there are such a number of places in this same island that it is wonderful. After nightfall the king sent a large mask of gold, and asked for a washhand basin and jug. The Admiral thought he wanted them for patterns to copy from, and therefore sent them.
Sunday, 30th of December The Admiral went on shore to dinner, and came at a time when five kings had arrived, all with their crowns,
who were subject to this king, named Guacanagari. They represented a very good state of affairs, and the Admiral says to the Sovereigns that it would have given them pleasure to see the manner of their arrival. On landing, the Admiral was received by the king, who led him by the arms to the same house where he was yesterday, where there were chairs, and a couch on which the Admiral sat. Presently the king took the crown off his head and put it on the Admiral’s head, and the Admiral took from his neck a collar of beautiful beads of several different colours, which looked very well in all its parts, and put it on the king. He also took off a cloak of fine material, in which he had dressed himself that day, and dressed the king in it, and sent for some coloured boots, which he put on his feet, and he put a large silver ring on his finger, because he had heard that he had admired greatly a silver ornament worn by one of the sailors. The king was highly delighted and well satisfied, and two of those kings who were with him came with him to where the Admiral was, and each gave him a large piece of gold. At this time an Indian came and reported that it was two days since he left the caravel Pinta in a port to the eastward. The Admiral returned to the caravel, and Vicente Anes, the captain, said that he had seen the rhubarb plant, and that they had it on the island Amiga, which is at the entrance of the sea of Santo Tomé, six leagues off, and that he had recognised the branches and roots. They say that rhubarb forms small branches above ground, and fruit like green mulberries, almost dry, and the stalk, near the root, is as yellow and delicate as the best colour for painting, and underground the root grows like a large pear.
Monday, 31st of December To-day the Admiral was occupied in seeing that water and fuel were taken on board for the voyage to Spain, to
give early notice to the Sovereigns, that they might despatch ships to complete the discoveries. For now the business
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appeared to be so great and important that the Admiral was astonished. He did not wish to go until he had exam- ined all the land to the eastward, and explored the coast, so as to know the route to Castille, with a view to sending sheep and cattle. But as he had been left with only a single vessel, it did not appear prudent to encounter the dan- gers that are inevitable in making discoveries. He complained that all this inconvenience had been caused by the caravel Pinta having parted company.
Tuesday, 1st of January 1493 At midnight the Admiral sent a boat to the island Amiga to bring the rhubarb. It returned at vespers with a
bundle of it. They did not bring more because they had no spade to dig it up with; it was taken to be shown to the Sovereigns. The king of that land said that he had sent many canoes for gold. The canoe returned that had been sent for tidings of the Pinta, without having found her. The sailor who went in the canoe said that twenty leagues from there he had seen a king who wore two large plates of gold on his head, but when the Indians in the canoe spoke to him he took them off. He also saw much gold on other people. The Admiral considered that the King Guacanagari ought to have prohibited his people from selling gold to the Christians, in order that it might all pass through his hands. But the king knew the places, as before stated, where there was such a quantity that it was not valued. The spicery also is extensive, and is worth more than pepper or manegueta. He left instructions to those who wished to remain that they were to collect as much as they could.
Wednesday, 2nd of January In the morning the Admiral went on shore to take leave of the King Guacanagari, and to depart from him in
the name of the Lord. He gave him one of his shirts. In order to show him the force of the lombards, and what effect they had, he ordered one to be loaded and fired into the side of the ship that was on shore, for this was apposite to the conversation respecting the Caribs, with whom Guacanagari was at war. The king saw whence the lombard-shot came, and how it passed through the side of the ship and went far away over the sea. The Admiral also ordered a skirmish of the crews of the ships, fully armed, saying to the Cacique that he need have no fear of the Caribs even if they should come. All this was done that the king might look upon the men who were left behind as friends, and that he might also have a proper fear of them. The king took the Admiral to dinner at the house where he was estab- lished, and the others who came with him. The Admiral strongly recommended to his friendship Diego de Arana, Pedro Gutierrez, and Rodrigo Escovedo, whom he left jointly as his lieutenants over the people who remained behind, that all might be well regulated and governed for the service of their Highnesses. The Cacique showed much love for the Admiral, and great sorrow at his departure, especially when he saw him go on board. A relation of that king said to the Admiral that he had ordered a statue of pure gold to be made, as big as the Admiral, and that it would be brought within ten days. The Admiral embarked with the intention of sailing presently, but there was no wind.
He left on that island of Española, which the Indians called Bohio, 39 men with the fortress, and he says that they were great friends of Guacanagari. The lieutenants placed over them were Diego de Arana of Cordova, Pedro Gutierrez, Gentleman of the King’s Bedchamber, and Rodrigo de Escovedo, a native of Seogvia, nephew of Fray Ro- drigo Perez, with all the powers he himself received from the Sovereigns. He left behind all the merchandise which had been provided for bartering, which was much, that they might trade for gold. He also left bread for a year’s sup- ply, wine, and much artillery. He also left the ship’s boat, that they, most of them being sailors, might go, when the time seemed convenient, to discover the gold mine, in order that the Admiral, on his return, might find much gold. They were also to find a good site for a town, for this was not altogether a desirable port; especially as the gold the natives brought came from the east; also, the farther to the east the nearer to Spain. He also left seeds for sowing, and his officers, the Alguazil and Secretary, as well as a ship’s carpenter, a caulker, a good gunner well acquainted with artillery, a cooper, a physician, and a tailor, all being seamen as well.
Thursday, 3rd of January The Admiral did not go to-day, because three of the Indians whom he had brought from the islands, and who
had staid behind, arrived, and said that the others with their women would be there at sunrise. The sea also was rather rough, so that they could not land from the boat. He determined to depart to-morrow, with the grace of God. The Admiral said that if he had the caravel Pinta with him he could make sure of shipping a ton of gold, because he could then follow the coasts of these islands, which he would not do alone, for fear some accident might impede his return to Castille, and prevent him from reporting all he had discovered to the Sovereigns. If it was certain that the caravel Pinta would arrive safely in Spain with Martin Alonso Pinzon, he would not hesitate to act as he desired; but as he had no certain tidings of him, and as he might return and tell lies to the Sovereigns, that he might not receive
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the punishment he deserved for having done so much harm in having parted company without permission, and impeded the good service that might have been done; the Admiral could only trust in our Lord that he would grant favourable weather, and remedy all things.
Friday, 4th of January At sunrise the Admiral weighed the anchor, with little wind, and turned her head N.W. to get clear of the reef,
by another channel wider than the one by which he entered, which, with others, is very good for coming in front of the Villa de la Navidad, in all which the least depth is from 3 to 9 fathoms. These two channels run N.W. and S.E., and the reefs are long, extending from the Cabo Santo to the Cabo de Sierpe for more than six leagues, and then a good three leagues out to sea. At a league outside Cabo Santo there arc not more than 8 fathoms of depth, and inside that cape, on the east side, there are many sunken rocks, and channels to enter between them. All this coast trends N.W. and S.E., and it is all beach, with the land very level for about a quarter of a league inland. After that distance there are very high mountains, and the whole is peopled with a very good race, as they showed themselves to the Christians. Thus the Admiral navigated to the east, shaping a course for a very high mountain, which looked like an island, but is not one, being joined to the mainland by a very low neck. The mountain has the shape of a very beautiful tent. He gave it the name of Monte Cristi. It is due east of Cabo Santo, at a distance of 18 leagues. That day, owing to the light wind, they could not reach within six leagues of Monte Cristi. He discovered four very low and sandy islets, with a reef extending N.W. and S.E. Inside, there is a large gulf, which extends from this mountain to the S.E. at least twenty leagues, which must all be shallow, with many sand-banks, and inside numerous rivers which are not navigable. At the same time the sailor who was sent in the canoe to get tidings of the Pinta reported that he saw a river into which ships might enter. The Admiral anchored at a distance of six leagues from Monte Cristi, in 19 fathoms, and so kept clear of many rocks and reefs. Here he remained for the night. The Admiral gives notice to those who would go to the Villa de la Navidad that, to make Monte Cristi, he should stand off the land two leagues, etc. (But as the coast is now known it is not given here.) The Admiral concluded that Cipango was in that island, and that it contained much gold, spices, mastick, and rhubarb.
Saturday, 5th of January At sunrise the Admiral made sail with the land-breeze, and saw that to the S.S.E. of Monte Cristi, between it
and an island, there seemed to be a good port to anchor in that night. He shaped an E.S.E. course, afterwards S.S.E., for six leagues round the high land, and found a depth of 17 fathoms, with a very clean bottom, going on for three leagues with the same soundings. Afterwards it shallowed to 12 fathoms up to the morro of the mountain, and off the morro, at one league, the depth of 9 fathoms was found, the bottom clean, and all fine sand. The Admiral followed the same course until he came between the mountain and the island, where he found 3 1/2 fathoms at low water, a very good port, and here he anchored. He went in the boat to the islet, where he found remains of fire and footmarks, showing that fishermen had been there. Here they saw many stones painted in colours, or a quarry of such stones, very beautifully worked by nature, suited for the building of a church or other public work, like those he found on the island of San Salvador. On this islet he also found many plants of mastick. He says that this Monte Cristi is very fine and high, but accessible, and of a very beautiful shape, all the land round it being low, a very fine plain, from which the height rises, looking at a distance like an island disunited from other land. Beyond the moun- tain, to the east, he saw a cape at a distance of 24 miles, which he named Cabo del Becerro whence to the moun- tain for two leagues there are reefs of rocks, though it appeared as if there were navigable channels between them. It would, however, be advisable to approach in daylight, and to send a boat ahead to sound. From the mountain eastward to Cabo del Becerro, for four leagues, there is a beach, and the land is low, but the rest is very high, with beautiful mountains and some cultivation. Inland, a chain of mountains runs N.E. and S.W., the most beautiful he had seen, appearing like the hills of Cordova. Some other very lofty mountains appear in the distance towards the south and S.E., and very extensive green valleys with large rivers: all this in such quantity that he did not believe he had exaggerated a thousandth part. Afterwards he saw, to the eastward of the mountain, a land which appeared like that of Monte Cristi in size and beauty. Further to the east and N.E. there is land which is not so high, extending for some hundred miles or near it.
Sunday, 6th of January That port is sheltered from all winds, except north and N.W., and these winds seldom blow in this region. Even
when the wind is from those quarters, shelter may be found near the islet in 3 or 4 fathoms. At sunset the Admi- ral made sail to proceed along the coast, the course being cast, except that it is necessary to look out for several
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reefs of stone and sand, within which there are good anchorages, with channels leading to them. After noon it blew fresh from the east. The Admiral ordered a sailor to go to the mast-head to look out for reefs, and he saw the caravel Pinta coming, with the wind aft, and she joined the Admiral. As there was no place to anchor, owing to the rocky bottom, the Admiral returned for ten leagues to Monte Cristi, with the Pinta in company. Martin Alonso Pinzon came on board the caravel Niña where the Admiral was, and excused himself by saying that he had parted company against his will, giving reasons for it. But the Admiral says that they were all false; and that on the night when Pinzon parted company he was influenced by pride and covetousness. He could not understand whence had come the insolence and disloyalty with which Pinzon had treated him during the voyage. The Admiral had taken no notice, because he did not wish to give place to the evil works of Satan, who desired to impede the voyage. It appeared that one of the Indians, who had been put on board the caravel by the Admiral with others, had said that there was much gold in an island called Baneque, and, as Pinzon’s vessel was light and swift, he determined to go there, parting company with the Admiral, who wished to remain and explore the coasts of Juana and Espanola, with an easterly course. When Martin Alonso arrived at the island of Baneque he found no gold. He then went to the coast of Española, on information from the Indians that there was a great quantity of gold and many mines in that island of Española, which the Indians call Bohio. He thus arrived near the Villa de Navidad about 15 leagues from it, having then been absent more than twenty days, so that the news brought by the Indians was correct, on account of which the King Guacanagari sent a canoe, and the Admiral put a sailor on board; but the Pinta must have gone before the canoe arrived. The Admiral says that the Pinta obtained much gold by barter, receiving large pieces the size of two fingers in exchange for a needle. Martin Alonso took half, dividing the other half among the crew. The Admiral then says: “Thus I am convinced that our Lord miraculously caused that vessel to remain here, this being the best place in the whole island to form a settlement, and the nearest to the gold mines.” He also says that he knew “of another great island, to the south of the island of Juana, in which there is more gold than in this island, so that they collect it in bits the size of beans, while in Española they find the pieces the size of grains of corn. They call that island Yamaye. The Admiral also heard of an island further east, in which there were only women, having been told this by many people. He was also informed that Yamaye and the island of Española were ten days’ journey in a canoe from the mainland, which would be about 70 or 80 leagues, and that there the people wore clothes.
Monday, 7th of January This day the Admiral took the opportunity of caulking the caravel, and the sailors were sent to cut wood. They
found mastick and aloes in abundance.
Tuesday, 8th of January As the wind was blowing fresh from the east and S.E., the Admiral did not get under weigh this morning. He
ordered the caravel to be filled up with wood and water and with all other necessaries for the voyage. He wished to explore all the coast of Española in this direction. But those he appointed to the caravels as captains were brothers, namely, Martin Alonso Pinzon and Vicente Anes. They also had followers who were filled with pride and avarice, considering that all now belonged to them, and unmindful of the honour the Admiral had done them. They had not and did not obey his orders, but did and said many unworthy things against him; while Martin Alonso had deserted him from the 21st of November until the 6th of January without cause or reason, but from disaffection. All these things had been endured in silence by the Admiral in order to secure a good end to the voyage. He determined to return as quickly as possible, to get rid of such an evil company, with whom he thought it necessary to dissimulate, although they were a mutinous set, and though he also had with him many good men; for it was not a fitting time for dealing out punishment.
The Admiral got into the boat and went up the river which is near, towards the S.S.W. of Monte Cristi, a good league. This is where the sailors went to get fresh water for the ships. He found that the sand at the mouth of the river, which is very large and deep, was full of very fine gold, and in astonishing quantity. The Admiral thought that it was pulverized in the drift down the river, but in a short time he found many grains as large as horse-beans, while there was a great deal of the fine powder.
As the fresh water mixed with the salt when it entered the sea, he ordered the boat to go up for the distance of a stone’s-throw. They filled the casks from the boat, and when they went back to the caravel they found small bits of gold sticking to the hoops of the casks and of the barrel. The Admiral gave the name of Rio del Oro to the river. Inside the bar it is very deep, though the mouth is shallow and very wide. The distance to the Villa de la Navidad is 17 leagues, and there are several large rivers on the intervening coast, especially three which probably contain much more gold than this one, because they are larger. This river is nearly the size of the Guadalquivir at Cordova, and from it to the gold mines the distance is not more than 20 leagues. The Admiral further says that he did not care to take the sand containing gold, because their Highnesses would have it all as their property at their town of Navidad;
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and because his first object was now to bring the news and to get rid of the evil company that was with him, whom he had always said were a mutinous set.
Wednesday, 9th of January The Admiral made sail at midnight, with the wind S.E., and shaped an E.N.E. course, arriving at a point named
Punta Roja, which is 60 miles east of Monte Cristi, and anchored under its lee three hours before nightfall. He did not venture to go out at night, because there are many reefs, until they are known. Afterwards, if, as will probably be the case, channels are found between them, the anchorage, which is good and well sheltered, will be profitable. The country between Monte Cristi and this point where the Admiral anchored is very high land, with beautiful plains, the range running east and west, all green and cultivated, with numerous streams of water, so that it is wonderful to see such beauty. In all this country there are many turtles, and the sailors took several when they came on shore to lay their eggs at Monte Cristi as large as a great wooden buckler.
On the previous day, when the Admiral went to the Rio del Oro he saw three mermaids, which rose well out of the sea; but they are not so beautiful as they are painted, though to some extent they have the form of a human face. The Admiral says that he had seen some, at other times, in Guinea, on the coast of the Manequeta.
The Admiral says that this night, in the name of our Lord, he would set out on his homeward voyage without any further delay whatever, for he had found what he sought, and he did not wish to have further cause of offence with Martin Alonso until their Highnesses should know the news of the voyage and what had been done. After- wards he says, “I will not suffer the deeds of evil-disposed persons, with little worth, who, without respect for him to whom they owe their positions, presume to set up their own wills with little ceremony.”
Thursday, 10th of January He departed from the place where he had anchored, and at sunset he reached a river, to which he gave the
name of Rio de Gracia, three leagues to the S.E. He came to at the mouth, where there is good anchorage on the east side. There is a bar with no more than two fathoms of water, and very narrow across the entrance. It is a good and well-sheltered port, except that there it is often misty, owing to which the caravel Pinta, under Martin Alonso, received a good deal of damage. He had been here bartering for 16 days, and got much gold, which was what Mar- tin Alonso wanted. As soon as he heard from the Indians that the Admiral was on the coast of the same island of Española, and that he could not avoid him, Pinzon came to him. He wanted all the people of the ship to swear that he had not been there more than six days. But his treachery was so public that it could not be concealed. He had made a law that half of all the gold that was collected was his. When he left this port he took four men and two girls by force. But the Admiral ordered that they should be clothed and put on shore to return to their homes. “This”, the Admiral says, “is a service of your Highnesses. For all the men and women are subjects of your Highnesses, as well in this island as in the others. Here, where your Highnesses already have a settlement, the people ought to be treat- ed with honour and favour, seeing that this island has so much gold and such good spice-yielding lands.”
Friday, 11th of January At midnight the Admiral left the Rio de Gracia with the land-breeze, and steered eastward until he came to a
cape named Belprado, at a distance of four leagues. To the S.E. is the mountain to which he gave the name of Monte de Plata, eight leagues distant. Thence from the cape Belprado to E.S.E. is the point named Angel, eighteen leagues distant; and from this point to the Monte de Plata there is a gulf, with the most beautiful lands in the world, all high and fine lands which extend far inland. Beyond there is a range of high mountains running east and west, very grand and beautiful. At the foot of this mountain there is a very good port, with 14 fathoms in the entrance. The mountain is very high and beautiful, and all the country is well peopled. The Admiral believed there must be fine rivers and much gold. At a distance of 4 leagues E.S.E. of Cabo del Angel there is a cape named Punta del Hierro, and on the same course, 4 more leagues, a point is reached named Punta Seca. Thence, 6 leagues further on, is Cabo Redondo, and further on Cabo Frances, where a large bay is formed, but there did not appear to be anchorage in it. A league further on is Cabo del Buen Tiempo, and thence, a good league S.S.E., is Cabo Tajado. Thence, to the south, another cape was sighted at a distance of about 15 leagues. To-day great progress was made, as wind and tide were favourable. The Admiral did not venture to anchor for fear of the rocks, so he was hove-to all night.
Saturday, 12th of January Towards dawn the Admiral filled and shaped a course to the east with a fresh wind, running 20 miles before
daylight, and in two hours afterwards 24 miles. Thence he saw land to the south, and steered towards it, distant 48 miles. During the night he must have run 28 miles N.N.E., to keep the vessels out of danger. When he saw the land,
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he named one cape that he saw Cabo de Padre y Hijo, because at the east point there are two rocks, one larger than the other. Afterwards, at two leagues to the eastward, he saw a very fine bay between two grand mountains. He saw that it was a very large port with a very good approach; but, as it was very early in the morning, and as the great- er part of the time it was blowing from the east, and then they had a N.N.W. breeze, he did not wish to delay any more. He continued his course to the east as far as a very high and beautiful cape, all of scarped rock, to which he gave the name of Cabo del Enamorado, which was 32 miles to the east of the port named Puerto Sacro. On round- ing the cape, another finer and loftier point came in sight, like Cape St. Vincent in Portugal, 12 miles east of Cabo del Enamorado. As soon as he was abreast of the Cabo del Enamorado, the Admiral saw that there was a great bay between this and the next point, three leagues across, and in the middle of it a small island. The depth is great at the entrance close to the land. He anchored here in twelve fathoms, and sent the boat on shore for water, and to see if intercourse could be opened with the natives, but they all fled. He also anchored to ascertain whether this was all one land with the island of Española, and to make sure that this was a gulf, and not a channel, forming another island. He remained astonished at the great size of Española.
Sunday, 13th of January The Admiral did not leave the port, because there was no land-breeze with which to go out. He wished to shift
to another better port, because this was rather exposed. He also wanted to wait, in that haven, the conjunction of the sun and moon, which would take place on the 17th of this month, and their opposition with Jupiter and con- junction with Mercury, the sun being in opposition to Jupiter, which is the cause of high winds. He sent the boat on shore to a beautiful beach to obtain yams for food. They found some men with bows and arrows, with whom they stopped to speak, buying two bows and many arrows from them. They asked one of them to come on board the car- avel and see the Admiral; who says that he was very wanting in reverence, more so than any native he had yet seen. His face was all stained with charcoal, but in all parts there is the custom of painting the body different colours. He wore his hair very long, brought together and fastened behind, and put into a small net of parrots’ feathers. He was naked, like all the others. The Admiral supposed that he belonged to the Caribs, who eat men, and that the gulf he had seen yesterday formed this part of the land into an island by itself. The Admiral asked about the Caribs, and he pointed to the east, near at hand, which means that he saw the Admiral yesterday before he entered the bay. The In- dian said there was much gold to the east, pointing to the poop of the caravel, which was a good size, meaning that there were pieces as large. He called gold tuob, and did not understand caona, as they call it in the first part of the island that was visited, nor nozay, the name in San Salvador and the other islands. Copper is called tuob in Españo- la. He also spoke of the island of Goanin where there was much tuob. The Admiral says that he had received notices of these islands from many persons; that in the other islands the natives were in great fear of the Caribs, called by some of them Caniba, but in Española Carib. He thought they must be an audacious race, for they go to all these islands and eat the people they can capture. He understood a few words, and the Indians who were on board com- prehended more, there being a difference in the languages owing to the great distance between the various islands. The Admiral ordered that the Indian should be fed, and given pieces of green and red cloth, and glass beads, which they like very much, and then sent on shore. He was told to bring gold if he had any, and it was believed that he had, from some small things he brought with him. When the boat reached the shore there were fifty-five men behind the trees, naked, and with very long hair, as the women wear it in Castille. Behind the head they wore plumes of feath- ers of parrots and other birds, and each man carried a bow. The Indian landed, and signed to the others to put down their bows and arrows, and a piece of a staff, which is like. . . . .very heavy, carried instead of a sword. As soon as they came to the boat the crew landed, and began to buy the bows and arrows and other arms, in accordance with an order of the Admiral. Having sold two bows, they did not want to give more, but began to attack the Spaniards, and to take hold of them. They were running back to pick up their bows and arrows where they had laid them aside, and took cords in their hands to bind the boat’s crew. Seeing them rushing down, and being prepared—for the Admiral always warned them to be on their guard—the Spaniards attacked the Indians, and gave one a stab with a knife in the buttocks, wounding another in the breast with an arrow. Seeing that they could gain little, although the Christians were only seven and they numbered over fifty, they fled, so that none were left, throwing bows and arrows away. The Christians would have killed many, if the pilot, who was in command, had not prevented them. The Spaniards presently returned to the caravel with the boat. The Admiral regretted the affair for one reason, and was pleased for another. They would have fear of the Christians, and they were no doubt an ill-conditioned people, probably Caribs, who eat men. But the Admiral felt alarm lest they should do some harm to the 39 men left in the fortress and town of Navidad, in the event of their coming here in their boat. Even if they are not Caribs, they are a neighbouring people, with similar habits, and fearless, unlike the other inhabitants of the island, who are timid, and without arms. The Admiral says all this, and adds that he would have liked to have captured some of them. He says that they lighted many smoke signals, as is the custom in this island of Española.
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Monday, 14th of January This evening the Admiral wished to find the houses of the Indians and to capture some of them, believing them
to be Caribs. For, owing to the strong east and north-east winds and the heavy sea, he had remained during the day. Many Indians were seen on shore. The Admiral, therefore, ordered the boat to be sent on shore, with the crew well armed. Presently the Indians came to the stern of the boat, including the man who had been on board the day before, and had received presents from the Admiral. With him there came a king, who had given to the said Indian some beads in token of safety and peace for the boat’s crew. This king, with three of his followers, went on board the boat and came to the caravel. The Admiral ordered them to be given biscuit and treacle to eat, and gave the chief a red cap, some beads, and a piece of red cloth. The others were also given pieces of cloth. The chief said that next day he would bring a mask made of gold, affirming that there was much here, and in Carib and Matinino. They after- wards went on shore well satisfied.
The Admiral here says that the caravels were making much water, which entered by the keel; and he complains of the caulkers at Palos, who caulked the vessels very badly, and ran away when they saw that the Admiral had detected the badness of their work, and intended to oblige them to repair the defect. But, notwithstanding that the caravels were making much water, he trusted in the favour and mercy of our Lord, for his high Majesty well knew how much controversy there was before the expedition could be despatched from Castille, that no one was in the Admiral’s favour save Him alone who knew his heart, and after God came your Highnesses, while all others were against him without any reason. He further says: “And this has been the cause that the royal crown of your High- nesses has not a hundred cuentos of revenue more than after I entered your service, which is seven years ago in this very month, the 20th of January. The increase will take place from now onwards. For the almighty God will remedy all things.” These are his words.
Tuesday, 15th of January The Admiral now wished to depart, for there was nothing to be gained by further delay, after these occurrences
and the tumult with the Indians. To-day he had heard that all the gold was in the district of the town of Navidad, belonging to their Highnesses; and that in the island of Carib there was much copper, as well as in Matinino. The in- tercourse at Carib would, however, be difficult, because the natives are said to eat human flesh. Their island would be in sight from thence, and the Admiral determined to go there, as it was on the route, and thence to Matinino, which was said to be entirely peopled by women, without men. He would thus see both islands, and might take some of the natives. The Admiral sent the boat on shore, but the king of that district had not come, for his village was distant. He, however, sent his crown of gold, as he had promised; and many other natives came with cotton, and bread made from yams, all with their bows and arrows. After the bartering was finished, four youths came to the caravel. They appeared to the Admiral to give such a clear account of the islands to the eastward, on the same route as the Admiral would have to take, that he determined to take them to Castille with him. He says that they had no iron nor other metals; at least none was seen, but it was impossible to know much of the land in so short a time, owing to the diffi- culty with the language, which the Admiral could not understand except by guessing, nor could they know what was said to them, in such a few days. The bows of these people are as large as those of France or England. The arrows are similar to the darts of the natives who have been met with previously, which are made of young canes, which grow very straight, and a vara and a half or two varas in length. They point them with a piece of sharp wood, a palmo and a half long, and at the end some of them fix a fish’s tooth, but most of them anoint it with an herb. They do not shoot as in other parts, but in a certain way which cannot do much harm. Here they have a great deal of fine and long cotton, and plenty of mastick. The bows appeared to be of yew, and there is gold and copper. There is also plenty of aji, which is their pepper, which is more valuable than pepper, and all the people cat nothing else, it being very wholesome. Fifty caravels might be annually loaded with it from Española. The Admiral says that he found a great deal of weed in this bay, the same as was met with at sea when he came on this discovery. He therefore supposed that there were islands to the eastward, in the direction of the position where he began to meet with it; for he considers it certain that this weed has its origin in shallow water near the land, and, if this is the case, these Indies must be very near the Canary Islands. For this reason he thought the distance must be less than 400 leagues.
Wednesday, 16th of January They got under weigh three hours before daylight, and left the gulf, which was named Golfo de las Flechas with
the land-breeze. Afterwards there was a west wind, which was fair to go to the island of Carib on an E.N.E. course. This was where the people live of whom all the natives of the other islands are so frightened, because they roam over the sea in canoes without number, and eat the men they can capture. The Admiral steered the course indicated by one of the four Indians he took yesterday in the Puerto de las Flechas. After having sailed about 64 miles, the
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Indians made signs that the island was to the S.E. The Admiral ordered the sails to be trimmed for that course, but, after having proceeded on it for two leagues, the wind freshened from a quarter which was very favourable for the voyage to Spain. The Admiral had noticed that the crew were downhearted when he deviated from the direct route home, reflecting that both caravels were leaking badly, and that there was no help but in God. He therefore gave up the course leading to the islands, and shaped a direct course for Spain E.N.E. He sailed on this course, making 48 miles, which is 12 leagues, by sunset. The Indians said that by that route they would fall in with the island of Matinino, peopled entirely by women without men, and the Admiral wanted very much to take five or six of them to the Sovereigns. But he doubted whether the Indians understood the route well, and he could not afford to delay, by reason of the leaky condition of the caravels. He, however, believed the story, and that, at certain seasons, men came to them from the island of Carib, distant ten or twelve leagues. If males were born, they were sent to the island of the men; and if females, they remained with their mothers. The Admiral says that these two islands cannot have been more than 1 5 or 20 leagues to the S.E. from where he altered course, the Indians not understanding how to point out the direction. After losing sight of the cape, which was named San Theramo, which was left 16 leagues to the west, they went for 12 leagues E.N.E. The weather was very fine.
Thursday, 17th of January The wind went down at sunset yesterday, the caravels having sailed 14 glasses, each a little less than half-an-
hour, at 4 miles an hour, making 28 miles. Afterwards the wind freshened, and they ran all that watch, which was 10 glasses. Then another six until sunrise at 8 miles an hour, thus making altogether 84 miles, equal to 21 leagues, to the E.N.E., and until sunset 44 miles, or 11 leagues, to the east. Here a booby came to the caravel, and afterwards another. The Admiral saw a great deal of gulf-weed.
Friday, 18th of January During the night they steered E.S.E., with little wind, for 40 miles, equal to 10 leagues, and then 30 miles, or 7
1/2 leagues, until sunrise. All day they proceeded with little wind to E.N.E. and N.E. by E., more or less, her head being sometimes north and at others N.N.E., and, counting one with the other, they made 60 miles, or 15 leagues. There was little weed, but yesterday and to-day the sea appeared to be full of tunnies. The Admiral believed that they were on their way to the tunny-fisheries of the Duke, at Conil and Cádiz. He also thought they were near some islands, because a frigate-bird flew round the caravel, and afterwards went away to the S.S.E. He said that to the S.E. of the island of Española were the islands of Carib, Matinino, and many others.
Saturday, 19th of January During the night they made good 56 miles N.N.E., and 64 N.E. by N. After sunrise they steered N.E. with the
wind fresh from S.W., and afterwards W.S.W. 84 miles, equal to 21 leagues. The sea was again full of small tunnies. There were boobies, frigate-birds, and terns.
Sunday, 20th of January It was calm during the night, with occasional slants of wind, and they only made 20 miles to the N.E. After
sunrise they went 11 miles S.E., and then 36 miles N.N.E., equal to 9 leagues. They saw an immense quantity of small tunnies, the air very soft and pleasant, like Seville in April or May, and the sea, for which God be given many thanks, always very smooth. Frigate- birds, sandpipers, and other birds were seen.
Monday, 21st of January Yesterday, before sunset, they steered N.E. b. E., with the wind east, at the rate of 8 miles an hour until midnight,
equal to 56 miles. Afterwards they steered N.N.E 8 miles an hour, so that they made 104 miles, or 26 leagues, during the night N.E. by N. After sunrise they steered N.N.E. with the same wind, which at times veered to N.E., and they made good 88 miles in the eleven hours of daylight, or 21 leagues: except one that was lost by delay caused by closing with the Pinta to communicate. The air was colder, and it seemed to get colder as they went further north, and also that the nights grew longer owing to the narrowing of the sphere. Many boatswain-birds and terns were seen, as well as other birds, but not so many fish, perhaps owing to the water being colder. Much weed was seen.
Tuesday, 22nd of January Yesterday, after sunset, they steered N.N.E. with an east wind. They made 8 miles an hour during five glasses,
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and three before the watch began, making eight glasses, equal to 72 miles, or 18 leagues. Afterwards they went N.E. by N. for six glasses, which would be another 18 miles. Then, during four glasses of the second watch N.E. at six miles an hour, or three leagues. From that time to sunset, for eleven glasses, E.N.E. at 6 leagues an hour, equal to seven leagues. Then E.N.E. until 11 o’clock, 32 miles. Then the wind fell, and they made no more during that day. The Indians swam about. They saw boatswain-birds and much weed.
Wednesday, 23rd of January To-night the wind was very changeable, but, making the allowances applied by good sailors, they made 84
miles, or 21 leagues, N.E. by N. Many times the caravel Niña had to wait for the Pinta, because she sailed badly when on a bowline, the mizen being of little use owing to the weakness of the mast. If her captain, Martin Alonso Pinzon, had taken the precaution to provide her with a good mast in the Indies, where there are so many and such excellent spars, instead of deserting his commander from motives of avarice, he would have done better. They saw many boatswain-birds and much weed. The heavens have been clouded over during these last days, but there has been no rain. The sea has been as smooth as a river, for which many thanks be given to God. After sunrise they went free, and made 30 miles, or 7 1/2 leagues N.E. During the rest of the day E.N.E. another 30 miles.
Thursday, 24th of January They made 44 miles, or 11 leagues, during the night, allowing for many changes in the wind, which was gener-
ally N.E. After sunrise until sunset E.N.E. 14 leagues.
Friday, 25th of January They steered during part of the night E.N.E. for 13 glasses, making 9 1/2 leagues. Then N.N.E. 6 miles. The
wind fell, and during the day they only made 28 miles E.N.E., or 7 leagues. The sailors killed a tunny and a very large shark, which was very welcome, as they now had nothing but bread and wine, and some yams from the Indies.
Saturday, 26th of January This night they made 56 miles, or 14 leagues, E.S.E. After sunrise they steered E.S.E., and sometimes S.E., mak-
ing 40 miles up to 11 o’clock. Afterwards they went on another tack, and then on a bowline, 24 miles, or 6 leagues, to the north, until night.
Sunday, 27th of January Yesterday, after sunset, they steered N.E. and N.E. by N. at the rate of five miles an hour, which in thirteen hours
would be 65 miles, or 16 1/2 leagues. After sunrise they steered N.E. 24 miles, or 6 leagues, until noon, and from that time until sunset 3 leagues E.N.E.
Monday, 28th of January All night they steered E.N.E. 36 miles, or 9 leagues. After sunrise until sunset E.N.E. 20 miles, or 5 leagues. The
weather was temperate and pleasant. They saw boatswain-birds, sandpipers, and much weed.
Tuesday, 29th of January They steered E.N.E. 39 miles, or 9 1/2 leagues, and during the whole day 8 leagues. The air was very pleasant,
like April in Castille, the sea smooth, and fish they call dorados came on board.
Wednesday, 30th of January All this night they made 6 leagues E.N.E., and in the day S.E. by S. 13 1/2 leagues. Boatswain-birds, much weed,
and many tunnies.
Thursday, 31st of January This night they steered N.E. by N. 30 miles, and afterwards N.E. 35 miles, or 16 leagues. From sunrise to night
E.N.E. 13 1/2 leagues. They saw boatswain-birds and terns.
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Friday, 1st of February They made 16 1/2 leagues E.N.E. during the night, and went on the same course during the day 29 1/4 leagues.
The sea very smooth, thanks be to God.
Saturday, 2nd of February They made 40 miles, or 10 leagues, E.N.E. this night. In the daytime, with the same wind aft, they went 7 miles
an hour, so that in eleven hours they had gone 77 miles, or 9 1/4 leagues. The sea was very smooth, thanks be to God, and the air very soft. They saw the sea so covered with weed that, if they had not known about it before, they would have been fearful of sunken rocks. They saw terns.
Sunday, 3rd of February This night, the wind being aft and the sea very smooth, thanks be to God, they made 29 leagues. The North
Star appeared very high, as it docs off Cape St. Vincent. The Admiral was unable to take the altitude, either with the astrolabe or with the quadrant, because the rolling caused by the waves prevented it. That day he steered his course E.N.E., going 10 miles an hour, so that in eleven hours he made 27 leagues.
Monday, 4th of February During the night the course was N.E. by E., going twelve miles an hour part of the time, and the rest ten miles.
Thus they made 130 miles, or 32 leagues and a half. The sky was very threatening and rainy, and it was rather cold, by which they knew that they had not yet reached the Azores. After sunrise the course was altered to east. During the whole day they made 77 miles, or 19 1/4 leagues.
Tuesday, 5th of February This night they steered east, and made 55 miles, or 13 1/2 leagues. In the day they were going ten miles an hour,
and in eleven hours made 110 miles, or 27 1/2 leagues. They saw sandpipers, and some small sticks, a sign that they were near land.
Wednesday, 6th of February They steered east during the night, going at the rate of eleven miles an hour, so that in the thirteen hours of
the night they made 143 miles, or 35 1/4 leagues. They saw many birds. In the day they went 14 miles an hour, and made 154 miles, or 38 1/2 leagues; so that, including night and day, they made 74 leagues, more or less. Vicente Anes said that they had left the island of Flores to the north and Madeira to the cast. Roldan said that the island of Fayal, or San Gregorio, was to the N.N.E. and Puerto Santo to east. There was much weed.
Thursday, 7th of February This night they steered east, going ten miles an hour, so that in thirteen hours they made 130 miles, or 32 1/2
leagues. In the daytime the rate was eight miles an hour, in eleven hours 88 miles, or 22 leagues. This morning the Admiral found himself 65 leagues south of the island of Flores, and the pilot Pedro Alonso, being further north, according to his reckoning, passed between Terceira and Santa Maria to the east, passing to windward of the island of Madeira, twelve leagues further north. The sailors saw a new kind of weed, of which there is plenty in the islands of the Azores.
Friday, 8th of February They went three miles an hour to the eastward for some time during the night, and afterwards E.S.E., going
twelve miles an hour. From sunrise to noon they made 27 miles, and the same distance from noon till sunset, equal to 13 leagues S.S.E.
Saturday, 9th of February For part of this night they went 3 leagues S.S.E., and afterwards S. by E., then N.E. 5 leagues until ten o’clock in
the forenoon, then 9 leagues east until dark.
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Sunday, 10th of February From sunset they steered east all night, making 130 miles, or 32 1/2 leagues. During the day they went at the
rate of nine miles an hour, making 99 miles, or 24 1/2 leagues, in eleven hours. In the caravel of the Admiral, Vicente Yañez and the two pilots, Sancho Ruiz and Pedro Alonso Niño, and
Roldan, made charts and plotted the route. They all made the position a good deal beyond the islands of the Azores to the east, and, navigating to the north, none of them touched Santa Maria, which is the last of all the Azores. They made the position five leagues beyond it, and were in the vicinity of the islands of Madeira and Puerto Santo. But the Admiral was very different from them in his reckoning, finding the position very much in rear of theirs. This night he found the island of Flores to the north, and to the east he made the direction to be towards Nafe in Africa, passing to leeward of the island of Madeira to the north. . . . .leagues. So that the pilots were nearer to Castille than the Admiral by 150 leagues. The Admiral says that, with the grace of God, when they reach the land they will find out whose reckoning was most correct. He also says that he went 263 leagues from the island of Hierro to the place where he first saw the gulf-weed.
Monday, 11th of February This night they went twelve miles an hour on their course, and during the day they ran 16 1/2 leagues. They saw
many birds, from which they judged that land was near.
Tuesday, 12th of February They went six miles an hour on an east course during the night, altogether 73 miles, or 18 1/4 leagues. At this
time they began to encounter bad weather with a heavy sea; and, if the caravel had not been very well managed, she must have been lost. During the day they made 11 or 12 leagues with much difficulty and danger.
Wednesday, 13th of February From sunset until daylight there was great trouble with the wind, and the high and tempestuous sea. There was
lightning three times to the N.N.E.—a sign of a great storm coming either from that quarter or its opposite. They were lying-to most of the night, afterwards showing a little sail, and made 52 miles, which is 13 leagues. In the day the wind moderated a little, but it soon increased again. The sea was terrific, the waves crossing each other, and straining the vessels. They made 55 miles more, equal to 13 1/2 leagues.
Thursday, 14th of February This night the wind increased, and the waves were terrible, rising against each other, and so shaking and strain-
ing the vessel that she could make no headway, and was in danger of being stove in. They carried the mainsail very closely reefed, so as just to give her steerageway, and proceeded thus for three hours, making 20 miles. Meanwhile, the wind and sea increased, and, seeing the great danger, the Admiral began to run before it, there being nothing else to be done. The caravel Pinta began to run before the wind at the same time, and Martin Alonso ran her out of sight, although the Admiral kept showing lanterns all night, and the other answered. It would seem that she could do no more, owing to the force of the tempest, and she was taken far from the route of the Admiral. He steered that night E.N.E., and made 54 miles, equal to 13 leagues. At sunrise the wind blew still harder, and the cross sea was terrif- ic. They continued to show the closely-reefed mainsail, to enable her to rise from between the waves, or she would otherwise have been swamped. An E.N.E. course was steered, and afterwards N.E. by E. for six hours, making 7 1/2 leagues. The Admiral ordered that a pilgrimage should be made to Our Lady of Guadaloupe, carrying a candle of 6 lbs. of weight in wax, and that all the crew should take an oath that the pilgrimage should be made by the man on whom the lot fell. As many beans were got as there were persons on board, and on one a cross was cut with a knife. They were then put into a cap and shaken up. The first who put in his hand was the Admiral, and he drew out the bean with a cross, so the lot fell on him; and he was bound to go on the pilgrimage and fulfil the vow. Another lot was drawn, to go on pilgrimage to Our Lady of Loreto, which is in the march of Ancona, in the Papal territory, a house where Our Lady works many and great miracles. The lot fell on a sailor of the port of Santa Maria, named Pedro dc Villa, and the Admiral promised to pay his travelling expenses. Another pilgrimage was agreed upon, to watch for one night in Santa Clara at Moguer, and have a Mass said, for which they again used the beans, including the one with a cross. The lot again fell on the Admiral. After this the Admiral and all the crew made a vow that, on arriving at the first land, they would all go in procession, in their shirts, to say their prayers in a church dedicated to Our Lady.
Besides these general vows made in common, each sailor made a special vow; for no one expected to escape, holding themselves for lost, owing to the fearful weather from which they were suffering. The want of ballast in-
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creased the danger of the ship, which had become light, owing to the consumption of the provisions and water. On account of the favourable weather enjoyed among the islands, the Admiral had omitted to make provision for this need, thinking that ballast might be taken on board at the island inhabited by women, which he had intended to visit. The only thing to do was to fill the barrels that had contained wine or fresh water with water from the sea, and this supplied a remedy.
Here the Admiral writes of the causes which made him fear that he would perish, and of others that gave him hope that God would work his salvation, in order that such news as he was bringing to the Sovereigns might not be lost. It seemed to him that the strong desire he felt to bring such great news, and to show that all he had said and offered to discover had turned out true, suggested the fear that he would not be able to do so, and that each stinging insect would be able to thwart and impede the work. He attributes this fear to his little faith, and to his want of con- fidence in Divine Providence. He was comforted, on the other hand, by the mercies of God in having vouchsafed him such a victory, in the discoveries he had made, and in that God had complied with all his desires in Castille, after much adversity and many misfortunes. As he had before put all his trust in God, who had heard him and granted all he sought, he ought now to believe that God would permit the completion of what had been begun, and ordain that he should be saved. Especially as he had freed him on the voyage out, when he had still greater reason to fear, from the trouble caused by the sailors and people of his company, who all with one voice declared their in- tention to return, and protested that they would rise against him. But the eternal God gave him force and valour to withstand them all, and in many other marvellous ways had God shown his will in this voyage besides those known to their Highnesses. Thus he ought not to fear the present tempest, though his weakness and anxiety prevent him from giving tranquillity to his mind. He says further that it gave him great sorrow to think of the two sons he had left at their studies in Cordova, who would be left orphans, without father or mother, in a strange land; while the Sovereigns would not know of the services he had performed in this voyage, nor would they receive the prosperous news which would move them to help the orphans. To remedy this, and that their Highnesses might know how our Lord had granted a victory in all that could be desired respecting the Indies, and that they might understand that there were no storms in those parts, which may be known by the herbs and trees which grow even within the sea; also that the Sovereigns might still have information, even if he perished in the storm, he took a parchment and wrote on it as good an account as he could of all he had discovered, entreating anyone who might pick it up to deliver it to the Sovereigns. He rolled this parchment up in waxed cloth, fastened it very securely, ordered a large wooden barrel to be brought, and put it inside, so that no one else knew what it was. They thought that it was some act of devotion, and so he ordered the barrel to be thrown into the sea. Afterwards, in the showers and squalls, the wind veered to the west, and they went before it, only with the foresail, in a very confused sea, for five hours. They made 2 1/2 leagues N.E. They had taken in the reefed mainsail, for fear some wave of the sea should carry all away.
Friday, 15th of February Last night, after sunset, the sky began to clear towards the west, showing that the wind was inclined to come from
that quarter. The Admiral added the bonnet to the mainsail. The sea was still very high, although it had gone down slightly. They steered E.N.E., and went four miles an hour, which made 13 leagues during the eleven hours of the night. After sunrise they sighted land. It appeared from the bows to bear E.N.E. Some said it was the island of Madeira, oth- ers that it was the rock of Cintra, in Portugal, near Lisbon. Presently the wind headed to E.N.E., and a heavy sea came from the west, the caravel being 5 leagues from the land. The Admiral found by his reckoning that he was close to the Azores, and believed that this was one of them. The pilots and sailors thought it was the land of Castille.
Saturday, 16th of February All that night the Admiral was standing off and on to keep clear of the land, which they now knew to be an
island, sometimes standing N.E., at others N.N.E., until sunrise, when they tacked to the south to reach the island, which was now concealed by a great mist. Another island was in sight from the poop, at a distance of eight leagues. Afterwards, from sunrise until dark, they were tacking to reach the land against a strong wind and head-sea. At the time of repeating the Salve, which is just before dark, some of the men saw a light to leeward, and it seemed that it must be on the island they first saw yesterday. All night they were beating to windward, and going as near as they could, so as to see some way to the island at sunrise. That night the Admiral got a little rest, for he had not slept nor been able to sleep since Wednesday, and his legs were very sore from long exposure to the wet and cold. At sunrise he steered S.S.W., and reached the island at night, but could not make out what island it was, owing to the thick weather.
Monday, 18th of February Yesterday, after sunset, the Admiral was sailing round the island, to see where he could anchor and open com-
munications. He let go one anchor, which he presently lost, and then stood off and on all night. After sunrise he
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again reached the north side of the island, where he anchored, and sent the boat on shore. They had speech with the people, and found that it was the island of Santa Maria, one of the Azores. They pointed out the port to which the caravel should go. They said that they had never seen such stormy weather as there had been for the last fifteen days, and they wondered how the caravel could have escaped. They gave many thanks to God, and showed great joy at the news that the Admiral had discovered the Indies. The Admiral says that his navigation had been very certain, and that he had laid the discoveries down on the chart. Many thanks were due to our Lord, although there had been some delay. But he was sure that he was in the region of the Azores, and that this was one of them. He pretended to have gone over more ground, to mislead the pilots and mariners who pricked off the charts, in order that he might remain master of that route to the Indies, as, in fact, he did. For none of the others kept an accurate reckoning, so that no one but himself could be sure of the route to the Indies.
Tuesday, 19th of February After sunset three natives of the island came to the beach and hailed. The Admiral sent the boat, which re-
turned with fowls and fresh bread. It was carnival time, and they brought other things which were sent by the captain of the island, named Juan de Castañeda, saying that he knew the Admiral very well, and that he did not come to see him because it was night, but that at dawn he would come with more refreshments, bringing with him three men of the boat’s crew, whom he did not send back owing to the great pleasure he derived from hearing their account of the voyage. The Admiral ordered much respect to be shown to the messengers, and that they should be given beds to sleep in that night, because it was late, and the town was far off. As on the previous Thursday, when they were in the midst of the storm, they had made a vow to go in procession to a church of Our Lady as soon as they came to land, the Admiral arranged that half the crew should go to comply with their obligation to a small chapel, like a hermitage, near the shore; and that he would himself go afterwards with the rest. Believing that it was a peaceful land, and confiding in the offers of the captain of the island, and in the peace that existed between Spain and Portugal, he asked the three men to go to the town and arrange for a priest to come and say Mass. The half of the crew then went in their shirts, in compliance with their vow. While they were at their prayers, all the people of the town, horse and foot, with the captain at their head, came and took them all prisoners. The Admiral, suspect- ing nothing, was waiting for the boat to take him and the rest to accomplish the vow. At 11 o’clock, seeing that they did not come back, he feared that they had been detained, or that the boat had been swamped, all the island being surrounded by high rocks. He could not see what had taken place, because the hermitage was round a point. He got up the anchor, and made sail until he was in full view of the hermitage, and he saw many of the horsemen dismount and get into the boat with arms. They came to the caravel to seize the Admiral. The captain stood up in the boat, and asked for an assurance of safety from the Admiral, who replied that he granted it; but, what outrage was this, that he saw none of his people in the boat? The Admiral added that they might come on board, and that he would do all that might be proper. The Admiral tried, with fair words, to get hold of this captain, that he might recover his own people, not considering that he broke faith by giving him security, because he had offered peace and security, and had then broken his word. The captain, as he came with an evil intention, would not come on board. Seeing that he did not come alongside, the Admiral asked that he might be told the reason for the detention of his men, an act which would displease the King of Portugal, because the Portuguese received much honour in the territories of the King of Castille, and were as safe as if they were in Lisbon. He further said that the Sovereigns had given him letters of recommendation to all the Lords and Princes of the world, which he would show the captain if he would come on board; that he was the Admiral of the Ocean Sea, and Viceroy of the Indies, which belonged to their High- nesses, and that he would show the commissions signed with their signatures, and attested by their seals, which he held up from a distance. He added that his Sovereigns were in friendship and amity with the King of Portugal, and had ordered that all honour should be shown to ships that came from Portugal. Further, that if the captain did not surrender his people, he would still go on to Castille, as he had quite sufficient to navigate as far as Seville, in which case the captain and his followers would be severely punished for their offence. Then the captain and those with him replied that they did not know the King and Queen of Castille there, nor their letters, nor were they afraid of them, and they would give the Admiral to understand that this was Portugal, almost menacing him. On hearing this the Admiral was much moved, thinking that some cause of disagreement might have arisen between the two kingdoms during his absence, yet he could not endure that they should not be answered reasonably. Afterwards he turned to the captain, and said that he should go to the port with the caravel, and that all that had been done would be reported to the King his Lord. The Admiral made those who were in the caravel bear witness to what he said, calling to the captain and all the others, and promising that he would not leave the caravel until a hundred Portu- guese had been taken to Castille, and all that island had been laid waste. He then returned to anchor in the port where he was first, the wind being very unfavourable for doing anything else.
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Wednesday, 20th of February The Admiral ordered the ship to be repaired, and the casks to be filled alongside for ballast. This was a very bad
port, and he feared he might have to cut the cables. This was so, and he made sail for the island of San Miguel; but there is no good port in any of the Azores for the weather they then experienced, and there was no other remedy but to go to sea.
Thursday, 21st of February Yesterday the Admiral left that island of Santa Maria for that of San Miguel, to see if a port could be found to
shelter his vessel from the bad weather. There was much wind and a high sea, and he was sailing until night with- out being able to see either one land or the other, owing to the thick weather caused by wind and sea. The Admiral says he was in much anxiety, because he only had three sailors who knew their business, the rest knowing nothing of seamanship. He was lying-to all that night, in great danger and trouble. Our Lord showed him mercy in that the waves came in one direction, for if there had been a cross sea they would have suffered much more. After sunrise the island of San Miguel was not in sight, so the Admiral determined to return to Santa Maria, to see if he could recover his people and boat, and the anchors and cables he had left there.
The Admiral says that he was astonished at the bad weather he encountered in the region of these islands. In the Indies he had navigated throughout the winter without the necessity for anchoring, and always had fine weath- er, never having seen the sea for a single hour in such a state that it could not be navigated easily. But among these islands he had suffered from such terrible storms. The same had happened in going out as far as the Canary Islands, but as soon as they were passed there was always fine weather, both in sea and air. In concluding these remarks, he observes that the sacred theologians and wise men said well when they placed the terrestrial paradise in the Far East, because it is a most temperate region. Hence these lands that he had now discovered must, he says, be in the extreme East.
Friday, 22nd of February Yesterday the Admiral came-to off Santa Maria, in the place or port where he had first anchored. Presently a
man came down to some rocks at the edge of the beach, hailing that they were not to remain there. Soon afterwards the boat came with five sailors, two priests, and a scrivener. They asked for safety, and when it was granted by the Admiral, they came on board, and, as it was night they slept on board, the Admiral showing them all the civility he could. In the morning they asked to be shown the authority of the Sovereigns of Castille, by which the voyage had been made. The Admiral felt that they did this to give some colour of right to what they had done, and to show that they had right on their side. As they were unable to secure the person of the Admiral, whom they intended to get into their power when they came with the boat armed, they now feared that their game might not turn out so well, thinking, with some fear, of what the Admiral had threatened, and which he proposed to put into execution. In order to get his people released, the Admiral displayed the general letter of the Sovereigns to all Princes and Lords, and other documents, and having given them of what he had, the Portuguese went on shore contented, and pres- ently released all the crew and the boat. The Admiral heard from them that if he had been captured also, they never would have been released, for the captain said that those were the orders of the King his Lord.
Saturday, 23rd of February Yesterday the weather began to improve, and the Admiral got under weigh to seek a better anchorage, where he
could take in wood and stones for ballast; but he did not find one until late.
Sunday, 24th of February He anchored yesterday in the afternoon, to take in wood and stones, but the sea was so rough that they could
not land from the boat, and during the first watch it came on to blow from the west and S.W. He ordered sail to be made, owing to the great danger there is off these islands in being at anchor with a southerly gale, and as the wind was S.W. it would go round to south. As it was a good wind for Castille, he gave up his intention of taking in wood and stones, and shaped an easterly course until sunset, going seven miles an hour for six hours and a half, equal to 45 1/2 miles. After sunset he made six miles an hour, or 66 miles in eleven hours, altogether 111 miles, equal to 28 leagues.
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Monday, 25th of February Yesterday, after sunset, the caravel went at the rate ot five miles an hour on an easterly course, and in the eleven
hours of the night she made 65 miles, equal to 16 1/4 leagues. From sunrise to sunset they made another 16 1/2 leagues with a smooth sea, thanks be to God. A very large bird, like an eagle, came to the caravel.
Tuesday, 26th of February Yesterday night the caravel steered her course in a smooth sea, thanks be to God. Most of the time she was
going eight miles an hour, and made a hundred miles, equal to 25 leagues. After sunrise there was little wind and some rain-showers. They made about 8 leagues E.N.E.
Wednesday, 27th of February During the night and day she was off her course, owing to contrary winds and a heavy sea. She was found to be
125 leagues from Cape St. Vincent, and 80 from the island of Madeira, 106 from Santa Maria. It was very trouble- some to have such bad weather just when they were at the very door of their home.
Thursday, 28th of February The same weather during the night, with the wind from south and S.E., sometimes shifting to N.E. and E.N.E.,
and it was the same all day.
Friday, 1st of March To-night the course was E.N.E., and they made twelve leagues. During the day, 23 1/2 leagues on the same
course.
Saturday, 2nd of March The course was E.N.E., and distance made good 28 leagues during the night, and 20 in the day.
Sunday, 3rd of March After sunset the course was east; but a squall came down, split all the sails, and the vessel was in great danger;
but God was pleased to deliver them. They drew lots for sending a pilgrim in a shirt to Santa Maria de la Cinta at Huelva, and the lot fell on the Admiral. The whole crew also made a vow to fast on bread and water during the first Saturday after their arrival in port. They had made 60 miles before the sails were split. Afterwards they ran under bare poles, owing to the force of the gale and the heavy sea. They saw signs of the neighbourhood of land, finding themselves near Lisbon.
Monday, 4th of March During the night they were exposed to a terrible storm, expecting to be overwhelmed by the cross seas, while
the wind seemed to raise the caravel into the air, and there was rain and lightning in several directions. The Admiral prayed to our Lord to preserve them, and in the first watch it pleased our Lord to show land, which was reported by the sailors. As it was advisable not to reach it before it was known whether there was any port to which he could run for shelter, the Admiral set the mainsail, as there was no other course but to proceed, though in great danger. Thus God preserved them until daylight, though all the time they were in infinite fear and trouble. When it was light, the Admiral knew the land, which was the rock of Cintra, near the river of Lisbon, and he resolved to run in because there was nothing else to be done. So terrible was the storm, that in the village of Cascaes, at the mouth of the river, the people were praying for the little vessel all that morning. After they were inside, the people came off, looking upon their escape as a miracle. At the third hour they passed Rastelo, within the river of Lisbon, where they were told that such a winter, with so many storms, had never before been known, and that 25 ships had been lost in Flanders, while others had been wind-bound in the river for four months. Presently the Admiral wrote to the King of Portugal, who was then at a distance of nine leagues, to state that the Sovereigns of Castille had ordered him to enter the ports of his Highness, and ask for what he required for payment, and requesting that the King would give permission for the caravel to come to Lisbon, because some ruffians, hearing that he had much gold on board, might attempt a rob- bery in an unfrequented port, knowing that they did not come from Guinea, but from the Indies.
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Tuesday, 5th of March To-day the great ship of the King of Portugal was also at anchor off Rastelo, with the best provision of artillery
and arms that the Admiral had ever seen. The master of her, named Bartolomé Diaz, of Lisbon, came in an armed boat to the caravel, and ordered the Admiral to get into the boat, to go and give an account of himself to the agents of the king and to the captain of that ship. The Admiral replied that he was the Admiral of the Sovereigns of Cas- tille, and that he would not give an account to any such persons, nor would he leave the ship except by force, as he had not the power to resist. The master replied that he must then send the master of the caravel. The Admiral answered that neither the master nor any other person should go except by force, for if he allowed anyone to go, it would be as if he went himself; and that such was the custom of the Admirals of the Sovereigns of Castille, rather to die than to submit, or to let any of their people submit. The master then moderated his tone, and told the Admiral that if that was his determination he might do as he pleased. He, however, requested that he might be shown the letters of the Kings of Castille, if they were on board. The Admiral readily showed them, and the master returned to the ship and reported what had happened to the captain, named Alvaro Dama. That officer, making great festival with trumpets and drums, came to the caravel to visit the Admiral, and offered to do all that he might require.
Wednesday, 6th of March As soon as it was known that the Admiral came from the Indies, it was wonderful how many people came from
Lisbon to see him and the Indians, giving thanks to our Lord, and saying that the heavenly Majesty had given all this to the Sovereigns of Castille as a reward for their faith and their great desire to serve God.
Thursday, 7th of March To-day an immense number of people came to the caravel, including many knights, and amongst them the
agents of the king, and all gave infinite thanks to our Lord for so wide an increase of Christianity granted by our Lord to the Sovereigns of Castille; and they said that they received it because their Highnesses had worked and laboured for the increase of the religion of Christ.
Friday, 8th of March To-day the Admiral received a letter from the King of Portugal brought by Don Martin de Noroña, asking him
to visit him where he was, as the weather was not suitable for the departure of the caravel. He complied, to prevent suspicion, although he did not wish to go, and went to pass the night at Sacanben. The king had given orders to his officers that all that the Admiral, his crew, and the caravel were in need of should be given without payment, and that all the Admiral wanted should be complied with.
Saturday, 9th of March To-day the Admiral left Sacanben, to go where the king was residing, which was at Valparaiso, nine leagues
from Lisbon. Owing to the rain, he did not arrive until night. The king caused him to be received very honourably by the principal officers of his household; and the king himself received the Admiral with great favour, making him sit down, and talking very pleasantly. He offered to give orders that everything should be done for the service of the Sovereigns of Castille, and said that the successful termination of the voyage had given him great pleasure. He said further that he understood that, in the capitulation between the Sovereigns and himself, that conquest be- longed to him. The Admiral replied that he had not seen the capitulation, nor knew more than that the Sovereigns had ordered him not to go either to Lamina or to any other port of Guinea, and that this had been ordered to be proclaimed in all the ports of Andalusia before he sailed. The king graciously replied that he held it for certain that there would be no necessity for any arbitrators. The Admiral was assigned as a guest to the Prior of Crato, who was the principal person present, and from whom he received many favours and civilities.
Sunday, 10th of March To-day, after Mass, the king repeated that if the Admiral wanted anything he should have it. He conversed
much with the Admiral respecting his voyage, always ordering him to sit down, and treating him with great favour.
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Monday, 11th of March To-day the Admiral took leave of the king, who entrusted him with some messages to the Sovereigns, and
always treating him with much friendliness. He departed after dinner, Don Martin de Noroña being sent with him, and all the knights set out with him, and went with him some distance, to do him honour. Afterwards he came to a monastery of San Antonio, near a place called Villafranca, where the Queen was residing. The Admiral went to do her reverence and to kiss her hand, because she had sent to say that he was not to go without seeing her. The Duke and the Marquis were with her, and the Admiral was received with much honour. He departed at night, and went to sleep at Llandra.
Tuesday, 12th of March To-day, as he was leaving Llandra to return to the caravel, an esquire of the king arrived, with an offer that if he
desired to go to Castille by land, that he should be supplied with lodgings, and beasts, and all that was necessary. When the Admiral took leave of him, he ordered a mule to be supplied to him, and another for his pilot, who was with him, and he says that the pilot received a present of twenty espadines. He said this that the Sovereigns might know all that was done. He arrived on board the caravel that night.
Wednesday, 13th of March To-day, at 8 o’clock, with the flood tide, and the wind N.N.W., the Admiral got under weigh and made sail for
Seville.
Thursday, 14th of March Yesterday, after sunset, a southerly course was steered, and before sunrise they were off Cape St. Vincent, which
is in Portugal. Afterwards he shaped a course to the east for Saltes, and went on all day with little wind, “until now that the ship is off Furon.”
Friday, 15th of March Yesterday, after sunset, she went on her course with little wind, and at sunrise she was off Saltes. At noon, with
the tide rising, they crossed the bar of Saltes, and reached the port which they had left on the 3rd of August of the year before. The Admiral says that so ends this journal, unless it becomes necessary to go to Barcelona by sea, hav- ing received news that their Highnesses are in that city, to give an account of all his voyage which our Lord had per- mitted him to make, and saw fit to set forth in him. For, assuredly, he held with a firm and strong knowledge that his high Majesty made all things good, and that all is good except sin. Nor can he value or think of anything being done without His consent. “I know respecting this voyage”, says the Admiral, “that he has miraculously shown his will, as may be seen from this journal, setting forth the numerous miracles that have been displayed in the voyage, and in me who was so long at the court of your Highnesses, working in opposition to and against the opinions of so many chief persons of your household, who were all against me, looking upon this enterprise as folly. But I hope, in our Lord, that it will be a great benefit to Christianity, for so it has ever appeared.” These are the final words of the Admiral Don Cristoval Colon respecting his first voyage to the Indies and their discovery.
The First Letter of Christopher Columbus to the Noble Lord Raphael Sanchez Announcing the Discovery of America
Christopher Columbus, Translated by Henry W. Haynes
Rome, April 1493
Letter from Christopher Colom [Columbus]: to whom our age owes much; on the recently discovered Islands of India beyond the Ganges. In the search for which he had been sent out eight months earlier under the auspices and at the expense of the most invincible Ferdinand and Helisabet [Isabella], rulers of Spain: addressed to the magnif- icent Lord Gabriel Sanchis [Sanchez] treasurer of these most serene highnesses; which the noble and learned man Leander de Cosco translated from the Spanish into Latin on the third day before the calends of May [i.e., 29 April] 1493, in the first year of the pontificate of Alexander VI.
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AS I know that it will afford you pleasure that I have brought my undertaking to a successful result, I have deter- mined to write you this letter to inform you of everything that has been done and discovered in this voyage of mine.
On the thirty-third day after leaving Cadiz I came into the Indian Sea, where I discovered many islands in- habited by numerous people. I took possession of all of them for our most fortunate King by making public proc- lamation and unfurling his standard, no one making any resistance. To the first of them I have given the name of our blessed Saviour, whose aid I have reached this and all the rest; but the Indians call it Guanahani. To each of the others also I gave a new name, ordering one to be called Sancta Maria de Concepcion, another Fernandina, another Isabella, another Juana; and so with all the rest. As soon as we reached the island which I have just said was called Juana, I sailed along its coast some considerable distance towards the West, and found it to be so large, without any apparent end, that I believed it was not an island, but a continent, a province of Cathay. But I saw neither towns nor cities lying on the seaboard, only some villages and country farms, with whose inhabitants I could not get speech, because they fled as soon as they beheld us. I continued on, supposing I should come upon some city, or coun- try-houses. At last, finding that no discoveries rewarded our further progress, and that this course was leading us towards the North, which I was desirous of avoiding, as it was now winter in these regions, and it had always been my intention to proceed Southwards, and the winds also were favorable to such desires, I concluded not to attempt any other adventures; so, turning back, I came again to a certain harbor, which I had remarked. From there I sent two of our men into the country to learn whether there was any king or cities in that land. They journeyed for three days, and found innumerable people and habitations, but small and having no fixed government; on which account they returned. Meanwhile I had learned from some Indians, whom I had seized at this place, that this country was really an island. Consequently I continued along towards the East, as much as 322 miles, always hugging the shore. Where was the very extremity of the island, from there I saw another island to the Eastwards, distant 54 miles from this Juana, which I named Hispana; and proceeded to it, and directed my course for 564 miles East by North as it were, just as I had done at Juana.
The island called Juana, as well as the others in its neighborhood, is exceedingly fertile. It has numerous har- bors on all sides, very safe and wide, above comparison with any I have ever seen. Through it flow many very broad and health-giving rivers; and there are in it numerous very lofty mountains. All these island are very beautiful, and of quite different shapes; easy to be traversed, and full of the greatest variety of trees reaching to the stars. I think these never lose their leaves, and I saw them looking as green and lovely as they are wont to be in the month of May in Spain. Some of them were in leaf, and some in fruit; each flourishing in the condition its nature required. The nightingale was singing and various other little birds, when I was rambling among them in the month of November. There are also in the island called Juana seven or eight kinds of palms, which as readily surpass ours in height and beauty as do all the other trees, herbs, and fruits. There are also wonderful pinewoods, fields, and extensive mead- ows; birds of various kinds, and honey; and all the different metals, except iron.
In the island, which I have said before was called Hispana, there are very lofty and beautiful mountains, great farms, groves and fields, most fertile both for cultivation and for pasturage, and well adapted for constructing buildings. The convenience of the harbors in this island, and the excellence of the rivers, in volume and salubrity, surpass human belief, unless on should see them. In it the trees, pasture-lands and fruits different much from those of Juana. Besides, this Hispana abounds in various kinds of species, gold and metals. The inhabitants of both sexes of this and of all the other island I have seen, or of which I have any knowledge, always go as naked as they came into the world, except that some of the women cover their private parts with leaves or branches, or a veil of cotton, which they prepare themselves for this purpose. They are all, as I said before, unprovided with any sort of iron, and they are destitute of arms, which are entirely unknown to them, and for which they are not adapted; not on account of any bodily deformity, for they are well made, but because they are timid and full of terror. They carry, however, canes dried in the sun in place of weapons, upon whose roots they fix a wooded shaft, dried and sharpened to a point. But they never dare to make use of these; for it has often happened, when I have sent two or three of my men to some of their villages to speak with the inhabitants, that a crowd of Indians has sallied forth; but when they saw our men approaching, they speedily took to flight, parents abandoning children, and children their parents. This happened not because any loss or injury had been inflicted upon any of them. On the contrary I gave whatever I had, cloth and many other things, to whomsoever I approached, or with whom I could get speech, without any re- turn being made to me; but they are by nature fearful and timid. But when they see that they are safe, and all fear is banished, they are very guileless and honest, and very liberal of all they have. No one refuses the asker anything that he possesses; on the contrary they themselves invite us to ask for it. They manifest the greatest affection towards all of us, exchanging valuable things for trifles, content with the very least thing or nothing at all. But I forbade giving them a very trifling thing and of no value, such as bits of plates, dishes, or glass; also nails and straps; although it seemed to them, if they could get such, that they had acquired the most beautiful jewels in the world. For it chanced that a sailor received for a single strap as much weight of gold as three sold solidi; and so others for other things of less price, especially for new blancas, and for some gold coins, for which they gave whatever they seller asked;
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for instance, an ounce and a half or two ounces of gold, or thirty or forty pounds of cotton, with which they were already familiar. So too for pieces of hoops, jugs, jars, and pots they bartered cotton and gold like beasts. This I for- bade, because it was plainly unjust; and I gave them many beautiful and pleasing things, which I had brought with me, for no return whatever, in order to win their affection, and that they might become Christians and inclined to love our King and Queen and Princes and all the people of Spain; and that they might be eager to search for and gather and give to us what they abound in and we greatly need.
They do not practice idolatry; on the contrary, they believe that all strength, all power, in short all blessings, are from Heaven, and I have come down from there with these ships and sailors; and in this spirit was I received everywhere, after they had got over their fear. They are neither lazy nor awkward; but, on the contrary, are of an excellent and acute understanding. Those who have sailed these seas give excellent accounts of everything; but they have never seen men wearing clothes, or ships like ours.
As soon as I had come into this sea, I took by force some Indians from the first island, in order that they might learn from us, and at the same time tell us what they knew about affairs in these regions. This succeeded admira- bly; for in a short time we understood them and they us both by gesture and signs and words; and they were of great service to us. They are coming now with me, and have always believed that I have come from Heaven, not- withstanding the long time they have been, and still remain, with us. They were the first who told this wherever we went, one calling to another, with a loud voice, Come, Come, you will see Men from Heaven. Whereupon both women and men, children and adults, young and old, laying aside the fear they had felt a little before, flocked eager- ly to see us, a great crowd thronging about our steps, some bringing food, and others drink, with greatest love and incredible good will.
In each island are many boats made of solid wood; though narrow, yet in length and shape similar to our two-bankers, but swifter in motion, and managed by oars only. Some of them are large, some small, and some of medium size; but most are larger than a two-banker rowed by 18 oars. With these they sail to all the islands, which are innumerable; engaging in traffic and commerce with each other. I saw some of these biremes, or boats, which carried 70 or 80 rowers. In all these islands there is no difference in the appearance of the inhabitants, and none in their customs and language, so that all understand one another. This is a circumstance most favorable for what I believe our most serene King especially desires, that is, their conversion to the holy faith of Christ; for which, indeed, so far as I could understand, they are very ready and prone.
I have told already how I sailed in a straight course along the island of Juana from West to East 322 miles. From this voyage and the extent of my journeyings I can say that this Juana is larger than En- gland and Scotland together. For beyond the aforesaid 322 miles, in that portion which looks towards the West, there are two more provinces, which I did not visit. One of them the Indians call Anan, and its inhabitants are born with tails. These provinces extend 180 miles, as I learned from the Indians, whom I am bringing with me, and who are well acquainted with all these islands.
The distance around Hispana is greater than all Spain from Colonia to Fontarabia; as is readily proved, because its fourth side, which I myself traversed in a straight course from West to East, stretches 540 miles. This island is to be coveted, and not to be despised when acquired. As I have already taken pos- session of all the others, as I have said, for our most invincible King, and the role over them is entirely committed to the said King, so in this one I have taken special possession of a certain large town, in a most convenient spot, well
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suited for all profit and commerce, to which I have given the name of the Nativity of our Lord; and there I ordered a fort of be built forthwith, which ought to be finished now. In it I left as many men as seemed necessary, with all kinds of arms, and provisions sufficient for more than a year; also a caravel and men to build others, skilled not only in trade but in others. I secured for them the good will and remarkable friendship of the King of the island; for these people are very affectionate and kind; so much so that the aforesaid King took a pride in my being called his brother. Although they should change their minds, and wish to harm those who have remained in the fort, they cannot; because they are without arms, go naked and are too timid; so that, in truth, those who hold the aforesaid fort can lay waste the whole of that island, without any danger to themselves, provided they do not violate the rules and instructions I have given them.
In all these islands, as I understand, every man is satisfied with only one wife, except the princes or kings, who are permitted to have 20. The women appear to work more than the men; but I could not well understand whether they have private property, or not; for I saw that what every one had was shared with the others, especially meals, provisions and such things. I found among them no monsters, as very many expected; but men of great deference and kind; nor are they black like Ethiopians; but they have long, straight hair. They do not dwell where the rays of Sun have most power, although the Sun’s heat is very great there, as this region is twenty-six degrees distant from the equinoctial line. From the summits of the mountains there comes great cold, but the Indians mitigate it by being in- ured to the weather, and by the help of very hot food, which they consume frequently and in immoderate quantities.
I saw no monsters, neither did I hear accounts of any such except in an island called Charis, the second as one crosses over from Spain to India, which is inhabited by a certain race regarded by their neighbors as very ferocious. They eat human flesh, and make use of several kinds of boats by which they cross over to all the Indian islands, and plunder and carry off whatever they can. But they differ in no respect from the others except in wearing their hair long after the fashion of women. They make use of bows and arrows made of reeds, having pointed shafts fastened to the thicker portion, as we have before described. For this reason they are considered to be ferocious, and the oth- er Indians consequently are terribly afraid of them; but I consider them of no more account than the others. They have intercourse with certain women who dwell alone upon the island of Mateurin, the first as one crosses from Spain to India. These women follow none of the usual occupations of their sex; but they use bows and arrows like those of their husbands, which I have described, and protect themselves with plates of copper, which is found in the greatest abundance among them.
I was informed that there is another island larger than the aforesaid Hispana, whose inhabitants have no hair; and that there is a greater abundance of gold in it than in any of the others. Some of the inhabitants of these islands and of the others I have seen I am bringing over with me to bear testimony to what I have reported. Finally, to sum up in a few words the chief results and advantages of our departure and speedy return, I make this promise to our most invincible Sovereigns, that, if I am supported by some little assistance from them, I will give them as much gold as they have need of, and in addition spices, cotton and mastic, which is found only in Chios, and as much aloes-wood, and as many heathen slaves as their majesties may choose to demand; besides these, rhubarb and other kinds of drugs, which I think the men I left in the fort before alluded to, have already discovered, or will do so; as I have delayed nowhere longer than the winds compelled me, except while I was providing for the construction of a fort in the city of Nativity, and for making all things safe.
Although these matters are very wonderful and unheard of, they would have been much more so, if ships to a reasonable amount had been furnished me. But what has been accomplished is great and wonderful, and not at all proportionate to my deserts, but to the sacred Christian faith, and to the piety and religion of our Sovereigns. For what is the mind of man could not compass the spirit of God has granted to mortals. For God is wont and listen to his servants who love his precepts, even in impossibilities, as has happened to me in the present instance, who have accomplished what human strength has hitherto never attained. For if any one has written or told anything about these islands, all have done so either obscurely or by guesswork, so that if has almost seemed to be fabulous.
Therefore let King and Queen and Princes, and their most fortunate realms, and all other Christian provinces, let us all return thanks to our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, who has bestowed so great
a victory and reward upon us; let there be processions and solemn sacrifices prepared; let the churches be decked with festal boughs; let Christ rejoice upon Earth as he rejoices in Heaven, as he foresees that so many souls of so many people heretofore lost are to be saved; and let us be glad not only for the exaltation of our faith, but also for the increase of temporal prosperity, in which not only Spain but all Christendom is about to share.
As these things have been accomplished so have they been briefly narrated. Farewell.
Christopher Colom, Admiral of the Ocean Fleet Lisbon, March 14th.
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THE PRINCE
Niccolò Machiavelli (1469-1527 C.E.)
First published in 1532 C.E.
Italy
The Prince is written by Niccolò Machiavelli, an Italian Renaissance political philosopher, statesman, playwright, novelist, and poet. This booklet, composed of twenty-six chapters, is a political treatise offering advice to rulers on how to obtain and keep power. It is assumed that a version of the manuscript had been circulated from 1513 on, whereas it was first officially published in 1532, posthumously. Drawing lessons from the Roman historian Livy, its innovation lies in the treatise’s focus on the efficacy of ruling, a significant contrast from traditional Christian-moral- ity-based instructions for rulers. Although some had even interpreted it as a satire, the adjective “Machiavellian” has come to have a pejorative connation because of the text’s apparent indifference to moral and ethical concerns.
Written by Kyounghye Kwon
Selections from The Prince
Nicolo Machiavelli, Translated by W. K. Marriott
Chapter VII Concerning New Principalities Which Are Acquired Either By The Arms Of Others Or By Good Fortune Those who solely by good fortune become princes from
being private citizens have little trouble in rising, but much in keeping atop; they have not any difficulties on the way up, be- cause they fly, but they have many when they reach the summit. Such are those to whom some state is given either for money or by the favour of him who bestows it; as happened to many in Greece, in the cities of Ionia and of the Hellespont, where princ- es were made by Darius, in order that they might hold the cities both for his security and his glory; as also were those emperors who, by the corruption of the soldiers, from being citizens came to empire. Such stand simply elevated upon the goodwill and the fortune of him who has elevated them—two most inconstant and unstable things. Neither have they the knowledge requisite for the position; because, unless they are men of great worth and ability, it is not reasonable to expect that they should know how to command, having always lived in a private condition; besides, they cannot hold it because they have not forces which they can keep friendly and faithful.
States that rise unexpectedly, then, like all other things in nature which are born and grow rapidly, cannot leave their foundations and correspondencies fixed in such a way that the first storm will not overthrow them; unless, as is said, those who unexpectedly become princes are men of so much ability that they know they have to be prepared at once to hold that which fortune has thrown into their laps, and that those foundations, which others have laid BEFORE they became princes, they must lay AFTERWARDS.
Concerning these two methods of rising to be a prince by ability or fortune, I wish to adduce two examples within our own recollection, and these are Francesco Sforza and Cesare Borgia. Francesco, by proper means and with great ability, from
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being a private person rose to be Duke of Milan, and that which he had acquired with a thousand anxieties he kept with little trouble. On the other hand, Cesare Borgia, called by the people Duke Valentino, acquired his state during the ascendancy of his father, and on its decline he lost it, notwithstanding that he had taken every measure and done all that ought to be done by a wise and able man to fix firmly his roots in the states which the arms and fortunes of others had bestowed on him.
Because, as is stated above, he who has not first laid his foundations may be able with great ability to lay them afterwards, but they will be laid with trouble to the architect and danger to the building. If, therefore, all the steps taken by the duke be considered, it will be seen that he laid solid foundations for his future power, and I do not consider it superfluous to discuss them, because I do not know what better precepts to give a new prince than the example of his actions; and if his dispositions were of no avail, that was not his fault, but the extraordinary and extreme malignity of fortune.
Alexander the Sixth, in wishing to aggrandize the duke, his son, had many immediate and prospective difficul- ties. Firstly, he did not see his way to make him master of any state that was not a state of the Church; and if he was willing to rob the Church he knew that the Duke of Milan and the Venetians would not consent, because Faenza and Rimini were already under the protection of the Venetians. Besides this, he saw the arms of Italy, especially those by which he might have been assisted, in hands that would fear the aggrandizement of the Pope, namely, the Orsini and the Colonnesi and their following. It behoved him, therefore, to upset this state of affairs and embroil the powers, so as to make himself securely master of part of their states. This was easy for him to do, because he found the Venetians, moved by other reasons, inclined to bring back the French into Italy; he would not only not oppose this, but he would render it more easy by dissolving the former marriage of King Louis. Therefore the king came into Italy with the assistance of the Venetians and the consent of Alexander. He was no sooner in Milan than the Pope had soldiers from him for the attempt on the Romagna, which yielded to him on the reputation of the king. The duke, therefore, having acquired the Romagna and beaten the Colonnesi, while wishing to hold that and to advance further, was hindered by two things: the one, his forces did not appear loyal to him, the other, the good- will of France: that is to say, he feared that the forces of the Orsini, which he was using, would not stand to him, that not only might they hinder him from winning more, but might themselves seize what he had won, and that the king might also do the same. Of the Orsini he had a warning when, after taking Faenza and attacking Bologna, he saw them go very unwillingly to that attack. And as to the king, he learned his mind when he himself, after taking the Duchy of Urbino, attacked Tuscany, and the king made him desist from that undertaking; hence the duke decided to depend no more upon the arms and the luck of others.
For the first thing he weakened the Orsini and Colonnesi parties in Rome, by gaining to himself all their adherents who were gentlemen, making them his gentlemen, giving them good pay, and, according to their rank, honouring them with office and command in such a way that in a few months all attachment to the factions was de- stroyed and turned entirely to the duke. After this he awaited an opportunity to crush the Orsini, having scattered the adherents of the Colonna house. This came to him soon and he used it well; for the Orsini, perceiving at length that the aggrandizement of the duke and the Church was ruin to them, called a meeting of the Magione in Perugia. From this sprung the rebellion at Urbino and the tumults in the Romagna, with endless dangers to the duke, all of which he overcame with the help of the French. Having restored his authority, not to leave it at risk by trusting either to the French or other outside forces, he had recourse to his wiles, and he knew so well how to conceal his mind that, by the mediation of Signor Pagolo—whom the duke did not fail to secure with all kinds of attention, giving him money, apparel, and horses—the Orsini were reconciled, so that their simplicity brought them into his power at Sinigalia. Having exterminated the leaders, and turned their partisans into his friends, the duke laid sufficiently good foundations to his power, having all the Romagna and the Duchy of Urbino; and the people now beginning to appreciate their prosperity, he gained them all over to himself. And as this point is worthy of notice, and to be imitated by others, I am not willing to leave it out.
When the duke occupied the Romagna he found it under the rule of weak masters, who rather plundered their subjects than ruled them, and gave them more cause for disunion than for union, so that the country was full of rob- bery, quarrels, and every kind of violence; and so, wishing to bring back peace and obedience to authority, he consid- ered it necessary to give it a good governor. Thereupon he promoted Messer Ramiro d’Orco, a swift and cruel man, to whom he gave the fullest power. This man in a short time restored peace and unity with the greatest success. After- wards the duke considered that it was not advisable to confer such excessive authority, for he had no doubt but that he would become odious, so he set up a court of judgment in the country, under a most excellent president, wherein all cities had their advocates. And because he knew that the past severity had caused some hatred against himself, so, to clear himself in the minds of the people, and gain them entirely to himself, he desired to show that, if any cruelty had been practised, it had not originated with him, but in the natural sternness of the minister. Under this pretence he took Ramiro, and one morning caused him to be executed and left on the piazza at Cesena with the block and a bloody knife at his side. The barbarity of this spectacle caused the people to be at once satisfied and dismayed.
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But let us return whence we started. I say that the duke, finding himself now sufficiently powerful and partly secured from immediate dangers by having armed himself in his own way, and having in a great measure crushed those forces in his vicinity that could injure him if he wished to proceed with his conquest, had next to consider France, for he knew that the king, who too late was aware of his mistake, would not support him. And from this time he began to seek new alliances and to temporize with France in the expedition which she was making towards the kingdom of Naples against the Spaniards who were besieging Gaeta. It was his intention to secure himself against them, and this he would have quickly accomplished had Alexander lived.
Such was his line of action as to present affairs. But as to the future he had to fear, in the first place, that a new successor to the Church might not be friendly to him and might seek to take from him that which Alexander had given him, so he decided to act in four ways. Firstly, by exterminating the families of those lords whom he had de- spoiled, so as to take away that pretext from the Pope. Secondly, by winning to himself all the gentlemen of Rome, so as to be able to curb the Pope with their aid, as has been observed. Thirdly, by converting the college more to himself. Fourthly, by acquiring so much power before the Pope should die that he could by his own measures resist the first shock. Of these four things, at the death of Alexander, he had accomplished three. For he had killed as many of the dispossessed lords as he could lay hands on, and few had escaped; he had won over the Roman gentle- men, and he had the most numerous party in the college. And as to any fresh acquisition, he intended to become master of Tuscany, for he already possessed Perugia and Piombino, and Pisa was under his protection. And as he had no longer to study France (for the French were already driven out of the kingdom of Naples by the Spaniards, and in this way both were compelled to buy his goodwill), he pounced down upon Pisa. After this, Lucca and Siena yielded at once, partly through hatred and partly through fear of the Florentines; and the Florentines would have had no remedy had he continued to prosper, as he was prospering the year that Alexander died, for he had acquired so much power and reputation that he would have stood by himself, and no longer have depended on the luck and the forces of others, but solely on his own power and ability.
But Alexander died five years after he had first drawn the sword. He left the duke with the state of Romagna alone consolidated, with the rest in the air, between two most powerful hostile armies, and sick unto death. Yet there were in the duke such boldness and ability, and he knew so well how men are to be won or lost, and so firm were the foundations which in so short a time he had laid, that if he had not had those armies on his back, or if he had been in good health, he would have overcome all difficulties. And it is seen that his foundations were good, for the Romagna awaited him for more than a month. In Rome, although but half alive, he remained secure; and whilst the Baglioni, the Vitelli, and the Orsini might come to Rome, they could not effect anything against him. If he could not have made Pope him whom he wished, at least the one whom he did not wish would not have been elected. But if he had been in sound health at the death of Alexander, everything would have been different to him. On the day that Julius the Second was elected, he told me that he had thought of everything that might occur at the death of his father, and had provided a remedy for all, except that he had never anticipated that, when the death did happen, he himself would be on the point to die.
When all the actions of the duke are recalled, I do not know how to blame him, but rather it appears to be, as I have said, that I ought to offer him for imitation to all those who, by the fortune or the arms of others, are raised to government. Because he, having a lofty spirit and far-reaching aims, could not have regulated his conduct oth- erwise, and only the shortness of the life of Alexander and his own sickness frustrated his designs. Therefore, he who considers it necessary to secure himself in his new principality, to win friends, to overcome either by force or fraud, to make himself beloved and feared by the people, to be followed and revered by the soldiers, to exterminate those who have power or reason to hurt him, to change the old order of things for new, to be severe and gracious, magnanimous and liberal, to destroy a disloyal soldiery and to create new, to maintain friendship with kings and princes in such a way that they must help him with zeal and offend with caution, cannot find a more lively example than the actions of this man.
Only can he be blamed for the election of Julius the Second, in whom he made a bad choice, because, as is said, not being able to elect a Pope to his own mind, he could have hindered any other from being elected Pope; and he ought never to have consented to the election of any cardinal whom he had injured or who had cause to fear him if they became pontiffs. For men injure either from fear or hatred. Those whom he had injured, amongst others, were San Pietro ad Vincula, Colonna, San Giorgio, and Ascanio. The rest, in becoming Pope, had to fear him, Rouen and the Spaniards excepted; the latter from their relationship and obligations, the former from his influence, the king- dom of France having relations with him. Therefore, above everything, the duke ought to have created a Spaniard Pope, and, failing him, he ought to have consented to Rouen and not San Pietro ad Vincula. He who believes that new benefits will cause great personages to forget old injuries is deceived. Therefore, the duke erred in his choice, and it was the cause of his ultimate ruin.
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Chapter XV Concerning Things For Which Men, And Especially Princes, Are Praised Or Blamed
It remains now to see what ought to be the rules of conduct for a prince towards subject and friends. And as I know that many have written on this point, I expect I shall be considered presumptuous in mentioning it again, especially as in discussing it I shall depart from the methods of other people. But, it being my intention to write a thing which shall be useful to him who apprehends it, it appears to me more appropriate to follow up the real truth of the matter than the imagination of it; for many have pictured republics and principalities which in fact have never been known or seen, because how one lives is so far distant from how one ought to live, that he who neglects what is done for what ought to be done, sooner effects his ruin than his preservation; for a man who wishes to act entirely up to his professions of virtue soon meets with what destroys him among so much that is evil.
Hence it is necessary for a prince wishing to hold his own to know how to do wrong, and to make use of it or not according to necessity. Therefore, putting on one side imaginary things concerning a prince, and discussing those which are real, I say that all men when they are spoken of, and chiefly princes for being more highly placed, are remarkable for some of those qualities which bring them either blame or praise; and thus it is that one is reputed liberal, another miserly, using a Tuscan term (because an avaricious person in our language is still he who desires to possess by robbery, whilst we call one miserly who deprives himself too much of the use of his own); one is reputed generous, one rapacious; one cruel, one compassionate; one faithless, another faithful; one effeminate and cowardly, another bold and brave; one affable, another haughty; one lascivious, another chaste; one sincere, another cunning; one hard, another easy; one grave, another frivolous; one religious, another unbelieving, and the like. And I know that every one will confess that it would be most praiseworthy in a prince to exhibit all the above qualities that are considered good; but because they can neither be entirely possessed nor observed, for human conditions do not permit it, it is necessary for him to be sufficiently prudent that he may know how to avoid the reproach of those vic- es which would lose him his state; and also to keep himself, if it be possible, from those which would not lose him it; but this not being possible, he may with less hesitation abandon himself to them. And again, he need not make himself uneasy at incurring a reproach for those vices without which the state can only be saved with difficulty, for if everything is considered carefully, it will be found that something which looks like virtue, if followed, would be his ruin; whilst something else, which looks like vice, yet followed brings him security and prosperity.
Chapter XVI Concerning Liberality And Meanness
Commencing then with the first of the above-named characteristics, I say that it would be well to be reputed liberal. Nevertheless, liberality exercised in a way that does not bring you the reputation for it, injures you; for if one exercises it honestly and as it should be exercised, it may not become known, and you will not avoid the reproach of its opposite. Therefore, any one wishing to maintain among men the name of liberal is obliged to avoid no attribute of magnificence; so that a prince thus inclined will consume in such acts all his property, and will be compelled in the end, if he wish to maintain the name of liberal, to unduly weigh down his people, and tax them, and do ev- erything he can to get money. This will soon make him odious to his subjects, and becoming poor he will be little valued by any one; thus, with his liberality, having offended many and rewarded few, he is affected by the very first trouble and imperilled by whatever may be the first danger; recognizing this himself, and wishing to draw back from it, he runs at once into the reproach of being miserly.
Therefore, a prince, not being able to exercise this virtue of liberality in such a way that it is recognized, ex- cept to his cost, if he is wise he ought not to fear the reputation of being mean, for in time he will come to be more considered than if liberal, seeing that with his economy his revenues are enough, that he can defend himself against all attacks, and is able to engage in enterprises without burdening his people; thus it comes to pass that he exercises liberality towards all from whom he does not take, who are numberless, and meanness towards those to whom he does not give, who are few.
We have not seen great things done in our time except by those who have been considered mean; the rest have failed. Pope Julius the Second was assisted in reaching the papacy by a reputation for liberality, yet he did not strive afterwards to keep it up, when he made war on the King of France; and he made many wars without imposing any extraordinary tax on his subjects, for he supplied his additional expenses out of his long thriftiness. The present King of Spain would not have undertaken or conquered in so many enterprises if he had been reputed liberal. A prince, therefore, provided that he has not to rob his subjects, that he can defend himself, that he does not become poor and abject, that he is not forced to become rapacious, ought to hold of little account a reputation for being mean, for it is one of those vices which will enable him to govern.
And if any one should say: Caesar obtained empire by liberality, and many others have reached the highest
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positions by having been liberal, and by being considered so, I answer: Either you are a prince in fact, or in a way to become one. In the first case this liberality is dangerous, in the second it is very necessary to be considered liberal; and Caesar was one of those who wished to become pre-eminent in Rome; but if he had survived after becoming so, and had not moderated his expenses, he would have destroyed his government. And if any one should reply: Many have been princes, and have done great things with armies, who have been considered very liberal, I reply: Either a prince spends that which is his own or his subjects’ or else that of others. In the first case he ought to be sparing, in the second he ought not to neglect any opportunity for liberality. And to the prince who goes forth with his army, supporting it by pillage, sack, and extortion, handling that which belongs to others, this liberality is necessary, otherwise he would not be followed by soldiers. And of that which is neither yours nor your subjects’ you can be a ready giver, as were Cyrus, Caesar, and Alexander; because it does not take away your reputation if you squander that of others, but adds to it; it is only squandering your own that injures you.
And there is nothing wastes so rapidly as liberality, for even whilst you exercise it you lose the power to do so, and so become either poor or despised, or else, in avoiding poverty, rapacious and hated. And a prince should guard himself, above all things, against being despised and hated; and liberality leads you to both. Therefore it is wiser to have a reputation for meanness which brings reproach without hatred, than to be compelled through seek- ing a reputation for liberality to incur a name for rapacity which begets reproach with hatred.
Chapter XVII Concerning Cruelty And Clemency, And Whether It Is Better To Be Loved Than Feared
Coming now to the other qualities mentioned above, I say that every prince ought to desire to be considered clement and not cruel. Nevertheless he ought to take care not to misuse this clemency. Cesare Borgia was considered cruel; notwithstanding, his cruelty reconciled the Romagna, unified it, and restored it to peace and loyalty. And if this be rightly considered, he will be seen to have been much more merciful than the Florentine people, who, to avoid a reputation for cruelty, permitted Pistoia to be destroyed. Therefore a prince, so long as he keeps his subjects united and loyal, ought not to mind the reproach of cruelty; because with a few examples he will be more merciful than those who, through too much mercy, allow disorders to arise, from which follow murders or robberies; for these are wont to injure the whole people, whilst those executions which originate with a prince offend the individual only.
And of all princes, it is impossible for the new prince to avoid the imputation of cruelty, owing to new states being full of dangers. Hence Virgil, through the mouth of Dido, excuses the inhumanity of her reign owing to its being new, saying:
Nevertheless he ought to be slow to believe and to act, nor should he himself show fear, but proceed in a tem- perate manner with prudence and humanity, so that too much confidence may not make him incautious and too much distrust render him intolerable.
Upon this a question arises: whether it be better to be loved than feared or feared than loved? It may be an- swered that one should wish to be both, but, because it is difficult to unite them in one person, it is much safer to be feared than loved, when, of the two, either must be dispensed with. Because this is to be asserted in general of men, that they are ungrateful, fickle, false, cowardly, covetous, and as long as you succeed they are yours entirely; they will offer you their blood, property, life, and children, as is said above, when the need is far distant; but when it approaches they turn against you. And that prince who, relying entirely on their promises, has neglected other precautions, is ruined; because friendships that are obtained by payments, and not by greatness or nobility of mind, may indeed be earned, but they are not secured, and in time of need cannot be relied upon; and men have less scru- ple in offending one who is beloved than one who is feared, for love is preserved by the link of obligation which, owing to the baseness of men, is broken at every opportunity for their advantage; but fear preserves you by a dread of punishment which never fails.
Nevertheless a prince ought to inspire fear in such a way that, if he does not win love, he avoids hatred; because he can endure very well being feared whilst he is not hated, which will always be as long as he abstains from the property of his citizens and subjects and from their women. But when it is necessary for him to proceed against the life of someone, he must do it on proper justification and for manifest cause, but above all things he must keep his hands off the property of others, because men more quickly forget the death of their father than the loss of their patrimony. Besides, pretexts for taking away the property are never wanting; for he who has once begun to live by robbery will always find pretexts for seizing what belongs to others; but reasons for taking life, on the contrary, are more difficult to find and sooner lapse. But when a prince is with his army, and has under control a multitude of soldiers, then it is quite necessary for him to disregard the reputation of cruelty, for without it he would never hold his army united or disposed to its duties.
Among the wonderful deeds of Hannibal this one is enumerated: that having led an enormous army, composed of many various races of men, to fight in foreign lands, no dissensions arose either among them or against the
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prince, whether in his bad or in his good fortune. This arose from nothing else than his inhuman cruelty, which, with his boundless valour, made him revered and terrible in the sight of his soldiers, but without that cruelty, his other virtues were not sufficient to produce this effect. And short-sighted writers admire his deeds from one point of view and from another condemn the principal cause of them. That it is true his other virtues would not have been sufficient for him may be proved by the case of Scipio, that most excellent man, not only of his own times but within the memory of man, against whom, nevertheless, his army rebelled in Spain; this arose from nothing but his too great forbearance, which gave his soldiers more license than is consistent with military discipline. For this he was upbraided in the Senate by Fabius Maximus, and called the corrupter of the Roman soldiery. The Locrians were laid waste by a legate of Scipio, yet they were not avenged by him, nor was the insolence of the legate punished, ow- ing entirely to his easy nature. Insomuch that someone in the Senate, wishing to excuse him, said there were many men who knew much better how not to err than to correct the errors of others. This disposition, if he had been con- tinued in the command, would have destroyed in time the fame and glory of Scipio; but, he being under the control of the Senate, this injurious characteristic not only concealed itself, but contributed to his glory.
Returning to the question of being feared or loved, I come to the conclusion that, men loving according to their own will and fearing according to that of the prince, a wise prince should establish himself on that which is in his own control and not in that of others; he must endeavour only to avoid hatred, as is noted.
Chapter XXV What Fortune Can Effect In Human Affairs And How To Withstand Her
It is not unknown to me how many men have had, and still have, the opinion that the affairs of the world are in such wise governed by fortune and by God that men with their wisdom cannot direct them and that no one can even help them; and because of this they would have us believe that it is not necessary to labour much in affairs, but to let chance govern them. This opinion has been more credited in our times because of the great changes in affairs which have been seen, and may still be seen, every day, beyond all human conjecture. Sometimes pondering over this, I am in some degree inclined to their opinion. Nevertheless, not to extinguish our free will, I hold it to be true that Fortune is the arbiter of one-half of our actions, but that she still leaves us to direct the other half, or perhaps a little less.
I compare her to one of those raging rivers, which when in flood overflows the plains, sweeping away trees and buildings, bearing away the soil from place to place; everything flies before it, all yield to its violence, without being able in any way to withstand it; and yet, though its nature be such, it does not follow therefore that men, when the weather becomes fair, shall not make provision, both with defences and barriers, in such a manner that, rising again, the waters may pass away by canal, and their force be neither so unrestrained nor so dangerous. So it happens with fortune, who shows her power where valour has not prepared to resist her, and thither she turns her forces where she knows that barriers and defences have not been raised to constrain her.
And if you will consider Italy, which is the seat of these changes, and which has given to them their impulse, you will see it to be an open country without barriers and without any defence. For if it had been defended by proper valour, as are Germany, Spain, and France, either this invasion would not have made the great changes it has made or it would not have come at all. And this I consider enough to say concerning resistance to fortune in general.
But confining myself more to the particular, I say that a prince may be seen happy to-day and ruined to-mor- row without having shown any change of disposition or character. This, I believe, arises firstly from causes that have already been discussed at length, namely, that the prince who relies entirely on fortune is lost when it chang- es. I believe also that he will be successful who directs his actions according to the spirit of the times, and that he whose actions do not accord with the times will not be successful. Because men are seen, in affairs that lead to the end which every man has before him, namely, glory and riches, to get there by various methods; one with caution, another with haste; one by force, another by skill; one by patience, another by its opposite; and each one succeeds in reaching the goal by a different method. One can also see of two cautious men the one attain his end, the other fail; and similarly, two men by different observances are equally successful, the one being cautious, the other impetuous; all this arises from nothing else than whether or not they conform in their methods to the spirit of the times. This follows from what I have said, that two men working differently bring about the same effect, and of two working similarly, one attains his object and the other does not.
Changes in estate also issue from this, for if, to one who governs himself with caution and patience, times and affairs converge in such a way that his administration is successful, his fortune is made; but if times and affairs change, he is ruined if he does not change his course of action. But a man is not often found sufficiently circum- spect to know how to accommodate himself to the change, both because he cannot deviate from what nature
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inclines him to do, and also because, having always prospered by acting in one way, he cannot be persuaded that it is well to leave it; and, therefore, the cautious man, when it is time to turn adventurous, does not know how to do it, hence he is ruined; but had he changed his conduct with the times fortune would not have changed.
Pope Julius the Second went to work impetuously in all his affairs, and found the times and circumstances conform so well to that line of action that he always met with success. Consider his first enterprise against Bologna, Messer Giovanni Bentivogli being still alive. The Venetians were not agreeable to it, nor was the King of Spain, and he had the enterprise still under discussion with the King of France; nevertheless he personally entered upon the expedition with his accustomed boldness and energy, a move which made Spain and the Venetians stand irresolute and passive, the latter from fear, the former from desire to recover the kingdom of Naples; on the other hand, he drew after him the King of France, because that king, having observed the movement, and desiring to make the Pope his friend so as to humble the Venetians, found it impossible to refuse him. Therefore Julius with his impetu- ous action accomplished what no other pontiff with simple human wisdom could have done; for if he had waited in Rome until he could get away, with his plans arranged and everything fixed, as any other pontiff would have done, he would never have succeeded. Because the King of France would have made a thousand excuses, and the others would have raised a thousand fears.
I will leave his other actions alone, as they were all alike, and they all succeeded, for the shortness of his life did not let him experience the contrary; but if circumstances had arisen which required him to go cautiously, his ruin would have followed, because he would never have deviated from those ways to which nature inclined him.
I conclude, therefore that, fortune being changeful and mankind steadfast in their ways, so long as the two are in agreement men are successful, but unsuccessful when they fall out. For my part I consider that it is better to be adventurous than cautious, because fortune is a woman, and if you wish to keep her under it is necessary to beat and ill-use her; and it is seen that she allows herself to be mastered by the adventurous rather than by those who go to work more coldly. She is, therefore, always, woman-like, a lover of young men, because they are less cautious, more violent, and with more audacity command her.
Chapter XXVI An Exhortation To Liberate Italy From The Barbarians
Having carefully considered the subject of the above discourses, and wondering within myself whether the present times were propitious to a new prince, and whether there were elements that would give an opportunity to a wise and virtuous one to introduce a new order of things which would do honour to him and good to the people of this country, it appears to me that so many things concur to favour a new prince that I never knew a time more fit than the present.
And if, as I said, it was necessary that the people of Israel should be captive so as to make manifest the ability of Moses; that the Persians should be oppressed by the Medes so as to discover the greatness of the soul of Cyrus; and that the Athenians should be dispersed to illustrate the capabilities of Theseus: then at the present time, in order to discover the virtue of an Italian spirit, it was necessary that Italy should be reduced to the extremity that she is now in, that she should be more enslaved than the Hebrews, more oppressed than the Persians, more scattered than the Athenians; without head, without order, beaten, despoiled, torn, overrun; and to have endured every kind of desolation.
Although lately some spark may have been shown by one, which made us think he was ordained by God for our redemption, nevertheless it was afterwards seen, in the height of his career, that fortune rejected him; so that Italy, left as without life, waits for him who shall yet heal her wounds and put an end to the ravaging and plundering of Lombardy, to the swindling and taxing of the kingdom and of Tuscany, and cleanse those sores that for long have festered. It is seen how she entreats God to send someone who shall deliver her from these wrongs and barbarous insolencies. It is seen also that she is ready and willing to follow a banner if only someone will raise it.
Nor is there to be seen at present one in whom she can place more hope than in your illustrious house, with its valour and fortune, favoured by God and by the Church of which it is now the chief, and which could be made the head of this redemption. This will not be difficult if you will recall to yourself the actions and lives of the men I have named. And although they were great and wonderful men, yet they were men, and each one of them had no more opportunity than the present offers, for their enterprises were neither more just nor easier than this, nor was God more their friend than He is yours.
With us there is great justice, because that war is just which is necessary, and arms are hallowed when there is no other hope but in them. Here there is the greatest willingness, and where the willingness is great the difficulties cannot be great if you will only follow those men to whom I have directed your attention. Further than this, how extraordi-
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narily the ways of God have been manifested beyond example: the sea is divided, a cloud has led the way, the rock has poured forth water, it has rained manna, everything has contributed to your greatness; you ought to do the rest. God is not willing to do everything, and thus take away our free will and that share of glory which belongs to us.
And it is not to be wondered at if none of the above-named Italians have been able to accomplish all that is ex- pected from your illustrious house; and if in so many revolutions in Italy, and in so many campaigns, it has always appeared as if military virtue were exhausted, this has happened because the old order of things was not good, and none of us have known how to find a new one. And nothing honours a man more than to establish new laws and new ordinances when he himself was newly risen. Such things when they are well founded and dignified will make him revered and admired, and in Italy there are not wanting opportunities to bring such into use in every form.
Here there is great valour in the limbs whilst it fails in the head. Look attentively at the duels and the hand-to- hand combats, how superior the Italians are in strength, dexterity, and subtlety. But when it comes to armies they do not bear comparison, and this springs entirely from the insufficiency of the leaders, since those who are capable are not obedient, and each one seems to himself to know, there having never been any one so distinguished above the rest, either by valour or fortune, that others would yield to him. Hence it is that for so long a time, and during so much fighting in the past twenty years, whenever there has been an army wholly Italian, it has always given a poor account of itself; the first witness to this is Il Taro, afterwards Allesandria, Capua, Genoa, Vaila, Bologna, Mestri.
If, therefore, your illustrious house wishes to follow these remarkable men who have redeemed their country, it is necessary before all things, as a true foundation for every enterprise, to be provided with your own forces, because there can be no more faithful, truer, or better soldiers. And although singly they are good, altogether they will be much better when they find themselves commanded by their prince, honoured by him, and maintained at his expense. Therefore it is necessary to be prepared with such arms, so that you can be defended against foreigners by Italian valour.
And although Swiss and Spanish infantry may be considered very formidable, nevertheless there is a defect in both, by reason of which a third order would not only be able to oppose them, but might be relied upon to over- throw them. For the Spaniards cannot resist cavalry, and the Switzers are afraid of infantry whenever they en- counter them in close combat. Owing to this, as has been and may again be seen, the Spaniards are unable to resist French cavalry, and the Switzers are overthrown by Spanish infantry. And although a complete proof of this latter cannot be shown, nevertheless there was some evidence of it at the battle of Ravenna, when the Spanish infantry were confronted by German battalions, who follow the same tactics as the Swiss; when the Spaniards, by agility of body and with the aid of their shields, got in under the pikes of the Germans and stood out of danger, able to attack, while the Germans stood helpless, and, if the cavalry had not dashed up, all would have been over with them. It is possible, therefore, knowing the defects of both these infantries, to invent a new one, which will resist cavalry and not be afraid of infantry; this need not create a new order of arms, but a variation upon the old. And these are the kind of improvements which confer reputation and power upon a new prince.
This opportunity, therefore, ought not to be allowed to pass for letting Italy at last see her liberator appear. Nor can one express the love with which he would be received in all those provinces which have suffered so much from these foreign scourings, with what thirst for revenge, with what stubborn faith, with what devotion, with what tears. What door would be closed to him? Who would refuse obedience to him? What envy would hinder him? What Italian would refuse him homage? To all of us this barbarous dominion stinks. Let, therefore, your illustrious house take up this charge with that courage and hope with which all just enterprises are undertaken, so that under its standard our native country may be ennobled, and under its auspices may be verified that saying of Petrarch:
Virtu contro al Furore Prendera l’arme, e fia il combatter corto: Che l’antico valore Negli italici cuor non e ancor morto.
THE TEMPEST
William Shakespeare (1564 C.E.-1616 C.E.)
Published in the First Folio of 1623 C.E. England
The Tempest is regarded as the last play Shakespeare wrote alone, based on the fact that it uses material only available in late 1610 C.E. and it was performed before King James on Hallowmas Night, 1611 C.E. After writ- ing this play, Shakespeare soon retired to Stratford, but he also collaborated on at least two other plays. Scholars group The Tempest among Shakespeare’s late plays called “romances,” a modern term for a genre of plays that blend
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elements of tragedy and comedy. It was published in the First Folio of 1623, which is the first published edition of the collected works of William Shakespeare. The actions of The Tempest take place in a single location in a single day (keeping the unities of time and place), beginning with a storm raised by Prospero, the former duke of Milan, whose position has been usurped by his brother Antonio and King Alonzo of Naples. The play has lent itself to numerous adaptations, including Aimé Césaire’s 1969 postcolonial adaptation, Une Tempête (“A Tempest”).
Written by Kyounghye Kwon
The Tempest
William Shakespeare
Dramatis Personæ: ALONSO, King of Naples. SEBASTIAN, His Brother. PROSPERO, the right Duke of Milan. ANTONIO, his brother, the usurping Duke of Milan. FERDINAND, son to the King of Naples. GONZALO, an honest old Counsellor. ADRIAN, Lord FRANCISCO, Lord CALIBAN, a savage and deformed Slave. TRINCULO, a Jester. STEPHANO, a drunken Butler. Master of a Ship. Boatswain. Mariners. MIRANDA, daughter of Prospero. ARIEL, an airy Spirit. IRIS, CERES, JUNO, presented by Spirits Nymphs, Reapers, Other Spirits attending on Prospero.
ACT I Scene I—On a ship at sea: a tempestuous noise of thunder and lightning heard
[Enter a Ship-Master and a Boatswain]
MAST. Boatswain! 1
BOATS. Here, master: what cheer?
MAST. Good, speak to the mariners: fall to’t, yarely, or we run ourselves aground: bestir, bestir. [Exit.] [Enter Mariners.]
BOATS. Heigh, my hearts! cheerly, cheerly, my hearts! yare, yare! 5 Take in the topsail. Tend to the master’s whistle.
License: Public Domain
Image 11.16: Rowe Tempest | Frontspiece of The Tempest from Nicholas Rowe’s The Works of William Shakespeare, depicting monsters descending on a ship at sea.
Author: Tom Reedy Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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Blow, till thou burst thy wind, if room enough! [Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Ferdinand, Gonzalo, and others.]
ALON. Good boatswain, have care. Where’s the master? Play the men.
BOATS. I pray now, keep below. 10
ANT. Where is the master, boatswain?
BOATS. Do you not hear him? You mar our labour: keep your cabins: you do assist the storm.
GON. Nay, good, be patient.
BOATS. When the sea is. Hence! What cares these roarers for 15 the name of king? To cabin: silence! trouble us not.
GON. Good, yet remember whom thou hast aboard.
BOATS. None that I more love than myself. You are a Counsellor; if you can command these elements to silence, and work the peace of the present, we will not hand a rope more; 20 use your authority: if you cannot, give thanks you have lived so long, and make yourself ready in your cabin for the mischance of the hour, if it so hap. Cheerly, good hearts! Out of our way, I say. [Exit.]
GON. I have great comfort from this fellow: methinks 25 he hath no drowning mark upon him; his complexion is perfect gallows. Stand fast, good Fate, to his hanging: make the rope of his destiny our cable, for our own doth little advantage. If he be not born to be hanged, our case is miserable. [Exeunt.] 30 [Re-enter Boatswain.]
BOATS. Down with the topmast! yare! lower, lower! Bring her to try with main-course. [A cry within.] A plague upon this howling! they are louder than the weather or our office. [Re-enter Sebastian, Antonio, and Gonzalo.] Yet again! what do you here? Shall we give o’er, and drown? 35 Have you a mind to sink?
SEB. A pox o’ your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog!
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BOATS. Work you, then.
ANT. Hang, cur! hang, you whoreson, insolent noise-maker. We are 40 less afraid to be drowned than thou art.
GON. I’ll warrant him for drowning; though the ship were no stronger than a nutshell, and as leaky as an unstanched wench.
BOATS. Lay her a-hold, a-hold! set her two courses off to sea again; lay her off. 45 [Enter Mariners wet.]
MARINERS All lost! to prayers, to prayers! all lost!
BOATS. What, must our mouths be cold?
GON. The king and prince at prayers! let’s assist them, For our case is as theirs.
SEB. I’m out of patience. 50
ANT. We are merely cheated of our lives by drunkards: This wide-chapp’d rascal,—would thou mightst lie drowning The washing of ten tides!
GON. He’ll be hang’d yet, Though every drop of water swear against it, 55 And gape at widest to glut him. [A confused noise within]: “Mercy on us!”— “We split, we split!”—“Farewell my wife and children!” —“Farewell, brother!”—“We split, we split, we split!”
ANT. Let’s all sink with the king. 60
SEB. Let’s take leave of him. [Exeunt Ant. and Seb.]
GON. Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground, long heath, brown furze, any thing. The wills above be done! but I would fain die a dry death. [Exeunt.]
Scene II—The island—Before Prospero’s cell [Enter Prospero and Miranda.]
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MIR. If by your art, my dearest father, you have 65 Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them. The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch, But that the sea, mounting to the welkin’s cheek, Dashes the fire out. O, I have suffer’d With those that I saw suffer! a brave vessel, 70 Who had, no doubt, some noble creature in her, Dash’d all to pieces. O, the cry did knock Against my very heart! Poor souls, they perish’d! Had I been any god of power, I would Have sunk the sea within the earth, or ere 75 It should the good ship so have swallow’d and The fraughting souls within her.
PROS. Be collected: No more amazement: tell your piteous heart There’s no harm done. 80
MIR. O, woe the day!
PROS. No harm. I have done nothing but in care of thee, Of thee, my dear one, thee, my daughter, who Art ignorant of what thou art, nought knowing 85 Of whence I am, nor that I am more better Than Prospero, master of a full poor cell, And thy no greater father.
MIR. More to know Did never meddle with my thoughts. 90
PROS. ’Tis time I should inform thee farther. Lend thy hand, And pluck my magic garment from me.—So: [Lays down his mantle.] Lie there, my art. Wipe thou thine eyes; have comfort. The direful spectacle of the wreck, which touch’d 95 The very virtue of compassion in thee, I have with such provision in mine art So safely order’d, that there is no soul, No, not so much perdition as an hair Betid to any creature in the vessel 100 Which thou heard’st cry, which thou saw’st sink. Sit down; For thou must now know farther.
MIR. You have often Begun to tell me what I am; but stopp’d, And left me to a bootless inquisition, 105 Concluding “Stay: not yet.”
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PROS. The hour’s now come; The very minute bids thee ope thine ear; Obey, and be attentive. Canst thou remember A time before we came unto this cell? 110 I do not think thou canst, for then thou wast not Out three years old.
MIR. Certainly, sir, I can.
PROS. By what? by any other house or person? Of any thing the image tell me that 115 Hath kept with thy remembrance.
MIR. ’Tis far off, And rather like a dream than an assurance That my remembrance warrants. Had I not Four or five women once that tended me? 120
PROS. Thou hadst, and more, Miranda. But how is it That this lives in thy mind? What seest thou else In the dark backward and abysm of time? If thou remember’st ought ere thou camest here, How thou camest here thou mayst. 125
MIR. But that I do not.
PROS. Twelve year since, Miranda, twelve year since, Thy father was the Duke of Milan, and A prince of power.
MIR. Sir, are not you my father? 130
PROS. Thy mother was a piece of virtue, and She said thou wast my daughter; and thy father Was Duke of Milan; and his only heir And princess, no worse issued.
MIR. O the heavens! 135 What foul play had we, that we came from thence? Or blessed was’t we did?
PROS. Both, both, my girl: By foul play, as thou say’st, were we heaved thence; But blessedly holp hither. 140
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MIR. O, my heart bleeds To think o’ the teen that I have turn’d you to. Which is from my remembrance! Please you, farther.
PROS. My brother, and thy uncle, call’d Antonio,— I pray thee, mark me,—that a brother should 145 Be so perfidious!—he whom, next thyself, Of all the world I loved, and to him put The manage of my state; as, at that time, Through all the signories it was the first, And Prospero the prime duke, being so reputed 150 In dignity, and for the liberal arts Without a parallel; those being all my study, The government I cast upon my brother, And to my state grew stranger, being transported And rapt in secret studies. Thy false uncle— 155 Dost thou attend me?
MIR. Sir, most heedfully.
PROS. Being once perfected how to grant suits, How to deny them, whom to advance, and whom To trash for over-topping, new created 160 The creatures that were mine, I say, or changed ’em, Or else new form’d ’em; having both the key Of officer and office, set all hearts i’ the state To what tune pleased his ear; that now he was The ivy which had hid my princely trunk, 165 And suck’d my verdure out on’t. Thou attend’st not.
MIR. O, good sir, I do.
PROS. I pray thee, mark me. I, thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated To closeness and the bettering of my mind 170 With that which, but by being so retired, O’er-prized all popular rate, in my false brother Awaked an evil nature; and my trust, Like a good parent, did beget of him A falsehood in its contrary, as great 175 As my trust was; which had indeed no limit, A confidence sans bound. He being thus lorded, Not only with what my revenue yielded, But what my power might else exact, like one Who having into truth, by telling of it, 180 Made such a sinner of his memory, To credit his own lie, he did believe He was indeed the duke; out o’ the substitution, And executing the outward face of royalty, With all prerogative:—hence his ambition growing,— 185 Dost thou hear?
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MIR. Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.
PROS. To have no screen between this part he play’d And him he play’d it for, he needs will be Absolute Milan. Me, poor man, my library 190 Was dukedom large enough: of temporal royalties He thinks me now incapable; confederates, So dry he was for sway, wi’ the King of Naples To give him annual tribute, do him homage, Subject his coronet to his crown, and bend 195 The dukedom, yet unbow’d,—alas, poor Milan!— To most ignoble stooping.
MIR. O the heavens!
PROS. Mark his condition, and th’ event; then tell me If this might be a brother. 200
MIR. I should sin To think but nobly of my grandmother: Good wombs have borne bad sons.
PROS. Now the condition. This King of Naples, being an enemy 205 To me inveterate, hearkens my brother’s suit; Which was, that he, in lieu o’ the premises, Of homage and I know not how much tribute, Should presently extirpate me and mine Out of the dukedom, and confer fair Milan, 210 With all the honours, on my brother: whereon, A treacherous army levied, one midnight Fated to the purpose, did Antonio open The gates of Milan; and, i’ the dead of darkness, The ministers for the purpose hurried thence 215 Me and thy crying self.
MIR. Alack, for pity! I, not remembering how I cried out then, Will cry it o’er again: it is a hint That wrings mine eyes to’t. 220
PROS. Hear a little further, And then I’ll bring thee to the present business Which now’s upon ’s; without the which, this story Were most impertinent.
MIR. Wherefore did they not 225 That hour destroy us?
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PROS. Well demanded, wench: My tale provokes that question. Dear, they durst not, So dear the love my people bore me; nor set A mark so bloody on the business; but 230 With colours fairer painted their foul ends. In few, they hurried us aboard a bark, Bore us some leagues to sea; where they prepared A rotten carcass of a boat, not rigg’d, Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats 235 Instinctively have quit it: there they hoist us, To cry to the sea that roar’d to us; to sigh To the winds, whose pity, sighing back again, Did us but loving wrong.
MIR. Alack, what trouble 240 Was I then to you!
PROS. O, a cherubin Thou wast that did preserve me. Thou didst smile, Infused with a fortitude from heaven, When I have deck’d the sea with drops full salt, 245 Under my burthen groan’d; which raised in me An undergoing stomach, to bear up Against what should ensue.
MIR. How came we ashore?
PROS. By Providence divine. 250 Some food we had, and some fresh water, that A noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo, Out of his charity, who being then appointed Master of this design, did give us, with Rich garments, linens, stuffs and necessaries, 255 Which since have steaded much; so, of his gentleness, Knowing I loved my books, he furnish’d me From mine own library with volumes that I prize above my dukedom.
MIR. Would I might 260 But ever see that man!
PROS. Now I arise: [Resumes his mantle.] Sit still, and hear the last of our sea-sorrow. Here in this island we arrived; and here Have I, thy schoolmaster, made thee more profit 265 Than other princesses can, that have more time For vainer hours, and tutors not so careful.
MIR. Heavens thank you for’t! And now, I pray you, sir,
Image 11.17: Prospero | Prospero sits and speaks with Miranda.
Author: Walter Crane Source: The University of Adelaide License: Public Domain
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For still ’tis beating in my mind, your reason For raising this sea-storm? 270
PROS. Know thus far forth. By accident most strange, bountiful Fortune, Now my dear lady, hath mine enemies Brought to this shore; and by my prescience I find my zenith doth depend upon 275 A most auspicious star, whose influence If now I court not, but omit, my fortunes Will ever after droop. Here cease more questions: Thou art inclined to sleep; ’tis a good dulness, And give it way: I know thou canst not choose. [Miranda sleeps.] 280 Come away, servant, come. I am ready now. Approach, my Ariel, come. [Enter Ariel.]
ARI. All hail, great master! grave sir, hail! I come To answer thy best pleasure; be’t to fly, To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride 285 On the curl’d clouds, to thy strong bidding task Ariel and all his quality.
PROS. Hast thou, spirit, Perform’d to point the tempest that I bade thee?
ARI. To every article. 290 I boarded the king’s ship; now on the beak, Now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin, I flamed amazement: sometime I’ld divide, And burn in many places; on the topmast, The yards and bowsprit, would I flame distinctly, 295 Then meet and join. Jove’s lightnings, the precursors O’ the dreadful thunder-claps, more momentary And sight-outrunning were not: the fire and cracks Of sulphurous roaring the most mighty Neptune Seem to besiege, and make his bold waves tremble, 300 Yea, his dread trident shake.
PROS. My brave spirit! Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil Would not infect his reason?
ARI. Not a soul 305 But felt a fever of the mad, and play’d Some tricks of desperation. All but mariners Plunged in the foaming brine, and quit the vessel, Then all afire with me: the king’s son, Ferdinand, With hair up-staring,—then like reeds, not hair,— 310 Was the first man that leap’d; cried, “Hell is empty, And all the devils are here.”
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PROS. Why, that’s my spirit! But was not this nigh shore?
ARI. Close by, my master. 315
PROS. But are they, Ariel, safe?
ARI. Not a hair perish’d; On their sustaining garments not a blemish, But fresher than before: and, as thou badest me, In troops I have dispersed them ’bout the isle. 320 The king’s son have I landed by himself; Whom I left cooling of the air with sighs In an odd angle of the isle, and sitting, His arms in this sad knot.
PROS. Of the king’s ship 325 The mariners, say how thou hast disposed, And all the rest o’ the fleet.
ARI. Safely in harbour Is the king’s ship; in the deep nook, where once Thou call’dst me up at midnight to fetch dew 330 From the still-vex’d Bermoothes, there she’s hid: The mariners all under hatches stow’d; Who, with a charm join’d to their suffer’d labour, I have left asleep: and for the rest o’ the fleet, Which I dispersed, they all have met again, 335 And are upon the Mediterranean flote, Bound sadly home for Naples; Supposing that they saw the king’s ship wreck’d, And his great person perish.
PROS. Ariel, thy charge 340 Exactly is perform’d: but there’s more work. What is the time o’ the day?
ARI. Past the mid season.
PROS. At least two glasses. The time ’twixt six and now Must by us both be spent most preciously. 345
ARI. Is there more toil? Since thou dost give me pains, Let me remember thee what thou hast promised, Which is not yet perform’d me.
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PROS. How now? moody? What is’t thou canst demand? 350
ARI. My liberty.
PROS. Before the time be out? no more!
ARI. I prithee, Remember I have done thee worthy service; Told thee no lies, made thee no mistakings, served 355 Without or grudge or grumblings: thou didst promise To bate me a full year.
PROS. Dost thou forget From what a torment I did free thee?
ARI. No. 360
PROS. Thou dost; and think’st it much to tread the ooze Of the salt deep, To run upon the sharp wind of the north, To do me business in the veins o’ the earth When it is baked with frost. 365
ARI. I do not, sir.
PROS. Thou liest, malignant thing! Hast thou forgot The foul witch Sycorax, who with age and envy Was grown into a hoop? hast thou forgot her?
ARI. No, sir. 370
PROS. Thou hast. Where was she born? speak; tell me.
ARI. Sir, in Argier.
PROS. O, was she so? I must Once in a month recount what thou hast been, Which thou forget’st. This damn’d witch Sycorax, 375 For mischiefs manifold, and sorceries terrible To enter human hearing, from Argier, Thou know’st, was banish’d: for one thing she did They would not take her life. Is not this true?
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ARI. Ay, sir. 380
PROS. This blue-eyed hag was hither brought with child, And here was left by the sailors. Thou, my slave, As thou report’st thyself, wast then her servant; And, for thou wast a spirit too delicate To act her earthy and abhorr’d commands, 385 Refusing her grand hests, she did confine thee, By help of her more potent ministers, And in her most unmitigable rage, Into a cloven pine; within which rift Imprison’d thou didst painfully remain 390 A dozen years; within which space she died, And left thee there; where thou didst vent thy groans As fast as mill-wheels strike. Then was this island— Save for the son that she did litter here, A freckled whelp hag-born—not honour’d with 395 A human shape.
ARI. Yes, Caliban her son.
PROS. Dull thing, I say so; he, that Caliban, Whom now I keep in service. Thou best know’st What torment I did find thee in; thy groans 400 Did make wolves howl, and penetrate the breasts Of ever-angry bears: it was a torment To lay upon the damn’d, which Sycorax Could not again undo: it was mine art, When I arrived and heard thee, that made gape 405 The pine, and let thee out.
ARI. I thank thee, master.
PROS. If thou more murmur’st, I will rend an oak, And peg thee in his knotty entrails, till Thou hast howl’d away twelve winters. 410
ARI. Pardon, master: I will be correspondent to command, And do my spiriting gently.
PROS. Do so; and after two days I will discharge thee. 415
ARI. That’s my noble master! What shall I do? say what; what shall I do?
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PROS. Go make thyself like a nymph o’ the sea: Be subject to no sight but thine and mine; invisible To every eyeball else. Go take this shape, 420 And hither come in’t: go, hence with diligence! [Exit Ariel.] Awake, dear heart, awake! thou hast slept well; Awake!
MIR. The strangeness of your story put Heaviness in me. 425
PROS. Shake it off. Come on; We’ll visit Caliban my slave, who never Yields us kind answer.
MIR. ’Tis a villain, sir, I do not love to look on. 430
PROS. But, as ’tis, We cannot miss him: he does make our fire, Fetch in our wood, and serves in offices That profit us. What, ho! slave! Caliban! Thou earth, thou! speak. 435
CAL. [within] There’s wood enough within.
PROS. Come forth, I say! there’s other business for thee: Come, thou tortoise! when? [Re-enter Ariel like a water-nymph.] Fine apparition! My quaint Ariel, Hark in thine ear. 440
ARI. My lord, it shall be done. [Exit.]
PROS. Thou poisonous slave, got by the devil himself Upon thy wicked dam, come forth! [Enter Caliban.]
CAL. As wicked dew as e’er my mother brush’d With raven’s feather from unwholesome fen 445 Drop on you both! a south-west blow on ye And blister you all o’er!
PROS. For this, be sure, to-night thou shalt have cramps, Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up; urchins Shall, for that vast of night that they may work, 450 All exercise on thee; thou shalt be pinch’d
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As thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stinging Than bees that made ’em.
CAL. I must eat my dinner. This island’s mine, by Sycorax my mother, 455 Which thou takest from me. When thou camest first, Thou strokedst me, and madest much of me; wouldst give me Water with berries in’t; and teach me how To name the bigger light, and how the less, That burn by day and night: and then I loved thee, 460 And show’d thee all the qualities o’ th’ isle, The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place and fertile: Curs’d be I that did so! All the charms Of Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on you! For I am all the subjects that you have, 465 Which first was mine own king: and here you sty me In this hard rock, whiles you do keep from me The rest o’ th’ island.
PROS. Thou most lying slave, Whom stripes may move, not kindness! I have used thee, 470 Filth as thou art, with human care; and lodged thee In mine own cell, till thou didst seek to violate The honour of my child.
CAL. O ho, O ho! would ’t had been done! Thou didst prevent me; I had peopled else 475 This isle with Calibans.
PROS. Abhorred slave, Which any print of goodness wilt not take, Being capable of all ill! I pitied thee, Took pains to make thee speak, taught thee each hour 480 One thing or other: when thou didst not, savage, Know thine own meaning, but wouldst gabble like A thing most brutish, I endow’d thy purposes With words that made them known. But thy vile race, Though thou didst learn, had that in’t which good natures 485 Could not abide to be with; therefore wast thou Deservedly confined into this rock, Who hadst deserved more than a prison.
CAL. You taught me language; and my profit on’t Is, I know how to curse. The red plague rid you 490 For learning me your language!
PROS. Hag-seed, hence! Fetch us in fuel; and be quick, thou’rt best, To answer other business. Shrug’st thou, malice? If thou neglect’st, or dost unwillingly 495 What I command, I’ll rack thee with old cramps,
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Fill all thy bones with aches, make thee roar, That beasts shall tremble at thy din.
CAL. No, pray thee. [Aside] I must obey: his art is of such power, 500 It would control my dam’s god, Setebos, And make a vassal of him.
PROS. So, slave; hence! [Exit Caliban.] [Re-enter Ariel, invisible, playing and singing; Ferdinand following.]
ARIEL’S SONG. Come unto these yellow sands, And then take hands: 505 Courtsied when you have and kiss’d The wild waves whist: Foot it featly here and there; And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear. Burthen [dispersedly]. Hark, hark! 510 Bow-wow. The watch-dogs bark: Bow-wow. Ari. Hark, hark! I hear The strain of strutting chanticleer 515 Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow.
FER. Where should this music be? i’ th’ air or th’ earth? It sounds no more: and, sure, it waits upon Some god o’ th’ island. Sitting on a bank, Weeping again the king my father’s wreck, 520 This music crept by me upon the waters, Allaying both their fury and my passion With its sweet air: thence I have follow’d it. Or it hath drawn me rather. But ’tis gone. No, it begins again. 525 [Ariel sings.] Full fathom five thy father lies; Of his bones are coral made; Those are pearls that were his eyes: Nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suffer a sea-change 530 Into something rich and strange. Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: Burthen: Ding-dong.
ARI. Hark! now I hear them,—Ding-dong, bell.
FER. The ditty does remember my drown’d father. 535 This is no mortal business, nor no sound That the earth owes:—I hear it now above me.
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PROS. The fringed curtains of thine eye advance, And say what thou seest yond.
MIR. What is’t? a spirit? 540 Lord, how it looks about! Believe me, sir, It carries a brave form. But ’tis a spirit.
PROS. No, wench; it eats and sleeps and hath such senses As we have, such. This gallant which thou seest Was in the wreck; and, but he’s something stain’d 545 With grief, that’s beauty’s canker, thou mightst call him A goodly person: he hath lost his fellows, And strays about to find ’em.
MIR. I might call him A thing divine; for nothing natural 550 I ever saw so noble.
PROS. [Aside] It goes on, I see, As my soul prompts it. Spirit, fine spirit! I’ll free thee Within two days for this.
FER. Most sure, the goddess 555 On whom these airs attend! Vouchsafe my prayer May know if you remain upon this island; And that you will some good instruction give How I may bear me here: my prime request, Which I do last pronounce, is, O you wonder! 560 If you be maid or no?
MIR. No wonder, sir; But certainly a maid.
FER. My language! heavens! I am the best of them that speak this speech, 565 Were I but where ’tis spoken.
PROS. How? the best? What wert thou, if the King of Naples heard thee?
FER. A single thing, as I am now, that wonders To hear thee speak of Naples. He does hear me; 570 And that he does I weep: myself am Naples, Who with mine eyes, never since at ebb, beheld The king my father wreck’d.
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MIR. Alack, for mercy!
FER. Yes, faith, and all his lords; the Duke of Milan 575 And his brave son being twain.
PROS. [Aside] The Duke of Milan And his more braver daughter could control thee, If now ’twere fit to do’t. At the first sight They have changed eyes. Delicate Ariel, 580 I’ll set thee free for this. [To Fer.] A word, good sir; I fear you have done yourself some wrong: a word.
MIR. Why speaks my father so ungently? This Is the third man that e’er I saw; the first That e’er I sigh’d for: pity move my father 585 To be inclined my way!
FER. O, if a virgin, And your affection not gone forth, I’ll make you The queen of Naples.
PROS. Soft, sir! one word more. 590 [Aside] They are both in either’s powers: but this swift business I must uneasy make, lest too light winning Make the prize light. [To Fer.] One word more; I charge thee That thou attend me: thou dost here usurp The name thou owest not; and hast put thyself 595 Upon this island as a spy, to win it From me, the lord on’t.
FER. No, as I am a man.
MIR. There’s nothing ill can dwell in such a temple: If the ill spirit have so fair a house, 600 Good things will strive to dwell with’t.
PROS. Follow me. Speak not you for him; he’s a traitor. Come; I’ll manacle thy neck and feet together: Sea-water shalt thou drink; thy food shall be 605 The fresh-brook muscles, wither’d roots, and husks Wherein the acorn cradled. Follow.
FER. No; I will resist such entertainment till Mine enemy has more power. [Draws, and is charmed from moving.] 610
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MIR. O dear father, Make not too rash a trial of him, for He’s gentle, and not fearful.
PROS. What! I say, My foot my tutor? Put thy sword up, traitor; 615 Who makest a show, but darest not strike, thy conscience Is so possess’d with guilt: come from thy ward; For I can here disarm thee with this stick And make thy weapon drop.
MIR. Beseech you, father. 620
PROS. Hence! hang not on my garments.
MIR. Sir, have pity; I’ll be his surety.
PROS. Silence! one word more Shall make me chide thee, if not hate thee. What! 625 An advocate for an impostor! hush! Thou think’st there is no more such shapes as he, Having seen but him and Caliban: foolish wench! To the most of men this is a Caliban, And they to him are angels. 630
MIR. My affections Are, then, most humble; I have no ambition To see a goodlier man.
PROS. Come on; obey: Thy nerves are in their infancy again, 635 And have no vigour in them.
FER. So they are: My spirits, as in a dream, are all bound up. My father’s loss, the weakness which I feel, The wreck of all my friends, nor this man’s threats, 640 To whom I am subdued, are but light to me, Might I but through my prison once a day Behold this maid: all corners else o’ th’ earth Let liberty make use of; space enough Have I in such a prison. 645
PROS. [Aside] It works. [To Fer.] Come on. Thou hast done well, fine Ariel! [To Fer.] Follow me.
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[To Ari.] Hark what thou else shalt do me.
MIR. Be of comfort; My father’s of a better nature, sir, 650 Than he appears by speech: this is unwonted Which now came from him.
PROS. Thou shalt be as free As mountain winds: but then exactly do All points of my command. 655
ARI. To the syllable.
PROS. Come, follow. Speak not for him. [Exeunt.]
ACT II Scene I—Another part of the island
[Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Gonzalo, Adrian, Francisco, and others.]
GON. Beseech you, sir, be merry; you have cause, So have we all, of joy; for our escape Is much beyond our loss. Our hint of woe 660 Is common; every day, some sailor’s wife, The masters of some merchant, and the merchant, Have just our theme of woe; but for the miracle, I mean our preservation, few in millions Can speak like us: then wisely, good sir, weigh 665 Our sorrow with our comfort.
ALON. Prithee, peace.
SEB. He receives comfort like cold porridge.
ANT. The visitor will not give him o’er so.
SEB. Look, he’s winding up the watch of his wit; by and 670 by it will strike.
GON. Sir,—
SEB. One: tell.
GON. When every grief is entertain’d that’s offer’d,
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Comes to the entertainer— 675
SEB. A dollar.
GON. Dolour comes to him, indeed: you have spoken truer than you purposed.
SEB. You have taken it wiselier than I meant you should.
GON. Therefore, my lord,— 680
ANT. Fie, what a spendthrift is he of his tongue!
ALON. I prithee, spare.
GON. Well, I have done: but yet,—
SEB. He will be talking.
ANT. Which, of he or Adrian, for a good wager, first begins to crow? 685
SEB. The old cock .
ANT. The cockerel.
SEB. Done. The wager?
ANT. A laughter.
SEB. A match! 690
ADR. Though this island seem to be desert,—
SEB. Ha, ha, ha!—So, you’re paid.
ADR. Uninhabitable, and almost inaccessible,—
SEB. Yet,—
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ADR. Yet,— 695
ANT. He could not miss’t.
ADR. It must needs be of subtle, tender and delicate temperance.
ANT. Temperance was a delicate wench.
SEB. Ay, and a subtle; as he most learnedly delivered.
ADR. The air breathes upon us here most sweetly. 700
SEB. As if it had lungs, and rotten ones.
ANT. Or as ’twere perfumed by a fen.
GON. Here is every thing advantageous to life.
ANT. True; save means to live.
SEB. Of that there’s none, or little. 705
GON. How lush and lusty the grass looks! how green!
ANT. The ground, indeed, is tawny.
SEB. With an eye of green in’t.
ANT. He misses not much.
SEB. No; he doth but mistake the truth totally. 710
GON. But the rarity of it is,—which is indeed almost beyond credit,—
SEB. As many vouched rarities are.
GON. That our garments, being, as they were, drenched in the sea, hold, notwithstanding, their freshness
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and glosses, being rather new-dyed than stained 715 with salt water.
ANT. If but one of his pockets could speak, would it not say he lies?
SEB. Ay, or very falsely pocket up his report.
GON. Methinks our garments are now as fresh as when we put them on first in Afric, at the marriage 720 of the king’s fair daughter Claribel to the King of Tunis.
SEB. ’Twas a sweet marriage, and we prosper well in our return.
ADR. Tunis was never graced before with such a paragon to their queen.
GON. Not since widow Dido’s time.
ANT. Widow! a pox o’ that! How came that widow in? widow Dido! 725
SEB. What if he had said ‘widower Æneas’ too? Good Lord, how you take it!
ADR. ‘Widow Dido’ said you? you make me study of that: she was of Carthage, not of Tunis.
GON. This Tunis, sir, was Carthage. 730
ADR. Carthage?
GON. I assure you, Carthage.
SEB. His word is more than the miraculous harp; he hath raised the wall, and houses too.
ANT. What impossible matter will he make easy next? 735
SEB. I think he will carry this island home in his pocket, and give it his son for an apple.
ANT. And, sowing the kernels of it in the sea, bring forth more islands.
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GON. Ay. 740
ANT. Why, in good time.
GON. Sir, we were talking that our garments seem now as fresh as when we were at Tunis at the marriage of your daughter, who is now queen.
ANT. And the rarest that e’er came there. 745
SEB. Bate, I beseech you, widow Dido.
ANT. O, widow Dido! ay, widow Dido.
GON. Is not, sir, my doublet as fresh as the first day I wore it? I mean, in a sort.
ANT. That sort was well fished for. 750
GON. When I wore it at your daughter’s marriage?
ALON. You cram these words into mine ears against The stomach of my sense. Would I had never Married my daughter there! for, coming thence, My son is lost, and, in my rate, she too. 755 Who is so far from Italy removed I ne’er again shall see her. O thou mine heir Of Naples and of Milan, what strange fish Hath made his meal on thee?
FRAN. Sir, he may live: 760 I saw him beat the surges under him, And ride upon their backs; he trod the water. Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted The surge most swoln that met him; his bold head ’Bove the contentious waves he kept, and oar’d 765 Himself with his good arms in lusty stroke To the shore, that o’er his wave-worn basis bow’d, As stooping to relieve him: I not doubt He came alive to land.
ALON. No, no, he’s gone. 770
SEB. Sir, you may thank yourself for this great loss,
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That would not bless our Europe with your daughter, But rather lose her to an African; Where she, at least, is banish’d from your eye, Who hath cause to wet the grief on’t. 775
ALON. Prithee, peace.
SEB. You were kneel’d to, and importuned otherwise, By all of us; and the fair soul herself Weigh’d between loathness and obedience, at Which end o’ the beam should bow. We have lost your son, 780 I fear, for ever: Milan and Naples have More widows in them of this business’ making Than we bring men to comfort them: The fault’s your own.
ALON. So is the dear’st o’ the loss. 785
GON. My lord Sebastian, The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness, And time to speak it in: you rub the sore, When you should bring the plaster.
SEB. Very well. 790
ANT. And most chirurgeonly.
GON. It is foul weather in us all, good sir, When you are cloudy.
SEB. Foul weather?
ANT. Very foul. 795
GON. Had I plantation of this isle, my lord,—
ANT. He’ld sow’t with nettle-seed.
SEB. Or docks, or mallows.
GON. And were the king on’t, what would I do?
SEB. ’Scape being drunk for want of wine. 800
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GON. I’ the commonwealth I would by contraries Execute all things; for no kind of traffic Would I admit; no name of magistrate; Letters should not be known; riches, poverty, And use of service, none; contract, succession, 805 Bourn, bound of land, tilth, vineyard, none; No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil; No occupation; all men idle, all; And women too, but innocent and pure; No sovereignty;— 810
SEB. Yet he would be king on’t.
ANT. The latter end of his commonwealth forgets the beginning.
GON. All things in common nature should produce Without sweat or endeavour: treason, felony, Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine, 815 Would I not have; but nature should bring forth, Of its own kind, all foison, all abundance, To feed my innocent people.
SEB. No marrying ’mong his subjects?
ANT. None, man; all idle; whores and knaves. 820
GON. I would with such perfection govern, sir, To excel the golden age.
SEB. ’Save his majesty!
ANT. Long live Gonzalo!
GON. And,—do you mark me, sir? 825
ALON. Prithee, no more: thou dost talk nothing to me.
GON. I do well believe your highness; and did it to minister occasion to these gentlemen, who are of such sensible and nimble lungs that they always use to laugh at nothing. 830
ANT. ’Twas you we laughed at.
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GON. Who in this kind of merry fooling am nothing to you: so you may continue, and laugh at nothing still.
ANT. What a blow was there given!
SEB. An it had not fallen flat-long. 835
GON. You are gentlemen of brave mettle; you would lift the moon out of her sphere, if she would continue in it five weeks without changing. [Enter Ariel (invisible) playing solemn music.]
SEB. We would so, and then go a bat-fowling.
ANT. Nay, good my lord, be not angry. 840 Gon. No, I warrant you; I will not adventure my discretion so weakly. Will you laugh me asleep, for I am very heavy?
ANT. Go sleep, and hear us. [All sleep except Alon., Seb., and Ant.]
ALON. What, all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyes 845 Would, with themselves, shut up my thoughts: I find They are inclined to do so.
SEB. Please you, sir, Do not omit the heavy offer of it: It seldom visits sorrow; when it doth, 850 It is a comforter.
ANT. We two, my lord, Will guard your person while you take your rest, And watch your safety.
ALON. Thank you.—Wondrous heavy. 855 [Alonso sleeps. Exit Ariel.]
SEB. What a strange drowsiness possesses them!
ANT. It is the quality o’ the climate.
SEB. Why Doth it not then our eyelids sink? I find not
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Myself disposed to sleep. 860
ANT. Nor I; my spirits are nimble. They fell together all, as by consent; They dropp’d, as by a thunder-stroke. What might, Worthy Sebastian?—O, what might?—No more:— And yet methinks I see it in thy face, 865 What thou shouldst be: the occasion speaks thee; and My strong imagination sees a crown Dropping upon thy head.
SEB. What, art thou waking?
ANT. Do you not hear me speak? 870
SEB. I do; and surely It is a sleepy language, and thou speak’st Out of thy sleep. What is it thou didst say? This is a strange repose, to be asleep With eyes wide open; standing, speaking, moving, 875 And yet so fast asleep.
ANT. Noble Sebastian, Thou let’st thy fortune sleep—die, rather; wink’st Whiles thou art waking.
SEB. Thou dost snore distinctly; 880 There’s meaning in thy snores.
ANT. I am more serious than my custom: you Must be so too, if heed me; which to do Trebles thee o’er.
SEB. Well, I am standing water. 885
ANT. I’ll teach you how to flow.
SEB. Do so: to ebb Hereditary sloth instructs me.
ANT. O, If you but knew how you the purpose cherish 890 Whiles thus you mock it! how, in stripping it, You more invest it! Ebbing men, indeed, Most often do so near the bottom run By their own fear or sloth.
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SEB. Prithee, say on: 895 The setting of thine eye and cheek proclaim A matter from thee; and a birth, indeed, Which throes thee much to yield.
ANT. Thus, sir: Although this lord of weak remembrance, this, 900 Who shall be of as little memory When he is earth’d, hath here almost persuaded,— For he’s a spirit of persuasion, only Professes to persuade,—the king his son’s alive, ’Tis as impossible that he’s undrown’d 905 As he that sleeps here swims.
SEB. I have no hope That he’s undrown’d.
ANT. O, out of that ‘no hope’ What great hope have you! no hope that way is 910 Another way so high a hope that even Ambition cannot pierce a wink beyond, But doubt discovery there. Will you grant with me That Ferdinand is drown’d?
SEB. He’s gone. 915
ANT. Then, tell me, Who’s the next heir of Naples?
SEB. Claribel.
ANT. She that is queen of Tunis; she that dwells Ten leagues beyond man’s life; she that from Naples 920 Can have no note, unless the sun were post,— The man i’ the moon’s too slow,—till new-born chins Be rough and razorable; she that from whom We all were sea-swallow’d, though some cast again, And by that destiny, to perform an act 925 Whereof what’s past is prologue; what to come, In yours and my discharge.
SEB. What stuff is this! How say you? ’Tis true, my brother’s daughter’s queen of Tunis; So is she heir of Naples; ’twixt which regions 930 There is some space.
ANT. A space whose every cubit
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Seems to cry out, “How shall that Claribel Measure us back to Naples? Keep in Tunis, And let Sebastian wake.” Say, this were death 935 That now hath seized them; why, they were no worse Than now they are. There be that can rule Naples As well as he that sleeps; lords that can prate As amply and unnecessarily As this Gonzalo; I myself could make 940 A chough of as deep chat. O, that you bore The mind that I do! what a sleep were this For your advancement! Do you understand me?
SEB. Methinks I do.
ANT. And how does your content 945 Tender your own good fortune?
SEB. I remember You did supplant your brother Prospero.
ANT. True: And look how well my garments sit upon me; 950 Much feater than before: my brother’s servants Were then my fellows; now they are my men.
SEB. But for your conscience.
ANT. Ay, sir; where lies that? if ’twere a kibe, ’Twould put me to my slipper: but I feel not 955 This deity in my bosom: twenty consciences, That stand ’twixt me and Milan, candied be they, And melt, ere they molest! Here lies your brother, No better than the earth he lies upon, If he were that which now he’s like, that’s dead; 960 Whom I, with this obedient steel, three inches of it, Can lay to bed for ever; whiles you, doing thus, To the perpetual wink for aye might put This ancient morsel, this Sir Prudence, who Should not upbraid our course. For all the rest, 965 They’ll take suggestion as a cat laps milk; They’ll tell the clock to any business that We say befits the hour.
SEB. Thy case, dear friend, Shall be my precedent; as thou got’st Milan, 970 I’ll come by Naples. Draw thy sword: one stroke Shall free thee from the tribute which thou payest; And I the king shall love thee.
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ANT. Draw together; And when I rear my hand, do you the like, 975 To fall it on Gonzalo.
SEB. O, but one word. [They talk apart.] [Re-enter Ariel invisible.]
ARI. My master through his art foresees the danger That you, his friend, are in; and sends me forth,— For else his project dies,—to keep them living. 980 [Sings in Gonzalo’s ear.] While you here do snoring lie, Open-eyed conspiracy His time doth take. If of life you keep a care, Shake off slumber, and beware: 985 Awake, awake!
ANT. Then let us both be sudden.
GON. Now, good angels Preserve the king! [They wake.]
ALON. Why, how now? ho, awake!—Why are you drawn? 990 Wherefore this ghastly looking?
GON. What’s the matter?
SEB. Whiles we stood here securing your repose, Even now, we heard a hollow burst of bellowing Like bulls, or rather lions: did’t not wake you? 995 It struck mine ear most terribly.
ALON. I heard nothing.
ANT. O, ’twas a din to fright a monster’s ear, To make an earthquake! sure, it was the roar Of a whole herd of lions. 1000
ALON. Heard you this, Gonzalo?
GON. Upon mine honour, sir, I heard a humming, And that a strange one too, which did awake me:
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I shaked you, sir, and cried: as mine eyes open’d, I saw their weapons drawn:—there was a noise, 1005 That’s verily. ’Tis best we stand upon our guard, Or that we quit this place: let’s draw our weapons.
ALON. Lead off this ground; and let’s make further search For my poor son.
GON. Heavens keep him from these beasts! 1010 For he is, sure, i’ th’ island.
ALON. Lead away.
ARI. Prospero my lord shall know what I have done: So, king, go safely on to seek thy son. [Exeunt.]
Scene II—Another part of the island [Enter Caliban with a burden of wood. A noise of thunder heard.]
CAL. All the infections that the sun sucks up 1015 From bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall, and make him By inch-meal a disease! His spirits hear me, And yet I needs must curse. But they’ll nor pinch, Fright me with urchin-shows, pitch me i’ the mire, Nor lead me, like a firebrand, in the dark 1020 Out of my way, unless he bid ’em: but For every trifle are they set upon me; Sometime like apes, that mow and chatter at me, And after bite me; then like hedgehogs, which Lie tumbling in my barefoot way, and mount 1025 Their pricks at my footfall; sometime am I All wound with adders, who with cloven tongues Do hiss me into madness. [Enter Trinculo.] Lo, now, lo! Here comes a spirit of his, and to torment me 1030 For bringing wood in slowly. I’ll fall flat; Perchance he will not mind me.
TRIN. Here’s neither bush nor shrub, to bear off any weather at all, and another storm brewing; I hear it sing i’ the wind: yond same black cloud, yond huge one, 1035 looks like a foul bombard that would shed his liquor. If it should thunder as it did before, I know not where to hide my head: yond same cloud cannot choose but fall by pailfuls. What have we here? a man or a fish? dead or alive? A fish: he smells like a fish; a very ancient and 1040 fish-like smell; a kind of not of the newest Poor-John. A strange fish! Were I in England now, as once I was, and had but this fish painted, not a holiday fool there but would
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give a piece of silver: there would this monster make a man; any strange beast there makes a man: when they will not 1045 give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see a dead Indian. Legged like a man! and his fins like arms! Warm o’ my troth! I do now let loose my opinion; hold it no longer: this is no fish, but an islander, that hath lately suffered by a thunderbolt. [Thunder.] Alas, the storm is 1050 come again! my best way is to creep under his gaberdine; there is no other shelter hereabout: misery acquaints a man with strange bed-fellows. I will here shroud till the dregs of the storm be past. [Enter Stephano, singing: a bottle in his hand.]
STE. I shall no more to sea, to sea, 1055
Here shall I die a-shore,—
This is a very scurvy tune to sing at a man’s
funeral: well, here’s my comfort. [Drinks.]
[Sings.] The master, the swabber, the boatswain, and I,
The gunner, and his mate, 1060
Loved Mall, Meg, and Marian, and Margery,
But none of us cared for Kate;
For she had a tongue with a tang,
Would cry to a sailor, Go hang!
She loved not the savour of tar nor of pitch; 1065
Yet a tailor might scratch her where’er she did itch.
Then, to sea, boys, and let her go hang!
This is a scurvy tune too: but here’s my comfort. [Drinks.]
CAL. Do not torment me:—O!
STE. What’s the matter? Have we devils here? Do you 1070 put tricks upon ’s with savages and men of Ind, ha? I have not scaped drowning, to be afeard now of your four legs; for it hath been said, As proper a man as ever went on four legs cannot make him give ground; and it shall be said so again, 1075 while Stephano breathes at’s nostrils.
CAL. The spirit torments me:—O!
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STE. This is some monster of the isle with four legs, who hath got, as I take it, an ague. Where the devil should he learn our language? I will give him some 1080 relief, if it be but for that. If I can recover him, and keep him tame, and get to Naples with him, he’s a present for any emperor that ever trod on neat’s-leather.
CAL. Do not torment me, prithee; I’ll bring my wood home faster.
STE. He’s in his fit now, and does not talk after the wisest. 1085 He shall taste of my bottle: if he have never drunk wine afore, it will go near to remove his fit. If I can recover him, and keep him tame, I will not take too much for him; he shall pay for him that hath him, and that soundly. 1090
CAL. Thou dost me yet but little hurt; thou wilt anon, I know it by thy trembling: now Prosper works upon thee.
STE. Come on your ways; open your mouth; here is that which will give language to you, cat: open your mouth; this will shake your shaking, 1095 I can tell you, and that soundly: you cannot tell who’s your friend: open your chaps again.
TRIN. I should know that voice: it should be—but he is drowned; and these are devils:—O defend me!
STE. Four legs and two voices,—a most delicate monster! 1100 His forward voice, now, is to speak well of his friend; his backward voice is to utter foul speeches and to detract. If all the wine in my bottle will recover him, I will help his ague. Come:—Amen! I will pour some in thy other mouth. 1105
TRIN. Stephano!
STE. Doth thy other mouth call me? Mercy, mercy! This is a devil, and no monster: I will leave him; I have no long spoon.
TRIN. Stephano! If thou beest Stephano, touch me, 1110 and speak to me; for I am Trinculo,—be not afeard, —thy good friend Trinculo.
STE. If thou beest Trinculo, come forth: I’ll pull thee
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by the lesser legs: if any be Trinculo’s legs, these are they. Thou art very Trinculo indeed! How earnest thou to be 1115 the siege of this moon-calf ? can he vent Trinculos?
TRIN. I took him to be killed with a thunder-stroke. But art thou not drowned, Stephano? I hope, now, thou art not drowned. Is the storm overblown? I hid me under the dead moon-calf ’s gaberdine 1120 for fear of the storm. And art thou living, Stephano? O Stephano, two Neapolitans scaped!
STE. Prithee, do not turn me about; my stomach is not constant.
CAL. [aside] These be fine things, an if they be not sprites. That’s a brave god, and bears celestial liquor: 1125 I will kneel to him.
STE. How didst thou ’scape? How camest thou hither? swear, by this bottle, how thou camest hither. I escaped upon a butt of sack, which the sailors heaved o’erboard, by this bottle! which I made 1130 of the bark of a tree with mine own hands, since I was cast ashore.
CAL. I’ll swear, upon that bottle, to be thy true subject; for the liquor is not earthly.
STE. Here; swear, then, how thou escapedst. 1135
TRIN. Swum ashore, man, like a duck: I can swim like a duck, I’ll be sworn.
STE. Here, kiss the book. Though thou canst swim like a duck, thou art made like a goose.
TRIN. O Stephano, hast any more of this? 1140
STE. The whole butt, man: my cellar is in a rock by the sea-side, where my wine is hid. How now, moon-calf ! how does thine ague?
CAL. Hast thou not dropp’d from heaven?
STE. Out o’ the moon, I do assure thee: I was the man i’ 1145 the moon when time was.
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CAL. I have seen thee in her, and I do adore thee: My mistress show’d me thee, and thy dog, and thy bush.
STE. Come, swear to that; kiss the book: I will furnish it anon with new contents: swear. 1150
TRIN. By this good light, this is a very shallow monster! I afeard of him! A very weak monster! The man i’ the moon! A most poor credulous monster! Well drawn, monster, in good sooth!
CAL. I’ll show thee every fertile inch o’ th’ island; 1155 And I will kiss thy foot: I prithee, be my god.
TRIN. By this light, a most perfidious and drunken monster! when’s god’s asleep, he’ll rob his bottle.
CAL. I’ll kiss thy foot; I’ll swear myself thy subject.
STE. Come on, then; down, and swear. 1160
TRIN. I shall laugh myself to death at this puppy-headed monster. A most scurvy monster! I could find in my heart to beat him,—
STE. Come, kiss.
TRIN. But that the poor monster’s in drink: an abominable monster!
CAL. I’ll show thee the best springs; I’ll pluck thee berries; 1165 I’ll fish for thee, and get thee wood enough. A plague upon the tyrant that I serve! I’ll bear him no more sticks, but follow thee, Thou wondrous man.
TRIN. A most ridiculous monster, to make a wonder 1170 of a poor drunkard!
CAL. I prithee, let me bring thee where crabs grow; And I with my long nails will dig thee pig-nuts; Show thee a jay’s nest, and instruct thee how To snare the nimble marmoset; I’ll bring thee 1175 To clustering filberts, and sometimes I’ll get thee Young scamels from the rock. Wilt thou go with me?
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STE. I prithee now, lead the way, without any more talking. Trinculo, the king and all our company else being drowned, we will inherit here: here; bear my bottle: fellow Trinculo, 1180 we’ll fill him by and by again.
CAL. [sings drunkenly.] Farewell, master; farewell, farewell!
TRIN. A howling monster; a drunken monster!
CAL. No more dams I’ll make for fish;
Nor fetch in firing 1185
At requiring;
Nor scrape trencher, nor wash dish:
’Ban, ’Ban, Cacaliban
Has a new master:—get a new man.
Freedom, hey-day! hey-day, freedom! freedom, hey-day, freedom! 1190
STE. O brave monster! Lead the way. [Exeunt.]
ACT III Scene I—Before Prospero’s cell
[Enter Ferdinand, bearing a log.]
FER. There be some sports are painful, and their labour Delight in them sets off: some kinds of baseness Are nobly undergone, and most poor matters Point to rich ends. This my mean task 1195 Would be as heavy to me as odious, but The mistress which I serve quickens what’s dead, And makes my labours pleasures: O, she is Ten times more gentle than her father’s crabbed. And he’s composed of harshness. I must remove 1200 Some thousands of these logs, and pile them up, Upon a sore injunction: my sweet mistress Weeps when she sees me work, and says, such baseness Had never like executor. I forget: But these sweet thoughts do even refresh my labours, 1205 Most busy lest, when I do it. [Enter Miranda; and Prospero at a distance, unseen.]
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MIR. Alas, now, pray you, Work not so hard: I would the lightning had Burnt up those logs that you are enjoin’d to pile! Pray, set it down, and rest you: when this burns, 1210 ’Twill weep for having wearied you. My father Is hard at study; pray, now, rest yourself; He’s safe for these three hours.
FER. O most dear mistress, The sun will set before I shall discharge 1215 What I must strive to do.
MIR. If you’ll sit down, I’ll bear your logs the while: pray, give me that; I’ll carry it to the pile.
FER. No, precious creature; 1220 I had rather crack my sinews, break my back, Than you should such dishonour undergo, While I sit lazy by.
MIR. It would become me As well as it does you: and I should do it 1225 With much more ease; for my good will is to it, And yours it is against.
PROS. Poor worm, thou art infected! This visitation shows it.
MIR. You look wearily. 1230
FER. No, noble mistress; ’tis fresh morning with me When you are by at night. I do beseech you,— Chiefly that I might set it in my prayers,— What is your name?
MIR. Miranda.—O my father, 1235 I have broke your hest to say so!
FER. Admired Miranda! Indeed the top of admiration! worth What’s dearest to the world! Full many a lady I have eyed with best regard, and many a time 1240 The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage Brought my too diligent ear: for several virtues Have I liked several women; never any With so full soul, but some defect in her
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Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed, 1245 And put it to the foil: but you, O you, So perfect and so peerless, are created Of every creature’s best!
MIR. I do not know One of my sex; no woman’s face remember, 1250 Save, from my glass, mine own; nor have I seen More that I may call men than you, good friend, And my dear father: how features are abroad, I am skilless of; but, by my modesty, The jewel in my dower, I would not wish 1255 Any companion in the world but you; Nor can imagination form a shape, Besides yourself, to like of. But I prattle Something too wildly, and my father’s precepts I therein do forget. 1260
FER. I am, in my condition, A prince, Miranda; I do think, a king; I would, not so!—and would no more endure This wooden slavery than to suffer The flesh-fly blow my mouth. Hear my soul speak: 1265 The very instant that I saw you, did My heart fly to your service; there resides, To make me slave to it; and for your sake Am I this patient log-man.
MIR. Do you love me? 1270
FER. O heaven, O earth, bear witness to this sound, And crown what I profess with kind event, If I speak true! if hollowly, invert What best is boded me to mischief ! I, Beyond all limit of what else i’ the world, 1275 Do love, prize, honour you.
MIR. I am a fool To weep at what I am glad of.
PROS. Fair encounter Of two most rare affections! Heavens rain grace 1280 On that which breeds between ’em!
FER. Wherefore weep you?
MIR. At mine unworthiness, that dare not offer What I desire to give; and much less take What I shall die to want. But this is trifling; 1285
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And all the more it seeks to hide itself, The bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful cunning! And prompt me, plain and holy innocence! I am your wife, if you will marry me; If not, I’ll die your maid: to be your fellow 1290 You may deny me; but I’ll be your servant, Whether you will or no.
FER. My mistress, dearest; And I thus humble ever.
MIR. My husband, then? 1295
FER. Ay, with a heart as willing As bondage e’er of freedom: here’s my hand.
MIR. And mine, with my heart in’t: and now farewell Till half an hour hence.
FER. A thousand thousand! 1300 [Exeunt Fer. and Mir. severally.]
PROS. So glad of this as they I cannot be, Who are surprised withal; but my rejoicing At nothing can be more. I’ll to my book; For yet, ere supper-time, must I perform Much business appertaining. [Exit.] 1305
Scene II—Another part of the island [Enter Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo.]
STE. Tell not me;—when the butt is out, we will drink water; not a drop before: therefore bear up, and board ’em. Servant-monster, drink to me.
TRIN. Servant-monster! the folly of this island! They say there’s but five upon this isle: we are three of them; 1310 if th’ other two be brained like us, the state totters.
STE. Drink, servant-monster, when I bid thee: thy eyes are almost set in thy head.
TRIN. Where should they be set else? he were a brave monster indeed, if they were set in his tail. 1315
STE. My man-monster hath drowned his tongue in sack:
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for my part, the sea cannot drown me; I swam, ere I could recover the shore, five-and-thirty leagues off and on. By this light, thou shalt be my lieutenant, monster, or my standard. 1320
TRIN. Your lieutenant, if you list; he’s no standard.
STE. We’ll not run, Monsieur Monster.
TRIN. Nor go neither; but you’ll lie, like dogs, and yet say nothing neither.
STE. Moon-calf, speak once in thy life, if thou beest 1325 a good moon-calf.
CAL. How does thy honour? Let me lick thy shoe. I’ll not serve him, he is not valiant.
TRIN. Thou liest, most ignorant monster: I am in case to justle a constable. Why, thou debauched fish, thou, 1330 was there ever man a coward that hath drunk so much sack as I to-day? Wilt thou tell a monstrous lie, being but half a fish and half a monster?
CAL. Lo, how he mocks me! wilt thou let him, my lord?
TRIN. ‘Lord,’ quoth he! That a monster should be such a natural! 1335
CAL. Lo, lo, again! bite him to death, I prithee.
STE. Trinculo, keep a good tongue in your head: if you prove a mutineer,—the next tree! The poor monster’s my subject, and he shall not suffer indignity.
CAL. I thank my noble lord. Wilt thou be pleased to 1340 hearken once again to the suit I made to thee? Ste. Marry, will I: kneel and repeat it; I will stand, and so shall Trinculo. [Enter Ariel, invisible.]
CAL. As I told thee before, I am subject to a tyrant, a sorcerer, that by his cunning hath cheated me of the island. 1345
ARI. Thou liest.
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CAL. Thou liest, thou jesting monkey, thou: I would my valiant master would destroy thee! I do not lie.
STE. Trinculo, if you trouble him any more in’s tale, 1350 by this hand, I will supplant some of your teeth.
TRIN. Why, I said nothing.
STE. Mum, then, and no more. Proceed.
CAL. I say, by sorcery he got this isle; From me he got it. If thy greatness will 1355 Revenge it on him,—for I know thou darest, But this thing dare not,—
STE. That’s most certain.
CAL. Thou shalt be lord of it, and I’ll serve thee.
STE. How now shall this be compassed? Canst thou 1360 bring me to the party?
CAL. Yea, yea, my lord: I’ll yield him thee asleep, Where thou mayst knock a nail into his head.
ARI. Thou liest; thou canst not.
CAL. What a pied ninny’s this! Thou scurvy patch! 1365 I do beseech thy Greatness, give him blows, And take his bottle from him: when that’s gone, He shall drink nought but brine; for I’ll not show him Where the quick freshes are.
STE. Trinculo, run into no further danger: interrupt 1370 the monster one word further, and, by this hand, I’ll turn my mercy out o’ doors, and make a stock-fish of thee.
TRIN. Why, what did I? I did nothing. I’ll go farther off.
STE. Didst thou not say he lied?
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ARI. Thou liest. 1375
STE. Do I so? take thou that. [Beats him.] As you like this, give me the lie another time.
TRIN. I did not give the lie. Out o’ your wits, and hearing too? A pox o’ your bottle! this can sack and drinking do. A murrain on your monster, and the devil take your fingers! 1380
CAL. Ha, ha, ha!
STE. Now, forward with your tale.—Prithee, stand farther off.
CAL. Beat him enough: after a little time, I’ll beat him too.
STE. Stand farther. Come, proceed.
CAL. Why, as I told thee, ’tis a custom with him 1385 I’ th’ afternoon to sleep: there thou mayst brain him, Having first seized his books; or with a log Batter his skull, or paunch him with a stake, Or cut his wezand with thy knife. Remember First to possess his books; for without them 1390 He’s but a sot, as I am, nor hath not One spirit to command: they all do hate him As rootedly as I. Burn but his books. He has brave utensils,—for so he calls them,— Which, when he has a house, he’ll deck withal. 1395 And that most deeply to consider is The beauty of his daughter; he himself Calls her a nonpareil: I never saw a woman, But only Sycorax my dam and she; But she as far surpasseth Sycorax 1400 As great’st does least.
STE. Is it so brave a lass?
CAL. Ay, lord; she will become thy bed, I warrant, And bring thee forth brave brood.
STE. Monster, I will kill this man: his daughter and 1405 I will be king and queen,—save our Graces!—and Trinculo and thyself shall be viceroys. Dost thou like the plot, Trinculo?
TRIN. Excellent.
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STE. Give me thy hand: I am sorry I beat thee; but, while thou livest, keep a good tongue in thy head. 1410
CAL. Within this half hour will he be asleep: Wilt thou destroy him then?
STE. Ay, on mine honour.
ARI. This will I tell my master.
CAL. Thou makest me merry; I am full of pleasure: 1415 Let us be jocund: will you troll the catch You taught me but while-ere?
STE. At thy request, monster, I will do reason, any reason. —Come on. Trinculo, let us sing. [Sings.] Flout ’em and scout ’em, and scout ’em and flout ’em; 1420 Thought is free.
CAL. That’s not the tune. [Ariel plays the tune on a tabor and pipe.]
STE. What is this same?
TRIN. This is the tune of our catch, played by the picture of Nobody.
STE. If thou beest a man, show thyself in thy likeness: 1425 if thou beest a devil, take’t as thou list.
TRIN. O, forgive me my sins!
STE. He that dies pays all debts: I defy thee. Mercy upon us!
CAL. Art thou afeard?
STE. No, monster, not I. 1430
CAL. Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises, Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not. Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments Will hum about mine ears; and sometime voices, That, if I then had waked after long sleep, 1435
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Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming, The clouds methought would open, and show riches Ready to drop upon me; that, when I waked, I cried to dream again.
STE. This will prove a brave kingdom to me, where 1440 I shall have my music for nothing.
CAL. When Prospero is destroyed.
STE. That shall be by and by: I remember the story.
TRIN. The sound is going away; let’s follow it, and after do our work.
STE. Lead, monster; we’ll follow. I would I could see 1445 this taborer; he lays it on.
TRIN. Wilt come? I’ll follow, Stephano. [Exeunt.]
Scene III—Another part of the island [Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Gonzalo, Adrian, Francisco, and others.]
GON. By’r lakin, I can go no further, sir; My old bones ache: here’s a maze trod, indeed, Through forth-rights and meanders! By your patience, 1450 I needs must rest me.
ALON. Old lord, I cannot blame thee, Who am myself attach’d with weariness, To the dulling of my spirits: sit down, and rest. Even here I will put off my hope, and keep it 1455 No longer for my flatterer: he is drown’d Whom thus we stray to find; and the sea mocks Our frustrate search on land. Well, let him go.
ANT. [Aside to Seb.] I am right glad that he’s so out of hope. Do not, for one repulse, forego the purpose 1460 That you resolved to effect.
SEB. [Aside to Ant.] The next advantage Will we take throughly.
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ANT. [Aside to Seb.] Let it be to-night; For, now they are oppress’d with travel, they 1465 Will not, nor cannot, use such vigilance As when they are fresh.
SEB. [Aside to Ant.] I say, to-night: no more. [Solemn and strange music.]
ALON. What harmony is this?—My good friends, hark! Gon. Marvellous sweet music! 1470 [Enter Prospero above, invisible. Enter several strange Shapes, bringing in a banquet: they dance about it with gentle actions of salutation; and, inviting the King, &c. to eat, they depart.]
ALON. Give us kind keepers, heavens!—What were these?
SEB. A living drollery. Now I will believe That there are unicorns; that in Arabia There is one tree, the phœnix’ throne; one phœnix At this hour reigning there. 1475
ANT. I’ll believe both; And what does else want credit, come to me, And I’ll be sworn ’tis true: travellers ne’er did lie, Though fools at home condemn ’em.
GON. If in Naples 1480 I should report this now, would they believe me? If I should say, I saw such islanders,— For, certes, these are people of the island,— Who, though they are of monstrous shape, yet, note, Their manners are more gentle-kind than of 1485 Our human generation you shall find Many, nay, almost any.
PROS. [Aside] Honest lord, Thou hast said well; for some of you there present Are worse than devils. 1490
ALON. I cannot too much muse Such shapes, such gesture, and such sound, expressing— Although they want the use of tongue—a kind Of excellent dumb discourse.
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PROS. [Aside] Praise in departing. 1495
FRAN. They vanish’d strangely.
SEB. No matter, since They have left their viands behind; for we have stomachs.— Will’t please you taste of what is here?
ALON. Not I. 1500
GON. Faith, sir, you need not fear. When we were boys, Who would believe that there were mountaineers Dew-lapp’d like bulls, whose throats had hanging at ’em Wallets of flesh? or that there were such men Whose heads stood in their breasts? which now we find 1505 Each putter-out of five for one will bring us Good warrant of.
ALON. I will stand to, and feed, Although my last: no matter, since I feel The best is past. Brother, my lord the duke, 1510 Stand to, and do as we. [Thunder and lightning. Enter Ariel, like a harpy; claps his wings upon the table; and, with a quaint device, the banquet vanishes.]
ARI. You are three men of sin, whom Destiny,— That hath to instrument this lower world And what is in’t,—the never-surfeited sea Hath caused to belch up you; and on this island, 1515 Where man doth not inhabit,—you ’mongst men Being most unfit to live. I have made you mad; And even with such-like valour men hang and drown Their proper selves. [Alon., Seb. &c. draw their swords.] You fools! I and my fellows 1520 Are ministers of Fate: the elements, Of whom your swords are temper’d, may as well Wound the loud winds, or with bemock’d-at stabs Kill the still-closing waters, as diminish One dowle that’s in my plume: my fellow-ministers 1525 Are like invulnerable. If you could hurt, Your swords are now too massy for your strengths, And will not be uplifted. But remember,— For that’s my business to you,—that you three From Milan did supplant good Prospero; 1530 Exposed unto the sea, which hath requit it, Him and his innocent child: for which foul deed The powers, delaying, not forgetting, have Incensed the seas and shores, yea, all the creatures,
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Against your peace. Thee of thy son, Alonso, 1535 They have bereft; and do pronounce by me: Lingering perdition—worse than any death Can be at once—shall step by step attend You and your ways; whose wraths to guard you from,— Which here, in this most desolate isle, else falls 1540 Upon your heads,—is nothing but heart-sorrow And a clear life ensuing. [He vanishes in thunder; then, to soft music, enter the Shapes again, and dance, with mocks and mows, and carrying out the table.]
PROS. Bravely the figure of this harpy hast thou Perform’d, my Ariel; a grace it had, devouring: Of my instruction hast thou nothing bated 1545 In what thou hadst to say: so, with good life And observation strange, my meaner ministers Their several kinds have done. My high charms work, And these mine enemies are all knit up In their distractions: they now are in my power; 1550 And in these fits I leave them, while I visit Young Ferdinand,—whom they suppose is drown’d,— And his and mine loved darling. [Exit above.]
GON. I’ the name of something holy, sir, why stand you In this strange stare? 1555
ALON. O, it is monstrous, monstrous! Methought the billows spoke, and told me of it; The winds did sing it to me; and the thunder, That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounced The name of Prosper: it did bass my trespass. 1560 Therefore my son i’ th’ ooze is bedded; and I’ll seek him deeper than e’er plummet sounded, And with him there lie mudded. [Exit.]
SEB. But one fiend at a time, I’ll fight their legions o’er. 1565
ANT. I’ll be thy second. [Exeunt Seb. and Ant.]
GON. All three of them are desperate: their great guilt, Like poison given to work a great time after, Now ’gins to bite the spirits. I do beseech you, That are of suppler joints, follow them swiftly, 1570 And hinder them from what this ecstasy May now provoke them to.
ADR. Follow, I pray you. [Exeunt.]
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ACT IV Scene I—Before Prospero’s cell
[Enter Prospero, Ferdinand, and Miranda.]
PROS. If I have too austerely punish’d you, Your compensation makes amends; for I 1575 Have given you here a third of mine own life, Or that for which I live; who once again I tender to thy hand: all thy vexations Were but my trials of thy love, and thou Hast strangely stood the test: here, afore Heaven, 1580 I ratify this my rich gift. O Ferdinand, Do not smile at me that I boast her off, For thou shalt find she will outstrip all praise, And make it halt behind her.
FER. I do believe it 1585 Against an oracle.
PROS. Then, as my gift, and thine own acquisition Worthily purchased, take my daughter: but If thou dost break her virgin-knot before All sanctimonious ceremonies may 1590 With full and holy rite be minister’d, No sweet aspersion shall the heavens let fall To make this contract grow; but barren hate, Sour-eyed disdain and discord shall bestrew The union of your bed with weeds so loathly 1595 That you shall hate it both: therefore take heed, As Hymen’s lamps shall light you.
FER. As I hope For quiet days, fair issue and long life, With such love as ’tis now, the murkiest den, 1600 The most opportune place, the strong’st suggestion Our worser Genius can, shall never melt Mine honour into lust, to take away The edge of that day’s celebration When I shall think, or Phœbus’ steeds are founder’d, 1605 Or Night kept chain’d below.
PROS. Fairly spoke. Sit, then, and talk with her; she is thine own. What, Ariel! my industrious servant, Ariel! [Enter Ariel.]
ARI. What would my potent master? here I am. 1610
PROS. Thou and thy meaner fellows your last service
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Did worthily perform; and I must use you In such another trick. Go bring the rabble, O’er whom I give thee power, here to this place: Incite them to quick motion; for I must 1615 Bestow upon the eyes of this young couple Some vanity of mine art: it is my promise, And they expect it from me.
ARI. Presently?
PROS. Ay, with a twink. 1620
ARI. Before you can say, ‘come,’ and ‘go,’
And breathe twice, and cry, ‘so, so,’
Each one, tripping on his toe,
Will be here with mop and mow.
Do you love me, master? no? 1625
PROS. Dearly, my delicate Ariel. Do not approach Till thou dost hear me call.
ARI. Well, I conceive. [Exit.]
PROS. Look thou be true; do not give dalliance Too much the rein: the strongest oaths are straw 1630 To the fire i’ the blood: be more abstemious, Or else, good night your vow!
FER. I warrant you, sir; The white cold virgin snow upon my heart Abates the ardour of my liver. 1635
PROS. Well. Now come, my Ariel! bring a corollary, Rather than want a spirit: appear, and pertly! No tongue! all eyes! be silent. [Soft music.] [Enter Iris.]
IRIS Ceres, most bounteous lady, thy rich leas 1640 Of wheat, rye, barley, vetches, oats, and pease; Thy turfy mountains, where live nibbling sheep, And flat meads thatch’d with stover, them to keep;
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Thy banks with pioned and twilled brims, Which spongy April at thy best betrims, 1645 To make cold nymphs chaste crowns; and thy broom-groves, Whose shadow the dismissed bachelor loves, Being lass-lorn; thy pole-clipt vineyard; And thy sea-marge, sterile and rocky-hard, Where thou thyself dost air;—the queen o’ the sky, 1650 Whose watery arch and messenger am I, Bids thee leave these; and with her sovereign grace, Here on this grass-plot, in this very place, To come and sport:—her peacocks fly amain: Approach, rich Ceres, her to entertain. 1655 [Enter Ceres.]
CER. Hail, many-colour’d messenger, that ne’er Dost disobey the wife of Jupiter; Who, with thy saffron wings, upon my flowers Diffusest honey-drops, refreshing showers; And with each end of thy blue bow dost crown 1660 My bosky acres and my unshrubb’d down, Rich scarf to my proud earth;—why hath thy queen Summon’d me hither, to this short-grass’d green?
IRIS A contract of true love to celebrate; And some donation freely to estate 1665 On the blest lovers.
CER. Tell me, heavenly bow, If Venus or her son, as thou dost know, Do now attend the queen? Since they did plot The means that dusky Dis my daughter got, 1670 Her and her blind boy’s scandal’d company I have forsworn.
IRIS Of her society Be not afraid: I met her Deity Cutting the clouds towards Paphos, and her son 1675 Dove-drawn with her. Here thought they to have done Some wanton charm upon this man and maid, Whose vows are, that no bed-right shall be paid Till Hymen’s torch be lighted: but in vain; Mars’s hot minion is returned again; 1680 Her waspish-headed son has broke his arrows, Swears he will shoot no more, but play with sparrows, And be a boy right out.
CER. High’st queen of state, Great Juno, comes; I know her by her gait. 1685 [Enter Juno.]
JUNO How does my bounteous sister? Go with me
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To bless this twain, that they may prosperous be, And honour’d in their issue. [They sing:]
JUNO Honour, riches, marriage-blessing, Long continuance, and increasing, 1690 Hourly joys be still upon you! Juno sings her blessings on you.
CER. Earth’s increase, foison plenty, Barns and garners never empty; Vines with clustering bunches growing; 1695 Plants with goodly burthen bowing; Spring come to you at the farthest In the very end of harvest! Scarcity and want shall shun you; Ceres’ blessing so is on you. 1700
FER. This is a most majestic vision, and Harmonious charmingly. May I be bold To think these spirits?
PROS. Spirits, which by mine art I have from their confines call’d to enact 1705 My present fancies.
FER. Let me live here ever; So rare a wonder’d father and a wife Makes this place Paradise. [Juno and Ceres whisper, and send Iris on employment.]
PROS. Sweet, now, silence! Juno and Ceres whisper seriously; 1710 There’s something else to do: hush, and be mute, Or else our spell is marr’d.
IRIS You nymphs, call’d Naiads, of the windring brooks, With your sedged crowns and ever-harmless looks, Leave your crisp channels, and on this green land 1715 Answer your summons; Juno does command: Come, temperate nymphs, and help to celebrate A contract of true love; be not too late [Enter certain Nymphs.] You sunburnt sicklemen, of August weary, Come hither from the furrow, and be merry: 1720 Make holiday; your rye-straw hats put on, And these fresh nymphs encounter every one In country footing. [Enter certain Reapers, properly habited: they join with the Nymphs in a graceful dance; towards the end whereof Prospero starts suddenly, and
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speaks; after which, to a strange, hollow, and confused noise, they heavily vanish.]
PROS. [Aside] I had forgot that foul conspiracy Of the beast Caliban and his confederates 1725 Against my life: the minute of their plot Is almost come. [To the Spirits.] Well done! avoid; no more!
FER. This is strange: your father’s in some passion That works him strongly.
MIR. Never till this day 1730 Saw I him touch’d with anger so distemper’d.
PROS. You do look, my son, in a moved sort, As if you were dismay’d: be cheerful, sir. Our revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits, and 1735 Are melted into air, into thin air: And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, 1740 And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made on; and our little life Is rounded with a sleep. Sir, I am vex’d; Bear with my weakness; my old brain is troubled: 1745 Be not disturb’d with my infirmity: If you be pleased, retire into my cell, And there repose: a turn or two I’ll walk, To still my beating mind.
FER. MIR. We wish your peace. [Exeunt.] 1750
PROS. Come with a thought. I thank thee, Ariel: come. [Enter Ariel.]
ARI. Thy thoughts I cleave to. What’s thy pleasure?
PROS. Spirit, We must prepare to meet with Caliban.
ARI. Ay, my commander: when I presented Ceres, 1755 I thought to have told thee of it; but I fear’d Lest I might anger thee.
PROS. Say again, where didst thou leave these varlets?
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ARI. I told you, sir, they were red-hot with drinking; So full of valour that they smote the air 1760 For breathing in their faces; beat the ground For kissing of their feet; yet always bending Towards their project. Then I beat my tabor; At which, like unback’d colts, they prick’d their ears, Advanced their eyelids, lifted up their noses 1765 As they smelt music: so I charm’d their ears, That, calf-like, they my lowing follow’d through Tooth’d briers, sharp furzes, pricking goss, and thorns, Which enter’d their frail shins: at last I left them I’ the filthy-mantled pool beyond your cell, 1770 There dancing up to the chins, that the foul lake O’erstunk their feet.
PROS. This was well done, my bird. Thy shape invisible retain thou still: The trumpery in my house, go bring it hither, 1775 For stale to catch these thieves.
ARI. I go, I go. [Exit.]
PROS. A devil, a born devil, on whose nature Nurture can never stick; on whom my pains, Humanely taken, all, all lost, quite lost; 1780 And as with age his body uglier grows, So his mind cankers. I will plague them all, Even to roaring. [Re-enter Ariel, loaden with glistering apparel, &c.] Come, hang them on this line. [Prospero and Ariel remain, invisible. Enter Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo, all wet.]
CAL. Pray you, tread softly, that the blind mole may not Hear a foot fall: we now are near his cell. 1785
STE. Monster, your fairy, which you say is a harmless fairy, has done little better than played the Jack with us.
TRIN. Monster, I do smell all horse-piss; at which my nose is in great indignation.
STE. So is mine. Do you hear, monster? If I should 1790 take a displeasure against you, look you,—
TRIN. Thou wert but a lost monster.
CAL. Good my lord, give me thy favour still.
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Be patient, for the prize I’ll bring thee to Shall hoodwink this mischance: therefore speak softly. 1795 All’s hush’d as midnight yet.
TRIN. Ay, but to lose our bottles in the pool,—
STE. There is not only disgrace and dishonour in that, monster, but an infinite loss.
TRIN. That’s more to me than my wetting: yet this is your 1800 harmless fairy, monster.
STE. I will fetch off my bottle, though I be o’er ears for my labour.
CAL. Prithee, my king, be quiet. See’st thou here, This is the mouth o’ the cell: no noise, and enter. Do that good mischief which may make this island 1805 Thine own for ever, and I, thy Caliban, For aye thy foot-licker.
STE. Give me thy hand. I do begin to have bloody thoughts.
TRIN. O King Stephano! O peer! O worthy Stephano! look what a wardrobe here is for thee! 1810
CAL. Let it alone, thou fool; it is but trash.
TRIN. O, ho, monster! we know what belongs to a frippery. O King Stephano!
STE. Put off that gown, Trinculo; by this hand, I’ll have that gown.
TRIN. Thy Grace shall have it. 1815
CAL. The dropsy drown this fool! what do you mean To dote thus on such luggage? Let’s alone, And do the murder first: if he awake, From toe to crown he’ll fill our skins with pinches, Make us strange stuff. 1820
STE. Be you quiet, monster. Mistress line, is not this my jerkin? Now is the jerkin under the line: now, jerkin, you are like to lose your hair, and prove a bald jerkin.
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TRIN. Do, do: we steal by line and level, an’t like your Grace.
STE. I thank thee for that jest; here’s a garment for’t: 1825 wit shall not go unrewarded while I am king of this country. ‘Steal by line and level’ is an excellent pass of pate; there’s another garment for’t.
TRIN. Monster, come, put some lime upon your fingers, and away with the rest.
CAL. I will have none on’t: we shall lose our time, 1830 And all be turn’d to barnacles, or to apes With foreheads villanous low.
STE. Monster, lay-to your fingers: help to bear this away where my hogshead of wine is, or I’ll turn you out of my kingdom: go to, carry this. 1835
TRIN. And this.
STE. Ay, and this.
[A noise of hunters heard. Enter divers Spirits, in shape of dogs and hounds, and hunt them about, Prospero and Ariel setting them on.]
PROS. Hey, Mountain, hey!
ARI. Silver! there it goes, Silver!
PROS. Fury, fury! there, Tyrant, there! hark, hark! 1840 [Cal., Ste., and Trin. are driven out.] Go charge my goblins that they grind their joints With dry convulsions; shorten up their sinews With aged cramps; and more pinch-spotted make them Then pard or cat o’ mountain.
ARI. Hark, they roar! 1845
PROS. Let them be hunted soundly. At this hour Lie at my mercy all mine enemies: Shortly shall all my labours end, and thou Shalt have the air at freedom: for a little Follow, and do me service. [Exeunt.] 1850
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ACT V Scene I—Before the cell of Prospero
[Enter Prospero in his magic robes, and Ariel.]
PROS. Now does my project gather to a head: My charms crack not; my spirits obey; and time Goes upright with his carriage. How’s the day?
ARI. On the sixth hour; at which time, my lord, You said our work should cease. 1855
PROS. I did say so, When first I raised the tempest. Say, my spirit, How fares the king and’s followers?
ARI. Confined together In the same fashion as you gave in charge, 1860 Just as you left them; all prisoners, sir, In the line-grove which weather-fends your cell; They cannot budge till your release. The king, His brother, and yours, abide all three distracted, And the remainder mourning over them, 1865 Brimful of sorrow and dismay; but chiefly Him that you term’d, sir, “The good old lord, Gonzalo;” His tears run down his beard, like winter’s drops From eaves of reeds. Your charm so strongly works ’em, That if you now beheld them, your affections 1870 Would become tender.
PROS. Dost thou think so, spirit?
ARI. Mine would, sir, were I human.
PROS. And mine shall. Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feeling 1875 Of their afflictions, and shall not myself, One of their kind, that relish all as sharply, Passion as they, be kindlier moved than thou art? Though with their high wrongs I am struck to the quick, Yet with my nobler reason ’gainst my fury 1880 Do I take part: the rarer action is In virtue than in vengeance: they being penitent, The sole drift of my purpose doth extend Not a frown further. Go release them, Ariel: My charms I’ll break, their senses I’ll restore, 1885 And they shall be themselves.
ARI. I’ll fetch them, sir. [Exit.]
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PROS. Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves; And ye that on the sands with printless foot Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him 1890 When he comes back; you demi-puppets that By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make, Whereof the ewe not bites; and you whose pastime Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid— 1895 Weak masters though ye be—I have bedimm’d The noontide sun, call’d forth the mutinous winds. And ’twixt the green sea and the azured vault Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder Have I given fire, and rifted Jove’s stout oak 1900 With his own bolt; the strong-based promontory Have I made shake, and by the spurs pluck’d up The pine and cedar: graves at my command Have waked their sleepers, oped, and let ’em forth By my so potent art. But this rough magic 1905 I here abjure; and, when I have required Some heavenly music,—which even now I do,— To work mine end upon their senses, that This airy charm is for, I’ll break my staff, Bury it certain fathoms in the earth, 1910 And deeper than did ever plummet sound I’ll drown my book. [Solemn music.] [Re-enter Ariel before: then Alonso, with a frantic gesture, attended by Gonzalo; Sebastian and Antonio in like manner, attended by Adrian and Francisco: they all enter the circle which Prospero had made, and there stand charmed; which Prospero observing, speaks:] A solemn air, and the best comforter To an unsettled fancy, cure thy brains, Now useless, boil’d within thy skull! There stand, 1915 For you are spell-stopp’d. Holy Gonzalo, honourable man, Mine eyes, even sociable to the show of thine, Fall fellowly drops. The charm dissolves apace; And as the morning steals upon the night, 1920 Melting the darkness, so their rising senses Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle Their clearer reason. O good Gonzalo, My true preserver, and a loyal sir To him thou follow’st! I will pay thy graces 1925 Home both in word and deed. Most cruelly Didst thou, Alonso, use me and my daughter: Thy brother was a furtherer in the act. Thou art pinch’d for’t now, Sebastian. Flesh and blood, You, brother mine, that entertain’d ambition, 1930 Expell’d remorse and nature; who, with Sebastian,— Whose inward pinches therefore are most strong,— Would here have kill’d your king; I do forgive thee, Unnatural though thou art. Their understanding Begins to swell; and the approaching tide 1935 Will shortly fill the reasonable shore, That now lies foul and muddy. Not one of them
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That yet looks on me, or would know me: Ariel, Fetch me the hat and rapier in my cell: I will discase me, and myself present 1940 As I was sometime Milan: quickly, spirit; Thou shalt ere long be free. [Ariel sings and helps to attire him.] Where the bee sucks, there suck I: In a cowslip’s bell I lie; There I couch when owls do cry. 1945 On the bat’s back I do fly After summer merrily. Merrily, merrily shall I live now Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
PROS. Why, that’s my dainty Ariel! I shall miss thee; 1950 But yet thou shalt have freedom: so, so, so. To the king’s ship, invisible as thou art: There shalt thou find the mariners asleep Under the hatches; the master and the boatswain Being awake, enforce them to this place, 1955 And presently, I prithee.
ARI. I drink the air before me, and return Or ere your pulse twice beat. [Exit.]
GON. All torment, trouble, wonder and amazement Inhabits here: some heavenly power guide us 1960 Out of this fearful country!
PROS. Behold, sir king, The wronged Duke of Milan, Prospero: For more assurance that a living prince Does now speak to thee, I embrace thy body; 1965 And to thee and thy company I bid A hearty welcome.
ALON. Whether thou be’st he or no, Or some enchanted trifle to abuse me, As late I have been, I not know: thy pulse 1970 Beats, as of flesh and blood; and, since I saw thee, The affliction of my mind amends, with which, I fear, a madness held me: this must crave— An if this be at all—a most strange story. Thy dukedom I resign, and do entreat 1975 Thou pardon me my wrongs.—But how should Prospero Be living and be here?
PROS. First, noble friend, Let me embrace thine age, whose honour cannot Be measured or confined. 1980
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GON. Whether this be Or be not, I’ll not swear.
PROS. You do yet taste Some subtilties o’ the isle, that will not let you Believe things certain. Welcome, my friends all! 1985 [Aside to Seb. and Ant.] But you, my brace of lords, were I so minded, I here could pluck his Highness’ frown upon you, And justify you traitors: at this time I will tell no tales.
SEB. [Aside] The devil speaks in him. 1990
PROS. No. For you, most wicked sir, whom to call brother Would even infect my mouth, I do forgive Thy rankest fault,—all of them; and require My dukedom of thee, which perforce, I know, 1995 Thou must restore.
ALON. If thou be’st Prospero, Give us particulars of thy preservation; How thou hast met us here, who three hours since Were wreck’d upon this shore; where I have lost— 2000 How sharp the point of this remembrance is!— My dear son Ferdinand.
PROS. I am woe for’t, sir.
ALON. Irreparable is the loss; and patience Says it is past her cure. 2005
PROS. I rather think You have not sought her help, of whose soft grace For the like loss I have her sovereign aid, And rest myself content.
ALON. You the like loss! 2010
PROS. As great to me as late; and, supportable To make the dear loss, have I means much weaker Than you may call to comfort you, for I Have lost my daughter.
ALON. A daughter? 2015
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O heavens, that they were living both in Naples, The king and queen there! that they were, I wish Myself were mudded in that oozy bed Where my son lies. When did you lose you daughter?
PROS. In this last tempest. I perceive, these lords 2020 At this encounter do so much admire, That they devour their reason, and scarce think Their eyes do offices of truth, their words Are natural breath: but, howsoe’er you have Been justled from your senses, know for certain 2025 That I am Prospero, and that very duke Which was thrust forth of Milan; who most strangely Upon this shore, where you were wreck’d, was landed, To be the Lord on’t. No more yet of this; For ’tis a chronicle of day by day, 2030 Not a relation for a breakfast, nor Befitting this first meeting. Welcome, sir; This cell’s my court: here have I few attendants, And subjects none abroad: pray you, look in. My dukedom since you have given me again, 2035 I will requite you with as good a thing; At least bring forth a wonder, to content ye As much as me my dukedom. [Here Prospero discovers Ferdinand and Miranda playing at chess.]
MIR. Sweet lord, you play me false.
FER. No, my dear’st love, 2040 I would not for the world.
MIR. Yes, for a score of kingdoms you should wrangle, And I would call it fair play.
ALON. If this prove A vision of the island, one dear son 2045 Shall I twice lose.
SEB. A most high miracle!
FER. Though the seas threaten, they are merciful; I have cursed them without cause. [Kneels.]
ALON. Now all the blessings 2050 Of a glad father compass thee about! Arise, and say how thou camest here.
MIR. O, wonder!
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How many goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world, 2055 That has such people in’t!
PROS. ’Tis new to thee.
ALON. What is this maid with whom thou wast at play? Your eld’st acquaintance cannot be three hours: Is she the goddess that hath sever’d us, 2060 And brought us thus together?
FER. Sir, she is mortal; But by immortal Providence she’s mine: I chose her when I could not ask my father For his advice, nor thought I had one. She 2065 Is daughter to this famous Duke of Milan, Of whom so often I have heard renown, But never saw before; of whom I have Received a second life; and second father This lady makes him to me. 2070
ALON. I am hers: But, O, how oddly will it sound that I Must ask my child forgiveness!
PROS. There, sir, stop: Let us not burthen our remembrances with 2075 A heaviness that’s gone.
GON. I have inly wept, Or should have spoke ere this. Look down, you gods, And on this couple drop a blessed crown! For it is you that have chalk’d forth the way 2080 Which brought us hither.
ALON. I say, Amen, Gonzalo!
GON. Was Milan thrust from Milan, that his issue Should become kings of Naples? O, rejoice Beyond a common joy! and set it down 2085 With gold on lasting pillars: In one voyage Did Claribel her husband find at Tunis, And Ferdinand, her brother, found a wife Where he himself was lost, Prospero his dukedom In a poor isle, and all of us ourselves 2090 When no man was his own.
ALON. [to Fer. and Mir.] Give me your hands:
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Let grief and sorrow still embrace his heart That doth not wish you joy!
GON. Be it so! Amen! 2095 [Re-enter Ariel, with the Master and Boatswain amazedly following.] O, look, sir, look, sir! here is more of us: I prophesied, if a gallows were on land, This fellow could not drown. Now, blasphemy, That swear’st grace o’erboard, not an oath on shore? Hast thou no mouth by land? What is the news? 2100
BOATS. The best news is, that we have safely found Our king and company; the next, our ship— Which, but three glasses since, we gave out split— Is tight and yare and bravely rigg’d, as when We first put out to sea. 2105
ARI. [Aside to Pros.] Sir, all this service Have I done since I went.
PROS. [Aside to Ari.] My tricksy spirit!
ALON. These are not natural events; they strengthen From strange to stranger. Say, how came you hither? 2110
BOATS. If I did think, sir, I were well awake, I’ld strive to tell you. We were dead of sleep, And—how we know not—all clapp’d under hatches; Where, but even now, with strange and several noises Of roaring, shrieking, howling, jingling chains, 2115 And more diversity of sounds, all horrible, We were awaked; straightway, at liberty; Where we, in all her trim, freshly beheld Our royal, good, and gallant ship; our master Capering to eye her:—on a trice, so please you, 2120 Even in a dream, were we divided from them, And were brought moping hither.
ARI. [Aside to Pros.] Was’t well done?
PROS. [Aside to Ari.] Bravely, my diligence. Thou shalt be free.
ALON. This is as strange a maze as e’er men trod; 2125 And there is in this business more than nature Was ever conduct of: some oracle
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Must rectify our knowledge.
PROS. Sir, my liege, Do not infest your mind with beating on 2130 The strangeness of this business; at pick’d leisure Which shall be shortly, single I’ll resolve you, Which to you shall seem probable, of every These happen’d accidents; till when, be cheerful, And think of each thing well. [Aside to Ari.] Come hither, spirit: 2135 Set Caliban and his companions free; Untie the spell. [Exit Ariel.] How fares my gracious sir? There are yet missing of your company Some few odd lads that you remember not. [Re-enter Ariel, driving in Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo, in their stolen apparel.]
STE. Every man shift for all the rest, and let no man take 2140 care for himself; for all is but fortune.—Coragio, bully-monster, coragio!
TRIN. If these be true spies which I wear in my head, here’s a goodly sight.
CAL. O Setebos, these be brave spirits indeed! 2145 How fine my master is! I am afraid He will chastise me.
SEB. Ha, ha! What things are these, my lord Antonio? Will money buy ’em? 2150
ANT. Very like; one of them Is a plain fish, and, no doubt, marketable.
PROS. Mark but the badges of these men, my lords, Then say if they be true. This mis-shapen knave, His mother was a witch; and one so strong 2155 That could control the moon, make flows and ebbs, And deal in her command, without her power. These three have robb’d me; and this demi-devil— For he’s a bastard one—had plotted with them To take my life. Two of these fellows you 2160 Must know and own; this thing of darkness I Acknowledge mine.
CAL. I shall be pinch’d to death.
ALON. Is not this Stephano, my drunken butler?
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SEB. He is drunk now: where had he wine? 2165
ALON. And Trinculo is reeling ripe: where should they Find this grand liquor that hath gilded ’em?— How camest thou in this pickle?
TRIN. I have been in such a pickle, since I saw you last, that, I fear me, will never out of my bones: 2170 I shall not fear fly-blowing.
SEB. Why, how now, Stephano!
STE. O, touch me not;—I am not Stephano, but a cramp.
PROS. You’ld be king o’ the isle, sirrah?
STE. I should have been a sore one, then. 2175
ALON. This is a strange thing as e’er I look’d on. [Pointing to Caliban.]
PROS. He is as disproportion’d in his manners As in his shape. Go, sirrah, to my cell; Take with you your companions; as you look To have my pardon, trim it handsomely. 2180
CAL. Ay, that I will; and I’ll be wise hereafter, And seek for grace. What a thrice-double ass Was I, to take this drunkard for a god, And worship this dull fool!
PROS. Go to; away! 2185
ALON. Hence, and bestow your luggage where you found it.
SEB. Or stole it, rather. [Exeunt Cal., Ste., and Trin.]
PROS. Sir, I invite your Highness and your train To my poor cell, where you shall take your rest For this one night; which, part of it, I’ll waste 2190 With such discourse as, I not doubt, shall make it Go quick away: the story of my life, And the particular accidents gone by Since I came to this isle: and in the morn
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I’ll bring you to your ship, and so to Naples, 2195 Where I have hope to see the nuptial Of these our dear-beloved solemnized; And thence retire me to my Milan, where Every third thought shall be my grave.
ALON. I long 2200 To hear the story of your life, which must Take the ear strangely.
PROS. I’ll deliver all; And promise you calm seas, auspicious gales, And sail so expeditious, that shall catch 2205 Your royal fleet far off. [Aside to Ari.] My Ariel, chick, That is thy charge: then to the elements Be free, and fare thou well! Please you, draw near. [Exeunt.]
Epilogue Spoken by Prospero
Now my charms are all o’erthrown, And what strength I have’s mine own, 2210 Which is most faint: now, ’tis true, I must be here confined by you, Or sent to Naples. Let me not, Since I have my dukedom got, And pardon’d the deceiver, dwell 2215 In this bare island by your spell; But release me from my bands With the help of your good hands: Gentle breath of yours my sails Must fill, or else my project fails, 2220 Which was to please. Now I want Spirits to enforce, art to enchant; And my ending is despair, Unless I be relieved by prayer, Which pierces so, that it assaults 2225 Mercy itself, and frees all faults. As you from crimes would pardon’d be, Let your indulgence set me free.
UTOPIA
Thomas More (1477-1535 C.E.)
1516 C.E. England
Thomas More invented the word utopia, a word that literally translates as not place (from the Greek ou-topos) or nowhere, although it sounds like good place (eu-topos in Greek). As the double meaning indicates, More’s invented society may sound great, but it does not actually exist. In More’s work, the country of Utopia is in the New World, and details about it are reported by Hythloday, a sailor whose name translates as “speaker of nonsense.” What
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follows is actually a criticism of the Old World, in that the Utopians do well in all of the things that More thinks that his society does poorly; for example, as More praises the Utopians for consciously despising gold, he implicitly condemns his own society, which he says will scarcely believe that any society would not desire gold. Other authors followed his lead (such as Jonathan Swift, who plays with the idea of utopia in Gulliver’s Travels), and eventually utopian literature led to another genre: dystopian literature, such as George Orwell’s Animal Farm and 1984, movies such as Blade Runner, and a list of young adult novels, including The Hunger Games.
Written by Laura J. Getty
Selections from Utopia
Thomas More, Translated by Gilbert Burnet
Henry VIII., the unconquered King of England, a prince adorned with all the virtues that become a great monarch, having some differences of no small consequence with Charles the most serene Prince of Castile, sent me into Flanders, as his ambassador, for treating and composing matters between them. I was colleague and compan- ion to that incomparable man Cuthbert Tonstal, whom the King, with such universal applause, lately made Master of the Rolls; but of whom I will say nothing; not because I fear that the testimony of a friend will be suspected, but rather because his learning and virtues are too great for me to do them justice, and so well known, that they need not my commendations, unless I would, according to the proverb, “Show the sun with a lantern.” Those that were appointed by the Prince to treat with us, met us at Bruges, according to agreement; they were all worthy men. The Margrave of Bruges was their head, and the chief man among them; but he that was esteemed the wisest, and that spoke for the rest, was George Temse, the Provost of Casselsee: both art and nature had concurred to make him eloquent: he was very learned in the law; and, as he had a great capacity, so, by a long practice in affairs, he was very
dexterous at unravelling them. After we had several times met, without coming to an agreement, they went to Brussels for some days, to know the Prince’s pleasure; and, since our business would admit it, I went to Antwerp. While I was there, among many that visited me, there was one that was more acceptable to me than any other, Peter Giles, born at Antwerp, who is a man of great honour, and of a good rank in his town, though less than he deserves; for I do not know if there be anywhere to be found a more learned and a better bred young man; for as he is both a very worthy and a very knowing person, so he is so civil to all men, so particularly kind to his friends, and so full of candour and affection, that there is not, perhaps, above one or two anywhere to be found, that is in all respects so perfect a friend: he is extraordinarily modest, there is no artifice in him, and yet no man has more of a prudent simplici- ty. His conversation was so pleasant and so innocently cheerful, that his company in a great measure lessened any longings to go back to my country, and to my wife and children, which an ab- sence of four months had quickened very much. One day, as I was returning home from mass at St. Mary’s, which is the chief church, and the most frequented of any in Antwerp, I saw him, by accident, talking with a stranger, who seemed past the flower of his age; his face was tanned, he had a long beard, and his cloak was hanging carelessly about him, so that, by his looks and habit, I concluded he was a seaman. As soon as Peter saw me, he came and saluted me, and as I was returning his civility, he took me aside, and pointing to him with whom he had been discoursing, he said, “Do you see that man? I was just thinking to bring him to you.” I answered, “He should have been very welcome on your account.” “And on his own too,” replied he, “if you knew the man, for there is none alive that can give so copious an account of unknown nations and countries as he can do, which I know you very much desire.” “Then,” said I, “I did not guess amiss, for at first sight I took him for a seaman.” “But
License: Public Domain
Image 11.18: Utopia, More | Thomas More’s Utopia, written in Latin and decorated with cherub angels around the text.
Author: Thomas More Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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you are much mistaken,” said he, “for he has not sailed as a seaman, but as a traveller, or rather a philosopher. This Raphael, who from his family carries the name of Hythloday, is not ignorant of the Latin tongue, but is eminently learned in the Greek, having applied himself more particularly to that than to the former, because he had given himself much to philosophy, in which he knew that the Romans have left us nothing that is valuable, except what is to be found in Seneca and Cicero. He is a Portuguese by birth, and was so desirous of seeing the world, that he divided his estate among his brothers, ran the same hazard as Americus Vesputius, and bore a share in three of his four voyages that are now published; only he did not return with him in his last, but obtained leave of him, almost by force, that he might be one of those twenty-four who were left at the farthest place at which they touched in their last voyage to New Castile. The leaving him thus did not a little gratify one that was more fond of travelling than of returning home to be buried in his own country; for he used often to say, that the way to heaven was the same from all places, and he that had no grave had the heavens still over him. Yet this disposition of mind had cost him dear, if God had not been very gracious to him; for after he, with five Castalians, had travelled over many countries, at last, by strange good fortune, he got to Ceylon, and from thence to Calicut, where he, very happily, found some Portu- guese ships; and, beyond all men’s expectations, returned to his native country.” When Peter had said this to me, I thanked him for his kindness in intending to give me the acquaintance of a man whose conversation he knew would be so acceptable; and upon that Raphael and I embraced each other. After those civilities were past which are usual with strangers upon their first meeting, we all went to my house, and entering into the garden, sat down on a green bank and entertained one another in discourse. He told us that when Vesputius had sailed away, he, and his companions that stayed behind in New Castile, by degrees insinuated themselves into the affections of the people of the country, meeting often with them and treating them gently; and at last they not only lived among them without danger, but conversed familiarly with them, and got so far into the heart of a prince, whose name and country I have forgot, that he both furnished them plentifully with all things necessary, and also with the conveniences of travelling, both boats when they went by water, and waggons when they trained over land: he sent with them a very faithful guide, who was to introduce and recommend them to such other princes as they had a mind to see: and after many days’ journey, they came to towns, and cities, and to commonwealths, that were both happily governed and well peopled. Under the equator, and as far on both sides of it as the sun moves, there lay vast deserts that were parched with the perpetual heat of the sun; the soil was withered, all things looked dismally, and all places were either quite uninhabited, or abounded with wild beasts and serpents, and some few men, that were neither less wild nor less cruel than the beasts themselves. But, as they went farther, a new scene opened, all things grew milder, the air less burning, the soil more verdant, and even the beasts were less wild: and, at last, there were nations, towns, and cities, that had not only mutual commerce among themselves and with their neighbours, but traded, both by sea and land, to very remote countries. There they found the conveniencies of seeing many countries on all hands, for no ship went any voyage into which he and his companions were not very welcome. The first vessels that they saw were flat-bottomed, their sails were made of reeds and wicker, woven close together, only some were of leather; but, afterwards, they found ships made with round keels and canvas sails, and in all respects like our ships, and the seamen understood both astronomy and navigation. He got wonderfully into their favour by showing them the use of the needle, of which till then they were utterly ignorant. They sailed before with great caution, and only in summer time; but now they count all seasons alike, trusting wholly to the loadstone, in which they are, perhaps, more secure than safe; so that there is reason to fear that this discovery, which was thought would prove so much to their advantage, may, by their imprudence, become an occasion of much mischief to them. But it were too long to dwell on all that he told us he had observed in every place, it would be too great a digression from our present purpose: whatever is necessary to be told concerning those wise and prudent institutions which he observed among civilised nations, may perhaps be related by us on a more proper occasion. We asked him many questions concern- ing all these things, to which he answered very willingly; we made no inquiries after monsters, than which nothing is more common; for everywhere one may hear of ravenous dogs and wolves, and cruel men-eaters, but it is not so easy to find states that are well and wisely governed.
As he told us of many things that were amiss in those new-discovered countries, so he reckoned up not a few things, from which patterns might be taken for correcting the errors of these nations among whom we live; of which an account may be given, as I have already promised, at some other time; for, at present, I intend only to relate those particulars that he told us, of the manners and laws of the Utopians: but I will begin with the occasion that led us to speak of that commonwealth. After Raphael had discoursed with great judgment on the many errors that were both among us and these nations, had treated of the wise institutions both here and there, and had spoken as distinctly of the customs and government of every nation through which he had past, as if he had spent his whole life in it, Peter, being struck with admiration, said, “I wonder, Raphael, how it comes that you enter into no king’s service, for I am sure there are none to whom you would not be very acceptable; for your learning and knowledge, both of men and things, is such, that you would not only entertain them very pleasantly, but be of great use to them, by the examples you could set before them, and the advices you could give them; and by this means you would
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both serve your own interest, and be of great use to all your friends.” “As for my friends,” answered he, “I need not be much concerned, having already done for them all that was incumbent on me; for when I was not only in good health, but fresh and young, I distributed that among my kindred and friends which other people do not part with till they are old and sick: when they then unwillingly give that which they can enjoy no longer themselves. I think my friends ought to rest contented with this, and not to expect that for their sakes I should enslave myself to any king whatsoever.” “Soft and fair!” said Peter; “I do not mean that you should be a slave to any king, but only that you should assist them and be useful to them.” “The change of the word,” said he, “does not alter the matter.” “But term it as you will,” replied Peter, “I do not see any other way in which you can be so useful, both in private to your friends and to the public, and by which you can make your own condition happier.” “Happier?” answered Raphael, “is that to be compassed in a way so abhorrent to my genius? Now I live as I will, to which I believe, few courtiers can pretend; and there are so many that court the favour of great men, that there will be no great loss if they are not troubled either with me or with others of my temper.” Upon this, said I, “I perceive, Raphael, that you neither desire wealth nor greatness; and, indeed, I value and admire such a man much more than I do any of the great men in the world. Yet I think you would do what would well become so generous and philosophical a soul as yours is, if you would apply your time and thoughts to public affairs, even though you may happen to find it a little uneasy to yourself; and this you can never do with so much advantage as by being taken into the council of some great prince and putting him on noble and worthy actions, which I know you would do if you were in such a post; for the springs both of good and evil flow from the prince over a whole nation, as from a lasting fountain. So much learn- ing as you have, even without practice in affairs, or so great a practice as you have had, without any other learning, would render you a very fit counsellor to any king whatsoever.” “You are doubly mistaken,” said he, “Mr. More, both in your opinion of me and in the judgment you make of things: for as I have not that capacity that you fancy I have, so if I had it, the public would not be one jot the better when I had sacrificed my quiet to it. For most princes apply themselves more to affairs of war than to the useful arts of peace; and in these I neither have any knowledge, nor do I much desire it; they are generally more set on acquiring new kingdoms, right or wrong, than on governing well those they possess: and, among the ministers of princes, there are none that are not so wise as to need no assistance, or at least, that do not think themselves so wise that they imagine they need none; and if they court any, it is only those for whom the prince has much personal favour, whom by their fawning and flatteries they endeavour to fix to their own interests; and, indeed, nature has so made us, that we all love to be flattered and to please ourselves with our own notions: the old crow loves his young, and the ape her cubs. Now if in such a court, made up of persons who envy all others and only admire themselves, a person should but propose anything that he had either read in history or observed in his travels, the rest would think that the reputation of their wisdom would sink, and that their interests would be much depressed if they could not run it down: and, if all other things failed, then they would fly to this, that such or such things pleased our ancestors, and it were well for us if we could but match them. They would set up their rest on such an answer, as a sufficient confutation of all that could be said, as if it were a great misfortune that any should be found wiser than his ancestors. But though they willingly let go all the good things that were among those of former ages, yet, if better things are proposed, they cover themselves obstinately with this excuse of reverence to past times.
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Upon this I said to him, “I earnestly beg you would describe that island very particularly to us; be not too short, but set out in order all things relating to their soil, their rivers, their towns, their people, their manners, constitu- tion, laws, and, in a word, all that you imagine we desire to know; and you may well imagine that we desire to know everything concerning them of which we are hitherto ignorant.” “I will do it very willingly,” said he, “for I have digested the whole matter carefully, but it will take up some time.” “Let us go, then,” said I, “first and dine, and then we shall have leisure enough.” He consented; we went in and dined, and after dinner came back and sat down in the same place. I ordered my servants to take care that none might come and interrupt us, and both Peter and I desired Raphael to be as good as his word. When he saw that we were very intent upon it he paused a little to recollect himself, and began in this manner:—
“The island of Utopia is in the middle two hundred miles broad, and holds almost at the same breadth over a great part of it, but it grows narrower towards both ends. Its figure is not unlike a crescent. Between its horns the sea comes in eleven miles broad, and spreads itself into a great bay, which is environed with land to the compass of about five hundred miles, and is well secured from winds. In this bay there is no great current; the whole coast is, as it were, one continued harbour, which gives all that live in the island great convenience for mutual commerce. But the entry into the bay, occasioned by rocks on the one hand and shallows on the other, is very dangerous. In the middle of it there is one single rock which appears above water, and may, therefore, easily be avoided; and on the top of it there is a tower, in which a garrison is kept; the other rocks lie under water, and are very dangerous. The
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channel is known only to the natives; so that if any stranger should enter into the bay without one of their pilots he would run great danger of shipwreck. For even they themselves could not pass it safe if some marks that are on the coast did not direct their way; and if these should be but a little shifted, any fleet that might come against them, how great soever it were, would be certainly lost. On the other side of the island there are likewise many harbours; and the coast is so fortified, both by nature and art, that a small number of men can hinder the descent of a great army. But they report (and there remains good marks of it to make it credible) that this was no island at first, but a part of the continent. Utopus, that conquered it (whose name it still carries, for Abraxa was its first name), brought the rude and uncivilised inhabitants into such a good government, and to that measure of politeness, that they now far excel all the rest of mankind. Having soon subdued them, he designed to separate them from the continent, and to bring the sea quite round them. To accomplish this he ordered a deep channel to be dug, fifteen miles long; and that the natives might not think he treated them like slaves, he not only forced the inhabitants, but also his own soldiers, to labour in carrying it on. As he set a vast number of men to work, he, beyond all men’s expectations, brought it to a speedy conclusion. And his neighbours, who at first laughed at the folly of the undertaking, no sooner saw it brought to perfection than they were struck with admiration and terror.
“There are fifty-four cities in the island, all large and well built, the manners, customs, and laws of which are the same, and they are all contrived as near in the same manner as the ground on which they stand will allow. The nearest lie at least twenty-four miles’ distance from one another, and the most remote are not so far distant but that a man can go on foot in one day from it to that which lies next it. Every city sends three of their wisest senators once a year to Amaurot, to consult about their common concerns; for that is the chief town of the island, being situated near the centre of it, so that it is the most convenient place for their assemblies. The jurisdiction of every city extends at least twenty miles, and, where the towns lie wider, they have much more ground. No town desires to enlarge its bounds, for the people consider themselves rather as tenants than landlords. They have built, over all the country, farmhouses for husbandmen, which are well contrived, and furnished with all things necessary for country labour. Inhabitants are sent, by turns, from the cities to dwell in them; no country family has fewer than forty men and women in it, besides two slaves. There is a master and a mistress set over every family, and over thirty families there is a magistrate. Every year twenty of this family come back to the town after they have stayed two years in the country, and in their room there are other twenty sent from the town, that they may learn country work from those that have been already one year in the country, as they must teach those that come to them the next from the town. By this means such as dwell in those country farms are never ignorant of agriculture, and so commit no errors which might otherwise be fatal and bring them under a scarcity of corn. But though there is every year such a shifting of the husbandmen to prevent any man being forced against his will to follow that hard course of life too long, yet many among them take such pleasure in it that they desire leave to continue in it many years. These husbandmen till the ground, breed cattle, hew wood, and convey it to the towns either by land or water, as is most convenient. They breed an infinite multitude of chickens in a very curious manner; for the hens do not sit and hatch them, but a vast number of eggs are laid in a gentle and equal heat in order to be hatched, and they are no sooner out of the shell, and able to stir about, but they seem to consider those that feed them as their mothers, and follow them as other chickens do the hen that hatched them. They breed very few horses, but those they have are full of mettle, and are kept only for exercising their youth in the art of sitting and riding them; for they do not put them to any work, either of ploughing or carriage, in which they employ oxen. For though their horses are stronger, yet they find oxen can hold out longer; and as they are not subject to so many diseases, so they are kept upon a less charge and with less trouble. And even when they are so worn out that they are no more fit for labour, they are good meat at last. They sow no corn but that which is to be their bread; for they drink either wine, cider or perry, and often water, sometimes boiled with honey or liquorice, with which they abound; and though they know exactly how much corn will serve every town and all that tract of country which belongs to it, yet they sow much more and breed more cattle than are necessary for their consumption, and they give that overplus of which they make no use to their neighbours. When they want anything in the country which it does not produce, they fetch that from the town, without carrying anything in exchange for it. And the magistrates of the town take care to see it given them; for they meet generally in the town once a month, upon a festival day. When the time of harvest comes, the magis- trates in the country send to those in the towns and let them know how many hands they will need for reaping the harvest; and the number they call for being sent to them, they commonly despatch it all in one day.
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“In their great council at Amaurot, to which there are three sent from every town once a year, they examine what towns abound in provisions and what are under any scarcity, that so the one may be furnished from the other; and this is done freely, without any sort of exchange; for, according to their plenty or scarcity, they supply or are supplied from one another, so that indeed the whole island is, as it were, one family. When they have thus taken
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care of their whole country, and laid up stores for two years (which they do to prevent the ill consequences of an unfavourable season), they order an exportation of the overplus, both of corn, honey, wool, flax, wood, wax, tallow, leather, and cattle, which they send out, commonly in great quantities, to other nations. They order a seventh part of all these goods to be freely given to the poor of the countries to which they send them, and sell the rest at mod- erate rates; and by this exchange they not only bring back those few things that they need at home (for, indeed, they scarce need anything but iron), but likewise a great deal of gold and silver; and by their driving this trade so long, it is not to be imagined how vast a treasure they have got among them, so that now they do not much care whether they sell off their merchandise for money in hand or upon trust. A great part of their treasure is now in bonds; but in all their contracts no private man stands bound, but the writing runs in the name of the town; and the towns that owe them money raise it from those private hands that owe it to them, lay it up in their public chamber, or enjoy the profit of it till the Utopians call for it; and they choose rather to let the greatest part of it lie in their hands, who make advantage by it, than to call for it themselves; but if they see that any of their other neighbours stand more in need of it, then they call it in and lend it to them. Whenever they are engaged in war, which is the only occasion in which their treasure can be usefully employed, they make use of it themselves; in great extremities or sudden acci- dents they employ it in hiring foreign troops, whom they more willingly expose to danger than their own people; they give them great pay, knowing well that this will work even on their enemies; that it will engage them either to betray their own side, or, at least, to desert it; and that it is the best means of raising mutual jealousies among them. For this end they have an incredible treasure; but they do not keep it as a treasure, but in such a manner as I am almost afraid to tell, lest you think it so extravagant as to be hardly credible. This I have the more reason to appre- hend because, if I had not seen it myself, I could not have been easily persuaded to have believed it upon any man’s report.
“It is certain that all things appear incredible to us in proportion as they differ from known customs; but one who can judge aright will not wonder to find that, since their constitution differs so much from ours, their value of gold and silver should be measured by a very different standard; for since they have no use for money among them- selves, but keep it as a provision against events which seldom happen, and between which there are generally long intervening intervals, they value it no farther than it deserves—that is, in proportion to its use. So that it is plain they must prefer iron either to gold or silver, for men can no more live without iron than without fire or water; but Nature has marked out no use for the other metals so essential as not easily to be dispensed with. The folly of men has enhanced the value of gold and silver because of their scarcity; whereas, on the contrary, it is their opinion that Nature, as an indulgent parent, has freely given us all the best things in great abundance, such as water and earth, but has laid up and hid from us the things that are vain and useless.
“If these metals were laid up in any tower in the kingdom it would raise a jealousy of the Prince and Senate, and give birth to that foolish mistrust into which the people are apt to fall—a jealousy of their intending to sacrifice the interest of the public to their own private advantage. If they should work it into vessels, or any sort of plate, they fear that the people might grow too fond of it, and so be unwilling to let the plate be run down, if a war made it nec- essary, to employ it in paying their soldiers. To prevent all these inconveniences they have fallen upon an expedient which, as it agrees with their other policy, so is it very different from ours, and will scarce gain belief among us who value gold so much, and lay it up so carefully. They eat and drink out of vessels of earth or glass, which make an agreeable appearance, though formed of brittle materials; while they make their chamber-pots and close-stools of gold and silver, and that not only in their public halls but in their private houses. Of the same metals they likewise make chains and fetters for their slaves, to some of which, as a badge of infamy, they hang an earring of gold, and make others wear a chain or a coronet of the same metal; and thus they take care by all possible means to render gold and silver of no esteem; and from hence it is that while other nations part with their gold and silver as unwill- ingly as if one tore out their bowels, those of Utopia would look on their giving in all they possess of those metals (when there were any use for them) but as the parting with a trifle, or as we would esteem the loss of a penny! They find pearls on their coasts, and diamonds and carbuncles on their rocks; they do not look after them, but, if they find them by chance, they polish them, and with them they adorn their children, who are delighted with them, and glory in them during their childhood; but when they grow to years, and see that none but children use such bau- bles, they of their own accord, without being bid by their parents, lay them aside, and would be as much ashamed to use them afterwards as children among us, when they come to years, are of their puppets and other toys.
“I never saw a clearer instance of the opposite impressions that different customs make on people than I ob- served in the ambassadors of the Anemolians, who came to Amaurot when I was there. As they came to treat of affairs of great consequence, the deputies from several towns met together to wait for their coming. The ambassa- dors of the nations that lie near Utopia, knowing their customs, and that fine clothes are in no esteem among them, that silk is despised, and gold is a badge of infamy, used to come very modestly clothed; but the Anemolians, lying more remote, and having had little commerce with them, understanding that they were coarsely clothed, and all in the same manner, took it for granted that they had none of those fine things among them of which they made no
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use; and they, being a vainglorious rather than a wise people, resolved to set themselves out with so much pomp that they should look like gods, and strike the eyes of the poor Utopians with their splendour. Thus three ambassa- dors made their entry with a hundred attendants, all clad in garments of different colours, and the greater part in silk; the ambassadors themselves, who were of the nobility of their country, were in cloth-of-gold, and adorned with massy chains, earrings and rings of gold; their caps were covered with bracelets set full of pearls and other gems—in a word, they were set out with all those things that among the Utopians were either the badges of slavery, the marks of infamy, or the playthings of children. It was not unpleasant to see, on the one side, how they looked big, when they compared their rich habits with the plain clothes of the Utopians, who were come out in great numbers to see them make their entry; and, on the other, to observe how much they were mistaken in the impression which they hoped this pomp would have made on them. It appeared so ridiculous a show to all that had never stirred out of their country, and had not seen the customs of other nations, that though they paid some reverence to those that were the most meanly clad, as if they had been the ambassadors, yet when they saw the ambassadors themselves so full of gold and chains, they looked upon them as slaves, and forbore to treat them with reverence. You might have seen the children who were grown big enough to despise their playthings, and who had thrown away their jewels, call to their mothers, push them gently, and cry out, ‘See that great fool, that wears pearls and gems as if he were yet a child!’ while their mothers very innocently replied, ‘Hold your peace! this, I believe, is one of the ambassadors’ fools.’ Others censured the fashion of their chains, and observed, ‘That they were of no use, for they were too slight to bind their slaves, who could easily break them; and, besides, hung so loose about them that they thought it easy to throw their away, and so get from them.” But after the ambassadors had stayed a day among them, and saw so vast a quantity of gold in their houses (which was as much despised by them as it was esteemed in other nations), and beheld more gold and silver in the chains and fetters of one slave than all their ornaments amounted to, their plumes fell, and they were ashamed of all that glory for which they had formed valued themselves, and according- ly laid it aside—a resolution that they immediately took when, on their engaging in some free discourse with the Utopians, they discovered their sense of such things and their other customs. The Utopians wonder how any man should be so much taken with the glaring doubtful lustre of a jewel or a stone, that can look up to a star or to the sun himself; or how any should value himself because his cloth is made of a finer thread; for, how fine soever that thread may be, it was once no better than the fleece of a sheep, and that sheep, was a sheep still, for all its wear- ing it. They wonder much to hear that gold, which in itself is so useless a thing, should be everywhere so much esteemed that even man, for whom it was made, and by whom it has its value, should yet be thought of less value than this metal; that a man of lead, who has no more sense than a log of wood, and is as bad as he is foolish, should have many wise and good men to serve him, only because he has a great heap of that metal; and that if it should happen that by some accident or trick of law (which, sometimes produces as great changes as chance itself ) all this wealth should pass from the master to the meanest varlet of his whole family, he himself would very soon become one of his servants, as if he were a thing that belonged to his wealth, and so were bound to follow its fortune! But they much more admire and detest the folly of those who, when they see a rich man, though they neither owe him anything, nor are in any sort dependent on his bounty, yet, merely because he is rich, give him little less than divine honours, even though they know him to be so covetous and base-minded that, notwithstanding all his wealth, he will not part with one farthing of it to them as long as he lives!
“These and such like notions have that people imbibed, partly from their education, being bred in a country whose customs and laws are opposite to all such foolish maxims, and partly from their learning and studies—for though there are but few in any town that are so wholly excused from labour as to give themselves entirely up to their studies (these being only such persons as discover from their childhood an extraordinary capacity and dispo- sition for letters), yet their children and a great part of the nation, both men and women, are taught to spend those hours in which they are not obliged to work in reading; and this they do through the whole progress of life. They have all their learning in their own tongue, which is both a copious and pleasant language, and in which a man can fully express his mind; it runs over a great tract of many countries, but it is not equally pure in all places. They had never so much as heard of the names of any of those philosophers that are so famous in these parts of the world, before we went among them; and yet they had made the same discoveries as the Greeks, both in music, logic, arith- metic, and geometry. But as they are almost in everything equal to the ancient philosophers, so they far exceed our modern logicians for they have never yet fallen upon the barbarous niceties that our youth are forced to learn in those trifling logical schools that are among us. They are so far from minding chimeras and fantastical images made in the mind that none of them could comprehend what we meant when we talked to them of a man in the abstract as common to all men in particular (so that though we spoke of him as a thing that we could point at with our fin- gers, yet none of them could perceive him) and yet distinct from every one, as if he were some monstrous Colossus or giant; yet, for all this ignorance of these empty notions, they knew astronomy, and were perfectly acquainted with the motions of the heavenly bodies; and have many instruments, well contrived and divided, by which they very accurately compute the course and positions of the sun, moon, and stars. But for the cheat of divining by the
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stars, by their oppositions or conjunctions, it has not so much as entered into their thoughts. They have a particular sagacity, founded upon much observation, in judging of the weather, by which they know when they may look for rain, wind, or other alterations in the air; but as to the philosophy of these things, the cause of the saltness of the sea, of its ebbing and flowing, and of the original and nature both of the heavens and the earth, they dispute of them partly as our ancient philosophers have done, and partly upon some new hypothesis, in which, as they differ from them, so they do not in all things agree among themselves.
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“There are several sorts of religions, not only in different parts of the island, but even in every town; some wor- shipping the sun, others the moon or one of the planets. Some worship such men as have been eminent in former times for virtue or glory, not only as ordinary deities, but as the supreme god. Yet the greater and wiser sort of them worship none of these, but adore one eternal, invisible, infinite, and incomprehensible Deity; as a Being that is far above all our apprehensions, that is spread over the whole universe, not by His bulk, but by His power and virtue; Him they call the Father of All, and acknowledge that the beginnings, the increase, the progress, the vicissitudes, and the end of all things come only from Him; nor do they offer divine honours to any but to Him alone. And, indeed, though they differ concerning other things, yet all agree in this: that they think there is one Supreme Being that made and governs the world, whom they call, in the language of their country, Mithras. They differ in this: that one thinks the god whom he worships is this Supreme Being, and another thinks that his idol is that god; but they all agree in one principle, that whoever is this Supreme Being, He is also that great essence to whose glory and majesty all honours are ascribed by the consent of all nations.
“By degrees they fall off from the various superstitions that are among them, and grow up to that one religion that is the best and most in request; and there is no doubt to be made, but that all the others had vanished long ago, if some of those who advised them to lay aside their superstitions had not met with some unhappy accidents, which, being considered as inflicted by heaven, made them afraid that the god whose worship had like to have been abandoned had interposed and revenged themselves on those who despised their authority.
“After they had heard from us an account of the doctrine, the course of life, and the miracles of Christ, and of the wonderful constancy of so many martyrs, whose blood, so willingly offered up by them, was the chief occasion of spreading their religion over a vast number of nations, it is not to be imagined how inclined they were to receive it. I shall not determine whether this proceeded from any secret inspiration of God, or whether it was because it seemed so favourable to that community of goods, which is an opinion so particular as well as so dear to them; since they perceived that Christ and His followers lived by that rule, and that it was still kept up in some communi- ties among the sincerest sort of Christians. From whichsoever of these motives it might be, true it is, that many of them came over to our religion, and were initiated into it by baptism. But as two of our number were dead, so none of the four that survived were in priests’ orders, we, therefore, could only baptise them, so that, to our great regret, they could not partake of the other sacraments, that can only be administered by priests, but they are instructed concerning them and long most vehemently for them. They have had great disputes among themselves, whether one chosen by them to be a priest would not be thereby qualified to do all the things that belong to that character, even though he had no authority derived from the Pope, and they seemed to be resolved to choose some for that employment, but they had not done it when I left them.
“Those among them that have not received our religion do not fright any from it, and use none ill that goes over to it, so that all the while I was there one man was only punished on this occasion. He being newly baptised did, notwith- standing all that we could say to the contrary, dispute publicly concerning the Christian religion, with more zeal than discretion, and with so much heat, that he not only preferred our worship to theirs, but condemned all their rites as profane, and cried out against all that adhered to them as impious and sacrilegious persons, that were to be damned to everlasting burnings. Upon his having frequently preached in this manner he was seized, and after trial he was con- demned to banishment, not for having disparaged their religion, but for his inflaming the people to sedition; for this is one of their most ancient laws, that no man ought to be punished for his religion. At the first constitution of their government, Utopus having understood that before his coming among them the old inhabitants had been engaged in great quarrels concerning religion, by which they were so divided among themselves, that he found it an easy thing to conquer them, since, instead of uniting their forces against him, every different party in religion fought by themselves. After he had subdued them he made a law that every man might be of what religion he pleased, and might endeavour to draw others to it by the force of argument and by amicable and modest ways, but without bitterness against those of other opinions; but that he ought to use no other force but that of persuasion, and was neither to mix with it reproach- es nor violence; and such as did otherwise were to be condemned to banishment or slavery.
“This law was made by Utopus, not only for preserving the public peace, which he saw suffered much by daily contentions and irreconcilable heats, but because he thought the interest of religion itself required it. He judged
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it not fit to determine anything rashly; and seemed to doubt whether those different forms of religion might not all come from God, who might inspire man in a different manner, and be pleased with this variety; he therefore thought it indecent and foolish for any man to threaten and terrify another to make him believe what did not ap- pear to him to be true. And supposing that only one religion was really true, and the rest false, he imagined that the native force of truth would at last break forth and shine bright, if supported only by the strength of argument, and attended to with a gentle and unprejudiced mind; while, on the other hand, if such debates were carried on with violence and tumults, as the most wicked are always the most obstinate, so the best and most holy religion might be choked with superstition, as corn is with briars and thorns; he therefore left men wholly to their liberty, that they might be free to believe as they should see cause; only he made a solemn and severe law against such as should so far degenerate from the dignity of human nature, as to think that our souls died with our bodies, or that the world was governed by chance, without a wise overruling Providence: for they all formerly believed that there was a state of rewards and punishments to the good and bad after this life; and they now look on those that think otherwise as scarce fit to be counted men, since they degrade so noble a being as the soul, and reckon it no better than a beast’s: thus they are far from looking on such men as fit for human society, or to be citizens of a well-ordered common- wealth; since a man of such principles must needs, as oft as he dares do it, despise all their laws and customs: for there is no doubt to be made, that a man who is afraid of nothing but the law, and apprehends nothing after death, will not scruple to break through all the laws of his country, either by fraud or force, when by this means he may satisfy his appetites. They never raise any that hold these maxims, either to honours or offices, nor employ them in any public trust, but despise them, as men of base and sordid minds. Yet they do not punish them, because they lay this down as a maxim, that a man cannot make himself believe anything he pleases; nor do they drive any to dissemble their thoughts by threatenings, so that men are not tempted to lie or disguise their opinions; which being a sort of fraud, is abhorred by the Utopians: they take care indeed to prevent their disputing in defence of these opinions, especially before the common people: but they suffer, and even encourage them to dispute concerning them in private with their priest, and other grave men, being confident that they will be cured of those mad opin- ions by having reason laid before them. There are many among them that run far to the other extreme, though it is neither thought an ill nor unreasonable opinion, and therefore is not at all discouraged. They think that the souls of beasts are immortal, though far inferior to the dignity of the human soul, and not capable of so great a happiness. They are almost all of them very firmly persuaded that good men will be infinitely happy in another state: so that though they are compassionate to all that are sick, yet they lament no man’s death, except they see him loath to part with life; for they look on this as a very ill presage, as if the soul, conscious to itself of guilt, and quite hopeless, was afraid to leave the body, from some secret hints of approaching misery. They think that such a man’s appearance before God cannot be acceptable to Him, who being called on, does not go out cheerfully, but is backward and un- willing, and is as it were dragged to it. They are struck with horror when they see any die in this manner, and carry them out in silence and with sorrow, and praying God that He would be merciful to the errors of the departed soul, they lay the body in the ground: but when any die cheerfully, and full of hope, they do not mourn for them, but sing hymns when they carry out their bodies, and commending their souls very earnestly to God: their whole behaviour is then rather grave than sad, they burn the body, and set up a pillar where the pile was made, with an inscription to the honour of the deceased. When they come from the funeral, they discourse of his good life, and worthy actions, but speak of nothing oftener and with more pleasure than of his serenity at the hour of death. They think such respect paid to the memory of good men is both the greatest incitement to engage others to follow their example, and the most acceptable worship that can be offered them; for they believe that though by the imperfection of human sight they are invisible to us, yet they are present among us, and hear those discourses that pass concerning themselves. They believe it inconsistent with the happiness of departed souls not to be at liberty to be where they will: and do not imagine them capable of the ingratitude of not desiring to see those friends with whom they lived on earth in the strictest bonds of love and kindness: besides, they are persuaded that good men, after death, have these affections; and all other good dispositions increased rather than diminished, and therefore conclude that they are still among the living, and observe all they say or do. From hence they engage in all their affairs with the great- er confidence of success, as trusting to their protection; while this opinion of the presence of their ancestors is a restraint that prevents their engaging in ill designs.
Native America 12
401
With the exception of a few pictographic systems, literature in the Americas was transmitted orally until the arrival of Europeans. The Quiché Mayans of Central America quickly used the new alphabet system to write texts in their native language, while the Cherokee of North America (in the early 1800s C.E.) developed their own syllabary, rather than using Roman letters. Because there were so many different languages spoken in North, Central, and South America, stories were most often recorded in either English or Spanish.
The transition between oral and written culture, therefore, took place after the mutual culture shock of meeting new groups of people. As a result, there are elements in some Native American stories that clearly have been influ- enced. For example, horses were not found in the Americas before the arrival of the conquistadors, but there are some creation stories among the native tribes of the Great Plains that include the creation of horses. Obviously, any story that includes a reference to Europeans was influenced by contact with the new group. Scholars are particularly inter- ested in trying to identify the stories, or elements of stories, that pre-date contact with the Europeans, in order to pre- serve as much of the previous oral culture that has survived. There is value, however, in reading the influenced stories as well, since they record in literary form the reactions of the native groups to the newcomers. Sometimes the reaction is humorous, with critical undertones (such as Coyote tricking the man who owns the trading post out of his horse, his money, and his clothes), but more often the stories reflect the tragic consequences of the interaction.
The earliest recorded stories generally fall into the following categories: myths, legends, folktales (including jokes and riddles), and biography/autobiography. The definition of mythology in this instance is simply a collec- tion of beliefs held by one group; all groups technically have a mythology, which outsiders usually regard as false, leading to the more common modern application of the word myth. Myths take place before recorded history, explaining how the world came to be the way that it is. Legends have a kernel of truth to them, with lots of embel- lishment added over the years (for example, a real person who becomes superhuman over the centuries of telling stories about him). Folktales are timeless; with a little adaptation, a folktale could be adapted to another time or place. Folktales are also considered fiction by the people hearing the stories, whereas myths and legends are consid- ered true by the original audiences. The stories in this section generally fall under the category of myth: stories of the creation of the world.
As you read, consider the following questions:
• Which elements of the stories seem to be original (from the oral past), and which seem influenced by con- tact with the Europeans? What evidence is there in the text?
• What kind of worldview do the narrators have? What is important to them, and why? • What view of nature does each story have? Is nature to be feared or not, and why? • What examples of that group’s culture are in the stories? There is a huge difference between the cultures of
the Pima and the Cherokee, for example.
Written by Laura J. Getty
MYTHS OF THE CHEROKEE
Cherokee (Native America)
Compiled by James Mooney (1861-1921 C.E.)
Published in 1900 C.E.
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The Cherokee are a group of North American Indians of Iroquoian lineage and were one of the largest tribes when Europeans colonized the Americas. It is estimated that in 1650 about 22,500 Cherokee Indians controlled approximately 40,000 square miles of the Appalachian Mountains, the areas that are now northern Georgia, east- ern Tennessee, and the western Carolinas. A typical Cherokee town had between 30 and 60 log-cabin houses and a council house; they used deer, bear, and elk for meat and clothing, made baskets and pottery, and grew corn, beans, and squash. The Spanish, French, and English all attempted to colonize parts of the Southeast of North America, including Cherokee territory. After 1800, the Cherokee quickly assimilated aspects of American settler culture in such areas as farming, weaving, and home building; they also developed their own government, modeling it after the United States, and invented a writing system for the Cherokee language. Despite their adaptive efforts, however, the Indian Removal Act of 1830 under President Andrew Jackson forcibly moved Cherokee Indians to Oklahoma; about 4,000 Cherokee died on the Tail of Tears, during the fall and winter of 1838–39. As of the twenty-first centu- ry, there are more than 730,000 individuals of Cherokee descent living in the United States. Myths of the Cherokee was compiled by James Moony, an early twentieth-century ethnographer who lived with the Cherokee for several years, but these stories can be traced back to the time of or even before the arrival of the Europeans.
Written by Kyounghye Kwon
Selections from Myths of the Cherokee
James Mooney
Cherokee Cosmogonic Myths 1. How the World Was Made
The earth is a great island floating in a sea of water, and suspended at each of the four cardinal points by a cord hang- ing down from the sky vault, which is of solid rock. When the world grows old and worn out, the people will die and the cords will break and let the earth sink down into the ocean, and all will be water again. The Indians are afraid of this.
When all was water, the animals were above in Gälûñ’lätï, beyond the arch; but it was very much crowded, and they were wanting more room. They wondered what was below the water, and at last Dâyuni’sï, “Beaver’s Grandchild,” the little Water-beetle, offered to go and see if it could learn. It darted in every direction over the surface of the water, but could find no firm place to rest. Then it dived to the bottom and came up with some soft mud, which began to grow and spread on every side until it became the island which we call the earth. It was afterward fastened to the sky with four cords, but no one remembers who did this.
At first the earth was flat and very soft and wet. The an- imals were anxious to get down, and sent out different birds to see if it was yet dry, but they found no place to alight and came back again to Gälûñ’lätï. At last it seemed to be time, and they sent out the Buzzard and told him to go and make ready for them. This was the Great Buzzard, the father of all the buzzards we see now. He flew all over the earth, low down near the ground, and it was still soft. When he reached the Cherokee country, he was very tired, and his wings began to flap and strike the ground, and wherever they struck the earth there was a valley, and where they turned up again there was a mountain. When the animals above saw this, they were afraid that the whole world would be mountains, so they called him back, but the Cherokee country remains full of mountains to this day.
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Image 12.1: Individuals of Cherokee Heritage | A collage of people with Cherokee ancestry.
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When the earth was dry and the animals came down, it was still dark, so they got the sun and set it in a track to go every day across the island from east to west, just overhead. It was too hot this way, and Tsiska’gïlï’, the Red Crawfish, had his shell scorched a bright red, so that his meat was spoiled; and the Cherokee do not eat it. The conjurers put the sun another hand-breadth higher in the air, but it was still too hot. They raised it another time, and another, until it was seven handbreadths high and just under the sky arch. Then it was right, and they left it so. This is why the conjurers call the highest place Gûlkwâ’gine Di’gälûñ’lätiyûñ’, “the seventh height,” because it is seven hand-breadths above the earth. Every day the sun goes along under this arch, and returns at night on the upper side to the starting place.
There is another world under this, and it is like ours in everything—animals, plants, and people—save that the seasons are different. The streams that come down from the mountains are the trails by which we reach this under- world, and the springs at their heads are the doorways by which we enter it, but to do this, one must fast and go to water and have one of the underground people for a guide. We know that the seasons in the underworld are differ- ent from ours, because the water in the springs is always warmer in winter and cooler in summer than the outer air.
When the animals and plants were first made—we do not know by whom—they were told to watch and keep awake for seven nights, just as young men now fast and keep awake when they pray to their medicine. They tried to do this, and nearly all were awake through the first night, but the next night several dropped off to sleep, and the third night others were asleep, and then others, until, on the seventh night, of all the animals only the owl, the pan- ther, and one or two more were still awake. To these were given the power to see and to go about in the dark, and to make prey of the birds and animals which must sleep at night. Of the trees only the cedar, the pine, the spruce, the holly, and the laurel were awake to the end, and to them it was given to be always green and to be greatest for medi- cine, but to the others it was said: “Because you have not endured to the end you shall lose your, hair every winter.”
Men came after the animals and plants. At first there were only a brother and sister until he struck her with a fish and told her to multiply, and so it was. In seven days a child was born to her, and thereafter every seven days another, and they increased very fast until there was danger that the world could not keep them. Then it was made that a woman should have only one child in a year, and it has been so ever since.
2. The First Fire In the beginning there was no fire, and the world was cold, until the Thunders (Ani’-Hyûñ’tïkwälâ’skï), who
lived up in Gälûñ’lätï, sent their lightning and put fire into the bottom of a hollow sycamore tree which grew on an island. The animals knew it was there, because they could see the smoke coming out at the top, but they could not get to it on account of the water, so they held a council to decide what to do. This was a long time ago.
Every animal that could fly or swim was anxious to go after the fire. The Raven offered, and because he was so large and strong they thought he could surely do the work, so he was sent first. He flew high and far across the water and alighted on the sycamore tree, but while he was wondering what to do next, the heat had scorched all his feathers black, and he was frightened and came back without the fire. The little Screech-owl (Wa’huhu’) volunteered to go, and reached the place safely, but while he was looking down into the hollow tree a blast of hot air came up and nearly burned out his eves. He managed to fly home as best he could, but it was a long time before he could see well, and his eyes are red to this day. Then the Hooting Owl (U’guku’) and the Horned Owl (Tskïlï’) went, but by the time they got to the hollow tree the fire was burning so fiercely that the smoke nearly blinded them, and the ashes carried up by the wind made white rings about their eyes. They had to come home again without the fire, but with all their rubbing they were never able to get rid of the white rings.
Now no more of the birds would venture, and so the little Uksu’hï snake, the black racer, said he would go through the water and bring back some fire. He swam across to the island and crawled through the grass to the tree, and went in by a small hole at the bottom. The heat and smoke were too much for him, too, and after dodging about blindly over the hot ashes until he was almost on fire himself he managed by good luck to get out again at the same hole, but his body had been scorched black, and he has ever since had the habit of darting and doubling on his track as if trying to escape from close quarters. He came back, and the great blacksnake, Gûle’gï, “The Climber,” offered to go for fire. He swam over to the island and climbed up the tree on the outside, as the blacksnake always does, but when he put his head down into the hole the smoke choked him so that he fell into the burning stump, and before he could climb out again he was as black as the Uksu’hï.
Now they held another council, for still there was no fire, and the world was cold, but birds, snakes, and four-footed animals, all had some excuse for not going, because they were all afraid to venture near the burning sycamore, until at last Känäne’skï Amai’yëhï (the Water Spider) said she would go. This is not the water spider that looks like a mosquito, but the other one, with black downy hair and red stripes on her body. She can run on top of the water or dive to the bottom, so there would be no trouble to get over to the island, but the question was, ‘How could she bring back the fire?’ “I’ll manage that,” said the Water Spider; so she spun a thread from her body and
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wove it into a tusti bowl, which she fastened on her back. Then she crossed over to the island and through the grass to where the fire was still burning. She put one little coal of fire into her bowl, and came back with it, and ever since we have had fire, and the Water Spider still keeps her tusti bowl.
3. Kana’tï and Selu: The Origin of Game and Corn When I was a boy this is what the old men told me they had heard when they were boys. Long years ago, soon after the world was made, a hunter and his wife lived at Pilot Knob with their only child,
a little boy. The father’s name was Kana’tï (The Lucky Hunter), and his wife was called Selu (Corn). No matter when Kana’tï went into the wood, he never failed to bring back a load of game, which his wife would cut up and prepare, washing off the blood from the meat in the river near the house. The little boy used to play down by the river every day, and one morning the old people thought they heard laughing and talking in the bushes as though there were two children there. When the boy came home at night his parents asked him who had been playing with him all day. “He comes out of the water,” said the boy, “and he calls himself my elder brother. He says his mother was cruel to him and threw him into the river.” Then they knew that the strange boy had sprung from the blood of the game which Selu had washed off at the river’s edge.
Every day when the little boy went out to play the other would join him, but as he always went back again into the water the old people never had a chance to see him. At last one evening Kana’tï said to his son, “Tomorrow, when the other boy comes to play, get him to wrestle with you, and when you have your arms around him hold on to him and call for us.” The boy promised to do as he was told, so the next day as soon as his playmate appeared he challenged him to a wrestling match. The other agreed at once, but as soon as they had their arms around each oth- er, Kana’tï’s boy began to scream for his father. The old folks at once came running down, and as soon as the Wild Boy saw them he struggled to free himself and cried out, “Let me go; you threw me away!” but his brother held on until the parents reached the spot, when they seized the Wild Boy and took him home with them. They kept him in the house until they had tamed him, but he was always wild and artful in his disposition, and was the leader of his brother in every mischief. It was not long until the old people discovered that he had magic powers, and they called him I’näge-utäsûñ’hï (He-who-grew-up-wild).
Whenever Kana’tï went into the mountains he always brought back a fat buck or doe, or maybe a couple of tur- keys. One day the Wild Boy said to his brother, “I wonder where our father gets all that game; let’s follow him next time and find out.” A few days afterward Kana’tï took a bow and some feathers in his hand and started off toward the west. The boys waited a little while and then went after him, keeping out of sight until they saw him go into a swamp where there were a great many of the small reeds that hunters use to make arrow shafts. Then the Wild Boy changed himself into a puff of birds down, which the wind took up and carried until it alighted upon Kana’tï’s shoulder just as he entered the swamp, but Kana’tï’ knew nothing about it. The old man cut reeds, fitted the feath- ers to them and made some arrows, and the Wild Boy—in his other shape—thought, “I wonder what those things are for?” When Kana’tï had his arrows finished he came out of the swamp and went on again. The wind blew the down from his shoulder, and it fell in the woods, when the Wild Boy took his right shape again and went back and told his brother what he had seen. Keeping out of sight of their father, they followed him up the mountain until he stopped at a certain place and lifted a large rock. At once there ran out a buck, which Kana’tï shot, and then lifting it upon his back he started for home again. “Oho!” exclaimed the boys, “he keeps all the deer shut up in that hole, and whenever he wants meat he just lets one out and kills it with those things he made in the swamp.” They hurried and reached home before their father, who had the heavy deer to carry, and he never knew that they had followed.
A few days later the boys went back to the swamp, cut some reeds, and made seven arrows and then started up the mountain to where their father kept the game. When they got to the place, they raised the rock and a deer came running out. Just as they drew back to shoot it, another came out, and then another and another, until the boys got confused and forgot what they were about. In those days all the deer had their tails hanging down like other ani- mals, but as a buck was running past the Wild Boy struck its tail with his arrow so that it pointed upward. The boys thought this good sport, and when the next one ran past the Wild Boy struck its tail so that it stood straight up, and his brother struck the next one so hard with his arrow that the deer’s tail was almost curled over his back. The deer carries his tail this way ever since. The deer came running past until the last one had come out of the hole and es- caped into the forest. Then came droves of raccoons, rabbits, and all the other four-footed animals-all but the bear, because there was no bear then. Last came great flocks of turkeys, pigeons, and partridges that darkened the air like a cloud and made such a noise with their wings that Kana’tï, sitting at home, heard the sound like distant thunder on the mountains and said to himself, “My bad boys have got into trouble; I must go and see what they are doing.”
So he went up the mountain, and when he came to the place where he kept the game he found the two boys standing by the rock, and all the birds and animals were gone. Kana’tï was furious, but without saying a word he went down into the cave and kicked the covers off four jars in one corner, when out swarmed bedbugs, fleas, lice,
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and gnats, and got all over the boys. They screamed with pain and fright and tried to beat off the insects, but the thousands of vermin crawled over them and bit and stung them until both dropped down nearly dead. Kana’tï stood looking on until he thought they had been punished enough, when he knocked off the vermin and made the boys a talk. “Now, you rascals,” said he, “you have always had plenty to eat and never had to work for it. Whenever you were hungry all I had to do was to come up here and get a deer or a turkey and bring it home for your mother to cook; but now you have let out all the animals, and after this when you want a deer to eat you will have to hunt all over the woods for it, and then maybe not find one. Go home now to your mother, while I see if I can find some- thing to eat for supper.”
When the boys got home again they were very tired and hungry and asked their mother for something to eat. “There is no meat,” said Selu, “but wait a little while and I’ll get you something.” So she took a basket and started out to the storehouse. This storehouse was built upon poles high up from the ground, to keep it out of the reach of ani- mals, and there was a ladder to climb up by, and one door, but no other opening. Every day when Selu got ready to cook the dinner she would go out to the storehouse with a basket and bring it back full of corn and beans. The boys had never been inside the storehouse, so wondered where all the corn and beans could come from, as the house was not a very large one; so as soon as Selu went out of the door the Wild Boy said to his brother, “Let’s go and see what she does.” They ran around and climbed up at the back of the storehouse and pulled out a piece of clay from between the logs, so that they could look in. There they saw Selu standing in the middle of the room with the basket in front of her on the floor. Leaning over the basket, she rubbed her stomach—so—and the basket was half full of corn. Then she rubbed under her armpits—so—and the basket was full to the top with beans. The boys looked at each other and said, “This will never do; our mother is a witch. If we eat any of that it will poison us. We must kill her.”
When the boys came back into the house, she knew their thoughts before they spoke. “So you are going to kill me?” said Selu. “Yes,” said the boys, “you are a witch.” “Well,” said their mother, “when you have killed me, clear a large piece of ground in front of the house and drag my body seven times around the circle. Then drag me seven times over the ground inside the circle, and stay up all night and watch, and in the morning you will have plenty of corn.” The boys killed her with their clubs, and cut off her head and put it up on the roof of the house with her face turned to the west, and told her to look for her husband. Then they set to work to clear the ground in front of the house, but instead of clearing the whole piece they cleared only seven little spots. This is why corn now grows only in a few places instead of over the whole world. They dragged the body of Selu around the circle, and wherever her blood fell on the ground the corn sprang up. But instead of dragging her body seven times across the ground they dragged it over only twice, which is the reason the Indians still work their crop but twice. The two brothers sat up and watched their corn all night, and in the morning it was full grown and ripe.
When Kana’tï came home at last, he looked around, but could not see Selu anywhere, and asked the boys where was their mother. “She was a witch, and we killed her,” said the boys; “there is her head up there on top of the house.” When he saw his wife’s head on the roof, he was very angry, and said, “I won’t stay with you any longer; I am going to the Wolf people.” So he started off, but before he had gone far the Wild Boy changed himself again to a tuft of down, which fell on Kana’tï’s shoulder. When Kana’tï reached the settlement of the Wolf people, they were holding a council in the townhouse. He went in and sat down with the tuft of bird’s down on his shoulder, but he never noticed it. When the Wolf chief asked him his business, he said: “I have two bad boys at home, and I want you to go in seven days from now and play ball against them.” Although Kana’tï spoke as though he wanted them to play a game of ball, the Wolves knew that he meant for them to go and kill the two boys. They promised to go. Then the bird’s down blew off from Kana’tï’s shoulder, and the smoke carried it up through the hole in the roof of the town- house. When it came down on the ground outside, the Wild Boy took his right shape again and went home and told his brother all that he had heard in the townhouse. But when Kana’tï left the Wolf people, he did not return home, but went on farther.
The boys then began to get ready for the Wolves, and the Wild Boy—the magician—told his brother what to do. They ran around the house in a wide circle until they had made a trail all around it excepting on the side from which the Wolves would come, where they left a small open space. Then they made four large bundles of arrows and placed them at four different points on the outside of the circle, after which they hid themselves in the woods and waited for the Wolves. In a day or two a whole party of Wolves came and surrounded the house to kill the boys. The Wolves did not notice the trail around the house, because they came in where the boys had left the opening, but the moment they went inside the circle the trail changed to a high brush fence and shut them in. Then the boys on the outside took their arrows and began shooting them down, and as the Wolves could not jump over the fence they were all killed, excepting a few that escaped through the opening into a great swamp close by. The boys ran around the swamp, and a circle of fire sprang up in their tracks and set fire to the grass and bushes and burned up nearly all the other wolves. Only two or three got away, and from these have come all the wolves that are now in the world.
Soon afterward some strangers from a distance, who had heard that the brothers had a wonderful grain from which they made bread, came to ask for some, for none but Selu and her family had ever known corn before. The
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boys gave them seven grains of corn, which they told them to plant the next night on their way home, sitting up all night to watch the corn, which would have seven ripe ears in the morning. These they were to plant the next night and watch in the same way, and so on every night until they reached home, when they would have corn enough to supply the whole people. The strangers lived seven days’ journey away. They took the seven grains and watched all through the darkness until morning, when they saw seven tall stalks, each stalk bearing a ripened ear. They gathered the ears and went on their way. The next night they planted all their corn, and guarded it as before until daybreak, when they found an abundant increase. But the way was long and the sun was hot, and the people grew tired. On the last night before reaching home they fell asleep, and in the morning the corn they had planted had not even sprouted. They brought with them to their settlement what corn they had left and planted it, and with care and attention were able to raise a crop. But ever since the corn must be watched and tended through half the year, which before would grow and ripen in a night.
As Kana’tï did not return, the boys at last concluded to go and find him. The Wild Boy took a gaming wheel and rolled it toward the Darkening land. In a little while the wheel came rolling back, and the boys knew their father was not there. He rolled it to the south and, to the north, and each time the wheel came back to him, and they knew their father was not there. Then he rolled it toward the Sunland, and it did not return. “Our father is there,” said the Wild Boy, “let us go and find him.” So the two brothers set off toward the east, and after traveling a long time they came upon Kana’tï walking along with a little dog by his side. “You bad boys,” said their father, “have you come here?” “Yes,” they answered, “We always accomplish what we start out to do—we are men.” “This dog overtook me four days ago,” then said Kana’tï, but the boys knew that the dog was the wheel which they had sent after him to find him. “Well,” said Kana’tï, “as you have found me, we may as well travel together, but I shall take the lead.”
Soon they came to a swamp, and Kana’tï told them there was something dangerous there and they must keep away from it. He went on ahead, but as soon as he was out of sight the Wild Boy said to his brother, “Come and let us see what is in the swamp.” They went in together, and in the middle of the swamp they found a large panther asleep. The Wild Boy got out an arrow and shot the panther in the side of the head. The panther turned his head and the other boy shot him on that side. He turned his head away again and the two brothers shot together—tust, tust, tust! But the panther was not hurt by the arrows and paid no more attention to the boys. They came out of the swamp and soon overtook Kana’tï, who was waiting for them. “Did you find it?” asked Kana’tï. “Yes,” said the boys, “We found it, but it never hurt us. We are men.” Kana’tï was surprised, but said nothing, and they went on again.
After a while he turned to them and said, “Now you must be careful. We are coming to a tribe called the Anä- da’dûñtäskï. (“Roasters,” i.e., cannibals), and if they get you they will put you into a pot and feast on you.” Then he went on ahead. Soon the boys came to a tree which had been struck by lightning, and the Wild Boy directed his brother to gather some of the splinters from the tree and told him what to do with them. In a little while they came to the settlement of the cannibals, who, as soon as they saw the boys, came running out crying, “Good, here are two nice fat strangers. Now we’ll have a grand feast!” They caught the boys and dragged them into the townhouse, and sent word to all the people of the settlement to come to the feast. They made up a great fire, put water into a large pot and set it to boiling, and then seized the Wild Boy and put him down into it. His brother was not in the least frightened and made no attempt to escape, but quietly knelt down and began putting the splinters into the fire, as if to make it burn better. When the cannibals thought the meat was about ready they lifted the pot from the fire, and that instant a blinding light filled the townhouse, and the lightning began to dart from one side to the other, strik- ing down the cannibals until not one of them was left alive. Then the lightning went up through the smokehole, and the next moment there were the two boys standing outside the townhouse as though nothing had happened. They went on and soon met Kana’tï, who seemed much surprised to see them, and said, “What! Are you here again?” “O, yes, we never give up. We are great men!” “What did the cannibals do to you?” “We met them and they brought us to their townhouse, but they never hurt us.” Kana’tï said nothing more, and they went on.
* * * * * * *
He soon got out of sight of the boys, but they kept on until they came to the end of the world, where the sun comes out. The sky was just coming down when they got there, but they waited until it went up again, and then they went through and climbed up on the other side. There they found Kana’tï and Selu sitting together. The old folk received them kindly and were glad to see them, telling them they might stay there a while, but then they must go to live where the sun goes down. The boys stayed with their parents seven days and then went on toward the Dark- ening land, where they are now. We call them Anisga’ya Tsunsdi’ (The Little Men), and when they talk to each other we hear low rolling thunder in the west.
After Kana’tï’s boys had let the deer out from the cave where their father used to keep them, the hunters tramped about in the woods for a long time without finding any game, so that the people were very hungry. At last they heard that the Thunder Boys were now living in the far west, beyond the sun door, and that if they were sent
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for they could bring back the game. So they sent messengers for them, and the boys came and sat down in the mid- dle of the townhouse and began to sing.
At the first song there was a roaring sound like a strong wind in the northwest, and it grew louder and nearer as the boys sang on, until at the seventh song a whole herd of deer, led by a large buck, came out from the woods. The boys had told the people to be ready with their bows and arrows, and when the song was ended and all the deer were close around the townhouse, the hunters shot into them and killed as many as they needed before the herd could get back into the timber.
Then the Thunder Boys went back to the Darkening land, but before they left they taught the people the seven songs with which to call up the deer. It all happened so long ago that the songs are now forgotten—all but two, which the hunters still sing whenever they go after deer.
Wahnenauhi Version After the world had been brought up from under the water, “They then made a man and a woman and led them
around the edge of the island. On arriving at the starting place they planted some corn, and then told the man and woman to go around the way they had been led. This they did, and on returning they found the corn up and grow- ing nicely. They were then told to continue the circuit. Each trip consumed more time. At last the corn was ripe and ready for use.”
* * * * * * *
Another story is told of how sin came into the world. A man and a woman reared a large family of children in comfort and plenty, with very little trouble about providing food for them. Every morning the father went forth and very soon returned bringing with him a deer, or a turkey, or some other animal or fowl. At the same time the mother went out and soon returned with a large basket filled with ears of corn which she shelled and pounded in a mortar, thus making meal for bread.
When the children grew up, seeing with what apparent ease food was provided for them, they talked to each other about it, wondering that they never saw such things as their parents brought in. At last, one proposed to watch when their parents went out and to follow them.
Accordingly, the next morning the plan was carried out. Those who followed the father saw him stop at a short distance from the cabin and turn over a large stone that appeared to be carelessly leaned against another. On looking closely they saw an entrance to a large cave, and in it were many different kinds of animals and birds, such as their father had sometimes brought in for food. The man standing at the entrance called a deer, which was lying at some distance and back of some other animals. It rose immediately as it heard the call and came close up to him. He picked it up, closed the mouth of the cave, and returned, not once seeming to suspect what his sons had done.
When the old man was fairly out of sight, his sons, rejoicing how they had outwitted him, left their hiding place and went to the cave, saying they would show the old folks that they, too, could bring in something. They moved the stone away, though it was very heavy and they were obliged to use all their united strength. When the cave was opened, the animals, instead of waiting to be picked up, all made a rush for the entrance, and leaping past the frightened and bewildered boys, scattered in all directions and disappeared in the wilderness, while the guilty offenders could do nothing but gaze in stupefied amazement as they saw them escape. There were animals of all kinds, large and small—buffalo, deer, elk, antelope, raccoons, and squirrels; even catamounts and panthers, wolves and foxes, and many others, all fleeing together. At the same time birds of every kind were seen emerging from the opening, all in the same wild confusion as the quadrupeds—turkeys, geese, swans, ducks, quails, eagles, hawks, and owls.
Those who followed the mother saw her enter a small cabin, which they had never seen before, and close the door. The culprits found a small crack through which they could peer. They saw the woman place a basket on the ground and standing over it shake herself vigorously, jumping up and down—when lo and behold!—large ears of corn began to fall into the basket. When it was well filled she took it up and, placing it on her head, came out, fas- tened the door, and prepared their breakfast as usual. When the meal had been finished in silence the man spoke to his children, telling them that he was aware of what they had done; that now he must die and they would be obliged to provide for themselves. He made bows and arrows for them, then sent them to hunt for the animals which they had turned loose.
Then the mother told them that as they had found out her secret she could do nothing more for them; that she would die, and they must drag her body around over the ground; that wherever her body was dragged corn would come up. Of this they were to make their bread. She told them that they must always save some for seed and plant every year.
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4. Origin of Disease and Medicine In the old days the beasts, birds, fishes, insects, and plants could all talk, and they and the people lived togeth-
er in peace and friendship. But as time went on the people increased so rapidly that their settlements spread over the whole earth, and the poor animals found themselves beginning to be cramped for room. This was bad enough, but to make it worse Man invented bows, knives, blowguns, spears, and hooks, and began to slaughter the larger animals, birds, and fishes for their flesh or their skins, while the smaller creatures, such as the frogs and worms, were crushed and trodden upon without thought, out of pure carelessness or contempt. So the animals resolved to consult upon measures for their common safety.
The Bears were the first to meet in council in their townhouse under Kuwâ’hï mountain, the “Mulberry place,” and the old White Bear chief presided. After each in turn had complained of the way in which Man killed their friends, ate their flesh, and used their skins for his own purposes, it was decided to begin war at once against him. Someone asked what weapons Man used to destroy them. “Bows and arrows, of course,” cried all the Bears in cho- rus. “And what are they made of ?” was the next question. “The bow of wood, and the string of our entrails,” replied one of the Bears. It was then proposed that they make a bow and some arrows and see if they, could not use the same weapons against Man himself. So one Bear got a nice piece of locust wood and another sacrificed himself for the good of the rest in order to furnish a piece of his entrails for the string. But when everything was ready and the first Bear stepped up to make the trial, it was found that in letting the arrow fly after drawing back the bow, his long claws caught the string and spoiled the shot. This was annoying, but someone suggested that they might trim his claws, which was accordingly done, and on a second trial it was found that the arrow went straight to the mark. But here the chief, the old White Bear, objected, saying it was necessary that they should have long claws in order to be able to climb trees. “One of us has already died to furnish the bowstring, and if we now cut off our claws we must all starve together. It is better to trust to the teeth and claws that nature gave us, for it is plain that man’s weapons were not intended for us.”
No one could think of any better plan, so the old chief dismissed the council and the Bears dispersed to the woods and thickets without having concerted any way to prevent the increase of the human race. Had the result of the council been otherwise, we should now be at war with the Bears, but as it is, the hunter does not even ask the Bear’s pardon when he kills one.
The Deer next held a council under their chief, the Little Deer, and after some talk decided to send rheumatism to every hunter who should kill one of them unless he took care to ask their pardon for the offense. They sent notice of their decision to the nearest settlement of Indians and told them at the same time what to do when necessity forced them to kill one of the Deer tribe. Now, whenever the hunter shoots a Deer, the Little Deer, who is swift as the wind and can not be wounded, runs quickly up to the spot and, bending over the blood-stains, asks the spirit of the Deer if it has heard the prayer of the hunter for pardon. If the reply be “Yes,” all is well, and the Little Deer goes on his way; but if the reply be “No,” he follows on the trail of the hunter, guided by the drops of blood on the ground, until he arrives at his cabin in the settlement, when the Little Deer enters invisibly and strikes the hunter with rheumatism, so that he becomes at once a helpless cripple. No hunter who has regard for his health ever fails to ask pardon of the Deer for killing it, although some hunters who have not learned the prayer may try to turn aside the Little Deer from his pursuit by building a fire behind them in the trail.
Next came the Fishes and Reptiles, who had their own complaints against Man. They held their council to- gether and determined to make their victims dream of snakes twining about them in slimy folds and blowing foul breath in their faces, or to make them dream of eating raw or decaying fish, so that they would lose appetite, sicken, and die. This is why people dream about snakes and fish.
Finally the Birds, Insects, and smaller animals came together for the same purpose, and the Grubworm was chief of the council. It was decided that each in turn should give an opinion, and then they would vote on the ques- tion as to whether or not Man was guilty. Seven votes should be enough to condemn him. One after another de- nounced Man’s cruelty and injustice toward the other animals and voted in favor of his death. The Frog spoke first, saying: “We must do something to check the increase of the race, or people will become so numerous that we shall be crowded from off the earth. See how they have kicked me about because I’m ugly, as they say, until my back is covered with sores;” and here he showed the spots on his skin. Next came the Bird—no one remembers now which one it was—who condemned Man “because he burns my feet off,” meaning the way in which the hunter barbe- cues birds by impaling them on a stick set over the fire, so that their feathers and tender feet are singed off. Others followed in the same strain. The Ground-squirrel alone ventured to say a good word for Man, who seldom hurt him because he was so small, but this made the others so angry that they fell upon the Ground-squirrel and tore him with their claws, and the stripes are on his back to this day.
They began then to devise and name so many new diseases, one after another, that had not their invention at last failed them, no one of the human race would have been able to survive. The Grubworm grew constant- ly more pleased as the name of each disease was called off, until at last they reached the end of the list, when
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someone proposed to make menstruation sometimes fatal to women. On this he rose-up in his place and cried: “Wadâñ’! [Thanks!] I’m glad some more of them will die, for they are getting so thick that they tread on me.” The thought fairly made him shake with joy, so that he fell over backward and could not get on his feet again, but had to wriggle off on his back, as the Grubworm has done ever since.
When the Plants, who were friendly to Man, heard what had been done by the animals, they determined to defeat the latter’s evil designs. Each Tree, Shrub, and Herb, down even to the Grasses and Mosses, agreed to furnish a cure for some one of the diseases named, and each said: “I shall appear to help Man when he calls upon me in his need.” Thus came medicine; and the plants, every one of which has its use if we only knew it, furnish the remedy to counteract the evil wrought by the revengeful animals. Even weeds were made for some good purpose, which we must find out for ourselves. When the doctor does not know what medicine to use for a sick man the spirit of the plant tells him.
5. The Daughter of the Sun The Sun lived on the other side of the sky vault, but her daughter lived in the middle of the sky, directly above
the earth, and every day as the Sun was climbing along the sky arch to the west she used to stop at her daughter’s house for dinner.
Now, the Sun hated the people on the earth, because they could never look straight at her without screwing up their faces. She said to her brother, the Moon, “My grandchildren are ugly; they grin all over their faces when they look at me.” But the Moon said, “I like my younger brothers; I think they are very handsome” —because they always smiled pleasantly when they saw him in the sky at night, for his rays were milder.
The Sun was jealous and planned to kill all the people, so every day when she got near her daughter’s house she sent down such sultry rays that there was a great fever and the people died by hundreds, until everyone had lost some friend and there was fear that no one would be left. They went for help to the Little Men, who said the only way to save themselves was to kill the Sun.
The Little Men made medicine and changed two men to snakes, the Spreading-adder and the Copperhead, and sent them to watch near the door of the daughter of the Sun to bite the old Sun when she came next day. They went together and bid near the house until the Sun came, but when the Spreading-adder was about to spring, the bright light blinded him and he could only spit out yellow slime, as he does to this day when he tries to bite. She called him a nasty thing and went by into the house, and the Copperhead crawled off without trying to do anything.
So the people still died from the heat, and they went to the Little Men a second time for help. The Little Men made medicine again and changed one man into the great Uktena and another into the Rattlesnake and sent them to watch near the house and kill the old Sun when she came for dinner. They made the Uktena very large, with horns on his head, and everyone thought he would be sure to do the work, but the Rattle- snake was so quick and eager that he got ahead and coiled up just outside the house, and when the Sun’s daughter opened the door to look out for her mother, he sprang up and bit her and she fell dead in the doorway. He forgot to wait for the old Sun, but went back to the people, and the Uktena was so very angry that he went back, too. Since then we pray to the rattlesnake and do not kill him, because he is kind and never tries to bite if we do not disturb him. The Uktena grew angrier all the time and very dangerous, so that if he even looked at a man, that man’s family would die. After a long time the people held a council and decided that he was too dangerous to be with them, so they sent him up to Gälûñ’lätï, and he is there now. The Spread- ing-adder, the Copperhead, the Rattlesnake, and the Uktena were all men.
When the Sun found her daughter dead, she went into the house and grieved, and the people did not die any more, but now the world was dark all the time, because the Sun would not come out. They
Image 12.2: Three Cherokee Diplomats in London | Three Cher- okee men with traditional outfits and styles stand beside a contemporary London man, sharply contrasting their appearances.
Author: Henry Timberlake Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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went again to the Little Men, and these told them that if they wanted the Sun to come out again they must bring back her daughter from Tsûsginâ’ï, the Ghost country, in Us’ûñhi’yï, the Darkening land in the west. They chose seven men to go, and gave each a sourwood rod a hand-breadth long. The Little Men told them they must take a box with them, and when they got to Tsûsginâ’ï they would find all the ghosts at a dance. They must stand outside the circle, and when the young woman passed in the dance they must strike her with the rods and she would fall to the ground. Then they must put her into the box and bring her back to her mother, but they must be very sure not to open the box, even a little way, until they were home again.
They took the rods and a box and traveled seven days to the west until they came to the Darkening land. There were a great many people there, and they were having a dance just as if they were at home in the settlements. The young woman was in the outside circle, and as she swung around to where the seven men were standing, one struck her with his rod and she turned her head and saw him. As she came around the second time another touched her with his rod, and then another and another, until at the seventh round she fell out of the ring, and they put her into the box and closed the lid fast. The other ghosts seemed never to notice what had happened.
They took up the box and started home toward the east. In a little while the girl came to life again and begged to be let out of the box, but they made no answer and went on. Soon she called again and said she was hungry, but still they made no answer and went on. After another while she spoke again and called for a drink and pleaded so that it was very hard to listen to her, but the men who carried the box said nothing and still went on. When at last they
were very near home, she called again and begged them to raise the lid just a little, because she was smothering. They were afraid she was really dying now, so they lifted the lid a little to give her air, but as they did so there was a fluttering sound inside and something flew past them into the thicket and they heard a redbird cry, “kwish! kwish! Kwish!” in the bushes. They shut down the lid and went on again to the settlements, but when they got there and opened the box it was empty.
So we know the Redbird is the daughter of the Sun, and if the men had kept the box closed, as the Little Men told them to do, they would have brought her home safely, and we could bring back our other friends also from the Ghost country, but now when they die we can never bring them back.
The Sun had been glad when they started to the Ghost country, but when they came back without her daughter she grieved and cried, “My daughter, my daughter,” and wept until her tears made a flood upon the earth, and the people were afraid the world would be drowned. They held another council, and sent their handsomest young men and women to amuse her so that she would stop crying. They danced before the Sun and sang their best songs, but for a long time she kept her face covered and paid no attention, until at last the drummer suddenly changed the song, when she lifted up her face, and was so pleased at the sight that she forgot her grief and smiled.
6. How They Brought Back the Tobacco In the beginning of the world, when people and animals were all the same, there was only one tobacco plant,
to which they all came for their tobacco until the Dagûl`kû geese stole it and carried it far away to the south. The people were suffering without it, and there was one old woman who grew so thin and weak that everybody said she would soon die unless she could get tobacco to keep her alive.
Different animals offered to go for it, one after another, the larger ones first and then the smaller ones, but the Dagûl`kû saw and killed every one before he could get to the plant. After the others the little Mole tried to reach it by going under the ground, but the Dagûl`kû saw his track and killed him as he came out.
At last the Hummingbird offered, but the others said he was entirely too small and might as well stay at home.
Image 12.3: Sequoya’s Arranged Syllabary | The syllabary for writing the Cherokee language, designed by Sequoya.
Author: User “Robfergusonjr” Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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He begged them to let him try, so they showed him a plant in a field and told him to let them see how he would go about it. The next moment he was gone and they saw him sitting on the plant, and then in a moment he was back again, but no one had seen him going or coming, because he was so swift. “This is the way I’ll do,” said the Hum- mingbird, so they let him try.
He flew off to the east, and when he came in sight of the tobacco the Dagûl`kû were watching all about it, but they could not see him because he was so small and flew so swiftly. He darted down on the plant—tsa!—and snatched off the top with the leaves and seeds, and was off again before the Dagûl`kû knew what had happened. Before he got home with the tobacco the old woman had fainted and they thought she was dead, but he blew the smoke into her nostrils, and with a cry of “Tsâ’lû! [Tobacco!]” she opened her eyes and was alive again.
Second Version The people had tobacco in the beginning, but they had used it all, and there was great suffering for want of it.
There was one old man so old that he had to be kept alive by smoking, and as his son did not want to see him die he decided to go himself to try and get some more. The tobacco country was far in the south, with high mountains all around it, and the passes were guarded, so that it was very hard to get into it, but the young man was a conjurer and was not afraid. He traveled southward until he came to the mountains on the border of the tobacco country. Then he opened his medicine bag and took out a hummingbird skin and put it over himself like a dress. Now he was a hummingbird and flew over the mountains to the tobacco field and pulled some of the leaves and seed and put them into his medicine bag. He was so small and swift that the guards, whoever they were, did not see him, and when he had taken as much as he could carry he flew back over the mountains in the same way. Then he took off the hummingbird skin and put it into his medicine bag, and was a man again. He started home, and on his way came to a tree that had a hole in the trunk, like a door, near the first branches, and a very pretty woman was looking out from it. He stopped and tried to climb the tree, but although he was a good climber he found that he always slipped back. He put on a pair of medicine moccasins from his pouch, and then he could climb the tree, but when he reached the first branches he looked up and the hole was still as far away as before. He climbed higher and high- er, but every time he looked up the hole seemed to be farther than before, until at last he was tired and came down again. When he reached home he found his father very weak. but still alive, and one draw at the pipe made him strong again. The people planted the seed and have had tobacco ever since.
7. The Journey to the Sunrise A long time ago several young men made up their minds to find the place where the Sun lives and see what the
Sun is like. They got ready their bows and arrows, their parched corn and extra moccasins, and started out toward the east. At first they met tribes they knew, then they came to tribes they had only heard about, and at last to others of which they had never heard.
There was a tribe of root eaters and another of acorn eaters, with great piles of acorn shells near their houses. In one tribe they found a sick man dying, and were told it was the custom there when a man died to bury his wife in the same grave with him. They waited until he was dead, when they saw his friends lower the body into a great pit, so deep and dark that from the top they could not see the bottom. Then a rope was tied around the woman’s body, together with a bundle of pine knots, a lighted pine knot was put into her hand, and she was lowered into the pit to die there in the darkness after the last pine knot was burned.
The young men traveled on until they came at last to the sunrise place where the sky reaches down to the ground. They found that the sky was an arch or vault of solid rock hung above the earth and was always swinging up and down, so that when it went up there was an open place like a door between the sky and ground, and when it swung back the door was shut. The Sun came out of this door from the east and climbed along on the inside of the arch. It had a human figure, but was too bright for them to see clearly and too hot to come very near. They waited until the Sun had come out and then tried to get through while the door was still open, but just as the first one was in the doorway the rock came down and crushed him. The other six were afraid to try it, and as they were now at the end of the world they turned around and started back again, but they had traveled so far that they were old men when they reached home.
8. The Moon and the Thunders. The Sun was a young woman and lived in the East, while her brother, the Moon. lived in the West. The girl had
a lover who used to come every month in the dark of the moon to court her. He would come at night, and leave before daylight, and although she talked with him she could not see his face in the dark, and he would not tell her his name, until she was wondering all the time who it could be. At last she hit upon a plan to find out, so the next
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time he came, as they were sitting together in the dark of the âsi, she slyly dipped her hand into the cinders and ashes of the fireplace and rubbed it over his face, saying, “Your face is cold; you must have suffered from the wind,” and pretending to be very sorry for him, but he did not know that she had ashes on her hand. After a while he left her and went away again.
The next night when the Moon came up in the sky his face was covered with spots, and then his sister knew he was the one who had been coming to see her. He was so much ashamed to have her know it that he kept as far away as he could at the other end of the sky all the night. Ever since he tries to keep a long way behind the Sun, and when he does sometimes have to come near her in the west he makes himself as thin as a ribbon so that he can hardly be seen.
Some old people say that the moon is a ball which was thrown up against the sky in a game a long time ago. They say that two towns were playing against each other, but one of them had the best runners and had almost won the game, when the leader of the other side picked up the ball with his hand—a thing that is not allowed in the game—and tried to throw it to the goal, but it struck against the solid sky vault and was fastened there, to remind players never to cheat. When the moon looks small and pale it is because someone has handled the ball unfairly, and for this reason they formerly played only at the time of a full moon.
When the sun or moon is eclipsed it is because a great frog up in the sky is trying to swallow it. Everybody knows this, even the Creeks and the other tribes, and in the olden times, eighty or a hundred years ago, before the great medicine men were all dead, whenever they saw the sun grow dark the people would come together and fire guns and beat the drum, and in a little while this would frighten off the great frog and the sun would be all right again.
The common people call both Sun and Moon Nûñdä, one being ‘Nûñdä that dwells in the day” and the other “Nûñdä that dwells in the night,” but the priests call the Sun Su’tälidihï’, “Six-killer,” and the Moon Ge’`yägu’ga, though nobody knows now what this word means, or why they use these names. Sometimes people ask the Moon not to let it rain or snow.
The great Thunder and his sons, the two Thunder boys, live far in the west above the sky vault. The lightning and the rainbow are their beautiful dress. The priests pray to the Thunder and call him the Red Man, because that is the brightest color of his dress. There are other Thunders that live lower down, in the cliffs and mountains, and under waterfalls, and travel on invisible bridges from one high peak to another where they have their town houses. The great Thunders above the sky are kind and helpful when we pray to them, but these others are always plotting mischief. One must not point at the rainbow, or one’s finger will swell at the lower joint.
9. What the Stars Are Like There are different opinions about the stars. Some say they are balls of light, others say they are human, but
most people say they are living creatures covered with luminous fur or feathers. One night a hunting party camping in the mountains noticed two lights like large stars moving along the top
of a distant ridge. They wondered and watched until the light disappeared on the other side. The next night, and the next, they saw the lights again moving along the ridge, and after talking over the matter decided to go on the morrow and try to learn the cause. In the morning they started out and went until they came to the ridge, where, after searching some time, they found two strange creatures about so large (making a circle with outstretched arms), with round bodies covered with fine fur or downy feathers, from which small heads stuck out like the heads of terrapins. As the breeze played upon these feathers showers of sparks flew out.
The hunters carried the strange creatures back to the camp, intending to take them home to the settlements on their return. They kept them several days and noticed that every night they would grow bright and shine like great stars, although by day they were only balls of gray fur, except when the wind stirred and made the sparks fly out. They kept very quiet, and no one thought of their trying to escape, when, on the seventh night, they suddenly rose from the ground like balls of fire and were soon above the tops of the trees. Higher and higher they went, while the wondering hunters watched, until at last they were only two bright points of light in the dark sky, and then the hunters knew that they were stars.
10. Origin of the Pleiades and the Pine Long ago, when the world was new, there were seven boys who used to spend all their time down by the town-
house playing the gatayû’stï game, rolling a stone wheel along the ground and sliding a curved stick after it to strike it. Their mothers scolded, but it did no good, so one day they collected some gatayû’stï stones and boiled them in the pot with the corn for dinner. When the boys came home hungry their mothers dipped out the stones and said, “Since you like the gatayû’stï better than the cornfield, take the stones now for your dinner.”
The boys were very angry, and went down to the townhouse, saying, “As our mothers treat us this way, let us go where we shall never trouble them anymore.” They began a dance—some say it was the Feather dance—and went
Image 12.4: Fain’s Island Shell Gorget | Shell artwork of the water spider, found on Fain’s Island, Tennessee.
Author: Aaron Walden Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
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time he came, as they were sitting together in the dark of the âsi, she slyly dipped her hand into the cinders and ashes of the fireplace and rubbed it over his face, saying, “Your face is cold; you must have suffered from the wind,” and pretending to be very sorry for him, but he did not know that she had ashes on her hand. After a while he left her and went away again.
The next night when the Moon came up in the sky his face was covered with spots, and then his sister knew he was the one who had been coming to see her. He was so much ashamed to have her know it that he kept as far away as he could at the other end of the sky all the night. Ever since he tries to keep a long way behind the Sun, and when he does sometimes have to come near her in the west he makes himself as thin as a ribbon so that he can hardly be seen.
Some old people say that the moon is a ball which was thrown up against the sky in a game a long time ago. They say that two towns were playing against each other, but one of them had the best runners and had almost won the game, when the leader of the other side picked up the ball with his hand—a thing that is not allowed in the game—and tried to throw it to the goal, but it struck against the solid sky vault and was fastened there, to remind players never to cheat. When the moon looks small and pale it is because someone has handled the ball unfairly, and for this reason they formerly played only at the time of a full moon.
When the sun or moon is eclipsed it is because a great frog up in the sky is trying to swallow it. Everybody knows this, even the Creeks and the other tribes, and in the olden times, eighty or a hundred years ago, before the great medicine men were all dead, whenever they saw the sun grow dark the people would come together and fire guns and beat the drum, and in a little while this would frighten off the great frog and the sun would be all right again.
The common people call both Sun and Moon Nûñdä, one being ‘Nûñdä that dwells in the day” and the other “Nûñdä that dwells in the night,” but the priests call the Sun Su’tälidihï’, “Six-killer,” and the Moon Ge’`yägu’ga, though nobody knows now what this word means, or why they use these names. Sometimes people ask the Moon not to let it rain or snow.
The great Thunder and his sons, the two Thunder boys, live far in the west above the sky vault. The lightning and the rainbow are their beautiful dress. The priests pray to the Thunder and call him the Red Man, because that is the brightest color of his dress. There are other Thunders that live lower down, in the cliffs and mountains, and under waterfalls, and travel on invisible bridges from one high peak to another where they have their town houses. The great Thunders above the sky are kind and helpful when we pray to them, but these others are always plotting mischief. One must not point at the rainbow, or one’s finger will swell at the lower joint.
9. What the Stars Are Like There are different opinions about the stars. Some say they are balls of light, others say they are human, but
most people say they are living creatures covered with luminous fur or feathers. One night a hunting party camping in the mountains noticed two lights like large stars moving along the top
of a distant ridge. They wondered and watched until the light disappeared on the other side. The next night, and the next, they saw the lights again moving along the ridge, and after talking over the matter decided to go on the morrow and try to learn the cause. In the morning they started out and went until they came to the ridge, where, after searching some time, they found two strange creatures about so large (making a circle with outstretched arms), with round bodies covered with fine fur or downy feathers, from which small heads stuck out like the heads of terrapins. As the breeze played upon these feathers showers of sparks flew out.
The hunters carried the strange creatures back to the camp, intending to take them home to the settlements on their return. They kept them several days and noticed that every night they would grow bright and shine like great stars, although by day they were only balls of gray fur, except when the wind stirred and made the sparks fly out. They kept very quiet, and no one thought of their trying to escape, when, on the seventh night, they suddenly rose from the ground like balls of fire and were soon above the tops of the trees. Higher and higher they went, while the wondering hunters watched, until at last they were only two bright points of light in the dark sky, and then the hunters knew that they were stars.
10. Origin of the Pleiades and the Pine Long ago, when the world was new, there were seven boys who used to spend all their time down by the town-
house playing the gatayû’stï game, rolling a stone wheel along the ground and sliding a curved stick after it to strike it. Their mothers scolded, but it did no good, so one day they collected some gatayû’stï stones and boiled them in the pot with the corn for dinner. When the boys came home hungry their mothers dipped out the stones and said, “Since you like the gatayû’stï better than the cornfield, take the stones now for your dinner.”
The boys were very angry, and went down to the townhouse, saying, “As our mothers treat us this way, let us go where we shall never trouble them anymore.” They began a dance—some say it was the Feather dance—and went
Image 12.4: Fain’s Island Shell Gorget | Shell artwork of the water spider, found on Fain’s Island, Tennessee.
Author: Aaron Walden Source: Wikimedia Commons License: Public Domain
round and round the townhouse, praying to the spirits to help them. At last their mothers were afraid something was wrong and went out to look for them. They saw the boys still dancing around the townhouse, and as they watched they noticed that their feet were off the earth, and that with every round they rose higher and higher in the air. They ran to get their children, but it was too late, for then, were already above the roof of the townhouse—all but one, whose mother managed to pull him down with the gatayû’stï pole, but he struck the ground with such force that he sank into it and the earth closed over him.
The other six circled higher and higher until they went up to the sky, where we see them now as the Pleiades, which the Cherokee still call Ani’tsutsä (The Boys). The people grieved long after them, but the mother whose boy had gone into the ground came every morning and every evening to cry over the spot until the earth was damp with her tears. At last a little green shoot sprouted up and grew day by day until it became the tall tree that we call now the pine, and the pine is of the same nature as the stars and holds in itself the same bright light.
11. The Milky Way Some people in the south had a corn mill, in which they pounded the corn
into meal, and several mornings when they came to fill it they noticed that some of the meal had been stolen during the night. They examined the ground and found the tracks of a dog, so the next night they watched, and when the dog came from the north and began to eat the meal out of the bowl they sprang out and whipped him. He ran off howling to his home in the north, with the meal dropping from his mouth as he ran, and leaving behind a white trail where now we see the Milky Way, which the Cherokee call to this day Gi`lï’- utsûñ’stänûñ’yï, “Where the dog ran.”
12. Origin Of Strawberries When the first man was created and a mate was given to him, they lived together very happily for a time, but
then began to quarrel, until at last the woman left her husband and started off toward Nûñâgûñ’yï, the Sun land, in the east. The man followed alone and grieving, but the woman kept on steadily ahead and never looked behind, until Une’`länûñ’hï, the great Apportioner (the Sun), took pity on him and asked him if he was still angry with his wife. He said he was not, and Une’`länûñ’hï then asked him if he would like to have her back again, to which he eagerly answered yes.
So Une’`länûñ’hï caused a patch of the finest ripe huckleberries to spring up along the path in front of the wom- an, but she passed by without paying any attention to them. Farther on he put a clump of blackberries, but these also she refused to notice. Other fruits, one, two, and three, and then some trees covered with beautiful red service berries, were placed beside the path to tempt her, but she still went on until suddenly she saw in front a patch of large ripe strawberries, the first ever known. She stooped to gather a few to eat, and as she picked them she chanced to turn her face to the west, and at once the memory of her husband came back to her and she found herself unable to go on. She sat down, but the longer she waited the stronger became her desire, for her husband, and at last she gathered a bunch of the finest berries and started back along the path to give them to him. He met her kindly and they went home together.
13. The Great Yellow-jacket: Origin of Fish and Frogs A long time ago the people of the old town of Kanu’ga`lâ’yï (“Brier place,” or Briertown), on Nantahala river,
in the present Macon County, North Carolina, were much annoyed by a great insect called U’la`gû’, as large as a house, which used to come from some secret hiding place, and darting swiftly through the air, would snap up children from their play and carry them away. It was unlike any other insect ever known, and the people tried many times to track it to its home, but it was too swift to be followed.
They killed a squirrel and tied a white string to it, so that its course could be followed with the eye, as bee hunt- ers follow the flight of a bee to its tree. The U’la`gû’ came and carried off the squirrel with the string hanging to it, but darted away so swiftly through the air that it was out of sight in a moment. They killed a turkey and put a longer white string to it, and the U’la`gû’ came and took the turkey, but was gone again before they could see in what direction it flew. They took a deer ham and tied a white string to it, and again the U’la`gû’ swooped down and bore it off so swiftly that it could not be followed. At last they killed a yearling deer and tied a very long white string to it. The U’la`gû’ came again and seized the deer, but this time the load was so heavy that it had to fly slowly and so low
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down that the string could be plainly seen. The hunters got together for the pursuit. They followed it along a ridge to the east until they came near where
Franklin now is, when, on looking across the valley to the other side, they saw the nest of the U’la`gû’ in a large cave in the rocks. On this they raised a great shout and made their way rapidly down the mountain and across to the cave. The nest had the entrance below with tiers of cells built up one above another to the roof of the cave. The great U’la`gû’ was there, with thousands of smaller ones, that we now call yellow-jackets. The hunters built fires around the hole, so that the smoke filled the cave and smothered the great insect and multitudes of the smaller ones, but others which were outside the cave were not killed, and these escaped and increased until now the yel- low-jackets, which before were unknown, are all over the world. The people called the cave Tsgâgûñ’yï, “Where the yellow-jacket was,” and the place from which they first saw the nest they called A`tahi’ta, “Where they shouted,” and these are their names today.
They say also that all the fish and frogs came from a great monster fish and frog which did much damage until at last they were killed by the people, who cut them up into little pieces which were thrown into the water and after- ward took shape as the smaller fishes and frogs.
14. The Deluge A long time ago a man had a dog, which began to go down to the river every day and look at the water and
howl. At last the man was angry and scolded the dog, which then spoke to him and said: “Very soon there is going to be a great freshet and the water will come so high that everybody will be drowned; but if you will make a raft to get upon when the rain comes you can be saved, but you must first throw me into the water.” The man did not be- lieve it, and the dog said, “If you want a sign that I speak the truth, look at the back of my neck.” He looked and saw that the dog’s neck had the skin worn off so that the bones stuck out.
Then he believed the dog, and began to build a raft. Soon the rain came and he took his family, with plenty of provisions and they all got upon it. It rained for a long time, and the water rose until the mountains were covered and all the people in the world were drowned. Then the rain stopped and the waters went down again, until at last it was safe to come off the raft. Now there was no one alive but the man and his family, but one day they heard a sound of dancing and shouting on the other side of the ridge. The man climbed to the top and looked over; every- thing was still, but all along the valley he saw great piles of bones of the people who had been drowned, and then he knew that the ghosts had been dancing.
AW-AW-TAM INDIAN NIGHTS: THE MYTHS AND LEGENDS OF THE PIMAS
Compiled by J. William Lloyd (1857-1940 C.E.)
Published in 1911 C.E. Pima (Native America)
The Pima are North American Indians who traditionally lived along the Gila and Salt rivers in Arizona, U.S., which was the location of the Hohokam culture (200 to 1400 C.E.). Pima Indians call themselves the “River People,” speak a Uto-Aztecan language, and are usually considered to be the descendants of the Hohokam whose settle- ments were abandoned probably because of the Great Drought (1276-99) and the subsequent sparse and unpredict- able rainfall that lasted until 1450. The Pima were traditionally sedentary farmers utilizing the rivers for irrigation and supplementing their diet with some hunting and gathering. The active farming led the Pima to develop larger communities than their neighboring tribes, along with complex political organizations. From the time of their early encounter with European and American colonizers, Pima Indians have been seen as a friendly people. As of the early 21st century, there are about 11,000 Pima descendants. J. William Lloyd, an amateur ethnographer who lived with the Pima people for two months in 1903, collected and transcribed Comalk-hawk-kih (Thin Buckskin)’s tradi- tional Pima stories via the interpretation of Edward Hubert Wood, but these stories can be traced back to the time of or even before the arrival of the Europeans. The stories are organized as Stories of the First Night, the Second Night, the Third Night, and the Fourth Night.
Written by Kyounghye Kwon
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Selections from Aw-Aw-Tam Indian Nights: Being The Myths and Legends of the Pimas of Arizona
J. William Lloyd
The Story of These Stories WHEN I was at the Pan-American Fair, at Buffalo, in July,
1901, I one day strolled into the Bazaar and drifted naturally to the section where Indian curios were displayed for sale by J. W. Benham. Behind the counter, as salesman, stood a young Indi- an, whose frank, intelligent, good-natured face at once attracted me. Finding me interested in Indian art, he courteously invited me behind the counter and spent an hour or more in explain- ing the mysteries of baskets and blankets.
How small seeds are! From that interview came everything that is in this book.
Several times I repeated my visits to my Indian friend, and when I had left Buffalo I had earned that his name was Edward Hubert Wood, and that he was a full-blooded Pima, educated at Albuquerque, New Mexico.
Afterward we came into a pleasant correspondence, and so I came to know that one of my Indian friend’s dreams was that he should be the means of the preservation of the ancient tales of his people. He had a grand-uncle, Comalk-Hawk-Kih, or Thin Buckskin, who was a see-nee-yaw-kum, or professional traditionalist, who knew all the ancient stories, but who had no successor, and with whose death the stories would disappear. He did not feel himself equal to putting these traditions into good English, and so did not quite know what to do.
We discussed this matter in letters; and finally it was de- cided that I should visit the Gila River Reservation, in Arizona, where the Pimas were, and get the myths from the old see- neeyawkum in person, and that Mr. Wood should return home from Pyramid Lake, Nevada, where he was teaching carpentry to the Pai-utes, and be my host and interpreter.
So, on the morning of July 31st, 1903, I stepped from a train at Casa Grande, Arizona, and found myself in the desert land of which I had so long dreamed. I had expected Mr. Wood to meet me there, but he was not at the station and therefore I took passage with the Irish mail-carrier whose stage was in daily transit between Casa Grande and Sacaton, the Agency village of the Pima Reservation.
We had driven perhaps half the distance, and my Irish friend was beguiling the tedium by an interminable series of highly spiced yarns, calculated to flabbergast the tenderfoot, when my anxious eyes discerned in the dis- tance the oncoming of a neat little open buggy, drawn by two pretty ponies, one of which was a pinto, and in which sat Mr. Wood. Just imagine: It was the last day of July, a blazing morning in the open desert, with the temperature soaring somewhere between 100 and 120 degrees, yet here was my Indian friend, doubtless to do me honor, arrayed in a “pepper-and-salt” suit, complete with underclothes; vest buttoned up; collar and necktie, goggles and buckskin driving gloves. And this in an open buggy, while the Irishman and I, under our tilt, were stripped to our shirts, with sleeves rolled above elbows, and swigging water, ever and anon, from an enormous canteen swathed in wet flannel to keep it cool. Truly Mr. Wood had not intended that I should take him for an uncivilized Indian, if clothes could give the lie; but the face was the same kindly one of my “Brother Ed,” and it did not take me long to greet him and transfer myself to his care.
We came to Sacaton (which Ed said was a Mexican name meaning “much tall grass”—reminding me that Em- ory, of the “Army of the West,” who found the Pimas in 1846, reported finding fine meadows there—but which the Pimas call Tawt-sit-ka, “the Place of Fear and Flight,” because of some Apache-caused panic) but we did not stop there, but passed around it, to the Northwest, and on and over the Gila, Akee-mull, The River, as the Pimas affec-
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tionately call it, for to them it is as the Nile to Egypt. The famous Gila is not a very imposing stream at any time, and now was no stream at all, but a shallow dry channel, choked with desert dust, or paved with curling flakes of baked mud which cracked like bits of broken pottery under our ponies’ feet. But I afterwards many times saw it a turbid torrent of yellow mud, rushing and foaming from the mountain rains; perilous with quicksand and snag, the roaring of its voice heard over the chapparal for miles to windward.
The Pimas live in villages, each with its sub-chief, and we were bound for the village of Lower San-tan. But in these villages the houses are now seldom aggregated, as in old days of Apache and Yuma war, but scatter out for miles in farm homesteads.
Brother Ed had lately sold his neat farmstead, near Sacaton, and when I came to his home I found he was temporarily living under a vachtoe (pronounce first syllable as if German), or arbor-shed, made of mezquite forks, supporting a flat roof of weeds and brush for shade. Near by he was laying the foundations of a neat little adobe cottage, which was finally completed during my stay.
Ed introduced me to his mother, a matronly Indian woman of perhaps fifty-five, who must have been quite a belle in her day, and whose features were still regular and strong, and his step-father, “Mr. Wells,” who deserves more than a passing word from me, for his kindness was unremitting (bless his good-natured, smiling face!) and his solicitude for my comfort constant. These were all the family, for Ed himself was a widower. Fifty yards or so to the northwest were the huts of two old and wretchedly poor Pimas (the man was blind) who had been allowed to settle there temporarily by Mr. Wood, owing to some difficulty about their own location on their adjoining land. One or two hundred yards in the other direction were two old caw-seens, or storehouses, square structures of a sort of wattlework of poles, weeds and brush, plastered over with adobe and roofed with earth. In one of these I placed my trunk, and on its flat roof I slept, rolled in my blankets, most of the nights of the two months of my stay. I came to know it as “my Arizona Bedstead,” and I shall never forget it and its quaint, crooked ladder.
My Indian brother was not slow in shedding his dress-parade garments, and in getting down to the comfort of outing shirt and overalls, neck handkerchief and sombrero. Then I had my first meal with Indians in Arizona. Mrs. Wells, or as I prefer to call her, Sparkling-Soft-Feather (her Indian name) was a good cook of her kind, and gave us a meal of tortillas, frijole beans, peppers (kaw-awl-kull), coffee, and choo-oo-kook or jerked beef. Ed and I were given the dignity of chairs and a table, but the elder Indians squatted on the ground in the good old Pima way, with their dishes on a mat. There were knives and spoons, but no forks, and the usefulness of fingers was not obsolete. A waggish, pale-eyed pup, flabbily deprecative and good-natured, and a big-footed Mexican choo-chool, or chick- en, were obtrusively familiar. Neither of the older Indians could speak a word of English, but chatted and laughed away together in Pima. The hot, soft wind of the desert kissed our faces as we ate, and off in the back ground rose the stately volcanic pile of Cheoff-skaw-mack, the nearest mountain, and all around the horizon other bare volcanic peaks burned into the blue. Sometimes a whirlwind of dust travelled rapidly over the plain, making one ponder what would happen should it gyrate into the vachtoe.
The old woman from the near-by kee slunk by as we ate, going to the well. She wore gah-kai-gey-aht-kum-soosk (literally string-shoes), or sandals, of rawhide, on her feet, and was quite the most wretched-looking hag I ever saw among the Pimas. Her withered body was hung with indescribable rags and her gray hair was a tangled mat. Yet I came to know that that wretched creature had a heart and a good one. She was kind and cheerful, industrious and uncomplaining, and devotion itself to her old blind husband; who did nothing all day long but move out of the travelling sun into the shade, rolling nearly naked in the dust.
After dinner we got our guns and started out to go to the farm of old Thin Buckskin (“William Higgins,” if you please!) the seeneeyawkum I had come so far to see. Incidentally we were to shoot some kah-kai-cheu, or plumed quails, and taw-up-pee, or rabbits, for supper.
We found the old man plowing for corn in his field. The strong, friendly grasp he gave my hand was all that could be desired. Tall, lean, dignified, with a harsh. yet musical voice; keen, intelligent black eyes, and an impressive manner, he was plainly a gentleman and a scholar, even if he could neither read nor write, nor speak a sentence of English.
The next afternoon he came, and under Ed’s vachtoe gave me the first installment of the coveted tales. It was slow work. First he would tell Ed a paragraph of tradition, and Ed would translate it to me. Then I would write it down, and then read it aloud to Ed again, getting his corrections. When all was straight, to his satisfaction, we would go on to another paragraph, and so on, till the old man said enough. As these Indians are all Christianized now, and mostly zealous in the faith, I could get no traditions on Sunday. And indeed, when part way thru, this zeal came near balking me altogether. A movement started to stop the recovery of these old heathen tales; the sub-chief had a word with Comalk, who became suddenly too busy to go on with his narrations, and it took increased shekels and the interposition of the Agent, Mr. J. B. Alexander, who was very kind to me, before I could get the wheels started again.
Sometimes the old man came at night, instead of afternoon, and I find this entry in my journal: “Sept. 6.—We
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sat up till midnight in the old cawseen getting the traditions. It was a wild, strange scene-the old cawseen interior, the mesquite forks that supported the roof, the poles overhead, and weeds above that, the mud-plastered walls with loop-hole windows; bags, boxes, trunks, ollas, and vahs-hrom granary baskets about. Ed sitting on the ground, against the wall, nodding when I wrote and waking up to interpret; the old man bent forward, both hands out, palms upward, or waving in strange eloquent gestures; his lean, wrinkled features drawn and black eyes gleaming; telling the strange tales in a strange tongue. On an old olla another Indian, Miguel, who came in to listen, and in his hand a gorgeously decorated quee-a-kote, or flute, with which, while I wrote, he would sometimes give us a few wild, plaintive, thrilling bars, weird as an incantation. And finally myself, sitting on a mattress on my trunk, writing, fast as pencil could travel, by the dim light of a lantern hung against a great post at my right. Outside a cold, strong wind, for the first time since I came to Arizona, bright moonlight, and some drifting white clouds telling the last of the storm.”
Again, on Sept. 12th: “Traditions, afternoon and until midnight. I shall never forget how the half-moon looked, rising over Vah-kee-woldt-kee, or the Notched Cliffs, toward midnight, while the coyotes laughed a chorus some- where off toward the Gila, and we sat around, outdoors, in the wind, and heard the old seeneeyawkum tell his weird, incoherent tales of the long ago.”
My interpreter was eager and willing, and well-posted in the meaning of English, and was a man of unusual intelligence and poetry of feeling, but was not well up in grammar, and in the main I had to edit and recast his sentences; yet just as far as possible I have kept his words and the Indian idiom and simplicity of style. Sometimes he would give me a sentence so forceful and poetic, and otherwise faultless, that I have joyfully written it down exactly as received. I admit that in a very few places, where the Indian simplicity and innocence of thought caused an almost Biblical plainness of speech on family matters, I have expurgated and smoothed a little for prudish Cau- casian ears, but these changes are few, and mostly unimportant, leaving the meaning unimpaired. And never once was there anything in the spirit of what was told me that revealed foulness of thought. All was grave and serious, as befitted the scriptures of an ancient people.
Occasionally I have added a word or sentence to make the meaning stand out clearer, but otherwise I have taken no liberties with the original.
As a rule the seeneeyawkum told these tales in his own words, but the parts called speeches were learned by heart and repeated literally. These parts gave us much trouble. They were highly poetic, and manifestly mystic, and therefore very difficult to translate with truthfulness to the involved meanings and startling and obscure metaphors. Besides they contained many archaic words, the meaning of which neither seeneeyawkum nor interpreter now knew, and which they could only translate by guess, or leave out altogether. But we did the best we could.
The stories were also embellished with songs, some of which I had translated. They were chants of from one to four lines each, seldom more than two, many times repeated in varying cadence; weird, somber, thrillingly passion- ate in places, and by no means unmusical, but, of course, monotonous. I obtained phonograph records of a number, and the translations given are as literal as possible.
As to the meaning of the tales I got small satisfaction. The Indians seemed to have no explanations to offer. They seemed to regard them as fairy tales, but admitted they had once been believed as scriptures.
My own theory came to be that they had been invented, from time to time, by various and successive mah- kais to answer the questions concerning history, phenomena, and the origin of things, which they, as the reputed wisest of the tribe, were continually asked. My chief reason for supposing this is because in almost every tale the hero is a mahkai of some sort. The word mah-kai (now translated doctor, or medicine-man) seems to have been applied in old time to every being capable of exerting magical or supernatural and mysterious power, from the Creator down; and it is easy to see how such use of the word would apparently establish the divine relationship and bolster the authority of the medicine men, while the charm of the tale would focus attention upon them. The temp- tation was great and, I think, yielded to.
I doubt if much real history is worked in, or that it is at all reliable. All over the desert, where irrigation was at all practicable, in the Gila and Salt River valleys, and up to the edge
of the mountains, among the beautiful giant cactus and flatbean trees, you will ride your bronco over evidences of a prehistoric race:—old irrigating ditches, lines of stone wall; or low mounds of adobe rising above the grease, wood and cacti, and littered over profusely with bits of broken and painted pottery, broken cornmills and grinders, per- haps showing here and there a stone ax, arrowhead, or other old stone implement. These mounds (vah-ahk-kee is the Pima word for such a ruin) are the heaps caused by the fallen walls of what were once pueblos of stone and clay. In some places there must have been populous cities, and at the famous site of Casa Grande one finds one of the buildings still standing—a really imposing citadel, with walls four or five feet thick, several stories high, and habit- able since the historic period.
Now according to these traditions it was the tribes now known as Pimas, Papagoes, Yumas and Maricopas, that invaded the land, from some mythic underworld, and overthrew the vahahkkees & killed all their inhabitants, and
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this is the most interesting part of the tales from a historic point of view. Fewkes, and other ethnologists, think the ancestors of the Pimas built the Casa Grande & other vahahkkees, but I doubt this. Is it reasonable to suppose that if a people as intelligent & settled as the Pimas had once evoluted far enough in architecture & fortification to erect such noble citadels and extensive cities as those of Casa Grande & Casa Blanca, that they, while still surrounded by the harassing Apaches, would have descended to contentment with such miserable & indefensible hovels as their present kees and cawseens? To me it is not. They are as industrious as any of the pueblo-building Indians, not otherwise degenerate, and had they once ever builded pueblos I do not think would have abandoned the art. But it is easy to understand that a horde of desert campers, overthrowing a more civilized nation, might never rebuild or copy after its edifices. So far, then, I am inclined to agree with the traditions and disagree with the ethnologists.
But these traditions are evidently very ancient. They appear to me to have originated from the aborigines of this country; people who knew no other. land. Every story is saturated with local color. From the top of Cheoffskaw- mack, I believe I could have seen almost every place mentioned in the traditions, except the Rio Colorado & the ocean, and the ocean was to them, I believe, little more than a name. They never speak of it with their usual sketchy & graphic detail, and the fact that in the ceremony of purification it is spoken of as a source of drinking water shows they really knew nothing of it. The Indian is too exact in his natural science to speak of salt water as potable. And these stories certainly say that the dwellers in the vahahkkees were the children of Ee-ee-toy, created right here. And that the army that carried out Ee-ee-toy’s revenge upon his rebellious people were the children of Juhwerta Mahkai, who had been somewhere else since the flood, but who were also originally created here.
Now, for what it is worth, I will give a theory to reconcile these differences. I assume that their flood was a real event, but a local one, and the greater part of the people destroyed by it. A minority escaped by flight into the desert, and neither they nor their descendants, for many generations, returned to the place where the catastrophe occurred. Another remnant escaped by floating on various objects & climbing mountains. The first were those of whom it is fabled that Juhwerta Mahkai let them escape thru a hole in the earth. These became nomadic, desert dwellers. The second remained in the Gila country, became agricultural & settled in habit, irrigating their land & building pueblos, growing rich, effeminate & inapt at war. At length the
desert fugitives, also grown numerous, and warlike & fierce with the wild, wolf-like existence they had led, and moved by we know not what motives of revenge or greed, returned & swept over the land, in a sudden invasion, like a swarm of locusts; ruthlessly destroying the vahahkees and all who dwelt therein; breaking even the ma-ta-tes & every utensil in their vandal fury; dividing the region thus taken among themselves. According to these traditions the Apaches were already dwellers in the outlying deserts & mountains, and were not affected especially by this invasion.
Is it now unreasonable to suppose that some of the invaders kept up, to a great extent, their old habits of desert wandering (Papagoes for instance), and that others adopted to some extent the agricultural habits of those they had conquered, and yet retained, with slight change, the little brush & mud houses & arbors they had grown accus- tomed to in their wanderings? These last would be our present Pimas.
If it is considered strange that these adopted the habits, to any extent, of those they supplanted it may be urged that they almost certainly, in conquering the vahahkkee people, spared and married many of the women, and adopted many of the children; this being in accordance with their custom in historic times. And this infusion of the gentler blood may have been very large. And these women would naturally go on, and would be required by their new husbands to go on, with the agricultural methods to which they were accustomed & would teach them to their new masters. And their children, being wholly or partly of the old stock, would have a natural tendency to the same work, to some extent.
This theory not only explains & agrees with the main parts of the old traditions, but seems confirmed by other things. Thus the Pimas, Papagoes, Quojatas, and the “Rabbit-Eaters” of Mexico, speak about the same language, which would seem to prove them originally the same people. But some have kept the old ways, some have become agricultural, and some are in manners between, and thus have become classed as different tribes. And, judging from the remains, the life of the old vahahkkee dwellers was in many ways like that of the modern Pima, only less primitive.
But the real value of these stories is as folklore, and in their literary merit. They throw a wonderful side-light on the old customs, beliefs and feelings. I consider them ancient, in the main, but do not doubt that in coming down thru many seeneeyawkums they have been much modified by the addition of embellishment, the subtraction of forgetfulness. As proof I adduce the accounting for the origin of the white people, who use pens & ink, in the story of Van-daih. The ancient Pimas knew neither white men, nor pens, nor ink, therefore this passage is clearly an interpolation by some later narrator, if the story is really ancient, as I suppose it is. In the story of Noo-ee’s meeting the sun, the word used by old Comalk, for the sun’s weapon, was vai-no-ma-gaht (literally iron-bow) which is the modern Pima’s name for the white man’s gun, and it was translated as gun by my interpreter. But iron and guns were both unknown to ancient Pimas, therefore this term must have been first used by some seeneeyawkum after
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the white man came, who thought a gun more appropriate than a bow for the sun’s shooting. How much has been lost by forgetfulness we can never know; but at least I found that the meaning of many
ancient words had disappeared, that the mystic meaning of the highly symbolic speeches seemed all gone, and I felt certain that the last part of the Story of the Gambler’s War had been lost by forgetting; for it stops short with the preliminary speeches, instead of going on with a detailed account of the battles as does the Story of Paht-ahn-kum’s war.
Another proof that these tales were changed by different narrators is afforded by the variants of some of them published by Emory, Grossman, Cook, and other writers about the Pimas.
As to the mystic meaning I can only guess. The mystic number four, so constantly used, probably refers to the four cardinal points, but my Indians seemed not aware of this. In the stories, West is black, East is white or light, South is blue, North is yellow, and Above is green. Of course the west is black because there night swallows up the sun, and the east is light because it gives the sun, but why south is blue and north is yellow I do not know. But south is the nearest way to the ocean, and as in one story the word ocean seems used in place of south, I infer the blue color was derived from that. And the desert lying north of the ocean may suggest the desert tint, yellow, as the color of the north. As to the sky being green, I find this in my journal: “August 29-Last evening, after sunset, there were the most wonderful sky effects-there was a line of light clouds across the sky, in the west, about half way up to the zenith, and suddenly the white part of these was washed over, as tho by a paint brush, with a strong but delicate pea-green, while under this spread a mist or haze of dainty pink, changing to a rich, delicate mauve. Lasted quar- ter of an hour or more. Never saw anything like it in nature before.” Again, on September 6, I saw nearly the same phenomenon. The green was very strong and vivid, and could not fail to attract an Indian’s eye, and something of the sort, I fancy, made him make the strange choice of green for the sky color.
Those who like to compare myths and folktales and ancient scriptures will find a rich field here. And the in- teresting thing is that these tales come straight from a line of Indians who could neither read nor write nor speak English, therefore adulteration by white man’s literature seems improbable.
As to the literary merit of these tales, after all that is lost by a double interpretation, I consider it still very high. You must come to them as a little child, for they are intensely child-like, and to expect them to be like a white man’s narrative is absurd. But they are sketched in such clear, bold lines, with such a sure touch and delicate expressive- ness of salient points; there are such close-fitting, shrewd bits of human nature; such real yet startling touches of poetry in metaphor; such fertile and altogether Indian imagination in plot and incident, that the interest never fails. No two stories are alike, and if surprise is a literary charm of high value, and I think it is, then these tales are certainly charming, for they constantly bring surprise.
And the, poetry, in Eeeetoy’s speech for example, is so rich and strong; and in such parts as the story of the Nah-vah-choo the mysticism seems to challenge one like a riddle.
When these old tales were told with all proper ceremony and respect, they were told on four successive nights. This could not be in the giving of them to me, for many practical reasons, but I have endeavored to give them that form for my reader and hence the title of my book. But I did not discover how many or what ones were told on any one night, so my division is arbitrary, and only aims at reasonable equality. The naming, too, of the different stories is try own, for the old man did not appear to have any set names for them. I fancy the old man was rusty and out of practice, and forgot some of the tales in their proper sequence, and brought them in afterward as they recurred to him.. For instance, the story of Tcheu-nas-set Seeven’s singing away another chief ’s wives evidently belongs among the early stories of the vahahkkee people, and before the account of his death, when the vahahkkees were destroyed. But I have given the stories in the order in which they were told to me, leaving all responsibility on the old see- neeyawkum’s shoulders.
I lived a little more than two months with these Indians, collecting these stories, enjoying their kindly hospi- tality, living as they lived, eating their food, riding their ponies, sleeping on their roofs under the splendid Arizona stars.
I shall never forget that day, before I left, when Ed and I saddled our ponies in the early morning and rode twenty milts to the Casa Grande ruins. On the way we crossed the dry bed of the Gila; and passed thru the Agen- cy village of Sacaton and the village of Blackwater; skirting the Maricopa Slaughter mountains, where once some unfortunate Maricopias were waylaid and massacred by a band of Apaches, almost in sight of Sacaton. The Casa Grande ruins are imposing enough, but sadly belittled in effect by the well-meant roof which the government has erected over them to preserve them. This kills all the poetry and gives them the ludicrous aspect of a museum spec- imen. Had the old walls been skillfully capped with a waterproof cement and the walls coated with some weath- erproof and transparent wash, all necessary security could have been effected with perhaps less expense than this absurd roof, and all the romance of impression preserved. Let us hope the genial and manly young custodian, Mr. Frank Pinckly, to whose warm-hearted hospitality and that of his parents I owe grateful thanks, will consider this suggestion favorably and earn the blessing of future travellers. A storm broke on us while we were at the ruins, and
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riding home that evening we found the Gila flooded. I shall always remember how its muddy torrent looked to me, plunging along at my feet, where that morning I had crossed dry shod; its yellow waves shot with blood-red reflec- tions from the last colors of sunset.
“You better see that Pinto’s cinch is tight, or she may try to get you off in the river,” warned Ed, in my ear, as he jumped off to cinch. up “Georgie.”
It was always exciting to me to ford the treacherous Gila, the tawny waters were so sweeping, and the ponies plunged so when their feet felt the quicksands, but we got across all right, and galloped home on the slippery, mud- dy roads.
When I left these people it was with a genuine regard for their virtues. I found them in the main kind, honest, simple-minded, industrious, surprisingly clean, considering their obstacles of scant water and ever-present dust., and the calmest tempered people I have ever known.
I remember the second day of my stay we were going to ride to the Casa Blanca ruins. In watering the ponies at the well, “Georgie’s” loosened saddle turned and swung under his belly. Such bucking and frantic kicking as that half-broken colt indulged in for a few moments would have made a congress of cow-boys applaud, and when it was over the beautiful colt stood exhausted on the far side of a twenty acre field, with the saddle fragments somewhere between. Now to poor Indians the loss of a saddle is not small, and I fancy most frontiersmen, under the provo- cation, would have made the air blue with oaths, but Ed only sadly said: “I’m afraid that spoils Georgie,” and the stepfather laughed and started patiently out on the trail of the colt “to save the pieces,” while the mother took one of her bowl-shaped Pima baskets, with beans in it, and coaxed the colt till she caught him. Then he was patted and soothed and fed with sugar, the saddle patched up and replaced, and we rode eighteen miles that day and never another mishap. And from first to last never a harsh or complaining word.
I at no time encountered a beggar among the Pimas, and tho they were mostly very poor I had not a pin’s worth stolen. I never heard an oath, or saw a brutal or violent act, or a child slapped or scolded, or a woman treated with disrespect or tyranny, nor any drunkenness or cruelty to animals. Perhaps I was especially fortunate, but I can only speak of what I saw. Their self-respect and serenity continually aroused my admiration.
I must say that they appeared to me to excel any average white neighborhood in good behavior. It is a strange land, that in which the Pimas dwell; a desert overgrown with strange soft-tinted weeds, “salt
weeds,” pink, red, green, gray, blue, purple; the rich-green yellow-flowering greasewood; odd cacti, and all manner of thornbearing bushes. The soil is inexhaustibly rich, were there water enough, but the white people, settling above the Indians, on the Gila, have so withdrawn the water that crop failures from lack of sufficient irrigation are the rule, now, instead of the exception, and the once ever-flowing Gila is more often a dry channel, as sun-baked as the desert around it.
All around their valley, and rising here and there from the plain, are low volcanic peaks, mere dead masses of rock except where in places a giant cactus stands candelabra-like among the slopes of stone. About the feet of these mountains, and along the channels where the torrents rush down in times of rain, are weird forests of desert growths, mesquite, cat-claw, flat-beans, screw-beans, greasewood, giant-cactus, cane-cactus, white-cactus, chol- la-cactus, and a host of others, almost everything bristling with innumerable thorns.
On this strange pasture of weed and thorn the Indian’s ponies & his few cattle graze. Here in summer the sun beats down till the mercury registers 118 to 120 degrees in the shade, and dust storms
& dust whirlwinds travel over the burning plain.
Stories of the First Night
The Traditions of the Pimas The old man, Comalk Hawk-Kih, (Thin Buckskin) began by saying that these were stories which he used to
hear his father tell, they being handed down from father to son, and that when he was little he did not pay much attention, but when he grew older he determined to learn them, and asked his father to teach him, which his father did, and now he knew them all.
The Story of Creation In the beginning there was no earth, no water—nothing. There was only a Person, Juh-wert-a-Mah-kai (The
Doctor of the Earth). He just floated, for there was no place for him to stand upon. There was no sun, no light, and he just floated
about in the darkness, which was Darkness itself. He wandered around in the nowhere till he thought he had wandered enough. Then he rubbed on his breast
and rubbed out moah-haht-tack, that is perspiration, or greasy earth. This he rubbed out on the palm of his hand
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and held out. It tipped over three times, but the fourth, time it staid straight in the middle of the air and there it remains now as the world.
The first bush he created was the greasewood bush. And he made ants, little tiny ants, to live on that bush, on its gum which comes out of its stem. But these little ants did not do any good, so be created white ants, and these worked and enlarged the earth; and
they kept on increasing it, larger and larger, until at last it was big enough for himself to rest on. Then he created a Person. He made him out of his eye, out of the shadow of his eyes, to assist him, to be like
him, and to help him in creating trees and human beings and everything that was to be on the earth. The name of this being was Noo-ee (the Buzzard). Nooee was given all power, but he did not do the work he was created for. He did not care to help Juhwerta-
mahkai, but let him go by himself. And so the Doctor of the Earth himself created the mountains and everything that has seed and is good to eat.
For if he had created human beings first they would have had nothing to live on. But after making Nooee and before making the mountains and seed for food, Juhwertamahkai made the sun. In order to make the sun he first made water, and this he placed in a hollow vessel, like an earthen dish (hwas-
hah-ah) to harden into something like ice. And this hardened ball he placed in the sky. First he placed it in the North, but it did not work; then he placed it in the West, but it did not work; then he placed it in the South, but it did not work; then he placed it in the East and there it worked as he wanted it to.
And the moon he made in the same way and tried in the same places, with the same results. But when he made the stars he took the water in his mouth and spurted it up into the sky. But the first night his
stars did not give light enough. So he took the Doctor-stone (diamond), the tone-dum-haw-teh, and smashed it up, and took the pieces and threw them into the sky to mix with the water in the stars, and then there was light enough.
And now Juhwertamahkai, rubbed again on his breast, and from the substance he obtained there made two little dolls, and these he laid on the earth. And they were human beings, man and woman.
And now for a time the people increased till they filled the earth. For the first parents were perfect, and there was no sickness and no death. But when the earth was full, then there was nothing to eat, so they killed and ate each other.
But Juhwertamahkai did not like the way his people acted, to kill and eat each other, and so he let the sky fail to kill them. But when the sky dropped he, himself, took a staff and broke a hole thru, thru which he and Nooee emerged and escaped, leaving behind them all the people dead.
And Juhwertamahkai, being now on the top of this fallen sky, again made a man and a woman, in the same way as before. But this man and woman became grey when old, and their children became grey still younger, and their children became grey younger still, and so on till the babies were gray in their cradles.
And Juhwertamahkai, who had made a new earth and sky, just as there had been before, did not like his people becoming grey in their cradles, so he let the sky fall on them again, and again made a hole and escaped, with Nooee, as before.
And Juhwertamahkai, on top of this second sky, again made a new heaven and a new earth, just as he had done before, and new people.
But these new people made a vice of smoking. Before human beings had never smoked till they were old, but now they smoked younger, and each generation still younger, till the infants wanted to smoke in their cradles.
And Juhwertamahkai did not like this, and let the sky fall again, and created everything new again in the same way, and this time he created the earth as it is now.
But at first the whole slope of the world was westward, and tho there were peaks rising from this slope there were no true valleys, and all the water that fell ran away and there was no water for the people to drink. So Juhwer- tamahkai sent Nooee to fly around among the mountains, and over the earth, to cut valleys with his wings, so that the water could be caught and distributed and there might be enough for the people to drink.
Now the sun was male and the moon was female and they met once a month. And the moon became a mother and went to a mountain called Tahs-my-et-tahn Toe-ahk (sun striking mountain) and there was born her baby. But she had duties to attend to, to turn around and give light, so she made a place for the child by tramping down the weedy bushes and there left it. And the child, having no milk, was nourished on the earth.
And this child was the coyote, and as he grew he went out to walk and in his walk came to the house of Juhwer- tamahkai and Nooee, where they lived.
And when he came there Juhwertamahkai knew him and called him Toe-hahvs, because he was laid on the weedy bushes of that name.
But now out of the North came another powerful personage, who has two names, See-ur-huh and Ee-ee-toy. Now Seeurhuh means older brother, and when this personage came to Juhwertamahkai, Nooee and Toehahvs
he called them his younger brothers. But they claimed to have been here first, and to be older than he, and there
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was a dispute between them. But finally, because he insisted so strongly, and just to please him, they let him be called older brother.
Juhwerta Mahkai’s Song Of Creation Juhwerta mahkai made the world—
Come and see it and make it useful! He made it round— Come and see it and make it useful!
Notes on “The Story of Creation” The idea of creating the earth from the perspiration and waste cuticle of the Creator is, I believe, original. The local touch in making the greasewood bush the first vegetation is very strong. In the tipping over of the earth three times, and its standing right the fourth time, we are introduced to the first
of the mystic fours in which the whole scheme of the stories is cast. Almost everything is done four times before finished.
The peculiar Indian idea of type-animals, the immortal and supernatural representatives of their respective an- imal tribes, appears in Nooee and Toehahvs, and here again the local color is rich and strong in making the buzzard and the coyote, the most common and striking animals of the desert, the particular aides on the staff of the Creator.
Might not the creation of Nooee out of the shadow of the eyes of the Doctor of the Earth be a poetical allusion to the flying shadow of the buzzard on the sun-bright desert?
In the creation of sun and moon we find the mystic four referred to the four corners of the universe, North, South, East and West, and this, I am persuaded, is really the origin of its sacred significance, for most religions find root and source in astronomy.
In the dropping of the sky appears the old idea of its solid character.
In the “slope of the world to the Westward” there is something curiously significant when we remember that both the Gila and Salt Rivers flow generally westward.
Nooee cuts the valleys with his wings. It would almost appear that Nooee was Juhwertamahkai’s agent in the air and sky, Toehahvs on earth.
The night-prowling coyote is appropriately and poetically mothered by the moon. And here appears Eeeetoy, the most active and mysterious personality in Piman mythology. Out of the
North, apparently self-existent, but little inferior in power to Juhwertamahkai, and claiming greater age, he appears, by pure “bluff ” and persistent push and wheedling, to have induced the really more powerful, but good-natured and rather lazy Juhwertamahkai to give over most of the real work and government of the world to him. In convers- ing with Harry Azul, the head chief ’s son, at Sacaton, I found he regarded Eeeetoy and Juhwertamahki as but two names for the same. And indeed it is hard to fix Eeeetoy’s place or power.
The Story of the Flood Now Seeurhuh was very powerful, like Juhwerta Mahkai, and as he took up his residence with them, as one of
them, he did many wonderful things which pleased Juhwerta Mahkai, who liked to watch him. And after doing many marvelous things he, too, made a man. And to this man whom he had made, Seeurhuh (whose other name was Ee-ee-toy) gave a bow & arrows, and
guarded his arm against the bow string by a piece of wild-cat skin, and pierced his ears & made ear-rings for him, like turquoises to look at, from the leaves of the weed called quah-wool. And this man was the most beautiful man yet made.
And Ee-ee-toy told this young man, who was just of marriageable age, to look around and see if he could find any young girl in the villages that would suit him and, if he found her, to see her relatives and see if they were will- ing he should marry her.
And the beautiful young man did this, and found a girl that pleased him, and told her family of his wish, and they accepted him, and he married her.
And the names of both these are now forgotten and unknown. And when they were married Ee-ee-toy, foreseeing what would happen, went & gathered the gum of the grease-
wood tree. Here the narrative states, with far too much plainness of circumstantial detail for popular reading, that this
young man married a great many wives in rapid succession, abandoning the last one with each new one wedded,
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and had children with abnormal, even uncanny swiftness, for which the wives were blamed and for which suspicion they were thus heartlessly divorced. Because of this, Juhwerta Mahkai and Ee-ee-toy foresaw that nature would be convulsed and a great flood would come to cover the world. And then the narrative goes on to say:
Now there was a doctor who lived down toward the sunset whose name was Vahk-lohv Mahkai, or South Doctor, who had a beautiful daughter. And when his daughter heard of this young man and what had happened to his wives she was afraid and cried every day. And when her fattier saw her crying he asked her what was the matter? was she sick? And when she had told him what she was afraid of, for every one knew and was talking of this thing, he said yes, he knew it was true, but she ought not to be afraid, for there was happiness for a woman in marriage and the mothering of children.
And it took many years for the young man to marry all these wives, and have all these children, and all this time Ee-ee-toy was busy making a great vessel of the gum he had gathered from the grease bushes, a sort of olla which could be closed up, which would keep back water. And while he was making this he talked over the reasons for it with Juhwerta Mahkai, Nooee, and Toehahvs, that it was because there was a great flood coming.
And several birds heard them talking thus—the woodpecker, Hick-o-vick; the humming-bird, Vee-pis-mahl; a little bird named Gee-ee-sop, and another called Quota-veech.
Eeeetoy said he would escape the flood by getting into the vessel he was making from the gum of the grease bushes or ser-quoy.
And Juhwerta Mahkai said he would get into his staff, or walking stick, and float about. And Toehahvs said he would get into a cane-tube. And the little birds said the water would not reach the sky, so they would fly up there and hang on by their bills
till it was over. And Nooee, the buzzard, the powerful, said he did not care if the flood did reach the sky, for he could find a
way to break thru. Now Ee-ee-toy was envious, and anxious to get ahead of Juhwerta Mahkai and get more fame for his wonderful
deeds, but Juhwerta Mahkai, though really the strongest, was generous and from kindness and for relationship sake let Ee-ee-toy have the best of it.
And the young girl, the doctor’s daughter, kept on crying, fearing the young man, feeling him ever coming nearer, and her father kept on reassuring her, telling her it would be all right, but at last, out of pity for her fears & tears, he told her to go and get him the little tuft of the finest thorns on the top of the white cactus, the haht-sahn- kahm, and bring to him.
And her father took the cactus-tuft which she had brought him, and took hair from her head and wound about one end of it, and told her if she would wear this it would protect her. And she consented and wore the cactus-tuft.
And he told her to treat the young man right, when he came, & make him broth of corn. And if the young man should eat all the broth, then their plan would fail, but if he left any broth she was to eat that up and then their plan would succeed.
And he told her to be sure and have a bow and arrows above the door of the kee, so that he could take care of the young man.
And after her father had told her this, on that very evening the young man came, and the girl received him kindly, and took his bows & arrows, and put them over the door of the kee, as her father had told her, and made the young man broth of corn and gave it to him to eat.
And he ate only part of it and what was left she ate herself. And before this her father had told her: “if the young man is wounded by the thorns you wear, in that moment
he will become a woman and a mother and you will become a young man.” And in the night all this came to be, even so, and by day-break the child was crying. And the old woman ran in and said: “Mossay!” which means an old woman’s grandchild from a daughter. And the daughter, that had been, said: “It is not your moss, it is your cah-um-maht,” that is an old woman’s
grandchild from a son. And then the old man ran in and said: “Bah-ahm-ah-dah!” that is an old man’s grandchild from a daughter, but
his daughter said: “It is not your bah-ahm-maht, but it is your voss-ahm-maht,” which is an old man’s grandchild from a son.
And early in the morning this young man (that had been, but who was now a woman & a mother) made a wawl-kote, a carrier, or cradle, for the baby and took the trail back home.
And Juhwerta Mahkai told his neighbors of what was coming, this young man who had changed into a woman and a mother and was bringing a baby born from himself, and that when he arrived wonderful things would hap- pen & springs would gush forth from under every tree and on every mountain.
And the young man-woman came back and by the time of his return Ee-ee-toy had finished his vessel and had placed therein seeds & everything that is in the world.
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And the young man-woman, when he came to his old home, placed his baby in the bushes and left it, going in without it, but Ee-ee-toy turned around and looked at him and knew him, for he did not wear a woman’s dress, and said to him: “Where is my Bahahmmaht? Bring it to me. I want to see it. It is a joy for an old man to see his grand- child.
I have sat here in my house and watched your going, and all that has happened you, and foreseen some one would send you back in shame, although I did not like to think there was anyone more powerful than I. But never mind, he who has beaten us will see what will happen.”
And when the young man-woman went to get his baby, Ee-ee-toy got into his vessel, and built a fire on the hearth he had placed therein, and sealed it up.
And the young man-woman found his baby crying, and the tears from it were all over the ground, around. And when he stooped over to pick up his child he turned into a sand-snipe, and the baby turned into a little teeter-snipe. And then that came true which Juhwerta Mahkai had said, that water would gush out from under every tree & on every mountain; and the people when they saw it, and knew that a flood was coming, ram to Juhwerta Mahkai; and he took his staff and made a hole in the earth and let all those thru who had come to him, but the rest were drowned.
Then Juhwerta Mahkai got into his walking stick & floated, and Toehahvs got into his tube of cane and floated, but Ee-ee-toy’s vessel was heavy & big and remained until the flood was much deeper before it could float.
And the people who were left out fled to the mountains; to the mountains called Gah-kote-kih (Superstition Mts.) for they were living in the plains between Gahkotekih and Cheoffskawmack (Tall Gray Mountain.)
And there was a powerful man among these people, a doctor (mahkai), who set a mark on the mountain side and said the water would not rise above it.
And the people believed him and camped just beyond the mark; but the water came on and they had to go higher. And this happened four times.
And the mahkai did this to help his people, and also used power to raise the mountain, but at last he saw all was to be a failure. And he called the people and asked them all to come close together, and he took his doctor-stone (mahkai-haw-teh) which is called Tonedumhawteh or Stone-of-Light, and held it in the palm of his hand and struck it hard with his other hand, and it thundered so loud that all the people were frightened and they were all turned into stone.
And the little birds, the woodpecker, Hickovick; the humming-bird, Veepismahl; the little bird named Ge-ee- sop, and the other called Quotaveech, all flew up to the sky and hung on by their bills, but Nooee still floated in the air and intended to keep on the wing unless the floods reached the heavens.
But Juhwerta Mahkai, Ee-ee-toy and Toehahvs floated around on the water and drifted to the west and did not know where they were.
And the flood rose higher until it reached the woodpecker’s tail, and you can see the marks to this day. And Quotaveech was cold and cried so loud that the other birds pulled off their feathers and built him a nest up
there so he could keep warm. And when Quotaveech was warm he quit crying. And then the little birds sang, for they had power to make the water go down by singing, and as they sang the
waters gradually receded. But the others still floated around. When the land began to appear Juhwerta Mahkai and Toehahvs got out, but Ee-ee-toy had to wait for his house
to warm up, for he had built a fire to warm his vessel enough for him to unseal it. When it was warm enough he unsealed it, but when he looked out he saw the water still running & he got back
and sealed himself in again. And after waiting a while he unsealed his vessel again, and seeing dry land enough he got out. And Juhwerta Mahkai went south and Toehahvs went west, and Ee-ee-toy went northward. And as they did not
know where they were they missed each other, and passed each other unseen, but afterward saw each other’s tracks, and then turned back and shouted, but wandered from the track, and again passed unseen. And this happened four times.
And the fourth time Juhwerta Mahkai and Ee-ee-toy met, but Toehahvs had passed already. And when they met, Ee-ee-toy said to Juhwerta Mahkai “My younger brother!” but Juhwerta Mahkai greeted
him as younger brother & claimed to have come out first. Then Ee-ee-toy said again: “I came out first and you can see the water marks on my body.” But Juhwerta Mahkai replied: “I came out first and also have the water marks on my person to prove it.”
But Ee-ee-toy so insisted that he was the eldest that Juhwerta Mahkai, just to please him, gave him his way and let him be considered the elder.
And then they turned westward and yelled to find Toehahvs, for they remembered to have seen his tracks, and they kept on yelling till he heard them. And when Toehahvs saw them he called them his younger brothers, and
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they called him younger brother. And this dispute continued till Ee-ee-toy again got the best of it, and although really the younger brother was admitted by the others to be Seeurhuh, or the elder.
And the birds came down from the sky and again there was a dispute about the relationship, but Ee-ee-toy again got the best of them all.
But Quotaveech staid up in the sky because he had a comfortable nest there, and they called him Vee-ick-koss- kum Mahkai, the Feather-Nest Doctor.
And they wanted to find the middle, the navel of the earth, and they sent Veeppismahl, the humming bird, to the west, and Hickovick, the woodpecker, to the east, and all the others stood and waited for them at the starting place. And Veepismahl & Hickovick were to go as far as they could, to the edge of the world, and then return to find the middle of the earth by their meeting. But Hickovick flew a little faster and got there first, and so when they met they found it was not the middle, and they parted & started again, but this time they changed places and Hickovick went westward and Veepismahl went east.
And this time Veepismahl was the faster, and Hickovick was late, and the judges thought their place of meeting was a little east of the center so they all went a little way west. Ee-ee-toy, Juhwerta Mahkai and Toehahvs stood there and sent the birds out once more, and this time Hickovick went eastward again, and Veepismahl went west. And Hickovick flew faster and arrived there first. And they said : “This is not the middle. It is a little way west yet.”
And so they moved a little way, and again the birds were sent forth, and this time Hickovick went west and Veepismahl went east. And when the birds returned they met where the others stood and all cried “This is the Hick, the Navel of the World!”
And they stood there because there was no dry place yet for them to sit down upon; and Ee-eetoy rubbed upon his breast and took from his bosom the smallest ants, the O-auf-taw-ton, and threw them upon the ground, and they worked there and threw up little hills; and this earth was dry. And so they sat down.
But the: water was still running in the valleys, and Ee-ee-toy took a hair from his head & made it into a snake— Vuck-vahmuht. And with this snake he pushed the waters south, but the head of the snake was left lying to the west and his tail to the east.
But there was more water, and Ee-ee-toy took another hair from his head and made another snake, and with this snake pushed the rest of the water north. And the head of this snake was left to the east and his tail to the west. So the head of each snake was left lying with the tail of the other.
And the snake that has his tail to the east, in the morning will shake up his tail to start the morning wind to wake the people and tell them to think of their dreams.
And the snake that has his tail to the west, in the evening will shake up his tail to start the cool wind to tell the people it is time to go in and make the fires & be comfortable.
And they said: “We will make dolls, but we will not let each other see them until they are finished.” And Ee-ee-toy sat facing the west, and Toehahvs facing the south, and Juhwerta Mahkai facing the east. And the earth was still damp and they took clay and began to make dolls. And Ee-ee-toy made the best. But
Juhwerta Mahkai did not make good ones, because he remembered some of his people had escaped the flood thru a hole in the earth, and he intended to visit them and he did not want to make anything better than they were to take the place of them. And Toehahvs made the poorest of all.
Then Ee-ee-toy asked them if they were ready, and they all said yes, and then they turned about and showed each other the dolls they had made.
And Ee-ee-toy asked Juhwerta Mahkai why he had made such queer dolls. “This one,” he said, “is not right, for you have made him without any sitting-down parts, and how can he get rid of the waste of what he eats?”
But Juhwerta Mahkai said: “He will not need to eat, he can just smell the smell of what is cooked.” Then Ee-ee-toy asked again: “Why did you make this doll with only one leg—how can he run?” But Juh-
werta Mahkai replied: “He will not need to run; he can just hop around.” Then Ee-ee-toy asked Toehahvs why he had made a doll with webs between his fingers and toes—”How can he
point directions?” But Toehahvs said he had made these dolls so for good purpose, for if anybody gave them small seeds they would not slip between their fingers, and they could use the webs for dippers to drink with.
And Ee-ee-toy held up his dolls and said: “These are the best of all, and I want you to make more like them.” And he took Toehahv’s dolls and threw them into the water and they became ducks & beavers. And he took Juhwer- ta Mahkai’s dolls and threw them away and they all broke to pieces and were nothing.
And Juhwerta Mahkai was angry at this and began to sink into the ground; and took his stick and hooked it into the sky and pulled the sky down while he was sinking. But Ee-ee-toy spread his hand over his dolls, and held up the sky, and seeing that Juhwerta Mahkai was sinking into the earth he sprang and tried to hold him & cried, “Man, what are you doing? Are you going to leave me and my people here alone?”
But Juhwerta Mahkai slipped through his hands, leaving in them only the waste & excretion of his skin. And that is how there is sickness & death among us.
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And Ee-ee-toy, when Juhwerta Mahkai escaped him, went around swinging his hands & saying: “I never thought all this impurity would come upon my people!” and the swinging of his hands scattered disease over all the earth. And he washed himself in a pool or pond and the impurities remaining in the water are the source of the malarias and all the diseases of dampness.
And Ee-ee-toy and Toehahvs built a house for their dolls a little way off, and Ee-ee-toy sent Toehahvs to listen if they were yet talking. And the Aw-up, (the Apaches) were the first ones that talked. And Ee-ee-toy said: “I never meant to have those Apaches talk first, I would rather have had the Aw-aw-tam, the Good People, speak first. “
But he said: “It is all right. I will give them strength, that they stand the cold & all hardships.” And all the differ- ent people that they had made talked, one after the other, but the Awawtam talked last.
And they all took to playing together, and in their play they kicked each other as the Maricopas do in sport to this day; but the Apaches got angry and said: “We will leave you and go into the mountains and eat what we can get, but we will dream good dreams and be just as happy as you with all your good things to eat.”
And some of the people took up their residence on the Gila, and some went west to the Rio Colorado. And those who builded vahahkkees, or houses out of adobe and stones, lived in the valley of the Gila, between the mountains which are there now.
Juhwerta Mahkai’s Song Before The Flood My poor people,
Who will see, Who will see This water which will moisten the earth!
The Song Of Superstition Mountains We are destroyed!
By my stone we are destroyed! We are rightly turned into stone.
Ee-Ee-Toy’s Song When He Made The World Serpents I know what to do;
I am going to move the water both ways.
Notes on “The Story of the Flood” In the Story of the Flood we are introduced to Indian marriage. Among the Pimas it was a very simple affair.
There was no ceremony whatever. The lover usually selected a relative, who went with him to the parents of the girl and asked the father to permit the lover to marry her. Presents were seldom given unless a very old man desired a young bride. The girl was consulted and her consent was essential, her refusal final. If, however, all parties were satisfied, she went at once with her husband as his wife. If either party became dissatisfied, separation at once constituted divorce and either could leave the other. A widow or divorced woman, if courted by another suitor, was approached directly, with no intervention of relatives. Of course, on these terms there were many separations, yet all accounts agree that there was a good deal of fidelity and many life-long unions and cases of strong affection.
Polygamy was not unknown. Grossman says that the wife was the slave of the husband, but it is difficult to see how a woman, free at any
moment to divorce herself without disgrace or coercion, could be properly regarded as a slave. Certainly the men appear always to have done a large part of the hard work, and as far as I could see the women were remarkably equal and independent and respectfully treated, as such a system would naturally bring about. A man would be a fool to ill-treat a woman, whose love or services were valuable to him, if at any moment of discontent she could leave him, perhaps for a rival. The chances are that he would constantly endeavor to hold her allegiance by special kindness and favors.
But today legal marriage is replacing the old system. So far as I saw the Pimas were very harmonious and kindly in family life. The birds, gee-ee-sop and quotaveech, were pointed out to me by the Pimas, and as near as I could tell
quotaveech was Bendire’s thrasher, or perhaps the curve-bill thrasher. It has a very sweet but timid song. I did not succeed in identifying gee-ee-sop, but find these entries about him in my journal: “Aug. 5—I saw a little bird which I suppose to be a gee-ee-sop in a mezquite today, smaller and more slender than a vireo, but like one in action, but the tail longer and carried more like a brown thrasher, nearly white below, dark, leaden gray above, top of head and
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tail black.” Again on Sept. 1: “What a dear little bird the gee-ee-sop is! Two of them in the oas-juh-wert-pot tree were looking at me a few minutes back. Dark slate-blue above and nearly white below, with beady black eyes and black, lively tails, tipped with white, they are very pretty, tame and confiding.”
The faith of the Aw-aw-tam in witchcraft appears first in this story and afterwards is conspicuous in nearly all. Almost all diseases they supposed were caused by bewitching, and it was the chief business of the medicine-men to find out who or what had caused the bewitching. Sometimes people were accused and murders followed. This was the darkest spot in Piman life. Generally, however, some animal or inanimate object was identified. Grossman’s account in the Smithsonian Report for 1871 is interesting. In the stories, however, witchcraft appears usually as the ability of the mahkai to work transformations in himself or others, in true old fairy-tale style.
Superstition Mountain derives its name from this story, It is a very beautiful and impressive mountain, with terraces of cliffs, marking perhaps the successive pausing places of the fugitives, and the huddled rocks on the top represent their petrified forms. Some of the older Indians still fear to go up into this mountain, lest a like fate befall them.
What beautiful poetic touches are the wetting of the woodpecker’s tail, and the singing of the little birds to subdue the angry waters.
The resemblances to Genesis will of course be noted by all in these two first stories. Yet after all they are few and slight in any matter of detail.
In Ee-ee-toy’s serpents, that pushed back the waters, there is a strong reminder of the Norse Midgard Ser- pent.
The making of the dolls in this story is one of the prettiest and most amusing spots in the traditions. The waste and perspiration of Juhwerta Mahkai’s skin again comes into play, but this time as a malign force
instead of a beneficent one. It would also appear from this that the more intelligent Pimas had a glimmering of the fact that there were other causes than witchcraft for disease.
I have generally used the word Aw-aw-tam (Good People, or People of Peace) as synonymous with Pima, but it is sometimes used to embrace all Indians of the Piman stock and may be so understood in this story.
And perhaps this is as good a place as any to say a few descriptive words about these Pimas of Arizona, and their allies, who have from prehistoric times inhabited what the old Spanish historian, Clavigero, called “Pimeria,” that is, the valleys of the Gila and Salt Rivers.
Their faces seemed to me to be of almost Caucasian regularity and rather of an English or Dutch cast, that is rather heavily moulded. The forehead is vertical and inclined to be square; and the chin, broad, heavy and full, comes out well to its line. The nose is straight, or a little irregular, or rounded, at the end, but not often very aq- uiline, never flat or wide-nostriled. The mouth is large but well shaped, with short, white, remarkably even teeth, seldom showing any canine projection. The whole face is a little heavy and square, but the cheek bones are not especially prominent. The eyes are level, frank and direct in glance, with long lashes and strong black brows. In the babies a slight uptilt to the eye is sometimes’ seen, like a Japanese, which indeed the babies suggest. The head of almost all adults is well-balanced and finely poised on a good neck.
Another type possesses more of what we call the Indian feature. The forehead retreats somewhat, so does the chin, while the upper lip is larger, longer, more convex and the nose, above is more aquiline, with wider nostrils. Consequently this face in profile is more convex thru out. The cheek-bones are much more prominent, too, and the head not generally so well-balanced and proportional.
While I have seen no striking beauty I believe the average good looks is greater than among white men, taken as they come.
The women as a rule, however, do not carry themselves gracefully, are apt to be too broad, fat and dumpy in figure, with too large waists, and often loose, ungracefully-moving hips. This deformity of the hips, for it almost amounts to that, I observe among Italian peasant women, too, and some negresses, and, I take it, is caused by car- rying too heavy loads on the head at too early an age. There seems to be a settling down of the body into the pelvis, with a loose alternate motion of the hips. There are exceptions, of course, and I have seen those of stately figure and fine carriage Sometimes the loose-hip motion appears in a man.
A slight tattooing appears on almost all Pima faces not of the last generation. In the women this consists of two blue lines running down from each corner of the mouth, under the chin, crossing, at the start, the lower lip, and a single blue line running back from the outer angle of each eye to the hair.
In the men it is usually a single zigzag blue line across the forehead. The pigment used is charcoal. The men are generally erect and of good figure, with good chests and rather heavy shoulders, the legs often a
little bowed. Strange to say I never saw one who walked “Pigeon-toed.” All turned the toes out like white men. The hands are often small and almost always well-shaped; and the feet of good shape, too, not over large, with a well- arched instep.
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Emory and his comrades found the Pimas wearing a kind of breech-cloth and a cotton serape only for gar- ments; the women wearing only a serape tied around the waist and falling to the knee, being otherwise nude. Today the average male Pima dresses like a white workman, in hat, shirt, trousers and perhaps shoes, and his wife or daughter wears a single print gown, rather loose at the waist and ruffled at the bottom, which reaches only to the ankles. Both sexes are commonly barefooted, but the old sandals, once universal, are still often seen. These gah-kai- gey-aht-kum-soosk, or string-shoes, as the word means, were made in several different ways, and often projected somewhat around the foot as a protection against the frequent and formidable thorns of the country.
Sometimes a wilder or older Indian will be seen, even now, with only a breech-cloth on, and some apology for a garment on his shoulders.
The skin is often of a very beautiful rich red-bronze tint, or perhaps more like old mahogany. Except the tattooing both sexes are remarkable for their almost entire absence of any marked adornment or
ornament of person. Even a finger-ring, or a ribbon on the hair, is not common, and the profuse bead-work and embroidery of the other tribes is never seen.
The exceedingly thick and intensely black hair was formerly worn very long, even to the waist, being banged off just over the eyes of the women and over the eyes and ears of the men and allowed to hang perfectly loose. But the women seldom wore: as long hair as the men. This long hair is still sometimes seen and is exceedingly pictur- esque, especially on horseback, and it is a great pity so sightly a fashion should ever die out. I have seen Maricopas roll theirs in ringlets. Sometimes the men braided the hair into a cue, or looped up the ends with a fillet. But the Government discourages long and loose hair, and now most men cut it short, and women part theirs and braid it. Like all Indians, the men have scant beards, and the few whiskers that grow are shaved clean or resolutely pinched off with an old knife or pulled out by tweezers.
Their hair appears to turn gray as early as ours, tho I saw no baldness except on one individual. In old times (and even now to some extent) the hair was dressed with a mixture of mud and mezquite gum, at times, which was left on long enough for the desired effect and then thoroly washed off. This cleansed it and made it glossy and the gum dyed the gray hair quite a lasting, jet black, tho several applications might be needed.
Women still carry their ollas and other burdens on their heads and are exceedingly strong and expert in the art, balancing great and awkward weights with admirable dexterity.
The convenient and even beautiful gyih-haw (a word very difficult to pronounce correctly), or burden basket, of the old time Pima woman, seems to have entirely disappeared. It was not only picturesque, but an exceedingly useful utensil.
The wawl-kote, or carrying-cradle for the baby, is obsolete, too, now. Strange to say, tho in shape like most pap- poose-cradles, it was carried poised on the head, instead of slung on the back in the usual way.
The Pimas are fond of conversation and often come together in the evening and have long talks. Their voices are low, rapid, soft and very pleasant and they laugh, smile and joke a great deal. They are remarkable for calmness and evenness of temper and the expression of the face is nearly always intelligent, frank, and good-natured.
They are noticeably devoid of hurry, worry, irritability or nervousness. Unlike most Indians these have not been removed from the soil of their fathers and, indeed, such an act would
have been cruelly unjust, for, true to their name, the Pimas have maintained an unbroken peace with the whites. Lieutenant Colonel W. H. Emory, of “The Army of the West,” who visited them in 1846, was perhaps the first
American to observe and describe these people. He says: “Both nations (Pimas and Maricopas) cherished an aver- sion to war and a profound attachment to all the peaceful pursuits of life. This predilection arose from no incapacity for war, for they were at all times able and willing to keep the Apaches, whose hands are raised against all other people, at a respectful distance, and prevent depredations by those mountain robbers who held Chihuahua, Sonora and a part of Durango in a condition approaching almost to tributary provinces.”
As observed by Emory and the other officers of the “Army of the West” they were an agricultural people rais- ing at that time “cotton, wheat, maize, beans, pumpkins and water melons.” I found them raising all these in 1903, except cotton, and I think he might have added to his list, peppers, gourds, tobacco and the pea called cah-lay-vahs.
Emory says: “We were at once impressed with the beauty, order, and disposition of the arrangements made for irrigating the land . . . the fields are subdivided by ridges of earth into rectangles of about 200x100 feet, for the con- venience of irrigating. The fences are of sticks, matted with willow and mezquite.” I found this still comparatively correct. The fields are still irrigated by acequias or ditches from the Gila, and still fenced by forks of trees set closely in the ground and reinforced with branches of thorn or barbed wire. Some of these fences with their antler-like effect of tops are very picturesque.
From the description given by Emory, and Captain A. R. Johnson of the same army, of their kees or winter lodges, they were essentially the same as I found some of them still inhabiting. There is the following entry in my journal: “I have been examining the old kee next door, since the old couple left it. It is quite neatly and systematical- ly made. Four large forks are set in the ground, and these support a square of large poles, covered with other poles,
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arrow-weeds, chaff and earth, for the roof. The walls are a neat arrangement of small saplings, about 10 inches apart curving up from the ground on a bending slant to the roof, so that the whole structure comes to resemble a turtle-shell or rather an inverted bowl. These side sticks arc connected by three lines of smaller sticks tied across them with withes, all the way around the kee. Against these arrow-weeds are stood, closely and neatly, tops down (perhaps thatched on) and kept in place by three more lines of small sticks, bound on and corresponding to those within. Then the whole structure is plastered over with adobe mud till rain-proof. No window, and only one small door, about 2½ feet square, closed by a slat-work.”
This kee of the Pima was not to his credit. The most friendly must admit it dirty, uncomfortable and unpictur- esque. It was too low to stand erect in, the little fire was made in the center, the smoke escaping at last from the low doorway after trying everywhere else and festooning the ceiling with soot.
The establishment of the Pima was most simple. He sat, ate and slept on the earth, consequently a few mats and blankets, baskets, bowls and pots included his furniture. A large earthen olla, called by the Pimas hah-ah, stood in a triple fork under the shade of the vachtoe and being porous enough to permit a slight evaporation kept the drinking water cool.
The arbor-shed or vachtoe pertains to almost every Piman home and consists of a flat roof of poles and ar- row-weeds supported by stout forks. Sometimes earth is added to the roof to keep off rain. Sometimes the sides are enclosed with a rude wattle work of weeds and bushes, making a grateful shade, admitting air freely; screening those within from view, while permitting vision from within outward in any direction. Sometimes this screen of weeds and bushes, in a circular form, was made without any roof and was then called an o-num. Sometimes after the vachtoe had been inclosed with wattle work the whole structure was plastered over with adobe mud and then became a caws-seen, or storehouse. All these structures were used at times as habitations, but now the Pima is com- ing more and more to the white man’s adobe cottage as a house and home. But the vachtoe, attached or detached, is still a feature of almost every homestead.
Under the vachtoe usually stood the matate, or mill (called by the Pimas mah-choot) which was a large flat or concave stone, below, across which was rubbed an oblong, narrow stone (vee-it-kote), above, to grind the corn or wheat. Other important utensils were a vatcheeho, or wooden trough, for mixing, and a chee-o-pah, or mortar, of wood or stone, for crushing things with a pestle. The nah-dah-kote, or fire-place, was an affair of stones and adobe mud to support the earthern pots for cooking or to support the earthern plates on which the thin cakes of corn or wheat meal were baked. These were what the Mexicans call tortillas. Perhaps the staple food of the Pima even more than corn (hohn) or wheat (payl-koon) is frijole beans—these of two kinds, the white (bah-fih) the brown (mohn). A sort of meal made of parched corn or wheat; ground on the mahchoot and eaten, or perhaps one might say drank, with water and brown sugar (panoche) was the famous pinole, the food carried on war trips when nutrition, light- ness of weight and smallness of bulk were all desired. It has a remarkable power to cool and quench thirst. Taw- mahls, or corn-cakes of ground green corn, wrapped in husks and roasted in the ashes, or boiled, were also favor- ites. Peppers (kaw-aw-kull) were a good deal used for seasoning and relishes.
Today the country of the Pima is very destitute of large game but he adds to the above bill of fare all the small game, especially rabbits, quail and doves, that he can kill. In the old days when the Gila always had water it held fine fish and the Indians caught them with their hands or swept them up on the banks by long chains of willow hurdles or faggots, carried around the fish by waders. I could not learn that they ever had any true fish-nets or fish-hooks; nor any rafts, canoes or other boats. But owing to the frequent necessity of crossing the treacherous Gila the men, and many of the women, were good swimmers.
The Toe-hawn-awh Aw-aw-tam, or Papagoes, whose reservation is in Pima County, near Tucson (and called St. Xavier) are counted “blood brothers” of the Pimas, speak essentially the same language, are on the most cordial terms with them, and are under the same agency.
The Maricopas are a refugee tribe, related to the Yumas, who once threatened them with extermination because of an inter-tribal feud. They were adopted by the Pimas and protected by them, and have ever since lived with them as one people, having however a different language, identical with that of the Yumas.
The Quojatas are a small tribe, of the Piman stock, living south of the Casa Grande. The total number of Pimas, Papagoes and Maricopas in the U. S. is now estimated at about 8000, the Pimas
alone as 4000. I am not a linguist, or a philologist, and my time was short with these people, and I did not go to any extent into
their language, or study its grammar. Their voices were soft and pleasant, and I was continually surprised at the low tones in which they generally conversed and the quickness with which they heard. But their words were most awk- ward to my tongue. There were German sounds, and French sounds, too, I would say, in their language, and there were letters that seemed to disappear as they uttered them, or never to come really forth, and syllables that were swallowed like spoonfuls of hot soup. But I trust that I am substantially correct in the words that I have retained in the stories and that I have written them so that the English reader can pronounce them in a way to be understood.
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The accent is generally on the first syllable.
The Story of Ah-Ahn-He-Eat-Toe-Pahk Mah-Mahkai And there was an orphan named Ah-ahn-he-eat-toe-pahk Mahkai (which means Braided-Feather Doctor) who
lived at a place called Two Reservoirs (Go-awk-Vahp-itchee-kee) north of Cheoff-Skawmack, or Tall Gray Mountain. And his only relative was an old grandmother. And she used to go and get water in earthern vessels, a number
of them in her carrying basket. And when she neared home she would call to her grandson, saying: “Come, help me wrestle with it!” meaning to help her down with her load. And he would jump and run, and wrestle so roughly he would break all the vessels in her basket.
And thus was he mean and mischievous, a bad boy in many ways. And one day his grandmother sent him to get some of the vegetable called “owl’s-feathers,” which the Awawtam cook by making it into a sort of tortilla, baked on the hot ground where a fire has just been. And he went and found an owl and pulled its feathers out & brought them to the old woman, and she said: “This is not what I want! It is a vegetable that I mean!”
And so he went off again and got the vegetable owl’s-feathers for her. After that she sent him for the vegetables named “crow’s-feet” and “black bird’s-eyes,” saying to him that they
were very good cooked together. And the mischievous orphan went & got the feet of some real crows and the eyes of real blackbirds and brought them to her. And she said: “This is not what I mean! I want the vegetables named after these things!”
And the boy, who was then about twelve years old, went and got what she wanted and she cooked them. And this orphan boy had a dream which he liked and wished to have come true, and went to a dance that was
being danced in the neighborhood, a ceremonial dance such as is celebrated when a young girl arrives at woman- hood, and he went to see it, hoping it would in some way be like his dream, but when he saw it he was disgusted.
And he went to hear the song of a singing doctor, a mahkai or medicine-man, but when he heard his singing he was disgusted with that too.
And he left his home and on his way found a little house, or kee, made of rough bushes. And the one who lived therein invited him to stay awhile and see all the different people who would arrive there.
And he did so, and in the early evening they came—all the fiercest animals, cougars, bears, eagles, and they were bewitching each other, but nobody bewitched him, and in the morning he went on.
And he went along until he came to another kee, and the owner invited him to stay over night and see all the people who came there. And he did so, and in the early evening came the same creatures and did the same as before, but he was not bewitched.
And he went on again till he came to a desert place, utterly barren, without trees or bushes and there a wind came to meet him, a whirlwind, Seev-a-lick, and it caught him up and carried him to the East & then back again, and to the North and back again; and to the West & back again; and then South & back again. And so it got posses- sion of his soul and carried it off to its own place.
And Seevalick, the whirlwind, said to him: “You shall be like me.” And there his dream. came true and he said: “This is what I was looking for; this it is for which I was travelling.” And he wished to go back, and the wind took his soul back again into his body, and so he returned to his home. And after his return he was the best young man in the country, kind to everybody, and everybody liked him.
But he did not care to be with boys of his own age, but liked better to be with the wise old men, and went where they came together at nights. And he would sit and listen to them, but did not attempt to make any speeches him- self. His reasons were that the young were often vicious, thieves, beggars, murderers, and he would rather be with the old who followed what was better.
And in the evening he would often hear the old people say: “We will go rabbit-hunting in such a place,” but he stayed at home and did not go with them.
But one night, after a while, when they said: “Tomorrow we will go jack-rabbit hunting,” he went home as they did, but the next morning, when they went hunting, he went and made himself a bow & arrows, as Seevalick had told him and placed them where he could find them.
And the next evening they were talking again of hunting, and appointed a place to meet, and the following morning, when they were getting ready, he got his bows & arrows, but he did not come quite up to the meeting place, but sat a little way off.
And as he sat there the people came up to him and made fun of him and asked him if he expected to kill any- thing with his weapons, for he had made a big bow & arrows as the Whirlwind had done. And the people handed these about among themselves, laughing, and when they were thru ridiculing them they brought back the bow and arrows and laid them down before him. But he said nothing, and when the people were thru he left the bow & arrows there, and went home and went again to look for a suitable stick to make a bow from.
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And he made a new bow & arrows and left them where he could find them, and went home. And again he went in the evening to the old people’s gathering and heard them appoint a place for the
hunting, and went home when they did. And in the morning, when he heard the signal cry for hunting, he went and got his bow & arrows and followed after them again, but again stayed some distance off. And again the people came about him and handled his bow & arrows and laughed at them. And again he left them lying there on the ground and went home to make a new bow & arrows.
And the fourth time this happened he was late at the place of meeting, and before he came the one at whose house the meeting was said to the others: “There is a young man who has been several times with us to the place where we come together for the hunting, and I suppose he has made a new bow & arrows today, for he has to do that whenever you handle his weapons. Now I want you not to handle his weapons any more, but to let him be till we see what he will do, for it appears to me that he is some kind of a powerful personage (mahkai).
And Toehahvs, who was listening, said: “You yourself, were the very first to handle his weapons.” And the next morning when Ahahnheeattoepahk Mahkai heard the signal yells for the hunting, he went to the
meeting place, with his bow and arrows, and sat away off, as before, but this time nobody came to him. And then the hunting began, and in it some one called to him: “There is a jack-rabbit (choo-uff) coming
your way!” and he shot the rabbit with his arrow; but when he came to it he did not pick it up, but grasped the ar- row and with a swinging motion threw the rabbit from it to the man nearest him.
And thus he went on all day, killing rabbits and giving them to others, keeping none for himself. And again he was late at the place of meeting, and the man who had spoken the night before said: “Now you
see what he has done! This is the fourth bow that he has made. If you people had left him alone before, he would, before. this, have been killing game for you. And now if you do not disturb him I am sure he will go on, and you will have jack-rabbits to eat all the time.”
And so he killed rabbits at every hunt, and gave them away, especially to the old. Whenever he killed one he would pick it up and give it to an old man, and keep on that way.
And one night at the place of meeting the spokesman said: “Tomorrow we will surround the mountain and hunt deer, and we will put him at the place where the deer will run, and we will see how many he will kill!”
And in the morning, at the mountain, they placed him at the deer-run, and told him to “shut the valley,” mean- ing for him to head-off and kill any deer which might run toward him. But the young man began to get big rocks and try to make a wall to close the valley up, and paid no attention to the deer running past him, and when the people came, and asked him about his shooting he said: “You did not tell me to kill the deer, you told me to ‘shut the valley.’”
(Not but what he understood them, but he was acting again as he had once done with his grandmother.) And the next day they tried another mountain and said: “We will see if the young man will kill us any deer
there.” So when they came to this mountain they told him to go to a certain valley, on the other side, and hang himself there. This is a form of speech which means to hang around or remain at a place; but the young hunter went there and left his bow & arrows on the ground, and hung himself up by his two hands clasped around the limb of a tree.
And after they had chased many deer in his direction they said: “Let us go now & butcher-up the deer the young man has killed, for he must have killed a good many by this time.”
But when they came to where the young man was, there he hung by his hands, and when they asked him how many he had killed, he said: “I have not killed any. You did not tell me to kill any, only to hang myself here, which I did, and I have hung here and watched the deer running past.
And they tried him again, on another morning, at another valley, and this time they told him if he saw a doe big with fawn, “snon-ham,” which is also the word used for a woman soon to become a mother, he should kill her. And he went to his place, and there came by such a woman and he shot her down and killed her.
And the next day they took him to another mountain and told him to kill the “kurly,” which means the old, but they meant him to understand old deer. And when they came to him later to butcher-up the deer he had killed, and asked him where they were, he replied: “I have not killed any deer, you did not tell me to kill deer, but to kill the kurly, and there is the kurly I have killed!”
And it was the old man who goes ahead whom he had shot with his arrow. And after they had buried the old man they returned to the village, and that night the man who owned the
meeting place said: “Tomorrow we must give him another trial, and this time I want you to tell him straight just what you want. Tell him to kill the deer, either young or old, and he will do it. If you had done this before he would have killed us many deer. You should have understood him better by this time, but you did not tell him straight, and now he has killed two of us.”
And the next morning they took him to another mountain, and placed him in a low place, and told him to kill all the deer which came his way. And, when they went after a while, after chasing many deer toward him, they asked
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him where the deer were which he had killed, and he replied: “Down in the low place you will find plenty deer.” And they went there and found many dead deer of all kinds, and butchered them up.
Notes on “The Story of Ah-Ahn-He-Eat-Toe-Pahk Mah-Mahkai” In the story of Ah-ahn-he-eat-toe-pahk Mahkai we are introduced to the Indian faith in dreams and to more
witchcraft. We come, too, to the national sport of rabbit-hunting, with its picturesqueness and excitement. In the transaction between Seevalick and the boy we have a reappearance of the world-wide belief that there is a
connection between the wind and the human soul. The strange quality of savage humor, labored, sometimes gruesome, and often tragic, appears in the latter part
of the tale. It is noticeable that they buried the old man, but no mention is made of burying the woman who was shot. The
Pimas of old time buried their dead in a sitting posture, neck and knees tied together with ropes, four to six feet under ground, and covered the grave with logs and thorn-brush to keep away wolves. The interment was usually at night, with chants, but without other ceremony. Then, immediately after, the house of the deceased was burned, and all personal effects destroyed, even food; the horses and cattle being killed and eaten by the mourners, excepting such as the deceased might have given to his heirs. After the prescribed time of mourning (one month for a child or distant relative, six months or a year for husband or wife) the name of the dead was never more mentioned and everything about him treated as forgotten.
The Maricopas burn their dead. It is noticeable, too, that no one appears to have punished the slayer for his murderous practical jokes. Indeed,
while the Awawtam appear to have been people of exceptionally good character, it also appears that they seldom punished any crimes except by a sort of boycott or pressure of public disapproval.
The Story of Vandaih, the Man-Eagle And thus Ahahnheteatoepahk Mahkai became famous for the killing of game; and there was another young
man, named Van-daih, who wanted to be his friend, So one day Vandaih made him four tube-pipes of cane, such as the Indians use for ceremonious smoking, and went to see the young hunter. But when he entered the young man was lying down, and he just looked at Vandaih and then turned his face away, saying nothing,
And Vandaih sat there and when the young man became tired of lying one way and turned over he lit up one of his pipes. But the young man took no notice of him. And this went on all night. Every time there was a chance Van- daih tried his pipe, but Ahahnheeattoepahk Mahkai never spoke, and in the morning Vandaih went away without the friend he desired having responded to him.
The next evening Vandaih came again and sat there all night, but the friend he courted never said a word, and in the morning he went away again.
And he slept in the daytime, and when evening came he went again, and sat all night long, but the young man spoke to him not at all.
And the third morning that this happened the wife of Ahahnheeattoepahk Mahkai said to him: “Why are you so mean to Vandaih as never to speak to him? Perhaps he has something important to say. He comes here every night, and sits the whole night thru before you, and you do not speak to him. And maybe he will come tonight again, and I feel very sorry for him that you never say a word to him when he comes.”
And the young man said: “I know it is true, what you have said, but I know, too, very well, that Vandaih is not a good man. He gambles with the gains-skoot, he is a liar, thief, licentious, and is everything that is bad. I wish some other boys would come to see me instead of him, and better than he, for I know very well that he will repeat things that I say in a way that I did not mean and raise a scandal about it.”
And the next night Vandaih came again and sat in the same place; and when Ahahnheeattoepahk Mahkai saw him he just looked at him and then turned over and went to sleep. But along in the night he awoke, and when Vandaih saw he was awake he lit one of his pipes. Then Ahahnheeattoepahk Mahkai got up. And when he got up Vandaih buried his pipe, but the other said: “What do you bury your pipe for? I want to smoke.”
Vandaih said: “I have another pipe,” and he lit one and gave it to Ahahnheeattoepahk Mahkai, and then he dug up own pipe, and relighted it, and they both began to smoke.
And Ahahnheeattoepahk Mahkai said: “When did you come?” And Vandaih replied: “O just a little while ago.” And Ahahnheeattoepahk Mahkai said: “I have seen you here for four nights, now, but I know you too well not
to know you have a way to follow,” (“a way to follow” means to have some purpose behind) “but if you will quit all the bad habits you have I will be glad to have you come; but there are many others, better than you, whom I would rather have come to see me.
And now I am going to tell you something, but I am afraid that when you go away from here you will tell what I
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have said and make more of it, and then people will talk, and I shall be sorry. I will tell you the habits you have—you are a liar, a gambler with the dice-game and the wah-pah-tee, a beggar,
you follow after women and are a thief. Now I want you to stop these bad habits. You may not know all that the people say about you: They say that
when any hunter brings in game you are always the first to be there, and you will be very apt to swallow charcoal if you are so greedy.
Wherever you go, when the people see you coming, they say: ‘There comes a man who is a thief,’ and they hide their precious things. When you arrive they are kind to you, of course, but they do not care much about you.
I don’t know whether you know that people talk thus about you, but it is a great shame to me to know, when I have done some bad thing, that people talk about it.
Now if you quit these things you will be happy, and I want you to stop them. I am not angry with you, but I want you to know how the people are talking about you.
Now I want you to go home, but not say anything about what I have told you. Just take a rest, and tomorrow night come again.”
And the next night Vandaih came again, and Ahahnheeattoepahk Mahkai was in bed when he came, but he got right up and received him, and said: “Now after this I mean to tell you what is for your good, but I want you to keep quiet about it. There are many people that gamble with you. If they ask you again to gamble with them, do not do it. Tell them you do not gamble any more. And if they do not stop when you tell them this, but keep on asking you, come to me, and tell me, first, that you are going to play. And if I tell you, then, that I do not want you to gamble, I want you not to do it, but if I tell you you may gamble & you win once, then you may bet again, but I do not want you to keep on after winning twice. Twice is enough. But if the other man beats you at first, then I do not want you to play any more, but to quit gambling forever.”
And after this a man did want to gamble with Vandaih, but Vandaih said: “I have nothing to wager, and so can- not play with you.”
And still another man wanted to gamble with him, and he made him the same answer, but this man kept on asking, and at last Vandaih said: “Perhaps I will play with you, I will see about it. But I must have a little time first.” And he came to Ahahnheeattoepahk Mahkai and said: “There is a man who keeps on asking me to gamble with him, and I have come to tell you about it as you told me to do.”
And Ahahnheeattoepahk Mahkai told him to gamble, and gave him things to wager on the game, but said: “If he beats you I do not want you to gamble any more.”
And Vandaih took the things which had been given him, and went & played a game with this man who was so persistent, and won a game. And he played another game and won that, and then he said, “That is enough, I do not want to play any more;” but the other man kept on asking him to play.
But Vandaih refused & took the things which he had won to Ahahnheeattoepahk Mahkai and gave them all to him.
And the next morning he gambled again, and won twice, and he stopped after the second winning, as before. And thus the young man kept on winning and Ahahnheeattoepahk Mahkai made gainskoot (dice-sticks) for
him, and this was one reason why he won, for Ahahnheeattoepahk Mahkai was a powerful doctor & the dice were charmed.
And he beat every one who played against him till he had beat all the gamblers of his neighborhood, and then distant gamblers came & he beat them also. And so he won all the precious things that were in the country and gave all to Ahahnheeattoepahk Mahkai & kept nothing back. But one man went to Ee-ee-toy, who was living at the Salt River Mountain (Mo-hah-dheck) and asked him to let him have some things to wager against Vandaih. And Ee-ee- toy said: “You can have whatever you want, and I will go along to see the game.”
But when Ee-ee-toy got there he found the dice were not like common dice, and it would be difficult for any one to win against them, they were made by so powerful a man.
And Ee-eetoy went westward and found a powerful doctor who had a daughter, and said to the father: “I want your daughter to go around to all the big trees and find me all the feathers she can of large birds, not of small birds, and bring them here. And I will come again & see what she may have found.”
And her father told her, and the very next morning she began to hunt the feathers, and when Ee-eetoy came again she had a bundle, and Eeeetoy took them and took the pith out of their shafts and cleansed every feather which she had brought him.
And Ee-ee-toy threw away the pith and cut the shafts into small pieces and told the girl to roast them in a broken pot over a fire; and she got the broken pot & roasted them, and they curled up as they roasted till they looked like grains of corn. And then he told her to roast some real corn & mix both together and grind them all up very fine, And Ee-ee-toy told her to take some ollas of this pinole in her syih-haw to the reservoirs.
And she did so, and passed by where Vandaih was going to play, and Vandaih said: “Before I can play I must
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drink.” But the man who was playing with him said: “Get some water of some one near,” but Vandaih said, “I would rather go to the reservoir.”
And Ee-ee-toy had prepared the girl before this, telling her that when she passed the players Vandaih would follow her to the reservoir and want too marry her. “Be polite to him,” he said “and ask him to drink some of the pinole, and to see your parents first.”
And the man who was going to gamble with Vandaih asked him not to go so far, for he wanted to gamble right away, but Vandaih replied: “I would rather go there. I will come right back. You be making holes till I get back.”
So the girl went to the reservoir, and Vandaih followed her and asked her to be his wife, and she said: “I want you to drink some of this pinole, and in the evening you may go and see my folks and ask them about it.”
So Vandaih mixed some pinole and drank it, and it made him feet feverish, like one with a cold; and the second time he drank the gooseflesh came out on his skin; and the third time he drank feathers came out all over him; and the fourth time long feathers grew out on his arms, and the fifth time he became an eagle and went and perched on the high place, or bank of the reservoir.
Then the girl went to the place where the other man was waiting to play the game and told all the people to come and see the terrible thing which had happened to Vandaih.
And the people, when they saw him, got their bows and arrows and surrounded him and were going to shoot him.
And they fired arrows at him, and some of them struck him, but could not pierce him, and then all were afraid of him. And first he began to hop around, and then to fly a little higher, until he perched on a tree, but he broke the tree down; and he tried another tree and broke that down; and then he flew to a mountain and tumbled its rocks down its side, and finally he settled on a strong cliff. And even the cliff swayed at first as if it would fall;—but finally it settled and stood still.
And this was foretold when the earth was being made, that one of the race of men should be turned into an eagle. Vandaih was a handsome man, but he had a bad character, and ever since the beginning parents had warned their children to practice virtue lest they be turned into eagles; because it had been foretold that some good-looking bad person should be thus transformed, and it was to be seen that good-looking people were often bad and homely ones good characters.
And Vandaih took that cliff for his residence and hunted over all the country round about, killing jack-rabbits, deer and all kinds of game for his food. And when the game became scarce he turned to men and one day he killed a man and took the body to his cliff to eat. And after this manner he went on. Early in the morning he would bring home a human being, and sometimes he would bring home two.
Then the people sent a messenger to Ee-eetoy, to his home on Mohahdheck, asking him to kill for them this man-eagle. And Ee-ee-toy said to the man: “You can go back, and in about four days I will be there.” But when the fourth day came Ee-eetoy had not arrived, as he had promised, but Vandaih was among the people, killing them, carrying them away to -the cliff.
And the people again sent the messenger, saying to him: “You must tell Ee-ee-toy he must come and help his people or we shall all be lost.”
And the man delivered his message and Ee-ee-toy said, as before, that he would be there in four days. And this went on, the people sending to Ee-ee-toy, and Ee-ee-toy promising to come in four days, until a
whole year had passed. And not only for one year, but for four years, for the people had misunderstood him, and when he said four days he meant four years, and so for four years it went on as we have said.
(Now Ee-ee-toy and Vandaih were relatives, and that was one reason why Ee-ee-toy kept the people waiting so long for his help and worked to gain time. He did not want to hurt Vandaih.)
But when the fourth year came Ee-ee-toy did go, and told the people to get him the “seed-roaster.” And the people ran around, guessing what he meant, and they brought him the charcoal, but Ee-ee-toy said: “I
did not mean this, I meant the ‘seed-roaster’!” So they ran around again, and they brought him the long open earthen vessel with handles at each end, used for
roasting, and with it they brought the charcoal which is made from ironwood. But he said: “I did not mean these. I mean the ‘seed-roaster.’”
And they kept on guessing, and nobody could guess it right. They brought him the black stones of the nah- dahcote, or fire place, and he said: “I do not want these. I want the ‘seed-roaster.’”
And the people kept on guessing, and could not guess it right, and so, at last, he told them that what he wanted was obsidian, that black volcanic stone, like glass, from which arrow heads are made. And this was what he called the “seed-roaster.”
So the people got it for him. Then he told them to bring him four springy sticks. And they ran and brought all the kinds of springy sticks
they could find, but he told them he did not mean any of these.
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And for many days they kept on trying to get him the sticks which he wanted. And after they had completely failed Ee-ee-toy told them what he wanted. It was a kind of stick called vahs-iff, which did not grow there, therefore they had not been able to find it. And beside vahsiff sticks were not springy sticks at all, but the strongest kind of sticks, very stiff.
So they sent a person to get these, who brought them, and Ee-ee-toy whittled them so that they had sharp points. And there were four of them.
And Ee-ee-toy said: “Now I am going, and I want you to watch the top of the highest mountain, and if you see a big cloud over it, you will know I have done something wonderful. But if there is a fog over the world for four days you will know I am killed.”
When he started he allowed one of the dust storms of the desert to arise, and went in that, so that the man-ea- gle should not see him.
For many days he journeyed toward the cliff, and when sunset of the last day came he was still a good way off; but he went on and arrived at the foot of the cliff after it was dark, and hid himself there under a rock.
About daybreak the man-eagle got up and flew around the cliff four times and then flew off. And after he was gone Ee-ee-toy took one of his sticks and stuck it into a crack in the cliff, and climbed on it, and stuck another above it and so he went on to the top, pulling out the sticks behind him and putting them in above.
And when he got to the home of the man-eagle, Vandaih, on the top of the cliff, he found a woman there. And she was the same woman who had given Vandaih the pinole with eagles’ feathers in it. He had found her, and car- ried her up there, and made her his wife.
When Ee-ee-toy came to the woman he found she had a little boy, and he asked her if the child could speak yet, and she replied that he was just beginning to talk; and he enquired further when the man-eagle would return, and she said that formerly when game was plenty he had not stayed away long, but now that game was scarce it usually took him about half a day, so he likely would not be there till noon.
And Ee-ee-toy enquired: “What does he do when he comes back? Does he sleep or not? Does he lie right down, or does he go looking around first?”
And the wife said: “He looks all around first, everywhere. And even the little flies he will kill, he is so afraid that some one will come to kill him. And after he has looked around, and finished eating, he comes to lay his head in my lap and have me look for the lice in his head. And it is then that he goes to sleep.”
So Ee-ee-toy turned into a big fly and hid in a crack in the rock, and asked the woman if she could see him, and she said: “Yes, I can see you very plainly.”
And he hid himself three times, and each time she could see him, but the fourth time he got into one of the dead bodies, into its lungs, and had her pile the other dead bodies over him, and then when he asked her she said: “No, I cannot see you now.”
And Ee-ee-toy told her: “As soon as he goes to sleep, whistle, so that I may know that he is surely asleep.” At noon Ee-ee-toy heard the man-eagle coming. He-was bringing two bodies, still living & moaning, and
dropped them over the place where Ee-ee-toy lay. And the first thing the man-eagle did was to look all around, and he said to his wife: “What smell is this that I smell?” And she said: “What kind of a smell?” And he replied: “Why, it smells like an uncooked person!” “These you have just brought in are uncooked persons, perhaps it is these you smell.”
Then Vandaih went to the pile of dead bodies and turned them over & over, but the oldest body at the bottom he did not examine, for he did not think there could be anyone there.
So his wife cooked his dinner, and he ate it and then asked her to look for the lice in his head. And as he lay down he saw a fly pass before his face, and he jumped up to catch it, but the fly got into a crack in the rock where he could not get it.
And when he lay down again the child said: “Father! come!” And Vandaih said: “Why does he say that? He never said that before. He must be trying to tell me that some one is coming to .injure me!” But the wife said: “You know he is only learning to talk, and what he means is that he is glad that his father has come. That is very plain.” But Vandaih said: “No, I think he is trying to tell me some one has come.”
But at last Vandaih lay down and the woman searched his head and sang to put him to sleep. And when he seemed sound asleep she whistled. And her whistle waked him up and he said: “Why did you whistle! you never did that before?” And she said: “I whistled because I am so glad about the game you have brought. I used to feel bad about the people you killed, but now I know I must be contented & rejoice when you have a good hunt. And after this I will whistle every time when you bring game home.”
And she sang him to sleep again, and whistled when he slept; and waked him up again, and said the same thing again in reply to his question.
And the third time, while she was singing, she turned Vandaih’s head from side to side. And when he seemed fast asleep she whistled. And after she had whistled she turned the head again, but Vandaih did not get up, and so
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she knew that this time he was fast asleep. So Ee-ee-toy came out of the dead body he had hidden in, and came to where Vandaih was, and the woman laid
his head down & left him. And Ee-ee-toy took the knife which he had made from the volcanic glass, obsidian, and cut Vandaih’s throat, and beheaded him, and threw his head eastward & his body westward. And he beheaded the child, too, and threw its head westward and its body eastward.
And because of the killing of so powerful a personage the cliff swayed as if it would fall down, but Ee-ee-toy took one of his sharpened stakes and drove it into the cliff and told the woman to hold onto that; and he took an- other and drove that in and took hold of that himself.
And after the cliff had steadied enuf, Ee-ee-toy told the woman to heat some water, and when she had done so he sprinkled the dead bodies.
The first ones he sprinkled came to life and he asked them where there home was & when they told him he sent them there by his power.
And he had more water heated and sprinkled more bodies, and when he learned where their home was he sent them home, also, by his power.
And this was done a third time, with a third set of bodies. And the forth time the hot water was sprinkled on the oldest bodies of all, the mere skeletons, and it took them
a long time to come to life, and when they were revived they could not remember where their homes were or where they had come from.. So Ee-ee-toy cutoff eagles’ feathers slanting-wise (pens) and gave them, and gave them dried blood mixed with water (ink) and told them their home should be in the East, and by the sign of the slanting-cut feather they should know each other. And they are the white people of this day. And he sent them eastward by his power.
And in the evening he & the woman went down the cliff by the aid of the sharpened stakes, even as he had come up, and when they reached the foot of the mountain they stayed there over night. They took some of the long eagle feathers and made a kee from them, & some of the soft eagle feathers and made a bed with them. And they stayed there four nights, at the foot of the cliff.
And after a day’s journey they made another kee of shorter eagle feathers, and a bed of tail feathers. And they staid at this second camp four nights.
And then they journeyed on again another day and build another kee, like the first one, & stayed there also four nights.
And they journeyed on yet another day and built again a kee, like the second one, and stayed there four nights. And on the morning of each fourth day Ee-ee-toy took the bath of purification, as the Pimas have since done
when they have slain Apaches, and when he arrived home he did not go right among the people but stayed out in the bushes for a while.
And the people knew he had killed Vandaih, the man-eagle, for they had watched and had seen the cloud over the high mountain.
And after the killing of Vandaih, for a long time, the people had nothing to be afraid of, and they were all happy.
Notes on “The Story of Vandaih” In the story of Vandaih we are given a curious glimpse into Indian friendship. The reference to smoking, too,
is interesting. The Pimas had no true pipes. They used only cigarettes of tobacco and corn-husk, or else short tubes of cane stuffed with tobacco. These I have called tube-pipes. They smoked on all ceremonial occasions, but appear to have had no distinctive pipe of peace. The ceremonial pipes of cane had bunches of little birds’ feathers tied to them, and in my photo of the old seeneeyawkum he holds such a ceremonial pipe in his hand.
“He gambles with the gain-skoot:” The gain-skoot were the Pima dice—two sticks so marked and painted as to represent the numerals kee-ick (four) and choat-puh (six), and two called respectively see-ick-ko, the value of which was fourteen, and gains, the value of which was fifteen. These were to be held in the hand and knocked in the air with a flat round stone. At the same time there was to be on the ground a parallelogram of holes with a sort of goal, or “home,” at two corners. If the sticks all fell with face sides up they counted five, If all fell with blank sides up it was ten. If only one face side turned up it counted its full value, but if two or three turned up then they counted only as one each. If a gain was scored the count was kept by placing little sticks or stones (soy-yee-kuh) in the holes as counters. If the second player overtook the first in a hole the first man was “killed” and had to begin over. Among all Indians gambling was a besetting vice, and there was nothing they would not wager.
Sometimes instead of the gain-skoot they used waw-pah-tee, which was simply a guessing game. They guessed in which hand a certain painted stick was held, or in which of four decorated cane-tubes, filled with sand, a certain little ball was hidden and wagered on their guess. These tubes were differently marked, and one was named “Old Man,” one “Old Woman,” one “Black Head,” and one “Black in the Middle.” Sticks were given to keep count of win-
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nings. The moral advice which Ahahnheeattoepahk Mahkai gives Vandaih, is very quaint, and the shrewd cunning
with which he loads the dice, pockets the proceeds, and yet finally unloads all the blame on poor Vandaih, is quite of a piece with the confused morals of most folk-lore in all lands. On these points it is really very hard to under- stand the workings of the primitive mind. Here is certain proof that the modern conscience has evoluted from something very chaotic.
It will be noticed that Vandaih drinks the pinole, which bewitches him, five times instead of the usual four. Whether this is a mistake of the seeneeyawkum, or significant I do not know. Perhaps four is a lucky and five an unlucky number.
Another variation in the numerical order is in the woman whistling only three times, in putting Vandaih to sleep.
As I have before pointed out the reference to white men, and pens and ink, is evidently a modern interpolation, not altogether lacking in flavor of sarcasm.
There are suggestions in this story of Jack the Giant Killer, of the Roc of the Arabian Nights, of the harpies, and of the frightful creatures, part human, part animal, so familiar in all ancient folk-lore.
The latter part of this tale is particularly interesting, as perhaps throwing light on the origin of that mysterious process of purification for slaying enemies, so peculiar to the Pimas.
It seems to have been held by the Awawtam that to kill an Apache rendered the slayer unclean, even tho the act itself was most valiant and praiseworthy, and must be expiated by an elaborate process of purification. From old Comalk Hawk Kih I got a careful description of the process.
According to his account, as soon as an Apache had been killed, if possible, the fact was at once telegraphed to the watchers at home by the smoke signal from some mountain. This custom is evidently referred to in E-ee-toy’s cloud over a high mountain as a signal of success. The Indians apparently regarded smoke and clouds as closely related, if not the same, as is shown in their faith in the power of tobacco to make rain.
As soon as the Apache has been killed the slayer begins to fast and to look for a “father.” His “father” is one who is to perform all his usual duties for him, for be is now unclean and cannot do these himself. The “father,” too, must know how to perform all the ceremonial duties necessary to his office, as will be explained. If a “father” can be found among the war-party the slayer need only fast two days, but if not he must wait till he gets home again, even if it takes four or more days. It appears that this friend, who has charge of the slayer, is humorously called a “father” because his “child” is usually so restless under his long fast, and keeps asking him to do things for him and divert him.
It there is no “father” for him in the war-party, as soon as possible a messenger is sent on ahead to get some one at home to take the office for him, and to make the fires in the kee, that being a man’s special duty. And the wife of the slayer is also now unclean by his act, and must purify herself as long as he, tho she must keep apart from him. And she also must have a substitute to do her usual work. She must keep close at home, and her husband, the slayer, remain out in the bushes till the purification is accomplished.
For two days the fast is complete, but on the morning of the third day the slayer is allowed one drink of pinole, very thin, and no more than he can drink at one breath. The moment he pauses he can have no more at that time.
When presenting this pinole. the “father” makes this speech: “Your fame has come, and I was overjoyed, and have run all the way to the ocean, and back again, bringing you
this water. On my return I strengthened myself four times, and in the dish in which I carried the, water stood See-vick-a
Way-hohm, The Red Thunder Person, the Lightning, and because of his force I fell down. And when I got up I smelled the water in the dish, and it smelled as if something had been burned in it. And when I got up I strengthened myself four times, and there came from the sky, and stood in the dish, Tone-
dum Bah-ahk The Eagle of Light. And he turned the water in the dish in a circle, and because of his force I fell down, and when I rose up again and smelled the water in the dish it was stinking.
And when I had started again I strengthened myself four times, and Vee-sick the Chicken Hawk, came down from the sky and stood in the dish. And by his force I was thrown down. And when I stood again and smelled the water in the dish, it smelled like fresh blood.
And I started again, strengthening myself four times, and there came from the East our gray cousin, Skaw-mack Tee-worm-gall, The Coyote, who threw me down again, and stood in the dish, and turned the water around, and left it smelling as the coyote smells.
And when I rose up I started again, and in coming to you I have rested four times; and now I have brought you the water, and so many powerful beings have done wonderful things to it that I want you to drink it all at one time.”
After the third day the “father” brings his charge a little to eat every morning and evening, but a very little. On the morning of the fourth day, at daybreak the slayer takes a bath of purification, even if it is winter and he
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has to break the ice and dive under to do it. And this is repeated on the morning of each fourth day, till four baths have been taken in sixteen days.
The slayer finds an owl and without killing him pulls long feathers out of his wings and takes them home. The slayer had cut a little lock of hair from the head of the Apache he had killed. (for in old times, at least, the Pimas often took no scalps) and now a little bag of buck-skin is made, and a ball of grease-wood gum is stuck on the end of this lock of hair which is placed in the bag, and on the bag are tied a feather of the owl and one from a chicken hawk, and some of the soft feathers of an eagle, and around the neck of the bag a string of blue beads.
(And during this time the women are carrying wood in their giyh-haws to the dancing place.) Now the Apaches are contemptuously called children, and this bag represents a child, being supposed to con-
tain the ghost of the dead Apache, and the slayer sits on the ground with it, and takes it in his hands as if it were a baby, and inhales from it four times as if he were kissing it. And when it is time for the dance the slayers who are a good ways off from the dancing place start before sunset, but those who are close wait till the sun is down. And the “father” goes with the slayer, through woods and bushes, avoiding roads. And before this the “Father” has dug a hole at the dancing place about ten inches deep and two feet wide, just big enough for a man to squat in with legs folded, and behind the hole planted a mezquite fork, about five feet high, on which are hung the weapons of the slayer, his shield, club, bow, quiver of arrows, perhaps his gun or lance.
(The shield was made of raw hide, very thick, able to turn an arrow and was painted jet black by a mixture of mezquite gum and charcoal, with water, which made it glossy and shiny. The design on it was in white, or red and white. The handle was of wood, curved, placed in the centre of the inside, bound down at the ends by raw. hide, and the hand fended from the rough shield by a piece of sheepskin.)
In this hole the slayer sits down and behind him and the fork lies down his dancer, for the slayer himself does not dance but some stranger who represents him perhaps a Papago or a Maricopa, drawn from a distance by the fame of the exploit. Nor do the slayers sing, but old men who in their day have slain Apaches. These singers are each allowed to sing two songs of their own choice, the rest of the veterans joining in. And as soon as the first old man begins to sing, the dancers get up, take the weapons of the men they represent, and dance around the fire, which the “fathers” keep burning, keeping time with the song.
And the women cook all kinds of good things, and set them before the singers, but the bystanders jump in and snatch them away. But sometimes the wife of an old singer will get something and save it for him.
And the relatives of the slayers will bring presents for the dancers, buckskin, baskets, and anything that an Indi- an values. And as soon as presented some relative of the dancer runs in and takes the present and keeps it for him.
And while this big war-dance is going on the rest of the people are having dances in little separate groups, all around. And as soon as the dance is over the weapons are returned to the forks they were taken from.
By this time it is nearly morning, and the slayers get up and take their bath in the river, and return and dry themselves by the expiring fire. Then returning to the bushes they remain there again four days, and that is the last of their purification.
As this dance is on the eve of the sixteenth day, there were twenty days in all. Grossmans account differs considerably from this, and is worth reading. During the time of purifying, the slayers wear their hair in a strange way, like the top-knot of a white woman,
somewhat, and in it stick a stick, called a kuess—kote to scratch themselves with, as they are not allowed to use the fingers. This is alluded to in the Story of Paht-ahn-kum’s War. A picture of a Maricopa interpreter, with his hair thus arranged, is in the report of Col. W. H. Emory, before alluded to. This picture is interesting, because it shows that the Maricopas, when with the Pimas, adopted the same custom. When I showed this picture to the old see-nee- yaw-kum he was much interested, saying he himself had known this man, who was a relative of his, there being a dash of Maricopa blood in his family, and that he had been born in Mexico and had there learned Spanish enough to be an interpreter. His Mexican name, he said, was Francisco Lucas, but the Pimas called him How-app-ahl Tone- um-kum, or Thirsty Hawk, a name which has an amusing significance when we recall what Emory says about his taste for aguardiente, and that Captain Johnston says of the same man, “the dog had a liquorish tooth.”
Part Three: Bibliography
439
Allen, Horace N. “Hong Kil Tong; Or, The Adventures of an Abused Boy.” Korean Tales. New York: G.P. Putnam’s Sons, 1889. Chest of Books. n.d. Web. 30 Jul. 2015.
Cabot, John, Columbus, Christopher, and Gaspar Corte-Real. The Journal of Christopher Columbus and Documents Relating to the Voyages of John Cabot and Gaspar Corte Real. Trans. Clements R. Markham, C.B., and F.R.S. London: Hakluyt Society, 1893. The Internet Archive. n.d. Web. 30 Jul. 2015.
“Cherokee.” Encyclopædia Britannica. Encyclopædia Britannica Online Academic Edition. Encyclopædia Britannica Inc., 2015. Web. 26 Feb. 2015.
“Christopher Columbus.” Encyclopædia Britannica. Encyclopædia Britannica Online Academic Edition. Ency- clopædia Britannica Inc., 2015. Web. 5 Feb. 2015.
Columbus, Christopher. “Letter: Lisbon, March 14th.” April, 1493. Gilder Lehrman Institute of American History. n.d. Web. 30 Jul. 2015. < https://www.gilderlehrman.org/sites/default/files/inline-pdfs/t-01427.pdf>
de Cervantes Saavedra, Miguel. Don Quixote. Tran. John Ormsby. Web. 30 Jul. 2015.
“Don Quixote.” Encyclopædia Britannica. Encyclopædia Britannica Online Academic Edition. Encyclopædia Britan- nica Inc., 2015. Web. 5 Feb. 2015.
Greenblatt, Stephen. “The Tempest.” The Norton Shakespeare. Eds. Stephen Greenblatt, et al. New York: Norton, 1997. 3047-53. Print.
“Hohokam Culture.” Encyclopædia Britannica. Encyclopædia Britannica Online Academic Edition. Encyclopædia Britannica Inc., 2015. Web. 26 Feb. 2015.
Hwang, Chini. “I will break in two the long strong back of this long midwinter night” Trans. David R. McCann. The Internet Archive. n.d. Web. 30 Jul. 2015.
Lloyd, J. William. “Aw-aw-tam Indian Nights: The Myths and Legends of the Pimas.” 1911. Internet Sacred Text Archive. Internet Sacred Text Archive (ISTA), 2003 Web. 25 Feb. 2015.
Machiavelli, Nicolo. The Prince. Trans. W.K. Marriott. Florence: Antonio Blado d’Asola, 1532. 11 Feb. 2006. Web. 30 Jul. 2015.
“Miguel de Cervantes.” Encyclopædia Britannica. Encyclopædia Britannica Online Academic Edition. Encyclopædia Britannica Inc., 2015. Web. 5 Feb. 2015.
Mooney, James. “Myths of the Cherokee.” Nineteenth Annual Report of the Bureau of American Ethnology 1897-98. Part I. 1900. Internet Sacred Text Archive. Internet Sacred Text Archive (ISTA), 2001. Web. 25 Feb. 2015.
More, Thomas. Utopia.1551. London: Cassell & Company, 1901. 22 Apr. 2005. Web. 30 Jul. 2015.
“Niccolò Machiavelli.” Encyclopædia Britannica. Encyclopædia Britannica Online Academic Edition. Encyclopædia Britannica Inc., 2015. Web. 5 Feb. 2015.
“Pima.” Encyclopædia Britannica. Encyclopædia Britannica Online Academic Edition. Encyclopædia Britannica Inc., 2015. Web. 26 Feb. 2015.
“The Prince.” Encyclopaedia Britannica. Encyclopaedia Britannica Online Academic Edition. Encyclopaedia Britanni- ca Inc., 2015. Web. 5 Feb. 2015.
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Rabelais, Francois. Five Books of Lives, Heroic Deeds and Sayings of Gargantua and his Son Pantagruel. Trans. Thom- as Urquhart and Peter Antony Motteux. n.d. Web. 30 Jul. 2015.
“Renaissance (European History).” Encyclopædia Britannica. Encyclopædia Britannica Online Academic Edition. Encyclopædia Britannica Inc., 2015. Web. 7 Feb. 2015.
The Sejong Cultural Society. Web. 1 March 2015.
Shakespeare, William. “Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.” William Shakespeare. Collins Edition. Nov. 1998. Web. 30 Jul. 2015.
Shakespeare, William. “The Tempest.” The Works of William Shakespeare. Cambridge Edition. Vol. 9. 1863. Ed. Wil- liam George Clark, and John Glover. 26 Oct. 2007. Web. 30 Jul. 2015.
“Tale of Hong Gildong.” World Digital Library. Web. 30 Jan. 2015. <http://www.wdl.org/en/item/4166/>
“The Tempest.” Encyclopædia Britannica. Encyclopædia Britannica Online Academic Edition. Encyclopædia Britan- nica Inc., 2015. Web. 11 Feb. 2015.
“Western Literature.” Encyclopædia Britannica. Encyclopædia Britannica Online Academic Edition. Encyclopædia Britannica Inc., 2015. Web. 7 Feb. 2015.
Yun, Seondo. “You ask how many friends I have? Water and stone, bamboo and pine.” Trans. Larry Gross. Wikipedia. n.d. Web. 30 Jul. 2015.
-----.”Sun Lights up the hill behind, mist rises on the channel ahead.” Trans. Larry Gross. Wikipedia. n.d. Web. 30 Jul. 2015.
Appendix
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Appendix
URL Links for Original Texts: Note: Items marked with * indicate that due to sources terms, we cannot post the direct link. Aw-aw-tam Indian Nights: The Myths and Legends of the Pimas
http://sacred-texts.com/nam/sw/ain/index.htm
*Don Quixote Google Search: Don Quixote translated by John Ormsby
*Gargantua and Pantagruel Google Search: Gargantua and Pantagruel
*Hamlet Google Search: Hamlet by William Shakespeare
“I will break in two the long strong back of this long midwinter night” http://web.archive.org/web/20060714045429/http://www.koreasociety.org/KS_curriculum/HS/2/2- text/2_141_2.htm
Letter from Christopher Columbus https://www.gilderlehrman.org/sites/default/files/inline-pdfs/t-01427.pdf
“Myths of the Cherokee.” http://sacred-texts.com/nam/cher/motc/index.htm
The Journals of Christopher Columbus https://archive.org/details/cihm_05312
*The Prince Google Search: The Prince by Nicolo Machiavelli and translated by W.K. Marriott.
The Tale of Hong Gil-Dong http://chestofbooks.com/fairy-tale/Korean-2/Hong-Kil-Tong-Or-The-Adventures-Of-An-Abused-Boy.html#. VNwPavnF-hy
*The Tempest Google Search: The Tempest by William Shakespeare
”Sun Lights up the hill behind, mist rises on the channel ahead.” http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sijo
*Utopia Google Search: Utopia by Thomas Moore
“You ask how many friends I have? Water and stone, bamboo and pine.” http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sijo
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URL Links for Images: Image 10.1 Sejong the Great:
http://ko.wikipedia.org/wiki/%EC%A1%B0%EC%84%A0_%EC%84%B8%EC%A2%85#/media/File:%E6%9C% 9D%E9%B2%9C%E5%A4%AA%E5%AE%97.png
Image 10.2 Hunmin Jeong-Eum: http://ko.wikipedia.org/wiki/%EC%A1%B0%EC%84%A0_%EC%84%B8%EC%A2%85#/media/File:Hunmin_ jeong-eum.jpg
Image 10.3 Hwang Jini Portrait: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Hwang_Jini_portrait_from_1910_text_book.jpg
Image 10.4 Hong Gil-Dong Jeon: http://ko.wikipedia.org/wiki/%ED%99%8D%EA%B8%B8%EB%8F%99%EC%A0%84#/media/File:Honggil- dongjeon.jpg
Image 11.1 Italy 1494: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Renaissance#/media/File:Italy_1494_v2.png
Image 11.2 The Vitruvian Man: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Renaissance#/media/File:Da_Vinci_Vitruve_Luc_Viatour.jpg
Image 11.3 The Chandos Portrait: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Renaissance#/media/File:Shakespeare.jpg
Image 11.4 Don Quixote goes mad from his reading of books of chivalry: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Don_Quixote#/media/File:Gustave_Dor%C3%A9_-_Miguel_de_Cervantes_-_ Don_Quixote_-_Part_1_-_Chapter_1_-_Plate_1_%22A_world_of_disorderly_notions,_picked_out_of_his_ books,_crowded_into_his_imagination%22.jpg
Image 11.5 Don Quixote de la Mancha and Sancho Panza: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Don_Quixote#/media/File:Don_Quijote_and_Sancho_Panza.jpg
Image 11.6 A Deceased Don Quixote: http://www.gutenberg.org/zipcat2.php/5946/5946-h/images/p74a.jpg
Image 11.7 Pantagruel: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Pantagruel02.jpg
Image 11.8 Gargantua: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Gargantua02.jpg
Image 11.9 Hamlet Title Page: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hamlet_Q1#/media/File:Hamlet_Q1_Frontispiece_1603.jpg
Image 11.10 Ophelia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hamlet#/media/File:John_Everett_Millais_-_Ophelia_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg
Image 11.11 Claudius at Prayer: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hamlet#/media/File:Claudius_at_Prayer_Hamlet_3-3_Delacroix_1844.JPG
Image 11.12 Monument to Columbus: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christopher_Columbus#/media/File:Monumento_a_Col%C3%B3n_(Ma- drid)_02b.jpg
Image 11.13 The Voyages of Christopher Columbus: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christopher_Columbus#/media/File:Viajes_de_colon_en.svg
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Image 11.14 The Death of Columbus: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Christopher_Columbus#/media/File:The_death_of_Columbus.jpg
Image 11.15 Machiavelli Principe Cover Page: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Prince#/media/File:Machiavelli_Principe_Cover_Page.jpg
Image 11.16 Rowe Tempest: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Tempest#/media/File:Rowe_Tempest.JPG
Image 11.17 Prospero: https://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/s/shakespeare/william/tempest/images/ist06th.jpg
Image 11.18 Utopia, More: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Utopia,_More,_1518_-_0020.jpg
Image 12.1 Cherokee Men and Women: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cherokee#/media/File:Cherokees.jpg
Image 12.2 Three Cherokee Diplomats in London: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cherokee_history#/media/File:Three_Cherokee.jpg
Image 12.3 Sequoya’s Arranged Syllabary: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cherokee#/media/File:Sequoyah_Arranged_Syllabary.png
Image 12.4 Fain’s Island Shell Gorget: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cherokee_mythology#/media/File:Fainsislandpage35spider.png
Image 12.5 Pima Men and Women: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pima_people#/media/File:Pima.jpg
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- GALILEO, University System of Georgia
- GALILEO Open Learning Materials
- Fall 2015
- Compact Anthology of World Literature
- Laura Getty
- Kyounghye Kwon
- Recommended Citation
- Compact Anthology of World Literature-Part 1
- Table of Contents
- Chapter 1: Middle East, Near East, Greece
- Hebrew Bible, "Genesis" and "Exodus"
- The Epic of Gilgamesh
- The Iliad and the Odyssey
- Medea
- Chapter 2: China
- The Analects
- The Art of War
- The Book of Songs
- The Mother of Mencius
- The Zhuangzi
- Chapter 3: India
- The Bhagavad Gita
- The Mahabharata
- The Ramayana
- Chapter 4: Rome
- The Aeneid
- Metamorphoses
- Bibliography
- Appendix
- Compact Anthology of World Literature-Part 2
- Europe
- The Parliament of Birds
- The Canterbury Tales
- The Decameron
- The Divine Comedy
- The Lais of Marie de France
- Lancelot
- The Song of the Cid
- The Travels of Marco Polo
- Middle East
- The Rose Garden
- The Quran
- Divani Shamsi Tabriz
- and
- Masnavi
- Shahnameh
- The Thousand and One Nights
- China
- Selected poems
- The Romance of the Three Kingdoms
- Japan
- Noh plays
- The Tale of Genji
- South Asia
- Tukaram’s Selected poems
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- The Tale of Hong Gil-Dong
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- GARGANTUA AND PANTAGRUEL
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- The Journals of Christopher Columbus
- The Prince
- The Tempest
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